by L. J. Smith
Cassie looked at her, then at Adam leaning on his pickax, his face decorated with soot. Her fingers trembled as she opened the little box.
What if she’d been wrong? What if it wasn’t the Master Tools in here at all, but only some old documents? What if—
Inside the box, looking fresh and untouched as if they’d been buried yesterday, were a diadem, a bracelet, and a garter.
“Oh,” breathed Diana.
Cassie knew the diadem that the Circle always used was silver. The one in the box was silver too, but it looked softer, somehow; more heavy and rich, with a deeper luster. Both it and the bracelet looked crafted; there was nothing machine-made about them. Every stroke of the bracelet’s inscriptions, every intricate twist of the diadem’s circlet, showed an artist’s hand. The leather of the garter was supple, and instead of one silver buckle, it had seven. It was heavy in Cassie’s hand.
Wordlessly, Diana reached out one finger to trace the crescent moon of the diadem.
“The Master Tools,” Adam said quietly. “After all that searching, they were right here under our noses.”
“So much power,” Diana whispered. “I’m surprised they sat here so quietly. I’d have thought they’d be kicking up a psychic disturbance—” She broke off and looked at Cassie. “Didn’t you say something about it being hard to sleep here?”
“Creaks and rattles all night long,” Cassie said, and then she met Diana’s eyes. “Oh. You mean—you think . . .”
“I don’t think it was the house settling,” Diana said briefly. “Tools this powerful can make all sorts of strange things happen.”
Cassie shut her eyes, disgusted with herself. “How could I have been so stupid? It was so simple. I should have guessed—”
“Everything’s always simple in hindsight,” Adam said dryly. “Nobody guessed where the tools were, not even Black John. Which reminds me: I don’t think we’d better tell Faye anything about this.”
The two girls looked at him, then Diana nodded slowly. “She told Black John about the amethyst. I’m afraid you’re right; she can’t be trusted.”
“I don’t think we should tell anyone,” Cassie said. “Not yet, anyway. Not until we decide what we’re going to do with them. The fewer people who know about this, the safer we are.”
“Right,” said Adam. He began replacing the bricks in the fireplace. “If we leave everything looking fairly normal, and find a good place to hide that box before morning, no one should ever know we’ve found them.”
“Here.” Cassie dropped the garter back in the chest and put the chest into Diana’s hands. “Faye’s got the other ones; these are yours.”
“They belong to the coven leader—”
“The coven leader is a jerk,” Cassie said. “These are yours, Diana. I found them and I say so.”
Adam turned from his brick-replacing, and the three of them looked at each other in the light of the cold, quiet kitchen. They were all dirty; even Diana’s beautiful cheekbones bore gray smudges. Cassie was still sore and exhausted from what had been one of the longest and most horrible days in her life. But at that moment she felt a warmth and closeness that swept the pain and fatigue away. They were—connected, all three of them. They were part of each other. And tonight they had won. They had triumphed.
If Diana hadn’t forgiven us, where would we be? Cassie wondered, as she looked down at the hearth again.
I’m glad you’re the one who has him; I really am, she thought then. Glancing up, she saw that Diana had tears in her eyes, almost as if she knew what Cassie was thinking.
“All right. I’ll accept them for now—until it’s time to use them,” Diana said.
“This is finished,” Adam said. They gathered up their tools and left the house.
It was when they were driving back to Adam’s that they saw the silhouette beside the road.
“Black John,” Cassie hissed, stiffening.
“I don’t think so,” Adam said, pulling over. “Too little. In fact, I think it’s Sean.”
It was Sean. He was dressed in jeans and a pajama top and he looked very sleepy.
“What’s going on?” he said, his small black eyes darting under heavy lids. “I saw a light over at Cassie’s house, and then I saw a car coming out of the driveway . . . I thought you guys were Black John.”
“It was brave of you to come out alone,” Cassie said, remembering her vow to be kinder to Sean, and pushing away a flicker of uneasiness. Diana and Adam were consulting each other with their eyes, and Sean was looking from their dirty faces to the tools on the jeep’s floor, to the hump under Adam’s jacket.
