“So?” he says.
“So what?”
“Are you going to ask someone?”
“Are you going to drink that coffee?”
“I’m drinking.”
“You’re talking.”
“You want me to stop talking?”
“I want you to stop doing a lot of things, but it’s not like you’ll listen.”
“What if I gave you one?”
“One what?”
“I’ll stop doing one thing you don’t like if you ask someone out.”
I stare at Parker’s silhouette. I know he just wants me to humiliate myself in front of some guy, but, really, how much more humiliated can I be after the snoring incident?
“If I do this, will you stop calling me names?”
“Come on, Munchkin, when did I ever call you names?” he asks, almost offended.
“Um, how about just now?”
“Munchkin? That’s not name calling. That’s an endearing term.”
I choke on my saliva and start coughing violently.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I answer coarsely after the bout of coughing subsides. “So are you saying that you will stop calling me Munchkin or any other, um—endearing—term, if I ask someone to come with me to Brian’s party?”
“Something like that.”
I stare at him. I have to admit, his offer is tempting. He is playing with the flashlight, which causes its light to bounce all over the kitchen. Everywhere except his face. I know he is up to something, but it’s hard to gauge what someone’s real intentions are when you can’t see their facial expression and eyes when you are talking to them.
Finally, I say, “I know there’s a catch, but I just can’t figure it out.”
“There’s no catch.” The light stops on the kitchen counter.
“Then why?”
“Why what, Munchkin?” The beam drops to the floor.
“I thought you said you’d stop calling me names.”
“If you agree. You haven’t yet.”
“All right. I agree.” The light flickers along the tiles beside my chair. “I just don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what exactly?”
“What’s in it for you?”
“I have my reasons.” The flashlight is finally back on the table, illuminating the ceiling.
“Which you are not going to share with me, I assume.”
“You assume correctly,” he says with a grin. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there.
After some hesitation, I say, “Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll ask someone out to Brian’s party.” I won’t, but he doesn’t really need to know that right now. And maybe I can get one day Munchkin-free until he figures it out. I don’t even feel guilty for tricking him.
“There, Munchkin, was that so hard?”
“Hey, I thought we had a deal.”
“You don’t expect me to fulfill my end of the deal before you fulfill yours, do you?” he asks with mock surprise in his voice. Dammit. There goes my Munchkin-free day. “Besides, I think I need some time to make peace with the idea.”
“You’re impossible,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“Depends on how you take it.”
Ugh. “Whatever.” How can you annoy someone who is never annoyed by anything? Must be nice to be that kind of person, though.
It’s probably time to go back to my room—even though I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to fall asleep again, not after a cup of coffee, and I still have a couple more hours before I need to get up to get ready for school, so the only other option I can come up with is to make another cup of coffee. Parker is fine with that, even though I was kind of hoping there for a moment that he would go upstairs to check up on Azzie, but he doesn’t. So coffee it is.
“I was just wondering, isn’t your dad worried when you’re gone all night?” I ask while preparing another batch of coffee. He is only seventeen, not even eighteen yet, and from what I know about parents, their worry doesn’t end even then.
“No, not my dad,” he says. Huh, really? Do demon hunters not care what their children are up to at night and what is happening to them? “My little sister,” he adds.
“Oh,” I say, completely caught off guard by this information. Parker has a little sister? I feel guilty for not knowing about her.
I place two mugs of coffee on the table, then sit in my chair, pull my legs up, and wrap my arms around them.
“How old is she?” I ask.
“Six.” After a second, he adds, “Six and a half in December.” That’s really cute, the way he talks about her. But I don’t say that out loud.
“What’s her name?”
“Lizzy.”
I do know Parker’s mom was named Elizabeth. I think Logan might have mentioned it at some point. Lizzy was probably named after her. But I still find it strange that Parker never talks about his little sister. I talk about Chloe all the time. Well, okay, I complain about Chloe all the time, but I do mention her.
“And she worries when you’re gone?” I ask.
“She does, sometimes.”
“Like when you come home bruised all over?”
“Something like that.” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
“Sorry,” I say, blushing. That was a thoughtless thing to say. Of course she worries about her big brother. I pretty much hate Chloe, but I’d still worry about her if she ever came home with a black eye.
“Don’t be sorry for everything.”
“I’m not sorry for everything,” I say defensively. Well, okay, maybe I am, but it’s not my fault I’m a polite person and I don’t like offending people. Well, maybe it is my fault, but I never considered it a bad thing.
“Yes, you are. Always apologizing for things.”
“Well, you have a real knack for making sure I don’t feel sorry for too long.”
“Thanks.”
“Again, not a compliment.”
“Really, Munchkin, stop with the flattery. You’ll blow my self-esteem out of proportion.”
I snort. Like that’s even possible. “I don’t think it could blow any bigger.”
“There’s always room for improvement.”
“In some cases improvement means tuning it down a notch. And in your case, it’s at least a few dozen notches.”
