Spell Fire by Ariella Moon Read Free Book Online Page A

The distinct odor of unwashed child cascaded over the seat.
    Isis. Orange cheese puffs or fish crackers had stained her fingers. I scooted as far from her grubby hands as possible. Green snot dripped from her nose. Doesn't her mother carry baby wipes and tissues? If I'd had my umbrella I would have raised it, bad luck or not. This was part of why I wanted to be an astrophysicist. Deep space meant silence and no germs. No kids. No warring parents. No snot.
    Fortunately, the Fasten Seat Belt sign dinged again, and a crewmember told Isis to sit down. I grabbed an antiseptic wipe from my handbag and tore open its packaging. The college-aged girl in the aisle seat sniffed at the sharp odor and lowered her novel. She scooted away from me as I scrubbed the orange stain where Isis's hands had been. The flight attendant made a final pass with a white garbage bag, and I pitched the wipe into it.
    Before we landed, I wriggled into my Athenian Academy hoodie. As soon as we touched down and the Fasten Seat Belt sign disappeared, I hoisted my backpack, cut ahead, and hustled to the front of the plane as quickly as possible. No way was I going to meet my relatives with orange fingerprints or green snot smeared on my back.
    A travel website had rated the Palm Springs International Airport as one of the least stressful airports in United States. Good thing, because my heart pounded as though it were backing one of Jazmin's guitar solos. My veins jumped with excess adrenaline, and I was one incident away from a full-blown panic attack.
    The baggage claim signs led me outside into the night where a surprisingly cold wind threatened to knock me off my zebra print stilettos. I zipped up my hoodie, skirted the courtyard tables and chairs, and headed for the curved WELCOME TO PALM SPRINGS sign near the escalators.
    Isis must have been stuck on the ramp or ducked into the bathroom with her mother. Good riddance. A gay couple stopped in front of me and opened their dog carrier, releasing a bright-eyed Bichon Frise. Tail wagging, it bee-lined for a potato chip on the concrete beneath one of the white outdoor tables.
    There's nothing to worry about. I can handle this.
    My mind blanked. I couldn't remember what Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun looked like. Since Dad held them in such low regard, Mom didn't display their photo on the Steinway or anywhere else. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen my aunt and uncle in the flesh. Which was a little disconcerting, the more I thought about it. Aunt Terra probably resembled an older version of Mom, but without the three-carat diamond, Junior League wardrobe, and frown lines. Maybe she had a visible aura or carried a light saber. I latched onto the one memory I had of Uncle Esmun — his voice. For some reason, I remembered it had made me smile.
    One thing I knew for sure, Terra and Esmun didn't have any children. I counted that as a major plus, especially after my encounter with Isis.
    I remembered Dad remarking once in the snarky vice-president-of-a-large investment-firm tone he sometimes used, "I can't believe Esmun meditates for an hour. Where I come from, we call that a nap." Maybe I needed to look for a guy dressed in a saffron toga or yoga pants and a turban. I didn't know. The diversity assembly at school had covered a lot of different race, gender, and religious issues, but somehow skipped pagans, shamans, and light warriors. I'll have to take it up with the dean when I return.
    The Bichon, with its, like, six-foot leash, cut me off. I barely caught myself before I tumbled down the escalator. I shot its owners a death glare. The cold wind seeped through my hoodie and scoured my face. I waited for the dog to be wrangled into its owner's arms before I teetered onto the escalator. Maybe I needed to rethink stilettos as travel shoes.
    Stepping onto the lower level concourse, I braced for major mortification. Please, I silently prayed, don't let my relatives look like escapees from a Star Trek convention.