“One last day of spontaneity,” he said with a grin, “and then you can go back to being your adorable little control-freak self.”
“But what if there’s something you really want to do, and we forget, and I only remember when it’s too late, and then—” I looked at Oliver’s face, and stopped myself. Took a breath. “Sure. I can do that.”
“Excellent!” he said, clasping his hands together. “How about if you start by skipping school tomorrow? That’d give us more time together, since I’m a dropout and all.”
I couldn’t skip school. I’d never skipped school, except when I was sick. Besides, there was an English essay I needed to turn in, and I was pretty sure we were having a quiz in chemistry, and . . .
And I stopped myself again. I had one day left with Oliver. One day of being spontaneous. Worrying about school would just have to wait.
“Skip school,” I said. “No problem. And . . . and you could stay here tonight, if you want. Not like that,” I added quickly when his eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t mean that. Not that I don’t want—I mean it’s just so—um, unless you want . . . ?”
And if he did want to sleep with me, would I say yes? Apparently I was about to find out. Three cheers for spontaneity!
A touch of color crept into his cheeks. “I do want,” he said, “or I would want, if it weren’t like this. If it weren’t because it’s our last chance, you know? I don’t want to be with you like that when I’d just be thinking about the why of it—about the . . . the deadline. Um. You know what I mean?”
“Oh,” I said, halfway between relief and disappointment. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“But I’d still love to stay,” he said, “if you want me to.”
Of course I wanted him to. He would sleep over, I would ditch school in the morning, and we would spend the rest of the day doing . . . whatever we wanted. Without a plan. And after that, I would sink back into the safe, comfortable life that I’d always known. A life without magic, and without Oliver. The thought of it broke my heart.
It also brought me a small, secret measure of relief, though I knew I could never tell Oliver that.
But maybe he already knew.
“Oliver?” I whispered, a little while later.
“Mm-hmm?” he replied.
I wriggled a little, adjusting myself in his arms. “Before, when Xavier found me, he . . . you died. He made me watch you die.”
“What do you mean?” His body was still, and his voice was calm. Too calm.
“It was an illusion,” I explained, still trying not to replay it in my mind. “An illusion of you, that he created. And I—I mean he, pretending he was me—he had that knife again and, and he used it. He killed you. And you just let him do it.”
He swore under his breath, and I closed my eyes against the darkness that surrounded us. “It scared me,” I said. “You scared me.”
“It wasn’t real.” He’d lifted his head a little, and his breath tickled my ear as he spoke. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That wasn’t really us.” He drew me closer, pressing my back against his chest, curving his body protectively around mine. “This, right here, this is what’s real. I’m real.”
I smiled into the darkness. “I know.”
A few minutes passed in silence. The only light in the room came from the clock on my bedside table. It said 3:26. “Oliver?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Did you love a lot of people before you met me?”
There was a pause. “A few. I wouldn’t say a lot, but a fair few.”
“You loved Maeve.”
“Very much.”
“Did you love Xavier?”
I felt him hold his breath for a couple seconds.
“I did,” he said cautiously. “A long time ago. Is that . . . Does that bother you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It might. I just don’t know yet.”
He hugged me tightly and pressed a kiss to the back of my neck.
Another minute ticked by.
“Oliver?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“You remember when you asked if I was in love with you? And I said no?”
“Yeah.”
“I maybe lied a little.”
A quiet laugh rumbled against my back.
“I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
After convincing my mom that I felt sick and needed to stay home, I spent the morning hiding in my room with Oliver, listening carefully until I heard both my parents’ cars pull out of the driveway. Only when I was certain they were gone did we creep downstairs in search of sustenance.
Mom had left a box of cereal and a bowl of fruit on the counter for me, but Oliver proclaimed her meager offerings unworthy. “Wait here,” he told me, and disappeared—only to reappear a few minutes later with an armload of groceries. “Don’t worry,” he said, before I could ask. “I paid for them.”
And then he began making breakfast. Not just breakfast, but breakfast. Blueberry pancakes from scratch. Three kinds of eggs. Maple syrup that had been in Canada only ten minutes ago. Fresh bacon. And, of course, waffles.
“This looks amazing,” I said as he presented me with a full plate and a glass of orange juice. “I didn’t even know you could cook.”
“Neither did I, until just now,” he said cheerfully. “I just saw that sad little box of cereal, and I thought, why not? And then, poof! Oliver Parish, master chef.”
I shook my head. “That’s so weird. Not that I’m complaining.” I took a bite. “Okay, now I’m really not complaining. What the hell did you put in these eggs—nectar of the gods?”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “Nope. Trade secret,” he said, and started shoveling monster-size bites of waffle into his mouth.
For a few moments, I just watched him. He looked so happy. And this would probably be one of the last meals he ever ate.
A little while later, when we finally began to slow down, Oliver leveled a curious look at me. “You know,” he said, “I never did get to hear you play that opening set.”
I quickly swallowed my mouthful of orange juice, so I wouldn’t end up spitting it all over the table. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. You may recall that nobody heard my set, on account of how I didn’t play it.”
