Sorceress (14 page)

“Wandering around Captive’s Sound as night falls.” His smile was not kind. “I would’ve thought you’d know better by now.”

So she should have felt relieved. It was Asa. Her defender, her friend, her not-quite-boyfriend. But she didn’t.

Slowly, Verlaine said, “You’ve been following me since school, haven’t you?”

“You felt it? All the more reason you should have been more careful.”

How could Asa have followed her when he was on foot? Maybe his demonic speed allowed him to keep up—or he’d just stopped time to catch her wherever he liked. It didn’t matter. Verlaine could only stare at Asa and realize that somewhere along the line, she’d stopped thinking of him as a demon.

She shouldn’t have.

He tilted his head—black coat hanging perfectly from his angular frame, cheekbones highlighting his large, dark eyes—his sensual handsomeness only stronger now that he’d gone back to being scary as hell. “You said you know how to kill me,” he murmured. “Tell me.”

“Don’t you know?” That was stupid. Of course he knew. But why did Asa want her to say it? He stood there, staring, waiting. Almost as though he wanted her to say the wrong thing—

Too bad, because she wouldn’t. “Blade consecrated to white magic? Check. Anointed with the ‘blood of the sea,’ because nobody in ye olden days could just say ‘seawater,’ check. And all three pieces of paper: word of god and word of witch and word of you. So I’m set.” Verlaine lifted her chin. “Satisfied?”

“Almost.” Asa’s voice had become nearly a purr—but not like an ordinary cat. Like a leopard or a panther. Something stronger and more dangerous. “I presume you keep these items on you at all times. Doing anything else would be highly unsafe.”

Verlaine did keep them with her. She thought of it less as arming herself against Asa, more as keeping her dads from finding the knife and freaking out. Or, at least, she used to think of it that way. Now she didn’t know what to believe. Instead of answering him out loud, she clutched her waterproof backpack closer.

Asa’s grin was brilliant in the constant twilight of rain. “Good girl.”

Her mood was shifting from freaked out to pissed off. “Why the pop quiz? Why the stalker act? What’s going on?”

“I’m about to try to kill you.”

Had she heard that right? She couldn’t have.

Asa took a step toward her, and Verlaine skittered backward; the mud sloshed around her boots. “No, you’re not.”

“Oh, yes, I am. You see, I’m making it easier for you.” His entire body had tensed, and she found herself thinking of a panther again, one closing in on prey. “I realize you’re not a natural killer. The farthest thing from it, really. But anyone can kill to defend their own life.”

“Wait. Hang on—wait!” Verlaine held up her free hand, but he was coming closer, and while his eyes remained beautiful, they no longer looked entirely human. The heat of him was close enough to sear the damp air. “Why now?”

“Do you think there will be a good time? That will never come. So today. Now, Verlaine. Now.”

He pounced.

Verlaine screamed as he slammed into her, his weight taking them both down. They fell into the mud, and Asa’s hands pinned her shoulders down. Desperately she twisted to the side, rolling him off her.

Get the knife get the knife get the frickin’ knife
—Verlaine managed to reach inside her backpack. Her hand closed around the hilt just as Asa tackled her again.

Their bodies tangled together. The last time they’d been this close they’d been making out in her car, and she’d thought that had to be what love felt like. Whatever love was, it didn’t feel like this—cold and wet, her body shaking, her eyes hot with tears even as her voice shrieked in rage.

Verlaine wedged her feet against Asa’s chest and kicked him back so hard he fell into the deep pool of water, almost going under. That gave her time. Only a few seconds, but that was enough.

She slammed the crumpled three papers on the ground, then stabbed the knife through them. There. Now all she had to do was stab Asa, and he’d be dead. Gone forever.

Asa leaped from the pool, his movements inhumanly graceful and swift. Within an instant he was crouched over her. “And now she has a knife,” he singsonged. “Too bad she doesn’t know how to use it. Maybe I’ll demonstrate.”

He means it. Asa means it. He’s going to kill me if I don’t kill him first.

And yet she also realized, in a flash of terrible insight, that he wanted her to win.

He was ready to die for her.

So she had to be ready to kill.

Verlaine shoved herself up fast enough to body-slam him, the top of her head making contact with his jaw. Her reward was a muffled cry of pain. She seized her momentary advantage, pushing Asa onto the ground and collapsing atop him. The knife was heavy in her fist, but she could angle it, bring it around—

—and she stopped, right there, with the blade just in front of his chest.

