Heir of Charms: Arda Academy, #1

By Molly Lavenza

Destruction.

In a family of healers who save, all I do is destroy. My enforced solitude is for my own safety as well as that of the world, or so my mother tells me.

When the boy next door beckons, I can't help but sneak out to forge a friendship with him. Loneliness leads me to defy my family, but desperation prevails when I discover that the grounds of his private academy hold a secret that could help me learn why my ability is so disastrous . . . or push me to create a catastrophe that will bring only death and destruction.

***

Merith Leigh has decided to give herself the best sixteenth birthday present ever: freedom. She's spent the last two years in silent communication with Taran, the boy next door, and his encouragement to meet him beyond their bedroom window views has tempted her to finally break free of her family's bonds. With a leap of faith, she trusts Taran with her future, and he takes her to meet his friends at his private academy, where a secret society that studies magic lurks with secrets of their own. Can Taran and his classmates help her discover why she carries the gift of destruction rather than her family's skill at healing, or will their association prove deadly?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Molly Lavenza
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005509996

Molly Lavenza

Molly Lavenza is a student at Kent State University. She loves her home state of Ohio, her cats, little sister, and her boyfriend, whose dark, curly hair and obsession with Converse sneakers was the inspiration for Declan, the hero in The Changeling Covenant.

Book preview

Chapter One

I f you lock your bedroom door one more time, I’m going to take it off its hinges!

My pillow is halfway across the room, slamming ineffectually at the door in question before I realize how childish my reaction to this taunt is.

The threat, coming from my spiteful grandmother’s lips this time and not my mother’s, is nothing new, but I know it’s empty. The bedroom door will remain, if for no other reason than my family’s justified fear.

Fear of me.

Of what I might do to them if there is no barrier between us, although the wooden slab is little protection against all of which I am capable.

I will be sixteen tomorrow, long past the age when I should have been due some privacy in my own bedroom, but the other inhabitants of this house have no problem walking in whenever they feel like it. This, however, isn’t all that often anymore, so I don’t have to worry too much about being disturbed while I’m getting dressed or staring out of my bedroom window.

Most of my time is spent reading or studying, usually as I steal glances out of that same window.

Taran, my next door neighbor, should be returning from his usual morning shower soon, and if he is as unconcerned with modesty as he normally is, I’ll catch him entering his bedroom with a large, coral-pink towel wrapped around his lean waist, as comfortable with the color as he was with me seeing him half naked.

A smile touches my lips as I picture him, his dark hair spiky and wet, the wire-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose always slipping so he has to poke at them to get them to slide back up from the middle of his nose to the bridge between his eyes.

What color are his eyes, exactly?

Will I ever find out?

I tug at my robe, which used to be electric blue, fluffy and cozy. Now, it’s too small for me, as my legs have grown so much longer over the past two years that the tattered hem barely covers the tops of my thighs.

The fabric is worn and faded, thinner now just as I am, a reminder of my birthday tomorrow since the robe was a reluctant gift from my heartless Aunt Destiny when I turned fourteen.

Like her sisters, my mother and Aunt Daniela, Aunt Destiny hates me even more than she did back then.

And my grandmother?

You’re running out of time, Merith Minette Leigh! I’ll be in my grave before I let you destroy this home and this family!

She’s still screaming outside of my bedroom door, on the small square landing that opens only into my room. Her ranting must be exhausting, I imagine, her shrill voice scratchier with each new curse. I remind myself that this is nothing new, but I hug my ratty robe closer, tucking my neck into the collar that has absorbed so much of my tears as I’ve grown used to the tirades from the other women in this house.

Women who should love me and support me, help me and guide me.

I close my eyes tightly to stop the tears I feel at the back of them from spilling out, refusing to let the harsh words intimidate me.

Fear.

That’s all it is. It isn’t personal, I tell myself, not really, not after I’ve destroyed so much. So much property, along with their hopes for the future.

But when it’s my family who heaps this cruelty upon me when I have no control over who I am and what I can do, it sure feels personal.

A Castle Heights city school bus clunks over the potholes in the street, audible through the opening in my window. The early autumn morning air in Northeast Ohio is cool, the chill raising the hairs on my arms cocooned in my robe sleeves, but I’ve cracked the window just enough to hear the sounds of the town on our little corner.

To hear the sounds of Taran and his family as they leave, his parents for work, him for school. He’s already sixteen, for three weeks already, and he’s been driving himself to his private school only a few miles away from us, the large, verdant green campus a strange anomaly in the midst of most of the older homes and small yards that surround us.

I perch on the edge of my rocking chair, nestling my bare feet into the faded pink rug that covers a small part of my hardwood floor, and wait for him to appear, hoping that I don’t look too eager.

Or worse, desperate.

