Turning around slowly, Donna saw Xan holding out her silver scarf. Her hand went to her throat; she’d been missing it for a while. Had it fallen off when they were on the roof?
Xan pushed too-long bangs out of his eyes. “You dropped this.”
Navin looked between the two of them, an expression on his face that Donna had never seen before. She felt her cheeks warm and hated that she suddenly felt guilty. It wasn’t like she’d done anything wrong.
She snatched her scarf from Xan with a mumbled acknowledgement, hoping nobody noticed how her hands were trembling. That bone-deep, weary ache had returned, making her wish she could just wrap her arms around her body and wait for the pain to pass. The sensation—like her bones were grinding together—brought sudden tears to her eyes. Blinking them away and trying to look like nothing was wrong, Donna wound the scarf around her neck with stiff fingers.
Xan smiled. “That looks good with your coat.”
“Um … thanks.” She shuffled her feet and decided she would have to introduce the guys. She touched Navin’s hand. “Nav, this is Xan—Alexander Grayson,” she began. “We met upstairs. Xan, this is my friend Navin Sharma.”
They sized each other up, the way that guys seem to do so well. Then Navin reached out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” His voice sounded anything but. What on earth’s gotten into him, Donna wondered, although she was grateful to see him at least making an effort.
Xan shook Nav’s hand. “Likewise. I hope you had a good time?”
“Yeah, it was cool. Thanks.”
The beat from the music pumping out of the living room vibrated through the soles of Donna’s sneakers. Nobody said anything as Xan switched his attention back to her. He was watching her with that strange, curious expression, as if she were a new species he’d just discovered. She wanted to tell him it was rude to stare, but there was no way she’d do that in front of Nav.
There was a crash from the main room and Xan cringed. “Bastards! Now what have they broken?”
Navin’s gaze slid over to Donna and their eyes met. His eyebrows were raised, and she almost giggled. Saved by some clumsy kids, she thought.
“Sorry,” Xan said. He ran a hand through his hair again. “I’d better see what those morons are up to.”
Donna nodded. “Okay, thanks again.”
Xan walked back in the direction of the ominous clattering sounds. “I’ll call you,” he threw over his shoulder.
Donna wanted to disappear into the alcohol pooled on the carpet. What did he have to say that for? Men were such idiots.
She glanced at Navin and was relieved to see that he didn’t seem to have a reaction. Maybe he hadn’t heard. Yeah, she could hope …
They let themselves out of the house. Donna toed an empty bottle out of the way and glanced across the street. She eyed the darkness; did something move? Then a skinny shadow ducked behind a wall and she almost gasped. Her mouth was suddenly dry and she stopped walking.
“What’s up?” Navin had his hand on the heavy iron gate at the end of the front walk, ready to step out onto the sidewalk.
“Wait.” Donna grabbed his arm; she squeezed too tightly, and winced.
Navin frowned and made a big show of rubbing his arm. He studied her face for a moment. “Donna, what is it?”
She scanned the street, swallowing past the lump in her throat. Her heart was pounding. There! There it was again. A small silhouette moved with uncanny grace, sliding between shadows as it climbed over the wall into the next yard.
“Did you see that? Something just went over that wall, I saw it.” She was whispering and she knew she must sound crazy, but she couldn’t help it. Whatever she’d just seen slipping through the shadows was a lot more sinister than a super-big cat.
“There’s nothing there, Donna.” Navin fixed her with a strange look. “Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”
“Shut up, you know I haven’t.”
“Actually, I have no way of knowing that, considering how you decided to spend most of the evening wandering around on the roof.” He raised an eyebrow, something Donna had always wished she could do. The single-eyebrow raise was, sadly, not something she had ever been able to master. Not even with Nav’s expert tutoring.
“Oh, just forget it.” Donna let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Maybe I really am going nuts.”
“Going nuts? I’m sorry to inform you that it’s far too late for that, Underwood.”
Donna resisted the temptation to demonstrate just how strong she really was. But she couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief when their cab pulled up. At least Navin was teasing her again—the tension that had formed between them when Xan was around seemed to have lifted. She looked over her shoulder as she climbed into the back seat, knowing she wouldn’t feel happy until they’d gotten out of there.
She was almost certain that something had been watching them from across the street. The crawling sensation in her stomach stayed with her all the way home.
Donna Underwood’s Journal:
Whenever I think of “the Incident” at Ironbridge High School—the one everyone remembers but pretends they don’t—I get a horrible feeling in my stomach. Like nerves, but a lot worse. More painful. I feel ashamed of my behavior, and yet I was also standing up for myself, which can’t be a completely bad thing. Right?
I just wish people would forget for real—like, have their minds magically wiped or something—rather than have to pretend it didn’t happen. Events that can’t be explained rationally are best left alone. But kids like Melanie Swan don’t easily forget being made to look stupid in front of their friends.
