by Katie May
“Fuck you! You’ve never done anything for me.” I level my glare first at her, and then at the pathetic excuse of a man who thought he could claim me. Own me. I’m not a piece of meat for sale that he can weigh and bag. That’s not the way life fucking works. To my mom, I seethe, “Helping you is the last thing I’d ever do.”
She doesn’t slap me. Hell, she doesn’t even raise her voice. That’s never been my mother’s style. Her manner of abuse is much more meticulous than that, more calculating. She takes the time to analyze every pathway before deciding on the one that inflicts the most damage in the shortest amount of time. It’s why she never helped me with the Devils. It’s why she broke my violin in one of her hissy fits. It’s why she confronted me about sleeping with Uriel, calling me a slut and a filthy whore. She pushes down on wounds that haven’t begun to scab yet, making sure each press of her dainty finger draws blood.
“All right,” she sniffs, refusing to even glance in my direction. “If that’s what you want…”
“It is.” I don’t know what game she’s playing at, but I refuse to be just another pawn. Not anymore. Not when I’ve finally started to get some of my confidence back.
“Then you’ll be disowned.” Her gaze finally leaves her sleeves to meet my horror-filled eyes. It feels like someone is tying my stomach into dozens and dozens of intricate knots. “You’ll be banished from the coven as well.”
Disowned…
Banished…
That’s the worst thing to happen to a witch. Without a coven, we’re considered prey to the witch hunters and Bloods who stalk our kind. If I leave the coven, I’ll have no protection. I won’t even be able to contact my friends who are currently members, like Yoselin and Uriel.
And if I’m disowned…
All I have ever wanted was to get out from under my mother’s oppressive and abusive thumb. But not like this. Witches covet family more than anything else in the world. It’s why we celebrate our ancestors monthly and why they gift us their magic from the grave. If she does this…
I’d be cut off from my magic.
“Mom,” I plead, my voice a whisper.
“Darlene!” Nana snaps. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I am serious. Deadly serious.” Mom—though I’m not sure if I should even call her that anymore—reaches behind her and grips Ryan’s upper arm, dragging him with her towards the front door.
“You can’t force her to marry a guy she doesn’t love!” Nana snaps, easily keeping pace with the two of them.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Mom whirls on her heel, jabbing a finger at Nana’s chest. “This is between me and my daughter—”
“As you said.” Nana swats her finger away as if it’s nothing but an annoying, pesky fly. “But this is between me, my daughter, and my granddaughter. Let me make something clear, Darlene Simone. If you disown Peony, I will not hesitate to do the same to you as well.” Her words are sharper than glass, and I can tell that they embed themselves inside Mom just the same. She staggers back a step, jaw slack with disbelief, before the shock quickly transforms into a fiery anger. Her gaze travels past Nana and to me, lips curling away from her teeth in a snarl.
“I’ll be back, Peony, and I hope that you’ll rethink your decision before then.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you,” I murmur dryly. “Actually, go ahead. Hold your breath. See if I care.”
Her nostrils flare, oddly resembling a bull preparing to charge, but instead of dignifying me with a response, she storms out of the house, moving towards the town car where Charles waits.
“They’ll be back,” Nana says softly, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I shrug her off of me.
“I know.”
But I don’t know what else I can do to hold my mother off. This might just be one battle that I can’t win, one war that isn’t worth the fight.
Chapter 43
“Why are you sucking?”
I turn towards the belligerent voice, not at all surprised to see Felicia blinking at me rapidly through her thick-framed glasses.
“Hi, Felicia. Nice to see you, too,” I deadpan as I reach for my water bottle in my backpack’s side pocket. I’m still in desperate need of a new bag, but until I can find a job, this broken one will have to do. I suppose my dreams of getting my own violin just went down the toilet with the rest of the shit.
