I know where this is going. “You’re not getting my bed. It’s either this chair or the drafty window.”
Azzie squints at me. “I’ll take the chair,” he says finally. “But if circulation to one of my limbs is cut off when I’m asleep and I end up losing that part of my body, it’s going to be your fault.”
I imagine taking Azzie to an emergency room. The doctors would either run away screaming or—yeah, they would probably just run away screaming. “Your limbs will be fine,” I say.
I set Azzie up with some clean sheets—because he can’t sleep on a bare chair; a warm blanket—because he can still feel the draft from the window even though it’s on the opposite side of the room; and three pillows—one for his head and two for his horns which require special care during sleep. “You don’t want them bumping into the arms of the chair,” Azzie explains.
“No, of course no one wants that.”
When I’m done with Azzie’s chair, I go to my closet and grab a pair of pajamas. All the while Azzie is wriggling, shimmying, tossing, and sending me dirty looks, but I ignore him and go to the bathroom. When I come back after a quick shower, Azzie is already fast asleep, his mouth slightly open and his huge feet sticking out from under the blanket. My pajamas look cute on him, though.
I cozy up in my bed with the laptop. When I open it, it has my journaling software open right in the middle of the screen. I close it, and there’s my email program. My email doesn’t contain any sensitive information, so I don’t really worry about it and just close the application. I notice that my browser window is open. I bring it up and almost fall off my bed. It’s open to Victoria’s Secret website, bikini section. Seriously? I give Azzie my frostiest glare to date, but it’s completely wasted. He goes on sleeping peacefully as if he isn’t the biggest creep ever.
I close all the tabs that contain pictures of a blonde model that looks a lot like Ciara, and then open my favorite search engine, enter the word witchlight, and hit enter. I look through the websites that come up in the search results, but most of them contain references to fictional stories, and they don’t have the same meaning as the witchlight Azzie was talking about.
By the time I’m finished clicking through and reading dozens of articles, I’m exhausted. There are still hundreds left, and even though I haven’t found anything remotely interesting, it doesn’t mean that one of the articles left in there doesn’t contain at least some information that could help us. I try to skim through a few more articles, but my brain just doesn’t register any new information. As the first rays of the morning sun peek through my bedroom window, I fall asleep.
Chapter 8
“Wake up!” Someone is shaking me. This feels oddly familiar.
“W-what?” I mumble.
“Jeez, do I have to wake you up every morning?” Chloe says.
I finally manage to open my eyes and the first thing I see is Chloe’s very annoyed face.
I don’t even want to know what she wants this time and try to bury my face in the pillow, but at this moment my brain decides to start working again and I remember everything that happened last night, including a magic spell gone wrong and a six-thousand-year old demon who is currently sleeping in my pull-out chair. I push Chloe aside to take a look at the chair. It’s folded up nicely, just as it always is, with my baby blanket on top of it. Just like it always is. I rub my eyes. Have I dreamed everything that happened last night?
Chloe jumps off my bed and heads out of the room. “If you’re not ready in five minutes, we’re leaving without you. I’m not about to be late because my sister sleeps like a log,” Chloe says right before slamming the door shut behind her.
“What?” I say, dazed, and only now decide to check my alarm clock. It shows seven thirty. Seven thirty?! Oh my God, how did I oversleep so badly? If I’m late for my history class, there’s no way Mr. Mason is going to let me in. And if I miss even one class, I’ll have to actually take the test. And study for it. This is so not happening.
I throw aside the blankets and jump off my bed, but then a realization dawns on me which makes the history test seem like a walk in the park. I take a look around my room. It looks completely normal, just as it always does. I can see no red-skinned demons with horns and a creepy fetish for blonde underwear models. I smile to myself. What a crazy dream I had last night.
I skip across the room to my closet, fling the door open, and scream. Azzie is nestled in the bottom of the closet, wearing my pajamas, holding my laptop, and probably looking at Victoria’s Secret website.
