Spellcaster (35 page)

“Megan?” I asked hesitantly, and
she didn’t even blink.

“Megan, answer me,” I demanded,
figuring she was probably just waiting for me to drop my guard.
What if you put her into a coma?
I thought about how I broke the blackboard in math
class—what if I broke Megan? My less-moral side argued it wouldn’t be the
worst thing in the world… .

I held the athame protectively
in my hands and crouched next to her, putting my hand on the sharp angle of
her shoulder, shaking her forcefully. She rolled her eyes to meet mine, and
gripped my wrist. A small smile appeared through the bloody handprint on her
face.
Maybe
she
was possessed? Maybe I just saved her, and
exorcised her demons?

“Subsisto corde,”
she whispered in a raspy voice, squinting her eyes
in concentration. I peeled her fingers off my wrist and backed away from
her, shaking. Exorcism my butt. I knew what that phrase meant.

Stop the heart.

Megan rolled over onto all fours,
pushing herself off the tar rooftop from her crouching position. There was
something feral, beastly about her movements. She looked more like a
hellhound than a teenage girl. Megan turned to face me, glaring at me
through her limp, dark hair as she repeated her curse, staring at me in
confusion when she saw that I didn’t crumple to the ground, clutching my
heart. It made me wonder if she’d done this spell before, who she’d done
this spell on and when she’d planned to cast it on Brendan.

“Save your breath. I did a
binding spell,” I spat out, my trembling hand holding the athame. My heart
was beating so fast, it felt like it was trying to punch its way out of my
chest. At least it let me know that the binding spell was successful. But my
body still reacted to her assault—my palms were sweaty, my skin felt clammy
and slick with sweat.

“You think you’ve won?” She
sneered, taking a shaky step forward. Megan steadied herself and took
another step—this one more surefooted.

“You think there’s a winner in
this?” I asked, my voice shaking as she stumbled to the table of potions,
sending a few jars tumbling onto the ground. They cracked open with a hiss,
the dark blobs held inside evaporating with a faint—but audible—scream as
the glass shattered in long, jagged shards. Megan frantically searched the
jars, knocking over more as she got increasingly agitated, desperately
whispering words that were surely destined to secure my demise. If only she
had the power.

“It’s over, Megan. You’re done,”
I shouted, gripping the athame in my sweaty hand.

“I’ll say when it’s over,” she
screamed, grabbing a tall glass tube, with a murky, swirling mist sealed
inside. Megan hurled it into the center of the pentagram, and the glass
shattered into tiny, glittering slivers.

The mist inside billowed out,
long curls of thick gray and black fog unfurling like petals on a flower.
With a hiss, the mist swept around the roof like a cyclone, trapping me in
the dense swirls of nothingness. My athame slipped in my slick grip, falling
to the floor with a dull
clack.
No, no, no!
The words repeated like a chorus in my
head as I fell onto my hands and knees, my fingernails scraping along the
dirty rooftop. My hands swept along the grimy tar, the mist stinging my eyes
and scalding my throat as I inhaled the heavy, bitter air. My fingertips
brushed the metal tip of the blade, and I shuffled forward on my hands and
knees, grabbing the athame firmly before standing up, my heart thudding in
relief.

Only now I was disoriented in
the smoky fog. I stumbled left, then right, my arms outstretched, waving
wildly as I tried to feel something—anything—to tell me where I was. I
continued to fumble blindly through the mist, thinking I could make out
shapes, amorphous blobs that would shift and then disappear. I didn’t know
where Megan was. I hadn’t heard her—but I hadn’t heard
anything.
I hoped she
made her getaway, disappearing into the cloud of smoke like a cartoon
villain.

My knees hit the wall at the
edge of the roof, and I reached my hand down, the gritty fiberglass shingles
giving under my touch as I tried to feel my way through the bog. I was
relieved to feel something familiar—something tangible, to tell me I was
still on this roof, still in the world I knew. The mist thinned out, the
gray smoke less blinding, more like a film that obscured my vision. I could
make out the little stairway alcove in the center of the building, and the
faded outline of the water towers.

