“What is it?”
“It’s a relay. It will allow you to communicate with me, directly. Or whoever has this portion,” he says. He holds up a rectangular piece that looks like it should connect to my oval one.
“So, it’s a cell phone?”
“It’s more than that.”
“Like a friendship bracelet,” I smile, but Poncho’s eye narrow. “Is it timey-wimey?” He gives me a look of confusion at my Dr. Who reference. Never mind. “Why are you giving it to me?”
Poncho looks at me closely. His eyes are more human in that moment than I’ve ever seen them. “It is my destiny.”
There’s that word again. “Destiny to what?”
“Serve, assist, guide.”
“Your destiny is to help me? Why?”
Poncho’s eyes link with mine directly, and around the brown, I see some green. Demon green. But it’s not menacing—it’s soft, like Carter’s. “Some destinies are chosen for us. Others we choose. All are left up to us to interpret and develop.”
I glance from Poncho to the communicator in my hands. “Which one is yours?”
Poncho smiles. “That’s still to be decided.”
I shake my head, confused already. Carter opens the office door and pokes his head in. “We need to go, Pen.”
“See you later, Poncho.” I push the gray round thing into my bag as Carter and I turn away.
“Be wise, Miss Grey,” Poncho says.
“I’m always wise,” I say, and Poncho laughs. A real laugh. He laughs so loudly that Carter and I both stop and look back at him. I’m almost insulted. I can never make him laugh at my jokes, but when I’m not joking, apparently it’s mass hysteria.
…
All I have to do is open the door. Open the door, go into the house, tell Gran and Pop that I’m not an Enforcer. Under normal circumstances, Gran would be thrilled. Ever since my mom died, she’s never wanted Connie or me to be Enforcers, especially when I didn’t have my own magic. She’d probably throw a party, but this—because they saw me use the void—that’s not going to be a good reason. She doesn’t even know that I can use the void.
How am I going to tell her?
“I can go in with you,” Carter offers.
I puff out my chest. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? You’ve been holding that door handle for twenty minutes,” he says. I look from my hand, still readied to open his car door, and then to his face. He’s smiling so big. It’s almost enough to make me forget how sucky all this is.
Almost.
“What do I tell them?”
“Don’t tell them anything,” he says without hesitation.
I scoff. “Right. Don’t tell them that I’ve just exposed everyone in my whole family to the Triad. Because that would have absolutely no repercussions later.”
“I’m serious,” he says, his eyes steady on mine. “Look, the Triad swore no one will find out. They have no evidence that you’ve done anything wrong.”
“Except that they all saw me use the void.”
“But they can’t prove anything right now. My dad is going to keep it quiet.”
Right. His dad. “How are you so sure of that?”
His jaw stiffens. “I just am. So, until there’s a reason to say something, say nothing.”
It’s not the worst idea ever. If no one is going to find out, then it at least buys me some time. My family doesn’t have to know anything until we stand somewhere solid, and they don’t have to worry. “What do I do every day when I’m supposed to be patrolling with you?”
“Anything you want.”
Anything I want? That’s a foreign concept. I’ve only ever wanted to be an Enforcer. I practiced, trained, eat, slept, lived, breathed my goal. Now? “What else would I do? Figure out what this marking is…” I can’t get into the library anymore.
“I can work on that. Meanwhile, it’s summer. Go explore the city, go to museums, do nothing. It’s D.C.—there’s a ton to do. Tell them when you’re ready.”
He says it with such certainty that I feel in control of this. I smile. “I like the way you think, Carter Prescott.”
“Thank you,” he smirks. “Is that all you like?”
“I can think of a few other things.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Maybe you can come with me tomorrow? We can go into the city.”
Carter’s smile drops. “Can’t. I told Dad I’d be around. We’re supposed to be figuring out a schedule.”
“With your dad?”
He tightens his hand around the steering wheel until his knuckles are pale. Then he lets go. “I’m not an Enforcer anymore, either, Pen. He said he couldn’t have me wandering around the city without a purpose.”
He’s not an Enforcer, either. I was so wrapped up my own thing that I didn’t even wonder what it meant for him. I take his hand. “Carter, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think that you’d lose your standing, too. I should have.”
“I don’t care.”
“Maybe we can talk to them and they can give you a new place to—”
“It’s fine, Pen,” he says, his voice harsher than before. “I don’t even want to do it without you. Dad will find a job for me to do.”
He hates all of that. “Is this why your dad agreed?”
He nods and I look away. I’ve forced Carter to do something he hates, with his dad, who he hates. I’m basically the worst girlfriend ever.
Carter pulls at me until I look at him. His eyes are dancing, his chin overgrown with scruff and a smile on his face. “What?”
His hand falls away from my face, and he kisses me. It’s soft until our bodies realize that we’re connected, and then mine craves it more. I lean into him across the space of the car. He’s right—it doesn’t matter. In this moment he’s all I know. He’s some kind of certainty and it’s all I have. My fingers get lost in his shaggy hair, and his light scruff scratches my cheek. His hands are on my cheek and my neck and in my hair. He’s the only other person who understands what I’m going through, and I don’t want to stop feeling like I’m part of him.
