The Art of Wishing (19 page)

Chapter
TWENTY

A
mandatory college-centric meeting with my guidance counselor kept me late after school. It didn’t last too long, but by the time I left, the student parking lot was mostly empty. I desperately wanted to call Oliver, but there was the small problem of his being able to read my mind. Now that I was looking for solutions to the Xavier problem, when he’d explicitly asked me not to, I didn’t exactly want him peeking into my thoughts.

The way I saw it, the simplest plan would be to find Xavier’s master, take his vessel, and make a wish. It would be clean and easy, and I wouldn’t have to involve Oliver at all. The only problem was, I had no way of finding out who his master was.

Lost as I was in thought, I didn’t register anyone coming toward me until a hand waved right in front of my face. Startled, I stopped in my tracks. “Earth to Margo,” said Simon with a smirk. “I said hello.”

“Oh! You scared me.”

“I can see that,” he said. “Listen, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re cool—as long as those videos never see the light of day again. Ever.”

He blinked. “No. I mean the kiss. I’m sorry about the kiss.”

Wrapping my arms around myself, I forced a laugh. “Oh, great. Just what every girl likes to hear.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry I didn’t say anything afterward.”

I sighed. “It was my fault, too. But whatever. It doesn’t matter. It was a whole year ago, and I’m over it, and I have Oliver now. Let’s both just forget it, okay?”

His face fell, and his lips twisted in a pout just a little too exaggerated to be genuine. “I’d rather remember it,” he said. A feeling of uneasiness crept over me, though I didn’t know why—until he leaned over, cupped my cheek in one gloved hand, and kissed me.

I’d crushed on Simon for so long, it actually took me a second to remember that I’d lost the desire to kiss him. But when that second was over, I shoved him away as hard as I could. “What the hell?” I said, wiping my lips on my sleeve.

“What?” he said, spreading his hands to expand the question. “I thought you wanted—”

“No, I didn’t want!” I cut in. “God, Simon, did you hear anything I just said?” His only response was a blank look, so I pushed past him and strode toward my car.

But I’d only gotten a few steps before his voice called out, “Give my best to Ciarán.”

I stopped. Slowly, I turned around to face Simon. He was still standing there calmly, regarding me with a detached sort of curiosity as he idly turned something over in his palm. It glinted in the weak afternoon sunlight.

The switchblade.

“You,” I said.

“Me,” replied Xavier, in Simon’s voice.

Suddenly I couldn’t move. My leg tensed in memory of long-gone pain, but I lifted my chin and glared at him. “What do you want?”

He cocked his head to one side. “Actually, I should be asking you that. What do you want. Let’s see. Well, there’s something about finding out who my master is, something about a coin, something about a wish. Come on. Do you really think that will work?”

“What? How can you . . . !” I sputtered. Then I narrowed my eyes at him, realizing what was going on. “I thought only Oliver could read my mind.”

Xavier smiled at me. “And you’d have been correct, if you hadn’t given me permission to enter your mind, too.”

“Permission?” I echoed.

He lifted the switchblade, turning it idly in his hand as he showed it to me. “You don’t remember our little conversation in the car? I offered you my blood in exchange for access to your thoughts. You accepted by offering your blood to me in return. A blood exchange of this nature is a contract between us, valid for as long as you remain Ciarán’s master.”

A blood exchange. Suddenly I remembered: He’d given me a pat on the leg. At the time, it had seemed like a pointless gesture, if a cruel one, but it would have been easy for him to nick his hand and mingle his blood with my own.

“I didn’t offer you a damn thing,” I seethed.

“Perhaps you did, and perhaps you didn’t. Aren’t loopholes fascinating?” He let out a little laugh. “But I’m not here to talk business, Margaret McKenna. I am here because you have a plan—a stupid plan, but a plan nonetheless—to end my life.”

“What?” I said indignantly. “I do not.”

“As if I haven’t already warned my master against those who’d seek to take my vessel,” he sneered, taking a step toward me, the blade steady in his hand.

I took a step back. “I just wanted to change your mind,” I said frantically, feeling my heart pound in my chest. “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want anyone killing anyone! That’s the whole point!”

Something softened in Simon’s—Xavier’s—face. “Ah. I take it our dear Ciarán has filled you in on how I’m secretly Johnny the Homicidal Maniac.” He chuckled, like that was the silliest thing he’d ever heard.

