Glimmer Magic

By Helly Leighton

Seventeen-year-old Romy Parrish thinks she's an ordinary, small-town girl destined to inherit her mother's plumbing business. She's coasting through school and her seemingly mundane life. Then she meets the mysterious and handsome newcomer, Owen. But when he shows up at school, things start to get strange.

​When a fire breaks out in their high school physics class, Romy thrusts her hand out towards the flames. The fire dies instantly, leaving everyone in disbelief. Somehow, Owen is able to make their entire class forget what they saw.

Romy confides in her mother and discovers they aren't exactly an ordinary family. She has glimmered magic and is a witch. The deeper she delves into her newfound magic, the more wonderous and dangerous her world becomes. Her bond with Owen grows, but it may come at a price. The threat of an ancient and deadly magic looms like a shadow around them.

​Sinister forces seek her powers, but she cannot escape their calling. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helly Leighton
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223317203

Helly Leighton

Helly has been writing genre fiction since her tween years. Maybe it was the allure of the full moon or maybe it was her fondness of 80's horror films, Helly has always told stories of witches, vampires, and werewolves. Glimmer Magic is her debut novel, and she's been concocting several more. She dabbles in crafts and fancies herself a bit of a gardener.

Book preview

Chapter One

Reverie

I GO TO LAKEVIEW CEMETERY on the Ides of March, just as I have for the past ten years. Ten years of missing my father and pretending that everything’s okay. Moss has grown over the weathered and cracked headstones. Wild wisps of crabgrass, ground ivy, and violets cover the plots like a patchwork quilt. In the distance, heavy gray storm clouds amass over the small and green Briar Lake. Branches of a majestic willow drape over me as I look down at my father's grave and read his headstone: Finn Parrish, loving father and husband. Non omnis moriar.

This year is different. A bouquet of cream garden roses rests against the headstone. I keep staring at it, wondering who would have left it there. Ten years and I’ve never seen flowers like this by his headstone. My mom, Lindsey, and I are his only known family. Curious, I bend down and touch the silky petals. A cold tingle creeps up my spine. I shiver and pull my scarf up around my neck. Next to the ruffled roses, I place my simple tulip bouquet.

Another rain shower mists over my yellow parka as I leave the cemetery. Here in the city of Dire, it’s another foggy spring day. Perpetually shroud in clouds and gloom, Dire is somewhat of an anomaly in Minnesota. When the sun shines on our neighbors, our weather only gets wetter. Snow never seems to stick around long here; the ground always stays warm. Our trees green early, and our flowers bloom brighter than anywhere else.

I head over to my 1979 Nova. The poor beast takes five minutes to accelerate to 30 miles per hour, and it looks like it survived being swept up by a tornado. If I wanted to drive on the freeway, it would probably take me an hour to go fast enough. 

Thrusters to full power, Mr. Sulu, I laugh to myself.

We accelerate down the road at warble speed, shuddering and sputtering along the way. Lindsey and I always watch the old Star Trek shows together. Since it’s just the two of us at home, we spend too much time together. She rarely lets me venture out of town. I think she worries that if anything happens to me, no one will be around to take over her plumbing business, Royal Flushers.

It’s a nod to her family being Dire royalty. She can trace her mother’s side all the way back to the town founder, Ariel Dire. Lindsey’s the only plumber in town, and she’s planning on me stepping up to the bowl after I graduate from high school. I’ve been saving up to travel around Europe for a year after graduation. I want to visit all the places my father lived before he came to America, but every time I bring it up, Lindsey changes the subject. My life is already planned out for me. I know I should probably feel grateful at the opportunity, but all I feel is a longing for something different.

I drive by King’s, the town’s only gas station, at the edge of town. Conner King and Trina Bryant lean up against a statue of an Apatosaurus and share a cigarette. Connor’s mom yells at them from the pumps and motions for them to help her with the garbage. Connor’s fate has been decided by his mother, too. Trina’s there until something better comes along.