“I think we’d better tell him,” Diana said. Cassie hesitated—they’d agreed not to tell anyone—but there didn’t seem to be any choice. She nodded slowly, reluctantly.
So Sean climbed in the back and was sworn to secrecy. He was excited about the Master Tools, but Adam wouldn’t let him touch them.
“We’re going to find somewhere to hide them now,” Adam said. “You’d better go back to bed; we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Sean climbed out again. He started to shut the door, then stopped, looking at Cassie. “Oh, hey—you know that stuff about Black John being your father? Well, uh, I just wanted to say—it’s okay by me. I mean, you should see my father. That’s all.” He slammed the door and scuttled off.
Cassie felt her throat swell, tears stinging behind her eyes. She’d forgotten about Adam having told them all; she’d have to face the rest of the Circle in the morning. But for now, Sean had made her feel glad and humble.
I’ve really got to be nicer to him in the future, she thought.
They hid the tools in Adam’s cellar. “As long as we don’t use them nobody should be able to trace them,” Diana said. “That’s what Melanie and I decided, anyway. But they’re dangerous, Adam. It’s risky to have them.” She looked at him soberly.
“Then let somebody besides you two take a little risk,” he said gently. “For once.”
Cassie went to bed for the second time that night, tired but triumphant. She put the moonstone back on the dresser; she’d had enough dreams for now. She wondered if she’d ever see Kate again.
“I don’t care if her father’s Adolph Hitler.” Deborah’s voice, never soft, rang out clearly from downstairs. Cassie stood just inside the door of Diana’s room, hanging on to the doorjamb. “What’s it got to do with Cassie?”
“We know, Deborah, but hush, can’t you?” That was Melanie, a good deal more modulated, but still audible.
“Why don’t we just go upstairs an’ get her?” Doug said reasonably, and Chris added, “I don’t think she’s ever comin’ down.”
“She’s probably scared to death of all of you,” Laurel scolded, sounding like a cub-scout den mother with a recalcitrant pack on her hands. “Suzan, those muffins are for her.”
“Are you sure they’re oat bran? They taste like dirt,” Suzan said calmly.
“You’ve got to go down sometime,” Diana said from behind Cassie.
Cassie nodded, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool wall by the door. The one voice she hadn’t heard belonged to the one she was most worried about—Nick. She squared her shoulders, picked up her backpack, and made her legs move. Now I know how it feels to walk out to face the firing squad, she thought.
The entire Circle—except Faye—was gathered at the foot of the stairs, gazing up expectantly. Suddenly Cassie felt more like a bride descending the staircase than a prisoner. She was glad she was wearing clean jeans and a cashmere sweater Diana had loaned her, dyed in soft swaths of blue and violet.
“Hi, Cassie,” Chris said. “So I hear—yeeouch!” He staggered sideways from Laurel’s kick.
“Here, Cassie,” Laurel said sweetly. “Have a muffin.”
“Don’t,” Suzan whispered in Cassie’s ear.
“I picked these for you,” Doug said, thrusting a handful of damp greenery at her. He peered at it doubtfully. “I think they’re daisies. The
y looked better before they died.”
“Want to ride to school on my bike?” Deborah said.
“No, she doesn’t want to ride to school on your bike. She’s going with me.” Nick, who had been sitting on the wooden deacon’s bench in the hallway, stood up.
Cassie had been afraid to look him in the face, but now she couldn’t help it. He looked cool, unruffled as always, but in the depths of his mahogany eyes there was a warmth that was for her alone. In taking her backpack, his strong, deft fingers squeezed her hand, once.
That was when she knew it was going to be all right.
Cassie looked around at the Club. “You all—I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” She looked at Adam, who had made them understand. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, and only someone who knew him well would have noticed the pain at the edge of his smile. His eyes were dark as storm clouds with some repressed emotion. “Anytime,” he said, as Nick started to steer her to the door.