And then I heard it—the stomping
footsteps running toward my back. I whirled around in time to see Megan
emerging through the evaporating fog. She rushed toward me, a broken shard
of glass held high in her hand as she plowed into me, the small of my back
slamming into the low wall that encircled the roof with a dull thud. I
gripped her wrists, my torso bending backward over the wall as she pressed
against me, the tip of the glass glinting mere inches from my throat. I saw
the skyline upside down, the moon hanging low and full and rust-colored in
the black sky.

I struggled, pushing back and
gasping with exertion. Megan had the advantage, pressing her weight down on
me, and the sharp tip of the glass scraped against my throat.

“I
will
finish my spell!” Megan grunted
over me, bearing down on her makeshift weapon as blood dripped from her
hands, ripped apart from her grip on the cracked glass. “I
will
make you
bleed!”

Keeping one hand on her wrist, I
wrapped the other around her fingers, squeezing tightly and forcing the
glass to slice more deeply into her palm. She screamed, losing her balance
and falling forward next to me, the red-stained glass slicing through the
air and lodging in the fiberglass shingles, just a few inches from my
throat.

Grabbing a fistful of her hair,
I yanked her back, dropping Megan flat against the tar before I pounced on
her.

I cocked my fist back,
remembering what Brendan had taught me. “Don’t aim for your target—aim for
something beyond your target. You’ll have more of an impact that
way.”

I was aiming for China. I
slammed my fist into her face, landing my knuckles on Megan’s right
cheekbone. She wailed in agony, her mangled hands flying to her face but
offering meager protection. I ripped her hands off her face and they fell
feebly against her shoulders.

This is for Ashley.
I cocked my fist back again to freshen up her black
eye.

This is for Brendan.
I swung again, hearing a satisfying crunch when my
hand connected with her rib cage, not too far from her heart—the very thing
she tried to destroy of Brendan’s. I pulled my fist back, desperate to feel
her skin tear underneath my knuckles again.
Another punch, another scream.
And
again.
Another punch, another scream. This time
a gurgling, weak one.
And
again.

I was running out of targets to
hit.
Break her nose. No, break her jaw. No, set
her on fire—really do it this time. You haven’t used any magic yet to hurt
her—maim her like she wanted to do to you.

I realized I was grinning, and my
fist started to shake as I held it back. I wanted to hurt her. I wasn’t done
hurting her. Why was I stopping?

Megan cowered on the floor, her
shredded hands weakly protecting her face as she screamed in
agony.

I was no better than Anthony. I
was no better than Henry.

I was no better than
Megan.

I scrambled off her, gripping
the edge of the wall for stability. Megan rolled over, coughing and spitting
out blood.

“We’re done,” I said
breathlessly, swaying a bit as I stood.

“No,” she croaked from her
position on the ground. Her palms were flat against red lines of the
pentagram, her head down as she coughed. Then she glared at me, pulling her
hair out of her eyes and leaving bloody smears across her face. She heaved
herself off the floor, crying out in pain as she held her rib cage. She
stumbled to the edge of the roof, and slumped on the wall, broken, as her
fingers traced the glass dagger stuck in the fiberglass.

“I can still do my spell. I can
still make the elixir,” she insisted, her eyes glinting maniacally. “And you
can’t stop me.”

“I just did,” I growled, and
Megan smiled indulgently.

“There’s always Brendan,” she
reminded me with a little laugh. It was feeble and it was weak, but the
conviction in her voice was there.

“I
will
do my spell,” she said, before
her body was racked with a spasm of coughs. “I’ll make him beg. I’ll make
all of you sorry.”

She grinned at me with
bloodstained lips.
She’ll never stop. She’ll
keep coming back.
The list of crimes
Megan had committed in a short period of time was overwhelming—and if there
were a magical court to drag her in front of, she’d be locked in the dungeon
with the key thrown away.

But there wasn’t a magical
court. There was just me and her on this roof. And she wasn’t going to stop.
And if she got her powers back, revenge would be the first order of
business.

