Hexed (10 page)

“No, that’s not it,” I say. I press my fingers to my temples. “There are a million things I want to know. Like, okay, how’d you know about my mom being hurt? And
The
Witch
Hunter’s Bible
—do you know who took it? And did you use magical powers to lift that bookcase off her? Because it didn’t even look like you were trying and that thing’s super heavy—I should know, I tried to lift it myself and it didn’t budge. And how’d you know to find me at the game? I mean, however you knew that Mom got hurt, how’d you know I was her daughter and that you’d find me at the game? And back on Melrose with Paige, were you following me? And do you by any chance smoke Marlboros?”

Bishop doesn’t appear even slightly alarmed that I’m now out of breath again. He smiles and leans back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him. “I guessed she was hurt because I sensed something was off, the Bible was stolen by members of the Priory—Frederick and Leo, if you found Marlboros around; Leo’s a chain-smoker. No, there were no magical powers involved in me lifting that bookcase, just six feet three inches of pure, unapologetic muscle”—he winks—“and I knew to find you at the game because I followed you, and I guess that answers your last question too.”

Frederick and Leo? The Priory? He’s been
following
me? It’s too much for my brain to handle. “Are you, like, a junkie or something? Please tell me you’re a junkie.”

He laughs. “Okay, why do you want me to be a junkie now?”

“I don’t know. Because then maybe all this would make a little bit of sense. I could put all this”—I whirl my finger in the air—“down to a drug-induced mania or something. I’ve seen this sort of thing on
Intervention.
You know that episode with the girl who snuffs computer duster? She got so screwed up and was saying the weirdest shit. Please tell me you snuff computer duster.”

“Um, I snuff computer duster?”

I cover my face with my hands and groan.

“Not this again,” Bishop says.

I shoot him a look. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not handling the news that you’ve been stalking me as well as you’d hoped?”

He grins.

“And why are you following me? That’s pretty creepy, you know.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he says. “I was sent by the Family. They’re a group of the most powerful witches and warlocks in existence. They govern the rest of us regular joes. Make the rules, enforce the rules, intimidate—you know, that sort of stuff.”

“Uh, okay, why?”

“Because,” he says, sitting up and wiping dirt off his palms, “witches come into their powers on their two hundredth full moon. And since you have witches in your family, there’s a chance that you could be one too. Can’t have some newbie coming into her powers and accidentally blowing our cover not knowing what’s going on. And then there’s the more important issue of my taking the Bible back to headquarters.”

Witches in my family? I rub the slow throb starting in my temples. “So let’s pretend I don’t think you’re crazy. What ‘moon’ am I at now?”

“One ninety-nine,” he says, matter-of-factly.

I shake my head. “So you’re telling me that on the next full moon, I’m going to turn into a witch.”

“Yes.” He nods solemnly. “You’ll grow a hooknose with a hairy mole at the end, and your hair will turn gray and frizzy—or more frizzy, rather—and your back will grow a hump any camel would envy, and—”

“Be serious for once.”

He laughs. “You won’t
turn
into anything. You’ll just have access to powers you didn’t before.”

“On the next full moon.”

“On the next full moon.
Maybe.
”

I look up into the sky, where the moon floats against the star-studded canvas of night. I can’t believe I was ever disloyal enough to Mom to worry, even secretly, that Bianca was right about her. That she was crazy. But the fact that she officially isn’t, that witches exist and the Bible really is a centuries-old relic, is the one glimmer of light in all this darkness. “So my mom’s a witch too? I mean, she’s been saying that since I was a baby, but she’s a real witch?”

He shakes his head, then picks up a handful of stones and starts throwing them over the rock ledge. They land with a distant
plink
that reminds me of just how high up we are.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “How can I be a witch but not my mom?”

“Maybe a witch,” he corrects, “and your mom just got unlucky in the gene department.”

“Hey! Don’t talk about her like that.”

“I wasn’t being rude,” he says. “The gene for witches and warlocks is recessive.”

I stare at him. This sounds vaguely familiar. We covered genetics in Mrs. Crawley’s biology class last year.