Dire has a lot of entrepreneurs. My father opened the town’s only gelato shop. Everyone adored him. Lindsey’s best friend, Will Starling, owns the town’s only snowplow. He’s also the town’s only private detective. Their friend, Skye Fisher, owns Lone Wolf Auto and Junkyard. Lindsey likes to buy parts for her motorbike there.

I head just outside of town to Briar Rook, the old manor built by Ariel Dire. Until today, Briar Rook sat uninhabited for over fifty years, save a few housekeepers. Millie Roth, Dire’s only attorney, has arranged a meeting between Lindsey and the heir to the estate. He’s a mogul named Alastair Dire, the son of our last known relative. His side of the family has kept all of the Dire wealth to itself. The estate has always passed to males, and Lindsey’s line has always produced females.

The private drive twists and turns deeper and higher into the forest until a stone tower with a mint-green turret pierces through the hedges of newly budding trees. A beauty constructed from buff stone and copper, Briar Rook looks like a miniature castle. I hunch over the steering wheel and crane my neck up so I can see the top of the turret through my windshield.

I pull into the looped driveway behind Lindsey’s Taurus. She hops out and hands me a steaming cup of black coffee. Lindsey pats wisps of her curly, strawberry-blond hair behind her ears. Today she’s dressed in her work jumper and Flusher’s jacket. We make house calls on weekends, and she pays me for my help. She and I have the same tall, athletic build and love of kettlebells. While Lindsey comes from fair Scottish stock, I look more like my Italian father. We do share the same quirky smirk and love of Spock.

Hap— the words stick in her throat. She tries to force a smile. Happy—

Mom, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I knew it was coming, but my heart sinks anyway. It’s been like this for the past ten years. My dad died on my birthday, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to celebrate again.  

Millie Roth pulls up next to us in her black Audi. She plasters a toothy grin on her face when she sees us. Her slightly crooked, penciled-in eyebrows arch playfully.

Hi, ladies, she chirps. Thanks for agreeing to meet with Mr. Dire. He seemed very excited on the phone.

Do you know what this is about? Lindsey asks. I don’t mean to be rude, but ever since Drake Dire left for New York a hundred years ago, our side of the family has never had any contact with the Dires.

Mr. Dire will explain everything, says Millie. I, for one, am very excited to have Mr. Dire in town. We’ve had correspondence over the estate, but I’ve never met him in person. He sounds so worldly and genuine.

Excited to get with Mr. Dire, maybe, Lindsey mutters to me.

The sounds of hammers and drills drown out her voice as we head inside. Saws screech as they chew through wood. A fine white dust puffs off of the ground as we step through the construction. I’d imagined the place to be full of classic works of art and Victorian furniture, but most of the structure has been demolished, leaving bare beams for support. I wonder if living in upscale New York has something to do with the open floor plan. Bluish natural light pours in from the courtyard. Nearly the entire back wall is made of windows. I imagine how the hall would look golden if the sun ever came out.

A handsome, shirtless stranger catches my attention as he brings in a huge piece of sheetrock. My heart gives a giddy leap. I avert my eyes before he notices me gawking over his lithe frame and coiffed, dark hair. I want to look at him again, but I have a feeling he’d notice. Trying to be discreet, I glance around the room. The stranger meets my gaze. His eyes are vivid and green as an ancient forest bathed in sunlight—a forest I could wander in for days.

Henry Price, the town’s only contractor, catches me looking around and yells out, Romy, is Lindsey paying you overtime to come in on the weekend?

We’re here on family business today, Lindsey says stiffly. She hurries past the crew and doesn’t make eye-contact with Henry. Ever since he asked her out on Valentine’s Day, she’s been trying her best to avoid him—which proves hard in her line of work.

Henry lets out a low whistle. I bet Ro would work harder than most of my boys if I gave her a sledgehammer.

She wouldn’t know what to do with it, Kyle Montgomery crows.

