Hexed (2 page)

My stomach coils into a knot, and I have to remind myself that Devon would never cheat on me. He loves me. Even if he
is
an incurable flirt. Still, sometimes I wonder how much easier life would be if I just let Bianca have him.

But I don’t really want that. Not when I think of Devon’s characteristic lopsided grin. Not when I catch his scent on a passing breeze. Not when he throws his arm around me and his nearness makes my heart stutter.

“Indie?”

“Huh?” Twenty minutes must have passed without me saying a word, because we’re suddenly surrounded by the vibrant-colored vintage shops, massive billboards, and palm trees of Melrose Avenue. Music and car horns pulse through the air; hordes of hipsters in bowler hats and funky shoes strut along the sidewalk as they chat loudly on their cell phones.

“Saturday. The barbecue. You’re coming, right? Tiny sloppy joes. So delicious. Lots of fun.” Paige bites her lip, hands clasped in supplication. “Pleasepleaseplease?”

She looks so desperate for a yes that I’m hit with a feeling that is the opposite of good and rhymes with “rad.” Which is dumb. Like Bianca says, it’s Paige’s own fault she doesn’t take a hint. But maybe it’s my fault too, I decide. If I were just more direct, if I told her how I felt, Bianca-style, without pulling any punches, I’m sure Paige wouldn’t be offering up her mom’s sloppy joes. It makes total sense. So why can’t I do it?

“Fine, I’ll come.”

Paige blinks at me a bunch before growing a smile so wide I worry kids might try to kick a field goal in there. “You will?”

I shrug. “Yeah, sure, whatev—”

Before I can finish, a large, dark shape whizzes past the windshield and splats onto the pavement with a sickening thud. I slam on the brakes so hard we rocket against our seat belts.

Traffic around us sputters to a halt. Drivers emerge from their cars, and screams pierce the cacophony of the streets. Paige and I exchange wide-eyed glances, then unclick our seat belts and exit the car. As I cautiously edge around the nose of the Sunfire, the dark shape comes into view. My heart hammers in my chest.

It can’t be what I think it is.

I slide my sunglasses up, and all the blood drains from my head.

“Oh my God!” Paige’s fingernails dig into the skin on my arm. “Is that … ?”

I’m frozen in place, my breath lodged in my throat. I watch in mute horror as Paige takes careful steps up to the body that lies facedown on the sidewalk, limbs splayed at impossible angles.

P
edestrians flock around the body. I’m jostled left and right, but I can’t stop staring at the pool of blood expanding beneath the man’s worn leather coat. And I don’t know why, but all I can think is that it’s a hot day to be wearing leather.

A redheaded woman in a jogging suit crouches low and presses her fingers to the man’s neck—a neck covered in tattoos. She nods, and two construction workers rush to help. As the man is flipped onto his back, a crumpled piece of paper tumbles out of his blood-soaked hand.

Only he’s not a man.

There’s so much blood—it drips from a wound under his hair, soaking his tangled black waves; it flows freely from his left ear, from his broken nose, from a gravelly laceration on his cheek; it coats the Ramones T-shirt that clings to his thin frame—but beneath the injuries is very clearly a seventeen-year-old—
maybe
eighteen-year-old—boy.

Someone screams, a high-pitched, strangled sound that rises above the other voices, the orders being called out, the wail of a siren.

I realize it’s me.

“Out of the way, Indie.” Paige pulls my arm to make way for the paramedics, who rush up with a stretcher. I stumble back but continue to stare at the boy’s dark, vacant eyes.

One of the paramedics pounds on the boy’s chest, landing his full weight onto him as he delivers CPR. But it doesn’t matter. He’s dead. They’re not going to save him.

“Did anyone see what happened?” another paramedic asks. His words float around in my head, but I can’t seem to grasp their meaning. It’s like I’m watching a scene in a movie. This can’t really be happening, not in real life.

“Did you see what happened?” Paige shakes my arm.

“Well?” the paramedic asks, suddenly staring at me.

I swallow hard and give a minute shake of my head.

“No, we didn’t see anything, just … just him landing,” Paige says. She tugs my arm again. “Come on. Let’s give them some space.”

That’s when I see it again—the paper the guy held in his hand, lying crumpled next to the redheaded woman’s feet. I snatch it up, stuffing it in the pocket of my skirt. Paige gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t question me, just leads me back to the car. My legs are so unstable that I have to concentrate hard—one foot in front of the other—to make sure I don’t collapse.

