by Alyson Noel
No!
It can’t be.
Can’t. Be.
Can it?
Remembering the vision that night in the restaurant—Sabine getting together with a cute guy who works in her building—a guy, who, without the glasses I didn’t even recognize as Munoz! Knowing immediately what this really means—this is it—her destiny—Munoz is The One!
“You okay?” Her hand reaches for mine as concern clouds her face.
But I pull away quickly, avoiding her touch. Swallowing hard as I paste a smile onto my face, knowing she deserves to be happy—heck, even he deserves to be happy. But still—why do they have to be happy together? Seriously, out of all the men she could date, why does it have to be my teacher, the one who knows my secret?
I look at her, forcing a nod as I drop my bowl in the sink, fleeing for the door as I say, “Yeah—it’s all good, seriously. I just—I don’t want to be late.”
thirty-four
“Hey, it’s Sunday we don’t even open ’til eleven.” Jude props his surfboard against the wall and squints.
I nod, barely glancing away from the book, determined for it to make sense.
“Need help?” He tosses his towel on a chair and moves around the desk until he’s standing behind me.
“If it involves more of this handy dandy code translator you made,” I tap the sheet of paper beside me, “or anything even resembling your long list of meditations, then no thanks, I’ve had all I can take. But if you’re finally going to tell me how to read this thing, without assuming the lotus position, picturing beams of white light, and/or making me imagine long, spindly roots growing from the soles of my feet and extending deep into the earth, then yes, by all means, go ahead and try.” I slide the book toward him, careful to touch only its edge, catching a quick glimpse of his amused face, that tropical gaze, the spliced brow, before looking away.
He places his hand on the desk and leans toward the book, fingers splayed against the old, pockmarked wood, body so close I can feel the push of his energy merge into my space. “There’s another way that might work. Well, for someone with your gifts anyway. But the way you handle that thing, only touching the edges, keeping your distance, it’s pretty clear you’re afraid.”
His voice drifts over me, soothing and calm. Prompting me to close my eyes for a moment and allow myself to feel it, really feel it, without trying to stop it or push it away. Eager to prove Damen wrong, report back that I gave it a fair shot and there’s not a single trace of tingle or heat to be found. Even though Jude likes me—likes me in the same way I like Damen and Damen likes me—even though I saw it in the vision he unwittingly showed me that day—it’s one-sided. All about him, not the slightest bit reciprocated by me. The only thing I’m getting is a decrease in stress and anxiety, a serenity so languid, so relaxed, it soothes my jangled nerves, and—
He taps me on the shoulder, yanking me out of my reverie and motioning for me to join him on the small couch in the corner where he balances the book on his knees. Urging me to place my hand on the page, shut my eyes, clear my head, and intuit the message inside.
At first nothing happens, but that’s because I’m filled with resistance. Still smarting from the last energy slam that practically fried my insides and left me tired and fragmented for the rest of the evening. But the second I decide to let go and give in, to just trust in the process and allow the buzz to flow through me, I’m overcome with a barrage of energy that’s surprisingly, almost embarrassingly personal.
“Getting anything?” he asks, voice low, gaze fixed on me.
I shrug, turning to him when I say, “It’s like—it’s like reading someone’s diary. Or at least that’s what I’m getting—you?”
He nods. “Same.”
“But I thought it would be more like—I don’t know, like a book of spells. You know, a different one on each page.”
“You mean a grimoire.” He smiles, displaying two amazing dimples and charmingly crooked front teeth.
I frown, unfamiliar with the word.
“It’s like a recipe book for spells, containing very specific data—dates, times, ritual performed, results of the ritual, that sort of thing. Strictly business, nothing but the facts.”
“And this?” I tap my nail against the page.
“More like a journal, as you said. A highly personal account of a witch’s progress—what she did, why she did it, how she felt, the results, et cetera. Which is why they’re often written in code, or Theban like this.”
