Sorceress

by Claudia Gray

  “I’m so sorry,” Verlaine repeated. “I don’t know why everyone focused on me all of a sudden.”

  She did know, of course—but it wasn’t like she could explain the reason to her dads.

  “They’re not only focused on you,” Uncle Gary said, surprising her. “Yesterday morning, several people were whispering about Lorraine Calloway, and someone was even talking crazy about Faye Walsh, your guidance counselor. I was going to set them straight about gossiping when that fracas broke out around you.”

  Uncle Dave shook his head as he paced the floor, neatly stepping over Smuckers, who napped unconcerned in the middle of their living room. “It’s like people have gone insane. Not that the sanity level in Captive’s Sound was ever sky high. But seriously? Witchcraft? People believe in witchcraft now?”

  Verlaine was trying to think of something suitably innocuous to say when Uncle Gary cleared his throat. “I don’t think that’s impossible.”

  She turned to stare at him; so did Uncle Dave, who said, “Gary, what are you talking about?”

  Uncle Gary held up his hands, as though in surrender. “You know I know Verlaine’s not mixed up in any of this crazy stuff. But let’s be realistic, okay? What’s been happening in town these past few months . . . it’s not right.”

  It’s not just superstition and fear talking, Verlaine realized. It’s also common sense. I mean, anyone would have to know by now, wouldn’t they?

  Uncle Dave remained deep in denial. “I’m the first to admit that Captive’s Sound has had a stretch of bad luck. You don’t want to see what’s happened to our property values. Still, we’re talking about rain.” He gestured at the television set, currently tuned to Weather TV; onscreen was the once-chipper meteorologist, wearing hip waders as he gave his report from the raging river that had been Clark Boulevard. The wind buffeted the weather guy so hard that he had to hang onto a street sign to stay upright. Apparently Uncle Dave felt this proved his point. “See, rain isn’t magic. It’s just rain.”

  “It’s more than rain,” Uncle Gary said. His voice was quieter. “Have you forgotten the sinkholes? What happened to Verlaine, when she wound up in the hospital? Or the weird fever that put me in the hospital? When I was unconscious—mostly I was just, you know, out of it, but every once in a while I felt like I was watching something . . . dark and terrible. Like movement behind a curtain, and if I pulled that curtain aside I’d see something I never wanted to see.”

  The One Beneath, Verlaine realized. He had nearly revealed Himself to Uncle Gary while he lay unconscious and helpless. He’d come that close to devouring her dad’s soul and his life. Why did she have to keep this secret? Why did she have to keep lying to the only people who really loved her?

  You know, it’s not like the First Laws of the Craft actually apply to me. I’m not a witch!

  “It’s true,” Verlaine said. “There is such a thing as witchcraft.”

  Uncle Dave frowned like he thought Verlaine had lost her mind. Uncle Gary took her hands. “Oh, sweetheart. Were you dabbling? You can tell us. We won’t be angry.”

  “No! No dabbling. I mean, I don’t even have the power in the first place. But Nadia does.”

  “Nadia Caldani?” Uncle Dave said. “You think your best friend is a witch?”

  “I know she is. We more or less met when she levitated the land yacht out of a ditch.”

  “Levitation?” Uncle Gary whispered, looking deeply freaked out. Verlaine squeezed his hands right back.

  “She can do tons of stuff. Forecast the future, at least a little bit, and cast protective spells, and change the currents of the water—” Except the last time Nadia had done that, Verlaine had very nearly gotten killed. Which had been a total accident! Still, maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned it. She plowed on. “Nadia’s not the reason any of this is happening. She’s a good witch.”

  Uncle Gary didn’t look one bit reassured. “Like Glinda?”

  “Fewer poufy pink ball gowns, more designer jeans, but same basic idea,” Verlaine said. “The Wicked Witch of the West is Elizabeth Pike.”

  “Oh, come on.” Uncle Dave started to laugh. “You’ve always liked her! Everyone does.”

