Spellcaster (34 page)

“I’ll pass.” I rejected her
offer with a disgusted grimace, and Megan pouted, her pointy nose wrinkled
in an almost childlike pout.

“Well, that sucks. ’Cause you
know, I’ll still get what I want from you, when I want it. We don’t have to
be at each other’s throats. You and I could have been friends because, the
way Kristin sounded when she called me hysterically crying, was the funniest
thing I’ve heard in months.” Megan stopped pacing, throwing her head back
with laughter at the memory, and I was instantly even more ashamed by my own
behavior.

“You think it’s
funny
that your friend
was scared?”

“Kristin was never my friend!”
Megan scoffed with a hearty laugh. She twirled the knife around in a
circle—it was dark, but the handle looked like it was simple silver as it
glinted in the light from the flickering candles. There were no
embellishments or grinning skulls or demon children or something super evil
that hasn’t even been invented yet.

“Really? Seems like you and her
have a lot in common.”

“Oh, please. She was so easy to
manipulate. Everyone knew Kristin nearly got her fool ass kicked out of
Vince A for getting you and, um, Brendan—” she stumbled over his name “—into
that situation. All I had to do were a few parlor tricks to convince her
magic was real. I promised her I’d put a love spell on Brendan for her, and
she did whatever I wanted.”

Megan stretched out the hand
holding the athame, and inspected her reflection in the blade. With a smug
smile on her face, she smoothed out a strand of stringy hair, brushing it
back behind her ear before looking back to me. “I heard it didn’t work.” She
cackled then grinned at me as if we were childhood besties.

“Were you there when he told her
off on Monday?” Megan asked, her brown eyes glinting excitedly in the
candlelight. “You have to tell me, Emma. I would have paid to see the look
on her face. I only heard her voice—she was so mad when she called
me!”

I stared at her in shock.
So that’s why Kristin approached Brendan and
helped Megan out—she was promised Brendan’s affection in return.
Gross.

“I heard she wasn’t exactly
thrilled.”

“Well, not my fault he’s immune
to love spells. Whatever. The elusive Brendan Salinger remains
unattainable,” Megan said his name sarcastically. “I tried.
Twice.
Too
bad.”

“Well, too bad for everyone
except me,” I corrected her, holding up my hand and wiggling the sparkling
Claddagh ring. “He’s
quite
attainable to me.”

She rolled her eyes beneath
overplucked eyebrows.
Target:
missed.
“That’s cute. I guess it’s a
good thing that my
other
spells worked on him, huh? Or else you and I would
never have had the pleasure of meeting. How
is
Brendan doing, by the way? It
really is too bad that he’s not here. I wanted to see if his eyes had
returned to normal.”

I bit back anger, refusing to
let her bait me as I silently vowed to give her a black eye to match the one
she already had.

“You’re really into doing this
whole Bond villain-type of chat, aren’t you? Do you want to tell me about
how mommy and daddy care more about Jenna, too?” I asked, false concern
saturating every syllable. “Just let me know, because I’d like to sit down,
get comfortable.”

I assumed a mocking tone that
was supposed to mimic Megan. “‘Jenna’s so perfect, I’ll never live up to her
example. My parents love her best. I’m sooo marginalized. Woe is me.’” I
stopped and laughed disdainfully. “From what I hear, you have more issues
than the
New York Times.
”

Megan’s thin lips turned down in
a grimace, rage emanating from her like light from a bulb.
Target: acquired! Oh…crap. Target acquired.

“You’re right. We’ve talked too
much and you know what, Emma? I don’t really want to be your friend.” She
sneered, her thin lips curled up in disgust as she strode out of the center
of the pentagram to stand in front of her evil apothecary
station.

“Get in the middle,” she barked,
pointing a bony finger at me.

I sauntered into the center of
the pentagram, letting my confident stride mask the fact that I was
internally freaking out. I felt like I was on a roller coaster, slowly
climbing that initial giant hill, knowing the drop was getting closer—and I
didn’t know if I’d see it coming.

