Jinx (17 page)

But I barely heard her. Because I was thinking,
What if what Lisa had said was true, and all of the awful things that had happened to me hadn't been caused by bad luck, but by fear…fear turned inward? Fear of what I really was.

Fear of WHO I really was.

The magic will save me. Branwen will save me……if I embrace that which I fear.

And suddenly, my mind emptied. Instead, I thought about the magic and how it could save me. I thought about the moon, so bright and high, with that rainbow around it. I thought about the roses bursting into bloom all around the garden. I thought about Branwen, and how she'd given me back my necklace, and how calm I'd felt after I'd seen her, smiling, beside my bed.

And I thought about Zach, right next door. All he had to do was just look out his window. Then he'd see the gazebo…he'd see me.

“I don't know how much longer I can hold her.” Gretchen's voice sounded shaky with fear. I hadn't noticed that before. But now, it was as if all my senses had been heightened. I was aware of the smell of roses in the air, so sweet.

Wake up, Zach. Look at the moon, Zach. I'm here, Zach. I'm down here.

“Fine.” Tory looked furious. “Then just shut up and watch while I do my thing.”

Tory then proceeded to “do her thing” by holding up the knife so that the blade glinted in the moonlight that sliced through the glass ceiling of the gazebo. Then Tory intoned, “In the name of Hecate, and Branwen, and…and all of the witches in creation, I draw from this woman that which rightfully belongs to me.”

She signaled for Lindsey to reach down and grab my bound wrists—which she did, though I struggled to keep them from her, while at the same time struggling to break free from Gretchen's heavy grasp—and hold
them out across the chalice.

And, without the slightest bit of hesitation, Tory started to bring down the shiny blade she held.

Which was when three things happened simultaneously. Lindsey let go of my hands and cried, “Oh my God, Tory! You can't
really
—”

And I raised my knee against the underside of the table as hard as I could, tipping the heavy glass—and the chalice, the candles, and mushroom potion on top of it—toward Tory.

And I heard the gazebo door crash open, and a familiar, masculine voice say, “What the
hell
is going on here?”

“Zach!” Tory cried, scrambling to her feet. “Oh my God! What are you doing here? How nice of you to drop by!”

Zach, however, didn't seem to be in the mood for social niceties. Maybe it was the glass tabletop that had rolled over onto the hem of Tory's skirt, which she was trying desperately—yet casually—to pull free. Or maybe it was the knife she still held in one hand, or the mushroomy potion spilled all over her dress.

Maybe it was Gretchen's and Lindsey's guilt-stricken expressions.

Or maybe it was the fact that I was bound and gagged and sprawled in an ignominious heap on the gazebo floor.

In any case, he didn't respond to Tory's question. Instead, he knelt down beside me and pulled the gloves from my mouth.

“Are you all right?” he wanted to know.

I nodded. I don't think I could have spoken if I'd wanted to. Not because my cousin had just tried to kill me. But because Zach had rushed down to rescue me without remembering to put a shirt on.

Maybe Tory
had
killed me, and I had died and gone to heaven.

Except that if this was heaven, why was Lindsey crying?

“Oh, Zach,
please
don't tell Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner about this,” she begged. “Mrs. Gardiner's on the same volunteer board at Sloan-Kettering as my mom. She'll KILL me if she found out I was playing around at being a witch.”

That's when Tory shrieked, “LINDSEY! SHUT UP!” And then began to babble.

“We tried to stop her,” Tory said. “Honest to God, Zach. But Jean was so upset, you know, over what happened—my outing her as a witch at the dance, and all—that she tried to kill herself. This is how we found her. We were just about to call nine-one-one—”

“She gagged
herself
?” Zach demanded harshly. “And tied her own hands together? Nice try, Tory. But I heard what you were saying to her, you sick—”

Then Zach said some very bad swear words. The kind my mother would have charged him a quarter for, if he'd said them back in Hancock.

“God,” Tory said, sounding mad. “Fine. Don't believe us. The only reason you're on her side is because she cast a love spell on you. How does it feel, knowing you're just
a victim of her manipulative witch MAGIC?”

“No,” I tried to say. “Don't listen to her. I did use magic. I called you here with magic, Zach. But to help me. Not to love me. Never to love me. That doll was hers! That doll was hers!”

But nothing came out of me except a croaking noise. I couldn't speak, because my throat was as dry as sand.

“The only victim I can see here is Jean,” Zach was saying in a harsh voice. “What is
wrong
with you, Tory? You could have really hurt her.”

