Soulmates

by Nadine Nightingale

  “Alex?”

  He smiles. “Hm?”

  I shift closer, soaking in his scent. “You remember what you said in that closet at Amelia’s?”

  He squints. “I said a lot of things.”

  I suck in some air, getting ready to jog his memory. “About how you want to spend the last night of your life?”

  A deep understanding flickers across his gaze. “Manda, you’re freaking me—”

  “Shh,” I say, curling my fingers around the nape of his neck and pulling him down. “No more talking.” I stare into his sparkling eyes, drowning in them. “Okay?”

  His lips part, but I claim them before a single word can leave his delicious mouth. I find his tongue, and he roars like a hungry panther. Every time I’ve been near him, I held back. Persuaded myself what we had was wrong. But when the world around you goes up in flames, what difference does another scorch mark make?

  He slips a hand under my shirt.

  “Don’t stop,” I order when he stills just under my bra.

  He doesn’t. He traces my left nipple, causing all sorts of explosions in my belly.

  We kiss, more passionate than ever. Our tongues explore each other as if it’s the first time they met. It’s then I realize he wasn’t kidding when he said this is the way he would want to spend the last night of his life. I know, because it’s exactly how I want to spend mine.

  My mouth leaves his. “Alex?” I whimper, breathless.

  He presses his forehead against mine. “Amanda?”

  My head flies back as he pinches my nipple, and for a fraction of a second, I forget what I’m so desperate to say. “You know,” he whispers with that smoky-as-hell voice of his. “I’m not sure what caused this, but I think I like it.”

  My heart freezes. He wouldn’t like it. He’d hate me more than he already does. I run my fingers through his wild hair. And then I remember what I need him to hear. What I so urgently need to say. “Getting in that car with you and your brother was the biggest mistake of my life.” His eyes go wide, and he tries to pull back, but I hold him hostage. “But I’d do it again, Alex. In a heartbeat.”

  An emotion I can’t quite read passes through his beautiful eyes. An emotion he doesn’t give me enough time to decipher, ’cause all of a sudden, he lifts me from the windowsill and carries me to the bed.

  He climbs on top of me. And when he kisses me again, the roughness and need change into a soft longing. I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like that. Like I’m precious and worthy. Like I’m being loved for who I am rather than what I look like.

  The hardest part of him presses against the softest part of me. Clothes come off until our damp flesh melts against each other.

  “Fuck,” he moans into my mouth, his hand trembling as he traces my wetness. “There’s nothing like it.” He pauses and his eyes lock with mine. “There’s nothing like you.”

  Consumed by him, my noggin hits the headboard as I enjoy the delight his fingers cause between my legs. Bonnie kept saying I needed to stop comparing every guy to Alex. How could I? If your life has been touched by magic, you can’t go back to pretending it doesn’t exist.

  What comes next is nothing like last night. He gently dives inside me. No hate between us. No fury or rage. The world around us freezes in a moment of unspoken emotion. There isn’t a part of me he doesn’t touch with his lips. Not a part of him I don’t explore with my hands. Our hands stay locked as we move to the rhythm of our in-sync hearts.

  Love is for children.

  But sometimes even Amanda Bishop luxuriates in child’s play.

  Chapter 36

  I park JJ’s car—the one I hot-wired last night with the help of wikiHow—in my sister’s driveway and rest my head against the steering wheel. I’m exhausted. Need a minute to gather the last resources of energy. After Alex and I spent most of the night worshipping each other, he fell asleep in my arms. For a while, I just lay next to him, watching him. Then I did something I never thought I’d do—I took a strand of his hair and performed the soulmate ritual Melinda had given us. It took everything I had to go through with it, but I had to be certain accepting the demon’s offer was my only shot. I mean, who would voluntarily go to purgatory without testing every possibility? The result was exactly what I’d expected—the smoke stayed as black as night. My last hope to get out of this mess went up in flames, and I did the only thing I could; I wrote Alex a quick note, saying something like Sorry, but you were right. I do only care about myself. Then I switched my phone off, got in the car, and drove to Salem, because before I surrender my soul, I have to warn my sister of the Malleus Maleficarum Order.

  I yank the door open, get out of the car, and walk to the porch. I don’t fear my sister’s reaction. Fear is newly defined when you’re about to be shipped to purgatory.

