Spellcaster (26 page)

“Then can’t you see that I want to do that for you?”

Brendan looked like he was going to protest, but something in my expression finally made him relent.

He shook his head, taking the soda from where I’d tossed it on the table.

“Keep this on,” he insisted gently, pressing the can against my knuckles. “From the way my face feels, you definitely put some power behind that.”

“I’m so sorry, Brendan.” I cringed as I looked at his red and slightly puffy cheekbone. I wondered if he’d have a black eye.

“Don’t be,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I’m the one who taught you how to do it. I’m glad you know how, since it’s coming in
way
too useful these days. I still feel like you’re not telling me how bad it was. Whatever happened, it deserved a punch.”

He searched my face and I didn’t answer, drawing patterns in the water droplets the soda left on the lacquered table. He was right: I didn’t tell him
all
the gory physical details. It would do no good to tell him.

A look of horror crossed his face, and I was hit by how much he was suffering. I couldn’t imagine waking up and finding out that I’d been possessed, my body doing horrible things to Brendan.

“Stop torturing yourself. I know it wasn’t—”

“Yeah, I know, it wasn’t me.” He finished my sentence sharply.

“Please stop. You sitting here terrorizing yourself is the same as me feeling bad that Anthony got a few good licks in when you guys fought at Belvedere Castle,” I argued.

“That’s so different.”

“It’s
so
not.”

Brendan gave me a wry smile, reaching out to touch my cheek with the back of his hand. “You know, you’re kind of amazing, Emma,” he said softly. “Everything that’s happened, and you’re still here with me, and you’re still going strong.”

I didn’t feel strong. Whatever stitches were holding me together felt like they were fraying and could unravel at any second. I just knew I didn’t want to give up. And now that I had Brendan, I knew I would fight twice as hard. Because we needed me to fight for both of us.

Chapter 14

We left the school a little after six—giving my puffy, sob-swollen eyes some extra time look more human, less candy-apple-red, and giving Brendan some time to embrace his inner MacGyver and pull together a fix for the broken chair. He used some Scotch tape left on Emerson’s librarian desk to hold together the splintered legs of the broken chair, admitting that there were more surreptitiously fixed things around the school than I realized. We hid the chair in the back of the library and Brendan took me home in the car service, promising to pick me up the next morning, as well. He couldn’t very well come upstairs with the start of a black eye—Aunt Christine finally seemed to be giving him straight A’s on the boyfriend report card, and the last thing he needed to do was come strolling in with a shiner. Besides, his parents were coming back that night—as if Megan wasn’t terrifying enough, his mother was back in town.
Cue the horror music.

Dinner with Aunt Christine was takeout Thai—Chicken Pad Thai for her, Pad Prik King for me—and I kept my eyes on my food, memorizing every pepper, every string bean, since Christine’s eyes were drilling into me like she was trying to hang shelves on my forehead. She’d asked me if I was okay, and I’d told her I was fine, but nothing got past her—really,
nothing.
So while telling me about her day, Christine scrutinized me with her laser-accurate Stare of Truth. I tried not to squirm underneath it, but it was like she had a superpower. I ate my dinner left-handed, keeping my banged up right hand in my lap.

After dinner, I headed head straight into my room. I shut the door, resting my back against the mirror hanging on it. I’d told Angelique I was going to cry my eyes out, but my eyes were dry. My head, however, was pounding from rage—I finally knew where the phrase “my blood was boiling” came from. I could feel it simmering in my veins, as I grabbed Randi’s grimoire from under my mattress, scouring it for anything I could use against Megan. It was Randi’s spell that helped me save Brendan, after all. And I wanted vengeance. I wanted justice. I wanted
something
other than just sitting there, letting Megan call the shots—and right now, this was the only thing I could think of that felt like I was doing something.

After a few hours, my phone buzzed, interrupting my study session.

Typed up your Ethan dream and emailed it to you. Add any more details you can think of. The answer has to be in there.

I wrote Angelique back, and we made plans to rehash the dream over lunch. We’d hide out in the lab so Angelique didn’t have to brave “the pasture.” I pulled out my laptop, rubbing a polish remover-soaked cotton pad on my nails as I waited for it to load. My knuckles looked like I’d been teething on them—and every time Brendan glanced at them, he’d recoil—so I gave myself a manicure. A little cosmetic bandage on the situation couldn’t hurt, I figured.
You know things are dire when the best you can do is have pretty nails.

