Sorceress

by Claudia Gray

Her hands trailed through her hair, along her body. She didn’t feel any different, and yet she did . . . it was impossible to find words for it. When Asa had kissed her—oh, that was no ordinary kiss.

  What do demon kisses do? Nadia and I never went over demon kisses! What if I have amnesia? What have I forgotten?

  If I forgot losing my virginity, that is the most pathetic thing ever.

  No, that couldn’t be right. Her pajamas were still on, underwear, too, and she sensed that whatever had happened with her and Asa last night, physically it had been no more than a kiss. When she remembered that kiss, though—when pleasure rippled inside her almost as powerfully as it had last night—Verlaine wondered if maybe it should count as sex.

  Yeah. It should. Maybe that’s just how demons do it.

  Why had Asa left, though? Even if he had to sneak back home, and avoid interrogation by her dads (which, now that she thought of it, was a good idea), he should have woken her to say good-bye. Were demons bad at morning-after etiquette?

  Then Verlaine recalled the state Asa had been in when he came to her. His body shaking, the desperation in his eyes, the terrible burns on his hand . . .

  Fear clamped around her heart, like cold metal. Asa’s in trouble. Last night he came here to—

  The next words should have been say good-bye. But Verlaine wouldn’t let herself go there, even in her mind.

  She ran to the closet, grabbed the first thing she laid her hand on (1960s blue-and-white shift, plus black leggings for not freezing), tucked her silver hair back into a sloppy bun, scrawled a near-illegible note to her dads, and ran out the door. The land yacht was still parked back near the town square, which meant she’d have to go on foot. Although Verlaine pulled up the hood of her raincoat for protection against the lightly falling rain, she knew people would still recognize her. Okay, so, the next person who saw her would at the least look at her like she was dirt; maybe they’d be violent like the mob at La Catrina. Maybe she’d get spit on again—which somehow seemed even worse.

  Verlaine didn’t care how much they hated her. If they wanted to fight? Fine, she’d fight. I’m taller than half the men in town. About time they remembered it! Her hands balled into fists at her sides as she walked faster, then faster, then finally ran, her rain boots splashing in the deep puddles that had almost swallowed every sidewalk.

  As she ran, snatches of memory from the night before came back to her—the warmth of Asa’s embrace, and the whisper of his voice inside her own mind. You should always have had this, Verlaine. You should always have had love.

  Finally she got to the Prasads’ house. Panting, she climbed the steps. Maybe Asa had simply wanted to let her sleep last night; maybe he was here at home, hanging out, and he’d open the door to see her and take her into his arms. Maybe, just once, it could be that simple.

  When she rang the bell, it was Mrs. Prasad who answered. Before she could say anything, Verlaine blurted out, “Is Jeremy home?”

  “No, dear. He went to help his friend Mateo last night and stayed over.” Mrs. Prasad’s face lit up with the most beautiful smile. “Your name is Verlaine, isn’t it? I’ve always thought that was a lovely name.”

  “Uh, thank you.” Nobody had ever said that before.

  To Verlaine’s astonishment, Mrs. Prasad’s smile only widened. “Would you like to come in and wait for Jeremy? Or maybe you’d just like to get warm and dry. I’m about to bake a fresh batch of Christmas cookies. You could have some straight out of the oven!”

  Verlaine’s stomach grumbled, hoping for cookies; she’d run out of the house without eating any breakfast. What struck her was how kind Mrs. Prasad was being. How . . . normal. Nobody ever casually invited her in, or offered her cookies. It was as though Mrs. Prasad could see her, really see her, in the way only Asa ever had before.

  Asa must have told them about her. Won them over. Her heart contracted, tight with love and fear for him all over again.

  “That sounds great,” Verlaine said, “but I can’t. Not today. Sorry.”

  “Some other time, then.” Mrs. Prasad just kept beaming at her.

  As Verlaine hurried back down the stairs, she heard another voice—Mr. Prasad’s—ask, “Who was it?”

  “That beautiful Laughton girl,” Mrs. Prasad said, and then, just before Verlaine passed out of earshot, “She must have all the boys after her!”

  Just the one, Verlaine thought. One is enough, if I can just find him again. Asa, where are you?

