Hexed (19 page)

Daylight seems cruel after the dark of the shop, and I have to shield my eyes against the bright sun as we venture back outside. Bishop follows me and pulls the door closed.

“Give me the keys so I can lock—”

A bloodcurdling scream pierces the air, interrupting his statement.

Tires screech to a halt. A siren wails, and the red lights of an ambulance flash behind the crowd gathered around the movie set.

“Did the big bad ambulance scare you?” Bishop jokes, hopping down the stairs next to me, but his words float right out of my head. In its place is an image. A memory. Blood. So much blood. A body in the street. Leather.

Someone yells “Cut!” and the ambulance lights flick off.

My heart pounds an erratic beat.

“You okay?” Bishop touches my elbow, his dark eyes narrowed with concern. “I was only joking, you know.”

I blink at him.

“Indie, you’re starting to worry me, and I don’t worry.” He steps in front of me and takes me by the shoulders. I stare at the faded leather of his collar.

“Why do I remember you hurt on a sidewalk?” I blurt out.

Bishop’s hands fall to his side. “You remember that?”

I don’t tell him I have no idea what “that” is, because I’m scared he won’t tell me the truth when he finds out how little I really understand. “Yes, I remember. What I want to know is why I forgot at all. You don’t tend to forget stuff like that.”

“Crazy,” he mumbles. “Why wouldn’t the wipe hold?”

“Wipe? What are you talking about?”

He pushes hair back from his face with shaky hands. “This is crazy. I’ve never heard of this happening before. It must have been the summoning. It must have unlocked something in your brain—”

“Yes, it’s crazy. Can you just explain what’s going on, please? How come you were hurt, and why didn’t I remember it until now?”

Bishop sighs, looking around like he’s considering how best to tell me what he has to say. Or not say.

“Spit it out. I want the whole truth, Bishop.”

He turns to face me, looking me dead in the eye. “The Priory killed me before they stole the book.”

“Killed you?” I ask, incredulous.

He nods.

I let out a humorless laugh. “So, what are you, a ghost? Because I don’t see how else that can be possible.”

Bishop spins the ring on his finger. “Remember when you asked me about this ring? Well, it’s much more than a family heirloom. It’s the most important thing I have.”

I look at the chunky silver ring, the number two etched deep in its center, that occupies Bishop’s middle finger. “What’s the two mean?”

“It’s the number of lives I have left.”

Extra lives? I exhale. “So where can I get mine? Because that’d really solve a lot of my problems right now.”

He shakes his head. “No can do. Only one way to get a ring like this: a dying witch has to transfer her powers to you. So unless you know a witch on the outs or keen on killing herself, you’re out of luck.”

I chew my bottom lip, turning his words over in my mind. “Your mom gave it to you, then? Before she died?”

Bishop drops his gaze to the sidewalk, still twirling the ring.

“Okay, why did the Priory want to kill you?”

He shrugs. “It’s like they knew about the Bible, somehow, though I’m not sure how. They’ve been tracking any witch or warlock sent on a Family mission, but they’ve never killed anyone until now. I don’t know how they knew. But the point is it didn’t work. Pain in the ass busting out of the ambulance strapped to that gurney, though.” He shakes his head. “Come on. Let’s go.” He starts toward the car.

“And I saw you?”

He spins around and walks backward while talking to me. “Yep. You wore this horribly cute miniskirt with suede boots. Not that I was looking or anything. And let me just say this: it’s a good thing I had an extra life, because I sure wasn’t getting any help from you.”

I want to say something,
anything,
but I can’t, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. I jog to catch up to him.

“So why don’t I remember any of this?” I get the impression he’s trying to change topics. And judging by the way he’s practically running away from me, I think I’m right to suspect he’s still hiding something. “Be honest. You’re not telling me everything.”

He stops walking and rubs his forehead like he can erase the crease in his brow.

My stomach knots up so tight I’m not actually sure I want to hear what he has to say. But it’s too late.

“They erased your memory.”

My stomach does a nauseating flip. “Wh-who?”

“Frederick and Leo. They erased your memory. Not everything, obviously”—he scratches his nose with his thumb—“just, you know, stuff about the accident and about them. … They did it to everyone who saw me die. That’s why you can’t remember that conversation with your mom. It was right after you saw me land on the street.”

My skin prickles as the distinct sensation of being violated creeps over my body. I’m about to ask when this happened when I remember the day I awoke in Mrs. Malone’s office, only to forget why I was there in the first place. I’d thought I was going crazy.

I give my head a tiny shake. “But how?”

“They’re powerful sorcerers, Ind. Use your imagination.”