  Melinda opens the door before I can ring the bell. Her eyes are red and swollen. She looks like she’s been up all night crying. I’ve never seen her like this. Between the two of us, she’d always been the one who had a tight lid on her emotions. Geez, she didn’t even sob as ugly when her husband of a day was slaughtered. “You’ve done some crazy things, Amanda,” she croaks. “But this…it’s suicide.”

  Spirits can be real fucking snitches. I manage a half-hearted smile. “All right, Miss Long Island Medium. Who told you?” Melinda is probably the closest thing there is to a real Ghost Whisperer. She has a direct line to the other side, and, apparently, the dead are just as engaged in gossip as the living.

  “You have to ask?” she murmurs, choking back a fresh burst of tears.

  Thanks, Grams.

  A silent moment passes. I glare at the wind chime above the door, the swing on the porch—anything to keep my gaze off her.

  Melinda moves toward me. I half expect her to slap or kick me. Instead, she does something that scares the living shit outta me. She fucking hugs me. And not like she has to, to keep up the picture-prefect family façade. Nope, she pulls me into a real sisterly embrace.

  “You’re suffocating me,” I grumble, barely able to breathe.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, tears spilling down her cheeks.

  Okay, that’s enough. I wiggle out of her grip and stare at her. Her messy red hair cascades down over her shoulders. She wears yoga pants, and don’t even get me started on the old UMass football shirt. “Who are you? Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. fuckin’ Hyde?”

  She raises her brows. “Language, Amanda.”

  Nope. Still good old Melinda.

  She takes my hand and pulls me inside. “Bonnie called,” Melinda informs me as we reach the living room.

  My heart flutters. “Did you…did you tell her?”

  Her gaze drops to her faux fur, mid-calf snow boots. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

  A rock lifts off my chest. Bonnie would raise hell if she knew my plan. Worse, she’d tell Alex, and he…well, I think he’d decapitate the demon and me.

  “You have to call her, Amanda. She’s worried sick.”

  I bet she is, and I will call her. Just not now.

  I feel something soft under my foot. It’s the plush tiger cup I’d sent Leandro last Christmas. “Where is he?” I ask, picking it up.

  A lukewarm smile tugs at her lips. “Upstairs. It’s nap time.”

  “Good,” I murmur. I don’t think I have the heart to see him.

  Melinda pivots. “I’ll get us some coffee and then you tell me everything, okay?”

  Coffee? Since when does she have coffee in the house? I’d ask, but she’s already gone. I had plenty of time to play this out in my mind. Me showing up here, Melinda being all disappointed and giving me one of her “you’re a disgrace to our family” speeches, but never in my wildest dreams did I anticipate her being so freaking nice to me. I swear it gives me the fucking willies.

  Pacing up and down the living room, I stop at the only picture of myself in this house. It was taken by my dad, just months before he fell down the stairs after he’d killed three whiskey bottles.
The funny thing is, high-functioning alcoholics don’t usually have balance issues. At least, my dad never had any. Then again there’s a first for everything.

  I trace the silver frame and study the photo. Melinda and me on the porch, holding each other’s hands. Back then we were inseparable. Everyone called us the Bishop twins. Melinda was two years older, but that didn’t stop us from doing everything together. Hard to believe if you look at us today.

  “Do you still take sugar?” she asks, putting a tray with fresh brewed coffee on the table.

  I grab a cup. “Just black.”

  She takes a seat, gracefully crossing her legs. “Tell me everything,” she orders.

  Of course, I don’t tell her everything. She’d have a fucking stroke if I did. I focus on the part about the hunter Order and only mention the demon briefly.

  Her face turns red, then green and eventually loses all its color. “M-Malleus Maleficarum?” she stammers. “Are you sure?”

  I lean against the wall and cock a brow. “You’ve heard of them?”

  She barely manages to nod. “They killed the Kansas coven last year.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, they did.”

  The cup in her hand trembles. “And you’re certain they’re hunting you?”

  “One hundred percent. Which is why”—can’t believe I’m going to say this—“you need to take Leandro and stay at Mom’s place.”

  Her eyes go wide and the porcelain cup slips through her fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor. “You want me to go to Mom?” She doesn’t pay attention to the spilled coffee, which means she’s on the brink of a nervous breakdown. Even Melinda knows what a bitch our mother is.

