Hexed (15 page)

M
y heels skid along the pavement as Frederick drags me down Hollywood Boulevard. Drags me by the neck, like a little boy might drag a stuffed animal that’s become floppy from overuse. Blood fills my head and my face turns hot, a jackhammer of a pulse pounding in my forehead. I tear uselessly at the hands cutting off my air supply, my breath coming in frantic wheezes, my vision turning black at the edges.

When my feet slide across the cement slabs where stars actually left their hand- and footprints, I know we’re back at the forecourt of the Chinese Theatre. The familiar red pagoda with its copper roof, massive dragon stamped across the front, and two lion-dog statues standing sentinel at the entrance, comes into view, upside down.

Once we’re through the gilded doors of the theater, Frederick tosses me into the lobby. I stumble forward, gasping for air and touching the grooves along my neck where I still feel his fingers.

My throat burns like I’ve swallowed fire, but I can breathe. Once I establish that, I take a look around.

If people I care about weren’t about to die, I might be impressed by what I see on my first time inside the Chinese Theatre. There’s none of the tacky, popcorn-littered carpeting, loud arcade games, and bright track lighting typical of most movie theaters. While there
is
a concession stand that emits a concentrated popcorn scent, this lobby boasts elaborate Chinese murals, imposing red columns, and a massive, ornate chandelier hanging over the top of a red-and-gold dragon-themed carpet.

But Mom isn’t here, and neither is Bishop. Paige, I can only hope, ran far and fast when Frederick came after me.

I spot dim light seeping under a set of doors at the end of the hall.

“Go on.”

I look over my shoulder. Frederick nods in the direction of the light. “I hear there’s a good show playing.” His lips slide into a grin.

Dread pinches up my stomach, growing stronger with each step I take nearer to the light. I don’t want to know what’s behind the door, but at the same time, I desperately
need
to know. My mind whirls, my every organ working in overdrive. And suddenly I’m there, my shaking hands pressed against the wood. Holding my breath, I push the double doors open.

The theater is massive. Thousands of bright red seats fill the auditorium, facing a red velvet curtain. Still more Chinese murals stretch across the walls, and dotted along them are intricately carved stone pillars with small lanterns hanging between them. Another colossal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and from the ceiling’s center bursts even more painted dragons.

But still no Mom, still no Bishop.

I get the disturbing feeling that this is a fake-out. But then the curtains draw open, and there they are. At least kind of.

A video of Mom and Bishop is on the screen. They’re in a pitch-black room with only a spotlight shining on them, and they sit side by side, acres of thick rope tying them to wooden chairs, and rags stuffed in their mouths. Mom’s eyes flit around the darkness, sweat tracks shining on her forehead. Only Bishop’s expression, a perfect cross between bored and annoyed, stops me from having a full-on, get-the-paddles heart attack.

I don’t know whether to be horrified by the position they’re in, or relieved that they’re not dead, or upset that they’re not actually in this room so that I can do something to help. A million emotions play tug-of-war with my heart.

Mom looks at me. It’s such a focused look that I wonder if she actually sees me. If maybe there’s some two-way-video thing happening.

Mom screams into the rag in her mouth, squirming frantically in her chair. And I’m
sure
she’s screaming my name. When I look at Bishop, he’s looking at me too. Yep, they can definitely see me.

“At least they’re not dead.” Frederick’s breath touches my cheek, and I jump high even as I shiver. “You seemed to like them,” he continues, “so I did you a kindness.”

A kindness? I turn his words over, trying to figure out what he means. I look between him and the screen, where Mom rocks hard against her chair, trying to topple it over.

“If you ask me, being inside a movie is the
best
possible life. Others may disagree.”

And then it hits me: they’re not in another location, being filmed while they’re tortured. They’re actually
inside
the screen.

“Remember those books where you get to choose what happens next?” He strokes his chin, as if deep in thought. “Oh yes—
Choose
Your
Own
Adventure.
See, this is just like that. We get to decide what happens next. How exciting is that?”

I want to scream, to sob, to fall into the fetal position and rock until it all goes away. But I can’t let Mom see that I’m terrified. She’s got enough to worry about right now.

“How about let them go?” I ask, my voice cracking with fear.

Frederick gives a full-bellied laugh and wags a finger at me. “Good one. See, I was thinking more along the lines of tigers. Tigers are fun, no?”

The low rumble of a growl fills the theater.

