Bloody Valentine (3 page)

O
liver did not know how long he waited, standing on the sidewalk with a bouquet of lilies, but around four in the morning, she finally arrived. She was still wearing the puffy flak jacket from the other night, but this time she had kept the hood down, and her curly hair danced in the breeze.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and Oliver was relieved to notice she did not sound angry, only mildly amused. “Hold this,” she said, handing him her grocery bag as she removed her keys from her purse.

“I waited for you at the Holiday. You never showed,” he said. “Did I do something wrong? Do you not want to see me?”

Freya shook her head and unlocked the main door. They walked up the narrow staircase. “How did you find me?” she asked, as she led the way into her apartment.

Oliver crinkled his brow. It had been difficult. He had been sure she lived on Seventh Street and Avenue C. But he had walked the entire block and not come across the Korean deli or the shabby tenement building with the red awning. He had all but given up when he realized it was right in front of him. How had he not noticed before?

“I don’t know, really.” Oliver settled into one of the cozy chairs. “What happened to the Holiday? It’s different. You’re not there.”

“I sold it. I’m moving.”

“Why?”

“It was time,” she said. She crossed her arms. “You look better.”

“Thanks to you,” he said.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Sure.” He waited while she boiled water and fixed him a cup. When she placed the teacup in front of him, he took her hand and held it for a long while. He wanted her so much. She looked down at him. For a moment they stood without speaking.

“I thought I had done everything I needed to do,” she finally said.

“Why are you keeping me away? I’m not a boy.” He pulled her closer and she sat on his lap.

She ruffled his hair. “No, you’re not. You’re right.”

He leaned over and kissed her. He had never kissed a girl other than Schuyler. But this time, he wasn’t thinking at all of Schuyler, only of Freya.

Freya smelled like milk and honey and the wonderful scent of spring. He felt her move against him, and he pulled her closer so that he could put his hand on her chest. He felt his heart begin to pound—he was so nervous—what was he doing?—he did not know how to do this—had not planned for this—and yet…he heard Freya sigh, but it was not a sigh of exasperation…it was the sound of acceptance and invitation.

“Come with me,” she said, and led him to the bed.

She undressed and slipped underneath the covers. She looked as beautiful as a Botticelli painting. Oliver’s hands trembled as he quickly removed his clothing and joined her under the blankets. He was so nervous—what if she laughed? What if he did it wrong somehow? Could one get it wrong? He wasn’t so innocent, but he wasn’t so experienced either. What if she didn’t like what he…. Her body was warm and inviting, and he fell on her like a thirsty man in front of a waterfall. He stopped doubting. Stopped worrying. Stopped feeling nervous.

It was his first time. With Schuyler, they had been waiting for the right time, or perhaps they had waited because they knew the right time would never arrive. It didn’t matter. Only Freya mattered now.

Her hands felt warm and light on his body, and he shivered against her. Her soft mouth on his neck kissed him sweetly. She pulled him ever closer, and then they were joined together. Her body rippled underneath him, and he looked into her eyes and heard her cry out for him.

There was so much to feel, so much to see. He was in and outside of his body, in and outside of his blood. He was flying above the ceiling, looking at the two of them from below, marveling at how sleek and slippery their limbs were as they rolled together, the beautiful shape they made, their bodies intertwined. It felt as if she were turning him inside out, and all he could do was keep doing what he was doing, and he felt her all around and inside his body and inside his soul.

When it was over, he was covered in sweat and shaking. He opened his eyes and saw he was still in the same room, looking at the same cracked ceiling. “I love you,” he said, over and over again. “I love you, Freya.”

Freya looked at him tenderly. “No, you don’t, my darling. But you are no longer in pain.”

T
he next morning they had breakfast at Veselka, a Ukrainian diner that was famous for its borscht. Oliver felt ravenous and energized. He did not know if it was the loss of sleep or the love they had made, but he felt like a new man. He felt sufficiently brave enough to ask Freya the question he had been dreading the moment he noticed the Holiday had been irrevocably changed.

“Where are you going?” he asked, spearing a pierogi and covering it with sour cream.

“My family is moving back home. To North Hampton.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated,” she said ruefully. “A story for another day.”

Oliver settled against the booth, feeling the cracked leather dig into his skin. Did he feel better? Different? Worse? Better. Definitely better. He touched the side of his neck. He did not feel the same throb there.

Schuyler. He could say her name. He could remember her without the pain. Remember and honor their love, their friendship, but no longer be tortured by her absence. It was as if Schuyler was behind glass. Part of his past but no longer the torment of his future. He missed his friend. But he would survive her loss.
Her
loss.