The outside air is damp after a light rain overnight, and I wonder what Taran smells like. Does he use eucalyptus body wash, like we do, or does he like something more masculine, more woodsy? Maybe only fictional boys prefer woodsy scents, and in real life, they go for tea rose or lilac.

Everything I know about boys is from books, but Taran isn’t a character in a story. He’s not a perfectly gorgeous golden hero, or a brooding, intense teenager looking for acceptance or validation. From what I can see, he is absolutely ordinary, and I love him all the more for it.

As if on cue, he steps into his bedroom, the door still open from when he left it earlier to go have his breakfast and shower. We know each other’s routines as well as our own, so I wasn’t concerned when I glanced over earlier and found no sign of him, because the clock on my tiny wooden desk told me exactly where he would be, and when he would be back.

Taran holds his pink towel around his waist with one hand, shuffling up to his bedroom window, which is a straight shot across our yards, and waves a long slice of meat in the air beside his head before taking a big bite. The rest of it hangs from his clenched teeth as he tucks his towel tight around his waist, then signs.

Bacon!

His fingers wave horizontally as he nods, and I shake my head, smiling.

Sugardale? I ask, my own hands working in the air, forming each letter even as I mouth the word. He continues to nod, and the bacon strip flaps a little.

I can’t help laughing as I stand up and step closer to the window, feeling the chilly air snake up my legs and under my robe, which offers little protection against it.

Nearly two years ago, Taran noticed me watching him from this very spot, but instead of freaking out, he waved at me, the only kind gesture I received on my fourteenth birthday. Since then, we’ve talked every day, starting off with strange motions and mouthed words that were sometimes difficult to decipher, a sort of game of charades that was entertaining as well as frustrating.

My homeschool courses, delivered like clockwork directly to my home and overseen by my mother, who pays little other attention to me, offer a selection of foreign language materials, including sign language. My grandmother insisted on Latin, of course, but I have enough free time that I could take every language available if I wanted, so my mother agreed that sign language wouldn’t hurt.

Although everything else I attempt seems to hurt: hurt someone or something.

I wouldn’t dare yell out to Taran, in case someone heard me, and he understands that trying to contact me in any way aside from our window encounters isn’t a good idea. Looking back on that birthday, I should have known better than to take a chance on interacting with anyone outside of my family, but I was so lonely.

So angry.

So afraid.

Like a princess in a tower from a fairy tale, but without the charming dress and pretty face.

Or sweet disposition.

As soon as he realized that my movements were sign language, Taran took up the study of it himself, and we learned together, giving us something to share.

Birthday?

I roll my eyes at his question about what I’m doing tomorrow for the big one-six, sure that he can’t see me do it from so far away, but he shrugs, as if he can tell that I find it ridiculous. Has he ever seen me leave this property, even once? I would be lucky to get a cake this year, considering that last year, I smashed the cupcake Aunt Daniela gave me into her face, the old fashioned way.

No magic needed.

When I re-enacted the event to Taran after my grandmother, aunts, and mother ganged up on me for assaulting Aunt Daniela, his laughter was punctuated with silence and a stare, as if he was trying to figure something out. As much as I long to talk to him face to face, inches instead of yards apart, I’m not sure how I could explain all of this.

All of us.

I reach out and grab one of the books scattered on my desk, which is covered with textbooks, novels, and poetry. The one I lift up to the window is a favorite, both mine and Taran’s. This is probably what I’ll be doing tomorrow, is my answer.

We often hold up books, pressed to the glass of our windows, and while it is difficult to see the text, the cover art usually gives the content away, and we can offer our opinions of our reading preferences with a thumbs up or thumbs down.

Taran shakes his head after he glances at my random selection, his hands in the air with both thumbs down. He hates Nathaniel Hawthorne, while I love his stories about rural New England, in a past time that was as dark as it was charming.

I’m sure my grandmother has chosen his work as a warning to me, but I’ve fallen in love with his tales in spite of the harm she wished to impart when she gave them to me.

Taran signs boring, turning his finger against the side of his nose and shaking his head again. He has to read a lot of classics for school, and I’m sure the experience is different than reading for pleasure. Not that I would know what it’s like to be in class, or school, at all. I’m not forced to do my schoolwork or to read whatever anyone brings to me, but I am pathetically thirsty for any information about other people I can get, from textbooks and novels, nonfiction and poetry.

Or from the customers who visit the healing shop that is my home.

The materials I used to study, spell books and healing treatises, are forbidden, hidden away so I won’t be able to find them if I searched our rickety old house.

Which I don’t.

I think about The House of the Seven Gables, and wonder why a story about curses, witchcraft, and stolen birthrights doesn’t bother me, considering my impossible situation.

Taran points to my backyard, where I’ve spent many hours reading and staring up into the sky, and I wonder if he’s seen me wandering around there, somehow, in spite of the overbearing trees and shrubs that have grown unchecked for decades, cocooning me against the house.