He rolled his eyes. “I do recall, as a matter of fact. That’s not the point. The point is, I didn’t hear it, but I’d really like to. I mean, think about it: you, playing songs that my wish helped you write, on a stage with a bunch of people cheering. I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that’d be a pretty great way to spend the day. Or at least six songs’ worth of the day.”
“Really? That’s what you want to do?” He nodded, and I tapped my fork against my lip, thinking. “Well, we could always break into the South Star and hold them hostage until they let me play.”
He laughed. “Well, getting arrested wasn’t a high priority on my bucket list, but hey, if that’s what floats your boat . . .”
“Got a better idea?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I forked the last bite of blueberry pancake into my mouth. He reached for my plate, but I swatted his hand away. “And no cleaning up. You make food, I clean up. That’s how it works. Unless you can do it with magic or something.”
He winced slightly, like he was embarrassed. “Er, no. Sorry.” I shrugged and began to gather both of our dishes into the sink.
“Better ideas,” he mused, following me over to the sink. “Well, I’d be willing to settle for a living room concert at worst, but there has to be a stage somewhere that we can use, right? I mean, what about the one at your school?”
I flicked a few droplets of water at him, making him jump back. “My school? As in, the place I’m specifically avoiding today so I can hang out with you instead? Sure, Oliver. Totally brilliant.”
He tilted his head to the side, giving me a too-innocent smile. “As a wise woman once said: Got a better idea?”
Since I couldn’t exactly walk through the front door of school when I was supposed to be home sick, we had to settle for using the maintenance stairwell, a musty old thing that led from the boiler room to the teachers’ parking lot, then continued up to the theater wings. I’d never known the reason behind that particular aspect of Jackson High’s erratic design, but generations of actors had used it to sneak out for intermission smoke breaks. Today, I was using it to sneak in. Clutching my guitar case in one hand, I felt my way up the stairs with the other.
“Shouldn’t we turn on some lights?” hissed Oliver from behind me.
“Not till I’m sure there’s nobody else here,” I whispered back. “Watch out, there’s a tall stair coming up.”
“This was a bad idea.”
“Says the guy who’s following me around in the dark when he could just teleport into the theater.”
“Touché,” he said wryly, but kept following me.
“And watch those hands, mister. That’s my butt.”
“Oops. My bad. Completely unintentional.”
“Uh-huh.”
When I reached the top of the staircase, I tiptoed down the short hallway and peeked into the theater. The wings were dark, but the stage was illuminated with the harsh white glow of work lights. I frowned. This was fourth period, which meant there shouldn’t be anyone there. Maybe someone had left the lights on by accident?
But just when I was about to go and find out, I heard footsteps. Very quiet footsteps, which made me think that whoever it was, they didn’t have any more right to be here than I did. “Crap,” I murmured under my breath.
“What’s—”
“Shh!” I hissed, cutting Oliver off. Not because he was being loud, but because I’d heard something else. Voices. There were at least two people here, and they were talking. I strained my ears, trying to hear them better. Oliver remained silent behind me.
I only had to wait a moment before one of the voices rose above a whisper. “Come on, man, just give me one!” someone whined. “Just one!” Something about the voice’s cadence sounded familiar. I could hear it, somewhere in my recent memory, protesting a failing grade.
Oliver tugged at my hand, signaling that we should probably leave, but curiosity got the best of me. What did this guy want one of? Was I witnessing a drug sale or something?
A second voice, completely unfamiliar, murmured something just below the range of my hearing, and the first let out a loud noise of frustration. “Not cool, dude. Why the hell’d you tell me to—”
“Shh!” went the second voice, just like I’d done a moment ago. I shrank back against Oliver, and they continued to speak in whispers.
And then, all of a sudden, the first voice called out, “Margo? Is that you?”
As soon as I heard him say my name, I recognized the voice. It was Simon. But a chill jolted through me. Just yesterday I’d thought it was Simon, too, and then Xavier—
Oliver put a hand on my shoulder, silently steadying me.
“Is that him?” I whispered frantically. “Can you tell?”
He squeezed my shoulder. “I can’t. Not without seeing him.”
But even without Oliver’s certainty, I knew it was him. Every single one of my nerves was telling me so. I had to run away, I had to hide—
No, that was just paranoia talking. That was just the darkness of the wings, shrinking around me like it wanted to trap me right where I stood. I took a deep breath, focusing on the calming feeling of Oliver’s hand on my shoulder. Focusing on what Xavier had said the day before. I had until sunset to make my final wish, and to say goodbye to Oliver. That was hours away.
But if it was really Simon out there, then how did he know it was me?
I tensed again, and poised myself to run—only to realize that if Xavier was after me, he could just as easily cut me off when I reached the parking lot. Or the boiler room. He could hear my thoughts, which meant he could follow me anywhere. I was trapped, trapped, trapped.
“Margo,” Oliver murmured against my ear, in a voice clearly meant to calm me. It didn’t.
“Screw him,” I said, through gritted teeth. “He said I had until sunset, and I am damn well going to keep you until sunset.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t—”
“Stay here,” I said firmly. “Stay right here until I come back. I’m getting rid of him.” Setting my guitar case down with a clunk, I strode out onto the stage. I would have those last few hours with Oliver. I would.
