Charmed, page 8
Her words reverberate through my head.
“Did they tell you why they kidnapped you? Give you any idea what they’re using you for? Why all the humans?”
What does it all mean?
The witch comes back with a goblet of pink fluid and some mystery capsules, which she sets down in front of me before moving back to continue watching. I could lie here forever, but the promise of potential painkillers is making me salivate. I flatten the palm of my uninjured arm against the floor and force my body up. It feels like my head is weighted with lead, and my movements are sluggish, like I’m coming out of anesthesia.
Cruz’s dirty T-shirt is still wrapped around the crook of my right arm, making it hard to bend, so I pick up the goblet with my left hand and bring it close to my face, taking a whiff of the pink fluid. I cough at the unexpected acrid scent.
“It’ll make the pains go away,” the witch says, reading my mind.
I eye the capsules. Taking unmarked pills from a stranger seems like something I probably shouldn’t do, but surely if she wanted to kill me she could have done it when she was slicing me up with a rusty dagger.
Still coughing, I pop the capsules in my mouth, throwing back half the liquid in one gulp. I almost spit it out, but force it down my throat. And then I sit there, panting, until the urge to vomit finally passes.
“Get up,” the witch says, then disappears back into the tunnels again.
I realize the pain and the sluggishness are gone.
I get up and follow the witch upstairs.
The cab rolls to a stop. It’s four a.m., yet all the lights are on inside my house. Anxiety grips my chest. Aunt Penny’s probably been up all night worrying about me. Maybe she even called the cops.
“I got places to be, lady,” the cabbie complains.
I consider asking him to drive right past the house, maybe drop me off at the park so I can sleep under the slide or something. Even going up against Bat Boy again seems appealing compared with going inside right now.
But I’ll have to face Aunt Penny sometime. And so I fork over the cab fare, take a deep breath, and climb out of the taxi.
She’s on the front steps before he even pulls away.
Marvelous.
“Where the hell were you?” she screams, storming down the driveway. “And where the hell is your car?”
Aunt Penny’s eyes fall to the bloodied T-shirt wrapped around my arm. She circles me, taking in my disheveled appearance, and I can tell from her intake of breath the moment she discovers the ragged hole in the back of my T-shirt from where Bat Boy sank its claws into me.
“Oh my God, what happened?”
“I got mugged,” I say. Though I practiced it a dozen times in the cab, it still comes out with the ring of a lie.
“Bull. What really happened?”
She moves to touch my arm, but I pull it back.
“I got mugged,” I repeat.
“Where?”
“The movies.”
“You went to the movies?” she asks incredulously.
I nod.
“So you called the cops, then?” She crosses her arms over her chest, challenging me to lie.
I hold her stare.
“You got mugged and beat up and your car was what, stolen? And you never called the cops? Where were you really? Who did this to you?”
I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Can you just…not? I’m so tired. I just want to get cleaned up and go to bed.”
She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry to inconvenience you with—”
The outside lights next door flick on. Mrs. Abernathy appears on the porch.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Fine!” Aunt Penny calls cheerily. “Just typical teenager stuff. Thanks for asking!” She turns to me. “Inside,” she growls out of the side of her mouth.
I groan as I follow her into the house. As soon as the front door clicks closed behind us, she swings on me.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was? Do you even know what time it is?”
“It’s around the time you usually roll in from the clubs,” I say, and immediately regret it.
Her face twists into a mask of anger. “Used to, Indie. I don’t go out anymore because I have responsibilities now.”
“Sorry to ruin all your fun.”
She points her finger inches from my nose. “Don’t. Just don’t. You don’t get to make this about me right now.”
I bite my lip to keep from saying anything else. I’ve never seen Aunt Penny this mad, and I do feel sort of guilty for making her worry.
Her hand hangs in the air a moment longer before she lets her arm drop to her side. She turns so that her back is to me, but not before I see the brightness in her eyes. Her shoulders shake with silent tears.
“Aunt Penny,” I say, hesitantly touching her shoulder.
“I thought you were dead,” she sobs.
My gut twists. She lost her sister and she thought she’d lost me—she must have been out of her mind with panic.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Totally safe. I’m…sorry I made you worry. But I’ll get my car back, okay?”
“I don’t care about the stupid car!”
I gasp at her outburst.
I’d half expected her to soften with the apology, but she swings around on me again, her face ugly with anger. I take a step back. Aunt Penny may look like your typical L.A.-type bar star, what with the blond hair and manicure, but she can really go from zero to ghetto in sixty seconds.
“This isn’t going to happen again,” she says. Not a question. A statement.
“Okay, I’ll try to be more—”
“No,” she interrupts. “This won’t happen again. You won’t run off like this. You’ll go to school and actually stay at school. You’ll get good grades and you’ll go to college. And if you don’t? If you don’t follow my rules exactly as I’ve laid them out? You’ll go to witch boarding school.”
I bark a laugh.
“I’m dead serious,” she says. She holds her body so still that if she weren’t standing up I’d wonder if she was breathing.
“Is that even a thing?” I ask. “Witch boarding school? Did you just make that up?”
