Under a Spell (23 page)

My fingertip on the doorbell released a series of clock-tower bells. The hunchback-esque crescendo shouldn’t have shocked me, but it did and I hopped back, hand on my chest, Will’s arms quickly snaking around my waist.

“It’s just a doorbell, love.”

I quickly righted myself, feeling heat zinging through me. I blinked and stuttered. “Um, right.”

The open door sliced through my awkwardness with Will and a one-dimensional image of a perfect, upscale soccer mom poked her dewy, Botox-young face through the opening.

“Yes,” she said, blinking red-rimmed eyes that seemed to bulge around her pulled skin. “May I help you?”

I cleared my throat and mustered up courage from somewhere, offering a teeth-baring smile that I hoped was more welcoming than grimacing. “My name is Sophie Lawson and this is Will Sherman. We’re teachers from your daughter’s school. I appreciate this is a difficult time, but would it be possible to speak with you about your daughter, Mrs. Rand?”

Mrs. Rand seemed to shrink into the slit of open doorway. I could see her hand go to her throat, her bony knuckles pressing against her breastbone. “You have the wrong house,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse. “The Rands don’t live here.”

The woman clicked the door shut before I had a chance to respond.

I sighed, pushing out my bottom lip. “Well, that was useless.”

Will licked his lips and grinned, looking nothing less than smug. “Not exactly.”

I rolled my eyes, sighing. “Oh, let me guess? Your plan is to bat those sexy hazel eyes at Mrs. Rand in there and she’s going to roll over and give you anything you want, huh?”

Will’s grin went from smug to mischievous in a single, panty-melting second. “You think my eyes are sexy?”

I felt the blush roll into my eyeballs. “Uh, so, what was your plan?”

His eyes washed over me and cut over my shoulder. He jutted his chin and I looked. “What’s she doing here?”

Fallon was cresting the hill on a white and mint-green bicycle, spotlighted by the streetlights. She was still in her uniform, her Mercy skirt tucked between her legs, the heavy fabric brushing against her thighs, catching the breeze, exposing the edge of her white, boy-short panties. Her hair sailed behind her in long pigtails, lazy s-waves that licked her shoulder blades and tumbled down her back. Her lips were pursed, her eyes a steely blue. She zigzagged down the street, commanding the blacktop as though a car would never dream of clipping her, of stopping her slow ride.

Even I was taken by her, and I felt myself scowl. Fallon Monroe was a lollypop and an Aerosmith song away from a Nabokov novel.

I jumped back as Fallon skittered to a stop in front of Will and me. Her eyes never left his and her front tire grazed my pant leg. I would have been certain that her pigtails and push-up bra had resulted in a stunning case of tunnel vision had she not flicked an apathetic, “Sorry, Ms. L,” my way.

Fallon pressed her feet to the ground, the bike balanced lewdly between her thighs. “What are you doing here, Mr. Sherman?”

Will’s eyes were firmly lodged on Fallon’s forehead and I appreciated that, given the fact that Fallon’s perfectly manicured forefinger and thumb were playing with the top button on her blouse. A hint of white lace peeked out, stunning against her tan skin.

“Actually, Ms. Lawson and I were looking to speak to Mrs. Rand.”

“Ms.”

“What was that?” I asked.

Fallon kicked at the dirt. “Ms. Rand. She’s not married. And she’s not here right now. She’s probably on her way home.”

“Home? Doesn’t she live here?”

Fallon’s laugh was halting and bitter as she swung a leg over her bike seat. “She doesn’t live here. She works here.” She grabbed the handlebars and pushed the bike up the walk, dropping it unceremoniously on the porch. The bike dropped in a huge clatter, and Fallon was walking through the front door that had just been slammed in our faces.

Will’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, how about that?”

“How about nothing.” I was striding up the walk, about to knock, when Will grabbed my arm.

“What are you doing?”

I whirled, suddenly angry for being jealous of a teenage girl’s sex appeal, angry that Fallon got to live in a house like this, angry that I would always be the outsider with the heavy, gorgeous door to fabulousness slammed in my face.

