Charmed (9 page)

I’m shoving my textbooks into my locker the next morning when Bishop calls my name. I should have guessed by the girlie exclamations and the rise in pheromones in the air that he was near.

I hike my messenger bag up on my shoulder and swing around. And there he is, leaning up against the opposite bank of lockers. And he doesn’t look happy.

I
did
consider calling or texting him when I got in last night, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. My anger at him for taking Aunt Penny’s side may have dissipated a bit
in the face of near death in Los Demonios, but it took only a few minutes of being back home and remembering the terrors of that place, knowing that Paige is still there, for it to come flooding back again, stronger than ever.

I probably should have called.

Sighing, I shoulder my bag. The concentrated stare of the female population of Fairfield High follows me as I join my boyfriend, but I pretend not to notice the attention.

“Where were you?” he asks, his tone low and dangerous.

“Sorry, I should have called—”

“Where were you?” he repeats. His eyes lock on mine, dark and unblinking. I’ve never seen Bishop this angry.

I square my shoulders, trying to disguise my nerves. “My dad’s been gone since I was three, and I don’t need a replacement, thanks.”

My words crack his shell. His shoulders deflate a fraction, and he looks out at the busy hallway.

Guilt tears at my insides. What’s gotten into me? I know what I did was wrong. I touch his arm, and he flinches. Laughter echoes through the hallway, and my cheeks burn.

“Just…just tell me you didn’t do something stupid.” He looks at me again with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.

I briefly consider telling him everything about Los Demonios, but something about the threatening look in his eyes tells me that confessing to him would be a very bad idea. Which brings me to plan B: throw him off the trail.
Stat
.

“Look, Bishop. I’m sorry. I was just so mad. Aunt Penny just finished saying there was nothing I could do about Paige, then I went to you and expected you to be on my side but you just said the same thing and”—I shrug—“I guess I just lost it. I needed to get away for a bit.” It’s not technically a lie. “But I realize now that I made you both worry, and I won’t take off like that again without letting someone know.”

He doesn’t respond. A twist of dark hair falls around his jaw; his lips are so tense I have the urge to part them with a kiss. He’s so close to me, yet the space between us feels like a chasm.

“Look,” I whisper. “If you’re going to break up with me, could you at least make it quick? Everyone’s looking.”

He laughs then, low and quiet. The sound startles me.

“You think I’m going to break up with you?” he asks.

“You’re…not?”

“Indie,” he says, hooking his fingers through the belt loops of my jean skirt and tugging me closer. He gives a half smile—not his characteristic grin, but not his new scowl either, so I’ll take it. “I would never break up with you.”

Relief floods my body, and I swear I can feel actual endorphins racing through my veins. “You might regret saying that later,” I reply.

He tucks my hair behind my ear, grinning genuinely as he leans in to kiss me.

“All right, break it up, you two!”

I startle at Mr. Lloyd’s voice. He stands in front of us,
wedging us apart with his palms. “More booky booky, less kissy kissy,
comprende
?”

Bishop laughs, and Mr. Lloyd shoots him a glare.

“Are you even a student here?” he asks.

Crap.

“See you after school?” Bishop says as he walks backward away from me.

“Sure,” I say. He gives me a two-fingered salute, and then he slips into the crowd.

One thing I haven’t missed about school is Mrs. Davies’s boring lectures. After I slept like the dead for just a few hours last night, her monologue on some after-school SAT prep course has me fighting the urge to head-desk.

It doesn’t get better in math class. My exhaustion, combined with the fact I haven’t cracked a textbook in ages, makes the test questions look like they’re written in an alien language. I get about halfway through before giving up and taking a nap on my desk.

I almost leap out of my skin when the intercom buzzes. Mrs. Malone’s voice comes over the speaker.

“Good morning. Would all students and teachers please file down to the gymnasium for a mandatory assembly? Thank you.”

“I guess the test will have to be rescheduled,” Mr. Lloyd says.