“I can’t believe it,” Paige says once I’ve managed to find a way out of the chaos of cars. The bloody scene fades into the distance, and the canvas awning of the Black Cat comes into view. “You okay, Ind? You don’t look so good.”

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. When I speak again, my throat feels scratchy and my voice comes out a rasp. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You sure? Because you look really pale.”

I keep thinking about the boy and the leather coat he wore even though it’s over eighty degrees outside. Which is dumb, because he’s obviously got bigger problems than overdressing for the weather. I use my forearm to wipe sweat from my brow.

“Are you okay to drive?” Paige asks.

I give her what I hope is a confident nod.

The hum of the engine takes over the silence.

“Think it was suicide?” Paige finally asks meekly, like she feels bad even suggesting it.

I don’t have time to answer, because a car miraculously pulls out of the parking spot right in front of the shop, and I’m able to cut off a yellow Mustang to snag it. I could adopt a kid internationally for roughly what this spot will cost me, but it’s worth not having to walk. I want to shake off Paige as quickly as possible so I can be alone and think.

“Thanks for the ride,” Paige says. As we exit the car, I can’t help noticing that we both crane our necks to see the site of the accident a few blocks down the street. But either they cleaned up quickly, or it was farther from the shop than I remembered, because there’s no sign of the chaos of moments ago.

“Ind!”

I squint against the sun and spot Devon climbing out of his BMW a few cars behind me.

Well, this is super. Just great.

Devon jogs up the sidewalk, sun-kissed hair flopping around his tanned face.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as he nears.

“Why, you want me to go?” He gives me that crooked grin and slips his fingers in the belt loops of my skirt, playfully tugging me closer to him.

“No, I just thought … well, Bianca said you were going for burgers or something.”

“The rest of the team went,” he says, brushing a feather-light kiss onto my cheek. “I’d rather be with you.”

His lips move to my mouth just as a double-decker bus drives past, blaring facts about Melrose Avenue through a loudspeaker to the tourists snapping pictures out the windows. I push against Devon’s chest to stop him.

“Who cares about them,” he says, dismissing the tourists with a wave.

“It’s not that,” I say.

“Then what?” He peppers my neck with kisses.

Paige clears her throat.

Devon’s eyes flit to my neighbor, who is still standing awkwardly beside us because that’s how she rolls.

“Who’s your friend?” he asks.

“Paige Abernathy.” She stretches a hand out. “From your fifth-period history class. And also from the last six years of school.”

He shakes her hand and laughs.

“No, seriously,” she says.

“Oh.” Devon’s cheeks get pink, and he scratches his head. “Uh, sorry about that. I don’t know what to say—”

“Yeah, no big deal.” She pushes her shoulders back. “I wouldn’t notice me either if I were the captain of the football team.”

This. Is. Too much.

“Okay!” I grab Devon’s arm and tow him behind me. “Bye, Paige.”

“Wait, what about what happened—”

“Sorry, have to go work now.” I don’t look back, but I know she’s probably staring openmouthed as a fish as I retreat toward the shop.

“Wow, I feel terrible,” Devon says out of the side of his mouth. “I seriously didn’t recognize that girl at all. How do you know her?”

“My neighbor,” I say, leaving out the part about being friends once, long ago.

The bell above the door jingles as we enter the shop and are greeted by the aroma of Murphy Oil Soap and old books.

Mom looks over her shoulder from her perch on a stool in front of the bookcase, feather duster in hand. She’s wearing a black blouse, a black-sequined skirt, ripped leggings, and approximately one ton of silver jewelry in the form of necklaces and bangles; as far as my mother’s wardrobe goes, it’s about the least embarrassing ensemble she could be wearing for an impromptu visit from Devon.

“Hey, Ms. Blackwood,” Devon says.

“If it isn’t Devon Mills! So great of you to visit.” Mom hops off the stool and tosses the duster onto a stack of books, wiping her hands on her skirt. “And look, you’ve even brought my estranged daughter with you.”

She crosses the small shop, heels clacking on the wood floors, but stops in her tracks when she gets a better look at me. Her gray eyes pass over every inch of my face, like she might find the answer to her question there. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I run my thumb under the strap of my bag.

Mom knows me too well to believe me, but she lets it go for now. “Okay … ,” she says cautiously. “Well, I better get going. It’s my turn to host the Wicca Society meeting and the house is a mess.”

I cringe and refuse to meet Devon’s eyes. He’s been to the shop tons of times (in fact, he’s intimately familiar with the storeroom), but I’m just as mindful of all the laughable things he’s seeing now—the ritual candles, the silver chalices, the altar cloths, the pentacles that hang from the low ceiling—as the first time he came.