“Don’t forget, Emma,” Megan
snarled my name, “I know about your little display with the fire, so don’t
think you’re going to scare me off with that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said,
shrugging out of my navy hoodie and dropping it on the ground. My bare arms
shivered with gooseflesh in the brisk, cool wind.

“How considerate of you to wear
short sleeves, but I don’t plan on bleeding you from your arms—especially
not after you’ve been so…
uncooperative.
” Megan held up her
athame, pressing the flat part against her cheek. She dragged it down her
face, pulling her lower lip down. My heart began pounding—she was out for
more than blood. She was out to maim me.

“Did you bring my athame? Throw
it over here,” she ordered, adding through clenched teeth, “And remember,
you try anything stupid and I will give Brendan a heart attack when you
least expect it. It might not be fatal—” she shrugged casually, as if she
weren’t threatening his life “—but he’ll never be the same. He sure won’t be
playing in any basketball championships or engaging in any heart-pounding
activities.” Pleased with her innuendo-laced threat, a nasty little smirk
stretched across Megan’s face.

So that’s what she planned for him.
Disgust and anger raged through
me—evident on my face, as Megan’s lips twisted into a triumphant, cruel
smile when she saw my reaction.

I swiftly reached behind me,
pulling the athame from where I’d tucked it in my waistband. I laid it flat
in the palm of my hand, my other hand swanning around it with sweeping
gestures. I looked like a game show hostess flaunting a prize.

“Come and get it,” I challenged
as Megan’s cool condescension turned to unabashed fury as she stared at my
art project. It twinkled in the candlelight.

“What did you do to my athame?”
she screamed, her eyes bulging out of their sunken sockets as she glared at
the now-sparkling handle. I’d painted every skull with a different glittery
pastel nail polish—the gruesome skulls now shimmered in iridescent shades of
bubblegum-pink, lavender, mint-green, buttercup-yellow and baby-blue, all
from a set Ashley had given me for Christmas in an effort to sparkle me up.
For good measure, I also painted some hearts and flowers and smiley faces on
the side of the blade. It looked like something the Easter Bunny would puke
up.

“I used nail polish. The tiny
brushes were perfect for making sure I got every nook and cranny,” I said
matter-of-factly, before cooing in a babyish voice, “It looks like it should
dangle above a newborn unicorn’s crib in his nursery now, don’t you think?”
I knew I was taunting her—and I knew I’d keep my advantage by her getting
emotional, and me staying calm. “It’s
so
adorable.”

“You bitch!” she screamed,
clutching her knife as she ran at me.
Oh, crap.
Here comes the roller coaster drop.
I
held my fists up protectively, the athame clutched in my right one. My focus
was solely on her knife, and when she came within striking distance, I aimed
for Megan’s hand, landing a swift kick on the inside on her wrist. She
wasn’t expecting me to kick her, so I caught her by surprise. Megan yelped
in pain, stumbling forward. I shoved her, sending Megan sprawling on the
rooftop, a stunned tumble of gangly limbs and arms. She lost her grip on her
knife, and it skittered across the rooftop, spinning wildly. The simple
silver knife slid down an open storm drain, the blade clinking loudly
against the pipe as it dropped, a loud screeching sound echoing in the metal
cylinder as the athame got stuck. Megan scrambled after it, falling onto her
knees and stretching her skinny arm down the pipe, her cheek pressed against
the dirty tar roof as she desperately clawed at the knife.
Start the spell, Emma. Start it now before she finds her
knife and stabs you.
I backed away,
keeping her in my sights as I began chanting.

“On this night and at
this hour,

I declare you have no
power.

Your spell will die without your
kill.

By my own hand my blood will
spill.”

My voice got louder, stronger as
I chanted, and Megan heard my last line. Her head popped up, and she glared
at me.

