“Carmel’s still not picking up,” he mutters. “I hope we don’t have to go in and find her.”
It’s doubtful. As we crest the hill it looks like most of the school is hanging out around the quad and parking lot. Of course they would be. It’s the last day of the year. I hadn’t even noticed.
It doesn’t take long for Thomas to zero in on Carmel; her blond hair shines a few shades brighter than everyone else’s. She’s in the middle of a crowd, laughing, with her backpack on the ground, resting against her lower leg. When she hears the Tempo’s distinctive sputter, her eyes flash our way and her face tenses. Then the smile is back like it never left.
“Maybe we should wait and call her later,” I say, without knowing why. Despite her queen bee status, Carmel is our friend first. Or at least she used to be.
“What for?” Thomas asks. “She’s going to want to know this.” I don’t say anything while he pulls into the first open space and puts the Tempo into park. Maybe he’s right. After all, she’s always wanted to know before.
When we get out, Carmel’s back is to us. She’s in a circle of people, but somehow manages to still be perceived as the center of it. Everyone’s body is slightly turned toward hers, even when she’s not the one talking. Something’s wrong here, and all of a sudden I want to grab Thomas by the shoulder and wrench him around. We don’t belong, is what my blood is screaming, but I don’t know why. The people surrounding Carmel are people I’ve seen before. People I’ve talked to in passing and they’ve always been friendly enough. Natalie and Katie are both there. So are Sarah Sullivan and Heidi Trico. The guys in the group are the leftovers of The Trojan Army: Jordan Driscoll, Nate Bergstrom, and Derek Pimms. They know we’re coming, but none of them acknowledge us. And there’s something frozen about the smiles on their faces. They look triumphant. Like cats who’ve swallowed a flock of canaries.
“Carmel,” Thomas calls, and jogs the last few steps to her.
“Hey, Thomas,” she says, and smiles. She doesn’t say anything to me, and none of the others pay much attention to me either. They all have predatory expressions locked on Thomas, who doesn’t notice a thing.
“Hey,” he says, and when she doesn’t say anything in return, but just stands there looking at him expectantly, he starts to trip up. “Um, you weren’t answering your phone.”
“Yeah, I’ve just been hanging out,” she replies with a shrug.
“I thought you had mono or something,” Derek interrupts with a smirk. “But I don’t know how you’d have gotten it.”
Thomas shrinks a few inches. I want to say something, but it’s Carmel who should do the talking. These are her friends, and on any normal day they would know better than to say anything offside to Thomas. On any normal day, Carmel would rip them a new one just for looking at him funny.
“So, uh, can we talk to you a minute?” Thomas has his hands shoved into his pockets; he couldn’t look more awkward if he started kicking the dirt. And Carmel just stands there, disaffected.
“Sure,” she says with another half smile. “I’ll give you a call, later on.”
Thomas doesn’t know what to do. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask what’s the matter, what’s going on, and it’s all I can do to keep my own mouth shut, to keep from telling him to be quiet, not to give them anything else. They don’t deserve the satisfaction of seeing this look on his face.
“Or maybe tomorrow,” Derek says, stepping closer to Carmel. His eyes are on her in a way that makes my stomach turn. “Tonight we’re going out, right?” He touches her, snakes an arm around her waist, and Thomas goes pale.
“Maybe I’ll call you tomorrow,” Carmel says. She doesn’t move out of Derek’s grip and her face barely twitches while Thomas’s crumples.
“Come on,” I say finally, and grab his shoulder. The minute I touch him he turns and heads back for the car, half running, humiliated and broken in ways I don’t want to think about.
“This was a real pile of shit, Carmel,” I say, and she crosses her arms over her chest. For an instant, it looks like she might cry. But in the end she doesn’t do anything but look down at the ground.
* * *
There’s pure silence on the drive from the school to my house. I can’t think of a single thing to say and I feel useless. My lack of experience at friendship is showing. Thomas looks brittle as a brown leaf. Someone else would know something, some anecdote or story. Someone else would know what to do besides sit in the passenger seat and be uncomfortable.