  “Elizabeth’s a peach,” Uncle Gary agreed.

  Verlaine shook her head, laughing even though she wanted to scream. “That’s just one of Elizabeth’s tricks, making people think they like her. You don’t have any idea what she really is.”

  Uncle Gary’s arm went around her shoulders, an embrace meant to soothe. “Sweetheart, we believe you about the witchcraft—”

  “I never said that,” Uncle Dave interjected.

  “—but we can’t fall into the trap,” Uncle Gary continued as though Uncle Dave hadn’t even spoken. “Times like these scare people. We’re dealing with something beyond anything we’ve ever seen before, you know? So we suspect our friends and neighbors. We turn on one another instead of coming together. That’s why you’re thinking these strange thoughts about Elizabeth, and why other people are thinking strange thoughts about you.”

  “No, I know the truth about Elizabeth. You have to believe me.” Verlaine stood up from the sofa. She wanted to shake them—just to make them see—but she didn’t want to shake them because she loved them. How was she supposed to get through to them? Maybe Nadia could come over and do a demo, like levitate the cat or something. No, that wouldn’t work, not with Nadia cutting herself off from everyone, plus it would freak Smuckers out. Would they believe Faye Walsh, maybe? Or Mateo?

  Not Mateo—they’ll think he’s just gone crazy from the Cabot Curse . . .

  As she thought this, however, the images on the television set, which had been only blurs to her before, suddenly demanded her attention. Verlaine gaped as she saw Weather TV’s view of the town square . . . with the columns collapsing under the portico of the town hall.

  “Oh, my God.” Uncle Dave grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

  Now they could hear the meteorologist say, “—apparently a meeting was being held inside—can’t confirm that at this time—but buildings are beginning to be washed away by the flooding here in tiny Captive’s Sound, Rhode Island. We repeat, this is coming to you live—”

  Uncle Gary was already on his feet. “We have to get down there. Try to help out.”

  “Half the people in town who run relief efforts would’ve been in that meeting.” Uncle Dave ran for his raincoat, or car keys—probably both, Verlaine realized. “Let’s move.”

  She had already grabbed her smartphone, thinking Live footage first, interviews later, when she remembered what had happened the last time she tried to cover a story. All those angry faces, the shouts, the hands grabbing at her, pushing her down . . .

  Uncle Gary took her hand. “Sweetheart, maybe you should stay put. Just until people calm down.”

  “No. I won’t hide. If I do, then it’s—it’s like I’m admitting I’m guilty.” Verlaine squared her shoulders. She had no intention of hiding while the actual guilty party, aka one Miss Elizabeth Pike, got to run around town doing whatever she wanted. “We’re wasting time. Come on. Let’s go.”

  The roads had turned into rivers.

  Verlaine stood on the roof of her dads’ car. They’d parked on one of the slopes leading down toward the square, a couple of blocks away from the worst of the flooding. She intended to stay back—at least, until her dads were too involved in the relief efforts to notice her. But even from here, the view was terrifying.

  As rain lashed her trench coat (combined with a fedora for a vaguely Carmen Sandiego effect), Verlaine used two fingers on her touch screen to zoom in. Now the video fully showed the square more than two feet deep in water, churned by a current strong enough to whip white foam around every sign or tree it met. Although her field of vision was narrow, Verlaine could make out part of the line of oversize vehicles—garbage trucks, fire trucks, and even a school bus—that stretched from the road by the coffee shop to what remained of the town hall.

  B
y now three of the five front columns had fallen. The remnants of the portico roof hung on by a few rafters; the large beams of wood swayed like slender tree branches in the wind. Water flowed through the front doors, which had either been opened or torn away by the flood. Atop the heavy vehicles stood a human chain of people—her dads among them—who were helping the shaken escapees climb down from an open second-floor window. From there, each person was passed along the chain, hanging on to hands to steady them; that steadying was necessary, because the current was strong enough to rock even the fire truck. If the waters rose much higher, the trucks could be washed out of the line or even overturned.