With the house lights off and the work lights shining in my face, the theater was a vast cavern, stretching past the limits of my vision and into formless emptiness. All at once I remembered the unnatural sky that Oliver had created for me in his apartment—but this was different. There were no stars here, and no treasure. There was only the overwhelming feeling of being watched, like the seats themselves could see me, even though they didn’t yet hold an audience.
No audience, that is, except for the lone figure in the orchestra pit, just at the edge of where the light reached.
Simon crossed the few feet of space between the first row of seats and the stage, smiling at me. “Hey, dude.”
I walked right up to the edge of the stage, and crossed my arms. “You gave me till sunset,” I said coldly. “I agreed to your terms. So did Oliver, even though you never bothered to ask him. So, if you don’t mind, please do me the honor of leaving us the hell alone until then. Got it?”
Simon just stared at me, looking completely befuddled. “Huh?”
I stared back, willing him to drop the act. But the seconds ticked by, and he just looked more confused. After a moment, he said tentatively, “Um, Margo? You okay?”
My shoulders slumped. I was an idiot. Not to mention paranoid. “Sorry, Simon. I thought you were someone else.”
He laughed uneasily. “Well, I’d hate to be that guy.”
But before he’d even finished speaking, the auditorium blinked away into nothingness. No seats, no orchestra pit, no Simon—they all vanished. I whirled around, my heart in my throat. The stage was still there. But it was no longer empty. Standing center stage, a familiar switchblade in his hand, was Oliver. His face was gray and expressionless. A ribbon of red marred the too-pale skin of his neck. Just like yesterday in the parking lot. Just like when I’d watched him die.
He began to lurch toward me, moving way too fast for my liking, and I instinctively stepped back. But my foot landed right on the lip of the stage. I threw my weight forward again, barely managing to keep my balance.
“Illusion,” I gasped. “You’re not real.”
I could see it now: He was hollow. Transparent. A hologram. But he kept coming at me, and I wanted so badly to run, and it was all I could do to stand where I was, to keep from falling—
The blade went through my chest, and the Oliver illusion went through me like a ghost, and then . . . everything was normal again. The auditorium was back. The illusion was gone.
“What’s not real?” asked Simon warily, his voice barely cutting through the sound of my heart pounding.
I didn’t answer him. Xavier was here, somewhere. He wanted me to make a third wish. Every muscle in my body thrummed with tension, and I tried to look everywhere at once. Whatever illusion he threw at me next, I’d be ready. I wouldn’t fall for it again.
“Bring it on, asshat,” I muttered. Simon looked like he was about to call the men in the white coats to come get me.
But then something knocked into me, and I was spinning, stumbling, and then my back was pressed against someone’s body. An arm was squeezed against my throat. I tried to cry out, but there was too much pressure. Definitely not an illusion this time.
“If you insist, Miss McKenna,” said a pleasant, unfamiliar voice, right into my ear.
Simon blinked fast, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. “What the hell, Shen? Chill out. This is the chick from the gig. She’s cool.”
Shen. Xavier had said that name in the parking lot yeste
rday. Shen was one of his alter egos—the one he was using for his current master.
Simon.
Simon had seen me with Oliver in the parking lot, on the night I’d first kissed him. Just a few days before that, he’d asked if Vicky and Oliver were dating, and I’d been stupid enough to think it was Vicky he was curious about. . . .
“Xavier, let her go,” came Oliver’s voice from somewhere behind me. In a flash, he appeared in the pit, right beside Simon, who jerked away from him.
“Let me think,” said Xavier. “Sure, I will—if she gives me your vessel.”
Simon gaped at Oliver, then at Xavier. “Wait, that’s why you told me to meet you here? So you could choke Margo to death? Lame sauce, man. Let her go.”
I saw understanding dawn on Oliver’s face—and for the span of that moment, I was certain that Oliver would strangle Simon with his bare hands. But then he took a long, heavy breath, and turned his anger toward the person behind me. “Xavier,” he said, his voice carefully controlled. “Niall. You promised.”
The arm squeezed harder, and I clawed and pried at it, but that only made it worse. My vision blurred as the pressure on my windpipe increased, and I gasped for breath.
“Don’t talk to me about promises, Ciarán,” Xavier seethed. “You really think I wanted to spend the next eight hours listening to this?” He jerked me up onto my toes and twisted his voice into a high-pitched mockery of mine. “I want Oliver to kiss me all over! I want Oliver to touch me and love me and f—”
“That’s enough,” said Oliver. Cheeks burning, I sent him a quick mental thank-you.
Xavier laughed. “I swear, I will never understand why everyone thinks teenaged girls are so innocent. This one’s even worse than Simon. And that’s saying something.”
Simon held his palms up defensively. He looked scared out of his mind. “Whoa, man, what are you—”
“Mr. Lee,” Xavier interrupted smoothly, “please wish for this room to be secure.”
Simon frowned. “But you said the first two wishes could be whatever I wanted.”
“And now I’m saying something different,” said Xavier sweetly. “We have at least four open doors here. Make the wish.”
The Art of Wishing Page 22