I don’t know whether Thomas and Carmel were actually dating. She might get out of the cheating title on a technicality. But that’s all it is. A technicality. Because she and I and everyone else know that Thomas is in love with her. And for the past six months, she’s done a pretty good job of acting like she was in love with him too.
“I, uh, just need to be alone for awhile, okay, Cas?” He talks without looking at me. “I’m not going to drive my car off the falls or anything,” he says, and tries to smile. “I just need to be alone.”
“Thomas,” I say. When I put my hand on his shoulder, he lifts his arm and gently knocks it away. I get it. “Okay, man,” I say, and open my door. “Just give a shout if you need anything.” I step out.
There should be more to say, something better that I could do. But the best I’ve got is to keep my eyes straight ahead and not look back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The house is a sad sort of quiet. That’s what I notice when I walk in. There’s nothing inside of it with me, nothing living and nothing dead, and somehow that doesn’t make it feel safe so much as insubstantial. The sounds it makes, the whisper and click of the front door closing and the creaks of the floorboards, are hollow and ordinary. Or maybe it just seems that way because I feel like I’m suspended mid train wreck. Things are being crushed around me and there doesn’t seem to be any action to take. Thomas and Carmel are collapsing. Anna is being torn to shreds. And I can’t do a damn thing about any of it.
I haven’t said more than five words to my mom since we had our last argument about me tracking Anna into Hell, so when I pass by the kitchen window and see her in the backyard, seated cross-legged in front of the bedraggled choke cherry tree, I almost jump. She’s in a breezy summer dress, and there are a few white candles lit around her, three that I can see. Smoke from something, maybe incense, drifts up above her head and disappears. I don’t recognize this spell, so I go out the back door. Mom’s spell work these days is mostly commercial. Only under special circumstances does she take the time to do anything personal. So help me, if she’s trying to bind me to the house, or bind me from doing harm to myself, I’m moving out.
She doesn’t say anything as I approach, doesn’t even turn as my shadow falls over her. A photo of Anna rests against the base of the tree. It’s the one from the newspaper that I tore out this fall. I always have it with me.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“I took it from your wallet this morning, before you left with Thomas,” she replies. Her voice is sad and serene, still tinged with the spell she was just performing. At my sides, my hands go slack. I was ready to snatch the picture back, but all of the will just leaked out of my arms.
“What are you doing?”
“Praying,” she says simply, and I sink down beside her in the grass. The flames sitting atop the candlewicks are small and so motionless they could be solid. The smoke that I saw rising above my mom’s head came from a piece of amber resin, set on a flat stone, burning a quiet blue and green.
“Will it work?” I ask. “Will she feel it?”
“I don’t know,” she answers. “Maybe. Probably not, but I hope so. She’s so far away. Past the limit.”
I don’t say anything. She’s close enough to me, linked to me strongly enough to find her way back.
“We’ve got a lead,” I say. “The athame. We might be able to use it.”
“Use it how?” Her voice is clipped; she’d still rather not know.
My mom sighs, staring down at Anna’s photo. In it she was a girl of sixteen, with dark brown hair and a white blouse, wearing a smile that isn’t quite there.
“I know why you have to do this,” Mom says finally. “But I can’t bring myself to want you to. Do you understand?”
I nod. It’s as good as I’m going to get, and really, more than I should ask for. She takes a deep breath and blows out all the candles at once without turning her head, which makes me smile. It’s an old witch’s parlor trick she did all the time when I was a kid. Then she snuffs out the amber resin and reaches for Anna’s photo. She hands it back to me. As I put it back into my wallet, she pulls out a thin, white envelope that was tucked under her knee.
“This came for you in the mail today,” she says. “From Gideon.”
“Gideon?” I say absently, and take the envelope. It’s a little bit weird. Usually when he sends us mail it’s an enormous care package of books and the chocolate-covered flapjacks my mom likes. But when I rip it open and tip the contents into my palm, all that falls out is an old, blurry photograph.
