Kitabı oxu: «Spellcaster»

Chapter 1

“They’re not looking at you. Those girls haven’t noticed you, Emma. You’re stealthy like a ninja. They’re not looking at you.” I repeated the mantra in my head as I pretended to study the beverage selection in the glass case before me, but a quick glance to the left told me I was lying to myself.

There, three girls in private-school uniforms similar to my own black, navy and green plaid one, were alternately staring at me and whispering to each other. I grabbed some iced tea out of the case and hurried to the cashier before they could say anything.

“It’s fine, Emma. They’re not going to say anything,” I silently promised myself, nervously tapping the sole of my Mary Janes against a rack of candy as I waited in line. You really need to stop lying to yourself, Emma. They’re so going to say something to you.

“Hey, are you, um… I’m not sure how to ask this,” the tallest girl, with black hair extensions that seemed as long as her legs, asked as she scrutinized my face. I wished I were wearing sunglasses. And a hat. And a ski mask.

I sighed, having been through this before. Yes, I’m Emma Connor. I’m the one whose boyfriend, Brendan, risked his life to save me in an epic battle with psychopathic classmate Anthony in Central Park after the winter dance. But what you don’t know is I used some of my secret magical powers to save us and you’re totally making me late for my spell classes with my friend Angelique. She’s a witch like me. That about cover it?

Okay, maybe I’d leave that last part out. Even I couldn’t believe it, and I’d lived it. And I really didn’t want to rehash the details of that night with some snooping schoolgirls.

“What she means is,” interrupted the shortest girl, who shot Extensions Queen a nasty look as she toyed with the glittering platinum-and-diamond pendant around her throat, “are you that Emily person? The one from Vincent Academy that was in that big fight a while back?”

I opened my mouth to correct them—a few papers had gotten my name wrong—but then a brilliant idea came to me. Lie. Of course. Why don’t I just lie?

“You know, I get that a lot.” I laughed casually, darting a quick glance out of the street-facing windows. Brendan was out of sight, talking to a basketball teammate on his phone around the corner. Liam had called him with some kind of crisis, forcing Brendan to wait outside while I grabbed a drink—ice cream made me thirsty. “I think it’s just that we both have long dark hair.”

“But you know her, right?” Shorty pressed. “I mean, you go to the same school.”

I was about to lie again, but then I remembered that Brendan had lent me his basketball team sweatshirt, since it was chilly out—and it bore the blue-and-gray Vincent Academy insignia.

“I’ve seen her in the halls and stuff.” I shrugged, feigning indifference. “I don’t know her-know her.” And then a flash of inspiration came to me.

“But I’ve heard she’s cool,” I said. I briefly considered constructing some elaborate story about “Emily” saving orphans and nuns and kittens and maybe even a baby panda bear from a burning building. Instead I went with, “She’s supposed to be really nice.”

“She’d have to be.” Shorty—clearly the ringleader of this little trio—sniffed in a knowing tone before leaning in to me conspiratorially. “That’s how I knew you weren’t her. I saw the pic the Post ran. You’re, like, way prettier than that Emily person. Not like that’s saying a whole lot.”

I grimaced internally as Shorty threw her head back and laughed at her own joke, her dirty blond curls bouncing with every cackle. A few papers had run our photos along with the story—the pics from our school IDs. The horrible, slack-jawed photo made me look like a zombie who just staggered out of a George Romero movie. Brendan, of course, looked like he casually sauntered out of some carefully cast reality show about high school rock stars. And I looked like I wanted to eat his brains. Fantastic.

“She’s so much cuter in person,” I muttered.

“She’d have to be!” Shorty snickered and leaned closer again with a confidential whisper, as if we were best friends, all of a sudden. “I mean, that guy Brendan is hot as hell. He hooked up with my friend at a party last summer. That Emily girl was nothing special.”

The trio laughed as I bit back a snort. Nothing special? How many newbie witches have you met in bodegas, Shorty?

“Yeah, I guess.” I excused myself as gracefully as I could, the girls’ gushing about Brendan’s finer qualities mercifully silenced as the sticker-covered door to the bodega slammed shut behind me.

I took a swig of my iced tea, checking my reflection in the store window—I know someone who thinks you’re special—before rounding the corner to meet him, more irritated at the reminder of Brendan’s past conquests than anything.

My little storm cloud of anger dissipated as soon as I saw him leaning against the rough brick building behind him. He had just gotten a haircut, but I only knew this because he’d told me. His thick black locks were as unruly as ever, hanging into his piercing green eyes.

