Spellcaster

  I exhaled a nervous breath. I asked Brendan what his father’s response was. I imagined it was pretty good. I was right.

  “He ripped Casey a new one. It was awesome. Even though, let’s face it, Emma, I usually deserve to be in Casey’s office, he said, ‘I find it troubling that you always seem to find some reason to bring my son into your office. I’m wondering if you have ulterior motives.’” Brendan executed a pitch-perfect impression of his snarky father before laughing at the memory of what Aaron Salinger said next.

  “Then he told her I wasn’t going to be eighteen until April and he found it disturbing that he had to remind her I was underage.” Even I started laughing at Aaron’s insinuation.

  “Casey must have flipped out!” I laughed, my eyes wide.

  “She started stammering and stuttering like she was auto-tuned,” Brendan cracked. “And my dad wasn’t even done yet. He asked her if he needed to request a supervisor for every time she called me into her office.”

  “That’s great that he was so protective of you.” I didn’t want to think about what Laura might have said had she been the one they got on the phone.

  “Yeah, my dad rules. I was glad my mom was on a plane so they got him instead,” Brendan admitted, dropping his head to my shoulder. “I swear, Emma, my mother can be so frustrating,” he moaned into my neck.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, biting back any commentary about how she’s been frustrating from the moment I met her.

  He raised his head, his lips parted as he tried to explain himself. “She never cared what I was doing—as long as I didn’t embarrass her or make the family look bad,” he said bitterly, adding, “which I won’t lie, I did a lot just to make her mad or get out of some stupid society thing she wanted me to go to. And now, she’s constantly asking me about school, what I do in my spare time. My mom even tried to get me to attend some debutante ball horror show as the escort of one of her society buddies’ daughters back in December. She just doesn’t get that I don’t care about all that stuff.”

  “She wanted you to go on a date with someone else?” I repeated, stinging from the news. I knew she didn’t particularly like me, but…damn.

  “It’s not a date like that, Em. The girl has to make her formal debut, and whichever guy escorts her sets the tone for, I don’t know, the rest of her life or something,” Brendan huffed, rolling his eyes. “I would have been an ornament. I told her no. Actually you helped get me out of that.” He smirked.

  “Why, because we were dating by then?”

  “No, because I was all bruised and cut up from the fight with Anthony. No one wants to walk into a room with that on their arm.” Brendan grinned evilly, adding, “Well, except for you. But you, obviously, have impeccable taste.”

  I tried to muster a smile, but I couldn’t. If I didn’t know better I’d think Laura was the one who wanted me gone.

  “Are your parents coming back early then, ’cause of the whole Casey situation?” I asked, looking down at our less-than-parentally-appropriate attire. I was basically in a bra and underwear—Brendan’s underwear—and he was wearing nothing but a pair of pants.

  “No, still Monday.” He smirked, patting me on my plaid-clad bottom. “I’m perfectly fine with your outfit for as long as you want to wear it. Except when you leave here later. You’ll probably need clothes for that.

  “Actually,” Brendan said, “your uniform is probably dry by now.”

  He looked down at the way I was coiled around him, cocking a dark eyebrow at me.

  “Yeah, on second thought, I can’t handle this outfit anymore. We need you to put on some clothes now,” Brendan growled, pulling me closer for a final deep, smoldering kiss that shamed all the other kisses before it.

  Either I had some lucky stars in my sky or Brendan’s parents had the best washing machine on the planet—I didn’t doubt it, they could afford it—but the stains came out of my shirt. I told Brendan about my mistaking Liam for him—I was right, he thought it was hilarious, but swore he’d torture Liam over it. Once I was dressed, I sat on the floor against Brendan’s bed, dialing Angelique, who should have been home from work by then. Brendan laid on the bed on his stomach, absentmindedly combing his fingers through my hair. He kept his shirt off. I didn’t complain.

  “Already something happened? I bet that’s why all the crystals were black,” she practically shouted when I told her about the attack at the Cloisters class trip.

