In spite of my glorious painkillers I recognized that loaded tone and knew there was no way I was leaving the hospital without the full story. Brendan definitely knew something he wasn’t telling me.
“Why are you being weird about my ring?” I mumbled.
“What?” He laughed awkwardly. “I’m not being weird.”
“You’re not a good liar. You’re being weird.”
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voice. “You should just rest.” He started stroking my bangs back again, a move which could easily lull me to sleep. How sneaky.
“No secrets,” I warned, my thoughts getting a little clearer.
Brendan sighed, exhaling a heavy breath that seemed to come from his feet.
“Remember how you asked why I got you sapphire?”
I nodded, and he continued. “I didn’t know it at the time, but your brother—” his voice got very soft over that word
“—is the reason I bought you that ring.”
Brendan pursed his lips, looking down at my arm and stroking the hand-shaped bruises softly with his thumb. “After we had that—I don’t want to call it a fight, so I’ll say disagreement—
last Sunday, I felt pretty bad about not wanting to hear about the witch stuff. You didn’t deserve that. So I decided to get you a present, just something small that you could wear as a reminder of how much you mean to me.”
“A diamond-and-sapphire ring is something little?” I squeaked, shifting uncomfortably in my bed, which set my head to aching and buzzing.
“What? It’s not a big ring,” Brendan shrugged. “Anyway, it was on my mind. So I was going to get you amethyst, your birthstone. And then the night before I went to the jeweler, I had this dream. And this guy was there. He told me to get you sapphire. He said that you would need something to help bring out your power.”
“Angelique told me that,” I admitted. “Sapphire amplifies a witch’s powers. We used it in that spell we did—to give me my natural powers.”
Brendan nodded. “The next day, the jeweler showed me the sapphire rings, and I just felt like I should pay attention.”
Brendan paused. “The guy in my dream, Emma. Well, he 9780373210305_TS.indd 308
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looked exactly like—no, I’d say he was the officer who helped you pull me up. I know it sounds crazy, completely insane, but, Em, I just know it was him. I recognized him, because, well, he looked like you.”
I stared at Brendan confused for a moment, before the pieces fell into place.
“Ethan?” I asked, my voice coming out very small.
“I think so,” Brendan said, his voice very gentle. “I think the sapphire helped you tap into whatever magic you have when we were out on the cliff. Or at least helped you believe that you could. And you summoned him.”
“He tried warning me so many times,” I whispered. “It’s like he knew I’d need more help….”
I let my voice trail off as I tried to sniff back the tears, which only hurt my head more. I winced, feeling the hot saltwater stream down my cheek.
Brendan grabbed a tissue and tried to wipe my nose, which only made me incredibly embarrassed on top of the pain. It was like pouring hot sauce on a paper cut . It’s bad enough I was bruised and bloody—did he need to see me all snotty, too?
“Give me that,” I pouted, grabbing the scratchy tissue and blotting at my nose.
“By the way, your aunt went to make a phone call.” Brendan changed the subject. “You’re just in for observation now, you’re going home in a few hours.”
“She’s here? Is she mad?”
Brendan shook his head, amused. “Mad? No, crazy girl.
She’s worried about you.”
Then he chuckled. “I think she can’t decide if she hates me because I’m always somewhere around your troubles, or if she approves of me because I always do what I can to help you.”
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“She’ll approve of you,” I promised, coughing and wincing at how it burned my throat. Brendan frowned and gingerly touched my neck, which I had no doubt was a billion shades of purple. “What about you—is your family here?”
“Oh, I’m more or less discharged, I’m just waiting for my parents to get me.” Brendan kissed my fingers as he talked.
“They’re being helicoptered in from some Smithsonian thing in Washington. So I don’t know how much time we have right now.”
I grabbed his hand, clutching it tightly in spite of the pain that ricocheted through my body.
“I can’t believe I almost lost you,” I said, reaching out to touch Brendan’s cheek. He leaned into my touch as a few more—okay, a lot more—tears escaped. He wiped them away gently before handing me another tissue for my nose.
“Brendan, do you think we broke—” I stopped short, afraid to say the words. Afraid to jinx it.
“Don’t think about it right now, Emma,” Brendan soothed, his eyes shining with the same hopeful emotion.
“No, tell me!” I pleaded. “Do you think we broke the curse?”
“I hope so,” Brendan murmured, his voice shaking. “Emma, when I got there, and you were so scared—I felt my heart break. I thought that was it.”
“It was supposed to be. But you saved my life,” I whispered, letting the tears come in earnest this time.
“It’s my fault you were ever in danger.” Brendan shook his head, his green eyes downcast. “I almost killed you.”
“No!” I grabbed his hand more tightly. “You saved me.”
