Moon Magic

by Madeline Freeman

  Not missing a beat, Elliot pulls Anya into a hug. “This is amazing! How long have you been in contact? I can’t believe you’ve been able to keep this a secret! Does she want to reconnect? I mean, I assume so, because you’re telling us…”

  He shoots off questions in a rapid-fire fashion and I stop trying to follow along. I might see Misha again. I never thought that would happen, never considered it as a possibility. But now here it is.

  I have no idea how I feel about this. From the way Anya and Elliot are grinning like idiots, I know how I’m supposed to feel, but I can’t help the tight knot of apprehension in the pit of my stomach.

  Does Misha even want to see me? Anya left the Devoted of her own accord. I stayed. I’d still be a part of that community if everyone but Elliot hadn’t died.

  “There aren’t any firm plans yet,” Anya says, jarring me back to the conversation. “Misha’s still processing all that’s happened. She never anticipated seeing any of us again, but it was still a blow to find out our parents are dead. She’s built a life for herself. She’s got to figure out how we might fit into it.”

  “Then there’s a possibility she won’t want anything to do with us?” I ask, keeping my voice measured. The thought simultaneously brings a wave of relief and a pang of disappointment.

  “There is,” Anya says bracingly, misreading my tone. “But I have a feeling she’ll want to meet with us. It just might take her a little while to come around.”

  I’m not sure what the right response to this revelation is, so I just nod.

  Anya pats my hand before removing hers and launching into an account of how she found Misha. I nod vaguely at intervals as I take bite after bite of my sandwich. It’s not that I’m hungry—having a full mouth keeps me from having to add to the conversation. I chew each mouthful mechanically, far longer than is strictly necessary. The whole time, my head buzzes with conflicting thoughts and emotions. I can’t land on how I feel at the prospect of seeing my sister again.

  It’s not until Elliot takes over the conversation that I tune in to what’s being said. “Yeah, it was crazy,” he says, obviously in response to something Anya asked. “I was probably half a mile down the road when it happened, but I still saw it. The Jamisons’ car sped up at the intersection and ran the light. Almost got T-boned.”

  His eyes catch mine for the briefest moment as he reaches for his drink, and my stomach swoops. I get the distinct impression there’s more to the story than he’s saying.

  “Goodness,” Anya breathes. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Elliot takes a pull from his straw before responding. “Didn’t look like it. When I drove by, Mr. and Mrs. Jamison were out of the car, talking to the other driver, and Crystal was walking around.” He stretches out his arm to set his plastic cup back down but overshoots, brushing his knuckles against my fingertips for the briefest moment.

  The contact is so fleeting I doubt Anya noticed, but it was enough. Although I’m not psychic, Elliot and I spent countless hours figuring out how to send thought messages to each other when we were younger. When it was my turn as sender, the results were always hit or miss, since not only did I have to clear my mind of all other ideas, but Elliot also had to reach into my head to pick up what I wanted him to know. Elliot, on the other hand, has pretty much a perfect record for planting ideas into my brain. This time is no different. The inside of my skull seems to reverberate with a thrum like guitar strings being strummed for a moment before the sensation fades, leaving only Elliot’s words: I know an unnatural attack when I feel it. It was the Amaranthine. Crystal must not have given them the information they want yet. I thought you were helping her.

  My gaze drops to the table. Even though I promised Elliot, I haven’t made contact with Crystal yet. Although it’s tempting to simply hang back and wait for the Amaranthine to do her in, if I do, I run the risk of losing Elliot. I still want my revenge, but not if it costs me my best friend.

  I resolve to throw myself into my research. I’m positive there’s a way for my plan to work. Elliot will think I’m helping, and, in a way I will be. I’ll be helping Crystal ruin Krissa’s life.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Krissa

  I ignore Crystal’s texts for much of the day because I’m still upset about Owen and not really in the mood to answer her incessant questioning about what my next plan of attack is to contact Bess. But when I finally check my messages as Jodi drives us home after the shop closes, I feel like the worst friend ever: She and her family were in an accident earlier—one caused by the Amaranthine.