  “I bet if we had done the spell a week ago, it wouldn’t have turned out that way. The danger was right around the corner.”

  I started relaying what she said to Brendan, who interrupted me dryly with, “I can hear her.”

  “I have to be honest, Emma, I still get waves of that feeling of dread. That hasn’t gone away. So we need to find out if there’s something about that athame that can give us clues.”

  I looked at the creepy knife. If its owner was anything like this knife, we were dealing with someone more twisted than a Twizzler.

  “Tell me again about how you focused for the Emoveo spell,” she demanded, excited. “It took me almost three years to get that one right.” I began talking—taking a little more time to brag this time—but Brendan interrupted again.

  “Can she come over here tomorrow? Or can we go over to her house?” Brendan asked, gently tugging on my hair to get my attention. “You can tell her all this later.”

  “Does he have to be a part of this? We can figure this out more quickly when it’s just us.” Angelique’s voice dropped a few decibel points—but not nearly enough.

  “I heard that, and the answer is yes,” Brendan replied calmly, and Angelique swore—loudly—in my ear.

  “I heard that, too,” he muttered.

  “I’ll come over there.” Angelique sighed, resigned. “Just text me the address. I don’t want him judging my family’s apartment building.” Angelique was at Vince A on scholarship, and that, coupled with her witchy ways, hadn’t won her many friends at Snobbytown, U.S.A. Even though Brendan didn’t care—he honestly didn’t. After all, my history was spottier than a connect-the-dots book—she unfairly lumped him in with the rest of the snob brigade.

  “Angelique, don’t be like that,” I warned.

  “Where was he today while you were beating up some psycho?” Angelique asked, changing the subject.

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “Emma, you’re pretty much the only person in our grade who’s worth talking to,” came her dry reply. Quickly I gave her an abbreviated version of what had happened to Brendan this morning.

  Then she was silent.

  “Angelique, are you still there?”

  “On second thought, you guys come over here,” she said urgently. “Come early, like around ten. I’ll make my cousin come over. My mom will be out with her mom. If my mom were here, she’d totally freak. But Miranda will keep it quiet.”

  “Why the change in venue—and, um, why bring out the big guns?” Angelique was the youngest witch in her family.

  “Don’t you see it?” Angelique cried out. “Brendan wasn’t there because he wasn’t supposed to be there. Whoever set him up is involved in your attack. Think about it—whoever’s behind this knew he would have protected you. Get Brendan out of the way, you’re an easy target.”

  My jaw dropped. I turned my head to face Brendan, and the look on his face told me he’d heard everything Angelique said. He mouthed, “Makes sense.”

  “I don’t know what books we’re going to need, so better do this here.”

  Angelique paused.

  “And definitely bring the athame.”

  * * *

  Brendan picked me up the next morning, grumbling about the pathetic sound coming out of the older, less-expensive pair of headphones resting around his neck. Fortunat
ely Aunt Christine—who hit the roof when she saw the scabbed-over cut on my knee from my “fall”—didn’t press for details beyond “hanging out with Brendan at Angelique’s” when he came by. The fact that he nearly died defending me against Anthony made him passable in her book—although she often dropped not-so-obvious hints that she thought we were too serious. Her only real rule with Brendan was that when he was over, my bedroom door stayed open to discourage, as she called it, “funny business.”

  I took a big gulp of my coffee, stifling a yawn as we headed across the concrete plaza to the lobby of Angelique’s apartment building. After I’d gotten home, I attempted to make a pair of boots that I’d set in the middle of my bedroom floor Emoveo over and over. All I accomplished was nearly tripping over them en route to the bathroom this morning. Clearly I couldn’t focus unless I felt threatened, as my magical track record showed. Disappointment and terror—and insecurity that I couldn’t summon any real power if I needed it again—tangled in my head, and needless to say, I was awake most of the night.

  “Did you get any sleep last night?” Brendan asked, his fingers dragging a path of destruction through his already sleep-mussed hair as we waited at the security desk for Angelique to buzz us in.