Brendan pulled my hand up to his lips again. “You’re the one who saved me, Emma. In more ways than just pulling me up off the rocks. You’ve changed my life.”
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pulled himself out of the chair, wincing a little as he held his hand to his rib cage. Then Brendan leaned over me, touching his lips to mine very softly.
“I love you, Emma. Always.”
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Thanks to the concussion and fractured ankle, I was pretty much confined to my bed for a week.
“I feel like I’m on house arrest,” I grumbled after a few days.
Brendan just told me I was under arrest for being “dangerously sexy.” I rolled my eyes at him—which ached like crazy at the time—but I had to admit, hearing Brendan call me “sexy”
was worth going a little stir-crazy. Especially when I looked like the loser in a boxing match. Besides, my vision would sporadically get really blurry—and the last thing I needed now was to go walking off into traffic. Especially when a search of the Turtle Pond turned up nothing but turtles. Meaning: Anthony was out there. Somewhere.
The thought terrified me, especially since Brendan was well enough to return to school almost immediately.
“I’m scared he’s going to attack you on the subway or something,” I fretted on the phone to Brendan, the night before his first day back.
“Emma, I’ll be fine.” Brendan laughed, like I was worried about him crossing the street and he found my concern endearing.
“We don’t know where he is.”
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“I didn’t want to tell you this, Em, but my dad’s got some security on retainer. Ex-cops, that sort of thing,” Brendan admitted. “It’s just for a little while. I have no idea who they are, but they’re just supposed to keep an eye out to make sure Anthony doesn’t get near either one of us.”
“Near…either one of us?”
“Yeah, he’s got security for you, too,” Brendan confessed. “What can I say, my dad likes you. He thinks you’re spunky.”
I had met Brendan’s parents at the hospital—it was kind of incredible to see Aaron and Laura Salinger together. Talk about opposites attracting. Where Laura was frosty and proper, Aaron was warm and more than a little bawdy. The rubber glove jokes alone…
“So we have security detail,” I muttered. “I wish I could say I minded, but I’m glad that you’re going to be safe. At least, until they find Anthony.”
But according to Brendan, his first day back was exceedingly uneventful—in terms of surprise attacks by sociopathic teenagers, at least. I should have known he was downplaying it. Cisco clued me in to the near social hurricane Brendan’s return to school had caused. Not that Brendan would tell me: after his first day back, he brushed it off as “fine” and brought my books over so I could keep up with my studies—especially since midterms were right after Christmas break. Oh, joy. As if Latin didn’t make my head already feel like it was cracking open before the concussion…. But tucked into the back of my Latin textbook was a little present—Brendan’s old midterm.
Cheating, schmeating. Hey, a concussed girl’s gotta do what a concussed girl’s gotta do.
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his charisma on her. She had significantly thawed to the idea of me having such a serious relationship—and the fact that Brendan took a dive off a cliff for me helped a lot. I had never realized before how tough Christine was to win over. Ashley’s boyfriend would probably have to resolve all third-world debt before Christine would even let him in the door.
I ached from head to toe—literally—but that wasn’t even the worst of my problems. New York media really liked the story. I’d known the Salingers were rich. And I’d known they were “prominent.” But I had no idea what that meant to New York society until Ashley called me, squealing at the top of her lungs to let me know we were the lead item on the New York Post’s famed Page Six.
I hobbled up out of bed, grabbing my laptop to check out the story. There it was: Tycoon’s Son Risks Life for Gal Pal.
“Oh, no,” I groaned. The photos they used were our school ID shots. With a rakish smirk and unkempt hair, Brendan looked like he could be staring out from the cover of Alternative Press. And I looked like the cover model for Swamp Thing Weekly. I scanned through the story—troubled former student attacked me, Brendan saved my life—and then I got to the last line.
Anthony Caruso is believed to have f led the country. His father, noted defense lawyer Ron “The Piranha” Caruso, is being questioned by police.
I wasn’t sure how to feel. I didn’t feel comfortable wishing him dead, but only because I knew that was a crummy thing to wish. I should have felt guilty for hoping the police would find him on the bottom of the pond, but I didn’t. Anthony 9780373210305_TS.indd 314
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was still out there—somewhere. Who knew if or when he’d return? Two weeks? Two years? Would he show up on my doorstep when I was thirty, holding a grudge for years?
I kept hoping for some starlet to be arrested for a DUI to get the attention diverted somewhere else.
The media eventually moved on to another story—some actress’s sex tape leaked online, and let’s just say she was pretty freaky. And even though I had to put up with stares and whispers from my classmates when I returned to school—especially because I still had a few lingering, nasty cuts on my face—
after a few weeks the most dramatic event in my life was me, breaking the laces on my Converse high-tops.
