“How is Bob these days? Still curbing the urge for world domination through wizardry?”
“Aren’t we all?” I snort. “Sometimes I catch him muttering an incantation under his breath, and then a super-annoying customer will suddenly be silenced, so…he’s still got some work to do.”
“Classic Bob.”
We bundle up for a walk down snowy sidewalks, but when we hit the pavement, I’m instantly paralyzed by the sight of Kim and Charlie walking toward us. Together. Not like holding hands together, but laughing and talking and so totally entranced by each other’s company, they don’t even notice Amani and me until they’re almost on top of us. Even wrapped in winter gear, I still see smiles hidden by scarves. They look so good together it’s painful: both so classy and stylish with individual flair. Both funny and smart in a way that never makes you feel less so. Seeing them like this is straight from my visions of them as a couple, and I have to rub my eyes to make sure it’s real.
It is.
Amani curls her arm around mine, steadying me with her grip. Because she is wonderful and correctly assumes my insides are dying, she takes charge of the situation. “Hey, guys,” she calls out, startling the pair. “What are you two doing here? Together.”
Charlie’s face, already pleasant, brightens further upon seeing me. “Hey, you,” he says, stepping close for a quick kiss. “You girls done being fancy? I thought I’d surprise you and join.”
“For tea?” I ask.
“Excuse you, yes. I am a very sophisticated man.”
I want to smile, but I refuse.
“Of course you are, Charlie,” Amani says. “And you brought Kim?”
“Oh,” Kim pipes in. “We just got done with an MA meeting.” MA (short for Manchester Ambassadors) is a community service club at school. I didn’t even know such a thing existed until I started dating Charlie, who’s been a member all four years. “Member” is kind of a loose term, because (per his words) he’s probably been to 1.5 meetings during the course of his school career. Even though he likes the idea of helping people, he doesn’t particularly care to be around Manchester people, which is quite the conundrum. Still, he’s been trying to be more involved lately to both help with college applications, and make his dad—Chicago’s “community comes first” mayor—proud. I didn’t realize Kim had taken up the call of service, though.
“You’re meeting on a Sunday?” I ask.
“Yeah, well, I blame our whip-cracking presidente, Alison, who got the bright idea of doing a winter carnival fund-raiser, and since it’s winter now, we have to hustle to actually pull it off,” Charlie says. “Something about that girl freaks me out.”
Seeing as how Alison Bleeker is one-quarter banshee, yeah, you can’t help but jump into gear when she shrieks, er, talks.
“Well that’s…fun,” I say.
“I think so,” Kim says. “I haven’t really joined a club like this before, but my parents promised we’d stay here until graduation, so I figured, why not. Might as well do something. And carnivals are cool, right?”
“Carnivals are the epitome of cool,” Charlie says, and the two of them laugh, at what I can only assume is an inside reference, since carnivals don’t exactly rank.
I try not to let the sound of their mixed laughter melt my eardrums. I have no real reason to distrust either of them. Kim seems so pure, her words may actually be candy coated; she’s been nothing but a sweet and supportive friend since we’ve met. And Charlie—he’s his own brand of magic. I don’t want to be this girl; I refuse to transform into someone who double-checks intentions and digs way deeper than face value. The path of jealousy is lined with thorns, and I’d rather steer clear. If only my head weren’t clogged with these visions, if only I could see straight. I want to stomp on their seeds of burgeoning romance and wipe away the happy ending. All I want is the security of Charlie’s feelings and to ignore the circling sharks. But I don’t know how.
“Well, I look forward to dragging around a cheap stuffed animal after winning at the ring toss,” Amani adds.
Kim smiles, and we all stand there awkwardly for a minute.
“So, Kim, do you want to hit Sephora with me?” Amani asks, cleverly pulling her away from Charlie. “Amber’s not really into mascara shopping.”
“Definitely not,” I confirm. “I like my lashes to be pale and lacking flirtation.”
Kim lets out her twinkly little laugh. “I’d love to. I’m in the market for some new nail polish, myself.”