  “Not really.” I sighed, holding up my venti Starbucks. “This isn’t going to cut it. I need a gallon of coffee to make it through today.”

  “We’ll get you a keg of cappuccino after this,” Brendan teased, but he looked at me with exhaustion-ringed green eyes, and I realized he probably didn’t get much sleep last night, either.

  “Keg of cappuccino works. Want to share it with me?” I asked as Brendan opened the front door for me as the loud buzzer went off.

  “No, you use too much milk and sugar. You might as well just have a milkshake.” Brendan smiled, stifling his own yawn as we stepped into the waiting elevator.

  “You’re a milkshake!” I automatically replied, my stupid joke earning a small, tired smile from Brendan.

  “You didn’t sleep much, either,” I said casually, pushing the button.

  “I’m fine,” he said automatically. “Just worried about you.”

  “I can take care of myself—this loser has a nice black eye, thanks to your instruction,” I reminded him as the elevator arrived at Angelique’s floor. We walked down the fluorescent-lit hallway, and Brendan leaned (of course) against the wall next to her door, as I rang the doorbell.

  Angelique answered the door with a cheerful, “Hey, Emma!” Then Brendan pushed himself off the wall to join my side and her smile collapsed quicker than a house of cards in an earthquake.

  “Oh. Hello…Brendan.” She said his name stiffly, a somewhat-forced smile on her black lips.

  “Hey,” was his terse reply. I knew it bugged Brendan that someone so close to me disliked him. The only person who hated all the rich snobs at Vince A more than Angelique was Brendan. It was ironic, since his family was arguably the wealthiest one of all. Still, they’d never managed to be in each other’s company for more than ten minutes, max, before one of them (usually her) let a little dig slide. He usually ignored her, but then again, he never had to be around her for longer than ten minutes.

  Angelique’s long black skirt swooshed around her feet as she shut the door behind us. “I gave my cousin the rundown. She brought over some of her mom’s books and some of her own. She agreed to help us out—she thinks this is so exciting,” she whispered conspiratorially, adding, “but, of course, she’s totally shoving it in my face how she knows oh-so-much more than I do.”

  We followed Angelique—with her streaked hair, heavily lined eyes and rows of silver bangles on her arms—into the kitchen, where her cousin sat at the kitchen table among a few stacks of books. I had met her once, briefly, so I knew she would be far less Goth in appearance than Angelique, but still, I imagined that Brendan half expected her to wear a pointy hat and ride around the apartment on a Swiffer.

  He sure didn’t expect Fordham University junior Miranda Tedt to be sitting primly at the kitchen table, reading from a thick, dusty-looking book in a retro powder-blue pinafore, her wavy blond hair twisted out of her face and pinned back with a flowered clip. She looked like a rockabilly Alice in Wonderland. Miranda sported a fake beauty mark over her lip and her brown eyes were expertly lined, flipping up at the corners in a perfect black cat’s-eye. And those eyes lit up when she laid them on Brendan, which set Angelique’s eyes rolling so far back in her head she looked like a slot machine that hit jackpot.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Miranda. Thanks so much for taking the time for us today—we really appreciate it,” Brendan said courteously as he shook her hand. Miranda blushed a little, and I thought Angelique’s eyes would roll right out of her head. I extended my hand next, a little nervous around the über-witch.

  “Call me Randi, there’s no need to be formal,” Miranda said, waving my hand away and jumping up to give me a hug—a very unexpected hug, considering how her cousin was the least touchy-feely person I knew.

  “So you two are the soul mates, right? That’s so cute,” Randi gushed, her blood-red lips breaking out in a wide smile. She looked back and forth between us as Brendan and I uncomfortably stood there. I felt like the new baby tiger at the Bronx Zoo, the precious way she gawked at us. Suddenly I completely understood Brendan’s deep-seated hatred of the word cute.