“I don’t see why you’re complaining. I thought girls liked confident guys.”
“Since when do you care what girls like?”
“Really, Kiddo, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to insult me or something,” he says like it’s the most inconceivable thing in the entire universe.
“So are you actually saying that you care what girls think about you?”
“Not all girls.”
I gape at him, my eyes as big as saucers.
“Oh, so there’s a particular girl?” There’s no way there is one. He’s just messing with me, as usual. And if hell froze over and pigs were flying, and there really, actually was one, there’s no way he would ever tell me who she is.
“Maybe.”
No.
Freaking.
Way.
“You’re just screwing with me.”
“Maybe,” he says, amusement coloring his tone.
I have to figure this out, because if this is true, if Parker actually likes a girl—any girl—then it means that anything is possible, and I mean not just magic-and-witches-being-real kind of possible, but—well, okay, that is a pretty good comparison.
“Do I know her?” I ask.
“Who?”
“You know who. The girl you like.”
“I never said I liked her.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“So you don’t like her?”
“I didn’t say that, either.” Parker rubs the back of his neck. Did I just make him sweat?
“But you do car
e what she thinks about you?”
“Maybe.”
Oh, this is just—I don’t think they have invented the words that can explain what this is. He isn’t going to kill me now that he has told me his dirty secret—that he, lo and behold, has human feelings—is he? Because that would put a damper on the whole situation. But he did kind of worry about my safety around Azzie, so I suppose my life is safe.
“And there’s a possibility that you like her?”
“A possibility? Sure.”
“It’s not Jessie, is it?”
“Why would you say that?”
Um, because out of all the girls in our school she is the only one he spends any “quality” time with. Granted, it’s only because he is best friends with her brother and hangs out at their house all the time, but still. I just never got the impression that there was any kind of spark between them. Definitely not on Jessie’s part.
“Just a guess.”
“Really, Munchkin, you can do better than that.”
“Should I start listing cheerleading squad in alphabetical order?”
“You could try.”
“And if I guessed who she was, would you tell me?”
He considers it for a moment, then says, “Probably not.”
“Huh, only probably?”
“Probably.”
“Well, I can say one thing for sure—you have been hiding it pretty well, because every girl in school thinks you’re a—um—”
“Arrogant bastard? Misogynistic asshole? I believe that’s what your sister likes to call me.”
Chloe does have a way with words. “Not exactly what I was going for, but I guess it sums up your attitude pretty nicely.”
“Shh,” Parker says and turns off the flashlight.
“What is it?” I whisper, but then I hear footsteps.
Someone is walking down the stairs in complete darkness. Walking is too strong a word for it. It sounds more like waddling. It can easily be Jessie, or Azzie, or Logan, but it can just as easily be one of my parents or even worse.
The lights flare up and then the even worse appears. Chloe looks like she came straight out of a nightmare. Her hair is even worse than on Monday morning when she woke me up. It’s falling all over her face, her T-shirt, and down to her cute little shorts. She blinks at the light, then she blinks at me—I draw my knees closer to my chest and stare at her like I see a ghost—then she blinks at Parker who takes a sip of his coffee and reclines casually in his chair like it’s the most natural thing for him to be in our kitchen in the middle of the night.
Chloe blinks again, shakes her head, and shuffles over to the refrigerator. She takes out a carton of milk—I don’t know how it survived Azzie; it’s probably expired—fumbles around the dish rack, then pours herself a glass of milk. As she waddles back—with the glass shaking precariously in her hands and the milk about to spill—she stops beside me and stares at the table in front of me. When I follow her gaze, I notice the flat iron I found earlier. Chloe stands there, just staring at it, so I pick it up and hand it over to her. She grabs it and clutches it to her chest like it’s the most precious thing in the world. With that hair, it probably is.
“I have no idea if it works,” I say, but her facial expression doesn’t reveal if she registered the words or not. She looks more like a zombie than anything else.
Clutching the flat iron and the glass of milk to her chest, Chloe totters back towards the stairs without saying a word and flips the light switch off on her way out. When we hear the door to her room close, Parker turns his flashlight back on.
“Do you think there’s any chance she will think this was all a dream?” I ask.
“I think there’s a pretty good chance she’ll have something else to blackmail you with.”
“Oh no, this wouldn’t work. My Mom would be thrilled if she found out I had a boy sneak into my house at night. She’d probably give me a gift certificate to a bookstore or something.”
“Really, Munchkin, and I thought you were the only weird one in your family. But your mom would at least mind a demon in your room, wouldn’t she?”
“Oh yes, that she definitely would.”
Chapter 19
“It’s okay, it’s safe to eat now,” I assure Azzie, whose eyes dart between the stacks of food and the window where Jessie, Logan, and Parker disappeared only a few seconds ago. I don’t know how he survived the night without touching any of the food.
“I guess I could eat something,” he says thoughtfully, looking at the food.
I snort. Right. The moment I’m out the door, he will probably gobble everything down in a single bite. But if he wants to spare me the show, who am I to argue?