Around me I hear the clicking of wax on wax as my mom gathers up candles. She says something to me, some vague question as she moves around the tree, smearing the ash of the amber resin against the rock. I don’t really hear what she says. All I can do is stare at the photo in my hand.
In it, a robed and hooded figure stands before an altar. Behind him are other figures, dressed similarly in robes of red. It’s a picture of Gideon, performing a ritual, with my athame in his hand. But that’s not the part that stops my brain. It’s the fact that the rest of the figures in the photo appear to be holding my athame as well. There are at least five identical knives in the picture.
“What is this?” I ask, and show it to my mom.
“It’s Gideon,” she replies absently, and then stops when she sees the athames.
“I know it’s Gideon,” I say. “But who are they? And what the hell are those?” I point to the knives. Dummy knives is what I want to believe they are. Knockoffs. But why? And what if they’re not? Are there others, out there, doing what I do? How have I not known? Those are my first thoughts. My second is that I’m looking at the people who created the athame. But that can’t be right. According to my dad, and Gideon too, the athame might literally be older than dirt.
My mom is still staring at the picture.
“Can you explain that?” I ask, even though it’s plain that she can’t. “Why would he send me this? With no explanation?”
She bends and picks up the torn envelope. “I don’t think he did,” she says. “It’s his address, but not his handwriting.”
“When is the last time you heard from him?” I ask, wondering again if something’s happened.
“Just yesterday. He’s fine. He didn’t mention it.” She looks toward the house. “I’ll call and ask him about it.”
“No,” I say suddenly. “Don’t do that.” I clear my throat, wondering how to explain what I’m thinking, but when she sighs, I know that she already knows what I’m thinking. “I think I should go there.”
There’s a slight pause. “You just want to pack up and go to London?” She blinks. It wasn’t the outright no I expected. In fact, there is more curiosity in my mother’s eyes than I’ve seen in maybe ever. It’s the picture. She feels it too. Whoever sent it, sent it as bait, and it’s working on both of us.
“I’m going with you,” she says. “I’ll book the flights in the morning.”
“No, Mom.” I put my hand on her arm and pray that I can make her understand. She can’t come along. Because someone, or something, wants me to go there. All of that mojo that Morfran was talking about, that thunderstorm of push and pull; I’m finally catching its scent. This photo isn’t a photo at all. It’s a big fat breadcrumb. And if I follow it, it’ll lead me to Anna. I can feel it in my gut.
“Look,” I say. “I’ll go to Gideon. He’ll explain this and keep me out of trouble. You know he will.”
She glances at the picture with doubt flickering through her features. She’s not ready to let one image change everything about a man we’ve known most of our lives. Truthfully I’m not ready to either. Gideon will explain everything when I get there.
“Whoever is in that picture,” she says, “do you think they know about the athame? About where it came from?”
“Yes,” I say. And I think Gideon knows too. I think he’s known all along.
“And you think they’ll know how to open it, like Thomas said?”
“Yes,” I say. And more than that. It all feels connected. Mom is looking down at the tree, at the black smudge of ash left over from her prayer.
“I want you to do something for me, Cas,” she says in a faraway voice. “I know you want to save her. I know you think you have to. But when the time comes, if the price is too high, I want you to remember that you’re my son. Do you promise?”
I try to smile. “What makes you think there’s going to be a price?”
“There’s always a price. Now do you promise?”
“I promise.”
She shakes her head, and brushes the grass and dirt off her dress, effectively brushing off the gravity of the previous moment. “Take Thomas and Carmel with you,” she says. “I can pitch in for their tickets.”
“Might be a problem there,” I say, and tell her what happened. For a minute, it seems like she might have a suggestion—something I should do, or how to get them back together—but then she shakes her head.
“I’m sorry, Cas,” she says, and pats my arm like I’m the one who got broken up with.
* * *
A day and a half passes without so much as a text from Thomas. I find myself checking my phone every five minutes like a lovesick schoolgirl, wondering if I should call him, or if he’s better left alone. Maybe he and Carmel have managed to talk it over. If that’s the case, I don’t want to interrupt it. Still, my head’s going to explode if I don’t tell him about the photograph soon. And about the trip to London. He might not even want to go.