“There’s my girl,” he said, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a sly, sexy smirk. Even though there was a slight chill in the March air, thanks to a forecasted rainstorm, Brendan kept his black wool jacket hanging open, the school uniform’s white button-down shirt concealing all the goodies that were underneath. I flicked his black tie away impatiently and rested my hands on the line of white buttons, trying not to think about how much more I liked this shirt when it was crumpled up in the corner of his bedroom two weeks ago. I couldn’t help it: Brendan was abs-olutely pec-tacular, horrible puns intended and very accurate.

“Everything okay with Liam?” I asked, and Brendan nodded, an amused smile breaking out across his face.

“So you know how he got into a fight during last night’s game?” I nodded as Brendan chuckled at the memory of how he and another player, Frank, had to hold Liam back from a mouthy player from Xavier High School. “Well, it was just some overheated shoving match, but little ol’ Liam’s freaking out. He thinks Coach Dunn’s going to kick him off the team or suspend him or something.”

“Do you really think he could get kicked off for that?” Liam was one of the few sophomores on the team, but he was still pretty impressive on the court.

“Nah, he’ll be fine.” Brendan shook his head dismissively. “Maybe he’ll get benched for a game, that’s it. He’s just worried ’cause he’s pretty new to the team. I mean, I got into a full-blown fistfight this year and I’m still on the team.”

Brendan paused, then added smugly, “That was before you moved here. I knocked the guy out with one punch, you know.”

I smiled indulgently. “Yes, I heard all about it, Braggy McBraggerson.”

“Hey, that guy tripped me and then took a swing at me! I was merely acting in my own defense.” Brendan pretended to be offended, holding his palms out innocently. “Liam will be fine—besides, it wasn’t his fault. So after I told him to stop acting like a whiny little girl, I told him what to say to Coach Dunn, and to go right ahead and use me as an example. After all, Dunn only suspended me. It’ll work out—if not, I’ll go to Dunn myself and threaten to quit or something.”

“You would do that for him?” My jaw dropped. Brendan was definitely one of the best players on the team—and he absolutely adored playing. It was one of the only things he liked about our school. As wealthy as his own family was, Brendan disregarded most students at Vince A, considering them all to be arrogant social-climbing snobs. And for the most part they were.

“It won’t come to that, but why not? He’s a good kid.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

I couldn’t help it, a big goofy smile spread across my face at the kind way he’d taken the sophomore under his wing. “Aw, look at you,” I murmured, tugging on his black tie. “You’re so cute.”

“Ugh, come on, Em. Don’t call me cute!” Brendan wrinkled his nose up, saying the word as if it pained him to pronounce it. “You say it the same way you talk about baby otters and those kitten videos you like. Guys don’t like to be called cute.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, you’re so awesome and can bench-press a bus and do a billion push-ups,” I drawled. “You’re not cute or sweet at all. Better?”

“So much better.” He chuckled, and I continued teasing him.

“You’re the original badass. You can roundhouse kick a quarter and get five nickels.” I held my fists up in the pose I’d learned from my kickboxing class, which I’d started taking after I healed from the winter dance, and pretended to kick Brendan.

“Oh, check it out, the mini-ninja has jokes,” he teased, blocking my weak, halfhearted kick with his forearm. “Are you done making fun of me yet?”

“No, but I’ll be nice and let you continue your story where you’re not at all cute or sweet about Liam. The horror!” I stood back upright, grinning as Brendan gently tugged on the cowlick in my bangs.

“You’re too much,” he said, shaking his head at me and smiling. “And so what if I’m friends with Liam? He’s a good kid.” Brendan tilted his head, giving me one of his signature flirty smiles. “You know, you really should stop making fun of me, because it’s all your fault, anyway.”

“What’s my fault?”

“Me, actually liking people at Vince A.”

“What a tragedy,” I deadpanned.

“Oh, it is,” Brendan insisted, his eyes open in mock horror. “I’m losing my cred. Next I’ll be voted prom king.” He shuddered at the thought and I laughed at the mental image. If that crown was placed on his unruly dark head, the heavens would open up and he’d get trampled by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“Hey, don’t blame me for making you want to be nice to people.” I laughed, poking him in the chest. He grinned, grabbing my hand to kiss my fingertip, before dropping his hands to my waist, and drawing me close.

“I want to be nice because I’m happy,” Brendan whispered in my ear, his breath sending trembles across my skin. “And it is all your fault, because you’re the reason I’m happy.” He touched his lips underneath my ear, and I forgot that I was supposed to be avoiding the annoying girls in the bodega. I forgot that I had somewhere to be. I’d forget my eyeballs if they weren’t stuck in my head.