As I read Angelique’s email, I thought more about the dream—the way the darkness overtook the sun—and realized Ethan must have been trying to warn me about Brendan’s possession. But I couldn’t figure out the “mirror it or you’ll fall” line. I considered it, wondering if
mirror
was a code for me showing Brendan his true face? The eyes are supposed to be the mirrors of the soul…maybe that was it?

Or maybe Megan was going to use a cut piece of mirror to slice me open when I met her on Wednesday as a last resort. I shuddered at the idea. I wouldn’t put anything creepy past her.

I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. The solution was in front of me, somewhere. Looking back, Ethan had given me clues on how to break the curse that damned me—the answer was there all along, I just didn’t see it at the time.

I went back to reading the grimoire, but after another hour, my eyelids got heavy. This time, I didn’t fight sleep. But before I passed out, I had an idea. I’ve fallen asleep after watching a zombie movie and had dreams of the undead trying to eat my face. I’d passed out after playing video games and had the graphics pop up in my dreams. Why couldn’t I try to force the direction of my dream?

Focus on Ethan. Focus on getting an answer.
And I let the darkness take me, my thoughts of witchcraft and my twin’s cryptic warnings mingling with the
subconscious thoughts that were starting to creep in.

My soft purple sheets turned to dewy blades of grass under my fingertips, the comfy sweatshirt I was wearing turned coarse. A chilly breeze danced over my face, tickling my damp cheek.

And then I heard weeping—but it wasn’t mine, even though my eyes felt like I’d been crying. The despairing, muffled sobs came from nearby. I braced my palms against the grass and heaved myself off the ground, looking around the dark scene before me. I was on a hilltop, staring at a large, luminous moon, the rusty color of old blood. I reached my hand out—it was so close I thought I could stroke the rough surface with my fingertip. A large fire burned and raged at the very summit of the hill, the sulfur-scented smoke stinging my nostrils and making my tearful eyes water even more.

I stood, my cheek stinging for some reason, and my steps faltered. My robes were heavy, the thick, rough fabric weighed down with caked-on dirt as I stumbled through the grass, searching for the weeping girl. I wanted to console her. I felt like she was me.

I shoved my way through a cluster of women in long black robes similar to my own. Some were what could have been considered pretty, if it weren’t for their harsh, hard faces. Others were aged, with deep, world-weary lines carved in their faces. But they all had one thing in common: they sneered at me with broken, yellowed teeth, as I pushed my way through to see what they were gathered around. On the ground was a grieving woman—but she was really more girl than woman. She was young, probably my age, and she clutched a young man to her breast, rocking him gently as her hands clutched the torn, brown fabric of his tunic. His sleeves were shredded, revealing arms that were bare and covered in deep cuts—but although he was bloodstained, he didn’t bleed. Because he was drained. Because he was dead. The girl looked up at me through tangled fair hair, pointing an accusing finger.

“You did this! You could have saved him!” The maiden screamed before the horde descended on her, attacking her with their athames, her clear cries becoming strangulated, then muffled, then finally falling silent. I backed away, horrified, a nagging feeling of guilt gnawing at the pit of my stomach.

Standing on the edge of the fire, the wind blowing her white hair around, was the leader. She stood with her back to us, holding a goblet, and viscous, dark liquid dripped from her fingers. I knew her. She was the Old One. She had slapped me earlier, I suddenly remembered—and then I remembered everything.

Reaching behind me, my fingertips brushed an athame at the small of my back, tucked into the coarse rope holding my robe together. I gripped it in my hand, holding the carved handle as if my life depended on it. Because it did, I remembered.
Our
lives did—because after she killed me, she was going to kill Brendan. Only his name wasn’t Brendan here. He was called Silas.

And he was why I was on the hill, surrounded by this sinister coven. He’s why I had pretended to go along with the old hag’s wretched plot: to protect
my
true love. Silas is why I hadn’t saved the young man when I had the opportunity, even though I knew him. Even though I knew his love—Agnes and I had been friends since childhood. I’d begged them to flee our village, but she wouldn’t believe me. Agnes thought my warnings were just fanciful tales, chuckling at my impressive imagination. It was only a matter of time before the old witch stumbled upon the young couple, strolling in the woods. There, she discovered their love—their true love. She swiftly ordered the coven to kidnap the young lovers to satisfy her bloodlust. My friends cried out, pleading for help as she kept them captive. It tormented me, but I couldn’t risk releasing them and being exposed before I killed the old witch. I’d been waiting for the moment to remove the Old One as a threat. I had to be selfish, ruthless, even though I’d wept over my sin, ashamed I would passively stand by and let someone die to keep Silas safe. And now, I had my chance to kill the old hag. Her back was to me. She was oblivious to the scene, rejoicing in her own gory victory. She wouldn’t see me coming.

