Well, when she put it like that... From the back living room came a masculine voice raised in anger. My gaze went to my top drawer, where I had stashed Trent's charm, and I stifled a shiver. I needed to know if I could trust him, and not just with surface stuff, but
really trust him.
I needed to know why I disliked him yet would risk my life to save his worthless skin. I needed to use his Pandora charm.
My pulse quickened, and I swung my feet to the floor, wincing when my knees protested. If I was going to do this, I'd rather do it when all the pixies were spying on Nick and Pierce, arguing. "Okay, but if it kills me, it's your fault." Shuffling to my top dresser drawer, I yanked it open.
Maybe it was a memory of my dad.
"Uh... ," Ivy stammered, and I glanced up to see her eyes wide in consideration.
"I'm kidding," I said. "It passed the lethal-amulet test, remember?"
"Not that. You keep it in your underwear drawer?"
I hesitated, wondering why I was embarrassed. "Well, where do you put your elven magic?" I asked, and then my fingers touched the smooth, knotty bump of the bracelet-size length of knotted horsehair. A surge of excitement went through me, and I brought the charm out.
Together Ivy and I looked at the innocuous-seeming thing. The knots were hard under my fingertips, the hair they were made from silver and black. It tingled as if the power was leaking out. Elven magic. Wild. Unpredictable. God, I hoped I wasn't making a mistake. Trent had made it, and I didn't know how good—or evil—he was.
Knowledge is power.
Frowning, I fingered the first knot.
Ignorance is bliss.
But curiosity—even if it had killed the cat—was king, and heart pounding, I moved the box from the bed and sat down. "You won't leave?" I asked, feeling like a chicken, and Ivy shook her head. And with that reassurance, I worked the first of the three knots free.
My damp hair seemed to crinkle, and my face warmed as the elven magic rose through me, tasting of oak leaves and chill autumn air.
"You okay?"
I nodded. "The magic feels funny. Like tinfoil."
She exhaled, and the bed shifted as she stood, arms crossed over her middle. It was an unusual show of worry I totally understood. Steeling myself, I undid the second knot. My thoughts seemed to jump, and my breath quickened. To stop now would ruin the charm, and I undid the third knot, an unusual fatigue making my fingers fumble.
I hope this isn't a mistake.
My breath came in as I looked at Ivy, and it was as if I fell into myself, like Alice down the rabbit hole. I knew I was sitting on my bed, but there were birds and the soft snuffling of horses. The twin sensations of reality and memory were eerie, but the charmed ones were becoming dominant.
"My God, Ivy. It's warm," I whispered, eyes closing as I gave myself to the dream that wasn't a dream, but a memory. I felt small, the softness of my bed becoming a hard wood floor. Fatigue crept up, familiar and hated, stealing into my bones like poison. My memories were halved, and seemingly forgetting everything I knew, I... remembered.
My pulse quickened to the pace of childhood, racing, and I opened my eyes to the dim light of the camp's stables.
Sniffing, I curled up tighter, bringing the cloying scent of damp straw, horse dung, and sweaty leather deep into me, trying not to cry. This sucked. This sucked big-time. Here I thought that Jasmine hated Trent, and it turned out she liked him.
Liked him!
How was I to know? She complained about him enough.
The horse stomped, and I burrowed deeper into the corner, pulling the blue blanket up and around me, hiding. I'd never seen anyone ride this monster of a horse, and he hadn't minded me slipping in. I was so mad. Jasmine and I never fought, but when I found out she'd lied to me about where she'd been, I lost it. She'd gone for a moonlight walk with little richy rich boy, leaving me alone in the bottom half of our bunk bed to listen to everyone else tell stories of their first kiss when she knew I didn't have one. She was supposed to be my friend!
I held my breath to keep from crying, my arms clasped around my knees. It was all Trent's fault, the snot. Miserable, I picked at my shoelaces, cringing when a set of boots echoed at the wide stable doors. I froze as two people went by, talking in low voices, their identities hidden by the tall walls of the box stall I was in, but I could tell it was kids, not lab techs disguised as counselors or stable hands looking for me.
The horse above me nickered. Ears pricked, he shifted to hang his head over the gate.
