by Chloe Neill
There was a single, quick rap at the door. I turned around to face it, but the knocking stopped, replaced by a pink packet that appeared beneath my door. I hung the damp towel on the closet doorknob, then plucked the packet from the floor. Out of an abundance of caution—I couldn’t be too sure these days—I held it up to my ear. When I was pretty sure it wasn’t ticking, I slipped a finger beneath the tab of tape that held the sides together.
And smiled.
Wrapped in the pink paper—that could only have come from Amie’s room—was the rest of the bag of licorice Scotties I’d started on before my trip to the basement. I wasn’t sure if the gift was supposed to be an apology or a bribe.
Either way, I thought, as I nipped the head from another unfortunate Scottie, I liked it.
Unfortunately, as I had realized on my way to pick up the Scotties, my knees still ached from the double falls on the limestone floor. I put my prize on the bureau, rolled up my pants legs, and moved in front of the mirror to check them out. Purple bruises bloomed on my kneecaps, evidence of my run-in with . . . well, whatever they were.
My back had cramped as I rolled the hems of my pants down. I twisted halfway around in the mirror, then tugged up the back of the Ramones T-shirt I’d paired with my flannel pajama bottoms to check out the place where the firespell had hit me. I expected to see another bruise, some indication of the force that had pushed me to the floor and knocked the breath from my lungs.
There was no bruise, at least that I could see from my position—half-turned as I was to face the mirror, one hip cocked out, neck twisted. I almost dropped the bottom of my shirt and went on my merry way—straight into bed with the coffee table’s Vogue.
But then I saw it.
My heart skipped a beat, something tightening in my chest.
At the small of my back was a mark. It wasn’t a bruise—the color wasn’t right. It wasn’t the purple or blue or even that funny yellow that bruises take on.
It was green. Candy apple green—the same color as the firespell that had bitten into my skin.
More important, there was a defined shape. It was a symbol—a glyph on the small on my back, like a tattoo I hadn’t asked for.
It was a circle with some complicated set of symbols inside it.
I’d been marked.
11
I stood in front of the mirror for fifteen minutes, worrying about the mark on my back. I turned this way and that, my hem rolled up in my hands, neck aching as I stretched until I thought to grab a compact from my makeup bag. I flipped it open, turned around, and aimed it at the mirror.
It wasn’t just a mark, or a freckle, or a weird wrinkle caused by lounging in a hospital bed for twenty-four hours.
It was a circle—a perfect circle. A circle too perfect to be an accident. Too perfect to be anything but purposeful. And inside the circle were symbols—squiggles and lines, all distinct, but not organized in any pattern that looked familiar to me.
But still, even though I didn’t know what they meant, I could tell what they weren’t. The lines were clear, the shapes distinct. They were much too perfect to be a biological accident.
I frowned and dropped my arm, staring in confusion at the floor. Where had it come from? Had something happened to me when I was unconscious? Had I been tattooed by an overeager ER doctor?
Or was the answer even simpler . . . and more complex?
The mark was in the same place I’d been hit with the firespell, where that rush of heat and fire (and magic) thrown by Sebastian had roared up my spine.
I had no idea how firespell could have had anything to do with the symbol, but what else could it have been? What else would have put it there?
Without warning, there was a knock at the door. Instinctively, I flipped the compact shut and pulled down my T-shirt. “Yeah?”
“Hey,” Scout said from the other side of the closed door. “We’re going to grab a Rainbow Cone at a place down the street. You wanna come with? It’s only three or four blocks. Might be nice to get some fresh air?”
Something in my stomach turned over, maybe at the realization that, at some point, I’d have to tell Scout about the mark and enlist her help to figure out what it was. That didn’t sit well. Her telling me about her adventures was one thing. My being part of those adventures and part of this whole magic thing—being permanently marked by it—was something else.
“No, thanks,” I said, giving the closed door the guilty look I couldn’t stand to give Scout. “I’m not feeling so great, so I think I’m just going to rest for a little while.”
“Oh, okay. Do you want us to bring some back?”