He put down his fork. “Who are you? What are you?” he asked Freya.

“I’m a witch.” She smiled. “But then I think you already knew that, scribe.”

“You know about the Blue Bloods?”

“Yes. Of course. We have to. But we keep away from their business. My family does not like to…intervene. But you were a special case.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“Maybe,” Freya said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think you’ll need to.”

She was right. He did not love her. He had loved her last night, as it was love that they had shared together. And now she was going away, but it was all right.

Oliver was himself again. He had the memories of his time as Schuyler’s human familiar, but he no longer felt the ache of need, the suffering in his very soul. Whatever he had felt for Schuyler had not been removed forcibly. Instead, his love had been absorbed and dispersed into his spirit. It would always be a part of him, but it did not have the power to hurt him anymore. Freya had done this. She had healed him. Freya, the witch.

“Thank you.” He rose to kiss her on the forehead. “Thank you so much.”

“Oh, sweetheart, it was my pleasure.”

One last hug, and then they parted.

Oliver walked down the street in the opposite direction. His cell phone began to vibrate, and when he saw the number, he answered it immediately. He listened for a moment, and his face broke into a smile. “Really? Wow. Congratulations. When? Of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Freya Beauchamp’s Scrambled Eggs for the Brokenhearted*

(
For those who like their breakfasts fortified by a little magic
)

eggs

salt

heavy cream

black pepper

chopped fresh mint

butter

As you chop the mint, repeat these lines:

Whisk the eggs with the cream in a bowl. Add the chopped mint, salt, and pepper. Melt the butter on a pan over medium heat. Add the egg mixture; cook two minutes without stirring. Using a large spoon, gently turn over until it is cooked through but still soft.

Garnish with mint sprigs.

Serves one broken heart and one friendly one.

—Adapted from
The Book of White Magic
by Ingrid Beauchamp

*For more about Freya and her spellcipes, watch out for
Witches of East End
, due Summer 2011 from Hyperion.

Endicott Academy

Endicott, Massachusetts, 1985

W
hen Allegra Van Alen woke up, her head hurt and it took her a moment to recognize her surroundings. She was wearing a hospital gown, but she knew she was still at Endicott, since the view outside her room showed the white clapboard chapel in the distance. She must be in the student clinic then, which was confirmed by the appearance of the school nurse holding a tray of cookies.

Mrs. Anderson was a universally beloved caregiver who watched over the students with a motherly eye and always made sure there was fresh fruit in the refectory. She walked in with a concerned smile. “How are you feeling, dear?”

“I guess I’ll survive,” Allegra said ruefully. “What happened?”

“Accident on the field. They said you got hit by the ball.”

“Ouch.” She grimaced, scratching the bandage around her forehead.

“You’re lucky; doctor said it would have taken out a Red Blood.”

“How long was I out?”

“Just a few hours.”

“Any chance I can get out of here today? I have a Latin test tomorrow, and I have to study.” Allegra groaned. Like the rest of the school, the clinic was comfortable enough. It was housed in a cozy New England cottage, with white wicker furniture and bright floral curtains. But right then she wanted nothing more than to be in the refuge of her own room, with its black-and-white Cure posters, old-fashioned rolltop secretary desk, and newly purchased Walkman, so she could be alone and listen to Depeche Mode. Even in the clinic, she could hear strains of a Bob Dylan song wafting from the open windows. Everyone else at school listened to the same music from twenty years ago, as if prep-school life was stuck in a sixties time warp. Allegra had nothing against Dylan, but she didn’t see the need for all the angst.

Mrs. Anderson shook her head as she fluffed Allegra’s pillows and set her patient back against the feathery plumpness. “Not just yet. Dr. Perry’s coming in from New York to check on you in a bit. Your mother insisted.”

Allegra sighed. Of course Cordelia would insist. Her mother watched over her like a hawk, with more than the usual maternal concern. Cordelia approached motherhood as if it were akin to guarding a precious Ming vase. She treated her daughter with kid gloves, and always acted as if Allegra was one nervous breakdown away from being sent to the nuthouse, even though anyone could see that Allegra was the very picture of health. She was popular, cheerful, athletic, and spirited.

Life under Cordelia’s care was suffocating, to say the least. It was why Allegra could not wait until she turned eighteen and got out of the house for good. Her mother’s all-consuming anxiety over her well-being was one of the reasons she had campaigned to transfer out of Duchesne and enroll at Endicott. In New York, Cordelia’s influence was inescapable. More than anything, Allegra just wanted to be free.

Mrs. Anderson finished taking her temperature and put away the thermometer. “You have a few visitors waiting outside. Shall I send them in?”

“Sure.” Allegra nodded. Her head was starting to feel a little better—either from the melted chocolate in Mrs. Anderson’s famous cookies or from the massive painkillers, she wasn’t sure.

“All right, team, you can come in. But don’t tire her. I can’t have her relapse now. Gentle, gentle.” With a last smile, the friendly nurse left the room. In a moment, Allegra’s hospital bed was surrounded by the entire girls’ field hockey team. They crowded around, breathless and windswept, still wearing their uniforms: green plaid kilts, white polo shirts, and green knee-high socks.

“Oh my god!” “Are you okay?” “Dude, that thing careened off your head!” “We’re gonna get that bitch from Northfield Mount Hermon next time!” “Don’t worry, they got flagged!” “Oh my god, you totally blacked out! We were sure we couldn’t see you till tomorrow!”

The cheerful cacophony filled the room, and Allegra grinned. “It’s all right. I got free cookies; you guys want some?” she asked, pointing to the platter by the windowsill. The girls fell on the cookies like a hungry mob.

“Wait—you guys haven’t told me! Did we win?” Allegra asked.

“What do you think? We kicked ass, Captain.” Birdie Belmont, Allegra’s best friend and roommate, gave her a mock salute that would have been more impressive if she hadn’t been holding a giant chocolate chip cookie in her right hand.

The girls gossiped conspiratorially when a male voice interrupted from the other side of the curtain that divided the room in two. “Hey, you guys have cookies over there? Aren’t you going to share?”

The team giggled. “Your neighbor,” Birdie whispered. “I think he’s hungry.”

“Excuse me?” Allegra called. She hadn’t even noticed that she was sharing a room until now. Maybe she
had
suffered a pretty hard blow to the head and not just a run-of-the-mill field injury.

Rory Antonini, a talented midfielder with the best scoring percentage in the league, pulled back the curtain that separated the room. “Hey, Bendix,” the girls chorused.

Bendix Chase was the most popular boy in their class. It wasn’t hard to figure out why: at six feet three, he looked a bit like a young blond giant, with his broad shoulders and powerful build. His face resembled that of a Greek god’s: with a fine brow, a perfect nose, and cut-glass cheekbones. He had a dimple on each cheek, and his clear, cornflower-blue eyes twinkled with fun. He was lying on a hospital bed with his right leg in a cast. He waved cheerfully.

“When are you getting out?” asked Darcy Sedrik, their goaltender, as she handed him the almost empty plate of cookies.

“Today. Cast is finally coming off. Thank god—I’m tired of hopping to class,” Bendix said, nodding his gratitude for the cookie. “What happened to you?” he asked Allegra.

“Merely a flesh wound,” she said, pointing to her gauze turban and affecting a British accent.

“At least you still have your arms,” Bendix mused with a smile at the Monty Python quote.

Allegra tried not to seem overly charmed that he had picked up the reference so quickly.

She didn’t want to appear as just another of his googly-eyed fan club, as the entire field hockey team had now migrated over to his side of the room to sign his cast with heart-shaped dots over their i’s and innumerable X’s and O’s.

“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Anderson declared, reappearing in her starched white uniform. There was another chorus of “Aww” as she shooed the girls out. She was about to close the curtain that separated her two patients when Bendix asked if they could keep it open.

“I hope you don’t mind. It gets a bit claustrophobic. And your side has the TV,” he said.

“Sure.” Allegra shrugged. She and Bendix knew each other, of course, as Stuart Endicott Academy, like the Duchesne School, was a small and tight-knit community of the breathtakingly advantaged children of the elite. However, unlike the rest of the female population, she did not swoon in his presence. She found his all-American good looks a bit too obvious, too Hollywood movie star, too universally admired. Bendix looked like the jock from
The Breakfast Club
, except even more handsome. And Bendix wasn’t just good looking and athletic and adored, he was also, shockingly, for a boy of his privilege and status—kind. Allegra noticed that far from being an arrogant snob who stalked the halls with his massive ego, Bendix was genuinely nice to everyone, even her brother Charles, which was saying something.

Still, even if the most gorgeous boy at Endicott was sitting mere feet away, watching music videos with her (why on earth was Eddie Murphy singing? And what was up with that striped shirt he was wearing?), Allegra paid him no more thought.