And then, one Saturday around Thanksgiving, about three weeks after the “Rumble on the Rocks” (as one paper called it), Angelique came over.
I was lounging in bed, giving my still-tender ankle a break and pretending to study Latin, when, in fact, I was reading Pink Is the New Blog, when I heard Angelique’s voice in the living room. Aunt Christine adored Angelique. Mostly, Christine figured her appearance, which was even more witchy when she wasn’t wearing the school uniform—or suffering from the f lu—meant that she was just dramatic. Aunt Christine loved high drama, and Angelique sure knew how to attract attention.
Angelique poked her head into my room. She had touched up her blond roots, and added a few white and navy-blue streaks to her jet-black hair. It worked on her.
“Hey, Em, how’s it going?” she asked, her face brighter and happier than I’d seen it in, well…ever. She wasn’t exactly a happy-go-lucky, skipping-down-the-street kind of girl.
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“Still headachey from time to time, but okay,” I complained, shutting my laptop and placing it on the nightstand.
“So, I haven’t had the chance to ask you since you first came home—have you and Brendan talked about the curse at all?”
she asked bluntly.
I shook my head. “Not since the little bit we talked about in the hospital,” I admitted. “The necklace is gone—and I haven’t had any dreams, signs, nada. And I have to be honest though, part of me feels like I lost Ethan all over again.”
I scratched patterns into my f leece comforter to distract myself from welling up with tears. Angelique wasn’t too big on public displays of affection and since the “Rumble on the Rocks”—I really hated that name—I’d been a highly emotional mess. Poor Brendan had to deal with me tearing up at least once an afternoon.
“So there have been zero signs that the curse is still active?”
Angelique asked.
“Like I said, nothing. But what really worries me is this: I lost the medallion during Anthony’s attack, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still in danger, right?” I threw my hands in the air, frustrated. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or ready for war. Was Anthony the big danger?”
Angelique pulled something out of her bag—it was the shiny red Spells for the New Witch book.
“I have to tell you something, but first promise me that you’ll work on developing your powers.”
“I really don’t think I’m a witch. I think it was just a one-time thing, Angelique,” I mused. “I’ve been trying to move things around the apartment with my mind for weeks. I got nothing.”
“You’re a witch, not telekinetic,” Angelique corrected me, f lipping her Technicolor hair and causing the stacked bangles on her wrist to clang together musically.
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“What’s the difference?”
“The difference, Emma, is that you can’t move things with your mind.”
“No way, that’s not true,” I protested. “I did in your room!”
“No, you did a spell in my room. You demanded your power, then you demanded a sign. And from what you’ve told me, that’
s how you conjured your brother’s spirit. You performed a spell when you cried out for his help. The sapphire helped amplify your talent, but it was passionate, it was heartfelt—that was a spell.”
“So I can’t move things?” I asked, thoroughly confused.
“Not without a spell—you need to work on your craft,”
Angelique advised, laying the book on top of my laptop.
“Promise me you’ll read it.” She crossed her arms and regarded me solemnly.
“Okay,” I agreed, and she smiled, relaxing her posture.
“So what else is new?” I asked, taking a swig of water from the bottle on my nightstand. “What did you want to tell—”
“Oh, just the biggest news ever!” Angelique interrupted.
She practically danced over to her heavy black bag, her long black skirt swirling around her feet as she moved. She shoved my feet over so she could sit down, throwing the bag on the bed.
“You’re in a good mood,” I observed, and she just gave me a toothy smile with her purple-painted lips.
“I think you will be, too,” she said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a pristine copy of Hadrian’s Medieval Legends.
“Just take a look at what I have,” Angelique said, bowing her head and holding the book up like Mufasa held up Simba in The Lion King. I expected sunbeams to burst forth from the book’s cover.
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in my head. “Is the rest of the legend in there? Please tell me that we’re okay.”
“Just let me read the rest of the story.”
“You’re killing me, Angelique,” I moaned. “Please, just a yes or no.”
“It’s better if I read it,” she insisted.
I took her good mood as an excellent sign that I would really like what I was about to hear. I doubted she’d be this upbeat if the rest of the story said that, oh, a demon was going to kidnap me next, or that the spell could only be broken by Batman.
“By the way, Emma,” Angelique said, f lipping through the pages of the book as she searched for the tale of Lord Aglaeon. “My mom’s friend said Hadrian had a descendant who’s apparently a big expert on the supernatural. He lives in New York. I’m thinking of contacting him—I wonder just how many of these legends are actually true. I mean, if your story is in here, and is true—I wonder what else is. I bet you Hadrian was a witch, and this is his Book of Shadows.” Her voice was getting more excited.
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