My shoulders droop as I screw my lips to the side, wondering why every bit of progress I’m about to make actually results in two giant steps back.
“You were looking for something more specific? A love spell perhaps?”
I peer at him, eyes narrowed, wondering why he just said that.
“Sorry.” He shrugs, eyes grazing my face, lingering on my lips for a few seconds too long. “Seems like trouble in paradise with the way you and Damen are avoiding each other these days.”
I close my eyes for a moment, forcing the sting to retreat. It’s been one week. One week without Damen—his sweet telepathic messages—his warm and loving embrace. The only hint that he even exists is the fresh supply of elixir I found in my fridge. An elixir he must’ve slipped in while I slept, taking every precaution to get the job done before I could wake. Each passing hour so painful, so agonizing, so lonely—I’ve no idea how I’ll get through the summer without him.
Jude’s energy shifts, his aura pulling back just as a sensitive shade of blue flickers at the edges. “Well, whatever you seek,” he says, back to business again. “You’ll find it in here.” He thumps the page with his thumb. “You just have to give it some time to take it all in. It’s a very detailed account, and the content goes pretty deep.”
“Where’d you find it?” I take in the spray of dreadlocks hitting just shy of his lips. “And how long have you had it?” I add, suddenly needing to know.
He shrugs, averting his gaze. “Picked it up somewhere—some guy I once knew.” He shakes his head. “It was a long time ago.”
“Vague much?” I smile, giving a sort of half laugh he fails to return. “Seriously. You’re only nineteen—how long ago could it have been?” I study him closely, remembering the time I asked the same question of Damen—well before I knew what he was. A sudden chill pricking my skin as I take him in, the crooked teeth, the scar marking his brow, the tangle of dread-locks falling into those familiar green eyes—assuring myself he’s merely someone I knew from my past, that he’s nothing like me.
“Guess I’m not so big on tracking time,” he says, the laugh that follows uncommitted, forced. “I try to live in the moment—the now. Still, must’ve been four—maybe five years ago—when I first started getting into this stuff.”
“And did Lina find it? Is that why you hide it?”
He shakes his head, face flushing when he says, “As embarrassing as it is to admit, she came across a poppet I’d made and completely freaked out. Thought it was a voodoo doll. Misread the whole thing.”
“Poppet?” My gaze fixed on his, having no idea what that is.
“A sort of magical doll.” He shrugs, embarrassed gaze meeting mine. “I was a kid, what can I say? I was misguided enough to think it would convince a certain girl to like me.”
“And did it?” I hold my breath, studying him carefully, wondering why those simple words cause a ping in my gut.
“Lina destroyed it before it could work. Just as well.” He shrugs. “Turns out she was trouble.”
“Your usual type.” The words rushing forward before I can stop them.
He looks at me, eyes glinting. “Old habits die hard.”
We sit like that, eyes locked, breath halted, the moment growing, stretching, until I finally break away and return to the book.
“I’d love to help you,” he says, voice low and deep. “But I get the feeling your journey’s too private for me.”
I turn, about to speak, when he adds, “N
o worries. I get it. But if it’s spell casting you’re after, there are a few things you should know.” His gaze meets mine, making sure he has my full attention before he goes on. “One, it’s a last resort—only to be used when all other avenues are exhausted. And two, spells are really just recipes for change, to get what you want, or alter a certain situation that needs—altering. But in order for it to work, your goals have to be clear—you need to visualize the outcome you want and direct all of your energy toward it.”
“Like manifesting,” I say, wishing I hadn’t when I see his gaze change.
“Manifesting takes too long—magick’s more immediate—or at least it can be.”
I press my lips together, knowing better than to explain how manifesting can also be instantaneous once you understand how the universe works. But then again, you can’t manifest what you don’t know, making the antidote, among other things, strictly off limits.
“Think of this like a giant cookbook.” He taps the page with his nail. “One with liner notes.” He smiles. “But nothing in here is fixed, you can alter the recipes to suit your own needs, and choose your own set of tools accordingly—”
“Tools?” I look at him.