“Doesn’t seem like that big of a secret,” I said. “And I should warn you: Stabbing me again won’t get me to make my third wish.”

I nodded toward the switchblade, and he did an exaggerated double take, like he was surprised to find himself holding it. “Stabbing you?” he said, closing the blade with another little laugh and sliding it into his pocket. “Why would I do that? It’s not like another blood exchange would do me any good.”

“Then why are you here?” I asked.

Xavier held up both of his hands to the sky. “Finally! She gets to the heart of the matter. I am here, Miss McKenna, to ask you ever so nicely if you would please do me the honor of making your third wish and releasing Ciarán’s vessel.”

“The honor . . . ?” I echoed, disgusted. “No. Absolutely not.”

He paused, peering at me like I was a particularly colorful insect. “Look at you. So protective.” A cruel smile spread slowly, Grinch-like, across his face. “In that case, let’s dispense with asking. Give me the ring by sunset tomorrow, Miss McKenna”—he patted the pocket where his switchblade rested—“or else I will force it from your hands.”

The finality of the statement chilled me, but I refused to let him see. “Force it? By what, stabbing me again? I thought you swore you wouldn’t touch me.”

“That I did,” he agreed. “But I daresay I don’t need a blade to get what I want from you.”

The air around him suddenly shimmered, and before I could even blink, I wasn’t looking at Simon’s face anymore. There, right in front of me, was . . . me. A mirror image of myself, from her mussed brown pixie cut right down to the mismatched blue and green shoelaces on her Chucks. I stared. Was my nose really that pointy?

I glanced quickly around—half hoping nobody else was seeing this and half hoping somebody was—but we were alone.

Xavier watched through my eyes as I took in the sight before me, and all that it implied. He smiled as he saw me understand. “Saturday night was a warning, Margo. I felt like performing for an audience that night, and I
happened
to be wearing your image at the time. Nothing you couldn’t handle, am I right? But if I
happen
to look like you next time I want to, say, rob someone? Shoot someone? Or better yet . . .”

Suddenly, Oliver was there, right next to Xavier. I froze. He blinked a few times, like he was trying to orient himself, and then he noticed Xavier and smiled. “Hey, Margo,” he said to Xavier’s copy of me.

But there was something off about him. It took me a second to put my finger on it, but it was definitely there. Maybe the inflections in his voice were different, or maybe his hair fell the wrong way, but it was enough to make me look closer. Close enough to spot the slight shimmer that rendered him just short of lifelike.

“He’s an illusion,” I said. “The blood exchange. You can get into my head, so you can make me see things. Well, I have news for you: Your illusions suck.”

Disappointment flickered across his face, but disappeared just as quickly. “Of course they do, to your eyes,” he said placidly. “The connection we have isn’t nearly as potent as the one you have with your dear Oliver. But I merely want to demonstrate something. A path your future might take, should you ignore my warning.”

He turned back to Fake-Oliver. “Hello, darling,” he said, in my voice. Oliver just kept smiling at him, like I wasn’t even there. God, this was creepy. “Want to play?”

“Yes, please,” said the Oliver illusion. “Did you bring the knife?”

Xavier stretched my face into a grin. “Why, as a matter of fact, I did,” he said, and held up the switchblade. “What would you like me to do with it?”

“That’s up to you,” said Oliver, his voice so sweet it made my teeth clench. “What does my master command?”

Xavier nodded thoughtfully. “An interesting question. Well, what I really want is to wish you free. Nice and clean, no mess, no pain. But since your real master declined the opportunity to give me your vessel and let you go easy, we’ll do it the hard way.”

“I understand,” said Oliver, nodding sadly. Then he knelt down in front of Xavier, just like he’d done on Saturday night, when he’d offered to take the ring back from me. He tilted his head to the side. Xavier leveled the switchblade at Oliver’s neck.

This is not my Oliver,
I told myself firmly.
This is not real. It’s just an illusion
. As if in response to my thoughts, the image of the false Oliver began to go transparent, almost like a hologram.

But my hands still wouldn’t stop shaking.