Maybe it’s because Brendan was smart, sweet, supportive and—let’s face it—smack-yourself-in-the-face hot. Or maybe it was because he could win a gold medal in making out. But most likely, it was because he’s my soul mate. My honest, true soul mate—reincarnated over a thousand years, only to be reunited and ripped apart, generation after generation, thanks to a curse set in motion by a brokenhearted ancient lord. When his beloved wife, Gloriana, was murdered, Lord Archer thought he was securing their reunion in another life. He made a deal with a witch: his and Gloriana’s souls would reunite in another lifetime—one where Archer would be reborn into a rich, handsome and strong descendant.

But Archer’s goals shouldn’t have been so selfish, so focused on his own glory, as the witch cruelly reminded him when she granted his proud wishes. When you make a deal with evil, there’s always fine print. The witch doomed our souls with a never-ending curse: after we reunited, Archer would relive the loss of his soul mate as she suffered an untimely, tragic—and brutal—death. Over and over again, lifetime over lifetime, condemning me from the moment I met Brendan. But after Anthony attacked me at the winter formal, Brendan risked his life to save mine—the key to unlocking the curse started by his selfish past life.

The fight also confirmed that I had some seriously untapped witch powers—Gloriana had practiced witchcraft, and that magic stuck with her soul, magnifying as the years passed. My late twin brother, Ethan, was able to warn me of the danger, through dreams and some seriously scary signs, of the impending doom. But when I was somehow able to summon his spirit to help me pull Brendan from an almost-certain death, as he clutched on to the rocks high above Central Park’s Turtle Pond after knocking me out of Anthony’s path, we realized I had some major magical talent flowing through my veins. Before I moved to New York, I had no idea that I was what Angelique called a “born witch.”

In the four months since we broke the curse, Brendan and I have been blissfully happy—and the only things threatening us from being with each other were my pitiful Latin grades (yes, we had to study Latin at Vincent Academy, a language deader than caveman grunts) and his socialite mom, Laura. She was proving to be almost as big a barrier to our happily ever after as the curse. Laura wasn’t too thrilled that her son risked his life to save mine. I had a sneaking suspicion that she wouldn’t have minded Brendan saving blue blood from being spilled—but I was a transplant to New York’s posh Upper East Side, living with my aunt Christine after my alcoholic stepfather, Henry, made life in Keansburg, New Jersey, hazardous to my health. Still, Laura’s disapproval didn’t deter Brendan from bringing me around his family. Like last week, when I joined them for Chinese food. Although when the Salingers get Chinese food, they don’t order in from the local Happy Joy Kitchen—they go to Mr. Chow, where they know the owner. Where the bill is three figures. Where a Grammy winner might be at the next table.

Sure, it was the best Chinese food I’d ever had, but Laura could make anything unappetizing. She should rent herself out to anyone wanting to lose weight. At least Brendan’s dad, Aaron, wasn’t a problem: he liked me. He also understood that I was Brendan’s soul mate—and that I wasn’t just some fleeting crush of his son’s. After all, the curse had come from the Salinger side of the family. But Laura…she frowned so much in my general direction I thought her chin might fall off. Impressive, I thought at the time—she’d had so much Botox for the grand opening of one of her husband’s hotels that her face was about as flexible as a brick.

But all those concerns always melted away the second Brendan touched me. His lips left a featherlight path of kisses from my ear to my mouth. Even after months together and a billion make-out sessions (that’s a conservative estimate), every kiss kicked my pulse—and other parts of my body—into high gear. I clasped my hands around the back of his neck, eagerly returning his kiss before a wailing ambulance, heading to nearby St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital, reminded me of our location. “Whoa,” I said, pulling away. “We are in the middle of Ninth Avenue here.”

“We’re not the most scandalous thing someone’s seen in the middle of Ninth Avenue, I’m sure.” Brendan smirked, his green eyes sparkling mischievously. “Besides, no one’s watching.”

“Don’t be too sure.” I groaned, reminded of my encounter in the bodega. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to see if the annoying trio of girls was still around.

Yep. They were. And they noticed whom I was with—and what I was doing with him.

“What’s wrong?” Brendan’s jet-black brows furrowed with concern.

“Nothing. Let’s just get out of here, okay?” I ignored the furious texting from their perfectly manicured fingers.

“What, is some old creeper watching us make out or something?” Brendan asked, protectively throwing his arm over my shoulder and ushering me down the block toward Tenth Avenue.