  They’re so scared, she thought, watching one woman stand there trembling, unwilling to take the long step or short jump that would get her to the next vehicle in line. They’re right to be scared.

  Verlaine couldn’t take it anymore. Surely there was some way she could help. Even if that meant just getting better footage, so people could see what was really going on here, she needed to do it.

  So she hurried down the hill until her boots splashed into the water. Only ankle-deep, though—any farther in than that, and she’d be in danger, too. Her place right next to the final fire truck allowed her to hear the shouting.

  “Hang on!”

  “Keep moving!”

  “One more!”

  Every available person, except for her, was up on the trucks. Verlaine positioned herself near the end of the line, where a few huddled escapees sat on benches or leaned against the wall. The two paramedics on hand were doing all they could—but that wasn’t nearly enough. “I can help,” she said. “I could maybe put those foil blankets around people, or—or I could serve some hot soup or coffee if you have that. Just tell me what to do.”

  One of the women on the bench lifted her head, staring with such venom that Verlaine took a step backward. “You can get out of here,” the woman snarled. “Witch.”

  The memory flashed in front of her again—all those shouts, all those men striking at her—but even though she shook, Verlaine stood her ground. “I’m not a witch. I want you to try to be rational, okay? If I’d cast a spell to put people in danger, would I be here trying to help save them? How does that make sense to you?”

  Nobody answered her, but they didn’t look convinced, either. The weight of their stares felt leaden. Verlaine decided to just do what she could on her own. As far as she could see, the best help she could offer would be assisting people when they climbed off the final fire truck. The guy coming now was wobbly, clearly almost in shock, so she boosted herself on the back bumper and took his arm to steady him.

  He let her do it, though he stared at her. The same stare met her when she got the next woman down, and the one after that. In Verlaine’s opinion, this wasn’t really appropriate behavior toward someone who was helping maybe save your life . . . but she wasn’t doing this for thanks. She was doing it because it needed to be done.

  Wait—Verlaine glanced down at her boots. Water was now lapping at the top, starting to splash inside, cold and wet. The water’s rising faster and faster. This is getting more dangerous.

  At that moment, the school bus rocked violently in the current. Everyone atop it cried out, and most of them dropped down to their knees or on their bellies, so they could hang on better. But one man toppled over and fell into the water.

  He’s going to drown! Verlaine thought—then told herself that was stupid. The water wasn’t even three feet deep. Who could drown in water so shallow?

  Then she saw him try to stand, only to be knocked down by the current. He tried again, and fell again, this time going completely under the water. Only then did Verlaine realize the current was the danger, the thing that could kill.

  Helpless, she turned around, looking for someone who could go get him, but every rescuer was atop one of the vehicles. Instead she saw the fire hose.

  Verlaine grabbed the nozzle and started unspooling the hose—wow, it was a lot heavier than she’d thought—until it fell in loops completely free from the truck. Then she tied the nozzle end around her waist as firmly as she could. Which was maybe not that firm, but the loose circle around her would have to do. With that she waded into the current.

  She’d known the current was strong from observation alone; being in it was a whole lot scarier. The water pounded against her legs, like a hundred blows falling so close together that there was no telling them apart. Verlaine was able to stay upright—but barely. Instead of walking, she had to slide her feet forward, keeping her rain boots against the ground at every moment. Shuffling forward, she called to the struggling man, “Hang on! I’m coming!”

  The wind snatched the fedora from her head, tossing it into the dark water. Despite the danger, she felt a quick pang—a beautiful fedora, destroyed—but it was only a brief flicker in her mind. Verlaine remained focused on getting to this guy if she could. Already he’d been knocked several feet away from the school bus. Would the hose be long enough to reach?

  Verlaine took another few steps, and the knot at her waist tightened. The fire hose stretched taut between her and the truck, and she was still just short of the drowning man. She held her hand out to him, and he tried to grab for it, but couldn’t reach. Instead he was knocked down again, dunked beneath the water.

  You can do this. Verlaine braced herself, then untied the knot around her waist.