“Crystals, herbs, elements, candles, phases of the moon—that kind of thing.”
I think back on the elixirs I made, just before I went back in time, having thought of it more in terms of alchemy than magick, though I guess in some ways, it’s pretty much the same thing.
“It also helps if you cast your spell in verse.”
“Like a poem?” I look at him, startled. Maybe this isn’t going to work after all. I pretty much suck at that kind of thing.
“Doesn’t have to be Keats, just something that rhymes and has some sort of meaning for what you want it to do.”
I frown, feeling disheartened before I even begin.
“And, Ever—”
I look at him.
“If you’re wanting to cast a spell on a person, you might want to rethink it. Lina was right. If you can’t convince someone to see things your way, or cooperate with you, by using more mundane means, there’s a pretty good chance it’s not meant to be.”
I nod and look away, knowing that may be true for some situations, but not mine.
Mine is different.
thirty-five
“I stopped by your work.” Haven studies me closely, gaze moving from my hair, to the black silk cord holding my amulet, just barely visible at the base of my tee, before settling back on my face.
I nod briefly before returning my attention to Honor, watching as she laughs with Stacia and Craig and the rest of the A-list crew as though everything were normal—but it’s not. Not for her. She’s dipping into magick now—a serious student of the craft, according to Jude. All without her ringleader’s consent.
“Thought maybe we could grab lunch or something, but the hot guy behind the counter said you were busy.” Fingers picking at the frosting on her chai-latte cupcake, gaze never once straying from me.
Miles looks up from his phone, brows merged, eyes darting between us. “Excuse me? There’s a hot guy and nobody informed me?”
I turn toward them, Haven’s words just now making an impact. She went to my work! She knows where I work! What else might she know?
“Oh, he’s hot all right.” Haven nods, still looking at me. “Muy caliente, for sure. But apparently Ever’s determined to keep it a secret. Didn’t even know he existed ’til I saw for myself.”
“How’d you know where I work?” I ask, trying to keep it casual, nonchalant, not let on just how alarmed I really am.
“The twins told me.”
This just went from bad to even worse.
“I ran into them at the beach. Damen’s teaching them to surf.”
I smile, but it’s a feeble one that feels false on my face.
“Guess that explains why you didn’t tell us about your new job—you didn’t want your best friends moving in on your hottie coworker.”
Miles stares at me, abandoning his texting for something far juicier.
“He’s my boss.” I shake my head. “And it’s not like it’s a secret or anything, I just haven’t had a chance to mention it, that’s all.”
“Yes, because our lunchtime chats are so scintillating you just couldn’t squeeze it in. Please.” Haven rolls her eyes. “So not buying it.”
“Um, hello? Descriptors would be nice about now!” Miles leans forward, face eager, eyes darting between us.
But I just shrug, watching as Haven smiles and sets down her cupcake, brushing the crumbs from her black denim lap as she says, “Picture the tannest, most aqua-eyed, hot-bodied, rockin’ the golden dreadlocks, laid-back surfer boy, hottie of the entire McHottie clan that you can even possibly imagine—then times it by ten and that’s him.”
“Seriously?” Miles gapes, staring at me. “Like, for reals?”
I sigh, tearing my sandwich to shreds as Haven says, “Trust me, words cannot describe the extreme measure of hotness. The only ones who can even come close are Damen and Roman, but then, they’re pretty much in a class by themselves, so they don’t really count. How old is he anyway?” She looks at me. “Seems too young to be a boss.”
“Nineteen.” I shrug, not wanting to talk about work, Jude, or pretty much anything else on that list. This is exactly the kind of thing Damen warned me about. The kind of thing I need to avoid. “Speaking of hotties, how’s Josh?” I smile, making for a pretty awkward segue but hoping it’ll work.
