Their voices, though near, were nothing more than an echo in the far corner of Joel’s mind. His concentration was elsewhere as he called silently for Maximus. Until recently, it had been a long time since Joel had wished for his father’s return. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to need Maximus at all.
But he needed him now.
Joel’s mind wandered back to a moment in time long ago. It had been a milestone moment in his life—the moment he had closed his heart to Maximus, making a conscious decision that he didn’t need a father. Or a mother, for that matter.
It was a confluence of events that had led him to that realisation, beginning with the first time he’d officially met his mother. He’d been three years old, and Evan had been four. He remembered the tinny sound of the doorbell ringing at the old bungalow in downtown Blackheath. Maximus had answered the door, and there, standing on the porch in the lamp-lit suburban street, was a beautiful woman. She had long fair hair and tearstained cheeks. Shaky breaths were escaping her pale lips as she stood shivering in the rain.
“Hi, Max,” she whispered.
Maximus stammered for breath, then a beat later he enveloped the woman in his arms, pulling her into the house and slamming the door behind them.
When they finally broke free from their embrace, the woman let her bag slip from her shoulder onto the floor before rushing into the living room towards Joel and Evan. She began sobbing as she hugged and kissed four-year-old Evan, stroking his soft blonde curls.
Joel had looked on curiously, knowing instinctively that this was his mother—a woman he had never met since his birth. He’d also known that she would come to him next, so he braced himself.
Just as he’d predicted, the woman untangled her arms from Evan and came towards him. She lifted him into her embrace and tearfully kissed his cheeks.
“Hello, Joel,” she murmured.
And that had been that. Evangeline had returned.
She stayed for a long time that time. Joel couldn’t put an exact number on it, but it had been long enough to feel like forever. It had been nine months at least, Joel realised now, because he had watched his mother’s belly grow bigger and bigger until one day Ainsley arrived. And then she left again.
After that, it had taken another forever for life to reset itself. First the baby cried, and then Maximus cried, and then Evan cried. Joel had cried, too, but he tried to do it when nobody was looking.
And then Maximus left, taking the crying baby with him. Evan and Joel cried some more, and by the time their tear ducts had finally run dry, Joel had decided he wasn’t going to cry ever again. Not for her. Not for him.
Not for anyone.
THE SOUND OF the doorbell startled Joel. For a second he wasn’t sure if he was still trapped inside the memory, hearing that doorbell at three years old, or if he was back in the present, hearing it at seventeen.
When it rang for a second time, the sound drew him fully back to reality. He shivered, suddenly aware that he was standing on the balcony with a frosty wind biting at his skin. He shook himself from the past and retreated through the French doors. Crossing his bedroom, he jogged down the stairs and made for the front door.
Visitors at the Tomlins residence were generally few and far between. The mansion was hidden deep in the wooded hills, and it wasn’t easy to get to—especially in such poor weather conditions. Not to mention the fact that the people of Blackheath typically deemed the witch house to be something best avoided, for fear of getting hexed or, at the very least, conned into handing over some hard-earned cash for a ropey palm reading.
So when Joel opened the door, he was understandably surprised to see Charlie flanked by several of the guys from the soccer team, all of whom whooped in high-spirited delight at the sight of him.
“Uh . . . hi,” Joel greeted them, frowning.
“Party’s here!” Charlie boomed, fist-pumping the air.
Joel rubbed the back of his neck. “Huh?”
“Par-taay!” Charlie clarified.
Joel looked between the hopeful faces standing on his porch.
Oh, hell, he thought.
“Wait a second,” he stalled, panic rising in his voice. “I didn’t agree to a party.”
“What?” Charlie’s huge smile deflated a little. “J-Dog, I thought you said it was a maybe!”
“Yeah, I did. And maybe’s what people say when they mean no.”
“But . . .” stammered Sleazy Dale, who was hovering on Charlie’s left. “We’ve already told everyone.”
“Everyone?” Joel echoed, running his hands over his face in dismay. “How many people is everyone?”
Charlie, still looking crestfallen, held up his hands. “Just the people from our class. And a few close friends.”