  Fortunately Randi sat back down. She gestured to us to do the same, smoothing her full skirt beneath her as she settled into one of the white chairs gathered around their kitchen table. Apart from a random crystal here, an intricately carved candle there, there wasn’t much about the rest of the apartment that gave away its occupants’ magical inclinations (well, aside from the decor Angelique preferred in her bedroom).

  Brendan and I nodded as we slid into chairs around the table. He slipped out of his hoodie, his simple dark gray shirt complementing his basketball player’s body. Randi definitely noticed, not-so-subtly giving him the once-over. Jeez, is she living up to her nickname or what?

  “So, where’s this athame?” Randi asked, smoothing the blue placemat under her red-painted fingertips.

  I had left the knife with Brendan—I didn’t want that thing anywhere near me. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a rolled-up black T-shirt.

  “I didn’t know how to carry something like this without it poking through my bag,” he explained, unrolling the T-shirt to reveal the blade, letting it fall onto the table with a dull thump. The athame spun a little when it landed, the point of the knife facing me. I hoped that was just a coincidence.

  “That better be a clean shirt,” Angelique said under her breath and both me and her cousin shot her a look.

  “It is,” Brendan replied though his teeth, keeping his voice as level as possible. I didn’t blame him for being irritated. I looked at the clock on the wall and realized we hadn’t even hit the ten-minute mark yet, and already they were annoyed with each other. Great.

  Randi squinted at the knife, turning it over in her hands.

  “I’ve never seen one this, well, gross,” she said, inspecting the series of skulls carved into the handle and wrinkling her nose. “Just because it’s nasty doesn’t mean that it can only be used for evil, though. I could easily use this in a protection spell, you know.”

  “Really? Because it’s pretty disgusting,” I said bluntly. I eyed the skulls—with their bulging eye sockets and gaping, grinning jaws—and winced.

  “Totally, but that has more to do with the owner.” Randi frowned at the knife before pushing it into the center of the table with the tip of one finger. She looked like she didn’t want anything to do with the macabre blade, either.

  “An athame isn’t supposed to be a weapon,” she explained to Brendan and me, combing her fingers through her flaxen hair as she spoke. “I know, I know, it’s a knife, but it’s really supposed
to function as an extension of the witch, to be used in rituals, cutting herbs, and so on. The symbols on this athame mean nothing, to be honest. They’re freaky and downright scary, yes, but that doesn’t mean that this is to be used in a specific spell.”

  Randi paused. “What’s significant about the appearance of this athame is that a witch chose something so sinister to be his or her main tool. This thing—” she poked her finger at it “—spoke to someone.”

  “The person that thing spoke to is the one that hurt Emma.” I could hear the tension in Brendan’s voice, nervously twisting the silver hoop he had pierced in his ear cartilage.

  “Tried to hurt me,” I reminded him, holding up my clenched hand, my knuckles much less swollen today. “Fists of fury, remember?” I turned to Randi and, more for Brendan’s benefit than my own, confidently said, “I kicked his ass.”

  “Emma, can you tell me the whole story, from beginning to end?” Randi asked, leaning forward and resting her chin on the heel of her hand. “I heard secondhand from Angela but I want to hear it from you.”

  “Angelique,” my friend corrected her cousin, her blue-gray eyes delivering a withering look that could strip the chrome off a toaster. Angelique liked a more dramatic (dramatique?) pronunciation of her given name.

  I took a deep breath and launched into lurid details of the attack—trying very hard not to embellish my punching skills or brag over the part where I used the Emoveo spell to fling my attacker through the air like he was made of Nerf.

  “That’s amazing,” Angelique murmured, her eyes wide. “It took me years to move a pen. You moved a person. I’ve never known anyone who could move something so…substantial with that spell. Even the person who came up with it.” She gave me a jealous look.

  “I’ll happily switch places with you,” I said bleakly.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to sound like I’m envious. You must have been terrified—especially since this person knew your name and said they wanted to cut you.” She squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced.