Spellcaster (2 page)

Sure, it was the best Chinese
food I’d ever had, but Laura could make anything unappetizing. She should
rent herself out to anyone wanting to lose weight. At least Brendan’s dad,
Aaron, wasn’t a problem: he liked me. He also understood that I was
Brendan’s soul mate—and that I wasn’t just some fleeting crush of his son’s.
After all, the curse had come from the Salinger side of the family. But
Laura…she frowned so much in my general direction I thought her chin might
fall off. Impressive, I thought at the time—she’d had so much Botox for the
grand opening of one of her husband’s hotels that her face was about as
flexible as a brick.

But all those concerns always
melted away the second Brendan touched me. His lips left a featherlight path
of kisses from my ear to my mouth. Even after months together and a billion
make-out sessions (that’s a conservative estimate), every kiss kicked my
pulse—and other parts of my body—into high gear. I clasped my hands around
the back of his neck, eagerly returning his kiss before a wailing ambulance,
heading to nearby St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital, reminded me of our
location. “Whoa,” I said, pulling away. “We are in the middle of Ninth
Avenue here.”

“We’re not the most scandalous
thing someone’s seen in the middle of Ninth Avenue, I’m sure.” Brendan
smirked, his green eyes sparkling mischievously. “Besides, no one’s
watching.”

“Don’t be too sure.” I groaned,
reminded of my encounter in the bodega. I cast a quick glance over my
shoulder to see if the annoying trio of girls was still around.

Yep. They were. And they noticed
whom I was with—and what I was doing with him.

“What’s wrong?” Brendan’s
jet-black brows furrowed with concern.

“Nothing. Let’s just get out of
here, okay?” I ignored the furious texting from their perfectly manicured
fingers.

“What, is some old creeper
watching us make out or something?” Brendan asked, protectively throwing his
arm over my shoulder and ushering me down the block toward Tenth
Avenue.

“No, nothing like that! Some
people recognized me, said some things…blah, blah, blech.” I waved my hands
dismissively, omitting the part about his old hookup. Soul mate or not, I
didn’t exactly break into a happy dance every time I heard about his
previous—and prolific—conquests. Before me, Brendan got around more than the
crosstown bus. So I could think of better ways to pass the time than
discussing his past, like slamming my face into a drawer—repeatedly. But
part of the curse was that Archer be handsome when he was reincarnated, and
Brendan was, indeed, magically delicious. And girls most definitely
noticed.

“What did they say to you?” His
green eyes glinted angrily as he turned his head to glare at the clique, but
I grabbed a fistful of his sleeve, pulling him forward.

“Please, just let it go.
Please?” I pleaded. Brendan took in the exasperated expression on my face
and sighed, resigned.

“I’m sorry you have to keep
dealing with that,” Brendan apologized guiltily as we continued walking away
from the bodega toward Tenth Avenue. The Salingers weren’t just rich, they
were one of
those
families—the kind that had scholarships named after
them. The kind that had buildings named after them. So when he fought off
psychotic schoolmate Anthony after Anthony attacked me last December, of
course it made headlines in New York gossip blogs. The only downfall for
Brendan was that every now and then, some alpha-male tried to start a fight
with him to prove how tough he was.

“It’s not your fault.” I
quickened my step to get more distance between us and the gossipy trio. “I
just don’t want to keep being reminded of everything that
happened.”

“My dad’s lawyers think
Anthony’s father has him holed up somewhere in Europe. Anthony’s not coming
back—we’d have heard something,” Brendan reminded me. Anthony was also from
a powerful family, and his father had him hidden well—a little too well for
the private service Brendan’s father, Aaron, had hired after the fight. He’d
even arranged for some security for Brendan and me in the weeks immediately
after the attack.

Brendan continued, his voice
grave and low as he pulled me closer. “Don’t worry about it, Em. If he tries
to get anywhere near you, I’ll end him.”