I can think of a very specific place I’d swing it, I say.

The crew erupts in guffaws, the stranger joining them. After I walk by, I hear the other guys give Kyle a hard time for checking me out. Kyle is on Lindsey’s shortlist of suitable young men to court me. Last year, we were partners during Spanish class a lot, but other than that he ignored me when he was with his friends. One time I waved to him in the hall; he didn’t wave back.

Now he’s graduated and has a solid job. Around here, a lot of kids graduate and settle down quickly and have families. Lindsey and her friends all had kids by their early twenties. I can’t imagine it for myself, but I know Lindsey imagines it for me.

Flecks of color from the courtyard distract me as Lindsey and Millie chat away.

The whole town knows you turned him down, Millie whispers. Everyone’s still talking about it. At the grocer, at the bar, at the library.

Is it too much to ask for this town to have two bars? asks Lindsey. I see Price every time I go.

I thought you didn’t drink anymore, says Millie.

I just go to sober cab my sorry-ass friends, says Lindsey. I’m a Diet Coke girl, all the way.

I stare past the glass windows and focus on the beautiful magnolia shrubs that line the perimeter of the courtyard.

When I’m at the bar, I always try to be coy with my straw, says Millie. Not that you need help getting dates looking the way you do. Share the love, girl.

Lindsey snorts, Have at it. Price is all yours. And anyone else, for that matter.

I have been thinking about your friend, Will, says Millie. He’s been single for years. Is he ready to mingle yet?

Lindsey mutters something I can’t quite hear. I push open the glass doors and walk out into the courtyard with Lindsey and Millie close behind. My body bathes in the sweet scent of the garden, and my mind sinks into tranquility. Sunny daffodils poke out of the defrosted ground, intermingled between pillars of violet and blue hyacinth. Three other sets of doors lead into the other halls. I spin in a slow circle, trying to take in all the colors and fragrances. As I come to rest, a figure steps out from a small potting shed. My breath catches, and I have a strong sense that I’ve already met this person.  

The man walking toward us exudes radiance. His skin is so unblemished and smooth that there are no harsh shadows on his face. I cannot detect any wrinkle or sign of facial hair, but his size and stature suggest he’s in his late twenties. As he moves, his golden hair shimmers. His cobalt-blue eyes look like the feathers of an Indigo Bunting. We shake hands. Coolness pulses through his touch. 

Alastair Dire. The skin around his eyes crinkles softly as he smiles at me.

Romy, and my mom, Lindsey.

He gazes at Lindsey tenderly and takes her hand. You are the spitting image of Dahlia Dire, if I may say.

Lindsey flinches at his touch. Her eyes roam over his face and his body. Alastair shifts his body weight and looks away from her discerning gaze. I’d like to tell her to knock it off, but I’ve never seen her behave this way.

I’m sorry, Alastair says quietly. A gentleman always waits for a lady to extend her hand.

It’s alright, says Lindsey. And thank you. Dahlia Dire was a renowned beauty in her time. She was our foremother.

Millie butts in and thrusts her hand into Alastair’s. I am thrilled at last to see—meet you in person. It has been a pleasure. If you need anything—day or night—I’ll leave you my personal number in the paperwork.

Alastair smiles politely. I thank you for everything you’ve done. He turns to us. Millie stands behind him, gawking. Alastair continues, I’m very happy to be here. It’s a nice change of pace from the hustle and bustle of New York. Your distant relative, the late Mortimer Dire, wished to see Briar Rook restored.

This place is beautiful, I say. You have quite a green thumb.

Alastair studies me for a moment, as if he sees something in my face that pleases him. 

Things are growing so fast that I’ll need a little extra help around here, he says. If your mother is okay with it, I’d love to hire you for a couple of hours after school to weed and trim the trees.

Lindsey crosses her arms. She’s my apprentice. This town only has one plumber.

Yes, women have come a long way, haven’t they? Alastair says.

