Charmed (6 page)

I left the house with the mission of getting away from Aunt Penny, but it’s not until I’m almost there that I realize I’ve been driving to Bishop’s.

The lush green hills of Mount Washington pop up before my eyes, and soon I’m pulling up to Bishop’s house. Correction: mansion. The Spanish-style home rises three
stories high and stretches for what seems like an entire city block. Towering palm trees and lavish gardens spring up from every corner of the property, and lattices of ivy climb the white stucco walls and coil around the arched windows framed with ornate cast-iron grilles, all the way to the terracotta roof.

I park in front of the tacky naked-mermaid fountain in the driveway that shoots water out of its nipples (so obviously Bishop’s contribution to the décor) and climb out of the car.

I don’t even get a chance to knock on the heavy wooden door before it opens, and Bishop is there.

“What’s up?” he asks, pulling the door wide so I can come in. Instead of his usual badass rocker clothing, he’s sporting a pair of baggy plaid pajama pants and a white T-shirt so old it’s see-through in places. His hair is adorably mussed up on top and flat on one side.

“Hey,” I answer.

A rumbling sounds from behind him, and seconds later, his rottweiler, Lovey Lumpkins, barrels down the spiral staircase. Just weeks ago, I wanted to run when he approached, but now I don’t even break my stare from Bishop as the dog’s nails clatter on the marble floors.

“What?” he asks, noticing my stare.

“I’ve missed your holey pj’s,” I say. “You look sickeningly cute.” I smile at him as I swat Lovey’s nose out of my crotch. Only Bishop could pull me out of such a horrible mood—I knew I kept him around for a reason.

He grins. “Yeah, I was thinking about taking a nap, then you came along and ruined that idea.”

I give him a playful shove in the shoulder and walk inside. He follows me through the foyer.

“So why are you here?” he asks. “Didn’t you say you had to get home or else Aunt Penny would send a lynch mob after you or something?”

“We got in a fight.” And like that, whatever good mood I had drains out of me and my anger comes crashing back full force. I toss my keys on the glass table, and the sound echoes off the high, wood-beam ceilings.

“Let me guess: Los Demonios,” Bishop says.

“Yep. And get this, she actually wants me not to go.” I pad into the kitchen—my favorite room in Bishop’s house. It features the same wooden beams across the ceiling, smooth archways, and windows covered in cast-iron grilles as the rest of the house, but there are also stone walls, an ornate tile backsplash, dark-colored wood cabinets, and a low-hanging candle chandelier suspended over an island full of planters, and combined, the look is just so
warm
that I can’t help gravitating here. I haul myself up onto one of the stools at the island.

Bishop follows me into the kitchen, with Lumpkins trotting in behind him.

“She said,
‘You won’t go there,’
 ” I say, mimicking Aunt Penny.
“ ‘You’ll get yourself killed.’ ”
I roll my eyes. “She just doesn’t understand.”

Bishop doesn’t respond.

“I mean, like I’d just forget about my best friend. To suggest that I don’t even try to get her out, I mean, that’s just crazy!”

The refrigerator hums in the wake of my outburst.

I sit up straighter and look at Bishop—really look at him. He plays with the drawstrings of his pajama pants, pointedly avoiding eye contact. A sinking sensation washes over me.

“You don’t…agree with her, do you?”

He doesn’t immediately respond, and right away I know it’s true. I hop off my stool, surprised that smoke isn’t blowing out of my ears with the force of my angry huffing.

“You can’t be serious,” I say. “You too?”

He shakes his head, approaching me with his hands up in apology, but I back away from him.

“Does nobody care that she’s in danger?” I shout. Lumpkins sits up and lets out a little yelp. Bishop pets him behind the ears and murmurs, “It’s okay,” until the rottweiler sinks back to the ground.

“That’s not it,” Bishop says, turning his attention back to me. “No one is happy this happened to Paige. It’s just that we care about you and we don’t want to see the same thing happen to you.”