“Oh, come on, Third-Highest GPA. Every witch and warlock has two copies of the gene for magic: one inherited from the mother and one from the father. Each copy can be either dominant or recessive. You need two recessive genes to be a witch. Your grandmother was a witch, so we know she carried two recessive genes. Your grandfather was human but a carrier of the recessive gene. So your mom had a fifty percent chance, at best, of becoming a witch.”

My grandma was a witch. What else don’t I know about my own family? Is Aunt Penny a witch too? I almost laugh at the thought. Aunt Penny’s made it abundantly clear what she thinks about witchcraft. Besides, if she were a witch, surely she would make life a little easier on herself. Erase a few bills. Conjure a few outfits. A mansion to live in instead of a puny one-bedroom apartment shared with three other girls.

“So what are my chances?” I ask.

“Depends,” he answers. “The Family hasn’t told me much about your dad. Just that he …” Bishop trails off and scratches his nose.

“Left,” I finish for him. “Don’t worry. I’m not all touchy about that, but it’s cute you thought I’d be.”

He shrugs. “Well, you know …”

“So, I have a zero to fifty percent chance is what you’re telling me?”

Bishop nods. “Wow, I’m impressed.”

I guess I retained more from biology that I thought. “So what is this Priory you mentioned? And what’s all this got to do with Mom’s book?”

“Ah, now we’re getting to the good stuff.” Bishop crosses his legs, as if preparing for a
long
story. “Where the Family is the governing body for witches, the Priory is the governing body for sorcerers. And like most powerful parties, they absolutely hate each other and always have. It only got—”

“Wait,” I say, holding up a finger. “What’s the difference between witches and sorcerers?”

“Essentially,” he says, “not much. Both can perform magic—some the same, some different. Sorcerers can’t fly, for example. But witches have to learn their magic, where with sorcerers it’s just this innate thing.”

“So then why do they hate each other?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Who knows?” Perhaps sensing I think his answer is totally lame, he asks, “You want to hear my theory?”

I nod.

“They’re jealous.”

I cock an eyebrow.

“Seriously. They’re envious of what we’re capable of. They want all the power for themselves.”

I consider this.

“Anyway,” he says, “that’s all beside the point. This hatred between the Family and the Priory only got worse after a witch killed one of the Priory leaders way back when for who knows what reason. The Priory retaliated by trying to kill every witch on the planet.”

A cold feeling hollows out my stomach. They killed witches? And I might be a witch? If he didn’t have my attention before with all the flying stuff, he definitely has it now. I scoot forward.

“They did a pretty good job too. Thousands and thousands of witches died. After a while, some inventive witch cast this spell—the most powerful spell in history—whereby any sorcerer who kills a witch is instantly drained of power. They can’t perform magic or read minds or … anything, really. They’re just regular humans A pretty good deterrent for a bunch of greedy-ass, power-hungry bastards. So this worked well for a while—I mean, yeah, there was still hatred and infighting and the usual political stuff, but at least no one was killed.” He pauses, twirling the ring on his finger. I lean forward in anticipation. “Until
The
Witch
Hunter’s Bible.
Some sorcerer figured out a ritual to get around the witch’s protection spell so that a sorcerer could kill a witch and keep his powers intact. A complicated ritual, but he laid it all out in the Bible. Witch genocide ensued, yada yada yada, until finally, a witch got her hands on the Bible. She tried to burn it, but lo and behold, it can’t be destroyed. Some kind of protection spell. So since then it’s been hidden here, there, and everywhere, never staying in one place for much longer than a few decades or so, and never, ever at the house of anyone important because it’d be too obvious. Lately it’s been hanging out at your place.”

I scowl at him.

He ignores me and continues. “But somewhere along my travels I noticed I was being followed. I could never get close enough to the shop to get the Bible because every time I did—bam!—Frederick and Leo were there, with some newbie sorcerer in tow. Finally I got sick of it and confronted them, and, uh, it didn’t end well. This led to that, and I guess they got the Bible.”

“But why were they following you?” I ask.

“They’ve been tailing any witch sent on a Family mission. I guess it worked out for them this time, because I led them right to the Bible.”

We grow quiet. In our silence crickets chirp, bullfrogs ribbit, and somewhere close, a coyote howls. It’s like the world’s volume control was turned down just for the story, and now it’s been cranked back to normal level.