“I’m going to find out some answers.” I whipped Alyssa Rand’s records out of my purse. “How come the address Mercy has on file for Alyssa is Fallon’s address? And what did Fallon mean that Ms. Rand doesn’t live at this house. She—” I paused, feeling dense. “Alyssa’s mother works for Fallon’s family.”

Will nodded and took Alyssa’s papers from my hand. “And Alyssa’s mother must have used the Monroes’ address to keep her daughter at Mercy.”

“I feel like this blows everything wide open.”

Will eyed me. “You’re thinking that address masking led to Alyssa’s kidnapping? Or Cathy Ledwith’s? Wait.” He splayed both his hands as though he were about to lay something deep on me. “You’ve discovered that the demon our little criminals are trying to summon is the Antichrist of desegregation, right? Satan’s own school administrator?”

I narrowed my eyes, clenching my fists and jamming them into my pockets so I wouldn’t wallop Will right between his sexy hazel eyes in the middle of the goddamn street. “Go to hell.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. Go ahead.” Will held up his palms. “Tell me your theory.”

I thrummed my fingers against my hip bones, the cogs in my head spinning but coming up with little.

“Well, there is only one reason why a student would have to use another address to attend a private school. Frankly, if you have the money and the grades, you could live on Jupiter and still attend—as long as you show up, right?”

Will shrugged blankly. “This is your thing, love.”

“Every year, a certain number of scholarships are made available. The girls have to do well on the entrance exam and have the grades, but they all have to live within a certain radius of the school.”

“So?”

“So, Alyssa, likely on scholarship, used Fallon’s address to qualify.”

“Aha!”

I turned. “Aha, what?”

“Nothing. I just don’t see how your little theory here changes or, let’s just say, ‘improves’ anything. But I wanted to be supportive.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m thinking out loud here. What if someone caught on to Alyssa’s false address and threatened to not only have her expelled, but have”—I dropped my voice to a hoarse whisper and cut my eyes toward the house—“Fallon exposed, too.”

Will blinked at me, expression completely unchanged. “Is being on scholarship really that bad? Like, murderously bad?”

I shook my head. “Only for your social standing. I was on scholarship and hid it like it was some kind of oozing lesion.”

“I’m going to have good dreams tonight,” Will said with a grimace.

“Everyone teased me anyway, but when they found out I was a scholarship, too . . . oh, God. It was like a feeding frenzy.”

I remembered walking down the hall as slowly as possible so that the school would be empty by the time I got to my locker, but no one was budging.

I could hear their muffled giggles. I didn’t dare look at anyone because the giggles were easier to stomach than the narrowed, challenging eyes of Jessica and her gang, but worse were the eyes of the other students. They almost seemed to flash sympathy, but no one spoke up or offered me a reassuring glance. Most just looked away, thankful it was me and not them.

The thump of my heart got louder with each step I took and by the time I was ten feet away, I could see that something was pasted all over my locker.

Coupons. An application for public assistance. The Goodwill logo torn from a paper bag.

Jessica Bray sashayed up to me, a fresh coat of orange-scented gloss on her lips. She batted those huge, doe-innocent eyes at me. “Heard about your situation. Thought these might take some of the burden off you. Who knows? Maybe you can save enough to get yourself a decent pair of shoes.”

More than a decade later I could still smell the faint scent of orange blossom and it turned my stomach and shot an embarrassed heat down my spine.

“Maybe someone was willing to exterminate the issue to keep her status secret?”

Will crossed his arms in front of his chest and cocked his head. “You really think someone would go to such lengths?”

I groaned and rubbed my forehead in a vain attempt to cull the throb that had begun. “No. I just feel like we’re running in circles. There may or may not be a coven on campus. Are some girls witches? Or just bitches? I should have just got out of this when Sampson gave me the chance.”

Will shrugged and pulled out his keys, leaving me behind to sulk. I trotted after him. “Aren’t you going to tell me that we really are making progress? That I’m not a total failure?”

He gave me a quick once-over before disappearing into the car. I snatched the passenger-side door open and slid in. “Well?”

“Well, nothing. We’ve come up against a dead end. I haven’t time to tend to your bruised ego. There’s an Arsenal game on and I fancy a pint.”

I felt my lower lip press out and my bruised ego was starting to grate.