I bark a humorless laugh. “So everyone figures we should just cut our losses and move on.” Bishop opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him before he can get a word out. “No, that’s it, isn’t it? You just want to go back to a normal
life. Paige being in Los Demonios must be convenient. ‘Hey! Would have liked to continue spending my every waking second searching for this girl I don’t really know, but sorry, she’s in this other dimension, so no can do. Wanna make out?’ ”

“Indie,” he says, shaking his head.

“Don’t ‘Indie’ me,” I say. “You’re not even two years older than me, so you can stop treating me like a child. Everyone treats me like a child, and I’m done with that.”

He strides up to me with a challenge flashing in his dark eyes. “So you think if you die too that’ll make this whole thing better?” he demands.

“Who says I’d die?”

“Just look at history, Indie. No one who’s gone into Los Demonios—”

“Has ever come out,” I finish for him. “God, did you and Aunt Penny read the same textbook or something? Yes, it’s not going to be easy. But just because something is hard doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

“Indie.” He grabs my wrists and pulls me to him.

“No!” I shout so loud that Lumpkins lets out another bark. “This can’t be fixed with a make-out sesh, okay?”

Hurt flashes across his face and he lets go of my wrists. I feel a quick stab in my gut—God, what is with me lately?—but I turn my back to him so he doesn’t see the tears that spring to my eyes.

And then, for the second time in a day, I storm out of a house while pleas to stop follow me out the door.

T
he engine idles. Through the bug-splattered windshield, I watch the sun sink into the ocean, casting the sky into the oranges and pinks of sunset.

The boardwalk is practically a ghost town. The crowds have disappeared, leaving just a few dozen people scattered across the huge expanse of beach. A woman closes the shutters on her booth, while another sweeps the stairs in front of her shop. A few people stand in line at a pizza parlor, but otherwise the place is empty.

I don’t know what I thought I’d accomplish by coming here, but I’m sure that whatever it is won’t happen with me sitting in the car.

I turn off the engine and step out. Without the sun stinging my shoulders, the breeze coming off the water sends goose bumps racing up my bare arms. I wish I’d brought a sweater. I make a mental note to remember that next time I run away from home.

I trudge through the sand toward the boardwalk. A single seagull circles overhead, silent. The Black Market is gone. Except it’s not really gone, just hidden from view.

“Videre.”

I say it only once, and as I blink, the market appears.

The place is suddenly teeming with activity. It’s so crowded my eyes can’t catch on one single thing to notice instead of another. Where the boardwalk was alive with tourists this morning, twilight seems to have brought out all the witches and warlocks. The market gave me the creeps before, but with the sun setting and Bishop not a comforting presence by my side, a spider of dread climbs my spine.

Irena wasn’t exactly friendly when we chatted last, but I can’t deny she knows more than I do about witchcraft.
Most people
know more than I do about witchcraft. But maybe she’ll be more forthcoming without Bishop there making her go into heat.

I weave through the crowd, trying not to wince or shriek when someone bumps my shoulder or loudly calls to a friend behind me.

I’m almost at Irena’s tent when a strange sensation comes
over me, and I’m overcome with the feeling of being watched. My breath catches as I recall the woman from this morning.

I spin around wildly. Sure enough, there she is, staring at me from her darkened booth. A breeze blows wisps of thinning hair across her face. Her penetrating gaze almost makes me cry out, and I realize my hand has involuntarily come up to my heart.

The woman crooks a bent and knobby finger in the air. Instinct tells me to run far and fast from this creepy lady, but for some reason I don’t. She settles her hand back into her lap and waits, like she’s sure I’m going to come closer.

And I do.