“Hesitation. I’m disappointed in you.” Asa’s eyes met hers evenly. “Did you want to say good-bye? Waste of time.”

Maybe she’d meant to say good-bye, that and no more before she sent Asa back to hell. But when Verlaine looked at him like that—knowing he’d attacked her only to give her the chance to finish him off, that he was at this moment trying to sacrifice his own life for hers—she knew there was no way she could ever kill him. No matter what the stakes were, even her own life, she couldn’t kill the guy she—the guy she loved.

“No.” She straightened her fingers until the dagger slid from her hand into the mud. “I won’t.”

Asa’s face contorted into a terrible grimace. “You little fool.”

He’s going to kill me after all. Verlaine knew he meant to do it. She could sense it in an almost animal way, her hair
prickling upright on her scalp, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Still she didn’t grab the knife.

Lightning-fast, he rolled her over. His weight thudded on top of her, so that he held her down. Asa growled, “Then I have to—I have to—”

Verlaine closed her eyes.

Less than three seconds passed. They felt like years.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw Asa looking down at her. He was shaking. “I’m a fool, too.”

She didn’t know what to say, what to think. She didn’t care. “Shut up and kiss me.”

He did. Verlaine wound her hands in his hair, reveling in the taste of Asa’s mouth as they opened their lips. The kiss was desperate, each of them clutching the other close, not caring about the chill in the air or the mud covering their bodies. Raindrops beat down on Verlaine’s face, wetted Asa’s hair as she wove her fingers through it, and none of it mattered. She only wanted to stay close to him. It had felt like this when they’d tried to save each other from drowning only to find they were trapped.

But as Verlaine tried to pull him even closer, Asa pulled away. “I should go.”

“Don’t.”

“When I’m with you, I want to—I want to talk to you. Make you laugh. Protect you, kiss you, love you—”

Verlaine knew that was bad news, but when she heard him say it, all she could feel was a wild, leaping joy.

“—and none of it does either of us any good.”

“Maybe we should stop worrying about what happens in the end.” She stroked his cheek with one hand. When her fingers touched his skin, he closed his eyes. “Maybe we should stop thinking about anything besides right now.”

He slowly, slowly turned his head and kissed her wet fingertips. Lightning flashed, illuminating them for one brilliant instant—blue-white amid the dark.

Then he stood up, leaving her sitting in the mud. “Sounds nice,” he said. He sounded like his usual sardonic self again. “Forgetting everything else in the world but each other. But I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Asa smiled grimly. “Because I know what happens in the end.”

In an instant he was gone. Verlaine wondered if he had stopped time—and if he had remained there a long time, watching her, before he left. She wanted him to have done that, even though she knew it was a stupid thing to want.

Probably she should get up from the mud, but she was trembling so violently that she wasn’t sure she could even stand yet. Instead Verlaine crawled to the place in the mud where her phone had fallen. She lifted it from the muck to see the light of its screen.

“It still works,” she said, like that was important, and for some reason that was the moment when she started to cry.

Nadia had taken Asa’s advice about the hammock, mostly because she figured the spiders were still around someplace.

(Weirdly, they seemed to leave Elizabeth alone. Spiders were more perceptive than Nadia had thought.)

Maybe she should have been deeply depressed as she lay there in her hammock amid the dilapidated ruin that Elizabeth called home. Instead Nadia felt numb. Happiness seemed like nothing but a memory, and probably she’d never again get to spend any meaningful time with any of the people she most loved. The one that hurt most was Cole—her baby brother couldn’t possibly understand what was going on, and she hadn’t even gotten to say good-bye . . .

Nadia shut her eyes. She had to stay focused on the one thing that was keeping her going.

Finally she understood what Elizabeth was up to.
The ultimate weapon is forged from hate.
Elizabeth was forging a weapon now, from the anger and suspicion of people affected by the flood.

What a Sorceress couldn’t understand was that adversity brought people together, too. According to Asa, the men in town had worked side by side all night, each one trying to help the others.

Now that Nadia understood Elizabeth’s plan and its weaknesses, she would finally have a chance to strike back.

Striking back, however, would involve sinking herself more deeply into dark magic than she ever had before . . . beyond the point of no return. Still, if you gave yourself to darkness forever, sometimes you could get something in return. Bargains could be struck. Deals could be made.

If she failed to stop Elizabeth, and the One Beneath
ascended into this world—the aftermath would be horrible, but some people would survive. They would live in a more frightening and dangerous world than they’d ever imagined. Still—while there was life, there was hope.