  Mrs. Prasad had said that Asa went over to Mateo’s. Verlaine had figured that was a lie Asa had told to cover up his night at her house, because A) he had been at her house, and B) Asa and Mateo weren’t exactly BFFs. What if it wasn’t a lie? Maybe he’d gone to see Mateo afterward. If Asa were plotting against Elizabeth again, he could have turned to Mateo, or he might have been delivering a message from Nadia.

  Verlaine couldn’t tell whether those possibilities were actually plausible, or whether she was desperately trying to convince herself that they were. Either way, she had to find Mateo next.

  Will he be at home or at La Catrina? She kept running through the rain, ignoring the painful stitch cramping her side. La Catrina’s closer. I’ll go there first.

  As she ran, more and more of the night before came back to her. Some flashes of memory made her flush with astonishment and desire—the intensity of Asa’s kiss, or the way she’d melted into his arms. But those weren’t the ones that made her push herself harder, start running faster. The flashes of memory that haunted her were Asa’s words inside her head.

  Take it back. Take it all back. This is the last thing I can give you. The only thing worth giving.

  What did he mean, the last thing?

  As Verlaine rounded the corner of the town square—the one corner of it still not blocked off by orange traffic cones—a fireman caught sight of her. She braced herself for an order to pull back, or worse; instead, the man grinned and waved. “Morning, beautiful!”

  What was that about? Verlaine kept going, but as she did so, more and more people saw her. Every single one lit up with a smile.

  “Hi, Verlaine!”

  “Good morning, sunshine!”

  “Have a wonderful day!”

  Not every person shouted happy greetings at her. More of them stared and smiled, practically glowing with admiration.

  Take it back.

  Verlaine gasped and stopped in her tracks. Another memory bloomed hot and bright within her mind—the searing pain/pleasure of Asa’s hands on her, the sense that her heart was filling with something far more tangible than emotion, a weight she’d been lacking for too long . . .

  Her ability to be loved. That was what Elizabeth had stolen from Verlaine so long ago—and that was what Asa had returned to her.

  For a few seconds, Verlaine simply stood there as she tried to take it in. She’d spent her entire life sealed off from being appreciated, loved, or even really seen by anyone besides her dads. Every single day, she’d braced herself to endure insults or the constant, dull misery of being ignored. Could it be over? Was that possible?

  Everyone was smiling at her. Absolutely everyone. Even if Asa gave Verlaine back all her ability to be loved, that wouldn’t make every single person she met instantly adore her.

  Verlaine’s eyes widened as she finally glimpsed the truth. Asa had given her back her ability to be loved, the ability Elizabeth had stolen. Yet Verlaine wasn’t the only one Elizabeth had stolen from. According to Asa, Elizabeth had done this over and over through the centuries, collecting so much . . . lovability that nobody could help cherishing her.

  Asa had given Verlaine everything Elizabeth had stolen. All the mislaid love and adoration of the past four hundred years now lived and glowed inside Verlaine, shining on everyone who crossed her path.

  Slowly Verlaine started walking again, heading toward La Catrina. A policeman fell into step beside her, an umbrella in his hand. “Wouldn’t want you to get any wetter,” he said, presenting it to her. />
  “Thanks.” Her voice sounded faint even to her own ears. Everybody was staring. Grinning like she was chocolate and Christmas rolled into one. This was weird. Vaguely awesome, but definitely weird.

  La Catrina seemed like a beacon of normality, with its brilliant yellow-and-lime-green sign still bright against the dark, rainy sky. Verlaine hurried through the door, folding the black umbrella back in on itself with a small shower of water droplets. “Is Mateo here?”

  The rescue workers who had been shoveling food into their mouths all stopped, and virtually every one of them smiled and answered her by pointing or calling, “Over there!” One man called, “Hey, Mateo! The prettiest girl in town’s come to see you.”

  A moment later the kitchen door swung open as Mateo came through, black apron tied around his waist. “Nadia?” he said, before catching sight of Verlaine.

  It was like Mateo turned into a statue, or like somebody had hit “pause” on reality. He just stood there, staring at Verlaine, until she waved her hand in front of his face. “Mateo?”

  “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just—you’re very—wow. Just wow. I mean, you know I love Nadia, but I can still mention that you’re totally gorgeous, can’t I? For a compliment. Because you’re—amazing.”

