by Stacey Jay
“Okay…” Now my curiosity is definitely piqued. “But is this experience going to last longer than a few minutes?”
“I certainly hope so.”
Oh. Ohhhh. Is he thinking… I mean, I’ve sort of been thinking ever since he left that I wish we’d… I mean, how many times do I have to nearly be sacrificed for my virgin blood before I get rid of the problem already? And Ethan is my first love—
maybe my only love—and I can’t imagine wanting my first time to be with anyone but him.
But still…am I really ready? Tonight? Now, assuming we didn’t have somewhere else to be?
“What do you think?” he asks. “You up for something different?”
I make a breathy, cough-snort sound that I hope Ethan won’t remember is my nervous laugh. “Sure, I’m up for anything,” I bluff, secretly grateful that I have a good excuse not to make the “is tonight the night?” call. “But I promised Kitty I’d be back at the Valentine’s dance at school in a few minutes. She thinks I’m still in the girl’s bathroom at the gym.”
“So you snuck away from your bodyguard. Again.” His tone is pleasant, but I know he must be mad. He hates it when I take chances with safety. Even little chances.
“I know. I’m bad,” I say, heading a lecture off at the pass. “I just… I really wanted to have a few minutes alone with you. I didn’t want Kitty there watching and making things awkward, you know?”
“I understand.”
“Anyway. No harm done. We can just head back to the dance, I’ll clean up the concession stand and we can hang out for awhile, and then I’ll ask Kitty if she minds following us to wherever we’re going.”
“Oh.” He comes to a stop at the next intersection and turns left instead of right. I glance back over my shoulder, wondering if Ethan’s forgotten the layout of Carol after over-exposure to the big city. “That might be awkward.”
“Oh…okay.” God, so he must have been thinking… Wow.
The realization renders me mute for a few moments. Meanwhile, Ethan continues to drive in the wrong direction until we cross over the railroad tracks and draw close to the highway.
“So, what do you think we should do?” I ask, starting to get nervous. Kitty will kill me herself if I’m not where I’m supposed to be in ten minutes. She might look like an über-nerd, but the woman has serious butt-kicking skills. “You remember the school is the other way, right?”
“I do. But I think you should call Kitty and tell her that you’re with me, and we’re going for a drive.” He takes the exit onto the freeway and heads south, zipping into the darkness of our poorly funded stretch of rural interstate. “Tell her I’ll protect you with my life, guard you against all bad guys, and get you home before twelve o’clock.”
“She’s going to be pissed.”
“She’s going to be pissed regardless. Even if we turn around right now, we’ll never get back to the gym in a few minutes.”
He's right. “Okay. But I have to be back by eleven. Mom gave me an earlier curfew. She and Dad can’t go to sleep if I’m not home since the whole killer cheerleader thing.” I pull out my phone.
“Wait.” He reaches out to squeeze my hand, stopping me mid-dial. The touch lasts less than a second, but it’s enough to make me shiver. His hands are so cold. “Let’s drive for a few minutes first, just in case she decides she needs to join us. At least that way we’ll get some time together before the chaperone shows up.”
“Okay.” I slide my phone back into my purse.
The place where Ethan touched me still feels colder than the rest of my hand. I was standing outside Sonic for twenty minutes and thought I was chilled through, but Ethan is practically freezing. It’s strange. Not only because he was inside his nice, warm car before coming to meet me, but because Ethan is usually a furnace. His hands are always warm. (Yet never sweaty, which is further proof that he’s probably descended from Greek Gods or Sexy Alien Vikings or some other superior race of people without normal human flaws and weaknesses.)
“So how are you?” He pulls off the highway, taking the exit that leads out toward the Army base north of Little Rock. “How’s school?”
“Fine. You know, same old same old.”
“But you’re doing well? Keeping your grades up?”
Keeping my grades up? What kind of question is that? He sounds like my dad or something.
“Um…yeah.” I search for something further to add, but come up empty. I’ve never had trouble making conversation with Ethan, but things still feel awkward. “How about you? How’s the Enforcing going?”
“Great. Swimmingly.”
Swimmingly? Ethan watches “films,” not movies, and has been known to get his pretentious on now and again, but he’s never said anything so Old-English-Man-with-a-Lisp sounding as swimmingly. What the heck is going on? Who is this guy, and what has he done with my boyfriend? Or ex-boyfriend? Or…whatever we are to each other now?
I peer at Ethan out of the corner of my eye, studying him as he drives. Even the way he’s holding his head—chin up instead of tilted to the left to keep his hair flopping in the proper direction—is wrong. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was…possessed or something.
Possessed or…bewitched.
Crap.
If I were a black magic practitioner looking to kidnap a teenage girl with witch blood, I would totally cast a spell on her true love and get him to do the job for me. What better abductor could there be than the person she wants to spend time with the most?