“What?” Azzie asks innocently. “I thought I’d hide in here in case someone comes into your room to wake you up.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I ask. I completely forgot to set my alarm clock last night, or rather this morning.
“I thought you should get some sleep before school. Besides, I didn’t really know what time you were supposed to wake up,” he says. His eyes are so innocent, you’d think he actually cares about me.
“Get out. I need to get dressed.”
“And where do you want me to go?” That’s a good point.
I grab a pair of jeans and a sweater.
“I’ll get dressed in the bathroom. You sit here. My mom will leave for work at nine, so you can come out then and take some food from the fridge. But please, please, please be careful and make sure nobody sees you, okay?”
“Okay. I don’t really care for any more screams like the one you just gave me.”
“Uh, yeah, sorry about that.” At least no one is rushing to check on me. I’m not sure if I’m happy or upset about it. “I guess I just didn’t expect to find you in my closet, and I didn’t get enough sleep, so I’m pretty tired.”
“I didn’t get enough sleep, either. You snore.”
“I so do not!” That’s just mean. Why would anyone say something like that to a nice girl like me?
“You do. I woke up at daybreak and couldn’t fall asleep because of your snoring. Had to find something else to do.” He nods at my laptop. I completely forgot to change the password last night.
I snatch the laptop from him and take a look at the screen. I expect to see more pictures of models, but what I see is even creepier. It’s Ciara’s Instagram account. And her Facebook page. “Are you stalking her?” I ask incredulously.
“E-E-M-M-Y-Y!” Chloe yells from the outside.
“Ugh. I have to go. Just make sure nobody sees you.”
“No problem,” Azzie says and grabs the laptop back. I don’t have time to argue or change the password, so I close the closet door and rush to the bathroom to get dressed.
MR. MASON’S EYES EXPRESS the most emotion I’ve seen in them through all of my years in high school. Which has only been two years so far, but that is a lot of emotion I see.
“You’re late, Miss Fairchild,” he states the obvious, looking at me from under those heavy eyebrows. I wonder if he does that intimidating look on purpose or if it’s just me.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason?” I say, cringing inwardly. I’ve never been late for class before, ever, so I find this situation extremely uncomfortable. And I hate all the students who are staring at me, which is all of them. The staring makes things so much worse.
“Miss Fairchild, are you apologizing or asking a question?”
“Um, apologizing? I’m sorry, Mr. Mason,” I blurt out and there’s another twinkle of emotion in Mr. Mason’s eyes, although I can’t tell exactly what it is—irritation or, God forbid, amusement? “Can I take my seat?”
“Sit. And be quiet.” That goes without saying.
When I plop on my seat, Jessie is grinning at me from ear to ear. I want to ask her whether she and Ciara found anything helpful in her grandmother’s notebook, but I can’t risk Mr. Mason’s wrath. I’m terrible at history and the fact that he doesn’t demand much from students who attend his classes and are quiet—very, very quiet—is the only thing that saves me from a disgraceful F on my report card.
Mr. Mason resumes
the lesson. I try to listen to what he is saying, but my eyelids don’t want to obey, and no matter how hard I try not to, I fall asleep.
“MISS FAIRCHILD,” SOMEONE calls my name from somewhere far, far away. “Miss Fairchild!” Oh, it’s not far away, and it’s not someone. It’s Mr. Mason. Someone is poking me in the rib with a pen or some other sharp object and I’m pretty sure it’s not him. I open my eyes. Mr. Mason is standing in front of my desk in a strange position. Oh wait, the problem isn’t with him. His position looks strange because my head is twisted in a weird way on my desk. My neck feels stiff. I hear quiet snickers all around me.
“Miss Fairchild, you’ve earned yourself a detention. I hope you can be quiet for”—he checks his watch—“another three and a half minutes until this lesson is over, or I’ll make sure you get suspended for the rest of the week,” he says and then returns to his desk, leans back in his chair, and resumes reading the lesson from his notes.
