Into the Woods (6 page)

I had known about the spell checker, of course. But I’d never tried to sneak a charm in before and had forgotten about it. Apparently a lot of people tried to take advantage of the organized yet unfocused energy that was generated by having so many witches together. My charm was uninvoked, undetectable unless they searched my pockets. Not like the ley line witch ahead of me who I had watched in horror while security wrestled him to the ground. It was harder to smuggle in all the paraphernalia a ley line spell needed. All I had was a small stoppered bottle and a palm-sized stone with a hollowed-out indentation.

My heels thumped faster, and in a surge of tension, I wedged my legs under me and stood above the crowd. Toes cold despite my boots, I brushed the snow from the ivy that grew in the small space between the rock and the edge of the planter. I searched the crowd for Robbie, my foot tapping to Marilyn Manson’s “White Christmas.” He had set up on the far stage. The crowd over there was kind of scary.

Fidgeting, my gaze drifted to the only calm spot in the mess: the circle right in front of the fountain. Some guy with
CITY EVENT
blazoned on his orange vest darted across the cordoned-off area, but most of the security simply stood to form a living barrier. One caught my eye, and I sat back down. You weren’t supposed to be on the planters.

“Take a flier?” a man said, his voice dulled from repetition. He was the only person facing away from the circle as he moved through the crowd, and I had prepared my no-thanks speech before he had even gotten close. But then I saw his “Have you seen me?” button and changed my mind. I’d take a stinking flier.

“Thanks,” I said, holding out my gloved hand even before he could ask.

“Bless you,” he said softly, the snow-damp paper having the weight of cloth as I took it.

He turned away, numb from the desperate reason for his search. “Take a flier?” he said again, moving off with a ponderous pace.

Depressed, I looked at the picture. The missing girl was pretty, her straight hair hanging free past her shoulders. Sarah Martin. Human. Eleven years old. Last seen wearing a pink coat and jeans. Might have a set of white ice skates. Blond hair and blue eyes.

I shoved the flier into a pocket and took a deep breath. Being pretty shouldn’t make you a target. If they didn’t find her tonight, she probably wouldn’t be alive if and when they did. I wasn’t the only one using the power of the solstice to work strong magic, and it made me sick.

A familiar figure captured my attention, and I smiled at Robbie in his new long coat. He had a hesitant, stop-and-go motion through the crowd as he tried not to bump anyone with the hot drinks. Besides the new coat, he now sported a thick wool hat, scarf, and a pair of matching mittens that my mom had made for him for the solstice. He was still in his thin shoes, though, and his face was red with cold.

“Thanks,” I said when Robbie shuffled to a halt and handed me a paper and wax cup.

“Good
God
it’s cold out here,” he said, setting his cup beside me on the planter and jamming his mittened hands into his armpits.

I scooted closer to him, jostled by some guy. “You’ve been gone too long. Wimp.”

“Brat.”

A man in an orange security vest drifted past, the way opening for him like magic. I busied myself with my drink, not looking at him as the warm milk and chocolate slid down. The bottle of potion felt heavy in my pocket, like a guilty secret. “I forgot tapping into the communal will was illegal,” I whispered.

Robbie guffawed, taking the top off his drink and eyeing me with his bird-bright eyes brilliant green in the strong electric lights that made the square bright as noon. “You want to go home?” he taunted. “Come to Portland with me right now? It’s freaking warmer.”

He was getting me in trouble, but that’s what he did. He usually got me out of it, too. Usually. “I want to talk to Dad,” I said, wiggling my toes to feel how cold they were.

“All right then.” He sipped his drink, turning to shield me from a gust of snow and wind that sent the crowd into loud exclamations. “Are you ready?”

I eyed him in surprise. “I thought we’d find a nearby alley or something.”

“The closer, the better. The more energy you can suck in, the longer the magic will last.”

There was that, but a noise of disbelief came from me. “You really think no one’s going to notice a ghost taking shape?” It suddenly hit me I was stirring a white charm in a banned area to get into the I.S.
This will look really good on my employment essay.

Robbie gazed over the shorter people to the nearby circle. “I think you’ll be all right. He’s not going to be that substantial. And that’s assuming you do it right,” he added, teasing.

