School Spirits (Hex Hall Novel, A) (12 page)

A
few days later, I sat at the dinner table with
Mom, twirling spaghetti around my fork. “So Mrs. Steele was telling us that Macbeth was a real person who really killed a king, but that the witches and the ghosts were all made up. Which, I mean, obviously they weren’t.”

I took a bite of pasta, chewing and swallowing before saying, “It’s lame. I think everyone would be a lot more interested in the play if they knew how real it all was. Maybe I’ll write something about that in my
essay.”

Mom gave me a weird look, so I quickly amended.
“Not that I’d mentioned the witches and ghosts being real, but something about the way supernatural—”

“It’s the last night of the month, Izzy,” Mom said, shaking her head. “You won’t need to write that
essay.”

I lowered my fork. “Right.”

Pushing her plate away, Mom rested her elbows on the table. “You hadn’t forgotten, had you?”

Of course I hadn’t. I just…maybe hadn’t thought of leaving Ideal so soon after the banishing was done. Which was stupid. If Mary’s ghost was put to bed, what reason did we have to stay?

Mom got up from the table, carrying her plate to the sink. “In any case, tonight’s the night. I picked up a few canisters of salt at the grocery store. They’re in the pantry.”

Dishes clattered, and Mom turned on the faucet. “You did a good job,” she said, her back to me. “You were able to figure out who the ghost was, and now you’ll banish her, and no one’s gotten hurt. No one except that boy in your P.E. class, at least. You want me to come with you tonight?”

“I think I can manage pouring some salt onto some dirt,” I said, hating how petulant I sounded.

Mom must not have liked it either, because she sighed and turned to face me. “Not every case is glamorous, Isolde. Some of them are just…pouring salt. Saying a few words. Moving on.”

“I guess,” I replied. In the silence that followed, I could hear the steady
plink-plink
of water dripping from the sink.

Mom turned around. “Have you liked school?”

Surprised, I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “Kind of,” I told her. “I mean, I’ve only been there a month, and it hasn’t exactly been a thrill a minute. Are all high schools so…dull?”

Mom’s mouth quirked in what might have been a smile. “Mine was.”

My fork skidded across the spaghetti. “You went to high school? Like, a regular one?” As far as I knew, no Brannick ever spent much time in the human world. We were too busy training and fighting and saving everyone from unholy evil.

“For a little while,” Mom said. “Me and my sister. Our mom was working a job in California that ended up taking a lot of time. She thought it would be a good idea for us to at least try school while we were there.”

“Did you like it?”

“That’s like asking if I liked all my teeth pulled out through my nose,” she said, and while I wanted to laugh, that sounded so much like something Finn would’ve said that my chest felt tight. “So that’s a no, then,” I finally managed to say, and Mom gave a dry chuckle.

“It wasn’t all bad. I liked history, and there was
something…I don’t know, novel about it, I guess. It wasn’t for me, but I was grateful for the experience. Eventually.” She hesitated again, like she couldn’t decide if she should say anything else. Then she said, “It let me know what I didn’t want.”

Her eyes met mine across the kitchen. “And I’m sorry, Iz. For you and Finn. I should’ve let the two of you have a choice, too. Before now.”

“You would let us…choose not to be Brannicks?” I asked. It seemed like the most impossible thing in the world. This was who we were, what we were born to do. You didn’t just get to reject your entire bloodline and sacred calling.

But Mom nodded. “If it’s what you wanted.”

The words hung between us until finally Mom cleared her throat. “Anyway, yes, school is boring. And soul sucking. But everyone should go through it, even if it’s only for a little while.”

“So what now?” I asked then, pushing my plate away. “I pour some salt and we pack up and leave?” The idea should’ve filled me with jubilation. A month of regular high school was more than enough for anyone, and it would be nice to get back to our house. And sure, I’d miss Romy and Anderson. And Dex. But Mom was right; we didn’t have room for friends in our lives.

Of course, there was one mystery that still needed solving. One thing that might keep us in Ideal a little longer. “But if someone is raising ghosts, what’s to stop him or her from just raising another one once we salt the grave?”

Mom pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Good point.”

I swallowed. Now or never. “Also, um, one of the kids in PMS…er, the ghost-hunting thing. He’s Prodigium.”

When Mom’s brows shot up, I faltered a little. “Or at least I think he is.”

“Think?” Mom repeated. “Iz, you always know when someone is Prodigium. You even know what type.”

“Usually, yeah,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ears. “But this guy…I can’t tell. I didn’t even know he was Prodigium until he touched me.” Mom’s brows went even higher, and I quickly added, “On the hand. In a handshake. No bathing suit areas involved.”

She studied me for a long moment before saying, “Are you sure it was magic you felt, and not…other things?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, throwing up my hands. “God, why does everyone keep saying that?”

Hand on one hip, Mom stared me down. “Who is everyone?”

I swallowed. “Just…just Torin.”