I didn’t doubt Brendan’s
sincerity—especially after what had transpired on the rocks. But the lethal
tone in his voice caused me to stop in my tracks.

“Please don’t talk like that. I
don’t want you getting hurt or—”

“Come on, Emma.” Brendan
interrupted me, throwing his head back in a laugh. He picked me
up—overstuffed backpack and all—and planted a quick kiss on my nose. “I’m a
little offended by your lack of confidence.”

He set me back on my feet and I
smoothed out my skirt, trying not to roll my eyes at Brendan as we resumed
walking.

“Besides,” he continued. “Don’t
you remember what happened last time? I can handle him.”

“I remember it very well,” I
said quietly. “I remember thinking you died when you went barreling off the
rocks.”

“I didn’t, though,” he reminded
me, sliding an arm around my shoulders. “That’s all behind us.”

“I hope so.” I sighed, looking
up at him. “I just worry.”

“You know I feel the same way
you do. That night, when I couldn’t find you…” His voice trailed off, and
Brendan just kissed me softly on the top of my head. “I understand feeling
protective—trust me, I get it,” he added with a humorless laugh. “Just
please don’t worry so much that you don’t talk to me or tell me things
because you’re trying to protect me or stop me from going off. Even if it
comes to some idiot girls running their mouths in a bodega,
okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed with a small
smile. I pulled back from him reluctantly when I felt my phone vibrate in my
sweatshirt pocket.

Where R U?

“Well, I should definitely get
upstairs,” I muttered, texting Angelique back. We had just gotten to her
family’s apartment building on Tenth Avenue and Fifty-first Street, and I
was already running late due to a Latin study session after school.
Honestly, a few stolen kisses along the way contributed to my delay; with my
new afterschool job in the library, witch classes with Angelique, my weekly
kickboxing classes, basketball season in full swing—and, of course, SAT
prep—Brendan and I hadn’t had much time together outside of school. I’d
missed him.

Still, Angelique had insisted
that we have a lesson today. She and Brendan weren’t exactly best friends—or
friends at all, for that matter. She had dismissed him as an overprivileged
rich jock; he had written her off as a self-important, bratty witch. Well,
they were both right about one thing: Brendan was rich, and Angelique was a
witch. She came from a family of witches, actually. She was also a
burgeoning empath—she could sense people’s emotions. So far, her talent was
unpredictable, but getting stronger every day: some days she could sense
everything—she was in tune with the world. Other days, nothing at all. So I
helped Angelique cultivate her empath skills, and Angelique helped me
develop my newly discovered abilities as a born witch.

But after a successful initial
run of spells, all I’d done in the past month was create some very smelly
potions—one of which burned a hole in Angelique’s rug—and levitate a yellow
highlighter. And that was only for a few seconds. Angelique kept telling me
the key was controlling my emotions, but I’d either get too frustrated when
something didn’t work or too excited when it did and screw it up—badly.
Hence the hole in the rug.

“So what was so important that
you had to have witch class today? Are you still—what, spellblocked? Witch’s
block? What’s the magic equivalent of writer’s block?” Brendan asked,
arching one black eyebrow as he walked me up the concrete steps framing the
plaza surrounding Angelique’s apartment building. Although he’d initially
balked at the idea of me being a witch, after the fight, Brendan was all for
anything I could do to protect myself—be it the pepper spray he bought me or
something magical in nature. He even taught me the kind of fighting I wasn’t
going to pick up in my Beginner’s Kickboxing class—all the dirty, street
fighting tricks he’d learned over the years. But we found out the hard way
that I had a pretty good right hook when he got, um, a little distracted
during one lesson. I’d apologized a billion times, but Brendan assured me it
wasn’t his first bloody nose, and likely wouldn’t be his last. I just had to
promise to stop wearing low-cut tank tops when we sparred.

“
Witch’s block
is a good term for
it—and yes, I’m still witch blocked like crazy.” I sighed, running my hands
through my hair and tugging at the strands. “I can’t seem to focus on
anything. It’s
killing
me. I don’t know if I should just give it up, or
what.”

