Spellbound (19 page)

“And this,” Brendan said, continuing his lesson, “is a
basium.
” With that, he pulled my face close to his for the kiss I needed. His lips touched mine, and a thousand years of longing coursed through me, flooding into this one embrace. His hands were strong as they moved up my back and clutched a fistful of hair as I pressed myself closer to him. The kiss was deeper, almost demanding, and when he broke away with a low moan to kiss my neck, the only other sound I could hear was my own breathing.

I fell back on the couch, Brendan's mouth back on mine as he balanced his weight above me. It felt like he had sparks shooting out of his fingers as they ran down my arm, along my side and finally rested at my hip, where he hooked his thumb into my belt loop, pulling my hip closer. I tugged at his hoodie, pulling it off his shoulder and ran my hand along his arm, feeling the muscles move underneath his T-shirt. This time, I didn't feel uncomfortable—being with Brendan felt right. I had no intentions of stopping this embrace. But Brendan had other ideas: suddenly, he pulled back, his black locks falling over his eyebrows as he held himself over me. I felt a little lost as he looked at me through those black-fringed eyes.

He pressed his lips against mine softly—but with less passion than before. Then, taking a deep, almost resigned, breath, Brendan pulled himself upright into a sitting position on the leather couch.

“Is something wrong?” I continued lying there, staring at
the side of his face, a little puzzled at the halt in what had been the most phenomenal make-out session of my life.

“No, nothing's wrong,” Brendan replied. He paused, then took my hand, pulling me upright.

“I should, however, behave and get us some dinner. It's getting late.” I must have still looked confused at the sudden break in our embrace, because Brendan leaned over and kissed me very gently on the cheek.

“Just because you're my soul mate doesn't mean I should rush things with you,” he whispered in my ear, softly kissing the spot under my earlobe.
Keep going, rush things!
my body screamed, but my head nodded in agreement as I tried to pull myself out of his kiss-induced haze. Somewhere in my mind, I knew he was right.

“Actually,
because
you're my soul mate, I shouldn't rush things with you.” His lips tickled my skin as he spoke. “No matter how badly I want to.”

“So,” he continued, pulling his laptop over and opening a food-delivery website. “What are you hungry for?”

What I was hungry for was sitting nonchalantly next to me on the couch. The sudden break in our mood was still sinking in. I generally liked roller coasters, but any more ups and downs tonight, and I'd probably lose whatever dinner we were about to have.

“I should probably call my aunt and make sure she isn't expecting me,” I said, looking for my cell phone and remembering it was in my purse, all the way downstairs. Brendan handed me his phone—a sleek, expensive-looking one—and I called Aunt Christine. Even though she was well into dinner at Ashley's family's house, I owed her the courtesy.

“I'm cool to stay,” I said after talking to her. “I should get home soon after, though. I don't want to be on the subway too late.”

Brendan rolled his eyes at me. “You're not taking the subway. I'll take you home in a car.”

“No!” I exclaimed, embarrassed. “Nothing is going to happen to me on the way to Sixty-eighth Street. I don't need a sitter.”

“I'm not your sitter,” he said, winding his arms around me and kissing my neck so persuasively, he made my toes curl.

“I'm your boyfriend. So get used to the princess treatment.”

I wasn't exactly a stranger to feeling like a princess—if you meant the princess in the first half of the fairy tale. Cinderella as a scullery maid. Snow White with the wicked stepmother. But I wasn't used to what life was like
after
you meet the prince, after the slipper fits, after the kiss wakes you from your slumber. It would take some getting used to.

Which explains why I was floating, again, when I shut Christine's apartment door, still a little breathless from Brendan's good-night kiss in the back of the dark car. His family had a car service on call. Of course. They probably had a private jet on call, too. Still, I managed to collect myself when I heard Christine puttering around in the kitchen.

“Aunt Christine, I'm home,” I called, letting my keys drop into the angel-shaped dish she kept on the coffee table and walking toward the kitchen.

“Did you have a good time, dear?” Christine asked, splashing some vermouth into the martini she held in her hand.

“Yep,” I said, smiling a little too widely.

“So funny, you and the Salinger boy,” Christine murmured, taking a critical sip of her martini and frowning.

“Why is it so funny?” I asked.
Of course it's funny. It's hilarious that a guy like Brendan would be interested in me, right? Even Christine sees it.

“Not funny ha-ha, Emma.” Aunt Christine sighed, taking
out a bottle of vodka and scrutinizing it as she poured it into her glass. “Just funny interesting.”