“So that’s it?” Bishop asks. “No more questions?”

I glance at him, and he rakes back the black waves that have fallen in front of his face. It’s a feminine gesture, yet he obviously doesn’t care, and somehow his self-confidence makes it very masculine. He couldn’t be more different from Devon, I realize, who cares infinitely about what people think of him.

I guess I’ve scrutinized Bishop for too long, because he gets this unreadable expression on his face and starts throwing pebbles down the mountain again.

“Just one more question,” I say. “Why Betty Boop?”

Moonlight accentuates the crinkles around his eyes as he smirks. “Ah, so you’ve been checking me out, huh?”

My cheeks flush. “It’s on your neck, idiot. I didn’t have to look too hard.”

He rubs the cartoon character tattoo poking above the collar of his T-shirt. “Why not Betty? She’s pretty hot.”

“Yeah, but like, permanently-on-your-body hot? And on your neck too? Aren’t you going to regret that when you’re, like, a seventy-year-old man in a nursing home?”

He laughs. “Nah. I regret nothing. But I’m glad we’re having this conversation. Very important topic to cover, right up there with our impending death.”

Maybe he meant to scare me with that last comment, but I ignore him. “Okay, but does she have to be naked?”

He raises an eyebrow, giving me a knowing look. I guess one
would
have to be looking pretty closely to know she was naked, since her boobs are pretty well hidden by his jacket’s collar.

“What?” I say defensively. “I saw it when you picked me up.”

He nods, grinning.

“Couldn’t she be wearing a cute little bikini or something?”

He laughs. “I didn’t think you were such a prude, Indigo. Last I recall—”

“God, if you bring up that ass-flashing thing one more time I’m going to—”

“What?” He leans across me so that he’s just inches from my face, and his dark eyes stare into mine. “What are you going to do to me?”

I pause for way, way too long, so that when I say, “Ugh! You are such a creep,” it doesn’t come out genuine at all.

Which, apparently, is hilarious to him.

“So what now?” I ask, and I really don’t have to force an irritated tone this time.

His laughter finally ebbs. “Good question. Track down your boyfriend and beat him with sticks?”

“Very funny,” I say. But guilt presses on my shoulders like an anvil—Paige has been alone down there for ages; I should have suggested we go back long ago. Actually, I shouldn’t have left her to begin with. Shouldn’t have dragged her into this whole mess.

I push to my feet. “We better get back—”

Before I can finish that sentiment, the lights of the city—the entire city, from the homes on Mulholland to the skyscrapers as far as the eye can see—dim, flicker, then glow anew.

“Holy crap.” I swing around to face Bishop. “Did you see that?”

Bishop sits up straight just as a bolt of lightning brightens the sky, which is suddenly thick with low-hanging clouds. His eyes grow wide, and he chews the nail of his thumb as he looks out at the city. In the short time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him look anything but irritatingly cool, calm, and collected, and I don’t like it. I
definitely
don’t like it.

“What? What’s wrong?” I ask.

He swallows. “They’re here.”

“Who’s here?”

Bishop scoops me up without any warning.

“What the— Do you mind? Put me down!” I push against his chest.

He doesn’t argue, just grips me tighter. We lift into the air, and I get that butterfly-in-stomach feeling that happens when you fall from a height. Only this time, as we fly, I cling to him a little less maniacally, like I’m some kind of seasoned flier now. I even keep my eyes open, though I won’t look down.

“What’s going on?” I yell over the wind.

“The Family’s coming for me.”

“What do you mean, coming for you?” I yell. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “Doesn’t matter to them.”

The name “the Family” conjured up all sorts of warm, fuzzy feelings in me, but right now, the way Bishop’s face is set in hard, uncompromising lines, like the fear of God has been put into him, I’m questioning my previous assumptions.

“I was supposed to bring the Bible back to headquarters, and now it’s in the enemy’s hands,” Bishop says, like he plucked my question right out of my mind. “Our whole race is at risk of genocide.”

Bishop lowers to the ground just feet from the Sunfire. The driver’s-side door flings open, and Paige runs up to me. “Thank God! I was just about to call the police.” She hugs me so hard I can barely breathe.