  This was flattering but extremely inconvenient. Verlaine snapped her fingers in front of him. “Pull yourself together!”

  He shook his head and tried to focus on her anew. “Okay. Sorry. Whoa.”

  “Where is Asa? Have you seen him?”

  “No. Not since early last night.” Mateo’s dazed grin faded as darker memories crowded into his mind. “He trapped me into a bad bargain. Me and Nadia both. I know he couldn’t help it—that’s what demons have to do—but still.”

  What happened? Verlaine wanted to ask, but now she was putting it all together. Asa had been forced to do something unspecified yet wicked to Nadia and Mateo. He’d been upset by that. Guilty. Burdened. Reminded that he wasn’t free. So he’d decided to take action. He’d stolen back Verlaine’s ability to be loved, and all the other stolen love of Elizabeth’s past four centuries, and given them to Verlaine forever.

  That meant Asa had gone against the One Beneath. He had betrayed his master. The penalty for what he’d done . . .

  Hell beyond hell, Asa had said. Eternal torment. Eternal suffering.

  No chance of ever coming back to the mortal realm again.

  Last night hadn’t been only about giving something back to her, Verlaine realized. Asa had also come to her to say good-bye, forever.

  Elizabeth stood knee-deep in brackish water, watching the clouds in the distance.

  Once again, the rain over Captive’s Sound had nearly ceased because she had wrung out every cloud in the sky. And once again, new rain-fat clouds were being blown toward town to begin the floods anew.

  Only another day or two, my beloved lord, she thought. Our work is nearly done. Soon our rule will dawn bright and glorious on a world broken into pieces at your feet.

  She began walking back toward her house, aware that she should sleep. By now Elizabeth’s exhaustion went deeper than any few hours of rest could remedy. For so many years, her body had been all but immortal, preserved by dark magic she had used to keep herself in the service of the One Beneath. That immortality had shattered the night of Halloween, and since then, the toll on her body had been fierce. She was out of practice at eating regularly, sleeping eight hours, or even bandaging small cuts; she owned no coats and few shoes. By now bruises shadowed her freckled skin in deep purple and sickly green. A ragged cough seized her chest at odd moments, and Elizabeth suspected part of the warmth she felt was not the result of her magic, but of an ordinary fever.

  This body would collapse soon—but that did not matter. Elizabeth only needed its service a short time longer.

  As she walked back toward town, she saw a van emblazoned with the bright yellow words WEATHER TV. Near it stood a young blond man in some sort of waterproof anorak, talking into a camera and microphone held by two women. He was saying, “Meteorologists are saying that the weather system battering the Rhode Island coast is unprecedented, a so-called ‘perfect storm’ that is in effect stealing rain and moisture from the rest of the country—in fact, the rest of the western hemisphere. All that moisture is coming down right here. We’ll keep coming to you live from Captive’s Sound.”

  The people of this world still thought they could understand what was coming. Elizabeth would have found it pathetic were it not so amusing.

  Then the young man wearing the anorak lowered his microphone, work apparently done, and stared at Elizabeth. “Hey, are you okay?”

  Elizabeth should not have merited their notice, not with her stolen glamours around her. No matter. She simply smiled at the Weather TV crew to put them at their ease.

  But her smile did not work. The camera crew only looked more worried for her, and the reporter took a step backward, as though unnerved. One woman said, “What happened to you?”

  What could they mean? To them, Elizabeth should have appeared as any other beautiful young woman; dazzled by the magic surrounding her, they should have accepted anything she did, anything she said. They shouldn’t even have questioned her decision to stroll through town in the middle of dangerous flooding. Instead, they gaped at her as though the mere sight of her were unnerving.

  Elizabeth looked down at herself—at her bare, bloodied feet, the bruises along her legs, the wretched state of her dress. Nobody else should have been able to see it, but they could. They did.

  That could only mean her protective shields of beauty and lovability, the glamours that had protected her these many centuries—they were gone.

  “Should we call an ambulance?” the reporter whispered to his colleagues. “I think she’s in shock.”