“Great!” Amani gives my arm one last pinch, then latches on to Kim instead. I don’t want Amani to go; I want to unload all my insanity and have her tell me it’s okay. But because she’s wise and less certifiable than myself, I have to assume she’s doing this for a reason.
“Bye, all!” Kim waves.
As they walk away, Charlie wraps me in a tight hug, picking me up an inch off the sidewalk.
“What are you doing?” I squeal.
“Squeezing the weirdness out of you.”
“What?”
“You have a weird vibe. What’s up?”
“I am a vision of normalcy.”
“False,” he says, glasses sliding down his nose. “I know you, Sand, and I know when you’re wigged out.” He sets me back down. “Spill.”
Damn. I’m caught. And I thought I was such a good actress. What do I do now? Pull the paranoia rip cord, or let it lie?
“Turns out tea doesn’t agree with me.”
“Tea doesn’t agree with anyone. It’s like dirt water.” Oh, this boy. “But that’s not it.” He still has his arms locked around me, so it looks like I’m stuck until I talk (although, truthfully, there are worse places to be).
Deep breath. “Seems like you and Kim were having fun,” I slowly venture.
“Sure, I guess,” he says. “I’ve never really had an MA buddy, so it’s nice to have someone to talk to.” I search his face for any deeper appreciation, any beyond-friendship feelings growing inside, but I guess my detective mask is not very sneaky. “Wait a minute—why?” he asks.
“No reason,” I lie.
Wheels click behind his lenses, trying to pinpoint my problem. “Do you have some sort of weird thing with Kim?” he asks. I shake my head. “You act different when she’s around.”
“What, I have to be exactly the same all the time?”
“No, but there’s a distinctly different vibe.”
“Like what?”
“Like…it wouldn’t surprise you if she suddenly sprouted fangs.”
“To be fair, I think that of most people,” I say.
He pinches his lips, keeping himself from laughing. “Is this one of those weird girl-world things where you say you’re friends but you secretly hate her? Because, honestly, that’s the worst.”
“That is the worst. And no, I don’t hate her. She’s my friend.” But I say “friend” with so little enthusiasm, even a deaf troll would detect the fault in my voice.
Now Charlie’s the one hunting for clues, his dark green eyes going to town. “Are you…jealous, or something?” he correctly guesses.
I release an offended huff. “Jealous? Me? Matchmakers don’t feel jealousy. Only satisfaction at witnessing fledgling love.”
He frowns. “I know you’re trying to be funny, but I already know you’re tough, so drop it. Just talk to me.”
But I don’t want to talk; I don’t even want these feelings. I want to take this cute boy and smother him with kisses and not have a care in the world. The problem is, I do care—a lot—more than I thought possible. It’s the caring that consumes me, and morphs from a positive sensation to negative obsession. If I tell him—if I release this poison swimming in my system—will it make things better, or worse? Will I look like a fool, or will it confirm my fears?
“Well…you do look cute together,” I eventually say.
“Cuter than this?” He pinches my cheek.
“Stop. And no, obviously not.” My cheeks are burning, and not from his t
ouch. I can’t even look him in the eye. “But you two mesh well.”
He considers this, and my heart actually stops. Good Gods, did I just give him an idea? Open his heart to a new possibility?
“I don’t think of her that way,” he answers, and I want to vomit from relief. “She’s your friend, and I figured part of the boyfriendly duty was to be nice to your lady’s pals. If you’d prefer, I can go all ‘raging jerk’ when she’s around. You’re the boss.”
I find his response so overwhelmingly comforting, and I’m so embarrassed by the whole exchange, I bury my face in his coat. “No, don’t do that.”
Charlie rests his chin on the top of my head and strokes my hair. “You have nothing to worry about, okay? You’re the only girl for me.”
If only that were true.
THE final bell rings, and I’ve successfully made it through another stretch of school. The hallways fill with chattering groups buzzing about their days, but I’m not one to linger; the sooner I can step off campus, the better. What’s there to talk about, anyway? OMG, can you believe what so-and-so said? Yes, I’m sure so-and-so is a total idiot, and anything verbalized is an accurate portrayal of sub-intelligence.