The cool water tickles my throat as I recap it and place it on the edge of my music stand. For the first time in forever, the notes don’t make a lick of sense to me. They’re just sharp lines and curved points. Some are filled in; some are white. Usually, music comes easily to me. It’s a story, a song, another language that I’m intimately familiar with.
But now, it’s just…gibberish.
“You haven’t played one note right,” she sniffs haughtily, using her index finger to push her glasses farther up her nose. She glances towards Mr. Tucker, who is working individually with the cellists before turning back to me. “My cat can play better than you. And my cat’s dead.” She nods towards my violin resting on my thighs, the bow grasped loosely in my other hand. “Do you even know what that thing is? It’s not a weapon of mass destruction.”
“You’re just a big ball of sunshine, aren’t you?” I quip, resisting the urge to slug her with said bow. I swear my muscles are wound up tighter than the strings on it.
“I just want us to sound good this year,” she huffs, irritated. “And as Mr. Tucker’s star pupil,” she practically rolls her eyes into the back of her head, “I expected better from you.”
“Well, that’s your own fault.” I begin to sift through the sheet music, no longer able to meet her probing, keen gaze. It’s like she’s looking into my soul, and the thought makes me uncomfortable, like a mosquito that’s sitting on my arm but not biting. A mildly irritating occurrence, but not something I can’t handle. “For expecting better from me.”
“Guy issues?” she guesses, cocking a dark brow. When I don’t respond right away, her face puckers and she tilts her head to the side curiously. “Those four popular guys?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know their names,” I snort. Everybody knows their names. They rule this school and every person in it with an iron grip. People either bow to their will…or they perish.
And I just happen to fall into the latter category.
She begins to tick them off on her fingers. “Karsyn Alder. Cassian Jereome. Elias Briggs. Lucas Scott.” Once again, I don’t give her the satisfaction of a response. “Or is it none of them? Maybe it’s your pretty friend, Mariabella?” I bite down on my lip to keep from snapping at her. I have the desperate, irresistible urge to tell her to mind her own damn business, but I truly believe that would only fuel the fire. She’s a bloodhound that finally found her prey’s trail, and now she’s on the hunt. “Or is it a family thing…?”
She waits, gauging my reaction, and I try to keep my expression impassive. But I can tell I gave something away when a bright smile twists her features, making her actually appear pretty instead of devious.
“Family issues, then.” She nods once, as if she expected that answer. “Dad? Mom?” I don’t know what tell I have, whether it’s an almost imperceptible tightening of my mouth, a clenching of my jaw, or a twitching of my eye. Either way, her smile widens. “You have mommy issues.”
“Fuck off, Felicia.” Am I hissing? That definitely sounded like a hiss. I feel sort of like a feral cat when a pesky human attempts to lure it home with promises of food and shelter. I’ll come to you if I want to be pet, but for the most part, I want everyone to stay the fuck away from me.
“I understand, you know,” she states, smoothing her hands down her pencil-straight skirt. It stops just below the knees, revealing a hint of bronze skin. “My parents are major dick bags, too.”
“Oh?” I turn back towards the music, staring intently at the squiggly lines and begging them to turn into a language I recognize. One I understand. Why is this ha
ppening to me? Music has always been my escape, my chance at freedom. I’ll be furious if the Devils took that from me with their confusing kisses and sweet words that leave me feeling disoriented and frustrated. I haven’t seen any of them since yesterday morning, when Karsyn dropped me off. Elias didn’t follow me to school, as he usually does.
Should I look for them?
Are they looking for me?
Is Elias still pissed? Will he tell somebody?
Will Karsyn?
Will Lucas?
I don’t like all of these unknown variables. It makes the equation impossible to compute.
“…join the family business,” Felicia is saying now, and I feel a stab of guilt that I haven’t been paying any attention to her. Is she trying to have a heart to heart moment with me? After she just insulted me? I don’t know whether to be amused or annoyed or a combination of the two. If there’s one thing I learned from this class, it’s that Felicia is volatile and crass.