“Oh, sure.” Tory was sniffling now. “Take her side. That's very nice. I've known you since I was in kindergarten, but take the side of the person you've only known a month—”

But Zach wasn't listening. “Give me that knife,” he said to Tory, who mutely handed it to him, while Gretchen said, actually sounding scared, “I never thought it would go this far, Zach. I never thought Tory really meant to hurt her. When she told us about it, she said she would just prick her a little. Also, that Jean wouldn't mind, that she was sick of her bad luck, or something, and wanted to get rid of it and give it to her.”

I said, “Never! I will never surrender my power! I've embraced it! I don't fear it anymore!”

But all that came out was more croaking.

“Only that it wasn't bad luck”—Gretchen was the one babbling now—“that it was magic, and she—Jean—just didn't know how to use it properly. And that if Tory drank her blood—Jean's blood—that doll thingy of hers
would work, and you'd love her the way she wanted you to—”

“GRETCHEN!” Tory yelled. “SHUT UP!”

Zach used Tory's knife to cut the cords that were keeping my hands tied. It was only when he pulled me to my feet that he noticed—we both noticed—I couldn't walk so well. Not from anything Tory had done, but from the pain in my knee, where I'd rammed it so hard into the glass-topped table in order to tip it over.

“Come on,” Zach said, slipping an arm around my waist. “Lean on me.”

And he helped me hobble from the gazebo and out into the fresh night air of the garden, where Mouche met us, with a tiny, inquisitive “Mrow?”

“We can't leave Mouche outside,” I tried to say. “Alice will freak out if she's not on her bed when she wakes up.”

But my voice was still too rusty from the gag, and all that came out was, “Mouche.”

“I know,” Zach said. “I'll come out and get her after I get you inside. Don't worry.”

And then he was banging on a door, and a few seconds later, I heard Petra's voice say sleepily, “Yes? Who is—oh, Zach? What are you—”

Then in a much less sleepy voice, she said, “Jean!”

Then the moonlight disappeared, and we were in Petra's snug basement apartment, the door to which was right off the garden. Zach was lowering me onto Petra's couch, and I had time to notice that Willem wasn't
sleeping there after all. He was standing in the doorway to Petra's bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a really confused expression. He looked incredibly cute.

Although not as cute as Zach, in nothing but the jeans he'd thrown on so hastily, they weren't even buttoned properly.

Zach's hands were all cut up, too. What had happened to Zach's hands?

Oh. The roses.

“Oh my God,” Petra was saying. “What happened?”

The roses. He'd cut them on the roses, climbing over the wall.

But Petra wasn't talking about Zach, it turned out.

“She's all right. She just needs some water,” Zach said. Then, three more words, uttered so coldly, they chilled my heart: “It was Tory.”

“Her wrists—”

“They tied her up,” Zach said shortly.

“Oh my God. I should wake the Gardiners,” Petra said.

“NO!” a shrill voice called out.

And that's when I realized Tory had followed us from the gazebo.

“Petra, don't!” Tory cried. Her expression—Willem had turned on the overhead light—was one of wild-eyed, near hysteria. She stood there in her potion-smeared white ball gown, looking like Cinderella at the ball—after
realizing the clock had struck midnight. “Don't tell Mom and Dad! Jinx told me she wanted to get rid of her powers. She told me she couldn't handle them…she was tired of always having such bad luck. I was trying to help her. Honest.”

“Powers?” Willem asked. “What are these powers she speaks of?”

“Tory,” Petra said, as she knelt beside me and offered me a glass full of water, which I took and immediately drained. “Not now.”

“Wait,” Tory said. She was crying now. I watched as tears streamed down her pretty face. “It was a game. That's all it was. Jinx was in on it. She liked it.”

“Oh, is that right?” Zach's voice was hard. “And the dead rat? She liked that? And everyone in school thinking she's a narc, when it was you—don't deny it—who turned in Shawn…your own boyfriend? And what about the stunt you pulled tonight at the dance, bringing that guy from Iowa? I could see how much she liked that.” Zach's voice dripped with sarcasm. “And who doesn't like being gagged and tied up?”

“I told you,” Tory shrieked, really hysterical now. “It was just a game! Jinx, tell them! Tell them it was just a game!”

I looked at Tory, standing in Petra's tidy, warm living room, looking so incredibly beautiful. She'd always been the prettier one of the two of us.

But I had never resented her for it. I had accepted it, the way you accept that a sister might be taller than you,
or a brother better at basketball.

But she had never been able to accept me, and what it was that I had, that she didn't. That she would never, ever have.

The thing was, why should she have accepted it, when for so long, I'd been unable to accept it myself?

But not now. Now, everything was different.
Everything.

Most of all, me.

“Tell them,” Tory begged me, through her tears. “Tell them it was just a game, Jinx.”