I’m at my locker, packing up my stuff, when an icy shard digs into my shoulder. I whip around to see who’d dare assault me and am annoyed (but not surprised) to see Ivy, in full siren power pose (i.e., hands on hips, chest out). Sometimes I think she forgets her magic is lost on me, but it’s fun to see her try.
“Was that…your finger that tapped me just now?” I ask. “If so, you should be checked for hypothermia—”
“Don’t even try making a cute reference about me being cold because sirens lived in the ocean, blah, blah. There’s no time. We gotta go,” she commands.
“I’m sorry, where are we going?”
“I hacked my sister’s phone; she’s meeting with that witch tonight. We have to spy on them.”
I’m impressed by her initiative, even if the results mean mortal peril. “You know that’s completely unsafe, right? Victoria’s a straight-up lunatic, and she would have no problem murdering you on the spot.” I try to hold back a smile but fail. “Although I’m sure that’s a common reaction after meeting you.”
“Like you’ve never received a death threat,” she throws back. Touché. “So what do you suggest, then?”
“Well, where are they meeting?”
“Someplace called the Black Phoenix. Although I couldn’t even pull it up on Yelp, so it must be a dive.”
Ah! For once, the Fates make my life easy. “Perfect. I was actually heading there myself.”
“What? Why?” she asks, horrified.
“I work there, one night a week. Don’t worry,” I say, patting her reassuringly on the shoulder. “You’ll fit right in.”
She tosses her hair in my face, taking off two steps ahead of me. I consider jumping ship until I realize we’ve just passed a group of football players who didn’t even turn when Ivy walked by. No catcalls, no displays of desire. For my entirety of knowing her, there’s always been at least one hopeless, slobbering pile of boy-shaped Jell-O. Even if she weren’t actively twisting the knobs of her siren charms, sheer beauty alone has been enough to turn the masses to pudding. It’s been such a constant occurrence, you start to take the nonstop adoration for granted, until it’s suddenly gone. But why? Where did her admirers go? She’s still painfully beautiful as far as I can tell.
Ivy too seems oddly indifferent to cultivating their attention. She’s usually shoving her boobs and butt toward anyone who will look. But right now she’s steady, focused, ignoring all flanking man meat. Maybe she’s already sampled all the Manchester offerings and isn’t interested in seconds?
When we get outside, I start walking toward the bus stop, but Ivy snaps her fingers at me (rude) and points to her red Mercedes-Benz in the parking lot. Leave it to a siren to snag a spot in the faculty-only lot. Even though getting in a car with my enemy behind the wheel isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, I’m not one to turn down a free ride.
“So where is this dump?” Ivy asks, turning the key.
“Oh, we have to make a stop at my apartment first so I can change.” Before her eyes can roll, she looks down at her own plaid skirt and seems to decide this is a good idea. When I’m at work, I’ll be covered in an apron, so it doesn’t really matter what I wear; I just prefer my daily uniform doesn’t come out smelling like boiled bat wing. Plus, Vincent does prefer we make some sort of effort to be presentable, and even though my hair is too short and choppy to tie into a full updo, I’ve invented a little twisty, bobby-pin solution that appeases him. It’s better to show up ready to go, because I’ve definitely received more than one side-eye from the boss man when my hair is hanging in my face.
At home, after I’ve changed into some leggings and a white button-down, I see Ivy brought a spare outfit too, though hers is certainly more asset-baring than mine: skintight jeans and a low-cut top. I guess those are a siren’s tricks of the trade, but I’ll need something other than jaw-dropping curves to provide backup for this evil-witch surveillance. The Black Phoenix may give me a slight home-court advantage, but if I’ve learned anything about dealing with my supernatural kinfolk, it’s that it’s better to be safe than strangled.
I peruse Mom’s office for anything easily accessible and deployable in case of emergency. Most of her completed one-stop spells in a jar are at the shop, while she keeps the separate ingredients at home. There’s a lot of power packed in these shelves, but without an official witch to mix them all together, they’re pretty worthless to me.