When he pulls away from our kiss, we both gasp for air and he rests his forehead against mine. Between breaths he gently kisses my lips. Once, twice. “You are more than an Enforcer,” he says hoarsely.
“You’re more than a Prescott,” I say. I look at him, and I can’t explain how gorgeous he is when his eyes are bright and his lips are swollen and he’s out of breath. I did that. Kissing is way better than magic. It will probably always be.
Chapter Sixteen
Carter
I make a pit stop back at the Nucleus House before I go home. Pen’s idea to look for information about the mark was a good one. I vaguely remember hearing about it in school, but the ritual being ancient is all I remember.
“Mr. Prescott, I’m surprised to see you here,” Poncho says when I come in. Those two cats that are always near him.
“I need to do some research,” I say.
Poncho nods. “I already have the materials ready.” He points to a table stacked with books. How does he know what I’m looking for? “Miss Grey, correct?” He nods toward the table again.
I toss my backpack on the table and take a seat. There are twenty books that are already open to pages or have bookmarks stuffed in between them. At least Poncho made it easier for me. The first one I grab is thick and bound with green leather that’s cracked and faded in areas. Turning to the page he’s marked, I wonder how he knew I’d be here. Pen must have told him what happened to her, but how did he know I’d be back looking for information?
The first documented instance of witch marking took place in 1270 AD when Hiltrude Carlingina secured her daughter’s marriage to a duke for the safety of their family following her sister’s revelation into witchcraft. The daughter, Theodora the Kind, could not permit her powers to be acknowledged by the Duke of Pomeria. Carlingina marked Theodora the Kind to bind her powers until the birth of an heir, a move that would secure their standing at court and re-esta
blish the family name. After one year of marriage and no heir, the mark began to alter the behavior of Theodora the Kind.
It is documented that she became unbalanced, paranoid, and attempted to take her own life twice in the same fortnight. Carlingina, who was trapped in North Africa during a crusade, was unable to return to her daughter for two years. By the time she returned, Theodora the Kind was deceased.
The next book recaps instances of marking during the Black Death. Apparently, across many of these passages, they all went a little crazy.
Poncho watches me from across the library. His look is familiar, but I can’t place it.
February 1692-May 1693 were the dark times of the Salem witch trials in New England. It is said in witch community, that these events in history are “the black mark on witchdom…as many innocents, those we swore to protect, died for our salvation.”
Twenty-one were accused of witchcraft and executed. Only two of these victims were actual witches. Seven were found guilty and then pardoned. Nine escaped, while another twenty-five were found not guilty. This only accounts for a portion of the 72 victims involved in the Salem witch trials, and only eleven of which were true witches.
The first two witches to die in the proceedings were Bridget Bishop and Sarah Good. After their death, the survivors fled New England or hid magical abilities. Halfway through the trials, witches began self-marking until they were able to flee. Many witches refused to identify Nons as the real witches or to leave their homes, and many of those died. Approximately thirty-one who were marked died, many say because of the length of time they were constrained by the mark.
Good’s daughter, Dorothy (or Dorcas, as it was incidentally misprinted on her warrant) was only four at the time of her accusation. For nine months the child was locked up, and Non historians believe that this caused her descent into insanity. In fact, it was that she was marked.
Her aunt, at the stirrings of the trials, bound the girl’s magic to keep her a secret. The longer the mark remained, compared with her age at the time, the more increased the results.
After she was released on bond, the mark was removed and within months she recovered. She was never found guilty.
I take a breath and slam the book closed. The mark caused witches to die, and now they’ve marked Pen. They want to mark Statics. The Triad must be aware of what the mark did to past witches—they must know the risks. And yet they’re willing to take a chance on the girl I love and hundreds of Statics.
Poncho is across the table from me when I look up. “Why would they bind magic?”
With a nod, Poncho stands straighter, fingers gripping the top of the chair. “Sometimes there are fates worse than death.”
“Which means what?”
Poncho either ignores the question, or thinks on it. “The Salem Witch Trials were an interesting part of history, don’t you think? Those Nons and their crusade against witches. I’ve always wondered if it wasn’t the witchcraft they were afraid of.”
“What would it be then?”
His eyes focus into small slits. “What everyone, Non and witch and demon, is afraid of. Especially the more important they are.”
There’s only one thing my dad is afraid of. One thing that motivates him as well. “The loss of power.”
Poncho doesn’t respond. “You can leave those there when you are finished.”
“I’m done now,” I say, moving from the table. My dad has made it clear how far he’d go to keep his position, and to keep our secret. Would he go so far as to risk Penelope? Yes, I think he would if he was afraid that she could knock down his world. Even if it meant killing her.
“Thank you, Poncho.”
He waves me off. “I did nothing, Mr. Prescott.”
It’s obvious to me as I leave that there’s a bigger issue going on. Vassago warned me last night, and Poncho just now. I’m going to find out what.
…
Dinner is tense. All evening I’ve been thinking about what I read. The longer Pen is marked, the more dangerous it’s going to be for her.
