Charmed, page 5
“We’ll find out where the portal is, then,” I say.
“Good luck,” Irena says. “People have been searching for that thing for centuries. You’re not the first person to want to break someone out of the clink.”
I let out a strangled moan, despair and frustration breaking me down. “You can’t tell me there’s no way!”
Bishop pulls me against him, and I dissolve into tears.
I flip down the rearview mirror. Yep, just like I thought. I look like crap warmed over. My eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, and pretty much any makeup I had on when I left the house this morning has been washed away, revealing a nose and cheeks that would make an alcoholic jealous.
Sighing, I flip the mirror up and grab my bag from the passenger seat. If I get upstairs quickly and quietly enough, Aunt Penny won’t see my bedraggled appearance and start asking questions.
I climb the steps to the house, making as little noise as humanly—or witchly—possible. But when I open the door Aunt Penny is standing at the foot of the stairs, both hands squarely on her hips as she gives me the bored/exasperated expression that moms are famous for.
“Where have you been?” she asks.
Awesome.
“Did you practice that in front of the mirror?” I answer, stepping inside and pulling the door closed.
“Don’t change the subject. I got a call from the school today. You skipped out after homeroom.”
Damn. That was sooner than I expected. I mentally run through a few plausible excuses.
“I want the truth,” she says, as if reading my mind.
I toss my bag onto the stairs and look Aunt Penny straight in the eye. “I was searching for Paige. You know, my best friend who went missing?”
She pinches the bridge of her nose.
“But no worries,” I continue. “We found out where she is: Los Demonios. Ever heard of it?”
Her eyes widen.
“So as you can imagine, school isn’t really a big priority right now. Every second Paige is in Los Demonios, she’s at risk.”
“Los Demonios? Wow. I mean, wow. I can’t believe it. That’s just…” Aunt Penny shakes her head, at a loss for words.
My shoulders relax a fraction at her unexpected response. Maybe she’s going to be reasonable about this after all. Maybe she can even help—she probably knows a lot about the place, having been a member of the Family in the past.
“So basically all afternoon we’ve been trying to come up with ways to infiltrate the place,” I say. “Nothing so far, but we will come up with something. Any ideas?”
Aunt Penny looks up quickly. “Infiltrate?”
“Well, yeah,” I answer, laughing dryly. “We’re not going to just leave Paige in a place full of murderers.”
“Indie,” she says, taking a step closer. “No one who’s gone into Los Demonios has ever come out.”
A chill passes through me hearing those damning words again, but I pretend her comment hasn’t ruffled me. “Maybe nobody’s tried hard enough. I mean, of course nobody wants to go there under normal circumstances.”
She closes the gap between us at such a clip I take a step back. She’s right in my face, looking at me with a fiery intensity in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. It’s a bit scary.
“You can’t go there,” she says, spittle flying out of her mouth. “You won’t go there.”
So much for the theory of Aunt Penny helping.
“I can go there,” I answer, meeting her gaze. “And I will.”
She throws her hands in the air and looks around, as if seeking support from the Mexican knickknacks littered across the living room. “You’ll get yourself killed!” she yells. “You don’t know this place. I do. The fact that you’re even thinking about going there is insane. You’ll die!”
And Paige is there. Rather than persuading me not to try, Aunt Penny’s comments only bolster my resolve to do anything necessary to get to Los Demonios.
“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” I say. “You were happy to stand back when your own family was in danger.”
It’s a low blow, and her lip wobbles like a toddler about to cry. But I was done feeling sorry for her a long time ago.
“I’m out of here,” I say, turning away before her tears have a chance to change my mind.
“Wait!” she calls to my back. I bound down the front steps toward my car, then peel out of the driveway.
I left the house with the mission of getting away from Aunt Penny, but it’s not until I’m almost there that I realize I’ve been driving to Bishop’s.