“You've lost me, Aunt Christine.” I dropped my purse and settled into the floral-covered kitchen chairs as she took another sip of her martini and frowned again, splashing more vermouth in it before pouring the entire glass down the drain.

“I could never make a martini as well as your uncle George,” she said, and began making a fresh martini from scratch. “Well, dear, where were we? Oh, yes—you probably don't remember this, but when you were very young, your parents would take you into the city to stay the weekend with me anytime they went away.”

“I remember,” I said, thinking back to those happier times. They were times of seeing matinees of the
Christmas Spectacular
at Radio City Music Hall and making fortresses out of Christine's couch cushions with Ethan, all before my father decided to play absentee dad.

“Well, one weekend, we went to the playground in Central Park in the West Sixties. You were pretty adamant about going there instead of somewhere closer. I remembered the Salingers being there because his mother and I were working together on some charity thing for the school and she was being a bit of a pill about it. And you and Brendan played together that afternoon.” Christine punctuated her bombshell with a rather large gulp of her new martini.

“No way!” My jaw dropped and I clutched the seat of the chair, my nails scraping against the fabric. “How old could I have been?”

“Oh, dear, this was before your idiot father left,” she said, using the “pet name” she called my father any time he came up in conversation, which wasn't too often. “You couldn't
have been more than three or four.” Christine took another swallow of her martini.

“So we played together,” I said nervously. “Well, I guess that's not
too
weird. I mean, I knew Matt in kindergarten and we dated freshman year.”

“Oh, dear, that's not the interesting part.” Christine chuckled. “When it was time to leave, you let out such a scream. You said that you knew Brendan would be there, and that's why you wanted to go to that park. Both of you threw such tantrums about leaving each other.” She laughed, lost in the memory—and I was glad it was dark in the kitchen. There was no way she could see my face, which I would bet was drained of all color.

“Oh, well, I guess we liked each other at an early age,” I said, laughing nervously.

“You sure did.” She chuckled. “Your idiot father didn't appreciate it, though, when I told him the story.”

“What do you mean?” Although part of me wanted to run into my room and hide to process all this new information, a bigger part of me realized I might never get Christine on a talking tear like this again. I wondered how many martinis she had sampled while trying to make the perfect drink.

“He never appreciated all your quirks,” Christine said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“What quirks?”

“Emma, dear, you know those little twin things you and your brother would do, speak in your own language and things like that.”

“I remember him yelling at us to speak English.” I thought back to him scolding us in the middle of Kmart for babbling in what we were later told was our twin-speak, which sounded normal to me.

“Yes, and when you'd guess who was calling before he
answered the phone, he hated that. Your mother used to do it, too.”

I felt my blood run cold. “What did you say I used to do?”

“Oh, you know, dear. Someone would call the house, and you'd announce, ‘It's Uncle Dan!' before anyone answered the phone. Your idiot father swore you and your mother had a caller-ID box hidden somewhere and were ganging up on him.”

I was suddenly aware that I had been clenching my hands into fists, leaving little half-moon marks in my palms from where my nails were digging in. I tried to count to ten, then to five, to steady myself from the thoughts that were coming together in my head.

“Well, dear, it's late and I've got to get to sleep,” Christine said, draining the last of her martini. “Have a good night.” She kissed me on the top of the head and shuffled off to bed, leaving me flabbergasted in the floral chair.

Brendan and I had a connection when we were toddlers?

I was able to “predict” things when I was a kid?

I apparently inherited that ability from my mom?

Two words from Angelique popped into my head:
born witch
.

I raced for my purse to check my phone, which I'd ignored since going to Brendan's house. Still no reply from Angelique.
Damn it!
I had fourteen texts from Ashley asking how my date with Brendan went, and nothing from Angelique. I had a lot to discuss with this girl.
Where was that absentee little witch?

 

The next morning, I had my answer to Angelique's where abouts before I even left the apartment for school. Angelique's mom had used the school's emergency contact sheet to call Aunt Christine and ask if I could bring Angelique's
books home that night. Seems even witches can fall prey to the flu.

I had lied to Ashley the night before, saying I had to get to school early to hand in a late assignment. I hated fibbing to her, but I couldn't handle her constant stream of questions this morning. I had a lot to mull over.