Mom and I are in the kitchen, keeping ourselves busy. She’s taken the day off from being witchy and has decided to experiment with a new casserole. Some six-bean chicken thing that I’m not too excited about, but she looks happily distracted and daring in her rooster-print apron, so I’ll do my part and be daring enough to eat it when it comes out of the oven. So far, we’ve avoided talking about anything related to Anna, or the athame, or Hell, or Gideon. It’s actually sort of comforting, that we do have other things to talk about.
When someone knocks at the door, I come half out of my chair. But it isn’t Thomas. Standing in our entryway is Carmel. She looks guilty and a little lost, but her clothes still match and her hair is still perfect. Conversely, somewhere else in Thunder Bay, Thomas is a complete wreck.
“Hey,” she says. My mom and I glance at each other. We don’t play casual very well; we just stand sort of frozen, me half in and half out of my chair, and my mom half bent over the stove, with her oven mitts on.
“Can I talk to you?” Carmel asks.
“Have you talked to Thomas?”
She looks away.
“Maybe you’d better talk to him first,” I say.
The way she’s standing, I can’t help but give in. I’ve never seen Carmel Jones look out of place before. She’s fidgeting, trying to decide whether to stay or go, one hand on the doorknob and the other clutching the strap of her shoulder bag so hard it might snap. My mom nods her head toward the door, up toward my room, and gives me the eyes. I sigh.
“You’re welcome to stay for lunch, Carmel,” Mom says.
Carmel smiles shakily. “Thanks, Mrs. Lowood. What are you having?”
“I don’t know. I made it up.”
“We’ll be down in a few minutes, Mom,” I say, and brush
past Carmel on my way to the stairs. Questions flash through my mind while we head for my room. What is she doing here? What does she want? Why isn’t she fixing things with Thomas?
“So how was your big date with Derek?” I ask as I close the door.
She shrugs. “It was okay.”
“Not worth breaking Thomas’s heart, then?” I spit. I don’t know why I feel so betrayed. Part of me thought the date with Derek was just a cover and she’d never actually go. It pisses me off, and I want her to say what she came here to say, to ask me if we’ll still be friends, so I can tell her no, and to get the hell out of my house.
“Derek’s not that bad,” she says, unbelievably. “But he’s not the reason. For any of it.”
Halfway to slinging my next insult, my mouth closes. She’s looking at me evenly, and the apology on her face isn’t just for Thomas. Carmel didn’t come here to explain. She didn’t come to ask if we were still going to be friends. She came here to tell me that we weren’t.
“My mom was right,” I mutter. I am getting broken up with.
“What?”
“Nothing. What’s going on, Carmel?”
Her hip shifts. She had something planned, some big speech, but now that she’s here it’s failing her. The phrases “I never” and “It’s just” fall out of her mouth, and I lean on my dresser. There are going to be a few false starts before she gets it right. To her credit, she doesn’t pout, or try to lead me with questions so I’ll make it easier. Carmel is always tougher than I think she’s going to be, which is why what’s happening doesn’t make sense. Finally, she looks me straight in the eyes.
“There’s no way to say this that isn’t going to sound selfish,” she says. “It is selfish. And I’m okay with it.”
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m still glad to know you, and Thomas. And aside from all the murders”—she scrunches her face—“I don’t regret anything that’s happened.”
I stay quiet, waiting for the but. It’s coming.
“But, I guess the bottom line is that I don’t want to do it anymore. I have this whole life of plans and goals and things that don’t mesh well with death and the dead. I thought I could do both. That I could have both. But I can’t. So I’m choosing the other way.” Her chin is raised, ready for a fight, waiting for me to attack her. The funny thing is, I don’t want to. Carmel’s not tied to this like I am, or even like Thomas is. Nobody raised her to be a witch, or forged her blood with steel who knows how many hundreds of years ago. She can choose. And despite my friendship with Thomas, I can’t be angry about that.
Girl of Nightmares Page 11