“Well, what’s stopping them from doing it again?” I ask, ignoring his badly timed jab.

“A sorcerer can’t erase a witch’s memory. You’re only at risk before you come into your powers. Same with mind reading. So cross your fingers you’re a witch.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that.”

The vague, nonsensical comment Frederick made that night in my bedroom about plucking what he needed out of my head suddenly makes sense.

“You’re lucky, if you think about it. Those guys could have killed you like they did me and made the whole thing disappear. I think the only thing that saved you was that you had information on the Bible.”

I snort. “Oh yeah, I’m really lucky. Luckiest girl on the planet.” I recall the drive to the Chinese Theatre the night Mom died, when I’d questioned Bishop about recognizing him from somewhere, and he hadn’t bothered to tell me about the time I saw him die. I glare at him through eyes narrowed to slits. “Why would you hide this from me?”

“Whoa, there,” Bishop says. “What’s with the suspicious tone?”

“What’s with all the secrecy? In fact, I don’t think I want to go anywhere with you until you can give me a good answer. Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

“You want to know why?” Bishop stalks over, so that his shadow falls across me. “For one, those guys could have wiped out your whole memory. The fact that they didn’t meant they might be back. Two, I wanted to protect you. What they did to you, it doesn’t feel good, does it? Feels like you’ve been violated? Yeah, that’s what I thought. I didn’t want to tell you because I care about you, and I didn’t think seeing me die and then coming face to face with evil sorcerers were memories you wanted to cherish for the rest of your life. I thought, ‘Hey, I would be happy to forget those memories,’ but then maybe I’m just weird. Maybe I need therapy. There. You know the truth now. Are you happy? Do you want more information? Like where I get my hair cut? Franky’s on Sunset. And I got this T-shirt at the thrift store on West Pico. And Quilted Northern is my preferred toilet paper brand.” He storms off toward the car.

I should be angry—I think I’m pretty within my rights to have been suspicious—but everything he said after “I care about you” flew right out the window. Despite just finding out some pretty horrifying news, despite losing Mom, my best friend, and my boyfriend all in the span of a week, a tiny bit of hope flutters its wings inside my heart. Because it turns out I still have a lot to be thankful for. I just didn’t know where to look.

I
slide the car into drive and merge with traffic. When Bishop turns up the radio, I don’t slap his hand away or complain we only listen to his music. In fact, I’m incredibly grateful to the aggressive punk-rock lyrics for sucking up the silence that I’m sure would radiate with awkwardness in the wake of his outburst.

“So, where to?” I ask.

“Mount Washington,” Bishop answers, buckling his seat belt.

“We’re trying flying first? Don’t think you’re going to lob me off the side of a mountain and hope I learn fast, because I’m not in the mood.”

Bishop shakes his head. “Nope. We start with the basics. Moving small objects: paper clips, pencils, et cetera.”

I roll my eyes. “Sounds like fun. What do mountains have to do with this?”

“They don’t. We’re going to my place.”

I glance over at him, expecting to see humor in his face, but he bobs his head to a song on the radio.

He can’t be serious. Mount Washington is one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Plunked among rolling green hills in the northeast of Los Angeles, the neighborhood features views of downtown L.A., the San Gabriel Mountains, and, oh, roughly one zillion canyons and valleys. And of course, homes so huge they can only be referred to as mansions.

“
You
live in Mount Washington?”

Bishop laughs. “What? Where did you think I lived?”

Actually, now that I think about it, I’ve never really put much thought into where Bishop lives. He’s always just been there. Though I guess he does have to go somewhere at night, hang up his leather jacket, lay his head down to sleep. But Mount Washington? really?

I navigate the Sunfire through rush-hour traffic so insane there is no chance for thoughts of anything but avoiding an accident, until the lush green hilltops announce we’ve arrived in his neighborhood.

“This one here, on the left.” Bishop indicates what is, hands down, the nicest mansion on the block.

The Spanish-style home rises three stories high and stretches out for what seems like an entire city block. Towering palm trees and lavish gardens spring up from every corner of the property, lattices of ivy climbing the white stucco walls all the way to the terra-cotta roof. I start counting the arched windows, framed in ornate cast-iron grilles, but lose count around eighteen and give up. And I always thought white houses were boring.

I pick my jaw up out of my lap long enough to ask a question. “You live here?”

“I’m starting to get offended,” Bishop says.

Shaking my head, I pull the car around the giant fountain in the middle of the horseshoe driveway. “It’s just a lot fancier than I expected from a guy who wears leather constantly.”

I glance at the fountain as we pass and realize that it’s a mermaid, and that the water is shooting from her nipples. “Ugh.”