“No, nothing like that! Some people recognized me, said some things…blah, blah, blech.” I waved my hands dismissively, omitting the part about his old hookup. Soul mate or not, I didn’t exactly break into a happy dance every time I heard about his previous—and prolific—conquests. Before me, Brendan got around more than the crosstown bus. So I could think of better ways to pass the time than discussing his past, like slamming my face into a drawer—repeatedly. But part of the curse was that Archer be handsome when he was reincarnated, and Brendan was, indeed, magically delicious. And girls most definitely noticed.

“What did they say to you?” His green eyes glinted angrily as he turned his head to glare at the clique, but I grabbed a fistful of his sleeve, pulling him forward.

“Please, just let it go. Please?” I pleaded. Brendan took in the exasperated expression on my face and sighed, resigned.

“I’m sorry you have to keep dealing with that,” Brendan apologized guiltily as we continued walking away from the bodega toward Tenth Avenue. The Salingers weren’t just rich, they were one of those families—the kind that had scholarships named after them. The kind that had buildings named after them. So when he fought off psychotic schoolmate Anthony after Anthony attacked me last December, of course it made headlines in New York gossip blogs. The only downfall for Brendan was that every now and then, some alpha-male tried to start a fight with him to prove how tough he was.

“It’s not your fault.” I quickened my step to get more distance between us and the gossipy trio. “I just don’t want to keep being reminded of everything that happened.”

“My dad’s lawyers think Anthony’s father has him holed up somewhere in Europe. Anthony’s not coming back—we’d have heard something,” Brendan reminded me. Anthony was also from a powerful family, and his father had him hidden well—a little too well for the private service Brendan’s father, Aaron, had hired after the fight. He’d even arranged for some security for Brendan and me in the weeks immediately after the attack.

Brendan continued, his voice grave and low as he pulled me closer. “Don’t worry about it, Em. If he tries to get anywhere near you, I’ll end him.”

I didn’t doubt Brendan’s sincerity—especially after what had transpired on the rocks. But the lethal tone in his voice caused me to stop in my tracks.

“Please don’t talk like that. I don’t want you getting hurt or—”

“Come on, Emma.” Brendan interrupted me, throwing his head back in a laugh. He picked me up—overstuffed backpack and all—and planted a quick kiss on my nose. “I’m a little offended by your lack of confidence.”

He set me back on my feet and I smoothed out my skirt, trying not to roll my eyes at Brendan as we resumed walking.

“Besides,” he continued. “Don’t you remember what happened last time? I can handle him.”

“I remember it very well,” I said quietly. “I remember thinking you died when you went barreling off the rocks.”

“I didn’t, though,” he reminded me, sliding an arm around my shoulders. “That’s all behind us.”

“I hope so.” I sighed, looking up at him. “I just worry.”

“You know I feel the same way you do. That night, when I couldn’t find you…” His voice trailed off, and Brendan just kissed me softly on the top of my head. “I understand feeling protective—trust me, I get it,” he added with a humorless laugh. “Just please don’t worry so much that you don’t talk to me or tell me things because you’re trying to protect me or stop me from going off. Even if it comes to some idiot girls running their mouths in a bodega, okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed with a small smile. I pulled back from him reluctantly when I felt my phone vibrate in my sweatshirt pocket.

Where R U?

“Well, I should definitely get upstairs,” I muttered, texting Angelique back. We had just gotten to her family’s apartment building on Tenth Avenue and Fifty-first Street, and I was already running late due to a Latin study session after school. Honestly, a few stolen kisses along the way contributed to my delay; with my new afterschool job in the library, witch classes with Angelique, my weekly kickboxing classes, basketball season in full swing—and, of course, SAT prep—Brendan and I hadn’t had much time together outside of school. I’d missed him.

Still, Angelique had insisted that we have a lesson today. She and Brendan weren’t exactly best friends—or friends at all, for that matter. She had dismissed him as an overprivileged rich jock; he had written her off as a self-important, bratty witch. Well, they were both right about one thing: Brendan was rich, and Angelique was a witch. She came from a family of witches, actually. She was also a burgeoning empath—she could sense people’s emotions. So far, her talent was unpredictable, but getting stronger every day: some days she could sense everything—she was in tune with the world. Other days, nothing at all. So I helped Angelique cultivate her empath skills, and Angelique helped me develop my newly discovered abilities as a born witch.

But after a successful initial run of spells, all I’d done in the past month was create some very smelly potions—one of which burned a hole in Angelique’s rug—and levitate a yellow highlighter. And that was only for a few seconds. Angelique kept telling me the key was controlling my emotions, but I’d either get too frustrated when something didn’t work or too excited when it did and screw it up—badly. Hence the hole in the rug.