Crapy
I thought, recognizing a voice. Stanley had been here for three days, hanging with Trent as usual. The guy had been here last year, too, managing to twist Trent's ankle in a footrace his second day. This year he'd broken Trent's hand in a canoe race. Stanley's paddle had come down right on the back of it, and snap, no more contest. Stanley didn't like to lose. And if Stanley was in the stables, then that was Trent with him.
His voice going faint, Stanley started singing "Love Song for a Vampire," changing the lyrics to something suitably rude, and my breath eased out as they went into the other wing of the stables—but the horse above me still had his ears pricked.
"Hoy, hoy, Mr. T.," came a soft voice, and the jingling of a bridle, and I froze. Trent? Trent was here? Panicking, I put a hand to my hot face and stared, seeing nothing but the top of his head. The horse blew his breath out, and Trent's voice shifted, the words slurring into a hummed pattern of crooning. It was beautiful, and I strained for more, trying to understand. It sounded like another language, and though I hated him because Jasmine liked him, I couldn't help but think it beautiful.
His tawny head flashed over the walls of the stall, giving me a glimpse of his fair skin and green eyes. He hadn't seen me, and I watched his face, empty of the scorn he usually heaped on me. Trent's eyes were full and shining, and he was smiling. His white hair was messy, and his ears showed. Trent never let his ears show, always combing his fine hair over them. He was skinny, lanky, and almost singing to the horse as he fondled his ears and fed him a treat.
Feeling my eyes on him, his gaze flicked to me.
Immediately his wonderful voice ceased. His lips pressed together, and his eyes took on a hard slant. Snorting, the horse drew back from him. "What are you doing in there?" he said, voice cracking and face going red. "Get out. You're not even supposed to be here when the stable hands are gone."
"Neither are you," I said, scrambling up and clutching the horse blanket to me as I backed to the wall. My heart pounded when he opened the gate, sliding in and latching it behind him, fumbling the first time because of his cast. I'd be willing to bet Stanley had broken Trent's hand to put him at a disadvantage for the rest of the summer. What a goober.
Trent was in new jeans and brand-new riding boots. I thought of my own nasty sneakers, and I flushed. Trent was rich. His dad owned the camp. Everyone knew it.
"They're looking for you," he said, mocking me. "You are in
so
much trouble."
The horse tossed his head, feet moving restlessly between us, and I put a hand on him to remind him not to step on me. "I can be in here if I want," I said, chin high.
Trent's white eyebrows drew together, but when the horse snorted and laid his ears back, he looked away, quieting the animal. "This is my horse," he said cockily. The cast on his hand made it hard for him to close his fingers on the horse's halter, but the animal was docile enough.
"I don't see your name on it," I said, then flushed when Trent pointed at the plaque behind me. "Oh," I said, edging away. Okay. It was his horse. Must be nice, not only having your own horse, but being rich enough to truck him up to summer camp for you.
The horse's ears flicked, and from the other wing of the stables, Stanley's voice echoed. "You need some help getting the bit in, lazy ass? Tighten that girth? Give you a leg up? Or does boy wonder think he can do it one-handed?"
Scared, I backed up. Trent was a brat, but Stanley was a bully with a mean streak.
Trent's expression soured. Glancing at me, he shouted, "I can saddle a horse with my teeth faster than you with both hands. I'll see you out there."
I swallowed hard, not caring if Trent knew I was afraid of Stanley. A feeling of gratitude pulled me from the wall. My eyes dropped to his broken hand. "Are you okay?"
Reaching up to a high shelf, Trent brought down a wood-handled hoof pick and stuck it in a back pocket. "What do you care?"
"I never said I did," I said, arms over my middle. I wanted out, but he was in the way.
Trent looked at me. "You're a crybaby. You've been crying. Your eyes are red."
I wiped the back of my hand on my face. He knew
why
I was crying, too, the brat. "So? I'm twelve. What's your excuse?"
He shifted from the gate and I bolted for it, leaving it open because he was coming out, too, his horse clopping loudly. "I thought you were in eighth grade," he said, his voice confused.
The bright square of sunlight beckoned, thirty feet away, but I lingered in the cool shadow. "I am," I said, holding my elbow and shifting awkwardly. "I skipped a couple of grades. Homeschooled. You know... sick and everything. I'll be thirteen next month."
Thirteen, and dumber than a stone. I could see why Jasmine liked him. He was rich, nice looking, and he had his own horse. But if you were so unsure of yourself that you let your friends hurt you, then you were stupid.