“Uh, no thanks. I’m not really hungry.” That was the absolute truth.
She was quiet for a minute. “Are you okay in there?” she finally asked.
“Yeah. Just, you know, tired. I didn’t get much sleep in the hospital.” Also the truth, but I felt bad enough that I crossed my fingers, anyway.
“Okay. Well, take a nap, maybe,” she suggested. “We’ll check in later.”
“Thanks, Scout,” I said. When footsteps echoed across the suite, I turned and pressed my back against the door and blew out a breath.
What had I gotten myself into?
True to my word, I climbed into bed, pulling the twin-spired symbols of St. Sophia’s over my head as I tried, unsuccessfully, to nap. I’d been supportive of Scout and the Adept story in the hospital. I’d made a commitment to believe them, to believe in them, even when Foley showed up. I’d also made a commitment not to let the basement drama—whatever it was about—affect my friendship with Scout.
And now I was in my room, head buried in cotton and flannel, hiding out.
Some friend I was.
Every five minutes, I’d touch the tips of my fingers gingerly to the bottom of my spine, thinking I’d be able to feel some change when, and if, the mark disappeared. Every fifteen minutes, I’d climb out of bed and twist around in front of the mirror, making sure the mark hadn’t decided to fade.
There was no change.
At least, not physically. Emotionally, I was freaking out. And not the kind of freaking out that lent itself to finding a friend and venting. This was the kind of freaking out that was almost . . . paralyzing. The kind of fear that made you hunker down, avoid others, avoid the issue.
And so I lay in bed, sunlight shifting across the room as the day slipped away. The suite being relatively small, I heard Scout and Lesley return, mill about in the common room, and then head into their respective bedrooms. They eventually left for dinner, after a prospective knock on the door to see if I wanted anything. For the second time, I declined. I could hear Scout’s disappointment—and fear—when she double-checked, but I wasn’t up for company. I wasn’t up for providing consolation.
I needed to be consoled.
Eventually, I fell asleep. Scout didn’t bother knocking for breakfast on Sunday morning. Not that I could blame her, I supposed, since I’d ignored her for the last twenty-four hours, but her absence was still noticeable. She’d become a fixture during my first week at St. Sophia’s.
I snuck down to breakfast in jeans and my Ramones T-shirt, my hair in a messy knot, the ribboned key around my neck. I wasn’t dressed for brunch or socializing, so I grabbed a carrot raisin muffin and a box of orange juice before heading back to my room, bounty in hand.
What a difference a day makes.
It was around noon when they knocked on the door.
When I didn’t answer, Amie’s voice rang out. “Lily? Are you in there? Are you . . . okay?”
I closed the art history book I’d been perusing in bed, went to the door, opened it, and found Amie and Veronica, both in jeans, brown leather boots, snug tops, and dangly earrings, standing there. Not bad outfits, actually, if you ignored the prissiness.
The last time they’d sought me out, they offered a chance to go treasure hunting. The offer this time wasn’t much different.
“We’re really sorry about what happened,�
�� Amie said. “We’re heading to Michigan Avenue for a little shopping. Are you up for a field trip?”
I was an intelligent person, so my first instinct was, of course, to slam the door in their faces. But as they stood there in my doorway, hair perfect, makeup just so, they offered me something else.
Oblivion.
The opportunity to pretend to be an It Girl for a little while, in a world with much simpler rules, where what you wore meant more than how many Reapers you’d thwarted, how much firespell had taken you down.
Call it a weak moment, a moment of denial. Either way, I said yes.
Twenty minutes later, I was in boots and leggings, black skirt, black fitted shirt, jacket and drapey scarf, and I was following Amie and Veronica out the door and toward Michigan Avenue. We strode side by side down the sidewalk—Amie, then me, then Veronica—as though we were acting out the opening credits of a new teen drama.
Even on a Sunday, Michigan Avenue was full of tourists and locals, young and old, shoppers and picture-snappers, all out to enjoy the weather before the cold began to roll in. It was understandable that they were out—the sky was ridiculously blue, the temperature perfect. Windy City or not, there was just enough breeze to keep the sun from being oppressive.