“Coming with?” Will asked me as we coasted along a surprisingly un-crowded Geary Boulevard.

Though drinking myself into a beer-addled oblivion sounded particularly pleasurable at that exact moment, my pulse was still thundering and the mass of puzzle pieces that never seemed to fit nagged at me.

“Can you drop me at the police station, please?”

Will’s brows went up.

“I think I’ll just go into work and see if there’s anything pressing.”

Will bobbed his head once as though he were considering the validity of my answer rather than agreeing with me in any way.

I had my hand on the glass double doors at the entrance of the police station as Nigella coughed into reverse behind me. She and Will were halfway down the street when my body seemed to seize up. Everything locked tightly; even the blood pulsing through my veins seemed to freeze solid.

“Help me!”

Chapter Thirteen

It was a whisper at first, then louder, more insistent. I tried to turn my head, wanted to lean toward the sound, but I was still frozen—bound, somehow. Red washed over my eyes and I could see bits of light in front of me. My shoulder blades ached as they pressed against something wet and cold; I could feel the moisture seeping through my shirt. Now I was the one who wanted to beg for help, but my lips were cracked and dry and my throat was sandpapery and hoarse. I knew—somehow—that it was from hours of screaming.

A figure leaned over me, his edges blurred. I blinked and then blinked again, trying to clear my eyes, trying to get a better look. A coarse cloth brushed over my bare arm and I strained to shrink away from it—but I was still frozen, still bound.

My lips parted and I winced at the needling pain as the skin at the corners of my mouth slit and tore. Blood trickled past my lips.

“What do you want?” I heard myself whisper. “What do you want from me?”

But when I saw the edge of the blade catch on the moonlight, I already knew.

“Whoa, Sophie!”

I felt like I had been underwater and suddenly broken the surface. I gasped, and Officer Romero grabbed me by both arms, his eyes the size of dinner plates. “Let me call Grace.”

“No!” I stumbled backward. “No. I—I’m sorry, I was just daydreaming and you surprised me.”

Romero’s dark brows went up. “You were daydreaming in the doorway of the police station?”

“I’m fine, really,” I lied, as my heart hammered like a fire bell. “Fine.” I squeezed by Romero into the safety of the vestibule. “I’ve just got to get—” I forced a smile, relief crashing over me when Romero kindly smiled back. “I’ve just got to get my head on straight.”

“Yeah,” Romero said, finally grinning. “I can respect that. Have a good night.”

I stayed rooted in the vestibule until Romero crossed the parking light and disappeared into his squad car. By that time, I could feel little beads of sweat prickling at the back of my neck while I mashed my finger against the elevator’s down button twenty times over.

The Underworld Detection Agency waiting room was deserted. The rows of blocky chairs and tattered magazines looked benign under the sodium chloride safety lights, but the calm façade did nothing to settle my nerves. I headed directly to my office, shoved the stack of papers and messages on my chair to the floor, and sat down on a sigh, holding my head in my hands. Finally, I steeled myself and picked up the phone.

“’Lo?”

“Lorraine? It’s me. It’s Sophie. Can I ask you something?”

Lorraine sounded like she was chewing on her end of the phone, and she didn’t bother to stop. “If it’s quick. I have six orders to drop off tonight.”

I licked my lips. “Can a witch—can a witch make someone see—or hear something? I mean, like, could someone like you remotely make someone—”

“Someone like you?”

I sucked in a breath. “Yes, someone like me. Can someone like you remotely make someone like me hear someone’s voice?”

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

I relayed the details of my police station parking lot experience, cringing with each new word and each new thought that I was finally losing my marbles.

“Oh, God, Sophie. You’re dealing with someone pretty powerful. This is from the school case, huh?”

I pinched my bottom lip. “Yeah. Look, Will and I found a couple of spell books—just protection spells. Is this the kind of spell that someone can learn?”

“From a book?” Lorraine snorted. “No way. There are some spells and incantations that can be learned from a book and some that are only passed down through families and covens. The spell that overtook you? It’s the latter. Its not the kind of thing someone just messes around with.”

“But why would someone—this mysterious, powerful witch—want to show me something incriminating? Or at least something that could possibly help me find Alyssa?”