The lush green hills of Mount Washington pop up before my eyes, and soon I’m pulling up to Bishop’s house. Correction: mansion. The Spanish-style home rises three stories high and stretches for what seems like an entire city block. Towering palm trees and lavish gardens spring up from every corner of the property, and lattices of ivy climb the white stucco walls and coil around the arched windows framed with ornate cast-iron grilles, all the way to the terracotta roof.
I park in front of the tacky naked-mermaid fountain in the driveway that shoots water out of its nipples (so obviously Bishop’s contribution to the décor) and climb out of the car.
I don’t even get a chance to knock on the heavy wooden door before it opens, and Bishop is there.
“What’s up?” he asks, pulling the door wide so I can come in. Instead of his usual badass rocker clothing, he’s sporting a pair of baggy plaid pajama pants and a white T-shirt so old it’s see-through in places. His hair is adorably mussed up on top and flat on one side.
“Hey,” I answer.
A rumbling sounds from behind him, and seconds later, his rottweiler, Lovey Lumpkins, barrels down the spiral staircase. Just weeks ago, I wanted to run when he approached, but now I don’t even break my stare from Bishop as the dog’s nails clatter on the marble floors.
“What?” he asks, noticing my stare.
“I’ve missed your holey pj’s,” I say. “You look sickeningly cute.” I smile at him as I swat Lovey’s nose out of my crotch. Only Bishop could pull me out of such a horrible mood—I knew I kept him around for a reason.
He grins. “Yeah, I was thinking about taking a nap, then you came along and ruined that idea.”
I give him a playful shove in the shoulder and walk inside. He follows me through the foyer.
“So why are you here?” he asks. “Didn’t you say you had to get home or else Aunt Penny would send a lynch mob after you or something?”
“We got in a fight.” And like that, whatever good mood I had drains out of me and my anger comes crashing back full force. I toss my keys on the glass table, and the sound echoes off the high, wood-beam ceilings.
“Let me guess: Los Demonios,” Bishop says.
“Yep. And get this, she actually wants me not to go.” I pad into the kitchen—my favorite room in Bishop’s house. It features the same wooden beams across the ceiling, smooth archways, and windows covered in cast-iron grilles as the rest of the house, but there are also stone walls, an ornate tile backsplash, dark-colored wood cabinets, and a low-hanging candle chandelier suspended over an island full of planters, and combined, the look is just so warm that I can’t help gravitating here. I haul myself up onto one of the stools at the island.
Bishop follows me into the kitchen, with Lumpkins trotting in behind him.
“She said, ‘You won’t go there,’ ” I say, mimicking Aunt Penny. “ ‘You’ll get yourself killed.’ ” I roll my eyes. “She just doesn’t understand.”
Bishop doesn’t respond.
“I mean, like I’d just forget about my best friend. To suggest that I don’t even try to get her out, I mean, that’s just crazy!”
The refrigerator hums in the wake of my outburst.
I sit up straighter and look at Bishop—really look at him. He plays with the drawstrings of his pajama pants, pointedly avoiding eye contact. A sinking sensation washes over me.
“You don’t…agree with her, do you?”
He doesn’t immediately respond, and right away I know it’s true. I hop off my stool, surprised that smoke isn’t blowing out of my ears with the force of my angry huffing.
“You can’t be serious,” I say. “You too?”
He shakes his head, approaching me with his hands up in apology, but I back away from him.
“Does nobody care that she’s in danger?” I shout. Lumpkins sits up and lets out a little yelp. Bishop pets him behind the ears and murmurs, “It’s okay,” until the rottweiler sinks back to the ground.
“That’s not it,” Bishop says, turning his attention back to me. “No one is happy this happened to Paige. It’s just that we care about you and we don’t want to see the same thing happen to you.”
I bark a humorless laugh. “So everyone figures we should just cut our losses and move on.” Bishop opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him before he can get a word out. “No, that’s it, isn’t it? You just want to go back to a normal life. Paige being in Los Demonios must be convenient. ‘Hey! Would have liked to continue spending my every waking second searching for this girl I don’t really know, but sorry, she’s in this other dimension, so no can do. Wanna make out?’ ”
“Indie,” he says, shaking his head.