Wait, what? Be quiet? I was asleep, wasn’t I? How could I be more quiet than that?
Oh my God. No. This could not be true, could it? There’s no way I was snoring. No way. Azzie was lying, wasn’t he? Oh, this is so embarrassing.
I bury my face in my hands, but there’s no way I will fall asleep. Ever. Again.
“OH MY GOD, YOU WERE so snoring.” Jessie grins between the bites of her pizza.
I just stare at my slice, not feeling hungry at all, even though the last time I ate was at Jessie’s house last night. Which feels like a thousand years ago. “I don’t get it. Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I was asleep myself. I was up all night, and this class is just so conducive to having a nice, refreshing nap.”
“So why didn’t you get a detention?” Not that I want Jessie to get a detention, but if she did, at least I’d have someone to share in my misery, which would make that misery a little less miserable.
“Because I was real quiet.” She grins again. That pizza is disappearing pretty fast.
I decide to change the subject. “So did you and Ciara find anything about you-know-what in your grandmother’s notebook?”
“No, there’s nothing about a witchlight there. Ciara says she’s never heard about it, but she’s going to look through some books that her mom left her, so there’s that. I was thinking we could go to the library after school, but I guess that’s not going to happen now.”
“Really, it’s not my fault. And stop grinning already. I was also up all night, trying to find something online, but it’s like this thing doesn’t even exist. I don’t get it. If witches are real, and if demons are real, how could this information not be all over the internet? We really need to get this figured out. I don’t think I can keep Azzie a secret for much longer. Maybe you could go to the library by yourself?” I suggest hopefully. “You could pick up a few books, and I could help you research after my detention is over.”
“You know I’m going to get the wrong books.” That’s probably true, but we need to do at least something. “It’s not like I can come over to Ms. Duncan and ask her if she could search the catalog for a witchlight.” Jessie moves on to her pudding.
“Wait a minute. Actually, you can.”
“Ask her about a witchlight?” Jessie says dubiously.
“Yes! Tell her it’s for a history project. Say you’ve read a book that mentioned it and you want to research it for a history paper, but you can’t remember which book it was. If there’s anything in our school library about a witchlight, it will definitely be cataloged on her computer. If there’s nothing there, then we’ll have to think of someplace else to look, but I think it’s a good place to start.”
“Hmm, I guess I could try. But maybe we could go together tomorrow?” Jessie asks sheepishly.
“Really? You’re still afraid of her?” The only person Jessie has ever been afraid of turns out to be a librarian.
“I’m not afraid of her. I’m just—yeah, okay, she scares the bejeezus out of me. She talks kind of weird, and I swear she can see through a bookshelf.”
“She so cannot.”
“She so can!”
“Well, okay, if you’re so scared of her, we’ll go tomorrow. I just hope I don’t end up kicking Azzie out of my window tonight when I find him reading my diary again.”
“You could try, but there’s no way his backside will fit in your window.” Jessie giggles. “And speaking of killing annoying characters.” Jessie points her chin towards a couple of familiar figures heading in our direction.
“And I thought this day couldn’t get any worse. Silly me.” Parker and Logan are definitely aiming at our table.
Jessie leans over and whispers into my ear, “Do you sometimes secretly wish that Parker got hit by a deer on one of those hunting trips with his Dad?”
“Oh God, yes. I thought that was just me.” We are so going to hell for thinking thoughts like that.
The guys plop on the chairs at our table with trays full of food. Logan sits on the opposite side of the table from me and Jessie while Parker picks the chair to my left. He has a nasty bruise on his left cheekbone. Now I feel like the most horrible person in the world for thinking those thoughts about him being hit by a deer because it’s possible that this is exactly what happened.
“What are you doing here?” Jessie asks.
“Why?” Logan says over a mouthful of pizza. “Can’t we join you two for lunch?”