  There might not be as much time for trial and error as I’d been anticipating. I figured as long as we were doing something Brody would be patient and give us the benefit of the doubt that we were doing our best. But this move changes things.

  Elliot warned they were dangerous.

  As Jodi turns onto our street, I tap out a quick text to Crystal. Sorry for radio silence. At shop all day. Researching as soon as I’m home. I’ll text with any news.

  While I hope my pitiful excuse is enough to appease Crystal, it does nothing to assuage the guilt that swells for ignoring her all day. Isn’t this exactly what got me where I am now with Owen? I shut him out because I had too many things going on inside my head. I can’t do the same thing now. I’m trying to undo my mistakes.

  Jodi’s not an idiot, so I know she realized something happened when I went to pick up the pizza, but, being Jodi, she hasn’t asked about it. Instead, as she pulls into the driveway, she keeps up the constant stream of one-sided banter she’s engaged in since we got into the car. Lucky for her it’s a short drive. I tune in to her anecdote as she cuts the ignition. It takes a second for the words I only half heard since the ride began to join up with what she’s saying now and another for me to make sense of everything. “Wait,” I say, cutting her off. “You had a boyfriend?”

  My aunt pauses, her hand on the door. When she turns, her expression is bemused. “You were paying attention?”

  For some reason, the surprise in her tone makes me laugh. Not just a giggle, but an all-out belly laugh with my head tipping back and everything. When my snickers subside, Jodi’s eyes are on me, a smile curving her lips.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you laugh like that.” There’s a note of sadness in the way she says it that threatens to darken the moment, but she moves on quickly. “Yes, I had a boyfriend. I’ve had several, actually. Why do you sound so shocked? It’s not like I’m a nun or anything.”

  “I know,” I say quickly, my mind spinning into panic mode. For a moment I’m worried I’ve given away something alternate-me would have known, but Jodi isn’t looking at me like I’m crazy or forgetful. “It’s just… When’s the last time you were in a relationship?”

  Her shrug is nonchalant, but there’s something that tightens in her face. “Um… I think the last real relationship ended just before you and your mom moved in. Then for a while I kind of dropped out of the dating game—what with a teenager to help raise and all. I’ve been on a few dates recently. Nothing to write home about—which is precisely why I haven’t talked about them.”

  Her hand goes to the door again, but I’m not quite ready to drop the subject. “Has there ever been anyone special? Someone you thought was the one?”

  Pain flickers across Jodi’s face and I regret asking the question. Still, I can’t help wanting to know the answer. “Once,” she says at length. “A long time ago. But he chose my friend over me and…” She raises her hands as if to say oh well.

  I open my mouth, ready to ask if this guy was David Cole, but I stop myself just in time. In my reality, David Cole dated Crystal Jamison’s aunt before she died in a house fire, then moved on to marry Shelly Tanner—another member of Jodi’s circle. In this reality, since Crystal Taylor didn’t die that night two decades ago, David ended up marrying her instead of Shelly. But, of course, I shouldn’t know that. Instead, I simply say, “Okay.”

  Jodi takes this as her cue
to exit the car without further interrogation. Although I’m glad to know a little bit more about my aunt, I’m sorry for making her uncomfortable. Maybe I can make it up to her somehow. Maybe after I put in a few hours of research on the Bess problem I can come downstairs and we can watch a movie together. I’ll even let her pick and not groan when it’s a romcom from before I was born.

  I’m trying to remember whether we have popcorn in the cupboards as Jodi pushes open the front door and steps across the threshold. She stops short and I bump into her. “What the—”

  My parents stand in the hallway just outside the dining room, identical grins stretched across their faces. They look almost manic, and for a moment I’m afraid something is terribly wrong. But then Mom is ushering us inside, rushing past me to close the door. “Take off your shoes,” Mom urges.