Alarm bells sound in my head the nearer I get to the witch, but my feet keep moving, almost of their own volition, like an undercurrent is pulling me toward her across a sea of people. I start to wonder if she’s doing some sort of spell, and my heart beats so fast I think it’s finally going to crap out from all the stress I’ve put it under lately. By the time I’m standing in front of her booth, I’m so sure she’s going to kill me that I’m wondering why my life isn’t flashing before my eyes.

“Hello, Indie,” she says. I don’t know what shocks me more: that she knows my name, or that she has the clear voice of a woman much younger than the minimum seventy I’d pegged her as.

Up close, I see that the sallow, sagging skin, lifeless eyes,
and thinning hair have lent an aged appearance to what is probably a woman no older than thirty. What could have happened to a person to make her look like this? Also: how do I avoid it, and is it contagious?

“H-h-how do you know my name?” I stammer.

“You need help,” she replies. It’s a statement, not a question. I can’t even reply before she says, “Come in,” then climbs off her stool and disappears behind the curtain into the dark recesses of the shop.

A moment passes. I look behind me; the boardwalk is a zoo, but no one’s paying attention to me. I could leave right now and be home in half an hour, snuggled up under my big, warm duvet.

Instead, I reach inside the booth and unhook the latch for the swinging door.

Candles bathe the small room in flickering orange light. At the back sits a worktable scattered with pots and pickle jars filled with colorful liquids and questionable foodstuffs. The dark walls are cluttered with crooked shelves and clocks of every shape and size. A large chipped sink sits to the right, stained with what I hope is red paint and not something else, and across the cobblestone floor from it is a stone hearth. Perfect for cooking children and ex-cheerleaders.

The woman is gone. There’s a door set into the back wall.
What the hell
, I decide. I cross over to it in two long strides, grasping the cold knob in my hand.

I open it.

The candles from inside the booth cast just enough light that I can see the faint outline of a staircase twisting down into a black hole. Following her is a Bad Idea. But the woman knew I needed help. The promise that maybe, just maybe, she knows how I can save Paige drives me to take a melting taper candle from the shelf and hold it out in front of me like a weapon as I descend the stairs.
This is how horror movies begin
, I think.

The temperature immediately drops as I go down, and the scent of damp earth fills my nose. As my eyes adjust to the dark, the room begins to take shape—“room” being a massive overstatement. The place looks more like a cave. The candlelight casts shadows across the rocky walls and glints off the stalactites hanging from the low ceiling. Shadowy passageways snake off from the main room, twisting in different directions. There must be tunnels running under the entire boardwalk.

The warm wax of the candle molds to the shape of my hand as I walk.

“What is it you want?”

I leap at the sound of the witch’s voice and whirl around, trying to locate her. I gasp when the whites of her eyes light up a darkened corner to my left. What the hell is she doing, just standing there in the dark?

There’s a quiet
pop
, and then the small flicker of a flame appears in the witch’s cupped hands. She reaches up to light a lantern overhead. The flame spits as it comes to life,
illuminating a long worktable in the middle of the space strewn with even more bottles and jars. The witch takes a mortar and pestle and begins grinding what looks like black rock.

I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. I realize I haven’t answered her question.

“My friend,” I start nervously. “She’s been kidnapped.”

The witch doesn’t react, just continues crushing the rock with surprising strength considering her arthritic-looking hands.

“We think she’s in Los Demonios,” I add.

I expect her to jump down my throat at the mention of the place, but she just says, “What makes you think that?” as though I were commenting on the weather. I instantly like her more.

“We did a locating spell. It should have worked, but we picked up nothing.”

“And you want to get her out,” she replies.

I nod.

“I know of a way,” she says.

My heart skips a beat. “You—you do?”

“It will cost you three thousand dollars.” She lays the pestle down and pats the worktable until she finds a funnel, which she uses to feed the ground black crystals through the narrow opening of a bottle-green jar.

Three thousand dollars. I don’t have three
hundred
dollars, let alone ten times that.

“I don’t have that much money,” I say.

“Well, then you’re not going,” she says, mimicking my voice.