“Don’t you wish,” she answers. “It’s a thing. And it’s where you’ll be going if you don’t follow my rules.”
“But Paige—”
“But nothing,” she interrupts. “I’ve spoken with the Family. They’ve agreed to help search for Paige. This isn’t your problem anymore. You’re a teenager, and it’s time you started acting like one.”
“This is all really funny coming from you,” I say. “You just ‘grew up,’ when? A few weeks ago? And the Family—you really think they’re going to help us? They don’t give a rat’s ass about us. Don’t you remember what happened last time?”
“It’s not your problem anymore,” she repeats.
I want to argue. I want to shake her until sense comes back, or some semblance of the old Aunt Penny. But I can tell by the fiery look in her eyes that she won’t be argued with right now. And though I have serious doubts that a witch boarding school actually exists, I can’t say for sure that it doesn’t. And the last thing I need right now is to get sent away from Los Angeles. I need to get back to the boardwalk and the witch. I need to get back to Los Demonios to look for Paige.
I don’t need Aunt Penny on my back.
“Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll follow your stupid rules.”
I’m shoving my textbooks into my locker the next morning when Bishop calls my name. I should have guessed by the girlie exclamations and the rise in pheromones in the air that he was near.
I hike my messenger bag up on my shoulder and swing around. And there he is, leaning up against the opposite bank of lockers. And he doesn’t look happy.
I did consider calling or texting him when I got in last night, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. My anger at him for taking Aunt Penny’s side may have dissipated a bit in the face of near death in Los Demonios, but it took only a few minutes of being back home and remembering the terrors of that place, knowing that Paige is still there, for it to come flooding back again, stronger than ever.
I probably should have called.
Sighing, I shoulder my bag. The concentrated stare of the female population of Fairfield High follows me as I join my boyfriend, but I pretend not to notice the attention.
“Where were you?” he asks, his tone low and dangerous.
“Sorry, I should have called—”
“Where were you?” he repeats. His eyes lock on mine, dark and unblinking. I’ve never seen Bishop this angry.
I square my shoulders, trying to disguise my nerves. “My dad’s been gone since I was three, and I don’t need a replacement, thanks.”
My words crack his shell. His shoulders deflate a fraction, and he looks out at the busy hallway.
Guilt tears at my insides. What’s gotten into me? I know what I did was wrong. I touch his arm, and he flinches. Laughter echoes through the hallway, and my cheeks burn.
“Just…just tell me you didn’t do something stupid.” He looks at me again with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.
I briefly consider telling him everything about Los Demonios, but something about the threatening look in his eyes tells me that confessing to him would be a very bad idea. Which brings me to plan B: throw him off the trail. Stat.
“Look, Bishop. I’m sorry. I was just so mad. Aunt Penny just finished saying there was nothing I could do about Paige, then I went to you and expected you to be on my side but you just said the same thing and”—I shrug—“I guess I just lost it. I needed to get away for a bit.” It’s not technically a lie. “But I realize now that I made you both worry, and I won’t take off like that again without letting someone know.”
He doesn’t respond. A twist of dark hair falls around his jaw; his lips are so tense I have the urge to part them with a kiss. He’s so close to me, yet the space between us feels like a chasm.
“Look,” I whisper. “If you’re going to break up with me, could you at least make it quick? Everyone’s looking.”
He laughs then, low and quiet. The sound startles me.
“You think I’m going to break up with you?” he asks.
“You’re…not?”
“Indie,” he says, hooking his fingers through the belt loops of my jean skirt and tugging me closer. He gives a half smile—not his characteristic grin, but not his new scowl either, so I’ll take it. “I would never break up with you.”
Relief floods my body, and I swear I can feel actual endorphins racing through my veins. “You might regret saying that later,” I reply.
He tucks my hair behind my ear, grinning genuinely as he leans in to kiss me.
“All right, break it up, you two!”
I startle at Mr. Lloyd’s voice. He stands in front of us, wedging us apart with his palms. “More booky booky, less kissy kissy, comprende?”
Bishop laughs, and Mr. Lloyd shoots him a glare.
“Are you even a student here?” he asks.
Crap.
“See you after school?” Bishop says as he walks backward away from me.
“Sure,” I say. He gives me a two-fingered salute, and then he slips into the crowd.
One thing I haven’t missed about school is Mrs. Davies’s boring lectures. After I slept like the dead for just a few hours last night, her monologue on some after-school SAT prep course has me fighting the urge to head-desk.
It doesn’t get better in math class. My exhaustion, combined with the fact I haven’t cracked a textbook in ages, makes the test questions look like they’re written in an alien language. I get about halfway through before giving up and taking a nap on my desk.
I almost leap out of my skin when the intercom buzzes. Mrs. Malone’s voice comes over the speaker.
“Good morning. Would all students and teachers please file down to the gymnasium for a mandatory assembly? Thank you.”
“I guess the test will have to be rescheduled,” Mr. Lloyd says.
Joy. I can fail tomorrow instead.
Whoops rise from the class. In the back of the room, Bianca loudly discusses skipping out for Starbucks. It’s probably the first great idea she’s ever had. I’m already imagining what kinds of research I can do with my free time when Mr. Lloyd claps his hands.
