Witches & Werewolves: A Sacred Oath (16 page)

“So, you’re saying I was meant to get attacked by werewolves tonight?”

“Well, you know what they say about playing with fire.”

“How am I playing with fire?” I ask.

“Ethan is pretty damn hot!” Jen says, lasciviously.
 

“Should I be worried about you two?”

“Don’t worry. He’s not my type,” Jen assures me.

“Since when is
hot
not your type?”

“Witches and werewolves always end badly. The only thing worse is vampires and werewolves. That’s a recipe for disaster,” Jen says.

“How so?”

“Besides the obvious reasons, a werewolf bite is fatal to a vampire. And vice versa. Can you imagine having mad passionate vampire sex? And in the throes of passion, your urge for blood overwhelming, you bite down a little too hard and kill your lover?”

“I’ve never…”

Jen’s eyes grow wide and her jaw drops. “What?”
 

“I’ve never… you know…”
 

“Done it?” Jen asks, astounded.

“Yeah,” I murmur.
 

“Wow.”

“What? Is it that shocking?” I ask.

“Little bit.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin!”

“Unless someone needs a ritual sacrifice,” she says.

I furrow my brow at her.
 

“I’m kidding. There’s nothing wrong with your choice. You should stay a virgin as long as you want. Just not so long that you’re too old for anybody to want to do it with you.”

“I think I’ve got time,” I say.

“That’s how it happens. One day, you’re young and hot. The next day, you’ve got 37 cats.”

“I’m allergic to cats.”

“See.” Jen’s eyes light up. “So, you think Ethan is the one?”

“Come on, I haven’t even thought about it.”

“Right,” She says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Every girl in Haven Hill is thinking about that with him.”

“There are other, more important things besides sex,” I say.

“Says the virgin.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, how many times have you done it?”
 

“We’re talking about your sex life, or lack thereof, not mine.” She grins.
 

“Can we talk about something else?”

“You know, I can put a spell on you and make you talk about it.”

“Why don’t you do something useful and help me figure out who these werewolves are that attacked me?”

“I need an item. A possession. A lock of hair,” Jen says.

“A drop of blood?” I ask.

Jen’s eyes light up with gleeful anticipation.

“Blood is even better,” she says.

It just so happens that we have some. The 2x4 from the railing, the one with the rusty nail embedded—the one that I stabbed into the wolf’s head.
 

We grab the plank from the yard and bring it back inside. I clear off the coffee table so Jen can work her magic, literally. Jen pulls out her grimoire from her purse, flipping through the pages. It’s the same leather bound book I saw her take from her locker.

“You have a book of spells?” I ask.

“Every witch has one. Magic isn’t one size fits all. You can’t just look up a spell on the internet and expect it to work. It’s personal. A powerful witch writes her own spells.”

“How do you write a spell?”

“First, be sure your intention is clear. What do you want to accomplish? Then, decide on the ingredients.”

“Ingredients?” I ask.

“All power comes from the universe. What elements are you going to use to empower your spell? Earth, air, fire, water. We can symbolize these with herbs, stones, candles, liquids—whatever. Pick things that have meaning to you.”

“Does every spell need elements?”

“No two spells are the same. Some work fine with just an incantation. Sometimes you might want to perform the spell on a particular day, or during a particular season, or phase of the moon, if it’s relevant,” Jen says.

“How do you write an incantation?”

“You relax. Focus on your intention. Then write a poetic couplet that embodies that intention.”

“Then what?” I ask.

“Then you see if it works.”
 

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Then you rework it,” she says. “But be careful how you word it and what you wish for. The universe has a sense of humor. Sometimes you get exactly what you ask for, which may not always be what you want.”

Jen references her grimoire, then writes a version of the spell on a piece of paper. Then she scrapes the crusty crimson blood from the nail. The shavings fall onto the paper where Jen has written the spell:
 

So that I may see the truth

I offer this blood as the proof

By fire, secrets be unsealed

In burning flame identity revealed.

Jen pulls out a pouch of herbs, a candle, and a stone from her purse, and sets them on the table. She won’t tell me what the herbs are. She sprinkles a dash of the herbs onto the paper along with the shavings of dried blood. Then she folds the paper in half.
 

Jen lights the candle, then takes the stone in her palm. She instructs me to take her hand, covering my palm around the top of the stone. “I’ve got to warn you, this probably isn’t going to work,” she says. “I’m not very good with these kinds of spells. The key is that you and I have to be on the same page with our intention.”

 
She squeezes my hand, the smooth stone in between our palms. Jen takes the folded paper containing the items and hovers it above the flame.
 
We chant the spell, like a mantra, over and over and over again. She dips the paper into the flickering flame, igniting with a flurry of sparks. The paper burns in shifting hues of green, then purple, then blue.
 

 
Jen drops the blazing paper into a bowl. Engulfed in flames, sparkling embers rise. A green plume of smoke hovers in the air. We keep repeating the mantra. I focus my mind on revealing the identity of the werewolf.
 

 
Our chanting grows quicker and more intense. The stone between our palms radiates warmth. Amidst the wafting smoke, an image begins to appear. Blurry at first, but growing sharper and more defined with each passing moment. My eyes grow wide, shocked that this is actually working. I glance to Jen, and I think she’s equally surprised.

 
Through the wavy wisps of smoke, I see the wounded werewolf staggering through the forest. The vision plays like snippets of time. Moments, here and there. Sometimes linear, sometimes not. Some images are more defined, some images are a shadowy suggestion.