But she’s a damn good musician.
“They don’t understand that I have no intentions of that,” she continues. “I don’t want to join the damn family business.”
“Sucks,” I agree, and she nods, her chin looking even sharper in the golden sunlight drifting through the opened blinds.
“Peony!” We both turn towards Mr. Tucker at the same time, and Felicia’s cordial smile freezes on her face before disappearing completely, replaced by a scowl.
“Teacher’s pet,” she hisses, stomping back towards her seat. I roll my eyes at her dramatics before walking towards the front of the classroom.
“Yes?” I ask him when I’m closer. Instead of answering, he simply beckons me to join him in his office—nothing but a hole in the wall behind the conductor’s stand. I wait hesitantly in the doorway as he grabs something from the highest shelf. Easily recognizing the sleek black case, I hold my breath as he pries it open. Nestled in red velvet is the most gorgeous violin I have ever seen. I can’t tell what type of wood it’s constructed out of, but it appears more red than brown in the artificial light. It’s polished so meticulously, I can see my reflection in it. It’s obviously new and very, very expensive.
“The new violin you ordered just came in,” Mr. Tucker explains, closing the case once more and handing it to me. I hold it reverently, almost fearfully, in my hands, as if the slightest breeze will take it away from me.
But then I come back to my senses with the force of a fifty-car train barreling into me.
“I didn’t order a violin,” I protest vehemently, attempting to hand it back. He holds up both hands in a placating manner and takes a step away.
“It’s not mine or the school’s, darling. It arrived this morning. The delivery man said it has already been paid for and that it belongs to a Peony Simone. And since you’re the only Peony Simone in this school…” He trails off with a grin, patting me good-naturedly on the shoulder. “It seems as if you have a guardian angel.”
Or a stalker.
The rest of class passes in a daze. It’s even harder to focus on the music than it was before. I don’t dare touch the new instrument. Who bought it for me? And why? Is it a bribe? An “I owe you” type of deal?
When I step out of class a few minutes later, reluctantly carting around my gorgeous violin, I see a familiar figure leaning against the far lockers, watching me. A girl stands at his side, attempting to garner his attention, but he doesn’t spare her a glance as he stalks towards me, every inch of him the sexy, primal hunter.
“I should’ve known you had something to do with this,” I say as Cassian pauses directly in front of me. Today, he’s wearing a light blue shirt that makes his onyx skin pop and a pair of dark skinny jeans. His black hair is buzzed once more, accentuating his arresting and chiseled facial features.
He looks fucking good, and he knows it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says bluntly, but I see his eyes flicker to the violin case.
“I don’t need your charity,” I chide.
At this, his smile slowly expands into an infuriating, teasing wave.
“Is that what this is, baby?”
I make a face. “Don’t call me that.”
Cassian continues to smirk unrepentantly as he remains beside me, his muscular arm brushing against mine with every step we take. He stares at me out of the corner of his eye and offers me a salacious smile. It’s sometimes easy to forget that despite his charms, he’s cruel and capricious. Wicked. The shadows are his best friends, and the night is his domain.
As if he can’t handle the silence anymore, he blurts, “Is it just ‘baby’ that bothers you? Or is it the fact that I gave you a nickname to begin with?”
“Both,” I deadpan as I hurry to my third hour class.
“But what if I want you to be my baby?” he asks nonchalantly, but then winces when he realizes how that sounds. “Oh. That sounded bad.”
“Tell me, Cassian,” I begin. “How many girls have you called ‘baby’ in the last…let’s say…month?”
“The last month?” He throws his head back in laughter. “Only you, baby.”
“Fine.” I clear my throat, dislodging the wrecking ball that wants to take up space there. “In the last…five months?”
His laughter fades, and he offers me his most contrite look. “A few?” It turns into a question.
