by KB Anne
“Kensey.”
She tries to jerk away from me, but I keep a firm grip on her.
“Get your hands off me, filth. I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”
Just my freaking luck that I come face to face with my nemesis rather than my best friend. I forgot that Lizzie didn’t wear her favorite turquoise sweatshirt today. She wore black. All black. As much out of character for her as her curse.
“Let me go,” Kensey whines, trying to free herself.
I consider letting her go, but I won’t give her what she wants. It’s much more fun to mess with her instead. I pull her close to me as if I’m going to kiss her.
Now, a breath’s width apart, I can feel the rise and fall of her chest. I can see my reflection in her terrified eyes. She might be pretending to pull away, but she’s also wondering what it would be like to kiss another girl—even if it is Gigi Brennan.
Well, she’s about to find out.
My lips mash into hers. The moment hers soften I shove her away.
“Dream of that, bitch.”
She trips and crashes to the floor. I don’t bother to check if she’s okay. I can’t indulge in weaknesses like caring for other people’s welfare. Aside from the fact that it would ruin my reputation.
I skip down the stairs, feeling lighter than I have all day. Until I realize who was part of Kensey’s lunch-skipping plans, because he’s leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairwell, obviously waiting for someone.
I should have known. I should’ve fucking known.
“Your little girl tried to curse me,” he says with a laugh in his throat.
A throat I would like to rip out. But instead I best him at his own game. “Your little girl kissed me.”
Before he can respond, I leave through the emergency exit.
The alarm goes off. In less than two minutes Donahue and a security guard will come running. They’ll search for the perpetrator. They’ll scratch their heads and wonder who did it. They’ll remember the security camera trained on the exit. They’ll search through the footage, but they’ll only find a static stairwell and door without even their own captured image. And unless they realize that omission, they’ll never know that the camera was altered weeks ago, just like they’ll never discover who tripped the emergency exit alarm.
You’d think they’d learn by now, but unlike the townspeople from The Boy Who Cried Wolf, they always come running.
I, however, know enough to keep walking. I need to find Lizzie.
23
Together We Fall
The wheel was spinning when I entered Gram’s pottery workshop just outside the kitchen. Most afternoons after detention I either watch her form mugs and bowls on her wheel or work beside her on my own wheel learning her technique. But today, I’m completely distracted. Lizzie is all I can think about. The way she locked eyes on Breas and Kensey reminded me of one of those Charmed reruns. Not the good witch sisters, mind you, but the ones they fought against. The ones who practiced black magic.
Lizzie practicing black magic … I need to get that spell book.
“Hey, Gram.”
She stops spinning as soon as she hears me.
“Dear, what are you doing home?” she says, wiping her fingers with an old dish rag before tossing it over the back of a chair. It lands perfectly symmetrical with half hanging off the back of it and half hanging off the front. She always amazes me. Her natural coordination alone far surpasses any “gift” I possess, except maybe my mastery of destruction.
She picks up a Celtic knot stamp and presses it into the side of the mug. All her pottery has her signature trademark somewhere on it.
The next step of the process is probably my favorite. I watch her wind the potter wire between her fingers. When satisfied with the tautness, she places the wire on the top of the potter’s wheel and drags it along the base of the mug, freeing it from its birthplace. Once it’s pulled through, she carefully lifts the mug and cradles it in her hands as a mother cradling her newborn. When it’s fully in her possession, she walks it over to the tall drying shelf containing today’s other creations—three additional mugs, a bowl, and a vase. These masterpieces will sit on the shelf for the next few days to dry out before she fires them in the kiln.
She nods once at her near-finished product. It’s all the praise she will allow herself for a job well done.
“Now,” she says, rubbing her hands together, “why are you home?”
My gaze returns to the newly minted mug. “I need to find Lizzie.”
She picks up the towel and wipes her hands again. “That doesn’t explain why you’re home. Isn’t she at school?”
“Yeah, she was …” I pause, piecing my story together, “but something happened, and I think she left.”
She lifts her hand to study me. “What happened?”
After discovering my own mind-reading ability today, I know Gram can do it too. She might be an open-minded woman, but I don’t think she’d be pleased to discover her granddaughter and her JW best friend were messing around with magic—especially black magic. I clear my mind in an effort to block her out.
“We got into a fight about Breas. She thinks I should go for a ride on his motorcycle with him.”
She pulls her lips to the side. “And …”
“And, I don’t think I should. Motorcycles are dangerous.”
The little dimple in her cheek rises to the surface. “Danger never stopped you before.”
I muster the courage to continue my performance. Lies become troublesome when you veer so far from the truth that you can’t reverse course even if you wanted to. Unfortunately, sometimes the truth leaves you with no choice. A slow burn forms in my throat, but it’s nothing I can’t tolerate.
