Calix and the Fire Demon

Chapter One

Rainbows Are the Worst

If there’s one rule to keep in mind when your dad decides to take you on an impromptu pooka hunt, it’s this:

Run.

Seriously. If you’re at home and he’s got the car keys and is all, Hey Calix, I think one of the horses that pulls the carriages downtown might be a shape-shifting fairy, sprint out the back door as fast as your scrawny legs can carry you.

If you’re in a store, fake a stomachache and spend the next twenty minutes moaning in the bathroom.

If you really have to, text your mom and beg her to call your dad to remind him that you have a big research project due tomorrow and if you fail it you’ll flunk seventh grade.

Trust me, a whole night of homework is better than a single hour of pooka hunting.

Problem is, sometimes you get stuck in the truck during a Friday afternoon thunderstorm and then the rain clears and the sun comes out and your dad sees a—

Rainbow!

I yanked out an earbud and sat forward so fast my seatbelt almost cut me in half. Wincing, I adjusted the strap and squinted against the glare, praying I’d misheard. We’d spent the last few hours mowing other people’s lawns, and all I wanted to do was go home and wash off the smell of gasoline and grass.

Up there. Dad took one hand off the steering wheel and pointed out the bug-splattered windshield. See?

At first all I saw were perfect yards, wrought iron gates, and stands of live oak trees bearded with Spanish moss that hid the fancy houses situated near the marsh surrounding Wilmington Island.

I don’t—

But then I did.

A bright, gleaming, stupid rainbow that arched over Walthour Road like the finish line of a race I didn’t want to run, let alone win.

I groaned, slumping back in my seat. Can we please not spend the next two hours searching for a pooka? I’m hungry, and the Flying Fish has a fried shrimp special tonight.

Instead of agreeing to my sensible plan, Dad yelped, causing the truck to veer into the other lane. Good Lord, Calix, look! The end of the rainbow! It’s right there!

He jerked the steering wheel, course-correcting so hard I almost got whiplash. Behind us, the trailer with the lawn equipment skidded across the asphalt, threatening to spill everything onto the road.

No it’s not, I said out of habit, rubbing my neck. No way was the freaking end of a freaking rainbow anywhere near here.

Sadly, it was.

Dad gunned the engine. I gripped the handle above the door, calculating our speed and the distance from my seat to the street rushing past, wondering if I’d die or just break a few limbs if I threw myself out of the truck.

Before I had a chance to find out, Dad pulled onto the shoulder, tires spitting gravel that pinged against the undercarriage of the truck.

Up ahead, the end of the rainbow curved down into, of all things, a paddock where three ponies chomped on grass, unaware of the lunatic about to disturb their afternoon snack.

There are normally only two ponies in that yard, Dad said, the truck’s engine hiccupping as he undid his seatbelt. Now there are three. What does that tell you?

That I cannot catch a break to save my life?

I scrunched my face. Maybe the first two weren’t getting along so they brought in a new one to help sort out their issues.

Doubtful. Besides, what about the rainbow? Look! Dad bounced in his seat. That brown pony is walking right out of it!

"Or, and hear me out, it’s walking through it."

You don’t know that. He leaned forward, hugging the steering wheel. Do you think anyone’s home?

Yes. I stared at the massive brick house next to the paddock, willing the front door to open.

Here’s the thing: If you couldn’t tell, Dad believes rainbows are magical. Not like pot-of-gold magical, though. More like gateways between this world, where normal human folk live, and the Otherworld, where pookas and other kinds of fairies hold hands and prance around toadstools.

The whole idea was completely delusional, but sometimes I had to pretend I believed because it made Dad sad that I thought he was cracked.

Sighing, I wound my earbud cord around my hands in case I couldn’t Dad-logic my way out of this and had to strangle myself. Do you honestly think a pooka decided to transform into a pony and cross over in the middle of the day where everyone and their mother can see it?

Dad drummed his fingers on the dashboard. You know full well time works differently in the Otherworld. It might be night there.

As a matter of fact, I didn’t full well know that, considering, oh, I don’t know, THE OTHERWORLD DIDN’T FREAKING EXIST.

If I’d grown up in any other family, I might’ve been impressed that we’d stumbled onto the end of a rainbow. But I knew better. Things that seemed lucky tended to go south real quick. Like the dream house Dad bought dirt-cheap when he and Mom were still married: two weeks in, a tropical storm blew through Savannah, flooded the first floor, and sent a tree right through the roof. Or the bike I got for my eighth birthday: first time I rode it, the front tire fell off and I went headfirst into Mrs. Washington’s prize-winning rosebushes. Or last October, when Jasmine Harper asked me to the Halloween dance but then Mrs. Washington’s deranged tabby mistook my face for a mouse and gave me cat-scratch fever so I couldn’t go.

So yeah, I’m not a big fan of rainbows.

Dad kneed open the door. You can stay put, but I’m going in.

With that, he slid out of the truck, shut the door, and, after waiting for a black SUV to speed past, dashed across the road.