Joy. I can fail tomorrow instead.

Whoops rise from the class. In the back of the room, Bianca loudly discusses skipping out for Starbucks. It’s probably the first great idea she’s ever had. I’m already imagining what kinds of research I can do with my free time when Mr. Lloyd claps his hands.

“Did everyone hear Mrs. Malone? This is a mandatory assembly. Anyone not present will be reported to the office and dealt with appropriately. I will be taking attendance in the gym.”

All twenty-five kids let out a groan.

The gym is already three-quarters full and booming with the murmurs of students by the time our class arrives. I file into one of the hastily erected rows of orange chairs and scan the crowded room for a sign of what this is all about. I notice a few uniformed police officers chatting by the side of the raised stage, and my back stiffens.

Five minutes later, Mrs. Malone crosses the stage as briskly as one can in a leather miniskirt too tight to allow full range of leg motion. She stops in front of a microphone, then taps it twice, sending interference through the speakers, which makes everyone groan.

“Quiet, please,” she says. “Thank you all for joining me. I’ve asked you here this morning for a very important issue.
A tragedy has befallen one of our own.” She pauses. “Mrs. Hornby’s daughter has gone missing.”

Shock slams into me as the gym falls completely silent.

Mrs. Hornby is the coach of the girl’s soccer team, and ever since Ms. Jenkins died (or rather, was killed by Leo), she’s been filling in as the cheerleading coach. All I know about her is that she loves soccer with a passion and has been nicknamed Horny, on account of her unfortunate last name. I didn’t even know she had a daughter.

Mrs. Malone allows a moment for the shock of her statement to wear off before continuing.

“Samantha Hornby, a junior at John Marshall High, hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning.” Mrs. Malone covers the microphone with her hand and speaks to a janitor. In a moment, a picture flashes across the drop-down screen behind her. The girl in the picture smiles brightly at the camera, her brown hair pulled into a glossy ponytail at the top of her head.

“Samantha was last seen by her parents at ten to eight yesterday, when she left for school with a friend. She was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. All efforts to contact her via phone and social networking have failed. Her family says this is very unusual for Samantha and they’re very concerned for her welfare. Please, everyone take a close look at this photo. If you have any information that could help in the search for Samantha, anything at all, please come forward to speak to one of the officers, who will gladly take your report.”

I stare at the picture. Something niggles at the back of my mind, but it’s like I’m trying to grab hold of rubbery fish: every time I think I’ve got a handle on it, it wiggles out of my grasp.

I remember the news report Aunt Penny was watching the other morning about the redheaded boy. That makes two teens gone missing in the course of a few days.

Chairs squeak against tile as the gym empties out, but I don’t move, just keep staring at the picture. There’s hardly anyone left in the room when I finally figure it out.

Wipe away the smile, pull down the ponytail, and smear dirt across her cheeks—and that girl becomes the one in the back of the van in Los Demonios.

I
t doesn’t make sense. What the hell could Mrs. Hornby’s daughter be doing in an alternate-dimension prison?

The lack of sleep and the guilt must finally be catching up with me, I decide. It can’t really be her. I’m superimposing her face on the girl I saw because I can’t stop thinking about what might have happened to her after I left her in that van, Cruz unconscious or worse, and with Bat Boy on the loose.

Yes. That’s it. It’s not her. I say it so many times that I almost convince myself it’s true.

Back in math class, I wait for Mr. Lloyd to turn his back before digging in my purse for my phone. I cradle it in my lap under the desk and open the web browser, sneaking glances
down to type in the search bar whenever the opportunity strikes. I’ve gotten as far as “Samantha H” when Mr. Lloyd suddenly stops his impromptu lecture on the importance of good math grades for getting into a decent college and not failing at life.

“Yes, Bianca,” he says.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Lloyd. I’m trying to pay attention, because college is, like, super, super important to me, but I’m just really distracted by Indigo on her phone.”