“Did everyone hear Mrs. Malone? This is a mandatory assembly. Anyone not present will be reported to the office and dealt with appropriately. I will be taking attendance in the gym.”
All twenty-five kids let out a groan.
The gym is already three-quarters full and booming with the murmurs of students by the time our class arrives. I file into one of the hastily erected rows of orange chairs and scan the crowded room for a sign of what this is all about. I notice a few uniformed police officers chatting by the side of the raised stage, and my back stiffens.
Five minutes later, Mrs. Malone crosses the stage as briskly as one can in a leather miniskirt too tight to allow full range of leg motion. She stops in front of a microphone, then taps it twice, sending interference through the speakers, which makes everyone groan.
“Quiet, please,” she says. “Thank you all for joining me. I’ve asked you here this morning for a very important issue. A tragedy has befallen one of our own.” She pauses. “Mrs. Hornby’s daughter has gone missing.”
Shock slams into me as the gym falls completely silent.
Mrs. Hornby is the coach of the girl’s soccer team, and ever since Ms. Jenkins died (or rather, was killed by Leo), she’s been filling in as the cheerleading coach. All I know about her is that she loves soccer with a passion and has been nicknamed Horny, on account of her unfortunate last name. I didn’t even know she had a daughter.
Mrs. Malone allows a moment for the shock of her statement to wear off before continuing.
“Samantha Hornby, a junior at John Marshall High, hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning.” Mrs. Malone covers the microphone with her hand and speaks to a janitor. In a moment, a picture flashes across the drop-down screen behind her. The girl in the picture smiles brightly at the camera, her brown hair pulled into a glossy ponytail at the top of her head.
“Samantha was last seen by her parents at ten to eight yesterday, when she left for school with a friend. She was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. All efforts to contact her via phone and social networking have failed. Her family says this is very unusual for Samantha and they’re very concerned for her welfare. Please, everyone take a close look at this photo. If you have any information that could help in the search for Samantha, anything at all, please come forward to speak to one of the officers, who will gladly take your report.”
I stare at the picture. Something niggles at the back of my mind, but it’s like I’m trying to grab hold of rubbery fish: every time I think I’ve got a handle on it, it wiggles out of my grasp.
I remember the news report Aunt Penny was watching the other morning about the redheaded boy. That makes two teens gone missing in the course of a few days.
Chairs squeak against tile as the gym empties out, but I don’t move, just keep staring at the picture. There’s hardly anyone left in the room when I finally figure it out.
Wipe away the smile, pull down the ponytail, and smear dirt across her cheeks—and that girl becomes the one in the back of the van in Los Demonios.
10
It doesn’t make sense. What the hell could Mrs. Hornby’s daughter be doing in an alternate-dimension prison?
The lack of sleep and the guilt must finally be catching up with me, I decide. It can’t really be her. I’m superimposing her face on the girl I saw because I can’t stop thinking about what might have happened to her after I left her in that van, Cruz unconscious or worse, and with Bat Boy on the loose.
Yes. That’s it. It’s not her. I say it so many times that I almost convince myself it’s true.
Back in math class, I wait for Mr. Lloyd to turn his back before digging in my purse for my phone. I cradle it in my lap under the desk and open the web browser, sneaking glances down to type in the search bar whenever the opportunity strikes. I’ve gotten as far as “Samantha H” when Mr. Lloyd suddenly stops his impromptu lecture on the importance of good math grades for getting into a decent college and not failing at life.
“Yes, Bianca,” he says.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Lloyd. I’m trying to pay attention, because college is, like, super, super important to me, but I’m just really distracted by Indigo on her phone.”
I stiffen, blood rushing to my face. The classroom calls out “Oooh” in unison as Mr. Lloyd’s shoes slap down the aisle. He holds out his hand, under my nose. Exhaling, I hand over my cell.
“You can pick it up at the end of the day,” he says.
“What?” I shriek.
He ignores my outburst. As he retreats to the front of the class, I twist around to send eye daggers at Bianca. She gives me a huge, satisfied smile. I can’t help myself. I turn to face the blackboard, calling my magic; it answers quickly, the heat stinging my fingertips. I think of Bianca’s desk and repeat the incantation to move objects inside my head.
Sequere me imperio movere.
A loud crash sounds behind me, followed by a roar of laughter. I twist around to see Bianca splayed out on the floor under her tipped-over desk.
“Get this thing off of me!” she screeches.
Devon jumps up to right the desk.
“Who pushed me?” she yells, scrambling up and struggling to rearrange her impossibly small skirt.
“Pushed you?” Devon asks. “Don’t blame me because you fell.”
I laugh, but quickly turn it into a cough.
“All right, that’s enough, people,” Mr. Lloyd says. “Miss Cavanaugh—take your seat. And try to stay in it, please.”
Repressed snickers bounce through the room. Bianca snaps her head around, as if she’s trying to burn every laughing kid’s face into her memory so she can remember to ruin their lives later. And then she notices me. Her eyes narrow, and I know she’s trying to figure out how I could have caused her fall from three rows over. I give her a smug smile before I spin around to face the blackboard again.