  I’m glad for the reminder, because their odd behavior has thrown me off. It takes Jodi a second to respond to Mom’s prompting, too, and after she kicks off her flats, she approaches my dad, who is sweeping his arm toward the dining room. Jodi glances over her shoulder to catch my eye, but all I can do is shrug. I’ve got no more of an idea what’s going on than she does.

  I consider how much easier things could be if I removed the bracelet charm. The desire to be able to figure out what’s going on in my parents’ heads only intensifies when I enter the dining room and find a bottle of champagne in the center of the table surrounded by four of Jodi’s “fancy” glasses—flutes left over after one of Clearwater High’s proms. Shelly Tanner was the senior class adviser that year and foisted a half-dozen off on Jodi when she couldn’t fit any more in her own cupboards.

  Jodi asks the question that’s racing through my mind: “What’s going on?”

  “We have an announcement,” Mom says, easing up behind us and slipping an arm around each of our waists as Dad strides past us to the table.

  “And champagne?” Jodi asks.

  Dad grins his response, grabbing the bottle by the neck. He picks up a kitchen towel that had been hanging over the arm of one of the chairs and drapes it over the top of the bottle, holding it in place. “We think our announcement merits some celebration.”

  “Well, don’t leave us in suspense,” Jodi says. While her tone indicates she’s playing along, there’s a tightness in the set of her jaw that hints at apprehension.

  Mom squeezes us both gently before removing her arms and easing between Jodi and me. As Dad begins to tug at the cork through the towel, Mom turns to face us. “When Ben left five years ago, I knew he did it because he believed it was what was best for our family. But I don’t think either of us could really anticipate what that time apart would do to us as individuals or how those changes would affect our relationship. The last four months have really been a process of getting to know each other again to see how—and if—we still fit together.”

  A knot tightens in my stomach. If they still fit together? That doesn’t sound good. I thought things between them were back to normal. They stopped being overly formal when they talked to each other ages ago, they go out at least once a week for a date night. They’re sharing the same bedroom, for crying out loud. But what if I’ve misread the signs? What if in my distraction I’ve been assuming things are getting better between them when they haven’t been? “Wait—are you two getting a divorce?”

  A loud pop explodes through the air and Mom, Jodi, and I jump. Jodi even lets out a squeal.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Dad mutters, although the wicked smile creeping across his face indicates he is anything but.

  Mom swats his arm playfully as he removes the towel from around the bottle. The cork falls to the ground as he tosses the damp cloth onto the table. Once the first flute is full of the sparkling, pale, honey-colored liquid, she turns back to me. “No, we’re not getting divorced. Quite the opposite, actually. This summer will be our twentieth anniversary, and we’ve decided to celebrate by renewing our vows.”

  Jodi reacts first. She squeals and wraps each of my parents in a hug—first Mom, who’s closest, then Dad, who does his best not to spill the champagne.

  I try to emulate her exuberance. This is good news—better than good, really. Still, even as I pin a smile to my face and embrace each of my parents in turn, something doesn’t sit right in the pit of my stomach. I try to figure out what it is as Jodi rattles off questions about the ceremony and the guest list and a second honeymoon, and I even miss an opportunity to call Dad on his hypocrisy about me drinking as he presses a flute brimming with bubbly into my hand.

  It’s not until later, long after I’ve finished the second glass of champagne Mom insisted I take, after I’ve heard so much talk about ceremony elements like colors and flowers and dresses that my already woozy head spins, that something finally clicks into place. I’m upstairs in my room, poring over scans from an old grimoire I found within the depths of the internet when it hits me so hard it takes a full five seconds to catch my breath: I can’t be happy for my parents because I’m jealous. They hardly communicated at all for five years. Even when they did, it consisted of one-sided coded messages from my dad. When he came back, he and my mom barely knew how to talk to each other. And then there was the whole world of awkwardness that came with the knowledge that Dad spent his five years away with Anya, who is about as far from unattractive as a woman can get. Still, my folks have found their way back to each other. They belong with each other. I know they’re supposed to be together—the same way I’m supposed to be with Owen. I’ve messed things up, but maybe not beyond repair. Maybe it’ll take four months—or four years—but one day Owen will see we’re meant to be.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sasha