I frown, then open my hands in front of me with a small movement towards him to ask what he means.

He’s crunched through the rest of his bacon strip, and he smiles as he ruffles his damp hair with one hand, then slides his hand forward with a thumbs up.

Tomorrow.

My backyard. Tomorrow.

I look down. Is he asking what I think he’s asking?

For nearly sixteen years I’ve been trapped here, first as the rightful heir to the shop and the spells our family has used to heal for centuries and now, as the despised disappointment I’ve become instead.

I’d like to spend my birthday with someone who doesn’t hate me.

I tap my wrist twice, and Taran stands up straighter, grabbing his towel as it begins to slip. With his free hand, he touches his pinky finger to his thumb, and I stop laughing at his towel trouble to whisper six to myself.

Early enough in the morning to step out back without questions from my sleeping family, to find out what Taran is up to. Surely he wants us to meet, but how, when our yards are separated by a tall fence and rabid overgrowth?

There are no mirrors in this house, and I wish, for the first time, that I could see my face and the smile that I know Taran can see from the distance that separates us.

For now.

Chapter Two

The man talking to my Aunt Destiny in our living room is angry, and as he continues to speak, his voice rises, betraying the fury that grows as my aunt denies him as gently as possible to avoid difficulties.

Feelings can’t be forced, and honestly, would you want her to say she loved you, even if she truly didn’t? Not in her heart?

I can’t see them, but I picture her bland smile, the movement of her hands as she gestures toward him, as if she cares that she is letting him down.

His expectations, though, are abhorrent to her, as they are to everyone else in this house, including me.

But I want her! There has to be a way to make her mine!

I’m sitting on the wooden stairs that lead from my bedroom down to the kitchen, hidden away from their early morning interaction. While the pottery aspect of our business is only open from nine am to nine pm, there are no restrictions on the true nature of my family’s work, and people come knocking at all hours.

Sometimes it is a physical emergency, a matter of health, and others, an emotional concern.

Today it is a man who is pursuing a woman who has no interest in him. This isn’t the first time we’ve had such a visitor, and it won’t be the last.

I understand. It’s difficult to accept when the one we love . . .

He interrupts my aunt’s canned response, and I stand up at his tone, worried for her safety.

Isn’t there such a thing as a love potion? Aren’t you a witch? I can pay you, whatever you want, I just have to have her.

I bet he’s wearing a fancy suit, something expensive and dark. It’s almost six in the morning, and I figure that he’s headed to work. Does the woman he want work with him, maybe as his secretary? I hope she’s his boss, and not someone he has any sort of authority over.

My hands move through my hair, a nervous habit that goes back years.

There is only so much we can do, sir. I can offer you something for your stress, however, for a nominal fee.

The man growls, and my hands fist in my hair. I had brushed it over and over earlier in my room, then remembered that Taran had seen me through my window for two years, with messy hair most of the time.

He didn’t want to meet me on account of my looks. For both of us, it was a matter of curiosity.

Was it something more for him, like it was for me?

Stupid cow!

The man’s shoes stomp away, clomping on the hardwood floor. When the door slams behind him, my aunt calls him a name under her breath, her voice brooding and annoyed.

I can’t imagine dealing with customers like him, or like anyone. My lack of ability ensures that I won’t ever have to.

Another one. Why can’t people accept that love isn’t something to be forced?

My mother’s voice hovers in the air, both comforting her sister and complaining as she reveals herself in the living room. 

I wonder what time it is now, and if Taran is already waiting for me out back.

My heartbeat thuds in my ears, and I close my eyes, listening to the women only a few feet away from me, hoping they won’t find out that I’m awake, lurking close by.

Maybe it’s a good thing that she can’t cast or create. People nowadays have selfish desires, with no consideration for how their actions affect others.

She.

They’re talking about me now, and I swallow against my fear of what they will say next.

But people will still come, people who truly need help. Help for a sick child, for a crippling depression. For guidance, for support. She is worthless on those fronts.

I suck in my lips, holding back the sound that threatens to escape from them. It’s been years since I was revealed as a failure, a destroyer rather than a healer, but their words still hurt.

What will happen to me when the rest of my family is gone? What if they make me leave when I’m grown, as my grandmother insists, if I can’t find a way to temper my ability?

What if they don’t let me leave?

Their voices carry towards the front of the room, where the window looks out on our front yard. They can’t see the stairs from over there, so I carefully move down the rest of them and turn into the kitchen.

My grandmother is sitting at the table, her arms folded underneath her head, and in her hand is a purple satin pouch.

Her breath comes in slow, even movements, and I glance at her quickly to be sure she is asleep before running on tiptoe to the back door.

I look down at the doorknob as I maneuver it quickly but silently, then look up at my grandmother again to be sure she hasn’t woken up.

If she had, I would know it. She’d be screeching the second she saw me leave the house.

As I do just that, her back continues to move up and down,