After putting my headphones on, I stuffed my gloveless hands into the pockets of my wool coat as I walked down Park Avenue. First, stripping away anything supernatural about our romance, Brendan was my boyfriend. And whenever I was with him, I conveniently forgot anything but what it felt like to be in his arms—whether that was part of being “cursed,” I didn't know. But when I was with him, I didn't care about little things like my soul being at risk.

And then there was the whole born-witch thing. I stared down at my hands, flexing my palms as if I expected to feel some kind of new strength emanating from them. Instead, they just felt chilly. I stuffed them back into my pockets and continued walking.

I had never thought I'd be the kind of person to give up everything—hell, anything—for a guy. I had seen my mother make all the wrong decisions to keep Henry around. But, I reasoned, Brendan wasn't just some guy. And I didn't feel like I was giving anything up. I felt like I was getting so much more.

With each step toward the school, I knew I was coming closer to my destiny—with Brendan. All that remained now was how to figure out how to keep that destiny—and me—safe.

I arrived at school a full hour early, so I pulled out my books and slid into the empty history classroom, trying to distract my fuzzy thoughts with Latin's first declension. Jenn only greeted me with a grunted hello, and after catching a look at her red-rimmed eyes, I realized she was in too much pain to ask me how my weekend was. I was relieved; truth was, I had no idea what to answer.
Did some homework, watched
An chorman
again, and I more or less spent the weekend with my soul mate—but you know him as Brendan.

I survived through history and math class, but as Jenn and I made a silent, slow stroll to English, I started internally freaking out.
What do I do about lunch? Angelique isn't here…do I sit with Jenn and Cisco, or is there any chance Brendan will want to sit with me?

Of course, Brendan wasn't in his seat when we got to English.
How should I say hello? Is this too much of a statement to make?
I didn't know what to do, remembering how I embarrassed myself the Monday after we had hung out together at the Met. Only this time, his rebuttal would absolutely flatten me.

I kept my eyes on the door, trying to hear who was coming
in above the chattering in the classroom—and feeling extremely disappointed when Mr. Emerson hurried in with a sour look on his face. A minute afterward, Brendan sauntered into the room in his signature state of hot disarray. His tie was barely knotted, and his hair was tousled, of course. I bet he didn't even own a hairbrush. Our eyes immediately met, and this scenario felt all too familiar to me. Only this time, his soft lips curled into a deliciously naughty smile that made my heart skip.

“Hey, beautiful.” Brendan's voice was a low rumble as he slid into his seat and turned to face Mr. Emerson. I took a deep breath, trying to wipe the cartoonishly wide grin from my face. I glanced around and noticed that Brendan's sly little greeting hadn't gone unnoticed by one particular classmate. But instead of Kristin's usual bullets-from-the-eyeballs glare that she seemed to reserve just for me, she had a weirdly smug, satisfied look on her face.

I rested my head on my chin, listening to Mr. Emerson explain points he thought the class had gotten wrong in our
Midsummer Night's Dream
papers as I stared at the back of Brendan's head, thinking how, just a few hours before, I had been running my fingers through that unruly mop of hair.

As English ended, Brendan turned to face me, throwing his left arm cavalierly over my desk. “So Emma, want to get out of here for lunch?”

“Absolutely,” I said, relieved, and started shoving my notebook into my backpack.

“Awesome, there's this great little restaurant just a few— Oh, hi, Mr. Emerson.” Brendan's tone changed from flirty to formal, and I looked up to see our English teacher standing over Brendan with a disapproving look.

“Miss Connor, Mr. Salinger, you're wanted in Principal Casey's office.
Now
,” he said, his voice stern.

Brendan took a deep breath and stood up, casting a reassuring glance my way. “Mr. Emerson, if this is about the prank the basketball team
allegedly
pulled on Regis High School, I can assure you, Emma had nothing to do with—”

“Save it, Salinger. Just get yourself down to Principal Casey's office, now!” Mr. Emerson boomed, his ruddy face turning nearly purple from the exertion. Brendan looked at me and shrugged, holding out his hand for me to take. I cautiously grabbed it, hoping my palms weren't sweaty.

I had daydreamed about walking down the hallways of Vince A with Brendan Salinger holding my hand plenty of times. Only in my fantasies, we were never walking to the principal's office.

Brendan kept his grip on me as he led me down the flights of stairs to the first floor, where Principal Casey's office was, off to the right of where Gray Lady Gary held court. If he noticed the stares and whispers from our classmates, he ignored them. I, on the other hand, wasn't able to block out the voices even though I followed his lead and looked straight ahead.

“Holy crap, Salinger is holding that new girl's hand! Isn't she a witch or something?”