Pulling my hands to my chest, I open my eyes wide. (Yes, the Oscar nomination committee will be knocking on my front door any minute.) “Gram, are you suggesting that I follow Lizzie’s advice and go for a motorcycle ride with Breas?” I wait one … two … three seconds for dramatic effect and raise my voice just enough to give it the correct amount of nerves and incredulity. “With my hands wrapped around his waist?”
She rolls her eyes. “My, my, we are full of it today. Gigi, you haven’t answered my question. Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I told you. Lizzie and I had a fight.”
She rubs her lips together. “That doesn’t explain why you’re home.”
“I left to find her.”
“It’s not your first fight.”
“Well,” I grab an apple, “I said some pretty mean things to her. You know what a bitch I can be when I’m in a mood.”
She tilts her head in reproach but doesn’t say a word, so I continue on with my performance.
“I looked all over the school but couldn’t find her anywhere. Before I went on a Lizzie hunt, I figured I’d stop in and check on you.”
Her eyebrows dance up and down. She doesn’t believe a single lie I’ve fed her, but she won’t call me out on it. She rarely does.
“You good?” I say.
She nods. “I’m good.
“Good, good, okay bye,” I yell as I rush out the front door. I’m not sure why I actually came home in the first place. I guess I just needed to talk to Gram. She steadies me and fills me with courage when I’m not feeling all that courageous.
“Be home for dinner!”
“Will do!” I shout before hurrying out to the street.
The curtains of the “Art Thou Perfect” neighbor bunch and pool. Fan-freaking-tastic. I just supplied her with the excuse she’s been searching for to lock me up. By the end of the day, the police are bound to show up after an “anonymous” tip that I wasn’t in school. Luckily, Gram’s quite charming. She’s got me out of trouble plenty of times.
I hurry down the street. Lizzie’s witchy episode this morning was my fault. I showed her the book. She was only protecting me, and now she committed the ultimate JW sin. I lied to Gram about why I was home—I hate doing
that. And the reason behind today’s shit show after shit show? Me hooking up with Breas. The biggest fuckup of them all. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why my neck is covered with hickeys and his is clean.
Why am I always the one left dirty?
I cut across the greenway that connects my house to Lizzie’s development. Rather than stick to the path, I head through the woods. When I reach the giant apple tree, I veer off to the Smith farm instead of going across the field to Lizzie’s house—more instinct than anything else. The abandoned farm is a place of comfort for me now, though it didn’t used to be. According to family lore, an almost-seven-year-old me identified the well on the far side of the barn as the location of the missing eight-year-old Scott. Evidently, I’d never been to the farm before, but I knew that Scott was seventy-five feet down the well with a broken arm.
What he was doing so far away from home all by himself is a mystery to this day. How he fell in? I don’t know the answer to that question either. How he fell in and didn’t die? That’s a miracle. How I knew that he was down there? I know that answer least of all, but believe me, I love bringing it up at every possible opportunity. It drives Scott mad that I saved him. He’s always the one saving me—even when I don’t need it.
I hear muffled crying coming from inside the barn. I slip over to the open door and peek in. There, huddled in a corner, is a girl wearing a black hood with brown hair sticking out the bottom of it.
“Lizzie?”
She lifts her head, her face streaked with tears. “How’d you find me?”
“Special talents of the paranormal kind.”
Her eyes open wide. “Really?”
I recalibrate the lie because the almost-truth fascinates her. “You mentioned one time you liked to hang out in the barn to escape your family.”
Her forehead furrows. “I don’t remember ever …”
I bob my head up and down persuading her into agreeing with me.
“… I forgot that. Good memory.”
I sit down next to her. “So, what’s up? Curse anyone lately?”
She blanches. “I guess I deserved that.” She fingers a ripped hole on her knee. Lizzie may not wear designer clothing—it’s against her JW thing—but she also never wears clothing with holes or stains. That’s a Lizzie’s mom thing.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. One second I was upset with the way Kensey was treating you, and the next, I was murmuring a curse I learned from your book.”
“So, you did take it.”
She drops her head. The eyeball necklace swings back and forth from her neck. I swear it winks at me.
“I don’t know what came over me. After you showed me the book I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I’m obsessed with it.”
My stomach flip-flops. I’ve made a number of mistakes in my life but showing Lizzie the book may be the biggest one of all. “You’re not obsessed. That makes you sound like a crazy person.” I pull away from her. “You’re not a crazy person, are you?”
“No,” she laughs, “but the book’s really incredible. There are all sorts of spells, and …” she drops her eyes, “curses.”
“Curses?”
She raises her hand and beckons me to join her. “Yeah, curses too. Want to see?”
I take a deep breath. Then another. I know I should back away from the book and the necklace. Back away and never return.
It’s not the spells I’m worried about. The spells are okay, but the curses are wrong and should not be given power.
But it’s Lizzie. I showed her the book. I opened up this knowledge to her. I cannot—will not—leave her. I clasp her hand in mine. The heat of evil rushes up my arm. The necklace winks at me again.
I swallow back my growing reservations. I will go anywhere she goes.