  “Verlaine Iris Laughton! What do you think you’re doing?” Uncle Gary yelled. She didn’t dare turn around to see his face. “You put that fire hose back on this instant!”

  One more deep breath. Then she clamped her hand around the very tip of the hose and stretched her arm out again. “Come on! You can make it!”

  The drowning man clutched her hand, and she had him.

  With all her strength, she pulled him against the current until he was next to her, when she towed him to his feet. He leaned against her as she started following the fire hose back in. The water level lowered until finally they could both walk normally. As they staggered into the rescue area, Verlaine finally let herself smile. “Got him.”

  The woman from the bench hurried to them, took the gasping, exhausted man in her arms—then spat in Verlaine’s face.

  She was too shocked to react. The spit was hot against her cheek for the instant it took to be washed away by the cold rain.

  “Witch,” the woman said again, before she pulled the man away.

  For an instant, Verlaine thought she might cry. When a hand touched her shoulder, terror seized her. Were they going to attack her again? But when she whirled around, she saw Gage Calloway, the only one who had a smile for her.

  “Don’t let ’em get to you,” he said. “You did good out there.”

  Now she really was going to cry. The only words that came out of her choked throat were, “I’m not a witch.”

  “I know that, all right? You’re okay.” Gage hugged her.

  So few people outside her family had ever hugged her. Verlaine had held herself together despite the cruelty, but his kindness undid her completely. She leaned her head against his chest and sobbed.

  “I know,” Gage repeated. “I know.”

  Asa lay in his bed, the exact same place and position he’d maintained ever since he’d gotten home. He hadn’t budged since he’d been forced to betray Mateo and Nadia. His chest ached from the place Elizabeth had ripped open in his torso; while the physical wound had healed through the power of dark magic, it seemed as though he could still feel her fingers grasping and clawing inside him, slithering between his organs. But the pain wasn’t what kept him under the covers, in his sloppiest sweats, refusing to acknowledge the world outside. It was the shame.

  Mateo’s eyes when he looked at Asa—the hollowed-out horror there, knowing himself damned to demonhood—Asa couldn’t stop seeing that. When he did manage to banish Mateo’s face from his memory, it was replaced with the image of Nadia shivering in the rain, or crumpled on Elizabeth’s floor. She’d been so hopeless, so lost. So
unlike the vibrant, defiant girl she’d been such a short time ago.

  All thanks to you, he told himself.

  Well. Not all thanks. Elizabeth deserved her enormous share of the blame. None of this had been Asa’s idea.

  But he’d had to do it anyway. That was what being a demon meant.

  He scrunched further under his covers, hoping to hide from reality completely, but that was when his mother rapped on the door and walked in, without waiting for an answer. “Jeremy, darling. I brought you some of those Cool Ranch Doritos you like, and the last of the snickerdoodles. And just a little of the curry. Won’t you eat just a little?”

  “I love your curry,” Asa said, which was true. Even telling a small truth like this reminded him how much of his existence was a lie. The woman beaming down at him with love was the same one who had reacted with entirely justified disgust and horror when she’d seen him for one instant as his true demonic self. She loved her son—but her son was dead and gone.

  “Good. Then you eat up.” She put the heaping plate on his nightstand—three-fourths junk food, one-fourth actual nutritious meal.

  He ate the curry first. The spices worked their magic, waking him up despite himself. Asa decided he could at least watch some TV. That was about as much of the real world as he could handle.

  One touch of the remote, and Jeremy’s ultra-big-screen TV jolted into light. He’d last been watching Weather TV—it was hilarious when the meteorologists had to hang on to trees in strong winds. But any chance of laughter faded as he realized he was looking at Captive’s Sound, specifically the town square. Specifically, he was looking at a rescue.

  And the rescuer wandering out into the waters—

  It can’t be, Asa told himself, but then the fedora blew off her head, revealing that long shock of silver hair. He sat up, then scrambled closer to the television as though it could bring him nearer Verlaine.