“Salinger and Emily Conrad? Where did that come from?”

“Brendan finally dates someone and it's
her?
I'm like, way prettier than she is,” clucked a high-pitched voice to my left.

“Stupid skank. She had no idea who she was messing with.” On that last comment, I turned to see who said it—and my eyes met the cold glare of Kristin Thorn.

I never thought I would be so relieved to reach the principal's office in my entire life.

But to my surprise, we weren't the only people there. Aunt Christine sat in one of the cracked leather chairs, and a
stunning blonde woman—with piercing green eyes—sat on the opposite side of the room. And in the center sat Anthony—and an equally menacing, older version of Anthony, whom I could only assume was his father. His very angry, very large father.

“Please sit down, Mr. Salinger, Miss Connor,” Principal Casey said, a steely smile on her tangerine-lipsticked lips.

I sat in a folding chair next to my aunt while Brendan sat next to his mother, rolling his eyes. I darted my own eyes toward Anthony, who stared straight ahead with an almost beatific smile on his face. I expected him to slap a halo on his head, his angel act was so good. It didn't take a genius to see where this was going.

“So, Mr. Salinger.” Principal Casey's voice was steel as she typed something into her laptop. “What do you want to tell me about last Monday?”

She spun the laptop around, and there was an internet video of…me. On this grainy—and from what I could recall of the fight, heavily edited—short video of the encounter, I stood against the door in the quad, and Anthony had his back to me. You couldn't see that he was about to deck me from this angle.

Then Brendan, so fast he seemed blurry, came into frame. He grabbed Anthony in a choke hold and flipped him over his shoulder, dropping the blond on his back. In spite of the tense situation, I couldn't help but be impressed by his strength. The video ended abruptly, and Principal Casey played the ten-second clip again before slamming her hand on the desk.

“You can imagine my shock when I was emailed this link this morning. Unprovoked attacks, at my school? Brendan, what do you have to say for your behavior?”

“Clearly, Brendan attacked my son.” Mr. Caruso jumped in, showing all the finesse of the shark lawyer I'd heard he
was. “The proof is right there on video. It disappoints me, as I've known the Salingers for years.

“I'm sorry, Laura.” Mr. Caruso's voice was greasy-smooth as he addressed Brendan's mother. “But there's only so much we can do as parents. What more proof do we need, especially with your son's history?”

“So it would have been better if I did nothing?” Brendan asked angrily. “I should have stood there and let your son beat up a girl? There's no way in hell you can tell me I'm in trouble for that.”

“If that's the case, you should have gotten a teacher, Brendan,” his mother said, smoothing her proper tweed Chanel suit.

“Oh, yeah, like Dr. Ouilette could have stopped Anthony,” Brendan said, picking the name of the petite physics teacher who maybe weighed a hundred pounds—if he was soaking wet and holding a fifty-pound weight.

“Regardless, Brendan, we do not condone violence at Vincent Academy,” Principal Casey began. Brendan cut her off.

“I don't condone it either. I stopped it. So we're on the same team here,” he said winningly. Principal Casey looked at me pointedly.

“What's your role in this, Miss Connor?”

“Um…” I began, looking at my aunt nervously, trying to decide if she looked mad enough to ship me back to Keansburg. I didn't want to bring up Ashley and throw her into this mess, as well. To my relief, Christine just looked annoyed—not angry.

“Does it matter?” Brendan cut in. “She didn't lift her hand to anyone—she didn't break any rules. Emma doesn't need to be in trouble.”

“It would help if we knew why she caused this, Brendan,” his mother said, her manicured hand on his arm.

I felt like I had been slapped. I hadn't tried to cause any problems—for anyone. I was only trying to help Ashley. I was only trying to do the right thing.

“From what my son has told me, it was a lover's quarrel,” said Mr. Caruso, turning to Brendan's mother. “I'm sorry, Laura, but my son and this girl were once involved, and Brendan was jealous, so he attacked him.”

“Lover's quarrel? Ew, no way!” I blurted out, unable to help myself. I saw Brendan's mother give me an icy glare, while her son just tried to hide a smile.

“Well, right now, we can't see much from this video other than Brendan clearly attacking Anthony,” Principal Casey said.

“This has gone on way too long,” Aunt Christine said curtly. “Have you watched the whole video? If not, I suggest you log in to Facebook—there's several versions there, uploaded by most of the students who were in the yard that day and not this superb Thelma Schoonmaker–quality editing job.”

