Charmed (2 page)

She lapses into silence. It’s my turn to speak now, if I’m going to.

My brain fires a million miles a minute, trying to process all the new information. I don’t know how to feel. All I know is that I’m still angry.

And so I say nothing. After a while she leaves.

When I’m sure she’s gone, I roll onto my back and think about everything my aunt said. One minute I decide she couldn’t have done anything to help without her magic, that she could have been burned alive if she’d tried, but the next I decide she’s the most selfish person in Los Angeles—nay, the world—for valuing her life over mine. I’m so confused about how to feel that I become resentful of Aunt Penny all over again for making me use this much headspace on her when there’s a bigger issue going on: Paige is missing.

I haven’t admitted it to anyone—not even to myself—but I feel like I’m failing her. Statistics say if you don’t find a missing person within forty-eight hours, they’re likely dead.

It’s been sixteen days.

Bishop and I have searched for her everywhere, done every spell imaginable. I’ve replayed the voice-mail message Leo left me over and over, trying to get a hint, listening for something I might have missed. But nothing. If I’d only known Paige had been taken hostage by Leo the night of homecoming instead of safely watching a marathon of
Jeopardy!
at Jessie’s house, I never would have let him die. Not until we’d found her. And now we’re reduced to questioning various lowlifes of Bishop’s acquaintance for information, and though he won’t say it, I know he’s wondering if it’s hopeless.

But I won’t give up.

When that thought even dares to flicker into my mind, all I have to do is think of Paige—of her bangs falling over thick-rimmed leopard-print glasses, of the violin case hiked over her shoulders, of her unlaced Doc Martens and fishnets worn way before hipster clothes went mainstream, of her dashing across the street at two in the morning when I needed help, just to be a good friend—and I know I won’t give up. I’m her only hope. It’s too late for Mom, but not Paige. Not yet.

My phone vibrates on the end table, Bishop’s name flashing across the screen. I remember I was supposed to call him.

“Bonding with your aunt yet?” he asks.

“Yeah, if that’s what you want to call it.” I wipe my nose with my sleeve, because no one’s watching and I can.

“So it didn’t go well then, huh? Are you upset?”

“I’ll be fine,” I answer unconvincingly. I start picking at a loose thread on my quilt.

“So I have a plan,” he says. “It involves a violin and a fat man.”

“I’m not in the mood for joking,” I mutter.

“I’m serious. About the violin part, anyway. Can you get Paige’s violin? Unless you’d rather we sneak into her bedroom, which is also doable.”

“What?” I sit up, like it’s going to help me understand his crazy talk a bit better.

“We’re going to try a locating spell. Paige was always lugging that violin around, so I figured it’d be good for the personal-object part of the ceremony.”

“A locating spell? But I thought you said we couldn’t do one because we were missing the key ingredient—the magic mushroom or whatever.”

“I did. And we were. I found it.”

“You said it was impossible. If it was so easy, then why didn’t you find it earlier?”

“Who said it was easy? I got a tip. And I had all this free time on my hands after my girlfriend moved out, so it was either follow that tip or turn to booze and strippers. It was a tough call but the tip won out.”

I huff. “So where did you find the mushroom?”

“In this delightful little west-facing valley in Erlbach. We should really go there sometime. You’d love—”

“Erlbach?”

“Yeah. In Germany.”

“You went to Germany,” I say, incredulous.

“Yep.”

“In the last couple of hours?”

“Yep.”

“After I left your house?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” he says. “I’m getting offended. I am a practiced warlock, you know. So think you can get it? The violin.”

My mind slips back to the morning after Paige went missing, when I’d knocked on her front door. I’d expected Mrs. Abernathy to be a mess of snot and tears, but instead our conversation went something like this:

Okay, so that’s not
exactly
how it went. But still. It was obvious she’d been brainwashed by someone, and she wasn’t concerned Paige was gone.

“It’s not at her house,” I say.

“How can you be sure?” he asks.

“I looked around after Mrs. Abernathy told me about the music school.”

During tea—that part actually happened—Mrs. Abernathy had broken the news to me that, due to a medical emergency with another student, Paige had been accepted late to the fancy-schmancy music school she’d applied to. Her mom didn’t seem the least bit disturbed about the fact that she’d left in the middle of the night, on a weekend, midterm.

“Think Leo took it?” he asks. “You know, since she’s supposed to be at this music school.”

“Too much foresight for a grunt like him,” I mutter.

“Hmm,” Bishop says. “How ’bout her locker at school?”

“That’s if she even has a locker anymore. She transferred, according to the school administrators. They might have emptied it already.”

“Can you check?” he asks.

“You mean go to school?”

“I know. I hate to suggest such a torturous plan,” Bishop chides.

I groan. It feels like centuries since I’ve been to school. “Well, I guess Aunt Penny’s going to make me go anyway. She started talking about my grades slipping and me not
getting into college like I actually care about that right now. God, she’s impossible.”