Grumbling to myself, I shoved my phone in my pocket and shouldered open my door. Mom might’ve divorced Dad after he got arrested for trespassing on private property during a, you guessed it, pooka hunt, but she’d be upset if I let him get trampled by a pony.

The second I set foot outside the truck, sweat beaded my forehead and my sunglasses fogged up. It was only the middle of March, but considering the humidity you’d think summer was right around the corner.

I hurried across the road, practically swimming my way through air thick with swarming gnats and the scent of blooming azaleas. When I caught up with Dad, he was already straddling the wooden fence enclosing the paddock.

Dad! I hissed, glancing over at the house. There were no cars parked in the semi-circle driveway, but a curtain fluttered behind a window. Could’ve been the AC kicking on. Could’ve also been the owner getting ready to call the cops because of the two weirdos invading his yard.

When I turned back to Dad, he was over the fence and striding toward the rainbow.

As much as I hated to admit it, seeing one up close was kind of cool. It was like a watercolor painting come to life in 3D. For a second it wasn’t hard to imagine why Dad thought it was a portal to the fairy world.

A car shot down the road, its growl returning me to reality. Kind of cool didn’t outweigh jail time.

Mom said she won’t call the bail bondsman again! I whisper-shouted.

Dad flapped a hand over his shoulder. Don’t be dramatic. Besides, I paid her back.

Two of the ponies nickered and hot-footed away. The third, however, twitched its tail at a cloud of no-see-ums and stared at Dad.

Ever so slowly, he inched toward the pony, one hand out. It’s all right, buddy. I just want to talk.

A few more steps and he was standing smack inside the rainbow.

I’m not gonna lie, if he’d disappeared in a spray of multicolored pixie dust, I would’ve only been eighty-five percent surprised.

What if this pooka doesn’t grant wishes? I asked, switching to Dad-logic again.

Then I’ll make it take me to one who does.

See, Dad claimed the reason we were prone to bad luck was because Great-great-great-grandpa Connor sank a ship and got cursed by a witch when he fled Ireland during the Potato Famine. But if we could catch a pooka, Dad could wring a wish out of it and make it break the curse.

So far he hadn’t succeeded. Shocking, I know.

I mean, okay, misfortune loved us for sure, but a witch’s curse? Wish-granting fairies? Please. Life just has it in for some people, and some dads just can’t hold down a job for more than six months. All you can do is keep your head down and hope you don’t get bitten by a pony.

Another curtain fluttered in the house. A door slammed somewhere close by.

Forget this.

Time for the guilt card.

I raised my voice. I don’t want to spend the next six years only seeing you on the weekends.

That stopped Dad dead in his tracks.

Don’t get me wrong, having divorced parents sucks. But I was used to alternating weeks: one at Dad’s, one at Mom’s. Plus, they were both cool when the other asked for extra days if something important came up.

Dad might be frustrating and more than a little unhinged, but I still enjoyed hanging out with him. Mostly.

Indecision played across his face.

Look, I said. If you get back in the truck right now, I’ll help you work the whole St. Patrick’s Day weekend.

I cringed even as I said it. The holiday was a week away, but it might as well have been tomorrow. Savannah was lousy with Irish, yours truly included, and its St. Patrick’s Day parade was the third biggest in all of America. Downtown already looked like a leprechaun had thrown up all over it.

I sometimes wondered, if Dad hadn’t been the way he was, whether I’d appreciate the holiday more. As it was, I looked forward to it about as much as I looked forward to pooka hunts.

Meaning not at all.

Really? Dad said, eyes still on the pony.

Really. If it meant getting him back in the truck before the cops showed up, I would gladly help him mop floors at the Jepson Center and sell cut-rate Irish trinkets to tourists who should know better but never did.

Dad sighed. All right. He pointed at the pony. Next time, you’re not getting away so easily.

The pony snorted, sending a horsefly buzzing into the air. As Dad turned, the rainbow began to fade, and by the time he rejoined me at the fence it was completely gone.

We waited in silence while several cars cruised by, then scrambled across the road and climbed into the truck.

Dad checked the rearview mirror before pulling back onto the road. Don’t tell Mom about the pony, okay?

What, did he think I was new at this? Telling Mom was a surefire way to make custody the word of the week.

As I opened my mouth to reassure Dad I’d keep quiet, a prickling on the back of my neck made me glance at the paddock.

The pony Dad had accused of being a fairy in disguise stared after us, and I swear to God, for a split second its eyes glowed red.

I twitched, blinked, rubbed my face, and refocused. Did you—

What? Dad said.

Nothing. Never mind. Still, I made myself look again.

The pony had its butt to us now and was happily chomping grass.

It was just a trick of light, I told myself. Pookas aren’t real.

And yet part of me—a teeny, tiny, microscopic, so-small-it might-as-well-have-been-a-single-grain-of-sand-on-Tybee-Beach part of me—wondered for the briefest second if maybe they were. If maybe Dad was right about the family curse.

As Mom loved to say, perish the thought.

Chapter Two

How to Ruin a Family Reunion

Adifferent kind of family curse waited for us the moment we drove through the gate of Dad’s condo complex.

"What is she doing here?" he muttered, slowing the truck.