“Yo, screw that,” Anthony yelled, breaking his silence as his father's smug smile faded to a thin grimace. “It's right there! Kick Brendan and that slut out of school. She doesn't belong here anyway.”

Principal Casey gave Anthony a hard look, then invited Aunt Christine to her side of her desk, where she logged in to Facebook. I was amazed. I had to teach Christine how to use her DVR, yet she's savvy enough to have a fake Facebook account?

Christine did a quick search, and within moments, the entire—unedited—fight replayed on the monitor, including the part when Anthony shoved me and nearly knocked me over. You couldn't hear what the fight was about over the colorful commentary in the crowd, but you didn't need sound to
know what was going on. I had no idea how terrified I looked as I tried to flatten myself against the door in the quad. And here I thought I'd looked tough.

Principal Casey pursed her orange lips and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, clearly, this changes things,” she said. “Mrs. Salinger, Mrs. Considine, can you please take your children outside for a moment.”

Christine put her arm around me and guided me out of the room, but I turned around. I was already in trouble, but I had to ask.

“Principal Casey, who emailed you the video, if you can say?”

“Not that it changes things much, but it was anonymous, Miss Connor,” was Principal Casey's curt reply, which confirmed my suspicions: we were set up. My eyes met Anthony's as I continued walking out with Christine—and the words he mouthed at me would have made a porn star blush. I didn't dare cast another glance Anthony's way—but I didn't have to. I heard him hiss several choice words at me as I left the room.

Aunt Christine and I sat on one side of the large waiting room, Brendan and his mother on the other side. Gray Lady Gary must have been at lunch, because the only sign of her was a heather-gray cardigan slung over the back of her chair.

After casting a glance at the Salingers—and noticing that Brendan's mother was too wrapped up in scolding her son to pay attention to us—I began apologizing. “Aunt Christine, I'm so sorry, I wish—” I began. She shushed me.

“I had been hoping you would come and talk to me about this situation, Emma,” she said, her voice stern but kind. “You don't have to handle everything yourself.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I didn't want to be a pain,” I mumbled, embarrassed. I tried to catch Brendan's eye but he was slouched in his chair, staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed as his
mother whispered a tirade against him. I heard the words, “How do you think this makes me look?” and it seemed like he was trying not to laugh.

“Well, Emma, I don't know what to do here.” Christine was wringing her hands, and I was a bit taken aback; I'd never seen my aunt look less than confident before. “What you did doesn't feel punishable. Some guy was harassing you. Your beau stepped in. Let's just hope the school feels the same way.”

“How did you know about Facebook?” I asked.

“Oh, dear, I've had a fake Facebook profile forever,” she said with a laugh. “I'm on the board, how else do you think I know what's really happening at this school? It helps with the simplest things, like which teachers need reevaluating, and sometimes strange things—like getting my niece and her beau out of trouble.”

My jaw dropped, and Christine just continued. “Anyway, I do hope you don't get punished too severely. It doesn't seem like I should really ground you or—”

Christine was cut off by a loud metallic banging against the wall directly behind our heads. On the other side of that wall? Probably a dent, because it sounded like someone had just thrown a folding chair in Principal Casey's office. We all stood up, unsure of what to do.

“I said, out now!” Principal Casey's voice was shrill in the next room. The door to her office swung open, and Mr. Caruso, dragging his red-faced son by the arm, swaggered out. His father stopped in front of me and shook Anthony by the back of the neck. I saw Brendan tense, ready to jump on Anthony at the first sign of attack.

“Apologize, Anthony,” his father demanded. Anthony spoke, but it wasn't exactly an act of contrition.

“I said apologize,” his father growled menacingly. I could
see where Anthony inherited his temper. The angry apple didn't fall far from the tree monster. “I'm
so
sorry, Emma,” Anthony sneered mockingly. Then his eyes narrowed. “No, I'm not. And I'm not sorry for what I'm going to do to you.” Anthony lunged at me, but Mr. Caruso had his son in a wrestling hold before he could inflict any damage.

Brendan jumped forward but with one meaty hand, Mr. Caruso pushed him back, hitting him square in the chest. “Watch it, Salinger, this is my job,” Mr. Caruso warned him before grabbing Anthony by the collar and dragging him out. We overheard his unflappable lawyer's voice on the way out. “We'll go clean out your locker and that's it, Anthony, this is the last straw. I've done all I can to help you. You'll have a nice vacation at home before we decide on boarding schools for the second semester.”