Trent didn't bother to tie his horse's halter rope to the post like we'd been told to do, and I watched him check the gelding's hooves, tucking the pick in his pocket instead of putting it away. Letting the last foot drop, Trent looked at the bridle rack, then shoved the rope dangling from his horse's halter at me.
"Hold him," he said curtly, and I dropped back a step.
"I am not your servant," I said hotly. "Tie him off yourself."
Trent's fingers twitched. "I'm not going to tie him off if you're just standing there," he said, voice soft but determined. "Hold the rope while I bridle him."
"No!" I exclaimed, arms wrapped around my middle, refusing to take the rope.
He clenched his jaw, angry I wouldn't do as he said. "I told you to hold the rope!"
Trent reached out, grabbing my wrist with his good hand and yanking it from where I'd tucked it behind my other arm. His grip was tight, and I yelped, gasping when a tingling surge of ley-line energy darted between us.
"Hey!" I shouted, jerking away, and his fingers let go.
"I wanted to know how much you could hold," he said smugly. "My dad says you're dangerous, but I've seen cats that can hold more than you."
"You little turd! You did that on purpose!" Then my eyes widened. "Holy cow! You
are
a witch!"
"No I'm not," he said quickly, as if he'd made a mistake. "I'm better than a crappy little witch like you."
My mouth dropped open, and I got mad. "What do you mean, crappy little witch! You think you're so hot? If you're not a witch, then you're nothing but a stinking little human!"
He glanced at me, almost in relief. "I'm still better than you," he said, his cheeks flushed. "Faster."
"I'm sick, you moron!"
"I bet you can't even hear that bell ringing from camp," he added. My anger hesitated and I listened, wondering if he was just making it up.
"I bet you can't smell the bread baking either," Trent said, trusting his horse to stand there beside me as he went to get a bridle. "You are
so blind
that I bet I could sneak right into your cabin and take the ring off your finger and you'd never know."
"I don't wear a ring, Einstein," I said snottily. "And I bet I could take the pick right out of your pocket and you'd never feel it. And I bet I
can
hold more ever-after than you!" My pulse had gotten fast, and I felt out of breath. "And I'm not holding your stinking horse!" I added, going dizzy. "I wouldn't ride that nag of yours if he was the last animal on earth!"
My vision wavered, and I quit talking, content to just stand there with my knees unlocked and careful to just breathe for a moment. Crap, I did not want to pass out in front of Trent.
"Yeah?" Trent said, his back to me as he brushed his horse out and put a bareback pad on him. "Well, he wouldn't let you. He doesn't like witches."
"I bet he would," I muttered, feeling my heart start to slow. "He let me in his box, okay. He's not so tough, and neither are you. You're a wimp," I said, wanting to hurt him. "Why do you let Stanley beat up on you like that? All you have to do is stand up to him once and he wouldn't hurt you every year."
Trent flushed bright red, which made his hair stand out even more. Eyes fixed on his horse, he ignored me, and I knew I'd hit a sore spot. Served him right, spoiled brat. As I watched, arrogant, my hip cocked, he fumbled with the bit, needing to hold it with his other hand because of the cast. It was awkward, and the horse didn't like it, tossing his head and shifting.
Trent still hadn't said anything, and feeling bad now for the Stanley comment, I edged closer. There was no way he was going to get that bit in. "I'll get it," I offered softly, and his jaw clenched.
"I don't need your help," he said, then swore when his horse backed up, tossing his head and threatening to bolt. The bit dropped, and Trent scrambled to keep his horse from running back to his stall.
I swooped forward to pick up the bit before his horse stepped on it. "What is your problem?" I crabbed. "I know you can set a bit. Let me do it this time. Unless you want Sta-a-a-an-le-e-e-ey to help you?" I drawled his name, making it girly.
Trent had his hand on his horse's neck, and the animal calmed, standing with a pleasant posture and ears nicely pricked—looking at me and the bit. "You think you can do it?" he said caustically. "Go ahead and try. Don't come crying to me if he bites your fingers off."
I eyed Trent, half expecting him to pinch his own horse to prove I couldn't do it. I'd bridled my horse every time I went riding. This was my third year here, and though I wasn't an expert, a good horse would take a bit with no problem.