The cold spot on my fingers spreads across my skin, and my gut gets that rotten feeling that I’ve come to associate with impending badness. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past six months, it’s never to ignore my gut. The gut is wise, perceptive, and not nearly so easily fooled as other, lesser organs like my brain, eyes, and stupid, trusting heart.
“Good, good.” I casually pull my phone from my purse. If Ethan’s been enchanted, I’m going to need help of the Enforcer variety. “You know, I think I should go ahead and call Kitty. I don’t want her to worry.”
“Of course. Let me know if she wants to talk to me.”
Okay. Well, that wasn’t what I expected. If Ethan’s under a spell, he wouldn’t want me to call Kitty. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my gut is confused. Maybe those four chilidogs really are coming back to haunt me.
I waver for a moment, but then go ahead and dial Kitty’s number. I have to call her sooner or later, and it’s better to be safe than dead. She picks up on the first ring, and I can tell right away that I’m on her poo list.
“I was just dialing your number,” she snaps. “Where are you?”
“I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad, I’m furious. Do you know how worried I’ve—”
“I know, I know, but you don’t have to be worried,” I say in my best soothing-the-savage-bodyguard voice. “I’m fine. I’m with Ethan.”
“Ethan,” she says, tone strangely flat.
“Yeah. He drove in from Nashville for Valentine’s Day.”
“And you’re with him right now?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, wondering why she’s making it sound like such a bad thing. “We’re taking a drive.”
“Megan, am I on speakerphone?”
“No.”
“Good. Listen carefully and don’t give any sign that what I’m about to say upsets you.”
Oh, crap. Crap! “Okay.” I manage to keep my tone casual even as my heart starts slamming inside my chest.
“I don’t know who you’re with,” Kitty says, “but it’s not Ethan.”
What?
“Ethan just showed up here a few minutes ago.”
What, what?!
“Someone ran him off the road just outside Carol, and stole his car. He says he doesn’t remember what happened, just driving into the ditch, feeling something hit the back of his head, and waking up in the grass by the asphalt a few minutes later.”
Holy crap on an evil cracker.
If the dude driving the car isn’t Ethan, then who the heck is he? And how did he come to be wearing my boyfriend’s body? My skin crawls and fear for Ethan makes my churning stomach feel like it’s turning to stone. What if Ethan’s hurt? What if this creep impersonating him did something awful to him?
“But everything’s okay? Um…the guy who fell at the dance is okay?” I sound like I’m channeling Minnie Mouse. I clear my throat, and fight to get my vocal chords under control.
“Ethan’s fine, but you’re not going to be.”
I breathe a sigh of relief even as I mentally thank Kitty for the stunning reassurance.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Sure. I’ll tell Ethan you said hello,” I say, pushing my hair out of my face as the driver lowers his window and cold air sweeps into the car. I raise my voice to be heard over the wind. “We’re just driving out by the army base near mile marker seventeen so we shouldn’t be—”
The phone is plucked from my hand and flying out the window before I can gasp in surprise. I turn to whoever is driving the car, ready to grab the wheel and pull us off the road if I have to, but before I can make a move the guy reaches into his coat and grabs something from his pocket.
Something he throws into my lap.
Something cold, stiff, and a sickly shade of blue.
I look down, get a good look at the dismembered hand lying on my mini-skirt, and scream loud enough to wake the dead.
Dead hand! Dead hand! Ew! So unspeakably creepy and gross!
I bat it to the floor with a spastic thrash of my arm, and pull my feet up into the seat, the better not to touch it with any part of me, ever again.
The man in the driver’s seat laughs. “I told you a good witch always starts with a hand.”
Starts with a hand. Oh, no. Oh, god. I know who this creep is now.
I whip my head in his direction in time to see Ethan’s dirty blond hair turn brown- streaked-with-gray, and his face sharpen into the features of an older man. Features that are strangely familiar considering I’ve never seen this dude’s gray eyes before in my life. But then, maybe it’s a piece of myself I see in his face. Maybe I’m not a clone of my mother. Maybe there’s some of my crazy, witch father in the curve of my nose and pointy chin, as well as my blood.
My father. There’s no doubt that it’s him, Addison Strain, the evil bastard who nearly killed my mother. He didn't know she was pregnant with me when he tied her up and left her to bleed out all alone, but that doesn’t win him any points in my book. He’s a crazy, monstrous, psychopathic, murdering freak who—according to Settler intelligence—spends his spare time plotting ways to bring about the end of the world.
I always thought I’d be scared to death if I ever came face to face with my bio dad, but instead I’m angry. Really, really angry. That whisper of darkness inside me, the one that’s simmered beneath my skin since the day Cliff and I ripped out Jess/Aaron’s heart, surges to the surface.
How dare this creep hurt my mom? How dare he pretend to be his daughter’s boyfriend in order to kidnap her? It’s not just wrong, it’s repulsive.
What if I had kissed his disgusting lips or—god forbid—something worse? How far would he have taken his little game of pretend? Assuming my “wrong-dar” hadn’t gone off and out-ed him for who he really is?
Ugh. Shudder. Blechk. So, so, sooooo gross.
Just the thought of touching him makes my skin want to crawl right off my bones. “You’re disgusting,” I choke out, working to keep the gorge rising in my throat headed back in the right direction.
“It’s not disgusting, it’s a hand. And smart magic. If you want a convincing illusion spell, you’re always going to need a helping hand,” he says paternally, like we go for Daddy-daughter drives and swap magic tips all the time. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s where the phrase comes from. What do you think?”
I think it’s time to get the hell out of here.
I go for the release on my seatbelt and the handle of the door at the same time. The door opens, but before I can hurl myself from the speeding car—which I totally would have done since I strongly believe that it’s better to risk death than abduction by evil bio dad—Addison grunts a witch command beneath his breath.
The door slams shut and locks with an ominous snick snack. I spin back to him with my hands raised, and scream the first Settler command that comes to mind, “Exuro!”
I throw the call for flame in his direction, hoping to distract him long enough to get out of the car. I know it’s pointless to use Settler magic on the living, but I can’t work any other kind. I have witch blood, but no witch training. All of my magical skills are sending-the-dead-back-to-the-grave or banishing-black-magically-raised-zombie related.
When it comes to living bad guys, I have to rely on my Junior Enforcer combat training and the killer high-kick I’ve perfected during pom squad practice for protection.
So to say that I’m surprised when Addison bursts into flames is an understatement.
I’m shocked, dumbfounded, momentarily immobilized despite the fact that the flames are hot enough to make my left side sting and my nerve endings scream.
Why is he on fire if he’s not dead?
Why isn’t he howling in pain?
What the hell is going on?
By the time I recover my wits and go for the door a second time, Addison is laughing and reaching a flaming hand in my direction.
I scream and tug at the door handle, jamming it back and forth until my fingers bruise, but it won’t budge. I’m trapped, and the seats are starting to catch fire! I press myself tight to the door, and shove one shaking palm in my bio dad’s direction.
“Opprimo!” I shout the smothering command, the one that puts out the burning dead, but it’s too late.
My father’s hand is already in my hair, tangling in the long, brown locks I’ve been growing since I was ten, setting me on fire just as his own flames go out.
February 14th, 10:16 p.m.
I wake up in a cold, dark place.
At first, I assume I’m at Monica’s house. We’ve had our share of sleepovers lately, and she always keeps her room the temperature of a deep freeze. You’d think someone so scrawny would be cold all the time, not hot, but Monica often defies expectations. I used to think she was a huge b-word, but in the past few months I’ve come to love her. She’s not really mean, just blunt and missing an empathy gene or two.
But she cares about people, about me. She’d never let me go to sleep smelling like a dead fish wrapped in burnt pretzels. Especially in her bed.
Sniff. God, I stink. Monica would have forced me into the shower at gunpoint if I showed up at her house like this, and what I’m lying on feels harder than a bed, though not as hard as the ground. It’s solid, but with some give, kind of like cardboard.
So I’m not at Monica’s…
I blink, searching for some light in the darkness, but there’s nothing. I might as well have my eyes closed for all I can see right now. I shift my legs, trying to sit up and get a better look around. That’s when I realize my feet are tied together at the ankles, and my hands at the wrists.
My pulse speeds as I roll onto my back, stirring up the burned smell and a flash of pain as the scorched skin at my neck protests movement.
Scorched. Burned.
It all comes rushing back to me. The Ethan who wasn’t really Ethan, the car speeding into the darkness, my bio dad on fire and reaching for my hair.
My hair! I can feel it poking my cheek, sticky little stumps that barely reach the top of my neck. I’ve spent half my life growing out my hair and—as of last year—I’m finally able to wield my Chi with enough skill to transform my naturally frizzy mane into a shimmering curtain of brown glossiness (when given the proper amount of primping time and some frizz-easing product).
I love my hair. My mom loves my hair. Ethan loves my hair.
And now it’s gone! I know in the grand scheme of things that it’s just
hair. Assuming I live through the night it’ll grow back, I’ve got bigger things to worry about, yada, yada, yada. Still, I can’t seem to contain the rage that burns inside me. I thrash my bound legs into the air in protest of this latest offense to decency, and immediately wish I hadn’t
“Ow!” I hiss as my boots slam into metal with a hollow thunk.
Metal above my head, cardboard feeling stuff underneath me. I suddenly have a pretty good idea where I am. I take a second to stretch my legs to either side—making sure my hunch is correct—and find more metal. I’m guessing I’m in the trunk of a car, but not the Mini’s. I’m only five four, but the Mini’s trunk would still be way too small to fit all of me.