“Uh, no,” Jessie says like this is self-evident. Which it kind of is. “You never do. Why aren’t you hanging out with your football buddies?”
“They are not as charming as you,” Parker grins.
“I’m sure they’re not,” Jessie says. “But it has never stopped you before.”
“You’re awfully quiet, Munchkin.” Parker leans in.
“Don’t call me that,” I say automatically. I know better than that by now, but I just can’t help it.
“Okay, Kiddo.” There. Perfect. One demeaning nickname after another.
“Just go away,” I say with no real energy.
“How come you’re not eating?” He eyes my uneaten pizza. He is so not getting it. He has three slices of his own. “You’re not dying or something, are you?” He tries to put his hand on my forehead but I swat it away. “Seriously, what’s up with the uneaten food?”
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Huh. That’s a first.” He arches an eyebrow. Logan chuckles. I give them both a dirty look. “Are you absolutely sure you’re not dying, Kiddo?”
“I’m not, but you might, if you don’t stop calling me Kiddo.”
“Okay, Munchkin.”
“Ugh! You’re insufferable,” I groan. There is no point in even trying to get him to call me by my actual name. Not that I care.
“Thanks.”
“That’s not a compliment,” Jessie points out, but she’s just wasting her breath.
“So is it true?” Logan asks quietly, leaning towards Jessie and me. Parker leans in, too, listening intently. Oh, I am so not liking where this is going.
“Is what true?” Jessie asks suspiciously.
“You know,” Logan says with a grin, “that Emmy was snoring in history class.”
“Oh my God!” I exclaim and cover my face with both hands. This is the most horrible day of my entire life. Nothing could make it worse.
“I guess that’s a yes,” Parker says.
I try to bang my head on the table but I almost end up with my forehead buried in my own pizza. Parker pulls it out from under me right before the sauce spatters all over my face.
“Is that why you two are here?” Jessie asks. “To find out if that stupid rumor is true?”
“Nah, I just missed you two. I haven’t seen you in over a week.” Parker is chewing on something. I’m pretty sure it’s my pizza, because he ate his three slices in two gulps, but I don’t want to look up. And I doubt anything would come down my throat at this moment, anyway.
“Haven’t tortured us in over a week, you mean,”
Jessie says.
“Potayto, potahto.” Parker has apparently finished my pizza, because I distinctly hear him rip the foil off my pudding. That’s too much even for me. Nobody eats my pudding.
“Give that back.” I show my face to the world again and hold my hand out for my pudding. Parker freezes with a spoon in his right hand and a pudding cup in his left. I am pretty sure that spoon hasn’t been inside my pudding yet, otherwise I’d just have to throw it away.
“So what punishment did he give you for snoring in his class?” Parker smirks.
“Oh God,” I groan, bury my head in my arms, and never want to show my face ever again. “Just shut up and eat the pudding.”
“She got detention,” Jessie answers the question for me. Traitor.
“Really?” Parker says and I swear I can hear his eyes twinkle with mischief.
Chapter 9
When the darkest hour arrives and it’s time for me to serve my detention, I am so embarrassed I can barely look at the teacher—Ms. Johanssen, who teaches science class—when I enter the room. I hastily give her my detention slip, then walk to the back of the room and take a seat. I’ve never been in detention before. I’ve never even been late to class before. Well, I guess I won’t be able to say those things about myself ever again. Now I’m officially a delinquent.
There are three other students in the room, two girls and a guy. They all look like they don’t care much for being here, either. One of the girls is reading a book, the other girl and the guy are staring out the window which is overlooking the football field. There are shouts coming from the outside. It looks like there’s football practice happening right now. Ms. Johanssen doesn’t seem to care who is doing what and is reading something on her e-reader. From the way her eyes sparkle as they travel across the screen, and the way she keeps biting at her necklace, I suspect it’s not a John Grisham novel.
A Witch and a Secret (Witches of Mystic Hollow Book 1) Page 8