Lindsey and I share an appraising glance.

Where would you like to begin, Mr. Dire? asks Millie. I don’t want to rush you, but I have an appointment at one this afternoon. Unless, perhaps, I should cancel my appointment and be of assistance to you?

Alastair beams at her. You are generous with your time, but I’ll make this quick. I’d like to make a deal with the two of you, Alastair says to us. You are Mortimer’s last remaining relatives. I would like to leave you the estate.

Lindsey’s face looks as shocked as I’m sure mine is.

Alastair continues, I’ve made enough money in New York to start a consulting business here. I’m proud to be a part of the Dire family, and it’s time to honor Mortimer’s wishes. After I am gone, I want all of this to be yours.

Are you dying? Lindsey asks, skeptical as ever.

Death will not separate us, says Alastair.

Millie clears her throat, I think what Mr. Dire means is that he may—unfortunately—be called away in the future, and at that time, the deed and the estate will fall to Lindsey Fiona Reid-Parrish and Romy Catherine Parrish. The paperwork will outline everything. She pulls a manila envelope out of her briefcase and hands it to Lindsey. I’m sure you’ll want to read that. Mr. Dire, if you came by my office to finish up on Friday, I’d be flattered. Noon would be great. I have an hour off for lunch. She gives Alastair a sassy smile as she heads for the double doors. He grins.

Only an hour? he calls after her. He raises an eyebrow.

Millie giggles like a schoolgirl and practically trips over her feet as she walks away. I smile and shake my head.

Lindsey flips through the paperwork. What’s the catch?

I have outlined my expectations of the property in my absence, says Alastair. It is of great importance that the estate remains in your care and is passed to any offspring that come from your line, of any gender. The catacombs on the property must never be disturbed. That is all I ask.

Beyond Alastair, white roses bloom like feathery tufts of clouds. They match the cream garden roses from the cemetery. I wander past Alastair and reach out for one of the rose heads. The petals brush my fingertips gently, almost tickling my skin. No one else’s roses are blooming yet. Alastair comes over with garden shears. He clips a rose for me.

I’d like you to have one, says Alastair. A happy birthday wish.

A thorn slips through the skin of my thumb as I take it from him. I recoil. The rose falls to the ground with a drop of my blood blemishing its pure petals. No words come to my lips, though my mind races with questions. Alastair’s eyes fixate on the blood. 

I’m sorry about the thorn, says Alastair. I should have been more careful.

Lindsey picks up the rose and takes my elbow. We’ll be in touch. The bloodstained petal floats to the ground.

Just then, the dark-haired stranger from earlier comes through one of the French doors. I stick my thumb in my mouth and lick the blood away.

Alastair, where did you want the wet bar? His dusky voice flickers with the slightest western twang.

Like Alastair, he exudes vitality and beauty. The resemblance between the men ends there. Alastair’s face is rounder and his nose shorter. The other man has chiseled features and a square chin.

Owen, says Alastair, my brother and my carpenter. This is Romy and Lindsey Parrish.

Owen gazes at me slyly. Nice to meet you.

I smile and look at my sky-blue Adidas.

If I have questions about the paperwork, I’ll call Millie, says Lindsey. I’ll drop it off with her as soon as I sign it. We should be going.

Just one thing, Owen says to me. I’ll be starting school on Monday. I wonder if you could show me around?

Sure, I squeak.

Alastair laughs, School?

Owen claps him on the shoulder. You heard me, brother.

As Lindsey ushers me out of the courtyard, I turn around to take one more look at the brothers. Owen stoops down and picks up the rose petal. I see him lifting it to his face before he’s out of my sight.

Chapter Two

Emily Starling

I TEND TO OVERSLEEP and show up to school at the last minute. Usually I stay up late studying because I’m not one of those lucky kids that can ace a test without breaking a sweat. Tonight, excitement keeps my eyes from shutting for more than two minutes at a time. I toss and turn, thinking about the odd coincidence in Alastair’s garden with the ivory rose. When I wake up, I have bags the size of prunes under my eyes. I spend thirty minutes trying to perk up my face by putting cucumber slices over my eyes. It doesn’t work.