“Don’t ‘Indie’ me,” I say. “You’re not even two years older than me, so you can stop treating me like a child. Everyone treats me like a child, and I’m done with that.”
He strides up to me with a challenge flashing in his dark eyes. “So you think if you die too that’ll make this whole thing better?” he demands.
“Who says I’d die?”
“Just look at history, Indie. No one who’s gone into Los Demonios—”
“Has ever come out,” I finish for him. “God, did you and Aunt Penny read the same textbook or something? Yes, it’s not going to be easy. But just because something is hard doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”
“Indie.” He grabs my wrists and pulls me to him.
“No!” I shout so loud that Lumpkins lets out another bark. “This can’t be fixed with a make-out sesh, okay?”
Hurt flashes across his face and he lets go of my wrists. I feel a quick stab in my gut—God, what is with me lately?—but I turn my back to him so he doesn’t see the tears that spring to my eyes.
And then, for the second time in a day, I storm out of a house while pleas to stop follow me out the door.
6
The engine idles. Through the bug-splattered windshield, I watch the sun sink into the ocean, casting the sky into the oranges and pinks of sunset.
The boardwalk is practically a ghost town. The crowds have disappeared, leaving just a few dozen people scattered across the huge expanse of beach. A woman closes the shutters on her booth, while another sweeps the stairs in front of her shop. A few people stand in line at a pizza parlor, but otherwise the place is empty.
I don’t know what I thought I’d accomplish by coming here, but I’m sure that whatever it is won’t happen with me sitting in the car.
I turn off the engine and step out. Without the sun stinging my shoulders, the breeze coming off the water sends goose bumps racing up my bare arms. I wish I’d brought a sweater. I make a mental note to remember that next time I run away from home.
I trudge through the sand toward the boardwalk. A single seagull circles overhead, silent. The Black Market is gone. Except it’s not really gone, just hidden from view.
“Videre.”
I say it only once, and as I blink, the market appears.
The place is suddenly teeming with activity. It’s so crowded my eyes can’t catch on one single thing to notice instead of another. Where the boardwalk was alive with tourists this morning, twilight seems to have brought out all the witches and warlocks. The market gave me the creeps before, but with the sun setting and Bishop not a comforting presence by my side, a spider of dread climbs my spine.
Irena wasn’t exactly friendly when we chatted last, but I can’t deny she knows more than I do about witchcraft. Most people know more than I do about witchcraft. But maybe she’ll be more forthcoming without Bishop there making her go into heat.
I weave through the crowd, trying not to wince or shriek when someone bumps my shoulder or loudly calls to a friend behind me.
I’m almost at Irena’s tent when a strange sensation comes over me, and I’m overcome with the feeling of being watched. My breath catches as I recall the woman from this morning.
I spin around wildly. Sure enough, there she is, staring at me from her darkened booth. A breeze blows wisps of thinning hair across her face. Her penetrating gaze almost makes me cry out, and I realize my hand has involuntarily come up to my heart.
The woman crooks a bent and knobby finger in the air. Instinct tells me to run far and fast from this creepy lady, but for some reason I don’t. She settles her hand back into her lap and waits, like she’s sure I’m going to come closer.
And I do.
Alarm bells sound in my head the nearer I get to the witch, but my feet keep moving, almost of their own volition, like an undercurrent is pulling me toward her across a sea of people. I start to wonder if she’s doing some sort of spell, and my heart beats so fast I think it’s finally going to crap out from all the stress I’ve put it under lately. By the time I’m standing in front of her booth, I’m so sure she’s going to kill me that I’m wondering why my life isn’t flashing before my eyes.
“Hello, Indie,” she says. I don’t know what shocks me more: that she knows my name, or that she has the clear voice of a woman much younger than the minimum seventy I’d pegged her as.