“Yeah, what a bitch,” he says without any real heat behind it. “So you get the violin, and I’ll get the other stuff ready. Pick you up after school?”

“Sure.”

Then there’s this awkward pause that’s been happening a lot lately. We’ve been dating for less than a month, but sharing a bathroom and running for your lives together tends to make a couple close. A simple goodbye doesn’t seem like enough. Finally, I mumble a goodnight and end the call.

I pull my body up to sitting and catch a glimpse of Paige’s bedroom window glaring back at me accusingly through a break in my curtains. I cross over to my window.

All my life, Paige has lived so close I could reach out and touch her house if I wanted to, but instead I listened to Bianca when she’d said I couldn’t afford to be friends with a loser. I wasted all those years pushing away the only real friend I’d ever had, and now she was gone.

The lampposts on Fuller Avenue flicker on, and I realize the sky has become the blue-gray color that comes just before full dark. My eyes are gritty and heavy with exhaustion. I know every minute counts, but I’m just so tired. I haven’t been able to get in more than fitful naps since the night of homecoming—how could I, when Paige was out there somewhere, in danger?—but now it’s almost impossible to stay awake.

I wake up sweat-soaked and gasping for air. I blink my eyes open into the damp pillow, the image of Mom from my nightmare—of her bound to a chair under the spotlight of a single bulb, a steady flow of thick blood oozing out around the knife buried in her temple—seared into my brain. My heart gives a painful twist. I do everything in my power not to think about Mom’s gory death during waking hours, but it always finds me at night.

I wordlessly reach for Bishop, but all I find are cold sheets. It takes me a moment to realize I’m not at his house. And that something woke me.

The floorboards under the carpet creak behind me.

“I was sleeping,” I say, irritated. Though I’m actually relieved to be woken up, whether or not it’s for another sob session with Aunt Penny. My alarm clock flashes 1:26 a.m. in bright blue numbers; I probably could have slept all night. That’s just unacceptable when Paige is missing.

Aunt Penny doesn’t take the hint, though, and I need her to go away so I can sneak out. Growling, I roll over onto my back. “Can’t this wait, I’m really—”

My words die in my throat. It’s not Aunt Penny.

I
scuttle up against the headboard, my heartbeat rapid-fire in my chest. The figure, much taller than my aunt, remains in the shadows, leaning against the wall opposite my bed.

Watching me.

“Who are you?” I demand.

It’s silent a moment, and all I can hear is the sound of my heart thumping in my ears.

Then: laughter. Not a menacing snicker, but genuine, belly-clutching giggles.

Confusion gives way to indignation, and I gain enough sense to flick on my bedside lamp. Jezebel clamps a hand
over her mouth to stifle her laughter, which only seems to get louder when I give her a venomous glare.

Jezebel’s been MIA ever since the swamp debacle sixteen days ago. Not that I tried to find her or anything (I make it a point not to reach out to my boyfriend’s hot exes, especially when they’re as bitchy and self-centered as Jezebel). But apparently she hasn’t been suffering too badly. Jezebel looks like she just stepped off a catwalk: a vision of high cheekbones, enviable curves, and shiny auburn hair falling in perfect curls over her shoulders. The hooker even makes jeans and a tank top look cutting edge.

I don’t know what the hell she’s doing in my room, but something tells me it isn’t because she wants to paint my nails and have a pillow fight.

After a few minutes, she finally gets control of her laughter and straightens up.

“Done?” I ask.

She wipes tears from the corner of her eyes. “God, you should have seen your face.”

“I’m glad you found that amusing. You do know the last time someone broke into my bedroom it was Frederick, and that he kidnapped and killed my mom?”

The smile drops off her face. “Right, forgot about that. Sorry.”

I’m sure.

“What are you doing here anyway?” I demand.

“Just came to see how you’re doing. You look like shit, by the way.”

I cross my arms, hyperaware of my puffy, bloodshot eyes and snarl of curls. “I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to visit my stylist since my best friend went missing.”

Jezebel shrugs.

“So where have you been?” I ask.

“None of your business.”

“
Okay
, so what are you really doing here?”

“I’m offended, Indie.” She ambles over to the computer desk next to my nightstand and falls into the little wooden chair. “But…since we’re both here, there
is
something I wanted to talk about.”

Ding, ding, ding!

Jezebel leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, giving me an intense stare. “The Family, they really screwed us over, didn’t they? It’s not like they just created this fake Bible and sent it out into the world not knowing what deadly consequences could arise from it; they knew the Priory was gunning for it, knew you were being targeted, and they didn’t help—they even agreed to help us on the night of homecoming and then didn’t show up. They knew we’d die and they didn’t care, just as long as their own Bible was safe.”

“Yes, thanks for the reminder,” I say dryly.

“The Family is supposed to lead us. Protect us. They’re
supposed to uphold the law for witches and warlocks everywhere, but how can we trust them when they’d do this to their own people?”

“We can’t,” I agree.

“Exactly.” She leans even farther forward, a fiery glint in her eyes. “That’s why we have to get rid of them.”

My heart falls into my stomach. “Get rid of them?”

“Exact our revenge,” she says, and now her eyes look downright maniacal. “Let them know they can’t do this anymore. Take away their power and give it to someone who would rule fairly.”

I snort. “Like who, you?”

“No, not me.” She dismisses me with a wave. “I don’t know who, just not them. They’re murderers, Ind. Don’t you understand? It wasn’t the Priory who killed your mom—it was the Family. It was because of them that the sorcerers were after you guys in the first place.”

I think about it. She’s right, in a way. “So what are you suggesting?”

A smile creeps onto her face, and I’m suddenly not so sure I want to know the answer to that.

“We use them as bait, just like they did with us. How many people were at your homecoming dance? A couple hundred?”

Dread pinches my nerves.

“A couple hundred people saw a dragon chase you through the ceiling of the Athenaeum.” She pauses to let that sink in.
“And yet not
one
person has come forward to accuse you of witchcraft. Not one picture, not one cell-phone video has leaked to the Internet. How is that possible?”

I already know the answer. I just didn’t want to acknowledge that I was the reason that hundreds of my classmates had their memories erased. I was once a victim of that myself, and I still feel sick to my stomach when I think about what might have happened to me before my memory was wiped. I wouldn’t wish that feeling—one of such deep violation—on my worst enemy (i.e., on Bianca Cavanaugh).

“So what’s that got to do with your plan?” I ask.

“It’s the
key
to the plan,” she answers cryptically. “We know the Family will come running if there’s a chance the public could find out about witches. It’s a risk to their very lives. Sorcerers can’t kill a witch without draining themselves of their own powers—not without
The Witch Hunter’s Bible
—but a human? A human could kill a witch. And look at what happened the last time the public thought witches existed. They can’t risk a repeat of the Salem witch trials.”

I have an idea where this is going, though I wish I didn’t.

“All we have to do is stage something big—something that would get the Family to race over to clean up the mess and make sure there are no witnesses—then hit them with force when they’re caught off guard.” Jezebel leans back and drapes her arm over the chair back, satisfied. “I haven’t thought of the perfect thing yet, but it’d have to be big. We could blow something up—”

“Blow something up?” I shriek.

“I know,” Jezebel says. “That wouldn’t really work. The public might think it was terrorist activity. It’d have to be something obviously paranormal.”

I feel dangerously close to puking up my pork chop.

“It’d have to make the news too,” she adds, lost in thought, her eyes focused on the middle distance. “Have to involve an L.A. landmark of some kind, something that people really care about. Maybe the Capitol Records building or the Staples Center. Oooh!” She straightens up excitedly. “LAX!”

“Jezebel,” I say. “Are you crazy?”

Her smile melts into a scowl. “That’s exactly what Bishop said.”

“You talked to Bishop?” I ask before I realize how jealous I sound—correct that: am.

“He didn’t tell you? Interesting.”

So like Jezebel to latch on to my weakness like a vulture. The simmering heat in my core rises.

“I don’t like the Family any more than you do,” I say carefully, steering us back on topic, “but you’re talking about putting innocent lives at risk. I wouldn’t want any part of your plan even if I had the time to care about the Family. My best friend is missing, and all I care about right now is finding her.”

“You’re so small-minded,” she spits, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Think about someone other than yourself for once. This is for the good of our people, not just you.”

“Oh please,” I retort. “You can act like this is all for the greater good and blah blah blah, but it’s obvious you just want to get back at the Family for bruising your little ego.”

She stands up, her beautiful features twisted in anger. I kick off the blankets and stand too, though I wish I hadn’t when I only come up to her chin (and I’m not short, not by a long shot).

“Can I get you a step stool?” she asks, giving a condescending laugh.

“Get out,” I demand through gritted teeth.

It takes her a moment to realize I’m serious. I swear I actually see her eyes turn a darker shade of green. “You’re going to regret this,” she says, staring down her nose at me.

“Not as much as you’re going to regret it if you don’t get the hell out of my room,” I counter.

She tosses her head and laughs again, and the heat of my magic surges up into my chest.

“You?” she says, pointing at me. “Are threatening
me
? You forget I’ve been a witch for
a lot
longer than you, honey. Not a smart move.”

The heat stings my fingertips, growing hotter and hotter until it’s almost unbearable. “Get out,” I repeat.

“You’re the crazy one,” she says. “Look at you. What are you gonna do, huh? Attack me? I’ve seen your skills before, and trust me, they’re not that impressive.”

“Get. Out.”

“Screw you,” she says darkly. “You couldn’t stop the
Priory when your own mother’s life was at risk. What makes you think you can stop me if I wanted to hurt you now?”

I don’t think before I act. All the anger overwhelms me, and I just want to hurt her. I hold out both my hands, and a blast of wind shoots from them, so powerful I can see the air currents. It rocks Jezebel back off her feet and she almost smashes into the window. Almost. She disappears before that can happen.

Vanishes into thin air.