Joel groaned. “Evan is going to kill me.”
Charlie brightened a little. “Does that mean the party is on?”
The troupe of varsity soccer players perked up noticeably.
Joel squeezed his eyes shut. “Fine,” he agreed in a strangled voice. “Just try to keep this to one room, okay?” With that, he stepped aside resignedly as the visitors trooped raucously into the entrance hall.
“This way,” Joel instructed, ushering them into one of the disused ground-floor rooms. At one point it had likely been a drawing room, but now it was nothing but a dust farm. Leaving them there, he spun around and paced to the kitchen. Sidestepping the huge table, he leaned over the sink to jimmy open the stiff window that overlooked the yard where Evan, Ainsley, Maggie, and Isla were now helping Pippin build his snowman.
“Problem,” Joel called without missing a beat.
Evan’s, Ainsley’s and Maggie’s faces immediately turned ashen.
“Not that kind of problem,” Joel clarified for their benefit. “Some of the guys have just shown up at the door. Charlie’s organised a little get together.”
“Oh,” said Evan. He stood up from where he’d been kneeling and dusted the snow from his jeans. “Okay. That could be fun.”
Just so long as a ‘little get together’ is all it is, thought Joel. The fewer non-witches running around this place, the better.
He closed the window and returned to the old drawing room where he’d herded the soccer players. It was a cavernous space with a few pieces of dusty furniture and a high chandeliered ceiling. Charlie was busy hooking up his sound system to an electrical socket that probably dated to the 1940s, while one of the other boys was adjusting the settings on a portable strobe light.
What his gaze landed on next made his eyes widen. There, sitting on a moth-eaten sofa in the centre of the room, was Alleged Third-or-Fourth Cousin Opal, dressed in a pink housecoat. Her hair was in rollers and she was puffing on a fat cigar.
Joel’s eyes narrowed and he glared at her.
“Middle!” she greeted him gutturally. “You didn’t tell me we was having a party.”
“We’re not,” Joel said through gritted teeth. “So maybe you should leave—”
Sleazy Dale plunked down onto the sofa beside her. “Nah, let her stay,” he said in a lazy slur. “She’s cool.”
Two other boys—neither of whom had been at the door a few minutes before—were dragging in kegs of beer from outside. They were being directed into the party room by someone Joel vaguely recognised from the grade below. His stomach knotted.
“This had better not get out of hand!” Joel shouted just as heavy bass music began pounding from the sound system.
Charlie gave him a thumbs-up sign and whooped in delight.
AN HOUR LATER, the party was officially out of hand. The Tomlinses’ mansion was teeming with Blackheath High kids, and Maggie found herself lost in a sea of humid bodies. What had, just hours earlier, been a calm and safe haven was now a chaotic, noisy dance club with music thrumming through the floorboards.
Not long after she’d come in from the snowy outdoors and helped put Pippin in his room, it had become clear that word had spread quickly about the party. Consideri
ng the sheer volume of people in the mansion, it seemed that the only ones who hadn’t known about the get together were the hosts.
Blonde Lauren and Hilary had shown up, too. Blonde Lauren was wearing a tight neon micro-mini, while Hilary was dressed head-to-toe in black—apart from her oversized red-framed glasses, of course. When the two had cornered Isla to grill her about Kaden’s homecoming, Maggie had excused herself and gone to find Joel.
“Everyone’s here,” he’d said as she approached him, a note of fear colouring his tone. “Everyone.”
Including, Maggie had noticed with clenched teeth, Cheerleader Lexi and The Clones.
Ever since her high-heeled arrival, Lexi had done her utmost to shadow Joel wherever he went. If he talked to his friends, Lexi was on hand with a charming anecdote. If he cleaned up a spill, Lexi was there with the mop. If he greeted new arrivals, Lexi greeted them, too—all while sporting ninety percent bare skin and a mass of teased, fiery red hair glowing like a warning siren.
If Lexi was red, then Maggie was green with envy. Of course, to Joel’s eyes, she may very well have been green—literally. So she hovered on the outskirts, hoping to hide her conspicuous aura and trying not to feel too inferior. She did her best to remind herself that she meant something to Joel. That they were more than he and Lexi could ever be.