“So what was so important that you had to have witch class today? Are you still—what, spellblocked? Witch’s block? What’s the magic equivalent of writer’s block?” Brendan asked, arching one black eyebrow as he walked me up the concrete steps framing the plaza surrounding Angelique’s apartment building. Although he’d initially balked at the idea of me being a witch, after the fight, Brendan was all for anything I could do to protect myself—be it the pepper spray he bought me or something magical in nature. He even taught me the kind of fighting I wasn’t going to pick up in my Beginner’s Kickboxing class—all the dirty, street fighting tricks he’d learned over the years. But we found out the hard way that I had a pretty good right hook when he got, um, a little distracted during one lesson. I’d apologized a billion times, but Brendan assured me it wasn’t his first bloody nose, and likely wouldn’t be his last. I just had to promise to stop wearing low-cut tank tops when we sparred.

“Witch’s block is a good term for it—and yes, I’m still witch blocked like crazy.” I sighed, running my hands through my hair and tugging at the strands. “I can’t seem to focus on anything. It’s killing me. I don’t know if I should just give it up, or what.”

“You’ll get there,” he said supportively, kissing me on my forehead before tilting my chin up to steal another kiss.

“Nice try! Stop trying to make me later than I already am,” I said, pushing him away with a laugh.

“You’re always late. To everything. And you’re here already. So what’s another ten minutes?” Brendan argued, trying to slide his arms around me again.

“Thanks a lot,” I replied sarcastically, using his joke about my tardiness as an excuse to pull myself from his arms, however unwillingly. “I’m being rude. Besides, spring break starts Wednesday, and we have all day together tomorrow.” We were both taking art history this semester, and tomorrow was an end-of-week class trip to the Cloisters, the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s medieval branch in upper Manhattan.

“Fine.” Brendan sighed in mock annoyance, releasing me from his grasp. “Have fun. Play nice with the other witches.”

I promised him I’d text him when I got home, and I headed up the concrete steps into Angelique’s apartment building.

“I’m sorry I’m a little late,” I apologized as soon as Angelique answered the door. “I had Latin review after school.”

“Yeah, Latin review is why your lip balm is smudged,” Angelique said tersely as she shut the door behind me. “That first declension really screws up your makeup—as if I needed lip gloss all over your face to know what you’ve been doing.” She shuddered in a melodramatic way.

“Empath skills rearing their ugly head?” I asked as I sheepishly wiped my mouth with the heel of my hand. I felt like Aunt Christine had just caught me making out with Brendan.

“Big time.” Angelique grimaced as if she’d just smelled something gross. I guiltily hung my head as I followed my friend down the apartment’s cheerful, yellow-painted hallway to her more dramatically decorated bedroom.

“But then again, you seem to have that effect on me,” she added dryly, and I ducked my head a little more. Angelique had always been able to read auras, but meeting a fellow witch like me had somehow triggered her latent empath talent. Although she was still learning how to harness it, Angelique could always read me crystal clear. “It’s like your emotions are in HD,” she’d complained. That’s how I was able to help her develop her talent—I’d think of something that evoked a strong emotion, she’d guess what I was feeling. We were like a really bizarre supernatural game show—Stump the Empath.

“How come your hair is wet?” I changed the subject, noticing that Angelique’s damp, jet-black hair was leaving little wet spots all over her oversize, comfy-looking burgundy T-shirt. She was naturally a blonde, but dyed it dark, save for the occasional colorful streak.

“Oh, my cousin Miranda’s on spring break from college, so she came over and helped me touch up my roots,” she replied, pointing to her scalp with a charcoal-gray-painted nail. “We added a few streaks of purple and blue in.”

Angelique loved being a witch—and she positively adored dressing the part. Her Goth attire hadn’t won her many friends at Vincent Academy, where the aesthetic was more Chanel than Charmed. But her flair for the dramatic was one of my favorite things about her. The rest of her witchy family—the ones I’d met, at least—didn’t share her darker sense of style.

“So what are we working on today?” I asked, kicking off my beloved, but ridiculously scuffed, Mary Janes. After taking a swig from my still-cold iced tea, I sat cross-legged on Angelique’s bed, fighting the desire to just sprawl out on it and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck all over the purple walls. She had the most comfortable bed in the world—thick feather bed topped with a black velvet comforter. It was like lying in a gigantic plush marshmallow.

“Are we doing potions? Spells? Maybe some kind of magic to fix my witch’s block?” I asked, glaring at my backpack on the floor. Maybe Angelique’s presence can help you successfully pull off a little spell… .