“Shut up,” I said dryly, and I would’ve bobbed him but that he was drinking his hot chocolate.

Marilyn Manson finished his . . . really odd version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and the people surrounding the stage screamed for more.

“They’re drawing names,” Robbie said, watching the circle instead of the stage.

Excitement slithered through me, and as the crowd pressed closer, I levered myself back up onto the planter wall. No one would make me leave now for standing on it. Robbie moved so I could steady myself against his shoulder, and from the new vantage point, I watched the last of the names pulled from the informal cardboard box. I held my breath, both wanting to hear my name blared from the loudspeaker and dreading it.

Another man with a city event vest put his head together with an official-looking woman with white earmuffs. The two spoke for a moment, her head bobbing. Then she took the wad of names and strode to the stage where Marilyn was blowing kisses and showing off his legs in black tights. The crowd turned like schooling fish, the noise growing as a path parted for her.

“Can you see?” Robbie asked, and I nodded, bumping my knee against his back.

A wave of expectation grew to make my fingertips tingle. With my back to that huge rock and high above everyone, I had a great view, and I watched the woman stand at the stage and peer up at the band. Someone extended a hand to help her make the jump to the plywood. A laugh rippled out when she made the leap, and the woman was clearly flustered when she tugged her coat straight and turned to face the crowd. Marilyn handed her a mike, giving her a word or two before the straitlaced woman edged to the middle of the stage.

“I’m going to read the names now,” she said simply, and the square filled with noise. She glanced shyly behind her to the band when the drummer added to it.

Robbie tugged at my coat and I missed the first name—but it wasn’t me. “You should start now,” he said as he peered up, his cheeks red and his eyes eager.

Adrenaline spiked through me to pull me straight, and my gloved hand touched the outside of my pocket. “Now?”

“At least set it up while everyone is looking at the stage,” he added, and I nodded.

He turned back around and applauded the next person. Here, on our side of the square, there were already two people standing in the middle of the circle, flushed and excited as they showed their IDs to security. I glanced at the people nearest to me, heart pounding. Actually, Robbie had picked a really good spot. There was a narrow space between that big rock and the edge of the planter. No one else could get too close, and with Robbie in front of me, no one would see what I was doing.

The snow seemed to swirl faster. My breath left me in little white puffs as I dropped the egg-shaped red and white stone to the ground and nudged it into place. The shallow dip in it would hold a potion-sized amount of liquid. It was one of my mom’s more expensive—and rare—spelling utensils, and I’d be grounded for a year if she knew I had it.

The last name was read, and the crowd seemed to collectively sigh. Disappointment quickly turned to anticipation again as the last lucky few made their way to the circle to sign their name in the event book and become part of Cincinnati’s history. I jumped when the big electric lights shining on the square went out. Expected, but still it got me. The tiny, distant lights from the surrounding buildings seemed to shine down like organized stars.

Tension grew, and while the noise redoubled, I dropped to a crouch before the stone and pulled my gloves off, jamming them into a deep pocket. I had to do this right. Not only so Robbie would get me into the I.S., but I didn’t want to go to the West Coast and leave my mom alone. Robbie wouldn’t be so mean, would he?

But when he frowned over his shoulder, I didn’t know.

My fingers were slow with cold, and in the new darkness, I twisted the ground-glass stopper out, gave the bottle a swirl, then dumped the potion. It silently settled, ripples disappearing markedly fast. I couldn’t risk standing up and possibly kicking snow into it, so I could only guess by the amount of noise that the seven lucky people were now in place.

“Hurry up!” Robbie hissed, glancing back at me.

I jammed the empty bottle in a pocket and fumbled for the finger stick. The snap of the plastic breaking to reveal the tiny blade seemed to echo to my bones, though it was unheard over the noise of the crowd.

Then they went silent. The sudden hush brought my heart into my throat. They had started the invocation. I had moments. Nothing more. It was in Latin—a blessing for the following year—and as most of the people bowed their heads, I jabbed my index finger.

My fingers were so cold, it registered as a dull throb. Holding my breath, I massaged it, willing the three drops to hurry. One, two, and then the third fell, staining the wine as it fell through the thinner liquid.