  I bite on my lip. “Look, I hate to say it, but you’ll be safer at Mom’s.” Mother Dearest might be the worst kind of parent, but she’s a damn powerful witch. Like me, she isn’t just blessed with one gift. The woman has many talents, including making her kids’ lives living hell.

  More tears wet her cheeks. “That’s why you’re doing it, isn’t it? Not just for Alex, but for—”

  “Stop,” I snap, holding my hand up. “I’m not a hero, M. I have my own selfish reasons to strike a deal with the thing. Don’t get confused about me looking out for anyone else but myself, okay?”

  Melinda rubs her temples. “Do you have any idea what happens to witches who sell their souls?” she asks, shoulders sinking, eyes hooded.

  I flash her a smile. “I’d say they get hotter, but I doubt I’d be legal if that was the case.”

  “Amanda.” The softness in her voice is gone. Raw anger takes over. “This isn’t a game. Grams said there is no way out if you accept the offer.”

  “Did she?” I wonder what else Grams told her.

  “There must be another way,” she says, more to herself than me. “Together, we’d stand a chance against the Malleus Maleficarum Order.”

  Maybe, but Alex would still go to hell.

  “Amanda?” She squeezes my arm. “Please think about this. You know what Mom saw before you were born.”

  How could I ever forget? She reminded me daily. “I guess it’s about time I live up to my reputation as Satan’s bride.”

  We stare at each other in uncomfortable silence.

  After some time, she rises to her feet. “I know you want to save Alexander, but—”

  I stop her. “Don’t. I’ve made up my mind, and there’s—”

  “Nothing that can stop you,” she finishes. “I know that. Grams was very clear about that last night. But what about Leandro?”

  A bitter taste crawls up my throat. Of course, she’d play her only good card. I didn’t expect anything less of her. Melinda and I might be as different as the sun and the moon, but in situations like this, it’s obvious we share the same blood. “What about him?” I say.

  Melinda frowns. “What happens when he grows up and learns the truth?”

  Tears burn the back of my eyelids. I blink them away. Plunking down on the couch, I rest my head against a soft pillow. “I’m not here to hear you preach to me, M. Just thought I should give you a heads-up on that hunter club.” Okay, I also need the “To Summon a Knight of Hell” spell from the grimoire.

  Her eyes narrow into two slits. “You’ve always been stubborn, Amanda.”

  “Damn right,” I yawn, as lack of sleep finally catches up with me.

  ****

  Four Hours To Hell.

  I almost have a heart attack when I open my eyes. It’s a little after eight p.m. Four hours to midnight. Four hours to purgatory. Fuck. How long did I sleep, and why didn’t Melinda wake me? I can’t do the ritual before midnight, but still.

  I get on wobbly feet. The house smells like apple and cinnamon, and the sweetest sound echoes off the walls—laughter. Child’s laughter. My heart does a somersault.

  Hypnotized, I stroll to the kitchen. A dozen apple pies are lined up on the counter, and Leandro sits on a high chair next to them. The second he lays eyes on me, he smiles like the Cheshire cat and stretches his tiny hands toward me. “Dadada…Mam…Mam…Ma.”

  Melinda looks over her shoulder and smiles. “You should be honored,” she says, wiping flour off her face. “He never smiles when it’s bedtime.”

  I came in here to yell at Melinda ’cause she didn’t wake me. The second I saw Leandro, I forgot all about it. I let him grab my hand. “Hey,” I say, staring at him in amazement. “You grew so big.” The last time I saw him, he’d been a toddler, barely the size of a watermelon.

  Melinda snickers. She hasn’t snickered since…I can’t even remember the last time she did. Shouldn’t surprise me. Being a mother changes people. “He loves spinach,” she explains, pointing to a glass of green baby food.

  Running my hand over his soft, dark-brown hair, I smile. “I’m sure he does.”

  Leandro’s big shamrock-colored eyes lock with mine. God, he looks so much like his dad, it’s scary. Same eyes. Same smile. Even the same lips. I just hope he didn’t inherit the same wit.

  Baby boy plays with my fingers, inspecting each one with great care. Then he moves on to my rings. “You dig jewelry, huh?”