Up close, I see that the sallow, sagging skin, lifeless eyes, and thinning hair have lent an aged appearance to what is probably a woman no older than thirty. What could have happened to a person to make her look like this? Also: how do I avoid it, and is it contagious?
“H-h-how do you know my name?” I stammer.
“You need help,” she replies. It’s a statement, not a question. I can’t even reply before she says, “Come in,” then climbs off her stool and disappears behind the curtain into the dark recesses of the shop.
A moment passes. I look behind me; the boardwalk is a zoo, but no one’s paying attention to me. I could leave right now and be home in half an hour, snuggled up under my big, warm duvet.
Instead, I reach inside the booth and unhook the latch for the swinging door.
Candles bathe the small room in flickering orange light. At the back sits a worktable scattered with pots and pickle jars filled with colorful liquids and questionable foodstuffs. The dark walls are cluttered with crooked shelves and clocks of every shape and size. A large chipped sink sits to the right, stained with what I hope is red paint and not something else, and across the cobblestone floor from it is a stone hearth. Perfect for cooking children and ex-cheerleaders.
The woman is gone. There’s a door set into the back wall. What the hell, I decide. I cross over to it in two long strides, grasping the cold knob in my hand.
I open it.
The candles from inside the booth cast just enough light that I can see the faint outline of a staircase twisting down into a black hole. Following her is a Bad Idea. But the woman knew I needed help. The promise that maybe, just maybe, she knows how I can save Paige drives me to take a melting taper candle from the shelf and hold it out in front of me like a weapon as I descend the stairs. This is how horror movies begin, I think.
The temperature immediately drops as I go down, and the scent of damp earth fills my nose. As my eyes adjust to the dark, the room begins to take shape—“room” being a massive overstatement. The place looks more like a cave. The candlelight casts shadows across the rocky walls and glints off the stalactites hanging from the low ceiling. Shadowy passageways snake off from the main room, twisting in different directions. There must be tunnels running under the entire boardwalk.
The warm wax of the candle molds to the shape of my hand as I walk.
“What is it you want?”
I leap at the sound of the witch’s voice and whirl around, trying to locate her. I gasp when the whites of her eyes light up a darkened corner to my left. What the hell is she doing, just standing there in the dark?
There’s a quiet pop, and then the small flicker of a flame appears in the witch’s cupped hands. She reaches up to light a lantern overhead. The flame spits as it comes to life, illuminating a long worktable in the middle of the space strewn with even more bottles and jars. The witch takes a mortar and pestle and begins grinding what looks like black rock.
I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. I realize I haven’t answered her question.
“My friend,” I start nervously. “She’s been kidnapped.”
The witch doesn’t react, just continues crushing the rock with surprising strength considering her arthritic-looking hands.
“We think she’s in Los Demonios,” I add.
I expect her to jump down my throat at the mention of the place, but she just says, “What makes you think that?” as though I were commenting on the weather. I instantly like her more.
“We did a locating spell. It should have worked, but we picked up nothing.”
“And you want to get her out,” she replies.
I nod.
“I know of a way,” she says.
My heart skips a beat. “You—you do?”
“It will cost you three thousand dollars.” She lays the pestle down and pats the worktable until she finds a funnel, which she uses to feed the ground black crystals through the narrow opening of a bottle-green jar.
Three thousand dollars. I don’t have three hundred dollars, let alone ten times that.
“I don’t have that much money,” I say.
“Well, then you’re not going,” she says, mimicking my voice.
I bite my lip, scouring my brain for a way to make this happen. In a flash, I remember the lockbox Mom kept on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. My college fund. Anytime I used to bug Mom about keeping so much money in the house, she’d bring up the Depression and how everyone who put their money in a bank lost everything, while the smart people who kept their money under their mattresses prospered. I’d tried to tell her that a robber was a bit more likely than another Depression, but Mom was steadfast in her ways. There’s got to be close to fifteen thousand dollars in there.