I stiffen, blood rushing to my face. The classroom calls out “Oooh” in unison as Mr. Lloyd’s shoes slap down the aisle. He holds out his hand, under my nose. Exhaling, I hand over my cell.

“You can pick it up at the end of the day,” he says.

“What?” I shriek.

He ignores my outburst. As he retreats to the front of the class, I twist around to send eye daggers at Bianca. She gives me a huge, satisfied smile. I can’t help myself. I turn to face the blackboard, calling my magic; it answers quickly, the heat stinging my fingertips. I think of Bianca’s desk and repeat the incantation to move objects inside my head.

Sequere me imperio movere
.

A loud crash sounds behind me, followed by a roar of laughter. I twist around to see Bianca splayed out on the floor under her tipped-over desk.

“Get this thing off of me!” she screeches.

Devon jumps up to right the desk.

“Who pushed me?” she yells, scrambling up and struggling to rearrange her impossibly small skirt.

“Pushed you?” Devon asks. “Don’t blame me because you fell.”

I laugh, but quickly turn it into a cough.

“All right, that’s enough, people,” Mr. Lloyd says. “Miss Cavanaugh—take your seat. And try to stay in it, please.”

Repressed snickers bounce through the room. Bianca snaps her head around, as if she’s trying to burn every laughing kid’s face into her memory so she can remember to ruin their lives later. And then she notices me. Her eyes narrow, and I know she’s trying to figure out how I could have caused her fall from three rows over. I give her a smug smile before I spin around to face the blackboard again.

Well, that was fun. But I make a note to myself not to lose my temper like that again. Being loose with my magic could get me in some
serious
trouble.

The rest of the morning passes by like sludge. When the lunch bell rings, I practically sprint to the library.

The library at Fairfield High is enough to cause clinical depression. The outdated shag carpet, cheap plywood bookcases, and Commodore 64 computers make the place look like it has been royally screwed over in the budget department since 1970.

Mrs. Sutton glances up from her computer at the reference desk when I enter but quickly goes back to doing whatever it
is librarians do. I cross over to one of the computer stations and drop my bag on the floor.

My fingers shake as I bring up Google, then type “Samantha Hornby” into the search bar. The police report comes up as the first option. I click on it and skim the paragraphs looking for details not already mentioned at the assembly.

She went missing yesterday. She left for school with a friend, but never showed up to class. I read the rest of the report but learn nothing new. I click out of the page and open up her Instagram, zooming in on her most recent pic. It’s the same picture from the assembly, but up close, Samantha looks even more like the girl I saw in Los Demonios.

My heart beats hard. I click on another picture, then another and another—star soccer athlete, devoted friend, smiling and happy in every photo. I keep looking, hoping to crush my theory, but the longer I search, the clearer it becomes that I’m right: Samantha and the girl in the van are the same person.

My mind speeds in a dozen different directions. What was this seemingly well-bred human doing in a place like that? I don’t know what it all means.

A thought strikes: maybe Samantha is a witch. Hell, maybe she’s a sorcerer. Why not? It’s unlikely that I’m the only teen witch in Los Angeles County, even if the thought makes me feel a tad less special.

But then Goth Woman’s words on the roof stream through
my head again.
“Did they tell you why they kidnapped you? Give you any idea what they’re using you for? Why all the humans?”

Okay, so Samantha’s probably a human, I decide.

I turn over the rest of the woman’s words again, trying to pick some meaning out of them. So someone is kidnapping humans….Could it be that someone is collecting them from the outside and dumping them into Los Demonios?

My breath hitches, a sense of foreboding falling heavy on my shoulders.

It can’t be.

I click out of Instagram and return to Google. My fingers hesitate over the keyboard. I don’t even know what to type. Finally, I punch in
sorcerer spells + humans
.

Twenty-six thousand results pop up. My throat feels hot and dry as I click on the first link. It opens to a web page that looks like a homemade LiveJournal. I skim the passage, barely breathing.

“Interesting reading material.”