She would kill Brendan. She
would take him away from me, away from this world.

Megan was slumped against the
edge of the roof, debilitated. I could push her. It would be so easy—just a
quick shove and she’d go sailing over the roof. And all our problems would
be over.

She stroked the jagged edge of
the glass, a delusional, almost drunken grin on her face as she whispered
the words, “Bye, bye, Brendan” in a sing-song repetition. I flexed my
fingers and approached her.

I knew what I had to
do.

Chapter 18

Angelique

I watched Emma as she climbed the fire escape, more surefooted than I ever was when I hauled myself up those intimidating, vertigo-inducing metal steps. I forced myself to turn away from my best friend as she bravely headed into battle with Megan.

I wanted to follow her, to help her out, but I knew this was something Emma had to do on her own. Yeah, sure, in terms of magic, she really was the only person who could cast this spell—the true lover spilling her own blood as a sacrifice? Who’s a witch to boot? That spell wouldn’t exactly work if I did it. The only thing I’ve ever truly loved was a vintage Super Nintendo console I inherited from Randi’s older brother.
Take my console, please! Smash it on the floor.
Yeah, that wouldn’t work.

But I knew Emma needed to do this—for Brendan and for herself. She wanted to prove that she could stand on her own, that Brendan didn’t always have to swoop in and save her.

Brendan, however, was another story. He lived for the swoop. He would slingshot himself into the path of danger, repeatedly, for Emma. Sometimes I wondered if it was penance for his past sins—Brendan would risk anything and everything for Emma, the one thing he thought he’d gotten right in his life. I used to think his brain had four speeds: hungry, horny, sleepy and hornier. Then Emma strolled into the picture.

I sighed as I shut the gate to the smellerriffic alleyway and headed down the block to meet Brendan. This was not going to be a fun conversation—he was going to freak out, and I was going to somehow talk him off the ledge. Just like after the Battle of the Bands. How did I end up being this kid’s support system? I still didn’t particularly adore Brendan—he was overprivileged to a point where it could have been comical, he had a single-minded blindness where Emma was concerned—but he was a good person. More than that, Brendan really wanted to be a good person, which I kind of admired. Especially since he thought he was a bit of a dick. Which I kind of agreed with.

Brendan was already at the park, waiting for Emma. I didn’t need to empathically feel his tension to know how unnerved he was: Brendan was pacing and scratching at that stupid hair of his to the point of where it looked like he’d stuck his tongue in an electric socket.
He’s going to have an aneurysm when he hears she’s confronting Megan alone.

“Hey, Brendan,” I called, jogging the remaining yards to join him. He turned to me, his face breaking out in a relieved smile. The joy bouncing off him was immeasurable; I wanted to do cartwheels, his relief was so palpable.

It was also short-lived.

“Hey, Angelique! I was starting to get a little worried.” Brendan greeted me with a big smile—which faded as he looked around the street. There was a couple strolling down Tenth Avenue, and a tipsy college guy flashing his bare ass at his friends, shouting, “Check out
this
full moon!” as they poured out of a bodega on the corner of Tenth Avenue. But Emma was nowhere in sight.

I braced myself for his wrath, then just blurted it out. “Emma isn’t coming.”

“What do you mean? She told me…” Brendan’s face was contorted first in confusion, then in absolute agony, and finally in anger when he realized what I was saying.

“She’s off meeting Megan? And you—what? Just stood by, throwing spells at her and telling her she should run off and confront that evil witch, right?” Brendan snapped, staring at me with a glare so icy, I got chills.

“When have you
ever
known Emma to do something she didn’t want to do?” I defended myself and tried to build a shield against the guilt (all directed at himself) and fury (all directed at me) that was emanating from him.

Brendan’s jaw clenched and I could see he was making an effort to stay calm.

“Where is she?” he asked, his hands curled into fists.

“Sit down and let me talk to you,” I said evenly, but he stubbornly shook his head, his stupid hair whipping back and forth.