Noiselessly my bare feet swiftly ran through the grass. I raised my blade, aiming for her neck. But she whirled around, grabbing my arm as I held the athame high to plunge it in her back.

“Your rebellion is amusing, you foolish child,” the Old One cackled. Her claws sliced open the cord I wore around my wrist, and the silver medallion I always wore fell into the plush grass, along with a stream of blood as her razor-sharp nails gouged the flesh on my wrist.

“You need to bleed,” I choked out, grabbing her hand and wrestling with her. The old crone was stronger than I expected.
Much
stronger. The blood had already given her power.

“Me?” she scoffed with a braying laugh. “You pitiful excuse for a witch! You should have stabbed yourself!”

We grappled with the knife, but she had the strength of ten women. I kicked at the witch’s knees, which were locked immobile. She was like stone.

She grinned at my feeble efforts. “I suspected all along the true reason you joined my coven.” She sneered, a delighted, maniacal grin stretching across her papery face. “Protecting
your
true love? Silas, isn’t it?”

“You shall not hurt him!” I cried, beginning to panic.

“Perhaps your rebellion should have come
before
I drank the elixir, you fool.” She cackled, and turned the blade in my direction.

The Old One fell on top of me, grinning wildly, baring bloodstained, broken teeth as the blade plunged into my shoulder. I started shaking uncontrollably, until blinding slits of light appeared at the corners of her mouth, dividing her head in half. The light expanded—searing light replacing the scene before me, the witch’s gleeful face morphing into my aunt’s worried one as she shook me awake.

“Emma, wake up,” she pleaded, shaking my sore shoulders.

“I’m up! I’m up! I’m…on the floor? How did I get on the floor?” I asked, looking around, disoriented. My head was still half in my dream, but my body was tangled in my comforter on the floor of my bedroom, my bangs plastered to my sweaty face, and the bright overhead light was on.

“I heard you fighting with someone—I thought you were being attacked in your room!” Aunt Christine fretted—and that’s when I noticed the baseball bat on the bed.

“Where’d you get the Louisville Slugger?” I pointed to the pale lacquered wooden bat, and she smiled self-consciously.

“Your beau gave it to me after the, um, problem last autumn,” she admitted, smoothing out the collar on her pink nightgown. “At first I thought he was overreacting—”

“He was,” I groaned, a little embarrassed.
Next he’ll install a guillotine in your bedroom window.
“Brendan has a tendency to overreact where I’m concerned.”

“Maybe, but when I heard you screaming, I was glad it was in my closet.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t practice your swing on me.” I eyed the heavy bat warily as I tried to get my footing, but my sock-covered feet kept slipping on my comforter.

“You could have used that bat in your dream, from the sounds of it,” Aunt Christine said, holding her hand out and helping me off the floor. “What was it about?”

“I was a good witch, fighting an evil witch.” I grinned as I popped up, delighting in
finally
being able to tell my aunt something that was true.

“It sounds horrible,” she observed, picking up my comforter and throwing it on the bed. I followed it, jumping back in and settling among the sheets before handing her the bat.

“It was,” I admitted, rubbing my shoulder as I remembered how the dream ended. “I wasn’t winning the fight.” But could I have? Something the old witch said stuck in my head… .

“Well, dear, it was just a dream,” she said, brushing my bangs back to kiss me on my forehead. “There are no witches. They just exist in fairy tales.”

And in my high school.
I guiltily looked down, pretending to be immersed in smoothing out my comforter.

“Sorry I woke you up,” I called as she headed to the door and flicked the overhead light switch on the wall off. “Good night, Aunt Christine.”

“Good night, dear,” she said softly, pulling my door shut. As soon as I heard the click, I got out of bed and grabbed my laptop, replaying the dream in my head. But it wasn’t just a dream—it was the story Randi had read to us, yet another past life documented in
Hadrian’s.
It was a past life that was threatening to repeat itself now, as I battled another evil witch looking to bleed me for her own glory. I opened up my email and began furiously typing a new message to Angelique. The seed of a plan was starting to form in my head—I just needed a few more pieces to fall into place.

* * *

Brendan was waiting for me the next morning, lounging against the service entrance of the neighboring building—the alcove where we shared our very first kiss. He had a stylish pair of dark sunglasses on, his black hair hanging in his face even more than usual, which I didn’t think was humanly possible. Brendan kept his hands in his pockets as we walked to the car service, so I pulled his hand out and forced him to hold mine. I could tell he was still beating himself up over yesterday.