He laughs.

I park the car, and we step out into the fading evening sun.

Bishop leads the way to the entrance and pushes the big wooden doors open without having to unlock them first.

“Bit laissez-faire on the security, don’t you think?” I say, following him inside.

He digs into his back pocket and tosses his wallet onto a glass table in the foyer. “I’m a warlock, remember?”

“And they’re sorcerers.” I spin around, admiring every detail of his home, from the exposed wooden ceiling beams to the smooth archways leading down various corridors to the spiral staircase rising to the second floor.

“Exactly. You think a locked door will give a sorcerer pause if he wants to get inside my house?”

“Guess not,” I answer. “But what about other people? Your run-of-the-mill burglars?”

He shrugs. “Then I’d just drum up some more stuff, I guess.”

The pieces of the puzzle begin coming together. “So that’s how you afford all this?” I gesture around the house. “You created it with magic?”

“Created the money, anyway. Too much energy to conjure objects for long periods of time.”

Before I can ask another one of the boatload of questions on my mind, my ears perk up at the sound of metal rattling upstairs. I dart a glance at Bishop, but it’s as if he hasn’t noticed. The rattling intensifies, and a dog barks—a jarring sound that is all too recognizable.

“Bishop …” My voice warbles with uncertainty.

There’s a crashing sound, and then thundering steps overhead. My heart goes into overdrive, but when I look at Bishop again, there’s a slow smile spreading across his face. The thudding becomes louder and louder until my fears are confirmed, and a rottweiler barrels to the top of the spiral staircase, a frantic mass of meaty limbs tripping over each other in their desperation to reach us. The dog regains its footing and charges down the stairs two at a time.

Every one of my instincts tells me to run, but something about Bishop’s smile roots me in place. Still, I recoil as the large dog approaches and Bishop still doesn’t use his magic against it. And when the dog is just one leap away, I can’t help the scream that escapes me.

The rottweiler jumps up against Bishop’s chest, and delivers sloppy kisses all over his face.

What the … ?

Bishop kisses the dog back, murmuring, “Good puppy,” and “That’s my baby,” into its fur. I relax my shoulders a tiny bit, but my heart still races as Bishop finally straightens and pats the dog on its head. “All right, Lumpkins, that’s enough.”

When he faces me, my mouth is hanging open.

“What?” He adjusts his shirt, which twisted up during the lovefest.

“Is that … ?” I gesture hesitantly at the dog.

“The dog from the theater? Yes.”

“And his name is?”

“Lovey Lumpkins.”

“But …”

Bishop scratches the dog behind the ears, and Lumpkins’s eyes loll back in his head. “But he needed a home, and I just happened to have one.”

“But he’s evil.”

Bishop draws back like I’ve just insulted his mother. “Indigo Blackwood.”

“He tried to kill Jezebel!” I cry, though now that I think it over, that is one of his most endearing qualities.

“That was before,” Bishop says, and bends low to hug the dog around his thick neck. “And plus, Frederick made him do it. He’s learned his lesson. He knows not to mess with Daddy. Isn’t that right, Lumpkins?”

“Daddy?” I laugh, because this is just too ridiculous.

“You hungry, or should we just get started?”

I shake my head to snap out of the spell this sight has put me under. “No, I’m not hungry.”

Bishop straightens and hikes up his pants. “All right. Follow me.”

He leads me upstairs, and down a wide, light-filled corridor, Lumpkins following disconcertingly close on my heels.

When Bishop opens the door to what has to be an office, Lumpkins runs inside and hops up on a leather couch, curling into a slightly less intimidating ball. I decide he’s okay for now, and enter.

Pale sunlight streams in through ceiling-high arched windows, lighting the room in soft white. The walls—or rather, the tiny cracks visible around the collage of random framed pictures of every shape and size that clog the walls—are such a rich shade of gray that they almost appear black. The leather couch Lumpkins rests on is pressed against one wall; opposite it is a long black desk, flanked on one side by a potted ficus tree and on the other by a tall, skinny bookcase with an odd assortment of items like a broken globe, a battered copy of
Catch-22,
and what appears to be a bowling trophy. A fluffy bearskin rug covers the dark wood floor, and beanbag chairs in every color cushion the corners of the room.

It’s so Bishop that if I hadn’t seen the naked mermaid fountain outside, this room alone would convince me that this really is his mansion and he isn’t playing a trick on me.

I crane my neck to see the framed pictures that reach all the way to the ceiling, trying to assign a common theme to the randomness. There’s a giraffe, a woman’s naked back, the Ramones in concert, a man holding up a huge fish, Britney Spears circa 1999, and a picture of a mountain under the words
reach for the top
that seems like it would be better suited in a guidance counselor’s office.