  Melinda raises her brows. “Actually, he loves everything shiny and sparkling. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s a fairy in disguise.”

  He laughs and pounds his tiny hands against the high chair. The delightful sound pierces my heart. I always thought I’d leave this world without regret, but when I look at him, I see something I will never have—unconditional love. Not to be melodramatic or anything, but it feels a bit like drowning in a green ocean of missed chances.

  As if he can sense my pain, he looks at me with those big eyes and tilts his head to the side. “Nana…Dada…Ma….”

  “He’s very sensitive,” Melinda says, seeing the surprised expression on my face.

  I force a smile. “Yeah, well, I wonder where he gets that from.”

  An alarm goes off, and Melinda rushes to the oven to rescue yet another pie. “Hey,” she says, pulling it out. “Can you take him upstairs?” She eyes Leandro, and uses a baby voice. “It’s way past his bedtime.”

  Leandro giggles at the sound. Melinda might be a rotten sister, but she’s a good mother to him.

  “I don’t know.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “I’m not exactly the lullaby type.” I don’t think I even know one.

  Melinda waves the comment off. “Never mind. He’s more of a Metallica kid.”

  A proud smile crosses my lips. “You’ve got taste, baby boy.”

  Melinda rolls her eyes. “I wonder where he gets that from,” she says, throwing my own words back at me.

  I face Leandro. “Definitely not your father.”

  Leandro throws his head back and laughs as if he truly understood the meaning of those words.

  “C’mon.” Melinda puts the pie next to the others. “Take him up.”

  Part of me wants to say no. Then he smiles at me, and even a wicked witch like me can’t escape his magic. “Let’s go,” I say, lifting his p
etite body out of the chair. “I’m gonna introduce you to some real music, little man.”

  Once we’re in his room, I take a seat on the rocking chair in the corner and hum “Renegade.” His big eyes grow heavy with sleep, and by the end of the song, he’s drifted into the land of dreams.

  I sit there for a while, rocking back and forth, watching him sleep peacefully in my arms. There’s a weird energy around him. Something strong and fierce. The aura of a fighter.

  Running the palm of my hand over his rosy cheeks, I bend over him. “You won’t remember this,” I whisper, careful not to wake him. “But I still need you to hear it.”

  He shifts in my arms, snuggling against me.

  “I know you never asked to be born a witch, baby boy. But no matter what anyone says, don’t ever let them make you feel less worthy because of what you are.” I curl my fingers around his. “You hear me? You’re not defined by magic. You are magic.”

  I kiss him on the forehead, and twenty minutes later, I put him in his crib and stroll to Gram’s library.

  Grabbing pen and paper, I fling myself in the armchair next to the large front window. I suck at writing letters, but this one needs written and at some point read.

  “Is he asleep?” Melinda asks when I walk back into the kitchen.

  I nod and pull myself up on the counter, shoving the envelope under her nose. “Hey,” I murmur. “Can you give this to Alex?”

  She says nothing, takes the letter, and puts it in Gram’s favorite drawer.

  “You expecting guests?” I ask, pointing to the pies.

  She sighs. “I just needed some distraction.”

  I glare at the clock above the door. It’s only quarter past nine. “Need some help?” I, too, could use a little distraction.

  She throws a towel my way. “The dishes won’t dry themselves.”

  Chapter 37

  Thirty minutes to hell

  I stand in front of the Old Burying Point Cemetery, the piece of paper with the summoning ritual held against my chest, and glare at the large sign behind the spiked iron fence. It reads: The Burying Point 1637. The Oldest Burying Ground in the City of Salem. Six names of people who had been buried here are written under the heading. Amongst them is no other than the famous John Hathorne, one of the ruthless judges in the Salem witch trials. I could have gone to any cemetery with a crossroad, but I figured, why not piss off the spirit of a man who not only harshly questioned my great-great-great-great-grandmother Bridget Bishop, but had also been responsible for her execution? Hathorne and others had been convinced Bridget consorted with the devil. She hadn’t. Her only crime had been her fun-loving, independence-seeking nature. She was executed on Gallows Hill. It’s fitting that over three hundred years later, a Bishop witch will consort with a demon right next to the asshole’s grave, and there’s nothing he can do about it.