PULLING INTO A SPACE near the back of the school’s pitiful grass lot, I survey the other cars. A pristine, red Prius gleams from the front row. My stomach flips in excitement. I’ve never seen that car before. It must be Owen’s. A few cars away, Connor leans to the right of his steering wheel and hunches over. When he comes up, billows of smoke curl around his baseball cap. Mr. Peters, the ninth-grade science teacher, is on parking lot duty today. His nose is buried in a book that looks suspiciously like a romance novel.

I giggle and carefully adjust the rearview mirror. It creaks in my hand and little bits of silvering fall on the floor mat. I pull my bangs over to the side of my forehead just a little more and dab on some nude lip-gloss. My deep sable-brown hair always looks dull because of the eternal cloud cover. The fluorescent school lights give it the illusion of luster, though that sickly green cast is never flattering for anyone.

Emily Starling’s unmistakable turquoise Gremlin tears around the corner and pulls into an empty spot two down from me. Mr. Peters glances up briefly and then looks back at his book. It would take a zombie apocalypse to break him from his Harlequin reverie. I stare at the Gremlin.

Nostalgia washes over me. Growing up, Emily and I were best friends, as if destined because of Will and Lindsey’s friendship. Though we spent only holiday breaks and summers together, we were like sisters. Then everything changed. Right before middle school, Emily’s younger sisters were brutally attacked by a stranger. When Emily came back to Dire, she was a shell. She withdrew from our friendship.

We get out of our cars at the same time. She squares her shoulders and brushes back her limp hair. This year it’s faded black. Through the years she’s basted her hair with nearly every box dye color. Now her eyebrows are lighter than her hair, making her a washed-out specter. Our eyes meet. She walks away as if I were a complete stranger. I gaze after her for a moment before I adjust my pack and follow her into school. 

By the time I set foot inside, kids around me are buzzing about the captivating new kid named Owen. My heart flutters. I meet him in the junior locker bay. Owen looks sharp in a navy button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His olive chinos hit at the ankles and show his bright-white court shoes. I’m sure he would look good in anything—burlap, paint splatters, track suit...nude. I try to stay calm. His hair is styled with the front brushed up slightly. Owen seems too polished and manicured to be in high school. He brushes a wayward strand of hair from my forehead and smiles at me. My knees weaken a bit.

You look pretty, he says.

I feel myself start to blush because I had thrown on a rose-pink sweater and jeans without giving much thought to my ensemble. Thanks. So do you—I mean, you look nice. I grin awkwardly and take a deep breath.

He hands me his schedule. Owen Yeats?

As if he senses my curiosity, he says, The Dires adopted me when I was fifteen. I wanted to keep my last name.

I force a smile, feeling a little sheepish. To my delight, we have computer science and physics together. I start the tour in the cafeteria. Emily glances at us as she buys chocolate milk for breakfast. The dullness in her eyes shatters when she sees Owen walking with me. A foreign emotion dances across her sallow face: desire.

EMILY SITS ACROSS FROM me in English. She runs her fingers nervously through her hair. I watch her pull out a red spiral notebook from her messenger bag. Behind it is a book called Encyclopedia of Demons. I grin.

Curious choice. I gesture to her book.

Her forget-me-not-blue eyes bore into mine. What do you mean?

My lips press into a thin line. Carrying around a book about demons in this town is about as alienating as being called a communist in 1953. She stares at me for a moment, as if expecting a miracle. My cheeks start to warm.

I like the cover art. Maybe I could borrow it sometime. We should get together for pizza over break, I say. Nerves make me blurt it out like a command instead of a suggestion.

You mean it? She smiles. That would be amazing. Do you still like pineapple?

And pickles.