“Oh no. No, no, no!” I run down the aisle to the screen, but that makes it even worse, because I get a close-up of the tiger’s snarled lip, of the drool sliding down its razor-sharp teeth, of the slanted green eyes assessing its meal.

The tiger stalks up to Bishop and sniffs his ear. Bishop flinches, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s scared or because the tiger’s whiskers are poking into his face. The tiger slinks up to Mom next. Mom draws back against her chair and closes her eyes tight, tears streaming down her face. The same throaty rumble vibrates the white fur on the tiger’s chest, and Mom whimpers into the rag.

“Let them go!” I yell.

“As soon as you break the spell,” Frederick answers.

I look at the screen again and let out an anguished cry.

“See, I had a feeling you were lying back there in the alley. That’s why I brought you here. Thought I might be able to convince you … by other means.”

I take a deep breath and turn to face him. “Look, I told you I don’t know how to break the spell, but I’ll learn, I swear. I’ll stay here until I figure it out. Just let them go.”

He shakes his head. “Not good enough.”

Mom’s muffled screams fill the auditorium. I spin around just in time to see the tiger’s paw clawing the air. Trails of crimson slip down Mom’s cheek in three perfect lines.

“Oh God. Mom!” A sob breaks free of my throat, and I cry—the ugly kind of cry you do only when no one’s watching, or when you just don’t care anymore.

Frederick’s behind me again, patting my back. “Don’t worry. I figure I’ll just have him gnaw off an arm, maybe a leg. Wouldn’t be a very fun movie if they died quickly, don’t you think?”

The lights of the theater dim, then flicker, before growing bright again.

Hope ignites like wildfire in my chest. The Family.

There’s a second’s pause when Frederick’s eyes become wide and he doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening, and in that second the doors of the theater burst open and a woman enters.

“So kind of you to freeze everyone for me,” she says.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe that a member of the centuries-old organization ruling over thousands of witches and warlocks would be older than twenty. Maybe that she’d be wearing a cloak instead of an oversized button-up shirt over a tight little cami, painted-on jeans, and a pair of motorcycle boots. And oh, I don’t know, maybe that she wouldn’t be a freaking supermodel!

The woman strides down the center aisle with a hip-swaying gait that only the stunningly beautiful can truly pull off without looking stupid. And she totally pulls it off.

Amazingly, when I look at the screen again, the tiger is gone.

“Wouldn’t be smart of you to get too close,” Frederick says. “We’ve got the Bible.”

She must know he can’t open it, though, because she struts past him toward the stage without a pause, her glossy auburn hair—pushed back from her face with a rolled-up bandanna—trailing nearly to her waist. She gives Frederick her back while she inspects Mom and Bishop on-screen with all the calmness of a doctor examining a patient suffering from a common ailment.

“You’ve angered a lot of people, Frederick.” The woman doesn’t turn to speak to him, just continues examining Bishop. “We were willing to live in peace, end the war, let bygones be bygones, but you couldn’t do that, could you?” She turns now, tipping her head so her hair falls across her high cheekbones, and walks to Frederick with her hands clasped behind her back. “But I have a theory. I think you just can’t
bear
knowing that you’re”—she pokes him in the chest—“weaker than us.”

Frederick looks down at where she touched him. “Weaker?” He wheezes as if this thought is just so funny he can hardly breathe. “You won’t be saying that when your neck is in a noose.”

“And just why isn’t it in a noose right now?” she asks calmly. Frederick’s laughter falters, and a smile spreads across the woman’s face. “That’s right. Because of a witch’s spell. A spell too strong for you to break.”

“It’s just a matter of time.” Frederick’s lips form a hard line. “We’ll get it open, and you’ll be the first one I hunt down when we do.”

“I look forward to it.” She glances around the theater.

“It’s not here,” Frederick says. “We’re not that stupid, Jezebel.”

Jezebel pauses a moment, as if to decide whether Frederick is lying about the Bible, then shrugs. “Even so, I think I’ll take Bishop with me.”

Frederick laughs. “That little brat—”

“Yes, that one. Release him now.”

I speak for the first time in the whole exchange. “What about my mom?”

Jezebel looks at me with eyes a shade of green usually reserved for cats. “What
about
your mom?”

I exhale a small breath. It’s hard to decide who I’d rather throw to the tiger for a late-night snack: Frederick or her. “So she’s good enough to protect your Bible for years, and now you just toss her aside like, like—”

“Save the comparisons for someone who cares.” Jezebel turns back to Frederick. “Release Bishop or die. It’s your choice.”