“You’ll get there,” he said
supportively, kissing me on my forehead before tilting my chin up to steal
another kiss.

“Nice try! Stop trying to make
me later than I already am,” I said, pushing him away with a
laugh.

“You’re always late. To
everything.
And you’re here already. So what’s another ten minutes?” Brendan argued,
trying to slide his arms around me again.

“Thanks a lot,” I replied
sarcastically, using his joke about my tardiness as an excuse to pull myself
from his arms, however unwillingly. “I’m being rude. Besides, spring break
starts Wednesday, and we have all day together tomorrow.” We were both
taking art history this semester, and tomorrow was an end-of-week class trip
to the Cloisters, the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s medieval branch in upper
Manhattan.

“Fine.” Brendan sighed in mock
annoyance, releasing me from his grasp. “Have fun. Play nice with the other
witches.”

I promised him I’d text him when
I got home, and I headed up the concrete steps into Angelique’s apartment
building.

“I’m sorry I’m a little late,” I
apologized as soon as Angelique answered the door. “I had Latin review after
school.”

“Yeah, Latin review is why your
lip balm is smudged,” Angelique said tersely as she shut the door behind me.
“That first declension really screws up your makeup—as if I needed lip gloss
all over your face to know what you’ve been doing.” She shuddered in a
melodramatic way.

“Empath skills rearing their
ugly head?” I asked as I sheepishly wiped my mouth with the heel of my hand.
I felt like Aunt Christine had just caught me making out with
Brendan.

“Big time.” Angelique grimaced
as if she’d just smelled something gross. I guiltily hung my head as I
followed my friend down the apartment’s cheerful, yellow-painted hallway to
her more dramatically decorated bedroom.

“But then again, you seem to
have that effect on me,” she added dryly, and I ducked my head a little
more. Angelique had always been able to read auras, but meeting a fellow
witch like me had somehow triggered her latent empath talent. Although she
was still learning how to harness it, Angelique could always read me crystal
clear. “It’s like your emotions are in HD,” she’d complained. That’s how I
was able to help her develop her talent—I’d think of something that evoked a
strong emotion, she’d guess what I was feeling. We were like a really
bizarre supernatural game show—
Stump the
Empath.

“How come your hair is wet?” I
changed the subject, noticing that Angelique’s damp, jet-black hair was
leaving little wet spots all over her oversize, comfy-looking burgundy
T-shirt. She was naturally a blonde, but dyed it dark, save for the
occasional colorful streak.

“Oh, my cousin Miranda’s on
spring break from college, so she came over and helped me touch up my
roots,” she replied, pointing to her scalp with a charcoal-gray-painted
nail. “We added a few streaks of purple and blue in.”

Angelique loved being a
witch—and she positively adored dressing the part. Her Goth attire hadn’t
won her many friends at Vincent Academy, where the aesthetic was more Chanel
than
Charmed.
But her flair for the dramatic was one of my
favorite things about her. The rest of her witchy family—the ones I’d met,
at least—didn’t share her darker sense of style.

“So what are we working on
today?” I asked, kicking off my beloved, but ridiculously scuffed, Mary
Janes. After taking a swig from my still-cold iced tea, I sat cross-legged
on Angelique’s bed, fighting the desire to just sprawl out on it and stare
at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck all over the purple walls. She had the
most comfortable bed in the world—thick feather bed topped with a black
velvet comforter. It was like lying in a gigantic plush
marshmallow.

“Are we doing potions? Spells?
Maybe some kind of magic to fix my witch’s block?” I asked, glaring at my
backpack on the floor.
Maybe Angelique’s
presence can help you successfully pull off a little spell… .

“Emoveo!”
I yelled, pointing at my backpack as it sat upright
in the middle of the floor. And then my jaw dropped, practically falling
onto her bed as the bag slid, slowly along the linoleum—to Angelique, who
had dragged it closer to where she was sitting cross-legged on the
floor.