“So you told Torin about this boy being Prodigium, but not me?”

It sounded kind of bad when she put it like that. “I just…I wasn’t sure it was anything, and I didn’t want to bug you while you were working.”

“Isolde, I do not know how many times I have to tell you this, but Torin is useless more often than not. If you need advice or help with something, you come to me, and be honest and upfront.”

“Like you’re being with all your ‘research’?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

Movements stiff, Mom walked to the pantry and pulled out two canisters of salt. “This should be enough,” she said, handing them to me. “Go salt the grave, stop the haunting, and get back here. Then we can talk more about this Prodigium boy.”

“Fine,” I said, taking the salt more roughly than I’d intended. Mom didn’t say anything, though, and I headed upstairs to get my backpack.

Torin was already chilling out in my mirror when I opened the door. He brightened when I came in. “Oh, good, you’re here. Is it time to watch a new episode of
Ivy Springs
? If Everton asks Rebecca to the prom instead of Leslie—”

“I don’t have time tonight,” I told him, shoving the salt into my bag.

If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn that Torin seemed hurt. “You never have time anymore. I’ve barely seen you in the past few weeks, and what on earth could be more important than
Ivy Springs
?”

“Ghost busting,” I answered.

“Ah,” he said, nodding toward the backpack. “That explains it. And here I thought you perhaps had a sodium problem.”

I picked up one of the ponytail holders by my bed and flicked it at him. It bounced harmlessly off the glass. “After you get back from destroying the ghost, then can we bemoan Everton and Leslie’s tragic love?” he asked, picking at the lace on his cuffs.

“Sure,” I said, but he frowned.

“Why do you seem so sad, Isolde?”

“I’m not,” I answered immediately. “I’m just… Mom and I are having a thing right now.”

Torin snorted. “You and Aislinn are always having ‘a thing.’ I think it’s more than that.” Leaning forward, he squinted at me. “Isolde, are you…are you saddened to be leaving this wretched place so soon?”

“No,” I replied quickly. Too quickly. Torin settled back against my bed in the mirror, a smug smile on his face.

“You
are
,” he said. “You don’t want to leave. One mere sample of the cornucopia that is a regular American high school, and you have developed a taste for it.”

Rolling my eyes, I shoved my arms through the sleeves of a black jacket. “You’ve completely cracked.”

Scowling, Torin folded his arms over his chest. “You know I don’t appreciate mirror jokes.”

Doing my best to look contrite, I picked up my backpack. “I’m sorry, Torin. I’ll try to
reflect
on my actions.”

“All right, now you are just being mean.”

He was still grumbling when I left, which should’ve made me smile. Annoying Torin was one of my favorite pastimes. But it was hard to grin when his words still sat in my stomach like a rock.

One of the great things about the tininess of Ideal was how easy it was to walk to everything. The graveyard where Mary Evans was buried was only a few blocks from my house. So even with all my deep thoughts weighing me down, I was there in no time.

Most people think graveyards are creepy, but I’d been in enough of them over the years that this one just felt kind of…homey. I made my way past the newer graves, into the older section of the cemetery. Mary Evans’s grave wasn’t hard to find. There was a huge marble statue marking her final resting place.

I paused, reading the inscription:
MARY ANNE EVANS 1890–1908 FOREVER OUR ANGEL, FOREVER AT REST
.

“I really hope so,” I murmured as I pulled my
backpack off my shoulders. I grabbed one of the salt
canisters and pried open its funnel. The entire grave would have to be covered with salt in order to bring her spirit back and lock her in.

“Sorry to ground you like this, Mary,” I whispered. I had just started pouring when a voice said, “Fancy meeting you here.”

I whirled around.

Dex.

I
froze, but the salt kept pouring out of the nozzle,
making a little pyramid on top of the grave. For a long beat, Dex just watched it trickle out.

Once the container was empty, he looked at me. “Soooo…whatcha doin’?”

“What are you doing?” I fired back. The same night I go to banish a ghost that may have been raised by magic, Dex, who may be Prodigium, shows up. That was a little too coincidental for me.

“I followed you,” he said, like that was every bit as normal as me and my salt. “I was on my way home from the store, and I saw you, so thought I’d see what the Illustrious Isolde Brannick was up to.”

With as much dignity as I could muster, I spread the little pile of salt over the dirt with the tip of my shoe. “You can’t just go around following people,” I told Dex as I tossed the empty salt carton into my backpack. “It’s creepy. And inappropriate.”

“Says the girl pouring salt onto graves.”

I glared at him. “This is…part of my religion.”

Smirking, Dex put his hands in his coat pockets. “Oh, so you belong to the Crazy Salt Freak Church?”

“It’s an Irish-Celtic thing,” I tried, but Dex just shook his head.