“You couldn’t kill me,” Frederick says.

Jezebel doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. There’s a whoosh of air, then a flash of movement, and suddenly a seven-inch dagger is suspended in the air, a hair’s width from Frederick’s temple. His wide eyes dart to the side, and I have to say, I like the fear I see there. I might be impressed with Jezebel’s skills if she hadn’t looked at me like a beetle scuttling across the floor just moments before—a beetle she was considering crunching under her boot.

“Now,” Jezebel says. “If you’d kindly release my boyfriend, I’ll consider not burying this knife in your brain.”

H
old on, what did she just say?

“Do it now, Frederick,” Jezebel says. “My patience is not what it used to be.”

Metal clangs in the background. Jezebel doesn’t look away from Frederick, just holds up a hand, and the huge black pipe careering through the air toward her head clatters to the ground like a No. 2 pencil.

“Nice try,” Jezebel says. “Another move like that and this blade gets better acquainted with your brain.” The knife vibrates, like it’s struggling to stay back and might speed forward into the sweaty skin at Frederick’s temple at any moment. “You have three seconds.”

Frederick’s nostrils flare. “Fine.” He whirls his fingers at the screen, and the rope around Bishop slackens and falls to the ground. Then Frederick tips his fingers forward, and Bishop is sucked through the screen with a loud
pop.

Bishop stumbles off the stage. He checks out the red marks the ropes left across his arms, then shrugs.

“Now get rid of this.” Frederick gives a minute nod toward the knife, because any larger a gesture would mean contact with the blade. “A deal’s a deal.”

“What deal?” Jezebel’s eyebrows knit. “I don’t recall making a deal.”

“Very funny.” Frederick’s Adam’s apple moves up and down as he swallows.

Jezebel laughs and looks at Bishop, who hikes up his pants as he nears.

“I was just about to save us,” he says, “but thanks anyway.” Bishop winks at Jezebel. Then, finally, he looks at me. “Hey, Ind. Glad to see you in one piece.”

Jezebel glares at Bishop. “Well, it’s just a regular old lovefest in here, isn’t it?”

“The knife?” Frederick’s voice shakes with barely controlled anger and more than a bit of fear.

“Will you not shut up?” Jezebel rolls her eyes, and for a minute she reminds me of another beautiful, bitchy girl I know. “Last I checked, the person with the knife gets to make the rules.” She looks at Bishop. “Ready, Bish?”

Bish? really?

She doesn’t wait for his answer before walking down the center aisle, doing that hippy sway that I’ve just decided
does
look stupid on her.

“You get back here!” Frederick calls to Jezebel, like a parent admonishing his child.

“My mom!” I frantically look between the knife still trembling at Frederick’s temple, Jezebel’s retreating back, and Mom on-screen writhing against the ropes holding her to the chair.

“I thought we covered this topic,” Jezebel answers without turning.

I take a two-second break from hating Bishop to plead with him with my eyes. He calls, “I’m not leaving without her.”

“Then stay,” Jezebel says, without breaking stride.

“Fine,” Bishop snaps back.

I decide I hate him a bit less. Which would be great, if I weren’t scared shitless, because now the knife at Frederick’s temple has disappeared, and Frederick gives me a wicked smile.

“Well, isn’t this
interesting.
” He adjusts the collar of his suit.

“It is.” Bishop nods emphatically. “I’ve never seen a sorcerer so close to tears before. Hey, are you okay, man? I can grab you a glass of water from the concession stand if you’d like. Maybe a moist towelette to clean off your face.”

Frederick’s jaw hardens, and he self-consciously touches his sweat-soaked brow.

The double doors of the theater close with an air of finality. Jezebel’s done it. She’s left us to die at Frederick’s hands.

I shoot my gaze to Bishop and give him a look I hope says “What the hell? Now what? Huh? Huh?” And he sends me one back that says “Relax, I’ve got this covered.”

Frederick wags his index finger at Bishop. “That’s very funny. A sense of humor is a great attribute. In fact, you might not know this about me, but comedies are my favorite kind of movie.” Frederick grins at me, pale blue eyes sparkling, and my stomach knots up all over again.

“And do you know what I find particularly funny?” He pauses a moment, as if to let us answer. “Irony.”

Frederick gestures toward the screen. I slap my hand over my mouth at the sight I find there. The same knife that moments ago was pointed at Frederick’s head now trembles at Mom’s temple. Mom’s wide gray eyes dart to the blade, which gleams in the spotlight. She closes her eyes tight, her body racked by the force of her sobs.