I watched, breathing in the heady scent of redwood now emanating from it. Robbie turned, eyes wide, and I felt my heart jump. I had done it right. It wouldn’t smell like that if I hadn’t.

“You did it!” he said, and we both gasped when the clear liquid flashed a soft red, my blood jumping through the medium, mixing it all on its own.

Behind us, a collective sound of awe rose, soft and powerful. I glanced up. Past Robbie, a bubble of power swam up from the earth. It was huge by circle standards, the shimmering field of ever-after arching to a close far above the fountain it spread before. In the distance, the faint resonating of Cincinnati’s cathedral chimes swelled into existence as the nearby bells began ringing from the magic’s vibration, not the bells’ clappers.

We were outside the circle. Everyone was. It glittered like an opal; the multiple auras of the seven people gave it shifting bands of blues, greens, and golds. A flash of red and black glittered sporadically, red evidence of human suffering that made us stronger, and black for the bad we knowingly did—the choice we all had. It was breathtaking, and I stared at it, crouched in the snow, surrounded by hundreds, but feeling alone for the wonder I felt. The hair on the back of my neck pricked. I couldn’t see the collective power rolling back and forth between the buildings—washing, gaining strength—but I could feel it.

My eyes went to Robbie’s. They were huge. He wasn’t watching the stone crucible. Mouth working, he pointed a mittened hand behind me.

I jerked from my crouch to a stand and pressed my back to the stone. The liquid in the depression was almost gone, sifting upward in a golden-sheened mist, and I held a hand to my mouth. It was person-shaped. The mist clearly had a man’s shape, with wide shoulders and a masculine build. It was hunched in what looked like pain, and I had a panicked thought that maybe I was hurting my dad.

From behind us, a shout exploded from a thousand throats. I gasped, eyes jerking over my brother’s head to the crowd. From the far stage, the drummer beat the edge of his set four times to signal the start of the all-night party, and the band ripped into music. People screamed in delight, and I felt dizzy. The sound battered me, and I steadied myself against the stone.

“Blame it all to the devil,” a shaky, frightened voice said behind me. “It’s Hell. It’s Hell before she falls. Holy blame fire!”

I jerked, eyes wide, pressing deeper into the stone behind me. A man was standing between Robbie and me—a small man in the snow, barefoot with curly black hair, a small beard, wide shoulders . . . and absolutely nothing on him. “You’re not my dad,” I said, feeling my heart beat too fast.

“Well, there’s one reason to sing to the angels, then, isn’t there?” he said, shivering violently and trying to cover himself. And then a woman screamed.

FOUR

S
treaker!” the woman shouted, her arm thick in its parka, pointing.

Heads turned, and I panicked. There were more gasps and a lot of cheers. Robbie jumped onto the planter beside me and shrugged out of his coat.

“My God, Rachel!” he said, the scintillating glow from the set circle illuminating his shock. “It worked!”

The small man was cowering, and he jumped at a distant boom of sound. They were shooting off fireworks at the river, and the crowd responded when a mushroom of gold and red exploded, peeking from around one of the buildings. Fear was thick on him, and he stared at the sparkles, lost and utterly bewildered.

“Here. Put this on,” Robbie was saying. He looked funny in just his hat, scarf, and mittens, and the man jumped, startled when Robbie draped his coat over him.

Still silent, the man turned his back on me, tucking his arms into the sleeves and closing the coat with a relieved quickness. Another firework exploded, and he looked up, mouth agape at the green glow reflected off the nearby buildings.

Robbie’s expression was tight with worry. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered, “I never should have done this. Rachel, can’t you do a damned spell wrong once in a while?”

My heart dropped to my middle, and I couldn’t breathe. Our bet. Damn it. This wasn’t Dad. I’d done something wrong. The man hunched before me in bare feet and my brother’s new coat wasn’t my dad.

“I speculated hell was hot . . .” he said, shivering. “This is c-cold.”

“It didn’t work,” I whispered, and he fixed his vivid blue eyes on me, looking like a startled animal. My breath caught. He was lost and afraid. Another distant boom broke our gaze as he looked to the snowy skies.