She falls.
I fall.
24
Post-its and Magic
“Look,” she says, flipping to a page with a yellow Post-it note.
I drag my finger along the rainbow of Post-its sticking out along the top and side of it. “Looks like someone got a little carried away at the stationary department.”
She giggles, but it sounds all wrong. Too nasally. Too high. Too not-Lizzie-like.
“What do the colors represent?”
“Spells of the mind are blue. Spells of the heart, pink. Mild curses, yellow. Curses of revenge, green.”
“And what do the black ones mean?”
She drops her gaze. “Curses meant to maim, injure, or kill.”
Her corruption surpasses even mine. I don’t know whether to be proud or terrified.
That’s a lie. I’m terrified. Absolutely freaking terrified, but I won’t reveal my true feelings to her.
“How did you decipher it? It’s written in another language.”
She peeks over at me beneath her thick lashes. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
I am not going to like her answer. Not at all. “Promise.”
“Well,” she says, “you know how there’s static when you touch the book?”
Her admission confirms that I don’t need to make an appointment with a therapist.
“I didn’t think you felt anything. The first time I showed you, you didn’t seem affected.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I guess you’re not the only one who’s a good actress.”
“Huh. I don’t know how I feel about that.”
“Well, get used to it.”
My modus operandi is violence. Lizzie is the light. Turn the other cheek. Love thy neighbor. The other day I was proud I had created a monster. Today, I am not so sure.
“Do you feel static right now?”
She shifts her seating position to face me. Her pale cheeks grow pink. “Promise you won’t judge.”
Shit. This will be bad. “Promise.”
“It’s more like it talks to me.”
I swallow the lump lodged in my throat. “And what does it say?”
She flips through the book. “The words shift from whatever language it’s written in to modern English.”
“Gaelic. It’s written in Gaelic.”
She shrugs. “Sure, whatever.”
“Lizzie, you spoke Gaelic when you tried to curse Breas and Kensey.”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t. I spoke English.”
“We all heard you. You were speaking Gaelic.”
Her entire mood shifts from unsure and slightly embarrassed to accusatory. “How do you know it was Gaelic anyway? The other day you didn’t know what language it was written in.”
Scott and I had known she was speaking Gaelic the moment she began muttering that curse, but I don’t think either one of us have heard Gaelic before.
Do not tell the witch.
What. The. Fuck.
But I decide to listen to the voice inside my head and distract her instead. I select a pink Post-it note. Anything from the heart should be safe.
“Are the words changing now?”
She shakes her head. “I already know that one. It’s an affection spell.”
“Explain.”
“I performed it last night.”
“On who?”
“Well, you envision the person in your mind while you’re conducting the spell.”
Why is she afraid to answer my question? “On who Lizzie?”
“Ryan,” she says in a small voice.
“Lizzie, Ryan already likes you.”
She shakes her head. “No, he didn’t. He flirted with me the way he flirts with everyone, but he liked you.”
I narrow my eyes. She made me promise not to judge or laugh, but she’s nuts. Off her rocker. Certifiably insane. “Are you on crack? He likes you.”
Her body stiffens. “He didn’t like me. I saw how he was with you the other day. The way he wrapped his arm around you.”
“He wraps his arm around everyone.”
“He tilted his head toward you as he guided you down the hall.”
>
“He was making me feel better. He comforts people.”
She shakes her head, refusing to listen. My Lizzie always listens to what people have to say.
“Lizzie, you saw how he was with you today. He shooed you away from Breas and Kensey. He protected you.”
“Exactly. I worked the spell last night.”
“And you cursed Breas and Kensey today.”
She stares at me, her gaze unwavering. “And I cursed Breas and Kensey today.”
The eye on her necklace stares at me, daring me to take action.
“Lizzie, you need to give me back the book.”
25
Knife Tales
Breas opens the front door before I even make it up the porch stairs. “Nice of you to join us.”
I tighten the grip on my backpack. No one is getting anywhere near the spell book. Not Lizzie, not Scott, not Gram—and especially not Breas.
“Who let you out of the asylum, and why are you answering my door?”
“I don’t think I’d be the one throwing stones if I were in your position.”
He means Lizzie. The bastard means Lizzie. I almost drop my gaze, but I refuse to let him win a round.
“Luckily you aren’t, and you didn’t answer my questions.”
“Mark went away on some research expedition. He’ll be gone for a few days.”
“That doesn’t answer why you’re opening my front door.”
“Gram thought it best if Scott and I stay with you while he’s away.”
“We’ll see about that.” I brush past him, careful not to touch any part of him, because touching tends to make me do things I will regret later.
“Gram, what’s this about Scott and him—” I growl, pointing at Breas, “—staying with us while Uncle Mark’s away?”
Breas, of course, has followed me into the kitchen because he’s a blood-thirsty tick.
She fidgets with her dish towel, but I can feel her hesitation before she blocks me out of her head.