But every time Lexi appeared, all of those reminders were soon forgotten.
Now, Maggie was slumped on a tatty sofa in the mansion’s less occupied reception room, a chamber adjacent to the official Party Room. She was separate enough to be apart, but close enough to still count as one of the partiers. Beside her, Isla’s attention was glued to her phone. She was texting lavishly, a huge grin plastered across her face.
Hilary took the empty seat beside Maggie and yawned. “I’m so bored.”
Distractedly, Maggie picked at her week-old orange nail polish. “Mm,” she managed.
“So bored,” Hilary reiterated.
Maggie glanced up at the sound of Blonde Lauren squealing along with her substitute girl squad as they danced to the ever-present thump of music leaking from the Party Room.
“I expected more from a Tomlins party,” Hilary went on in a monotone. “Tomlinses are supposed to be original. This is just like every other lame party. The only difference is, the house isn’t decorated in floor-to-ceiling vanilla coloured laminate.” She scrunched her nose and nudged her oversized glasses up to her eyebrows.
Maggie tilted her head. “Right,” she noted. “Except the Tomlinses didn’t throw this party. Charlie did.”
“Figures,” Hilary drawled. “I told you, this music screams jock-rock.”
Maggie smiled. “Jock-rock? Is that new terminology?”
“Yeah,” Hilary tutted. “And FYI, it’s a synonym for lame.”
Maggie sighed. “Maybe we’re the lame ones.” She cast a quick glance to Blonde Lauren, who was shrieking in glee as she danced on the Party Room’s coffee table, wiggling her hips in tune to the music. On Maggie’s left, Isla continued texting with deep concentration, her fingers tapping out their own rhythm on the phone keys. “Why aren’t we having fun, Hil?”
“Because we’re above this,” Hilary answered dryly, folding her arms across her chest. “Obviously.”
Maggie’s focus strayed to the reception room’s ornate entrance, which gave way to a clear view of the front hallway. She saw Joel pace down the busy corridor . . . with Lexi trailing behind him . . . and The Clones trailing behind her.
Maggie groaned. “Why won’t she just disappear?”
“Who?” Hilary leaned forward to follow Maggie’s gaze. “Oh, Cheer-Tramp?”
“Yeah.” Maggie threw up her arms. “She follows Joel around everywhere.”
“So, go stop her,” Hilary said, giving Maggie a little shove.
Maggie shifted farther back into the sofa, cementing herself to the dog-eared cushions. “No,” she said. “I’m staying here. With you.”
Hilary snorted and shoved her again. “Just go already. You’re ruining my persona.”
Maggie frowned. “Huh?”
“My anti-establishment persona,” Hilary elaborated with a huff. “I’m taking a deliberate stand against everything these parties represent. And I can’t do that while I’m here talking to you. People might think I’m having fun.” She paused and raised her voice. “Which I’m not!”
Maggie sighed and heaved herself to her feet. “But can’t I just—”
Hilary made shooing motions with her hands. “If you’re not with me, you’re against me.”
Maggie’s brow creased. “Huh?”
“Just go.”
“Right,” said Maggie as she looked longingly back down at her spot on the sofa. “Okay, I’m going.”
With one last backwards glance, Maggie wandered out into the corridor. It was stiflingly humid and loud in the hallway, filled with people who were pushing and shoving their way towards other rooms.
She headed for the kitchen, which seemed like a safe bet. As she crossed beneath the arched entrance, she noticed a rowdy group of boys gathered around the table. Joel was leaning against the counter, looking effortlessly handsome. And, true to form, Lexi was lingering close by, giggling and flipping her sultry red hair.
Damn Cheerleader Lexi and her stupid silky hair, thought Maggie, resisting the urge to stamp her foot.
Not quite ready to venture into the crowded kitchen, Maggie retreated down one of the narrow corridors that extended towards the back of the house. Taking a moment to regroup, she leaned against the cool wood-panelled wall. It was quieter here, just far enough away from the Party Room to deter most party goers with the exception of one couple kissing in the shadows.