“Will I be okay leaving you two alone?” Mom asks, which makes Devon laugh and me turn forty-two shades of red. “I’m kidding, but, Indigo, could I speak with you for moment?”

Mom’s eyes flash to Devon. He, unlike Paige, can take a hint, and pads off to the black cauldron on display in the center of the room.

Mom watches to make sure he’s not paying attention, then leans in toward me. “I don’t mind your boyfriend coming over, it’s just …” She looks at Devon again. He has moved to the bookcase and is running his finger over the spines of the books.

“What, Mom?”

“Just don’t let him near the book, okay?”

I don’t have to ask what book she’s referring to.
The
Witch
Hunter’s Bible.
To me, it’s just one of many weird books in the shop, but ever since Grandma gave it to Mom on her deathbed, Mom has been sort of obsessed with it—witness the backyard hole-digging incident—I know better than to be anything but completely serious when I answer her.

“No, Mom, I won’t let him anywhere near the book, as I’ve told you already a billion times.”

“I’m serious, Indigo. If that book gets into the wrong hands—”

“I said I won’t. Jeez, what happened to the good old sex talk?”

“Ha-ha,” Mom deadpans. But my answer has satisfied her. She shoulders her bag. “All right, then, you kids be good. I’ll be back before late.”

“Bye, Ms. Blackwood,” Devon says, strolling over.

As soon as Mom leaves, Devon slackens his perfect posture. “There’s some really screwed-up shit in this place, you know.”

“Tell me about it,” I say dryly, walking to the chair behind the counter.

Devon follows. He picks up a dagger from a nearby display and turns it over in his hands. “What’s this for?”

I shrug, like I don’t know exactly what it’s for. Which I do. “Ceremonial tool. Or something like that.”

He casually checks out the price tag and does a double take. “Two hundred dollars? Who would spend that much on some crappy old knife?”

“Any number of weirdos. It’s L.A., remember?”

He laughs and puts the dagger back (in the wrong spot, I note), then leans his forearms on the counter and gives me a mischievous smile.

Most times I’d consider stealing from young children to snag a little more alone time with Devon, but right now I just wish he’d leave. I need to think, or whatever it is people do when they witness a death. But I’m guessing it’s not suck face.

“I think the storeroom needs stocking,” he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“We have that math test tomorrow,” I say.

“And?” He leans across the counter and kisses me. I don’t want to hear about how I never want to “do stuff ” anymore for the next week, so I kiss him back for a good solid minute before pushing him away.

“
And
I don’t want to fail. And you
can’t
fail,” I say, poking him in the chest, “or else you’re not allowed to homecoming. Remember what your dad said?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you didn’t want to kiss me.”

I roll my eyes. “Please. All I want to do is kiss you.”

This earns me a grin, which unexpectedly blooms into a full-on smile.

“What?” I ask.

“How much do you love me?”

“Uh, tons … ,” I say carefully.

“Like more than you ever thought possible, right?” He looks barely able to contain his glee.

“Sure. Now what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” he says, reaching into his back pocket. “Simply that I got us these two front-row seats for the Jay-Z concert tomorrow.” He brandishes two crisp blue tickets.

I know I’m supposed to react better than to blink at him a bunch—I know this because the huge smile wipes right off his face like he’s just been doused with a bucket of ice-cold water.

“My dad got them off this investor he works with. The concert’s been sold out for months. I thought you’d be excited.” He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the floor.

“I
am
excited. really, I am. Just, what about the game tomorrow? Scouts are coming, and you know Bianca would send a lynch mob after me if I didn’t show.”

“It’s not till after the game,” he says. “We’d miss the opening bands, but they always suck anyway.” He’s in serious mope-mode now.

“Well, then it’s perfect!” I say, forcing a cheery tone. “And I love you so much it’s disgusting and should be illegal.” I grab a handful of his shirt and pull him in for a deep kiss. When I feel absolved, I murmur “Thank you” against his mouth and then push him back across the counter. “Now get out of here.”

He gives me a dazed smile. “I
should
get going. Told the guys to order for me. Jay-Z! Woo!” He drums his hands on the counter before turning to leave, rap lyrics accompanying him out of the store.

Sighing, I dig my hands into my pockets. The rough edges of crumpled-up paper catch my finger.

The note.

I pull it out and flatten the edges, which are stained with dried blood. What I see makes my breath catch in my throat.

The
Black
Cat. 290 Melrose Avenue.

The dead guy was coming to our shop.