I bite my lip, scouring my brain for a way to make this happen. In a flash, I remember the lockbox Mom kept on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. My college fund. Anytime I used to bug Mom about keeping so much money in the house, she’d bring up the Depression and how everyone who put their money in a bank lost everything, while the smart people who kept their money under their mattresses prospered. I’d tried to tell her that a robber was a
bit
more likely than another Depression, but Mom was steadfast in her ways. There’s got to be close to fifteen thousand dollars in there.

Mom would
lose her mind
if she knew I’d taken money out of the fund she’d worked so hard to save. For a brief moment I consider trying to find another way to come up with the cash, but then I think,
Oh, who am I kidding?
Mom’s dead. And anyway, she would have been okay with it if she knew what I was using it for. Not to mention I’m almost halfway through the school year and I haven’t even glanced at an SAT prep book.

So I’ll do it, I decide. Borrow the money.

The thought crosses my mind then that maybe this lady is swindling me. What does a witch needs money for? Bishop has a mansion funded entirely in money he magicked into existence. Surely she could do the same.

“Why not just conjure money?” I ask.

“I can’t.” She doesn’t elaborate.

Has the Family punished her too, I wonder? Is that why she looks so prematurely old? I want to ask but decide that it may be taboo.

“Are you sure it will work?” I ask.

She glances up for the first time since I came down here, and then goes back to her work. I guess that’s a yes.

The enormity of it hits me. I found a way. A real way to get to Paige. If only Bishop were here to see how much I’d accomplished on my own, all without his help.

Jerk.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

She gives a terse nod at my big announcement.

I shift my weight to my other foot. “Aren’t you going to warn me about how dangerous this is? How I probably won’t come back, and yada yada yada?”

“Do you want me to?” she asks.

I think about it, then shrug. “No, I guess not.”

She lays her pestle down again and uses the funnel to add more ground rock to the jar. “Come back when you have the money.”

“I want to do it now. Can’t I pay you later?”

“No.”

“Why not? I’m honest. I’ll get you the money.”

I realize right away the answer to my own question: because I might not come back.

I chew the inside of my cheek. I want to do it now. I’m worried that if I leave, rational thought might take over and I’ll be too scared to return.

An idea strikes.

“I’ll give you my car,” I say, fishing my keys out of my pocket. I hold them out in front of me; the metal glints in the candlelight. “As collateral. If I don’t come back, you can keep it.”

Her hands pause. I jump on her hesitation.

“It’s a good car. Parked right in the lot. A green Sunfire. A little old, but definitely worth more than three grand.”

She considers for a moment. Finally, she holds out her hand, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

She snags the keys. Suddenly she’s all business.

“This spell will send you to Los Demonios for a short time only. The exact amount of time is unknown and changes with each attempt. You will arrive at an unknown location. The location changes with each attempt. You will have pain in your head, which can vary from mild to excruciating. I am not responsible for anything that may happen to you on your visit. You will not be refunded if you find your experience unsatisfactory.”

My stomach churns.

Her little speech has me seriously questioning my decision, and I might even have backed out if she weren’t leading me firmly by the shoulder through a dark, narrow tunnel so
small we have to crouch to fit through, all the while holding the swinging lantern out in front of her.

Where is she taking me?

I wish Bishop were here. As soon as I have the thought, I remember the way he took Aunt Penny’s side, and my anger comes flooding back. I don’t need Bishop’s help. I got by sixteen years just fine without a man in my life. I’m sure I can get through another day.

Just when my back is starting to get sore from crouching down at an unnatural angle, the tunnel mercifully opens up into another room. It’s round, smaller than the last, with five black entrances carved into the rock walls. It’s furnished with only a wooden chair that has cutouts of roosters on its back. I wonder whose grandma she robbed for it.

“Sit,” she demands.

She takes my candle, then gestures to the chair as she looks around for someplace to hang the lantern.