“Who’s this guy with the fish?” I ask, pointing to the picture of the man.

Bishop sidles up behind me and leans over my shoulder, so near that his chest brushes along my shoulder blades. A surge of heat runs down into my stomach.

“That’s my uncle.”

“really?” I ask, my voice higher than usual. “The one from Texas?”

He nods.

I examine the picture closer now. The man’s middle-aged, with short gray hair poking out the sides of his baseball cap and a large belly poking out from under his neon life vest. He looks nothing like Bishop at first glance, but when I peer closer, there is something similar in his smile, in the lines around his mouth. I wonder why Bishop lives all alone in Los Angeles when he’s got family in Texas.

“Is he … ?”

“Alive?” Bishop finishes for me. “Yes.”

I want him to elaborate without me having to ask, but he doesn’t go there. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. And so then it becomes really strange that he’s still pressed up against me. My heart gallops like a prize racehorse. He must realize how weird this is too, because
how
could
he
not?

I swallow. “Do you see each other often?”

“Not anymore. I lived with him for a year after my mom died, but I haven’t talked with him much since he asked me to work for him remotely. Big honor.” I can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Guess a year of living with me
is
a lot for one person to handle.” He says it self-deprecatingly, but I get the sense that he’s hiding something under the humor.

“What is it you do for him, exactly?” I ask. “I haven’t noticed you doing a lot of work since I’ve met you.”

“Odd jobs, really. Nothing interesting.”

I narrow my eyes at him over my shoulder. “Well, that’s vague. What does your uncle do?”

“He’s a councillor for the Family.”

I remember Bishop telling me at the Hollywood sign that it was his job to fill me on all things witchy if I turned on my two hundredth moon. “Nothing interesting, hey?”

He smiles, shaking his head so that his hair falls in front of his face. “Not until recently.”

I face the picture again, processing this new information and adding it to the Bishop picture that’s being painted in my head. Bishop’s mom died. Bishop’s uncle cast him out (at least in his own mind). Bishop has no friends. And yet he’s constantly making a joke out of everything. Either he’s the most easygoing person on the planet, or else all the flip comebacks, all the womanizer talk, all the crass jokes, they’re just his way to hide the fact that he’s lonely, that he’s dying to connect with someone. I test my hypothesis. “So, do you really think your uncle sent you away because he was sick of you?”

Bishop lets out a wry laugh. “Well, don’t try to spare my feelings or anything.”

Heat blooms across my cheeks, but Bishop claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m kidding. He probably thought it’d be a good idea because of Jezebel. Little did he know she’d follow me here.”

I let out a false titter, because it’s just so
awkward
when he talks about Jezebel.

“So how has your girlfriend been keeping, anyway?” I blurt out.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bishop says.

“Nice try. She said so herself at the theater, and you didn’t deny it.”

“Jezebel hasn’t been my girlfriend in months.”

Hmm. “So why’d she say that, then?”

“Because she’s not used to not getting what she wants. We dated, I broke it off, she begged me to take her back, I refused. I guess she thinks she can wear me down.”

I know I shouldn’t ask more, that it’s really none of my business, but I can’t help myself. “Why’d you break up with her?”

“Haven’t you noticed her little attitude problem?” he asks.

“Oh, I’ve noticed. I just thought you might be more inclined to forgive something like that in light of the fact that you’re a horndog and she’s, you know, practically a supermodel.” I focus intently on the wall, embarrassed at the edge of jealousy in my voice.

He laughs. “Oh, trust me, I tried. And tried. And tried.”

“Ugh, thanks for the mental image.”

He squeezes my shoulder. “Look, Jez and I started dating at a bad time. I’d just moved to Texas after my mom died. I was feeling a little down, and she was great for a while. Distracting.”

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “And then what?” I ask.

“And then it wasn’t great anymore. It wasn’t real between us. It was just sex. I realized I was using her to try to forget about my mom, and it wasn’t working.”

I try to think of something encouraging to say, because he’s finally opening up and not hiding behind humor, but all I can think of is that they had sex. And it was great.

“Well, at least that answers the question of why Jezebel’s been so eager to help out,” I say.

“Let’s not talk about Jezebel anymore.”

I become hyperaware of his hand on my shoulder. That we’re both single, all of a sudden, and alone.

I clear my throat to break my train of thought (and whatever else is going on between us). “So, let’s get this over with. The sooner I can defend myself, the sooner I won’t need anyone to protect me.”