The beast collapses and transforms back into a man. Lying face down in the leaves, blood trickling down his naked body, the man staggers to his feet. He clutches his wound, blood oozing between his fingers.
 

 
He has dark hair, but I can’t see his face. He staggers his way through the forest, weaving among the trees. He is moving toward a figure in the distance. Jen and I stare into the smoke with fervent attention, trying to make out a recognizable feature of the man. But it’s like watching a hazy dream that doesn’t totally makes sense. As the man draws closer to the figure, he kneels down, submissive. The figure comes into view—a woman. We watch these nameless, faceless characters interact. From the woman’s body language, I can tell she is not pleased.
 

 
My eyes squint, straining to see into the hazy smoke. I lean in closer.
 
Just as the faces are about to be revealed, the smoke dissipates and the vision fades.

 
Jen and I both slump with despair.

 
“I told you, I’m not very good with these kinds of spells.”
 

CHAPTER 21

I’M DROWNING. THE surface of the water is just above me, but I can’t get there. I’m pulling and kicking as hard as I can, but I can’t break through. My chest tightens and my head feels like it’s going to explode. Carbon dioxide builds up in my blood, and I just want to suck in a deep breath. The corner of my vision darkens. The world closes in around me. My lungs ablaze, begging for oxygen. I keep clawing to get to the surface, but my extremities grow weak. I’m so lightheaded, I’m on the verge of consciousness.
 

This is the moment when my brain says screw it, it’s either breathe or die. But my brain hasn’t fully taken into account the fact that there isn’t any air. My brain decides to go through the motions anyway. An involuntary response. As my consciousness fades, I inhale a huge breath. Water pours into my lungs and I choke. You know the feeling when you swallow water and it goes down the wrong pipe? Imagine that times a thousand.

I’m convinced that I’m dead. Then I wake up in my bunk, gasping for air, dripping with sweat. I take a nice, full breath. Several of them. I think, in my dream, I had actually stopped breathing. Ever since my parents died, I’ve had dreams of drowning. I had hoped the dreams had stopped.
 

I take a moment to enjoy the warm sunlight on my face. I’m usually not a morning person, but right now I’m thankful for the sunrise. The sunrise means that I don’t have to deal with werewolves hounding me. No sharp fangs wanting to tear me into tiny bits. No razor sharp claws swiping at me. And, at least for now, no more nightmares.

I grab the wooden keepsake box from underneath my bed. I stare at it a few moments, thinking about the letter inside. The letter I haven’t been able to bring myself to read. I inhale deeply and decide I’m still not ready to read it. I tuck the box away, back underneath the bed.

 
I get up and fix some pancakes. Jake’s bedroom door is still closed, and I imagine he probably has one hell of a hangover. I’m not the best with pancakes. I can never get them to all be the same size and thickness, but Noah doesn’t complain. They taste just the same, anyhow.
 

 
The biggest mistake I make is letting Noah take a shower before me. He takes forever, and it throws my whole morning routine off. By the time I get my stuff ready, I’m panicking. It dawns on me that Jen isn’t coming to pick me up. It’s not like she’s going to sneak her dad’s car out this morning. How am I going to get us both to school?

A sharp knock on the door startles me. I hobble closer, my heart beating faster. I’m not expecting anyone, and after last night, I’m a little on edge. And when I say a little, I mean a lot.

 
I inch toward the door and peer through the blinds. I’m shocked, and I don’t know what to think. Ethan is standing on the stoop!

I pull open the door, and I’m sure the look on my face is one of bewilderment.
 

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.”

We stare at each other for a long, awkward moment.

“I thought you might need a ride today.”

I’m stunned. After the way I treated him last night, part of me felt that he was just going to write me off. Part of me, the scared part of me, wanted him to. The stupid, illogical, lovesick part of me—the part that I try to repress—is ecstatic that he’s here right now.

I play coy. “Is it safe to ride with you?”

He grins. “I don’t see a full moon.”

“Not yet, at least,” I say.

“I’ll have you back by nightfall.”

“Hmmm… I don’t know.”

“Do you want a ride to school, or not?”

 
I call out to Noah, unblinking as I stare in Ethan’s eyes.

 
Noah grabs his books, and we pile into Ethan’s car. Nobody says a word for the entire ride. I want to tell Ethan everything about last night. Every detail about the attack. I want to know how he sustains himself. If he actually has eaten human flesh. But all of these questions will have to wait.

We drop Noah off and head to the high school. As we pull into the parking lot, a sea of teenagers are scurrying to class. We pass by Lucas. He sinks when he sees me in Ethan’s car. I wave at him, and he manages to return a half hearted gesture. Lucas forces a thin smile, trying to hide the look of betrayal that involuntarily flashes across his face.
 

I cringe. I haven’t talked to him since the night at the grocery store. The night he saved my life.
 

Ethan weaves the car through the flowing river of angst ridden youth, pulling into a parking space. Olivia stands on the sidewalk, glowering at us. Ethan’s eyes meet hers, and her gaze showers him with disapproval. I can see Ethan’s frustration grow.
 

“Why does she hate me?”

“Because you’re dangerous,” he says.

“That’s a laugh.”

“We are very… protective of our own. You’re an outsider. And your human.”

“You mean, I’m food.”

Ethan chuckles. “You’re too scrawny. You wouldn’t even be filling.”

“Hey! I don’t know if I should be offended, or not?”