Watching her aura waver and flare as she focuses on her cupcake and says, “It ended the second he tried to give me the kitten. You should’ve seen him, smiling as though it was some miraculous gift.” She rolls her eyes and rips her cupcake in half. “I mean, seriously. How clueless can you get?”
“He was just trying to be nice—” Miles starts, but Haven isn’t having it.
“Please.” She scowls. “If he truly understood what I was going through, he never would’ve pushed some Charm replacement on me. Some adorable kitty that’s only real destiny is to die once I’ve grown extremely attached to her so I can experience the maximum amount of pain and suffering.”
Miles rolls his eyes as I say, “It doesn’t always have to be like that—”
But she cuts right in. “Oh really? Name one thing—one living thing—that doesn’t either die or leave you or both? Last time I asked you that question, you choked. So, Miles, you with the rolling eyes and smirking lips, go ahead, knock yourself out, name one thing that—”
Miles shakes his head, hands raised in surrender, hating all confrontation and gladly forfeiting the game before it can start.
Haven smirks, satisfied with our combined failure when she says, “Trust me, all I did was beat him to the chase. It would’ve ended eventually anyway.”
“Well.” Miles shrugs, returning to his text. “For what it’s worth, I liked him. I thought you were good together.”
“Then you date him.” Haven smirks, tossing a cupcake sprinkle his way.
“No thanks. Too skinny and cute.” He smiles. “Now Ever’s boss on the other hand—”
I glance at Miles, checking his aura and seeing he’s mostly joking—mostly.
“His name’s Jude.” I sigh, resigned to the conversation coming full circle again. “And as far as I can tell he only likes girls that don’t like him back, but you’re welcome to take your best shot.” I close my lunch pack, zipping it shut with an uneaten apple, bag full of chips, and a shredded sandwich inside.
“Maybe you should invite him to my going away party,” Miles says. “You know, so I can treat myself to a nice long good-bye.” He brushes his hand through his cropped brown hair and laughs.
“About that—” Haven says, eyes partially obscured by the false eyelashes she’s been experimenting with. “My mom just tore up the den—like literally tore it up. Carpet ripped out, furniture cleared, walls knocked down—which, on the one hand, is nice since there’s no way they can sell the house w
hen it’s all ripped up like that, but it also means there’s no way we can party at my house so I was hoping—”
“Sure.” I nod, met by two faces so shocked I’m ashamed. Realizing their regular visits to my house, our Friday-night pizza eating, Jacuzzi-soaking ritual, ended the moment Damen entered my life. But now that he’s gone—or at least determined to stay away for a while—maybe it’s time to start up again.
“You sure Sabine won’t mind?” Miles asks, voice hopeful but cautious.
I shake my head. “As long as you don’t mind Munoz dropping by, it’s all good.” I roll my eyes.
“Munoz? You mean the history teacher?” They gape. My two best friends looking as shocked and bug-eyed as I was when I first found out.
“They’re dating.” I nod, knowing as much as I hate it, I certainly can’t stop it.
Haven pushes her royal blue bangs off her face and leans toward me. “Wait—let me get this straight, your aunt Sabine is dating the hottie history teacher?”
“Who’s hot for teacher now?” Miles laughs, nudging her arm.
But Haven just shrugs. “Please. Don’t act like you haven’t noticed. I mean, as far as old guys go, especially ones who wear glasses and khakis, he’s smokin’.”
“Please don’t call him smokin’.” I laugh in spite of myself. “And just so you know, at night he ditches the specs and swaps the Dockers for designer denim.”
Haven smiles, rising from the bench. “That’s it then. Party at your house. This I’ve got to see.”
“Is Damen coming?” Miles slips his phone in his pocket, eyeing me carefully.
“Um—I don’t know—maybe.” I shrug, pressing my lips together and scratching my arm so fervently I may as well wear a sign that says: HEY—CHECK ME OUT! I’M LYING! “I mean, he’s pretty busy these days looking after the twins and all—”
“Is that why he’s blown off school all week?” Haven asks.