“Ugh, what are you doing in there?” Ivy moans from the living room. I made her stay away from the goods on the off chance her aura would make everything wilt.
“You never learned patience, did you?” I call back.
“What good is patience when you can get whatever you want, whenever you want?”
“Right, right.” I finally spot what I’ve been looking for in Mom’s charm drawer: a pair of sound-amplification amulets that act like magical walkie-talkies. The stones vibrate at the same frequency and are tethered together via some sort of wavelength I don’t fully understand. All my simpleton, non-witch self knows is that using these will allow us to listen in on Victoria and Iris without being seen.
We go through the Black Phoenix back entrance just before 5:00 P.M. Ivy, completely appalled at having to enter through an alley, huffs the whole time. The smell of the kitchen is what really puts her over the edge, though, and I can tell she’s questioning her devotion to her sister when a seared liver passes by her nose.
“People…eat here?” she asks, positively green.
“Well, I wouldn’t say people, but yes, edibles are consumed in this establishment.” I tie on my apron and add a dab of colorless lip gloss for good measure.
“Is this some sort of freaks club?” Her eyes widen as Alessandra, the sphinx hostess, glides by, wings draping down her backless dress. I remember having a similar reaction the first time I saw her, but now that chilling with a sphinx ain’t no thang, Ivy’s bewilderment makes me feel worldly and superior.
“Yup, and as a siren, you’re an automatic member here. Welcome!” I congratulate her. I stick out my hand, but she’s keeping herself drawn inward, not wanting to physically interact with anything around her. “Let’s go find Vincent,” I suggest.
“And what is he, a goblin?”
“No. Just a vampire.”
“Great.”
Vincent’s wiping down the bar, doing his last-minute checks before the doors open for dinner. He waves when he sees me but doesn’t stop racing around.
“Hey,” I call out, trying to catch him. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“You’re late. Why aren’t you in the kitchen doing prep?” He’s always cranky before the sun goes down.
“Sorry. Something came up, and I need your help real quick.”
He stops adjusting an arrangement of black silk flowers at the coat
-check desk. “What?”
“I need you to place one of these”—I hand him an amulet—“at a particular table tonight.” I give him the backstory while Ivy shifts uncomfortably.
“Victoria’s coming here?” he groans, exposing a razor-sharp canine. Looks like he’s been another casualty on the Victoria pain train.
“You know her?”
“Let’s just say…our paths have crossed.”
Ugh! Why are people so reluctant to share information about this witch?!
“C’mon, Vincent, you gotta give me something.”
He shoots me a look that reads “no, I really don’t” but then relents. “She used to date a regular of mine, another vamp. Not a good guy but a good customer: always ordered appetizers and drinks. They came in here pretty frequently for a while. But when things ended, they really ended.”
“What does that mean?”
“Rumor has it she dragged his mattress outside in the middle of the day while he was sleeping. Then, poof.” He snaps his fingers. “He was gone.”
“Holy crap!” I look over at Ivy, whose face is frozen in a silent scream.
Vincent nods, his pale, sun-never-touched self shuddering at the thought.
“Sheesh, what’s up with your shady clientele?” I tease, trying to lighten the suddenly grim vibe.
“You have no idea.” The clock strikes five, and he runs his fingers through his slicked-back hair, giving a final pull on his bow tie. He shakes his shoulders like he’s shedding a skin, and the poised, charismatic restaurateur I’ve come to know and love starts to emerge. Vincent may be dead, but he’s really alive when it’s time to be on. He replaces his fangs with a charming smile and settles into his showman role. “I’ll pass this on to their waitress when the time comes; I don’t want to be anywhere near that witch.”
“Fair enough.”
“You better hope she doesn’t see it, though,” he adds. “I will disavow any knowledge of its existence if discovered. I can’t have you causing another scuffle in my place, Miss Sand.” He winks and heads off to greet the first diners of the evening. I grab Ivy’s hand and drag her back to the kitchen, where I start setting up my station. Marcus, who’s already chopping ghost peppers, gives me a little wave.
The Sweetest Kind of Fate Page 5