All I wanted—all I’d ever wanted—was to get through my days at school quietly. It was bad enough being different because of wearing the gloves the whole time; just standing out that way makes you feel uncomfortable. Some students thought I was trying to make a “fashion statement” and made snide remarks about it when they thought I couldn’t hear. Melanie, though, didn’t care whether I could hear or not. Sometimes she would just ask me to my face, “What’s up with your hands, Underwood? Trying to stop biting your nails?” Or, “How do you manage to hold a pen with those things on?” And I would blush and hate myself for it, turning away and hiding behind Navin. I tried to ignore her—managed it pretty well for almost two years.
But once people figured out the gloves weren’t just for show—that I was given special permission to wear them because of something that had happened to me—Melanie’s curiosity got the better of her. To be fair to her, she wasn’t the only one, but there’s always a ringleader with these things. I was excused from some sports activities and she hated that (she was probably born with pom-poms attached to her hands). She just couldn’t stand it that I was treated differently.
Anyway, Navin wasn’t at school that day for whatever reason, and I was rummaging in my locker trying to find a textbook I was sure I’d shoved in there the day before. Melanie came up behind me and pushed me so that I stumbled, banging my head on the locker.
So, I was trying to pull myself back out of my locker when I felt two pairs of hands grabbing me on either side, holding me in position so I couldn’t get out and stand up straight. And then someone else grabbed my right hand and started pulling off my glove.
I still remember the rush of adrenaline that filled me. It was like a heat wave that started in my pounding heart, spread throughout my body, and made my head buzz with caged energy. I wanted their hands off me. I didn’t want anyone to see my hands and arms.
I heard Melanie’s voice—“Look, there’s something here!” And that was it. I just lost it. I wrenched my right hand free, for a moment not even caring if the glove came off, and gripped the edges of the locker with both hands. I pushed, using all the strength in my arms and hands—pushed myself upright with such force that I threw off whoever had been holding me.
And then I stood facing Melanie Swan, and a pretty big group of friends and curious bystanders. Someone said, “Look at
her locker,” in an awed voice, and I swung around to look along with everyone else.
The door was open, but where I’d gripped the sides of it, you could see clear handprints indented into the metal. It was like paper that had been crumpled up without a second thought, the steel edges collapsing in on themselves.
“What kind of a freak are you, Underwood?” Melanie asked, staring at me. Her perfect blue eyes were filled with disdain and—I was pleased to note—fear. “I always knew there was something weird about you.”
“Leave me alone,” was all I could think to say. My hands were shaking pretty badly, but I managed to close the door of my half-crushed locker, knowing there wasn’t a chance in hell it would shut properly and not even caring. I just wanted an excuse to turn away from the expressions on all of those faces. The door hung at a slight angle, looking drunken and forlorn in the row of upright lockers.
But Melanie still hadn’t got enough of me. I glanced around desperately, hoping for a miracle in the form of a passing teacher, but it didn’t seem I was in luck that day.
She put one pale, perfectly manicured hand in the center of my chest and pushed me against the locker door. Her fingernails matched my crimson gloves. “Stay out of my way, freak.”
I don’t know if it was her calling me “freak” again, or if it was the slow and exaggerated way she pushed me. I don’t know if I was still buzzing with adrenaline. Whatever it was, something inside of me snapped.
I stepped as close to her as I could get without treading on her delicate toes. “You’ve got it the wrong way around. You stay the hell out of my way.”
I turned to the locker, drew back my fist, and punched it as hard as I could.
With an ear-splitting shriek of metal, the whole door collapsed inwards, wrecking the locker beyond any hope of repair. There was a collective gasp from the small audience and I was gratified to see Melanie back up a few steps, eyes wide and staring.
I took a few paces toward her. “That’s what you’ll get if you bother me again.” I turned on my heel and walked away on shaking legs, not caring that people parted before me like the Red Sea. Not caring that they were shocked and afraid.
At that moment, all I gave a damn about was that I had won.
Donna slouched deeper into her seat and stared out of the greasy window, barely noticing the scenery that the bus grumbled past. She didn’t want to see Maker today, but her experience with Xan last night had worried her enough that she wanted to get her hands and arms checked out.
It never hurt to be careful, although it had hurt to get up so early on a Sunday morning.
Feeling a bit like Cinderella, she had made it home at two minutes past one last night, sneaking into the house with as much stealth as she could manage, being so tired. Aunt Paige was, thankfully, already asleep; Donna was relieved she hadn’t waited up.
And then, this morning, there was no sign of her aunt apart from a note saying she had a last-minute breakfast meeting (she apologized for working on a Sunday) and that she’d be back to spend time together in the afternoon. At least it meant Donna didn’t need to explain where she was going.
Late-autumn sun glanced off the bus windows, making patterns in the smeared glass. Donna idly traced the shapes with her stiff fingers—clad in purple velvet gloves today—as she watched the wide main streets of Ironbridge bump past. Tucked into a riverside nook, Ironbridge always seemed like a miniature version of Boston to Donna. It was quite charming for a small-sized city.
She closed her eyes against another sudden pain. Resting her gloved hands carefully in her lap, she waited for the spasm to pass. Maybe seeing Maker today wasn’t such a bad idea. Although stiffness in her hands wasn’t unusual, especially once the weather turned cold, this sharp ache was new. It made her feel old and tired, like maybe she had arthritis way too young. If Maker knew what was happening to her—what was causing these strange sensations—he might be able to fix it. That’s what he did, after all: fixed things.