“What did you just say?” Her
shoulder jerked frantically, her search for the blade intensified. I took
her athame and pressed the tip against the inside of my right elbow, where
an angry red scar from my stepfather’s car accident ripped along my arm. I
bit my lip against the sting as I pulled the knife along the scar, tearing
open a new, smaller wound alongside my existing one. Warm, sticky blood
began streaming down my arm, pooling in my clenched fist. I unfurled my
fingers, and the blood dripped on the ground, streaming from my
fingertips.

Mirror it or you’ll fall.
My brother Ethan’s warning. He was telling me to
mirror Megan’s intentions—and the opposite of her spell was to bleed myself.
To sacrifice myself. It’s why the old witch had laughed and said, “You
should have stabbed yourself” in my dream of my past life. Just as Brendan
had thrown himself in Anthony’s path to save me, inadvertently breaking the
curse that doomed us, now it was my turn to save him. All the hints were
there, whispering to me in my dreams. And this time, I heard
them.

“What are you doing? Stop it!”
Megan cried, panicked. She pulled her arm out of the drainpipe—without her
athame—and rushed at me, her hands outstretched like claws. Megan launched
herself at me, and I stumbled, falling back against the red paint of the
pentagram, the scuffle causing the dirt to billow in the air in a
sulfur-scented cloud. The athame fell by my left shoulder as I hit the
ground—and I grabbed Megan’s wrist as her sharp fingers clawed at the
athame, shoving her grasping hand back.

“Give…me…my…knife!” she screamed
desperately. I smacked the palm of my right hand against Megan’s face,
pushing her chin up, my nails scraping her skin as I left a thick red
handprint on her cheek. Bracing my other hand against her stomach, I shoved
her off me and Megan tumbled back, crying out in pain as her shoulder took
the brunt of the blow. I rolled onto my side, grabbing the athame and
scrambling to my feet in the center of the pentagram. My hands outstretched
in defense, I repeated the spell, chanting louder. The wind picked up,
thrashing my hair around as it lashed at my cheeks like a whip.

“On this night and at
this hour,

I declare you have no
power.

Your spell will die without your
kill.

By
my
own hand my blood does
spill.”

I said the last line forcefully,
with conviction. Megan’s cold eyes glared at me through thin strands of
wild, windswept hair as she hoisted herself from her crouching position on
the roof, her fists clenched at her sides.

“Under this moon, by this vow,”
I began as Megan rushed at me, a feral growl escaping from her
lips.

“I bind your powers, I bind them
now!”

I shouted the last line into the
wind, and it echoed around me, my words reverberating in my ears. Megan
froze in her advance, as still as if someone had hit Pause on their
television set. A quiet moan escaped her lips, erupting into a scream. Her
chest lurched forward as if she’d been punched in the back. I backed away
from her, and Megan collapsed on her knees, twitching and screaming, in the
center of the pentagram where I’d been standing. Her screeching faded into a
growl as she rolled over onto her side, drawing her knees up into the fetal
position. I didn’t realize I’d continued to retreat from the gruesome sight
until my heels hit the low wall bordering the roof, and I gripped it for
support as her eyes rolled back in her head, her hands grasping at her
chest. A murky glow surrounded Megan’s seizing body like an aura—but instead
of shimmering with colored light, it pulsated, with jagged, sharp black
tentacles shooting out of her as she writhed on the ground.

The shadows continued to slither
out of Megan, with barbed claws that tore at the wind before evaporating
like a fine mist. It was like watching the toxicity, the venom worm its way
out of her, as if her dark powers were a sentient being. As if it could
stand before me on its own volition. The threatening shadows creeped and
clawed their way across the rooftop, fading into the blackness. The roaring
wind joined the symphony of Megan’s cries, which rose from a barking,
caninelike growl and peaked at high-pitched keening, and finally faded off
into a low wheezing. Her twitching subsided, a low moan escaping from her
lips as she panted, her breathing heavy. Finally Megan was silent—as was the
wind, which died down to a gentle breeze, rustling the leaves in a nearby
tree. In the dim light—the wind had extinguished the candles—I saw that
Megan stared ahead vacantly, the rise and fall of her chest the only
indication that she was alive.