This was my first time on Michigan Avenue, my first opportunity to explore Chicago beyond the walls of St. Sophia’s (apart from my quick jaunt around the block with Scout). I was surprised at how open Chicago felt—less constricting, less overwhelming, than walking through the Village or midtown Manhattan. There was more glass, less concrete; more steel, less brick. With the shine of new condos and the reflection of Lake Michigan off mirrored glass, the Second City looked like Manhattan’s younger, prettier sister.
We passed boutique after boutique, the chichi stores nestled between architectural masterpieces—the ribbon-wrapped Hancock Building, the castlelike form of the Water Tower and, of course, lots of construction.
“So,” Amie said, “are you going to tell us exactly what went on in the basement?”
“What basement?” I asked, my gaze on the high- rises above us.
“Coyness is not becoming,” Veronica said. “You were in the basement, and then you were in the hospital. We know those things happened.” She slid me a sideways glance. “Now we want to know how they connect.”
Sure, I was taking a breather from Scout and the rest of the Adepts, but I wasn’t about to rat them out, especially to brat packers. Trying to be normal for a few minutes was one thing; becoming a fink was something else entirely.
“I fell,” I told her, stating the absolute truth. “I was on my way back upstairs, and I slipped. The edges of those limestone stairs to the first floor, you know how they’re warped?”
“You’d think they could fix those,” Amie said.
“You’d think,” I agreed.
“Uh-huh,” Veronica said, doubt in her voice. “They sent you to the hospital because you fell down the stairs?”
“Because I was knocked unconscious,” I reminded them with a bright smile. “And had I not been down in the basement in the first place . . .”
I didn’t finish the sentence, letting the blame remain unspoken. Apparently, that was a good strategy. When I glanced over at Veronica, she was smiling appreciatively, as if my reminder of their culpability was just the kind of strategy she’d have used.
Suddenly, as if we were the best of friends, Veronica linked her arm in mine, then steered me in and through the pedestrian traffic.
“In here,” she said, bobbing her head toward a shopping center on the west side of the street. It was three stories high, the front wall a giant window of mannequins and clothing displays. A coffee bar filled most of the first floor, while giant hanging sculptures—brightly colored teardrops of glass—rained down from the three-story atrium.
“Nice place,” I said, my gaze rising as I surveyed the glass.
“It’s not bad,” Veronica said. “And the shopping’s pretty good, too.”
“Pretty good” might have been an understatement. The stores that spanned the corridors weren’t the kind of places where you dropped in to pick up socks. These were investment stores. Once-in-a-lifetime stores. Stores with clothes and bags that most shoppers saved months or years for.
Amie and Veronica were not your average shoppers. We spent three hours working our way down from the third floor to the first, checking out stores, trying on clothes, posing in front of mirrors in clunky shoes, tiny jeans, and Ikat prints. I bought nothing; I had the emergency credit card, but buying off the rack didn’t have much appeal. There was no hunt in buying off the rack, no thrill of finding a kick-ass bag or pair of shoes for an incredible discount. With occasional exceptions, I was a vintage and thrift store kind of girl—a handbag huntress.
Amie and Veronica, on the other hand, bought everything . They found must- haves in almost every store we stopped in: monogram-print leather bags, wedge-heeled boots with elflike slits in the top, leggings galore, stilettos with heels so skinny they’d have made excellent weaponry . . . or better weaponry than flip- flops, anyway. The amount of money they spent was breathtaking, and neither of them so much as looked at the receipts. Cost was not a factor. They picked out what they wanted and, without hesitation, handed it over to eager store clerks.
Although I put a little more thought into the financial part of shopping, I couldn’t fault their design sensibilities. They may have been dressed like traditional brat packers for their excursion to Magnificent Mile, but these girls knew fashion—what was hot, and what was on its way up.