On the way, Cassie glanced back at Doug. “What happened to your face?”
“He’s always been that ugly,” Chris assured her.
“It was the fight,” Doug said, touching his black eye with something like pride. “But you should see the other fifty guys,” he yelled after her.
“Are we all in trouble for fighting?” Cassie asked Nick, outside.
“Nah—they don’t know who started it. They’d have to punish the whole school.”
Which, as it turned out, the principal did. The Thanksgiving football game was canceled, and there was a good deal of ill feeling among the students. Cassie just prayed nobody found out where the ill feeling ought to be directed.
“Can we keep things quiet until Thanksgiving vacation next week?” Diana asked at lunch. Cassie and Adam were the only ones who knew exactly why she wanted things kept quiet—so they’d have time to decide how best to use the Master Tools—but the others agreed to try. No one except Doug and Deborah was really interested in more fighting at the moment.
“I’m afraid, though. I’m afraid he’ll come after us anyway. He could have the hall monitors pick us up for no reason,” Cassie said to Diana afterward.
It didn’t happen. A strange peace, a sort of bizarre tranquility, engulfed New Salem High. As if everyone were waiting, but no one knew what for.
“Don’t go alone,” Diana said. “Wait a minute and I’ll go with you.”
“I know exactly where the book is,” Cassie said. “I won’t be in the house more than a minute.” She’d been meaning to lend Le Morte D’Arthur to Diana for a long time. It was one of her favorite books, and her grandmother had a beautiful copy from 1906. “I can pick up some dried sage for the stuffing while I’m at it,” she said.
“No, don’t. Don’t do anything extra; just come back as quick as you can,” Diana said, pushing a strand of damp hair off her forehead with the back of a greasy hand. They’d been having a strenuous but rather interesting time, trying to stuff a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Okay.” Cassie drove to Number Twelve. They were late with the turkey; the sun was low in the sky.
Just in and out, Cassie told herself as she hurried through the door. She found the book on a shelf in the library and tucked it under her arm. She wasn’t really uneasy—the last week had been so quiet. The Circle had celebrated Suzan’s birthday undisturbed two days ago, on the twenty-fourth.
You see, I told you, she thought to Diana as she came out of the house. Nothing to worry abou—
She saw the car, a gray BMW, sitting beside her grandmother’s white Rabbit. In that split second, she was already starting to act, to jump back through the doorway, but she never got the chance. A rough hand clapped over her mouth and she was dragged away.
Chapter 12
“Get out of here before any of them see us,” the voice said tersely. Cassie could smell the acridity of sweat.
Jordan, she was thinking. The one with the gun. The one in the Pistol Club. The other one was Logan, who was on the MIT debate team, and was younger than Jordan—or was he older? Cassie never had been able to keep Portia’s brothers straight, even when Portia was telling her about them, back on Cape Cod.
Her mind was working very calmly and clearly.
They drove her out of New Salem, onto the mainland, keeping her squashed on the floor of the backseat the whole time. Jordan kept his feet on her and kept something cold and hard pressed against the back of her head. As if I were a dangerous criminal or something, Cassie thought. Good grief. What do they think I’m going to do, turn them into toads?
The other pair of feet resting on her was feminine. Portia, Cassie guessed. No, Sally. Portia was too aristocratic to tromp on somebody’s legs.
Cassie heard the thudding of the tires as they drove over the bridge to the mainland. After that there were a lot of turns, and then a long ride on a bumpy road. When they finally stopped, it was very quiet.
They were in the middle of a forest. Birch and beech and oak, the native trees of Massachusetts, grew thickly all around. They let Cassie out of the car, and then the guys marched her into the woods. Cassie could hear the lighter footsteps of the girls following. It seemed like a long walk, farther and farther away from the road and any semblance of civilization. As dark fell, they reached a clearing.
Somebody had been here before. Logan’s flashlight showed a fire pit, and ropes hanging from a tree. Portia and Sally—Cassie had been right, it was Sally—made a fire in the pit, while the guys tied Cassie to the tree. They used a lot more rope than Cassie thought necessary.