All thoughts of demon ponies and breaking my five-plate record of bottomless fried shrimp vanished when I caught sight of the she in question leaning against the side of a bright red Jeep Wrangler.

Frayed black jeans, faded The Black Crowes concert t-shirt, a long braid of raven-black hair, and thin arms more muscular than mine would ever be.

Aunt Morgan! I sat up excitedly and waved.

Aunt Morgan lifted her chin in greeting but kept her lips pursed and her arms crossed. This meant either I am very happy to see you or We are about to have a serious problem. It was always hard to tell. Technically, she was my great-aunt, but calling her that was like walking up to a lion and going, Here, kitty kitty kitty.

Dad stopped the truck several car lengths from where she’d parked in his spot. Did you give her the security code to the gate?

No.

Calix.

I didn’t, I swear! Although now I wished I had. Aunt Morgan had always talked to me like I was a person instead of a kid, and actually listened when I had something to say. But last summer, she and Dad got into a huge argument and hadn’t spoken since. Which meant I hadn’t seen her since.

I missed her almost as much as I missed my parents being married to each other. Anytime I brought up the fight or asked to visit, though, Mom shook her head and said, Give them time. Sometimes families need space.

Right, because that worked for Mom and Dad.

A car honked behind us, forcing Dad to park. I slid out of the truck and raced over to Aunt Morgan.

I called you, I said, resisting the urge to hug her because no one likes getting put in a headlock. A lot.

She stared down the slope of her beakish nose, late afternoon sunlight deepening the darkness of her hair. I know. Bev and Macha told me.

Bev and Macha were Aunt Morgan’s sisters. They traveled a lot for work, so I hadn’t felt their absence as much as hers. I liked them well enough, but while Bev was super sweet and into hugs, Macha tended to glare at me as though she smelled something bad.

You didn’t call me back, I said.

Aunt Morgan shrugged. "Your father made it quite clear I was no longer allowed to meddle in your life."

Well, he’s stupid. I missed you.

For a split second, Aunt Morgan’s eyes softened, and the ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her lips. I missed you too. She reached out and tugged my earlobe.

What do you want, Morgan? Dad said, stepping up beside me and ruining the reunion. Calix and I have dinner plans.

Oh, now he was interested in food?

Nice to see you, too, Dylan. She pushed off the Jeep, arms still crossed, and it was then that I realized she wasn’t alone. A vaguely familiar girl about my age with freckled, pinkish-white skin sat in the passenger seat, feet propped on the dash and a book in hand. She flipped a page and tucked a strand of curly, chestnut hair behind her ear, apparently uninterested in what was happening outside the Jeep.

Who’s that? I asked, straining my brain to place her face.

Aunt Morgan gave me her patented Really, Calix? look while simultaneously conveying a This is what happens when you keep families apart glower at Dad. That would be your cousin Saoirse.

Saoirse raised a hand and waggled her fingers at me without looking up from her book.

Old memories surfaced, of catching tadpoles in flooded ditches, of making my cousin a crown with sticks and what turned out to be Spanish moss, and then our moms painting us with nail polish remover because we were covered in red bugs. Saoirse lived in Boston now but had been born and raised in Ireland, and was actually a second cousin on Dad’s side once or twice or six times removed or something. The last time she’d visited Savannah was six years ago, for—ding ding ding—St. Patrick’s Day.

It’s been a long week, Morgan, Dad said. Speak your piece or let us be.

Aunt Morgan’s gray eyes narrowed to slits. She opened her mouth, clearly about to let Dad have it, then glanced at me, inhaled deeply through her nose, exhaled slowly, and said, I need a favor.

Dad laughed in a way that suggested he was the opposite of amused. This ought to be good. Let’s hear it.

Correct me if I’m wrong, she said, the setting sun stretching her shadow across the ground towards Dad, but there’s a new statue at the Jepson Center, yes?

Dad was obviously annoyed by Aunt Morgan’s presence, but he couldn’t quite dampen the spark that lit his face.

Sadly, there was a new statue at the Jepson, where Dad had somehow scored a part-time cleaning gig. Some Celtic thing they fished out of Wassaw Sound a few weeks back that they planned on unveiling on St. Patrick’s Day. Dad had gotten so excited when he saw the article in the Sunday paper he’d sprayed orange juice all over me.

What about it? he said carefully.

We’d like to take a look at it.

Why?

I promised to show it to Saoirse for a Celtic heritage history project she’s working on.

Dad frowned. The exhibit opens to the general public Monday.

She leaves Sunday. Aunt Morgan’s shadow crawled up Dad’s legs like a ghost about to possess him. Which is why I’m asking for a favor.

Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something?

Aunt Morgan shrugged. You were always overly suspicious of me. Will you let us see it or not?

What makes you think I can get you in, Dad said, rubbing his temples, let alone that I’d be willing to?

Despite last summer’s unpleasantness, we’re still family, and families help each other out. You do still work at the Jepson, correct? Or have you lost that job too?

She said it matter-of-factly, with no criticism that I could hear, but Dad’s ears went purple as cherries. All my life, he hadn’t held a job for more than six months before getting canned for not showing up on time,