Bright red bloomed across Oliver’s neck, following the path that Xavier’s switchblade carved. Xavier held his head, and I watched, I actually watched,
it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real,
as the life bled out of Oliver’s eyes. Xavier let him go, and he crumpled unceremoniously to the ground.

“It’s not real,” I whispered aloud.

“No, it’s not,” agreed Xavier. “But it could be, very easily. And hey, look on the bright side: With Oliver out of the way, all your problems would go away. Poof!”

Tearing my eyes away from the Oliver illusion lying lifeless on the pavement, I looked Xavier in the eye. “Oliver isn’t my problem. You are.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know, I know: I’m the big bad villain and Oliver is your sweet and innocent little boy toy. You love him and you want to save him and all the rest of that mushy crap.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at me. “But don’t kid yourself into thinking that’s all you feel for him. It’s all right there in your head, Miss McKenna. I can see it. You resent him for dragging you out of your precious little comfort zone. For leading me right to your doorstep. Perhaps even for making you fall in love with him, when you both knew he wouldn’t be around much longer. Am I wrong? Do tell me if I’m wrong.”

“You are,” I said hotly. “You’re very, very wrong.”

But he wasn’t nearly as wrong as I would have liked. And the sharp smile on his face told me that he knew it. But I changed the subject before this could go any further: “And you can’t kill him with a knife. He said so. He’d just come right back.”

“He would, it’s true.” As if on cue, the false Oliver stirred, then slowly climbed to his feet again. The blood was gone. The gash across his throat was gone. He was whole again, just like Saturday night. He looked at Xavier. Xavier looked at me. “But it would still hurt. More than you can imagine.”

“What next?” asked Oliver, smiling patiently at Xavier. “Would you like to kill me again?”

“Stop,” I said hoarsely. “I get it, okay?”

“Do you?” he said, peering at me. Beside him, the Oliver illusion shimmered into nothingness. “Do you really understand what will happen if I don’t have that ring by sunset tomorrow?”

I forced myself to nod. Then I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said, when I was sure I could keep my voice steady. “I understand just fine. What I don’t understand is why. You said you want Oliver to be happy. Just now, you said that. If that’s true, then why not, you know, just not wish him free?”

He hesitated, pursing my lips in a way that made my face look downright ugly.

This was too much.

“And stop looking like me!” I blurted out. “Who are you, anyway? You must have made a fourth wish once. Who were you before that?”

Xavier let out a harsh laugh. “I was nobody of import. One sad, mortal man in a land full of sad, mortal men.”

“But what’s your name?” I pressed. Oliver had wanted so badly for me to know him, to know his history. Surely Xavier wanted to be known, too. Surely that could help me somehow.

But he just stared at me. “The name I was born with is no longer mine. At the moment my name is Margo. And before that, Simon. Vicky, once, as you may recall. These days, I am usually a boy called Shen, who shares his master’s admittedly strange tastes in video games, athletic teams, and pornography. I’ve been countless different people, you know. But maybe this will do. . . .”

The air shimmered again, and there stood a tall, pale young man with black hair, a generous helping of chin-scruff, and deep-set eyes that were an eerily light shade of gray.

“Meet Xavier,” he said, holding his arms out with a flourish to present himself. His voice was deeper than I’d expected it to be. “This is who I was when Ciarán was bound to me.”

“What about Niall?” I asked. “Can I meet him? Oliver said you were friends back then.”

“Oh, we certainly were.” Then he twisted his face into a smirk. “We were even better
friends
when I was Xavier.”

I bristled at the implication, but I crossed my arms over my chest. I couldn’t let him see me react. “Fine. Whatever. But I still want to know why you’re after Oliver.”

He snickered. “You really are a tough girl, aren’t you? No wonder Ciarán likes you so much. He’s always had a soft spot for tough girls. That Maeve—he did tell you about her, didn’t he? She was a firecracker.”

Despite the overwhelming urge to hit him, I clenched my teeth and refused to rise to the bait. “Right,” I said acidly. “You go ahead and list all the people he’s ever loved. I’ll see that I’m not a special snowflake after all, and I’ll have myself a little sobfest while you stand over me and practice your supervillain laugh. Can we skip to the part where we both get over it, and you tell me why you want to wish him free?”

He laughed. “Miss McKenna, while I appreciate that you want to know, there are many things about this life of ours that you can’t even begin to understand.”