Even better, maybe because they were missing out on Mary Katherine’s obnoxiously sarcastic influence, Amie and Veronica were actually pleasant. Sure, we didn’t have a discussion in our three- hour, floor-to-floor mall survey that didn’t involve clothes or money or who’s-seeing-whom gossip, but I had wanted oblivion. Turned out, trying to keep straight the intermingled dating lives of St. Sophia’s girls and the Montclare boys they hooked up with was a fast road to oblivion. I barely thought about the little green circle on my back, but even self-induced oblivion couldn’t last forever.
We were on the stairs, heading toward the first floor with glossy, tissue-stuffed shopping bags in hand, when I saw him.
Jason Shepherd.
My heart nearly stopped.
Not just because it was Jason, but because it was Jason in jeans that pooled over chunky boots, and a snug, faded denim work shirt. Do you have any idea what wearing blue did for a boy with already ridiculously blue eyes? It was like his irises glowed, like they were lit by blue fire from within. Add that to a face already too pretty for anyone’s good, and you had a dangerous combination. The boy was completely en fuego.
Jason was accompanied by a guy who was cute in a totally different kind of way. This one had thick, dark hair, heavy eyebrows, deep-set brown eyes, a very intense look. He wore glasses with thick, black frames and hipster-chic clothes: jacket over T-shirt; dark jeans; black Chuck Taylors.
I blew out a breath, remembered the symbol on the small of my back, and decided I wasn’t up for handsome Adepts or their buddies any more than I had been for funky, nose-ringed spellbinders. Mild panic setting in, I planned my exit.
“Hey,” I told Amie, as we reached the first floor, “I’m going to run in there.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder.
Amie glanced behind me, then lifted her eyebrows. “You’re going to the orthopedic shoe store?”
Okay, so I really should have looked before I pointed. “I like to be prepared.”
“For your future orthopedic shoe needs?”
“Podiatric health is very important.”
“Veronica!”
Frick. Too late. I muttered a curse and looked over. Jason’s friend saluted.
I risked a glance Jason’s way and found blue eyes on me, but I couldn’t stand the intimacy of his gaze. It seemed wrong to share a secret in front of people who knew nothing about it, nothing about the world that existed beneath our feet.
And then there was the guilt about having abandoned Scout for Louis Vuitton and BCBG that was beginning to weigh on my shoulders. I looked away.
“That’s John Creed,” Veronica whispered as they walked over. “He’s president of the junior class at Montclare. But I don’t know the other guy.”
I didn’t tell her that I knew him well enough, that he’d carried me from danger, and that he was maybe, possibly, a werewolf.
“Veronica Lively,” said the hipster. His voice was slow, deep, methodical. “I haven’t seen you in forever. Where have you been hiding?”
“St. Sophia’s,” she said. “It’s where I live and play.”
“John Creed,” said the boy, giving me a nod in greeting, “and this is Jason Shepherd. But I don’t know you.” He gave me a smile that was a little too coy, a little too self-assured.
“How unfortunate for you,” I responded with a flat smile, and watched his eyebrows lift in appreciation.
“Lily Parker,” Veronica said, bobbing her head toward me, then whipping away the cup John held in his hand. She took a sip.
“John Creed, who is currently down one smoothie,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lively, I believe you owe me a drink.”
A sly grin on her face, Veronica took another sip before handing it back to him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s plenty left.”
John made a sarcastic sound, then began quizzing her about friends they had in common. I took the opportunity to steal a glance at Jason, and found him staring back at me, head tilted. He was clearly wondering why I was acting as if I didn’t know him, and where I’d left Scout.
I looked away, guilt flooding my chest.
“So, new girl,” John suddenly said, and I looked his way. “What brings you to St. Sophia’s?”
“My parents are in Germany.”
“Intriguing. Vacation? Second home?”
“Sabbatical.”
John raised his eyebrows. “Sabbatical,” he repeated. “As in, a little plastic surgery?”
“As in, a little academic research.”
His expression suggested he wasn’t convinced my parents were studying, as opposed to a more lurid, rich-folks activity, but he let it go. “I see. Where’d you go to school? Before you became a St. Sophia’s girl, I mean.”