  My feet are sore when I finally get back to my apartment. After lunch, Elliot managed to persuade me and Anya to see a movie. He also convinced us that it would be a crime not to purchase some concessions, so we gave in and got a huge tub of popcorn and three separate jumbo boxes of candies—not to mention the bucket-sized drinks. By the time the film was over, the three of us could barely pry ourselves from our seats. Anya insisted we “walk it off,” and walk we did. At first, we just paced back and forth in front of the theater, but eventually we ventured further, circling the entire parking lot so many times I lost count.

  Every step up the stairs leading to my door feels impossible, but I press on because the only way I’ll be able to sit on something relatively comfortable and take these blasted shoes off is if I can reach my couch. After what feels like an eternity, I make it to the top and fumble a few times before I slide the key into the lock. I wish I had a bathtub. Some days, a shower stall just doesn’t cut it. I’m going through a mental checklist of items in my house to determine whether I have something large enough to soak my feet in when I swing open the door.

  And stop dead in my tracks.

  Straight ahead, lazing on my couch as if he owns the place, is Brody. He glances up from the screen of the computer—my computer—perched on his lap. “Ah. Sasha. So nice of you to join me.”

  Every instinct in my body urges me to run, to slam the door behind me and put as much distance between the two of us as possible. Instead, I take in a breath and shove those ideas down deep as I enter the apartment. “Was I expecting you?” I know without a doubt I wasn’t, but I don’t want to start this off by getting defensive. Not that I’m paranoid or anything, but after Brody showed up in town, I set up some protective enchantments around the apartment. The fact that he’s in here now means he’s more powerful than I anticipated.

  He snaps the laptop closed and sets it on the floor beside him. “If you weren’t, you should have been.”

  He doesn’t elaborate as I cross the room. The couch is really the only place to sit, and as much as I don’t want to be that close to Brody, standing seems a more aggressive pose, and I’m not exactly itching to pit my abilities against his. I have to walk past him to get to the open end of the couch, the one closest to the window overlooking Main Street below. “I, um, heard about what you
did—with Crystal’s family and their car. Well done. Really. I bet that lit a fire under her.”

  Brody doesn’t respond. Instead, his dark eyes follow me as I settle onto the cushion. I try to match his relaxed posture, but my body just won’t uncoil. I feel exposed under his gaze and I wish I were wearing more layers so I could adjust them to cover as much of my exposed flesh as possible. When I got up this morning, shorts and a tank top seemed the perfect choice to complement the warmest day of the year so far, but now I wish I were wearing long pants and a sweatshirt. And maybe a hat.

  I feel like I did as a little kid when Elliot and I would get into trouble for doing something we weren’t supposed to. Usually it involved using our abilities too close to a population of ordinary. Elliot’s mom would make us stand in front of her and she’d just stare, not saying a word. Eventually either Elliot or I would break and confess to whatever transgression we had committed. One time we hadn’t done anything wrong, but Elliot’s mom stared us down for so long I almost started making up things just to get her to look away. Now, as then, I want to tell Brody whatever he wants to hear just so he’ll avert his gaze.

  After what feels like ages, he takes in a breath, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t know what you’re playing at. You brought me here with the promise of providing crucial information, and yet here I am, having learned nothing.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Do not underestimate me, Sasha. Crystal Jamison may be the one who can get the information, but you’re the one who brought me here. My patience is wearing thin. Next time, it might not be Crystal’s family we go after—it might be yours.”

  I inhale a sharp breath and Brody’s lip curls.

  “Yes, we know about your sister Anya. And that guy you’re always hanging around? Elliot, is it? And I believe you have another sister. Didn’t Anya just find her? It would be tragic if something happened to her before you were able to have a reunion.”