Emily beams. Maybe after that you can come over and hang out. Will keeps talking about you. Her eyes mist over. He misses the old days when we used to play together.

I didn’t think I was wanted, I say.

Emily traces the graffiti on her desk with her finger. It was never that.

I miss Will’s kickboxing lessons, I say. He always made me hold the punching bag though. I hated that. Do you still practice?

I try to avoid getting bloodied up, Emily says. I want to ask what she means, but she goes on, We don’t have to wait for spring break to hang out. I really miss spending time with you.

Her sentiment strikes me. We could work on our essays after school today, I say. Or we could sit under the sunlamp my mom found in the junkyard.

I could use a tan, says Emily, inspecting her pale arms.

As easily as that, our friendship rekindles.

AT LUNCH, WE HAVE THE appetizing choice between meatloaf and spaghetti. Both are rather disturbing and equally pungent. The server, Anita, piles a glob of noodles on my tray and scoffs when I look disgusted. Not even the meager helping of marinara unsticks them. My Italian pride withers in despair. Emily braves the meatloaf and wisely skips the clumpy gravy. We walk together to my usual table, which is in the middle of the cafeteria. It’s where Dire royalty gathers. I guess I’m lucky enough to be one of them.

Logan Waits, the most popular senior, has to cross his legs the whole time from excitement. He has a huge a thing for Emily, but she usually avoids our group and people in general. Trina writes Emily off as an idiot with every roll of her eyeballs. Trina wants to ride Logan’s wave. I’m not sure why it hasn't happened yet. Her tan skin and highlighted hair make her the object of desire among most of the town’s male population. She arches her back and sticks out her chest slightly, showing off her white, skin-tight top. It’s no accident she’s wearing a hot-pink push-up bra underneath. I’ve always admired her daring.

Chad Roth, Millie’s nephew, practically breathes down Emily’s neck. Every time she slides her chair closer to me, he follows.

You’re Miss Congeniality today, I say.

Emily blushes. This is why I don’t talk to people.

It’s about time you joined the living, I laugh.

The last person Emily ate lunch with was Rivers Fisher, a friend to both our families. They were besties, and now he’s away at UCLA, studying biology. Emily takes a bite of her Granny Smith apple and winces.

Who’s he? asks Trina.

I follow her gaze to Owen, who makes his way over to our table with his bento-boxed lunch. Before I can even take a breath to answer, Chad fills us in.

Owen Yeats. His older brother is the heir to Briar Rook. They’re from New York. He drives a Prius. It’s awesome.

I see the wheels turning in Trina’s brain before she even knows they’re working. The family has money—and two men in it. Knowing her, she thinks she has a good shot at one or both of them.

Chad stands up and quickly pulls a chair to the table next to Emily. Owen stops short of our table and pauses for longer than necessary. Everyone casts him a wary eye. He sits at the edge of his chair without sliding closer to the table. His knuckles turn white from clenching his lunch in his hands. 

Are you okay? I ask quietly.

I’m fine, says Owen.

Emily leans toward him a bit, trying to catch his eye. Do you remember me?

Have we met before? Owen asks her. Tension mars his cool voice.

You remind me of a guy I knew from Idaho, says Emily. Have you ever been there?

No, Owen says quietly.

I lived there with my mom until five years ago, says Emily. Then my sisters were nearly killed, and I moved here.

The whole table sits in silence. I gape at Emily. Though tact has never been her strong suit, she’s never been this blunt in the past. Owen’s stoic face never falters, but I can tell something stirs in his thoughts.

There was this church we used to go to, Emily continues. Her voice is calm and quiet with an edge of ire. The pastor—his name was Byrnes—had a son who looked just like you.

Owen excuses himself. Everyone sits for a minute, not knowing how to react. Owen walks to the other side of the lunchroom and sits alone. Feeling horrible for him, I get up from our table. As I make my way to him, I know the others are watching me.

Owen looks up from his bag of carrot and jicama sticks and motions to the seat beside him. I sit,