Over the past couple of months she’d already laid as many protective charms and spells on her house and her family as she could. Everything Nadia could do to protect Dad and Cole, she’d done. Maybe they would never even know her magic was the reason they’d survived, but she didn’t care about getting credit. She just wanted to give them a chance. Even in the hellscape to come, they’d have a chance.

Mateo, though . . .

She had to find a way to protect Mateo.

The curse bound him so powerfully to Elizabeth, and to dark magic itself. When Nadia had made him a Steadfast, she had only made him more avidly hunted by the powers of darkness. If she failed in her battle against the One Beneath, she would also have to face the horrible knowledge that she had damned Mateo to death, and to hell.

She had to break the curse. She had to make sure Mateo would be safe. And there was no way Nadia could do that.

Unless she made a bargain.

Nadia knew what the price would be, and it was the worst price she could ever imagine paying.

If that was what it took to save Mateo . . .

Nadia took a deep breath and whispered, “Okay.”

THE PHONE RANG, WAKING MATEO UP. HE GRABBED FOR
his cell phone, only to groggily realize the call was on their landline, the one that was in the phone book but that no one except telemarketers and political robocalls ever used. And nobody ever called before seven a.m.

Except in an emergency.

He dashed into the living room, hoping the phone hadn’t yet woken up his dad. The only other sound was the constant drumming of rain on the windows. “Hello?”

“This is Simon Caldani. Nadia’s father.” He sounded terrible, like he was sick.

Fear seemed to circle Mateo’s heart, and squeeze tightly. “Is Nadia okay?”

“She’s not with you?” Mr. Caldani’s voice cracked. “I was just sure . . . I’d been counting on her being at your place.”

When the father of a teenage girl actually hoped she’d
slept over at her boyfriend’s, things were seriously bad. “Is she missing?”

A long pause followed. “Nadia and I—the other night—she told me some things that I—I didn’t react well.” What could he possibly mean?

Then Mateo knew.

He said, “She told you what’s really going on, didn’t she?”

“Mateo, I—I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You know now. You know the truth.”

Footsteps just outside the kitchen made Mateo look up to see his dad in his rumpled pajamas, shuffling toward the coffeemaker. Dad mouthed,
What truth?
Mateo waved his hand, like,
I’ll tell you later
, which actually meant he’d come up with the best lie he could on the spot.

Mr. Caldani said, very evenly, “I’m not sure we’re talking about the same thing. But—if we are—then you understand why I was unnerved. I . . . reacted badly. But I never meant to hurt Nadia, or scare her away. She took off, and she hasn’t come back home, and I’m worried sick.”

“That makes two of us.”

Nadia was more than able to take care of herself, at least against any mortal danger. Mateo knew that. But she was up against dangers infinitely worse than any mugger or kidnapper could ever be. Now she was facing them alone.

For her to have told her father about her witchcraft—to have broken the First Law against freely revealing the Craft to a man—Nadia had to have been completely desperate.

Hold on
, Mateo thought, resolve hardening within him.
I’m going to get you out of this. I’ll save you, Nadia.

If it’s the last thing I do.

Even a Sorceress had to sleep.

Nadia stared at Elizabeth as she dozed in her hammock, long chestnut curls trailing down almost to the floor. Some people looked innocent or vulnerable when they slept; Elizabeth did not. She looked more like an Egyptian from a sarcophagus lid: hard, unmovable, just waiting to rise again, stronger than before.

Still, Elizabeth had cast no special enchantments before going to sleep. Nadia knew she would be protected—but probably the protections were for Elizabeth’s personal safety. She wouldn’t have cast protective spells around her things.

She rose from the floor, walking just like normal so that if Elizabeth woke up, she wouldn’t become suspicious.

Nadia glanced over her shoulder. Elizabeth remained sound asleep.

For a moment she considered going through the old cabinet at the far end of the room, the creaking one where Elizabeth kept the bones of the Cabots. Whatever Elizabeth wanted them for . . . it couldn’t be good.

But Nadia didn’t know what they were for. She’d reviewed everything she ever knew about curses; the bones of Mateo’s ancestors wouldn’t allow her to break the curse on him. If they had, she would have stolen them in an instant, and risked Elizabeth’s wrath. Otherwise . . .

If you don’t know what they do, leave them. You can’t use them
to help Mateo, so stealing them isn’t worth the risk of tipping Elizabeth off.
Instead she went into the back room where Elizabeth kept her Book of Shadows.