I yelp and spin around to find Jessie standing right behind me, her books pressed against her chest. I click out of the web page, but it’s too late. My cheeks flame.

“It’s research,” I spit out. “For school. For an English paper.”

“It’s okay,” she says.

I open my mouth to say something, but she shakes her head. “You don’t have to be embarrassed around me. Paige told me all about your mom’s occult shop. I think it’s cool.”

I swallow, my heart continuing its frantic beating despite her words. “You, you do?”

“It’s interesting.”

She slides out a chair at a nearby table and drops her bag onto her lap, then pulls out a sandwich. She carefully unwraps the cellophane and takes a big bite.

“Want to sit?” she asks, through a mouth full of food. “I could use the company.”

“I–I’m sorry. I have to go.” I grab my bag and dash out of the library before I can see the hurt on her face.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know that it’s not just Paige’s life in danger anymore. I need to get back to Los Demonios. I
don’t
need to make new friends. Besides, not much good has come from letting anyone get close to me so far.

I knew exactly where to look for the Ancient Spells book. Mom kept an autographed copy on display in the diningroom china cabinet ever since the author came to the shop to do a signing a few years back (she didn’t seem to think it was funny that a “warlock” was doing book signings). I almost cried with relief to find the book still there. Thank God, or I’d have to jack a copy from the Black Cat and risk Aunt Penny finding out. Or worse: take out a witchcraft book from the library.

I flip onto my stomach and flatten the cover on my bed, scanning passages for something that might help me inside Los Demonios.

Now that I have a good idea where Paige is being held, it’s incredibly tempting to speed down to the boardwalk and return to LD as soon as possible, but if my experience in that place has taught me anything it’s that I’m way out of my league. I may have survived, but only just. I can’t take credit for it and I definitely can’t expect to have the same luck if I go back with the same sad skill set as before. I need to be able to defend myself. I need a few more tricks in my magic bag besides flying and moving objects.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door. I find Bishop smirking at me from the doorframe. He’s got his hair tied back in a ponytail, with a few strands pulled loose around the colorful tattoos on his neck. His leather jacket is draped over his arm, and he gives me a smile that crinkles his eyes, like nothing at all happened between us today.

“Can I come in?”

I return his smile. “Of course.”

“Where’s your car?” he asks, ambling inside. “It’s not in the driveway.”

I drop my eyes to the book. “Oh, uh, in the shop. Oil change.”

“You know I could have done that for you.”

Note to self: get back down to the boardwalk and buy back my car ASAP.

“I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Door stays open,” Aunt Penny says, walking past.

My cheeks flush, but Bishop doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. He plops down heavily on the bed and picks up the book, turning it over to look at the gold-embossed cover.

“Man, math has really changed since I finished high school,” he says.

I grin at him.

“Seriously, though—I thought you were studying for your retest. What’s all this about?”

I shrug as he flips through the pages, like I don’t know exactly what it is and exactly why I invited him here. “Just some old book I found in the china cabinet,” I say.

“ ‘Battle Tactics,’ ” he says, reading the chapter title. “Some nice light reading.” He tosses the book onto the floor and leans over suddenly to bite my neck.

“Bishop!” I complain, though I can’t help giggling at the flash of pleasure it sends through me.

“What?” he asks into my neck.

“Aunt Penny.”

“She went downstairs,” he says, grazing his lips along my jaw. “Kiss me. I missed you.”

I can’t resist the desperation in his voice, and climb into his lap. He takes my head in his hands and transfixes me with a look that sends a thrill through my body, the tiny space between us thrumming with electricity. His lips find mine, hot and urgent and full of apology. A trail of tingles
follows Bishop’s hands as they roam down my sides. When his fingers dig into my hips, it’s like a match is struck inside me. I kiss him harder, slipping my hands under his thin T-shirt, up over the planes of his warm, hard chest. He lets out a little groan and pulls my hips harder against his. Some semblance of sense comes flooding back.