“Tomorrow, we’ll need to be at the Nucleus House by eight,” Dad says, his fork scratching on his plate. “I have a day packed with meetings and you should attend them,” he takes a bite. “I’ve told the Triad that since you are no longer needed for Enforcer duties, you’ll be attending all our sessions. They were pleased that you’ve finally stepped up.”
“You forced my hand,” I say, tossing down my fork.
His face is steady and unmoving. “You volunteered it.”
“Call it whatever you want. I don’t recall you marking Penelope part of the deal.”
Dad seems unfazed as he eats. “Yes, well, there are two other leaders who make decisions. It was the only way we could come to a compromise. Sabrina wanted to eliminate her immediately. Neutralizing was the best temporary option.”
“And the investigation?”
“Procedural,” Dad says, sipping his wine. “The council will find nothing when they complete their search.”
“What then? You let her go like nothing happened?”
Dad narrows his eyes on me, chewing his food. “I have the ability to make people stop asking questions. I will spin this best I can when the time is right.”
I scoff. “Glad you can use that skill for some good.”
Dad puts his fork down. “William, you need to snap out of this. I am not the villain here.”
“You sure?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t turn in your girlfriend. In fact, I have been more than helpful in her protection. You were the one who volunteered up your stance against the Triad to save her—I didn’t force you into that, either. I’ve put my neck on the line for that girl, and you treat with me contempt. How long will this vendetta against me last?”
“Well, you lied to me about mom for seventeen years—so maybe in the same amount of time.”
He drops his fork. Finally. A human reaction. “She made her decision. It was not us. One day, you’ll understand why I told you what I did.”
Sometimes I don’t know how I’m his son. “I understand it now, Dad. It was about always you.”
“Did you not see the way they treated the girl today? How they looked at her? I am protecting you.”
He honestly thinks that? My whole life he’s only cared about the Prescott name, and about how I carry it on. About where we end up, what they say about us, but it’s never been about me.
“You were protecting yourself,” I say.
Dad stiffens in his seat. “You knew what your mother was all along. I told you she was dead because she was. That thing was not your mother. It was a demon. And now it’s gone forever, which is good for us both. It was no longer the woman I loved, the woman who gave birth to you. It was a betrayer. There is nothing it could have offered you.”
“Yet you haven’t denied anything she told me down there.” He can’t try to deny it. My dad used my mom to have me, she said he never really loved her, and then he got rid of her. He’s always trying to craft everyone around him. He’s right that Kriegen had nothing to offer me—I would’ve never joined her in the demon world—but at least, with her, I had the choice.
He sighs and his eyes soften. For a second it’s almost like he has emotions for someone other than himself. “In fact, I can’t. I did do those things to your mother.”
“So, here I am then, stuck between a dead demon mother and the father who turned her into that. It’s no wonder you can’t see real evil and go around marking innocent girls. That mark could hurt or even kill her. And you don’t even know what will happen if it’s done to the Statics.”
I want him to defend himself, or tell me I’m wrong. To be someone other than whom I think he is. He doesn’t even blink, only moves to take another bite of his chicken.
“Were you ever NOT a son of a bitch?” I’m over this. I can’t sit in this room with him.
“Son,” Dad calls when I’m at the door. I freeze but don’t give him the satisfaction of l
ooking back. “Tomorrow we leave at seven-thirty. You are to be presentable at my side as a Prescott. As the future leader of the Triad. I expect nothing less.”
And now we’re back to exactly what I knew all along mattered: image. I look over my shoulder at him. He looks small at the table, alone in the big room. “And tomorrow, Dad, I will be a Prescott. Just like you always taught me.”
After I walked out on my dad, I ended up doing the only thing I know, the only thing I have left: finding demons. It usually clears my head, but I can’t stop thinking about Kriegen and about what happened to Penelope. About my life.
Protecting Pen means that I’ve had to give in to every thing my dad’s always wanted for me. I hate it.
I’ve spent my whole life watching how he does everything the Prescott way. Watching him treat other people like dirt. He’s never been anything other than what people think he should be, and expecting the same in turn. When I was old enough, I had to become that, too. A Prescott. I jump and people do it. I say a word and they obey it. I throw out my last name and they listen.
I finally found a way out of that the last couple years when I started hunting…and then I met Penelope. She didn’t expect me to be anything more than I am. Now I’ve lost all of that. Now, I’m right next to him, doing exactly what he wants. How long will it be until I become exactly what he is?
What about what I want to be? That should be considered, and it isn’t. Not if doesn’t fit into the image he’s built.
Screw him.
I already hate tomorrow. And the next day. And the one after that.
I won’t stand up next to my father, to take his place or to pretend like I support the Triad or the council. Not when they’ve blacklisted so many people. When they’ve targeted Penelope. Penelope.
At least I still have her.
The demon tries to get away from me. I’d almost forgotten what I was doing here. I’m back now. I press the knife into its throat. “You can kill all of us that you want but it won’t change anything you’re feeling.”
I turn back to look at its discolored Non body. “You have no clue what I’m feeling.”
Storm: a Salt novel (Entangled Teen) Page 10