“Do you really think I’d push Emma into risking her life if there wasn’t another option? What would that do to her family? You’re not the only one who cares about her, stupid,” I retorted, and he blinked in surprise. “Oh, shocker. The world doesn’t revolve around Brendan.”

“I never said it did,” Brendan shot back, insulted.

“So sit your ass down and listen to me,” I ordered, striding into the park and dropping myself onto a bench. He reluctantly followed me, sitting at the very edge of the bench, the heel of his foot tapping like he expected to spring off the seat and shoot into the stratosphere. I knew I was being harsh, but Brendan could be obstinate. Especially when it came to Emma.

“Emma has to end this. She
wants
to end this,” I began, but he cut me off.

“You don’t understand. Emma doesn’t
have
to do anything. There’s another way,” he said, reaching into his backpack and tossing a manila folder on the bench between us. A few official-looking papers slipped out. “I went and talked to my family’s lawyers today about getting a restraining order. We can stop Megan—legally.
Safely.
There are non-magical ways to handle things, you know,” he added, his voice loaded with attitude.

“Not when it comes to Megan. Besides, you can’t get a restraining order in a few hours.”

“I did. We need to call the cops
right
now—Megan’s in violation of the restraining order. It’s a temporary one, but it’s valid.”

I stared at him in confusion.

“Oh, why, because everyone just
loves
Brendan?’ It was my turn to load my voice with attitude. He probably flirted with some clerk. They probably threw rose petals at his feet at the courthouse. Sigh.
It’s stuff like this, Brendan.

“No, it has nothing to do with
me.
At the risk of sounding like every stereotype I know you think about me—you, um, you do know who my parents are, right?” Even though Brendan asked the question a little sheepishly, I still had to force myself to not puke. Still, I definitely made a choking noise.

“Hey, if it keeps that psycho away from Emma, I’ll exploit every bit of clout my last name carries,” Brendan said, jabbing his finger into the bench for emphasis. “Megan’s getting locked up. There was already paperwork from freshman year, we can get her arrested right now and keep Emma safe.”

“You know, Brendan, it’s really nice that you want to take care of Emma, and your little legal thing here is a cute idea,” I said, trying not to sound patronizing and failing miserably, “but it’s not going to work on Megan.”

“Why? Why is the only solution for Emma to, um, slice—” he winced, looking away as he stumbled over the word “—herself open to stop Megan with some super-magical spell?”

“Because Megan can still inflict a lot of damage from a jail cell,” I argued, shifting on the bench to face him. “Seriously, Brendan? Do you not remember what an unabashed psychopath Megan is? She possessed you and had you attack Emma.
Badly.
Or did you forget that?”

He cringed.

“How could I forget?” Brendan asked, his voice low and his emotional state ripping me into shreds. “I’ll never forget that. I’ll always wonder what really happened. I’ll always be afraid Emma will never fully trust me again. She tried to downplay it, but I know it was worse than what she told me.”

“It was,” I confirmed, and he shut his eyes, sighing heavily. I didn’t say it deliberately to hurt him—I said it to drive home the point that Emma needed closure. Proper, move-on-with-her-life closure. My-boyfriend-won’t-get-possessed-again-and-attack-me-with-freaky-black-eyes closure. But the torture Brendan was feeling sliced through me—it felt like my heart was committing suicide, as eye-rollingly melodramatic as that sounded.

“Then why do you think I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out some way to stop this that doesn’t put Emma at risk again?” Brendan said. Ugh. He had good intentions, as usual. Pain in the ass.

“That’s nice, but you can’t stop Megan with a fancy court order,” I said bluntly. “Megan can—and has—possessed you from more than five hundred yards away. You think a restraining order will keep her from unleashing whatever torture it is she has planned for you?” As soon as I said it, I slapped my hand over my mouth, my fingers hitting my skin with a loud
smack.
Crap. I wasn’t supposed to say that.

“What do you mean?” Brendan asked sharply, his head whipping to the left to stare at me.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, but the expression on my face betrayed me.

“Angelique, come on. What aren’t you telling me? Damn it, I’m sick of people not telling me what the hell is going on!” Frustrated, Brendan slammed his fist into the back of the bench, causing the wood to shake against its bolts.