She couldn’t steal it today; Nadia knew that much. Moving against the Book of Shadows would be dangerous enough at any time—but with Elizabeth just in the next room, able to spring instantly to the book’s defense, it was suicide. What she needed to do was consult the spell book. Learn from it. Accept some of the darkness it had to share.

Nadia walked into the back room, trying not to think of the last time she’d been there, and all the spiders. What little light filtered through the filthy window illuminated a nearly bare room. The Book of Shadows lay almost in the center of the floor. In a few places, the ceiling had begun to leak—raindrops pattered down onto the wood below—but no water had fallen on the spell book. It kept itself safe.

She sat down on the floor, crisscross, opposite the book. Her eyes flicked toward the corners, half-expecting to see spiders begin to scurry forth. Nothing like that happened. Yet she was aware that somehow, the book was . . . listening.

Nadia laid one of her hands on the cover of the Book of Shadows. Was she imagining it, or was it slightly colder than the rest of the room? “Demons,” she whispered. “I want to learn more about demons.”

When she went to open the book, it let her. The pages were so old and brittle, yellowed with age; in many places, the ink had faded almost to invisibility. Spells were layered on top of spells, drawings on top of drawings, until the pages
looked almost scarred. Still, Nadia could make out enough. While the pages didn’t magically flip to the information she needed, she found herself searching in the right area—and that hadn’t been a lucky guess.

The Book of Shadows wanted her to know what a demon was. How one was made. Why the One Beneath needed demons, ever and always.

Nadia’s eyes scanned over the words without pausing. As quickly as she read, she absorbed every word, understood every connection. Her mother’s training—her own discipline—and the strange, vital darkness she’d sensed bubbling within her ever since she swore herself to the One Beneath: All of them worked together to help her understand.

Magic had never come this easily before.

Once she had finished reading, Nadia closed the Book of Shadows, then once again lay her hand on the icy cover—thanking it, in a way. Then she walked out of the house without pausing, only glancing back once at Elizabeth, who remained as still and silent as before.

Now I finally know what to do. I can keep Mateo alive. That way, even if I lose, and the One Beneath enters this world, Mateo will at least have a chance.

Nadia was ready to give up what little she had left, just to give him that chance.

Both the
Lightning Rod
and the
Guardian
were effectively shut down—but in Verlaine’s opinion, that didn’t mean the town of Captive’s Sound should be without news.

(Besides Weather TV. They had hourly reports on Captive’s Sound by now, with a little special logo, “Rhode Island Rain Rampage.” But that was mostly a chipper meteorologist wearing hip waders and a smile as he kept pointing at a flooded street behind him. The people who lived here already knew about the washed-out roads.)

Verlaine dressed for the occasion, thinking of all the tough-talking 1940s movie stars who had played intrepid “girl reporters.” Wide-legged, high-waisted tweed slacks and a cream-colored blouse complete with a bow at the neck: one hundred percent Katharine Hepburn. Well, except for the galoshes. Still, Verlaine thought the overall effect worked.

“You look amazing, sweetheart,” Uncle Gary said as she gave him and Uncle Dave a ride to La Catrina; the Perez family restaurant was turning into a sort of makeshift headquarters for the town’s relief efforts. “Most people would let themselves go at a time of crisis, but not you. You just keep bringing the fabulous.”

“That’s aimed at me, isn’t it?” Uncle Dave said, between sips of coffee from his thermos.

Uncle Gary pursed his lips, a look of disapproval exaggerated to be funny. “I didn’t say one word about that god-awful plaid shirt. Not one.”

It felt so good to smile again. Since the last time she’d seen Asa—that terrible fight, and their even more desperate kisses—Verlaine didn’t think she’d spent one happy moment. Right now, okay, they were headed into an emergency flood situation, but this was about as close to happy as she was
going to get for a while. She’d take it.

Verlaine pulled the land yacht into the La Catrina parking lot. As her dads headed toward where the men were gathering to figure out who needed what done, she put on her trench coat, wished for her fedora, settled for a scarf over her hair and decided to get to work.

But that was more easily said than done.

“Excuse me, sir,” Verlaine said as she walked up to one man. “I’m putting something together for the
Guardian
’s online edition. I was wondering if you’d share a little bit about how the flooding has personally affected you.”

He stared at her for a moment that went on too long. Rain pattered down around them, and their shelter under La Catrina’s awning felt flimsy. Finally he said, “It’s made me wonder, is what.”

“Wonder what specifically?” Verlaine angled her phone to get this as a voice memo, and gave him her best smile.

