The Girl and the Gargoyle: Book Two of The Girl and the Raven Series (5 page)

Ella smirks at me and turns to Caroline. “Let’s talk about something fun. Is everything still on track for your party?”

Caroline nods. “It’s four weeks away, but I already have the guest list done. The menu, too.”

“Menu?” Cloe looks confused. “You said you’re serving chips and dip, snacky stuff, right?”

“I like to be organized,” Caroline points out. She flips through her spiral notebook and runs her finger down the page. Her party notes? Ella peers over her shoulder.

“Do you really think people are going to respect a guest list?” Suzie asks, dipping her French fries in a pool of ketchup on her plate. “You know how it is. Everyone will tell their friends, and you’re going to wind up with a packed house.”

Caroline tears her gaze away from her notes and glances at Ella nervously.

“All the better.” Ella grins at Caroline. “There’ll be a great selection of guys for me—
for us
—to choose from.”

I’m guessing Ella will be the one inviting people not included on the list. She’ll take Caroline’s party and make it her own. I wonder if Marcus will still be here by then.

He’s going to leave you,
the little voice in my head says. I close my eyes as a wave of dizziness washes over me. Lunch is no longer appetizing, and I push my food away. I pull my phone out of my purse to see if Marcus texted. No message.

“Awww, what’s wrong, Lucy? One of your boyfriends ignoring you? Maybe you need a third. Oh wait, there’s Shawn, too, right?”

Anger flares inside of me, and I dig my nails into my thigh. I envision shooting a fireball at Ella, watching her go up in flames. The satisfaction is short-lived as I remember my promise to Persephone and Henry to keep my powers a secret. Turning Ella into a crispy critter doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should. Maybe I’m more like Jude than I thought.

Suzie points her fork at Ella. “Why do you have to be such a witch? Leave Lucy alone and leave my boyfriend out of this.”

Suzie winks at me across the table. Shawn’s class ring dangles from a chain around her neck.

Katie pokes me in the arm as the bell rings. “See you after school.”

I nod and head over to throw my lunch away. No word from Marcus. He always texts me over lunch.
Always
. I try not to let it get to me. Once I make it to gym and change into my uniform, I pull out my phone and text him.

I hope you’re okay. The roof tonight?

* * * *

When I get home from school, I immediately dump the contents of my backpack onto my desk and tackle homework. If I finish studying before dinner, I’m free to see Marcus as soon as I’ve eaten and cleaned the kitchen.

Halfway through my Spanish assignment, my phone vibrates. Not just once, but continuously. It’s Jude.

“Hi, Jude. Haven’t learned how to text yet, huh?”

“What are your plans for the weekend?”

No hello or how are you? No fatherly love, not with Jude.

“I’m working for the Douglas’s on Saturday, then going out with my friends. I have plans for Sunday, too. Why?” I don’t tell him I’m spending Sunday morning with Persephone, learning witchcraft, and the rest of the day with Marcus, assuming he doesn’t cancel to spend time with his mother.

I hear the tapping of computer keys and figure he’s forgotten about me already.

“Your Saturday has just freed up. Come to my home at noon.”

“Did you cancel my babysitting job?”

“Pierce Douglas belongs to me. A fact you are well aware of and so is he.”

Now the pause for tapping made sense. Jude just instant messaged Dylan’s dad and cancelled my job. Sparks fly off my fingertips, and I pull my phone away to avoid burning myself.

“But—”

“Saturday. Noon. It’s time for you and Dylan to begin training with me.”

My fingers keep shooting sparks. I pat out the red-hot flames on my schoolbooks before any serious damage is done. I clutch my glass of icy lemonade in my hands to quell the urge.

“Look Jude, you can’t just cancel my job and—”

“Do I need to send a driver to pick you up?” The threat is clear. He’ll make a scene in front of my uncles.

“A little more notice would’ve been nice,” I snap.

“Shall we make it Saturday
and
Sunday?”

I grip my glass and curse the snapping of sparks from my fingers.

“Saturday is
fine
.”

“Noon.”

And he’s gone. Unfortunately not forever.

As I make sure the call has ended—could anything be worse than having Jude listen to my private conversations? I shudder at the thought—a message pops up from Marcus.

Sorry. Can’t meet tonite.

My insides sink, but I text him back.
OK. All good w-ur mom?

Didn’t see her today. Worked at St. Pats. Meeting 2morrow after school. Can u come?

Wait…he wants me to be a part of his meeting with Camille?

I’ll be there.

I thought for sure Marcus was shutting me out. My chest swells with relief and happiness.

Before I forget, I type a quick text to Dylan, telling him about Jude’s call and suggesting we carpool.

I slide my phone into my purse and head to the kitchen for dinner. There’s no way I can tell Sheldon and Bernard I’m spending the day with Jude. I don’t want them getting any more paranoid about him than they already are. Maybe I should tell my uncles I’m going to the mall with the girls on Saturday or to lunch and the movies. Or that Dylan and I are going to hang out for the day. They’d love that. I really hate lying to them, but the last thing I want is conflict. I can’t risk it. Jude will always win.

“Have you given any more thought to vacation?” Bernard asks, as I dot a steaming corn muffin with butter, then take a bite.

I chew slowly as I consider my answer. “Don’t you think it would be better if the two of you go away together? You haven’t had alone time in a while. I can stay here. Persephone keeps saying she wants to spend more time with me.”

Sheldon drops his knife. I flinch as it clangs against his plate. Bernard and I freeze, trying to gauge Sheldon’s anger. Ever since Jude gave me the car and ate at our breakfast table, Sheldon’s been edgy.

“This is about
him
, isn’t it?” Sheldon asks.

I’m not quite sure if he’s referring to Marcus or Jude, but I play it safe. “If you’re referring to Marcus, the answer is no. It has nothing to do with him.”