Donna tried to forget the cold ache in her bones and focus, instead, on the streets sweeping past. Ironbridge was like a story to her, a fairy tale filled with tricks and trials and monsters in the shadows waiting to take away everything you cared about. Since she was as good as orphaned, Donna felt like that most clichéd of fairy-tale heroines—except that her mother was still alive, living a half-life at the Institute.
At the ripe old age of seventeen, Donna had decided that “happily ever after” didn’t exist for freaks like her.
The bus finally shuddered to a stop outside an industrial park. Tall, corrugated steel fencing wrapped around the property like silver packaging. Donna jumped to her feet and clattered down the narrow aisle. “Wait, I’m getting off here!” The doors had already closed, but hissed and sighed as they reluctantly re-opened for her.
“Thanks,” she called back, stepping onto the dusty concrete sidewalk.
As the bus pulled away, she had a clear view across the road. It was empty, apart from an elderly woman pushing a rusty-looking shopping cart, but Donna had the strange, creeping feeling that just moments before she was being watched. Again.
Frowning, she tried to shake off the crazy new levels of paranoia that seemed to be haunting her. Just because she’d been brought up in the bosom of a secret society of centuries-old magic didn’t mean that she had to let herself become as obsessed as Quentin and Simon and all the others.
Buttoning her black corduroy jacket against the chill in the air, Donna walked along the scarred and graffiti-clad fencing. Cars intermittently rushed past, even this early on a Sunday, since the industrial park was along a popular shortcut to the center of town.
She reached the rarely used side-entrance and pushed the rusty gate open as far as it would go before the heavy padlock and chain pulled taut. There was just enough room to squeeze through, if she crouched down and breathed in.
The morning sun bounced off the high, barred windows of the familiar stone warehouse. Other buildings were spread out around the lot, though some were now deserted thanks to the recession. This particular warehouse had been Maker’s workshop for as long as she could remember, hidden amid the hustle and bustle of local businesses and manufacturers. Donna knew that, were it not for the injury to her hands, she would never have had a reason to come out here, never been privy to as many secrets of the Order as she was. Maker could be serious and focused at times, but he was also talkative when he worked on her. She probably knew a lot more about the alchemists than Aunt Paige would approve of.
Donna knocked on the heavy iron door and waited for a moment. There was often no reply. The old man was usually buried in some experiment or other, working weekends when everything else was quiet out here. She banged on the door once more, her hand aching, and was just about to try opening it when something brushed her shoulder.
She screamed and spun around—
“Navin!”
Navin dropped his bike with a crash of metal and stumbled backward over it. His face mirrored the shock on her own as they stared at each other.
The moment seemed to stretch on for too long. Donna’s mind raced. Where had Navin come from? Had he followed her?
“What are you doing here?” she managed to choke out.
Navin ignored her, picking up his bike and making a big show of checking it for damage.
Donna knew him too well. “Quit stalling and start talking, Sharma. Did you follow me? Please don’t tell me you’ve turned stalker, because that would not be cool.”
He glared at her, his brown eyes filled with a conflicting mixture of guilt and anger. “Can you blame me? You keep so many secrets, Donna. And then when you acted all freaked out last night—”
“Oh my God, you did follow me!”
“Shut up, it’s not like you can blame me.” His shoulders were tense inside the ever-present biker jacket. “You met that guy at the party and weren’t even going to tell me. What’s that all about?”
Donna opened her mouth to reply, but immediately
shut it. This wasn’t going to get them anywhere. And what was she supposed to say? She settled for shoving him—harder than she knew she should, but it made her feel better.
He almost toppled over his bike again. “Dammit, woman, stop trying to beat me. I’ll sue you for domestic violence.”
They scowled at each other, and then Navin’s mouth twitched and Donna could feel her own cold lips spread into a reluctant grin.
“Domestic violence? You’re deluded, Sharma.”
“And again, you have too many secrets, Underwood. What are you, a teenage spy?”
She almost laughed. “No, definitely not that.”
Navin wheeled his bike to the side of the warehouse door and leaned it against the wall. “So, where are we going?”
Donna rolled her eyes, trying to keep her rising sense of panic in check. “I am going to see … a family friend. Whatever you’re doing, I hope you have fun.”
She watched Navin’s expressive face as he battled with varying degrees of disappointment, curiosity, and anger. She wondered which would win. She would never get used to lying to Navin, even though she’d had to do it for most of the time they’d known each other. And she mostly lied by omission, which she liked to think didn’t count. Even though she knew it did.
All this because the Order of the Dragon was so strict with her. Still a minor, she had no standing among the alchemists except for being the daughter of two of their legends and the niece of a currently rising star within their ranks. Thinking of Aunt Paige now, Donna couldn’t help wondering what she would say if she knew what her charge was considering. How close she finally was to telling Navin the truth.
The Iron Witch Page 3