And she didn’t like the look of that fire.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked Logan as he stepped back from tying her. When she could see their faces she could tell Logan from Jordan—Jordan was the one with shark’s eyes.
“Because you’re a witch,” Logan said briefly.
“That’s a reason?”
Portia stepped forward. “You lied,” she said accusingly. “About the boy on the beach, about everything. All the time, you were a witch yourself.”
“I wasn’t then,” Cassie said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I am now.”
“Then you admit it. Well, we’re going to do now what we should have done then.”
A hard fist of fear clenched in Cassie’s stomach, and she looked at the fire again. Jordan was putting something in it, something long and metal.
I’m in trouble, Cassie realized. I am in very, very bad trouble.
She needed help. She knew that, and knew of only one way to call for it. Her only weapon was her power.
All right, she told herself; do what you did to call to Sean. Get ready, stay calm—now.
Adam, she tried to call to him with her mind. Adam, it’s Cassie. I’m in trouble. She wished she had the chalcedony rose to hold while she called; Adam had told her it would help make contact with him. But the chalcedony rose was Diana’s.
Don’t think about that now. Think about Adam. You need to make Adam hear you.
Adam, she called again, putting all her strength behind it. Strange that the ability to push with her mind, to do whatever she did to send the power lancing out, didn’t seem to deteriorate with use. Instead, it was like a muscle, getting stronger as she exercised it. Adam, she called again, keeping the message simple and clear. It’s Cassie. I need help.
He’ll come, she told herself. He’ll find this place somehow; he’ll come if I can just stay calm and wait. It was the thought of what might happen before Adam came that chilled the blood in her veins.
So here she was, stuck in the middle of nowhere with four witch hunters. And the silence was getting on her nerves.
“The least you can do,” she said slowly, speaking to Logan and Sally because she didn’t think Jordan or Portia would answer, “is explain yourselves. You’ve got me out here, and the least you can do is tell me why you hate witches so much. Because I don’t understand.”
“Are you crazy?” Logan said, as if it should be perfectly obvious. Then, as she continu
ed to stare at him, he said simply, “Because they’re evil.”
“Logan . . .” Cassie searched his face in the firelight. “We’re just like you. We’re more—in touch—with nature, that’s all. We study it and we celebrate it, and sometimes we can get it to do things for us. But we’re not evil. Look,” she said, as Logan turned away, “we have our faults like everybody else, but basically we try to be good.”
“What about Faye Chamberlain?” Sally snapped, joining the conversation suddenly. “Is she good?”
“There’s good in Faye,” Cassie said, even more slowly. “Diana said that once to me, and it’s true. Faye just has to find it. But anyway, you can’t judge all of us by one person.”
“How about what they did to the entire school for years? You’re calling that good? They treated everybody like slaves!”
“That was wrong, I admit it,” Cassie said. “But Diana didn’t do that—if people treated her like a princess, it wasn’t her fault. Faye was the one treating people like slaves. Some of the others went along because they didn’t think about it. And whatever they did, this isn’t the way to solve it!”
“Mr. Brunswick is going to solve it,” said Portia briefly.
“Mr. Brunswick is a murderer! He is not your friend, Portia. He’s the one who killed Kori Henderson, Chris and Doug’s sister. He killed her because she didn’t fit in with his plans. And he killed Mr. Fogle, the old principal, because he wanted to take his place. And,” Cassie said, “he killed Jeffrey, Sally! Yes. He did it out of spite as far as I can see—or else to drive the witches and the outsiders farther apart. He wants us to hate each other.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Logan said. “Why would he want that?”
“Because,” Cassie said, shutting her eyes, knowing it was probably useless, “he is a witch. The bad kind. The only completely bad one I’ve ever met. And I think he wants us to wipe you out. Or maybe he just wants to take us somewhere else and wipe out the people there. I don’t know what he wants,” she said, opening her eyes, “but whatever it is, it isn’t good. It isn’t something that’s going to make you happy.”