“No,” I said. And this time, when I spoke, I knew they could all understand me.

“No, it wasn't a game, actually.”

Which was when Petra, pale but resolute, turned and headed up the stairs—and Tory raced after her, screaming, “No! Petra! I can explain! Wait!”

And Willem, looking confused but determined, went after Tory, apparently to make sure she didn't do anything to Petra.

And then I was alone with Zach.

I was sure Willem's display of devoted chivalry had to sting, so I turned to Zach and said, “I'm sorry.”

He looked down at me, clearly surprised. “Sorry? About what? None of this was your fault.”

“I don't mean about that,” I said. “I mean about Petra. And Willem. I was going to tell you. But I never got a chance. You know.” When he continued to look at me blankly, I elaborated: “Zach, I'm sorry. But I don't think
they'll be breaking up any time soon. She really loves him. And he really loves her.”

Zach's expression, as he gazed down at me, went from one of surprise to one I recognized. It was the same look he'd worn on the baseball field that day—a mix of frustration and amusement.

“Jean,” he said. “I don't care about Petra.”

“What do you mean, you don't care about her?” I asked, startled. “You love her.”

“No,” Zach said. “No, I don't. I never did.”

“Yes, you did.” I sat up a little straighter—then winced, as the motion jostled my sore knee. Still, this was too important to let pass. “You told me you loved her—”

“No,” Zach said again. “
You
told
me
that I loved her. Because that fool Robert said so. All I ever said was that there was a time when I found Petra fetching. You were the one who kept going on about it. But the truth is, there's someone else I've been finding a lot more fetching for some time now.”

“There is?” I stared up at him in confusion…and dismay. “You never told me that.”

“No, I didn't,” he admitted. “I thought it was easier to just let you go on thinking I loved Petra. Because I could tell you were still freaked over whatever had happened to you, back in Iowa, with that guy. I didn't think you were ready—”

“Ready?” I shook my head. What was he
talking
about? “Ready for what?”

“For me to tell you the truth,” Zach said. He was gazing
at me so intently, his green eyes seemed bright as the moon had, outside. “That I had stopped liking Petra the minute I met you.” When I continued to look at him blankly, he said, “Out there in that same damned gazebo—the day you arrived. Don't tell me you don't remember.”

“Me?” I still didn't think I understood him correctly.
“Me?”

“Of course
you
,” he said, sounding incredulous. “Jean—how could you not have seen it? Tory saw it—why do you think she was so angry? All this time, you've been telling her—me—everyone you knew—that you and I are just friends, when
just friends
was the
last
thing I ever wanted to be with you. And Tory knew it. She could tell what everyone else could, just by looking at me—everyone but you, apparently. That I was head over heels for
you
….” His voice trailed off as he looked down at me. “You still don't believe me, do you?”

How
could
I believe him? How could this be happening—to
me
, of all people?

“That's what I was afraid of,” he said, with a sigh. “I guess you've given me no other choice.”

“No other choice but…
what
?” I squeaked, alarmed.

“This,” he said.

And the next thing I knew, his lips were on mine.

I suppose for our first kiss, it was fairly staggering. Well, okay, maybe someone like Tory, who is light-years ahead of me sophistication-wise, could be kissed in such a manner and not completely lose her head.

I, on the other hand, could not. It wasn't as if he
snatched me up and molded my body to his, like Dylan had, the first time he kissed me. Zach's was the gentlest kiss you could ever imagine. He was barely even touching me, except for where his fingers rested on my shoulders.

But while it might have been gentle, it was long. What you might even call lingering.

And I felt it all the way down to my toes.

Oh, I
felt
it.

When he lifted his head again to look at me, I barely noticed. That's because little birds and stars were flying around in front of my eyes, I was so dazzled by the way his mouth had felt on mine.

Thank God I was sitting down. If I'd been standing when he'd kissed me, I'm sure I would have collapsed. I felt as if I were melting. From the inside.

“Now,” he asked me, in his deep, quiet voice, “do you believe me?”

But it was hard to formulate a reply, because my lips were tingling so much.

“Okay,” Zach said, when I didn't respond right away. “Let me try that again.”

And he leaned down to kiss me some more.

This time when he raised his head, birds, stars, and even little rainbows seemed to float around in front of me. It was as if someone had spilled a box of Lucky Charms in zero gravity.

“So?” Zach asked. “Do you believe me now that it's you I love—you that I've
always
loved, ever since that day
you spat Long Island iced tea all over me? Do you believe me that I'm tired of trying not to kiss you? Do you believe that I really, really don't want to be
just friends
anymore?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, nodding like an idiot.

And then I put my arms around his neck and pulled him toward me. And kissed him some more.