Ignoring the kissers, Maggie closed her eyes.
“Great idea,” she muttered to herself. “Hide.”
“Who are you hiding from?” came a small, scratchy voice.
Startled, Maggie’s eyes shot open. Standing before her was a tiny woman offering her a toothless smile. Her long silver hair framed her exceedingly small, tawny eyes. She recognised the woman as Joel’s aunt, Ruby, whom she had met a few months earlier.
“Oh, hello,” Maggie stuttered. “Sorry. I was talking to myself.”
Ruby blinked up at her. “So was I.”
Maggie summoned a polite smile. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
The elderly woman didn’t budge.
“Do you have a Plan B?” she asked Maggie after an uncomfortably long silence.
“Uh . . . no,” Maggie replied.
“Oh. Never mind,” said Ruby. “Neither do I. But I suggest you get one. Hiding doesn’t always help.”
“Okay,” said Maggie slowly. “Um . . .” She pressed the tips of her fingers together, wondering what she should say next.
“Good luck,” said Ruby suddenly, raising her shrivelled little fist. “Remember who you are, and you’ll be just fine.” With that, she toddled off down the darkened corridor.
Maggie blinked in confusion, then glanced towards the kitchen and beyond, where the party carried on without her. She caught sight of a curly blonde head bobbing through the crowd, making its way straight towards her.
“What are you doing over here, girl?” Ainsley asked, his short stature emerging from the sea of considerably taller party-goers. “The party’s that way.” He jerked a thumb in the direction he’d come from.
“I was just . . . thinking,” Maggie said lamely.
Ainsley raised his eyebrows dubiously. “Anyway,” he went on, “I was looking for you.”
“You were?”
“Yeah.” Ainsley dazzled her with an angelic smile. “I was wondering, could you do me the smallest favour in the world? I need you to get my dad’s journal from Joel. Without him noticing, though.”
Maggie stared blankly at him.
“It’s a leather notebook,” he carried on, “about yay big.” He formed a square with his hands.
Of course Maggie knew the journal Ainsley was asking af
ter. It had been virtually attached to Joel all day.
“Um, I don’t think—”
“You could distract him,” Ainsley improvised, interrupting her. “Sweet talk him, kiss him . . . whatever. I don’t really care how you get it. Just do it.” His expression softened. “Please.”
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think I should.”
“Sure you should.”
“Joel doesn’t even have the journal on him, anyway,” she said.
Ainsley inhaled quickly. “Where is it?”
“Why don’t you ask Joel?” Maggie challenged, folding her arms.
Ainsley stared evenly back at her, his angelic expression gone. “Why don’t you?”
“Why would I ask him? I’m not the one looking for it.”
Ainsley huffed in irritation. “Do you know where it is or not?”
Maggie raised an eyebrow at him. “I do know where it is, but I think I should check with Joel to see if you’re allowed to have it.”
“Yeah, right,” Ainsley sniggered. “Good luck getting past his fan club.”
Maggie winced.
“Ah-ha!” Ainsley’s eyes widened in recognition. “So that’s why you’re cowering over here in the shadows like a troll. You’re jealous!”
Maggie’s jaw dropped. “I am not jealous!” she exclaimed. “And I’m not a troll. You’re the troll,” she said, gesturing to his shorter frame.
Ainsley smirked. “You sound crazy jealous right now, troll. No offence.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are mistaken, troll, because I am not jealous.”
Ainsley lifted an index finger. “I’m willing to cut a deal with you, troll—”
“Ha!” she scoffed. “I don’t make deals with trolls.”
“So if I told you that I could get Joel away from those groupies, that wouldn’t interest you?” His violet eyes twinkled as he waited for her response.
Maggie stood a little straighter. “It might interest me,” she admitted. “Why? Can you?”
Ainsley grinned. “Probably not. Those girls are H-O-T hot! No offence.”
Maggie gasped. “Offence taken!”
With a chuckle, Ainsley held up his hands in surrender. “I’m only joking. But,” he continued, taking a step closer, “there is a way I can make the crows scatter.”
Blackheath Resurrection (The Blackheath Witches Book 2) Page 9