“I don’t know whether to be more insulted that you’re lying to me, or that you apparently think I’m some kind of idiot. Also, it hasn’t escaped my knowledge that this”—he nodded at the tombstone—“is the final resting place of one Mary Evans. The very same Mary Evans who Anderson wants to EMP, and Romy wants to Ouija.”

My mind raced, trying to come up with some plausible explanation. Unfortunately, all I could think was,
What would Leslie do if Everton caught her pouring salt on
graves?
Since I was pretty sure the answer was
cry prettily
, I rejected that idea and decided to go for what Mom always said:
When you’re caught in a lie, stick as close to the truth as
you can.

“Ouija boards don’t work.”

Dex rocked back on his heels, still grinning. “That a fact?”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think that anything made by Milton Bradley is much good for contacting the dark side, that’s all.”

“Meanwhile, the Morton Salt girl is totally connected to the forces of evil. That would explain her coat.”

“Salt destroys evil spirits. I…I read it on the Internet this afternoon.”

Nudging the salt pile with his foot, Dex shrugged and said, “Okay. I can buy that. But then why come out here by yourself? Why not meet with us and let PMS get their Salt Warrior on?”

Ugh, was he secretly a member of the FBI? I had never met anyone who asked so many questions.

“I thought you guys would think it was dumb.”

At that, Dex threw his head back and gave a barking laugh. “For God’s sake, Izzy, we call ourselves PMS. And trust me, your salt theory is no dumber than the time Romy investigated a Civil War graveyard with tinfoil on her head.”

“That…actually happened?” I’d just assumed they were joking.

Dex nodded. “Or when Anderson spent every penny he made mowing lawns for two summers on a special tape recorder that was supposed to capture ghostly voices.” His eyes met mine. They were very blue and…twinkly. “Besides, your weirdness is why I like you so much.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily, he didn’t seem to need a reply. “So. You’ve made this lovely little salt pile. What can I do?”

“You can go home,” I told him, but he was already taking off his jacket—another peacoat, but this one was deep purple in the moonlight—and laying it gently over one of the angels’ outspread wings. Then he knelt down and started spreading the salt with his hands. He had pretty hands, I decided. Thin and long-fingered and delicate. Like a pianist. I’d never really thought about boys’ hands before, but looking at Dex’s made me feel warm and shivery all at the same time.

Grudgingly, I knelt down next to him and pulled the other canister of salt out of my backpack. “Just…keep doing that. You have to cover the entire grave with salt to confine the spirit.” Dex lifted his head, and I added, “I mean, that’s what the Internet said.”

Satisfied, Dex went back to the salt. After a while, he moved to the foot of the grave, pouring it there.

“This is fun,” he said. “Weird and disturbing and
possibly illegal, but still fun.”

“Is it okay if we don’t tell Romy and Anderson about this?”

He grinned at me. “Absolutely. Now we’ve formed our own splinter cell of PMS.”

Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’ve gone rogue.”

I made a sound almost like a giggle. Not that I did giggle. Brannicks aren’t gigglers. Dex and I spent the next few minutes pressing the salt into the grass. We didn’t say anything else, but there was something nice about the silence. It reminded me of when Finn and I used to hang out in the War Room, me reading, her sharpening weapons. Just being with her had been…comforting. Nice. That’s how it felt now with Dex, even doing something as bizarre as sealing a ghost in its grave.

Then we reached for the same tiny mound of salt and our hands brushed. This time, Dex didn’t apologize, but as soon as his skin touched mine, I felt that little hum. That reminder that Dex wasn’t a normal boy. That I didn’t know what he was. And the more time I spent with him, the less sure I was that even he knew what
he was.

Sobered, I stood up, backing away from him a little bit. “Okay,” I said, my voice unsteady. “That’s…that.”

“Excellent. So no more ghosts, no more science teachers getting brained, and lockers that open mysssteriooously,” Dex said, wiggling his fingers at me. I almost made that giggle sound again, but I stopped myself. Confusion flashed across Dex’s face, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Well,” he said, but he didn’t add anything else.

Suddenly the silence between us wasn’t comfortable so much as awkward. I dusted my hands off on the back of my pants. “I better head home. Mom’ll be pissed if I’m out late.”

Dex twisted his wrist, glancing at his watch. “It’s not even eight. Are your parents Amish?”

“My mom is just…strict.”

“So is my Nana, but I get to stay out until at least nine. And I don’t know about you, but all this salting the earth has me craving fries. You wanna go grab something to eat?”

Eating food together. At night. I didn’t even need Everton and Leslie to tell me that was a date. Or had this been a date? We’d laughed and had fun and touched hands. That felt kind of…date-y even if it was on top of a grave.

But he was smiling at me again, and now that he mentioned it, I hadn’t eaten much dinner. “Can you get me home by nine?”

His grin widened. “Isolde, my friend, I can get you back by quarter ’til.” He held out his hand to help me to my feet. “Shall we?”

I only hesitated for a second before taking it, and this time, when a pulse shot through me, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was only magic I was feeling.