  Although Elizabeth’s first instinct was to ignore this, she realized she could not. From now on, she realized with dismay, she would have to grapple with mortal concerns. It didn’t matter much, because it wouldn’t be for long, yet the distraction alone angered her. How dare they take away what she had owned for so long? How dare they inconvenience her at the most important stage of her work? But she would not acknowledge this vulnerability. Would not even admit it could be a problem. She put on her best smile. “I fell down. I’m fine. Walking back to my automobile.”

  The Weather TV team didn’t look convinced, but when Elizabeth turned her back and walked away, they did not follow. Yet they might call the police and report her as injured or dazed. If the police came to her house and saw it for what it was—what would happen?

  She walked faster, then ran, until she was all the way back home. The splinters in her rotting front steps jabbed into the soles of her feet as she staggered inside, looking for her woodstove.

  For so many years it had burned, consuming the fuel of a hundred people’s goodness and love, allowing that heat to radiate from her and dazzle any who came into her presence. Now the stove was black and cold. Empty. Useless.

  The demon had done this. Her rage flared brighter and hotter than all the stolen love ever had—but then she felt the consolation of the One Beneath, as He showed her a sliver of Asa’s anguish in the realms of hell. The demon’s pain was of such intensity that her own nerves quivered in a kind of sympathy that did not touch her heart. Asa was being punished for his betrayal, and his punishment would last into infinity.

  Tear into him, she prayed. Rip him apart again and again, so that I can listen to him howl even here.

  For one moment, it seemed to Elizabeth that she could hear the screams, and she smiled.

  “Thanks for letting me stay here,” Nadia said, then confessed, “I wasn’t even sure you’d let me through the door.”

  “One month ago, after you made that deal with Elizabeth, I might not have,” said Faye Walsh. She stood in the middle of her living room, which was as intimidatingly chic as her wardrobe. Nadia felt like she shouldn’t be standing on this Persian rug; shouldn’t it be
in a museum or something? The furniture was all upholstered in pale ivory, like Faye lived in some alternate universe where nobody ever ate Cheetos. For the moment, however, Nadia lived here. Faye held bed linens in her hands (white with actual lace), because she was preparing to turn one of the sofas into a guest bed.

  “Why did you change your mind?” Nadia said, “I’m still sworn to the One Beneath.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I were at peace with that.” Faye began smoothing one of the sheets atop her sofa. “But I’ve watched this town come apart over the past couple of weeks. I know how close we are to the final crisis. Maybe what you’ve done can’t help us—but maybe it can, and by now I realize you’re the only chance we’ve got.”

  “It’s not just me.” Nadia managed to smile. Since spending the night with Mateo, she’d found her smiles came easier than they had in a long time. “Mateo’s in this, too. And Verlaine. And your mom, too. I mean, we learned a lot from her Book of Shadows. She’s still helping us, even if she can’t know it anymore.”

  Faye’s answering smile was strange—sort of bent—which puzzled Nadia until she realized Faye was trying to hold back tears. Embarrassed, Nadia started pushing the spare pillow into its lacy case.

  When Faye could speak again, she said, “You know I spoke with your father last night.”

  “I don’t care about the First Laws.” Nadia didn’t think Faye actually meant to lecture her about telling a man the truth about witchcraft. She thought Faye was going to tell her what Dad was thinking—how angry he was at the daughter he’d never even knew—and Nadia couldn’t stand to hear that right now.

  At that moment, the doorbell chimed. The interruption was a relief.

  When Faye opened the door, she gasped, and Nadia turned around in alarm . . . and gasped just as loudly. “Verlaine?”

  Her friend walked toward her, Mateo at her side. But even loving Mateo as she did, Nadia could hardly look at him. Her eyes didn’t want to leave Verlaine for an instant. Had she always been this beautiful? Her silver hair shone like silk, and her long, thin face had never appeared so graceful or elegant. Yet Verlaine’s overwhelming physical beauty wasn’t what struck Nadia the most. Instead it was every memory she had of Verlaine—from the first day they’d met to the day Nadia had told Verlaine good-bye. Every single one of those memories came back to her now, but instead of the veiled, incomplete Verlaine she’d seen before, Nadia saw her for real. All her loyalty. All her humor. All her courage. This was the true Verlaine, her friend, the one she needed so much more than she’d ever been able to realize before.