Sheldon hasn’t forgiven Marcus for the homecoming fiasco and for disappearing afterward without so much as a phone call. My uncles don’t know the nightmare that really took place that night.

“It’s ten days, Lucy, and then you’ll see your boyfriend again.”

It’s true. Marcus is a factor in this, too. Part of me believes he’d be here, waiting with open arms when I return from vacation. Problem is, there’s a part of me that isn’t so sure now that his parents are around.

“Lucy,” Bernard says, “the point is for the three of us to get away and have fun together as a family.”

Family
. The very thing I’ve always wanted. My throat clenches.

“But I have the job with the Douglas family. I can’t take off and leave them high and dry.”

I have to keep my uncles safe. I can’t risk Jude viewing them as a threat.

No one talks for the rest of the meal. Sheldon slurps his soup and avoids eye contact with me, making it clear he’s upset with me.

If they knew what Jude was capable of, what he did to Marcus last year, they would understand. But if I tell them, my uncles would take action to keep Jude and me apart. Then Jude would kill them.

* * * *

The next morning I’m at my locker, balancing my backpack on my knee while I switch out my books. Someone tugs on my hair from behind.
Could it be?

“Tennessee.”

I weave slightly as my entire body slumps.

Marcus attends St. Pat’s, an all-boys private high school here in Chicago. Sometimes he blows off final period study hall and meets me at my locker, but there’s no reason for him to be at St. Aquinas this early. I glance over my shoulder, and Dylan’s face breaks into a mega-watt smile. I force a smile in return.

“I got a call from my favorite person in the world last night, just a few minutes after your text came through,” Dylan says.

I close my locker and turn to face him. Dylan hooks his thumb in the pocket of his designer jeans and adjusts his backpack, which is slung over his shoulder. I try to ignore the outline of his muscled chest and shoulders through his tight navy pullover. I’m tempted to ask if he’s been working out more than usual, but I don’t want him to know I noticed. Then again, maybe he intentionally buys his shirts a size too small.

“What’s so funny?” Dylan asks.

“Nothing. I figured Jude would call you next.”

“What if we blow it off?”

I shake my head. “Bad idea. Jude’s already got it out for my uncles. I need to keep the peace.” I swing my backpack over my shoulder. “Oh, hey, by the way, I’m telling my uncles you and I are hanging out Saturday. Be a pal and don’t say anything, okay?”

Dylan shoots me a quizzical look. “Why not tell them you’re hanging out with Jude?”

“Let’s just say Sheldon and Bernard are not huge fans.”

Dylan leans against the wall outside of my classroom. “I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, but you’re going to have to tell them the truth eventually. Lying to your uncles…heck lying to Jude…it’ll come back to bite you. Let them deal with their own issues.”

A morality lesson from Dylan? “I’ve seen how Jude deals with his issues. Plus, Sheldon’s pretty upset with me right now. I think I’ll give him some time to cool off first.”

Dylan grimaces. “Problem is you’re a terrible liar, and at some point they’re going to bust you. Then they’re going to be furious at you. What are you going to do when your uncles find out?”

“I’ll just make sure they don’t.”

Chapter Eight

Camille perches on the stairs leading up to Marcus’s apartment as Marcus and I enter the foyer after school. She’s early.

Her gaze falls to our entwined hands. “Hello, Gabriel…Lucy.”

Marcus shakes his head.

She flushes, her hands twisting on her lap. “Marcus…sorry.”

“Hello, Camille,” he replies. I can’t blame him for not calling her Mom.

“Hi,” I say, still unsure what to call her.

Camille studies Marcus, absorbing every detail. Thirteen years have passed. Is she comparing the grownup version of her son to the memory of the child she left behind? The tension between them is thick and uncomfortable. I don’t belong in their conversation. “I’ll let you two talk.” I try to pull my hand free.

Marcus tightens his grip. “I want you to stay. Let’s go upstairs.”

Camille smiles at me. At least I think that’s what her expression is supposed to be. Part of me feels sorry for her. I know she’s trying, and I see the strain on her face, but there’s another part of me that keeps wondering how she could have abandoned her son?

We file upstairs. Camille and Marcus sit on opposite ends of the couch, their posture stiff. I sit in the chair across from the sofa, needing some distance from the intense emotions rolling off of them.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me again,” Camille says. She leans forward, her hands clasped on her knees. Her nails are cut short, and the cuticles are clean, not picked and ragged like mine. Embarrassed, I tuck my hands between my knees.

“I needed time to think,” Marcus responds. He glances at her, his expression impassive.

I wish I were sitting next to him, so I could slide my hand into his.

Camille scoots a little closer to Marcus. She reaches out to him. “I’m sorry, Marcus. You know that, don’t you?”

Marcus stares at her outstretched fingers. His hands remain on his lap. “I don’t understand. Why now?”

Camille’s eyes shift from Marcus to me. Her face tightens, and I bristle over her accusatory look. “I told you,” she says.

Marcus rises from the couch and crosses the room to the window to stare outside. I remember the two times I met Jude here. I did the same thing, using it as an excuse to put some space between us. “Yes, I know. My dad—
stepdad
—died. You promised him you would stay away until then.”

“I wanted to come back sooner, but Garret wouldn’t let me,” she says the words quickly, urgently. “You have to believe me, Gabriel.”

Marcus stiffens. “And now Garret wants to meet me.” He snorts and shakes his head. I’m sure he’s got a lot of pain going on inside, but I don’t want Marcus to push his mother away, especially not before he knows her full story or before he gets a chance to meet his father. I would give anything to have talked to Momma once more before she died.

“Marcus,” I say gently, perched on the edge of my seat. “If you don’t meet with him, you could regret it later.”

Marcus glances at me, his arms crossed over his chest.