I briefly considered making up some cover story. Emma hadn’t wanted Brendan to know that Megan had threatened him.
Oh, well, secret’s out.
But, I reasoned, someone with his hero complex could probably understand why Emma would go to such lengths to protect him. And he had a point: he did deserve to know the full story.

“After Megan possessed you, she threatened you again,” I confessed, nervously spinning a silver bangle on my wrist. Brendan just stared at me, confused.

“Emma said Megan threatened
everyone.
”

“Not everyone. Emma glossed over the facts,” I explained, spinning my bracelet a little more quickly. “In a big way. Megan threatened
you,
specifically.”

“Megan’s
blackmailing
Emma? Over me?” Brendan stood up and started pacing, agitated.

“She’s not going to do this—no. No way. Angelique, tell me where Emma is. Now,” he demanded through gritted teeth.

“What do you think you’re going to do? Megan’s a crazy powerful witch!”

“Duh, that’s my point! Emma shouldn’t be anywhere near her.”

“Brendan, listen to me,” I said calmly. “Megan said you’d never be the same again. She’s threatening serious harm to you. You
have
to stay away.”

A small—but potent—wave of terror struck Brendan, crackling in the air like lightning, although you wouldn’t know it from how composed he was.

“So?” He shrugged casually, his posture cool enough to fool anyone who wasn’t an empath. “I’ll deal with whatever she throws my way. It’s my problem, not Emma’s.”

I had to give it to him. Brendan had bravado for days, but behind it was the genuine desire to make sure Emma was okay. Sigh. This kid made it so hard to hate him once you got to know him a little.

He pulled his phone out and put it to his ear. After a moment, he put it down, staring at the phone. It vibrated, and he checked what I assumed was a text message from Emma, because a pained look took over his face.

“No, you didn’t
have
to,” Brendan whispered, tossing the phone on the bench before collapsing back in it, scrubbing his anguished face with his hands.

“Angelique,
please
tell me where my girlfriend is.”

“Brendan, Megan might wipe out your memory, or put you in a coma. She said you’d never be the same again.” I repeated her threat, and he dropped his hands from his face to glare at me.

“Megan has a grudge against
me,
so let her take it out on
me.
Not Emma,” he said, and I swayed a little from the fierce protectiveness and blind love he had for Emma. I steadied myself and snapped back at him.

“This might be a shock to you, Brendan, but this isn’t about you.” I paused, realizing that wasn’t entirely true. Megan definitely wanted to hurt him. “Well, it’s not entirely about you. It’s about power. It’s about Megan rising from her marginalized little place in society.”

“Yeah, but she’s still using me to get to her,” he said sourly. “And Emma shouldn’t be there.
I
should be there. If Megan wants to hurt someone, let it be me.”

“She can’t hurt Emma the way she can hurt you.”

“I don’t care about me,” he said through clenched teeth.

“But Emma does, you idiot,” I shouted. Jeez, he was thick. “You think she really wants to deal with losing you? Or with you getting hurt—when she had the power to save you? You really want to go get yourself possibly killed, and have Emma beat herself up for all eternity for not saving you when she had the chance to try?”

Brendan leaned back against the bench, pulling the string from his hoodie into his mouth and chewing on it like it was dipped in chocolate. Then he pulled it out of his mouth to address me.

“Does she really have the power to stop Megan? Be honest with me, Angelique.” Brendan leaned forward, his tone grave. “Is Emma storming the beach at Normandy right now? Or is she going to come out unscathed?”

“I think she can pull it off,” I said honestly. I meant it—if Emma kept her focus, and was able to do her spell before Megan spilled her blood—Emma could beat her.

“It’s killing me to sit here and let my girlfriend go to battle with a psychopath to protect
me,
” Brendan said bitterly.

“I think you’ve proven that you’re not exactly a wimp,” I said dryly, and he just shrugged, pulling his hoodie string back into his mouth. I fought the desire to ask him if he wanted ranch dressing with it.