“Girls, time to go!” Dad shouts from the hallway.
“Dad is taking us out for breakfast,” I say, then add very quietly even though it’s not necessary, “I’ll pick you up after school to go to Ciara’s house.”
“I thought you promised your demon hunter you won’t get into any kind of trouble without him,” Azzie says over a mouthful of cookies.
“First of all, he’s not my demon hunter. And second of all, I’m not going to get into any trouble. We’ll just get inside, find the information we need, and get out. But if you changed your mind—”
“No, no, I’m coming.” Azzie has finished the box of cookies and is now opening a tub of melted ice cream.
I pick up my school bag and sling it over my shoulder. When I turn around, Azzie’s face is smeared with what looks like green-colored whipped cream. The tub is empty. “Okay, I’m off. Just don’t eat the house,” I add as an afterthought.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Azzie says, unimpressed.
A FEW MINUTES AFTER seven, we arrive at The Black Cat Cafe, the only restaurant-like establishment in Mystic Hollow, and the only place that serves breakfast. Actually, it’s pretty much the only place that serves breakfast, lunch, dinner, and whatever goes after that.
I notice the sign hanging over the entrance. Below the name of the establishment, there’s a picture of a witch and a black cat on a broomstick. I’ve seen this sign hundreds of times before, but I always figured it was just a pretty decoration. Now I’m starting to wonder if there is something more to it, like, you know, maybe the owner is a witch or something? I’m probably being paranoid. I’m starting to see signs, witches, and demons everywhere. Okay, not demons just yet, because that would be scary. But I’m starting to think that Mystic Hollow might not be such a boring place after all.
Once inside, the place is almost empty. We pick a table near the window and make ourselves comfortable. Chloe sits next to me and sneaks a few suspicious glances my way. She hasn’t said a word to me all morning, but she’s been giving me these suspicious looks, like she’s been trying to remember something about me. Maybe she does think it was all a dream? But her hair is as straight as a stick. There’s no way it could look like that without the help of that flat iron I found in the pantry.
A waitress dressed all in black approaches us with the menus and a pitcher of water. While she fills our glasses with water, we examine the menus. It doesn’t take us long—we are ravenous. Chloe and I order oatmeal and orange juice, while Mom and Dad go all traditional cuisine and order The Black Cat special. No, not an actual black cat, obviously. Just what I would imagine such a cat would love to eat: chicken gizzards sautéed in sour cream, with a side of liver sausage, eggs, and coffee. Chloe looks like she regrets her order and wants to change it to what Mom and Dad are having, but doesn’t say anything.
Once the waitress is gone with our orders, Chloe leans in, hides her face behind the menu, and speaks quietly. “By the way, just in case you decided to pull a stunt on me and bail out, I have already arranged for someone to take you to the party,” she says sweetly.
I glare at her. “I told you I’m not interested in blind dates.”
“Well, then make sure to ask someone who won’t say no to you.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“How should I know? I just wanted to let you know there’s no pressure.”
“No pressure?”
“Sure. If whoever you ask says no, you have a back-up date.”
“I don’t have a back-up date,” I whisper furiously. At least that’s what I’m trying to do, but of course it does not come out that way and sounds more like a mouse squeaking.
“Sure you do. I arranged for Derek’s buddy to take you.” Chloe speaks like she did me a big favor, which she so didn’t, and I am so not going to any party with some guy she picked for me. Or Derek picked for me. Whatever.
“I told you, I’m not going on a blind date. Who is this guy, anyway?”
“Oh, I have no intention of spoiling the surprise,” she says so sweetly I’m pretty sure she’d melt if I poured some water on her.
I seethe. It doesn’t help anything. “What makes you think I will go to the party with some guy you picked for me?”
“I’m so glad you asked.” Chloe’s smile could give cavities to a dental hygienist. “Remember that first edition of The Undead Chronicles novel you love so much?”
“Um, the one that I won for writing the best fanfiction story? The one that was signed by Gabe, Warren—well, actors who play them—and the author?” The jewel of my collection, the apple of my eye, stolen from me by my evil geniuses of parents. “Sure, I remember it. What are you getting at?”
“What I’m getting at is that if you want to see your precious ever again, you better do as I say.”
“That book is in the storage facility with all the other books. What are you going to do? Break in and kidnap it?”
“Oh, that part is already taken care of.” Chloe whips out her phone, swipes the screen a few times, then shows it to me.
I gasp. I can’t believe what I’m looking at. What I am looking at is the picture of The Undead Chronicles—the very first edition signed by the author and Gabe and Warren—lying on a dusty concrete floor on top of yesterday’s issue of Mystic Hollow Daily.
“This is Photoshopped,” I croak.
“Oh, you better believe it’s real. And so is the eBay auction I set up for it. I only need to press one button and it will go live.”
A Witch and a Secret (Witches of Mystic Hollow Book 1) Page 18