The man remained unmoved. “What’s causing this. Or I should say, who.”

“Who?” For one moment, Verlaine felt hopeful. Were people beginning to doubt Elizabeth? Would they turn on her in some crazy torch-wielding mob straight out of an old monster movie?

Then she remembered who was always suspected of witchcraft first. Women who were outcasts. Burdens. Unliked and unloved.

People like her.

Her interviewee stared at her, as though daring her to ask
more; Verlaine thought it might be wisest to move on.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bender?” Riley’s dad—she knew him. No, she didn’t like him, but right now, familiarity was welcome. “I’m putting together a story for the
Guardian
—”

“Does it help you? Getting our voices on tape?”

Verlaine stared down at her phone in her hand. The voice recorder’s needle wobbled with her words as she said, “Well, it makes it easier to transcribe later on.”

“I mean, do you need our voices for something?” Mr. Bender took a step toward her—just a step—but it took some courage not to skitter back from him. “They say some people think photographs steal their souls. Maybe someone could do that by recording voices, if they knew how.”

I’ve been accused of soul theft, and it’s not even lunchtime.
“You’re tired,” she said, keeping a smile on her face though she knew by now it had to look plastic. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“She’s giving you trouble?” some other man said from behind her. He walked up to Verlaine, but he spoke to Mr. Bender . . . and every other man around, which was a few dozen by then. Verlaine looked around wildly for her dads; they were talking to the guys in the Red Cross van, still unaware of any fuss.

Verlaine dropped her phone in the pocket of her trench coat—but left the audio recording on, just in case. In case of what? She hardly knew. “Thanks for your time,” she said to Mr. Bender, and the others who were listening. “I have to run.”

But someone stepped between her and her car. It was old Mr. Thurman, who ran the hardware store where they bought lightbulbs and snow shovels. His gaze was flat when he looked at Verlaine, like he’d never seen her at all. “She’s always around,” he said hoarsely. “Whenever something goes wrong. You ever noticed that? The first flood downtown. That fever that nearly killed so many people—”

“Including my own dad,” Verlaine shot back.

That didn’t help. Instead Mr. Bender laughed, a harsh sound. “See? She’ll do it to anyone? Even the folks who raised her.”

“Do what, exactly?” She stood up straight, using all of her five feet eleven inches in her best effort at being intimidating. Sometimes that worked.

Today it didn’t. Mr. Thurman took a step closer to her and said, “Witchcraft.”

Nobody laughed. Nobody looked embarrassed for him. All these men staring at her, surrounding her—they believed in witchcraft now. They knew the truth.

But they were blaming the wrong person.

It’s not me
, Verlaine wanted to shout.
It’s Elizabeth Pike. She’s been ruining all your lives for longer than you can imagine. She’s the one you need to go after, not me!
Yet if she sicced the group on Elizabeth, right now that was as good as setting them on Nadia, too.

And Asa . . .

She looked around wildly, wishing he would appear in that sudden way he had. If Asa were here, he could clap his
hands together, stop time, step between the raindrops and take her away from all this. However, Asa was nowhere to be seen.

Her dads finally seemed to realize something was up—they were hurrying toward her now—but there were only two of them, versus, what, twenty-five others? Thirty?

At least they can’t burn you at the stake
, Verlaine thought wildly, her brain making jokes to try and distract her from the terror.
Not in this rain.

Witches weren’t always burned. They could be drowned. Or stoned. Hanged.

“You’re wrong about me,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “I have to go.” Then she began walking toward her car, determined to keep her head high and acknowledge nothing.

Someone stepped in front of her. She jerked to a stop. Verlaine tried to walk around him, but a hand closed around her elbow, and that was it. From the first moment one of them touched her, a line had been crossed and now anything could happen.

“Stop it!” Verlaine cried out, but the hand spun her around, so hard that she staggered and caught herself against the wall of La Catrina. Hands fumbled at her coat pockets, and in her first fear she thought they were going to rip it off her—but no, they wanted the phone, thinking maybe that it was actually some instrument of dark magic hidden in an iPhone case. No way in hell were they getting her phone. “Stop it!”

As she slapped at the hands around her, she heard Uncle Dave yelling, “What the hell is going on? Let go of her!” Verlaine knew her dads were fighting to get to her, but could they make it through all these guys?

A hand fisted in her hair, and she yelped in pain. Roughly someone yelled, “My brother was in the basement of his office the night the square flooded. You could have killed him!”