“Bishop, do something!”

The double doors burst open again. An irritated Jezebel stands in the doorway, one hand balled on her hip. Bishop smiles at me, and the look he sends me now distinctly says “I told you so.”

“Frederick, release the woman,” Jezebel commands.

“Nah.” Frederick drops into one of the red seats facing the screen. “I think I’ll watch this one through to the end.”

Jezebel starts down the aisle with heavy-footed steps, until a large dog—a huge, slobbering rottweiler—appears just feet in front of her, blocking her path. I instinctively hide behind Bishop, but Jezebel doesn’t even flinch. Not when the dog growls, a low rumble from deep in its chest. Not when it pushes back its pointed ears and leans back onto meaty haunches, as if about to attack. Not when it leaps into the air with a startlingly loud bark. Nope, Jezebel continues walking, as if putting one foot in front of the other is such an inconvenience, and holds up a hand. The dog hits an invisible barrier inches from her face, then goes flying to the side, landing against the mural-covered wall with a whimper before dropping to the ground.

I’m torn between awe at her power and disgust because it’s a dog! Sure, it was going to kill her, but couldn’t she have placed it in a magic cage or something else less brutal?

The dog licks its wounds, not even attempting to make a second attack, while Jezebel continues down the aisle. She doesn’t make it two more steps when hundreds of arrows shoot from out of nowhere, whistling as they dart through the air, poised to land in her chest. She flicks them away with a wave of her hand, and the arrows fly up toward the ceiling, stabbing into the starburst mural and shattering lightbulbs in the chandelier. A rainstorm of glass falls to the carpet. I look at Frederick, wondering just what he’ll throw at Jezebel next.

The red-and-gold carpet rumples up, and Jezebel nearly loses her footing, but then she lifts into the air as if suspended by wire. “Seriously?” she says. “
That’s
the best you’ve got?”

Frederick laughs. “Those were just the previews. I think you’ll particularly enjoy the main feature.”

I hear their caws before I see them. Birds. Hundreds of black, beady-eyed vultures, owning the air around Jezebel. I thought it wasn’t possible, but there’s fear—terror, actually—seared into the delicate lines of her face.

“Oh no,” Bishop mutters.

“What? What?” I tug at his arm, but he ignores me and watches Jezebel.

She recoils left, then right, whipping her head around as the birds circle her, their wings flapping so hard and fast, it’s the only sound in the auditorium. One bird tries to peck at her with its hooked beak, and she swats it away. The bird smacks against the wall just like our dog friend, but I can see that it was an effort, that Frederick has found her weakness.

“Something the matter?” Frederick looks over the seat back and smiles, then twists around to drape his legs over the row of seats, fingers laced over his stomach.

Bishop scoops me up around the middle and lifts into the air.

“What are you doing?” I cling to him, not because I worry he might drop me, but because I really, really don’t like my sudden proximity to the birds. One flies so close to my face that its feathers brush my cheek. I let out a squeal, burying my face in Bishop’s chest.

I make a promise to myself that if I somehow, miraculously, make it out of this mess alive, if I somehow
am
a witch, I’m going to get good at magic. Because aside from my mother’s life being in danger, I can’t think of anything I hate more than this helpless, useless feeling.

Bishop grunts and mumbles under his breath, swatting at the air with big sweeping gestures, until the birds are pushed back and there’s a space around Jezebel.

“Snap out of it!” Bishop yells.

Jezebel peeks out from around her arms, held up in front of her face, and her shoulders relax a fraction.

“Do it,” Bishop urges. “I can’t hold them off for much longer.” And he isn’t lying. The birds flap angrily at the circle holding them back, inching forward bit by bit.

Jezebel takes a deep, shaky breath, and with one flick of her hand, the vultures smack against the wall, landing in a black heap forming a perimeter around the theater. The sound, like hundreds of football players running into defensive dummies one after another, sends a shudder down my spine. But no guilt, I note, unlike when the dog got hurt, because somehow it’s different when I felt my own life in danger. In fact, what I feel is a thrill—we’re winning. We’re getting out of here alive!

But when I look at the screen again, a choked sob catches in my throat, and my heart sinks down to my stomach like it’s weighted with lead.

Mom is slumped forward, pale and lifeless, and a steady flow of thick blood drips around the hilt of the blade buried deep in her temple.