I whirl towards him, offering him a smile that isn’t all that pleasant. “Being your ‘baby’ isn’t exactly special then, is it?” Before he can think up a reply, I hurry away from him, using my heavy violin case as a physical shield between me and the outside world. Cassian breaks into a jog in order to catch up with me.
“How about sugar tits?” he questions seriously, and I give him a look capable of melting the skin off of most people. “Pterodicktyl,” he suggests.
“That’s bad.”
“Boomer?” He scratches at his chin in consideration. “Yeah. I like that. Baby boomer.”
“Just stop.” I drag a hand down my face, trying my hardest to hide my smile. Why does he have to amuse me so much when I’m still mad at him?
“You can pretend to hate me all you want, baby, but I know you’re charmed.” He places his head on my shoulder, causing my feet to stumble mid-step. His smirk only grows, a mischievous, wicked type of smirk that promises pain and darkness.
“Goodbye, Cassian.” We finally reach my third hour, his head still resting snuggly on my shoulder. I can smell his shampoo, a combination of pine and citrus, as well as the scent of oil.
“I’ll see you later, baby,” he purrs, straightening and snaking an arm around my waist. He pulls me flush against his hard body, smirking down at me.
“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” I snark through gritted teeth. “I’m not your baby.”
“But you are my something,” he croons, not the least bit cowed.
“I’m not your anything.” We’re so close I can see golden flecks dancing in his eyes, almost like the stars taking up residence in an inky black sky. My eyes drift automatically to his pillowy lips, before I quickly come to my senses, lean forward, and bite him on his nose.
“Ow!” He steps away from me, holding his face in horror. “Did you just bite me?”
“Yup. Haven’t you heard?” I lower my gaze to his crotch, where I can see a visible erection tenting his pants. “I bite back this time.”
“Fucking hell, baby. Will you just marry me already?” he begs.
Ignoring him, I hurry through the doorway and move to my usual seat near the middle of the room. Normally, I sit between Elias and Emmett in this class, but today, both of their seats remain empty. I bite my lip, glancing at the clock to make sure I have time before class begins, before pulling out my phone. My finger hovers over Elias’s number that I’ve had in my phone since I saved it when he texted me after the football game. I actually have all of the Devils’ numbers, like some sort of creepy, evil stalker.
Well, I sort of am…
Shaking my head veheme
ntly, I move to the number directly below Elias’s. Emmett’s.
Me: u here?
His response is instantaneous.
Emmett: Why? You miss me?
I lick my upper lip, contemplating how I want to respond. In a way, I do miss the teasing, flirtatious boy with the mossy green eyes. But then I think about his hands on my ass. I know it was probably a spur of the moment thing, but I didn’t like it. At all. He should’ve stopped when I wanted him to, when I was pulling at him. Maybe he misunderstood? Maybe he thought I was pulling him closer instead of away?
Instead of responding, I slide my phone into my pocket. I told Mariabella about Emmett, and she was livid. She asked me, and I quote, if I wanted her to “kick his ass to heaven and then back down to hell.”
She’s downright scary when she wants to be.
Mr. Milk arrives a few minutes after the bell rings, looking frazzled and unkempt. His dark hair, speckled with gray, is hanging limply in front of his dull brown eyes.
“What’s up, Mr. M?” one of the football players from the front row inquires.
Mr. Milk places his briefcase on the desk and takes a deep, fortifying breath. When he glances up at the classroom, I’m surprised to see unshed tears in his eyes.
“I’m not supposed to tell you guys this yet…” Immediately, every student gives him their undivided attention, myself included. If we’re not supposed to know something…
That means it’s all the more sweeter when we do.
“But there was an attack on a teacher earlier this morning.” He forks his fingers through his disheveled hair. “His…um…manhood,” he glances down at his crotch, flames entering his cheeks, “was removed.”
“No fucking way!” someone exclaims. “A teacher had his dick cut off?”
“I don’t know why anyone would do that,” Mr. Milk continues. “I didn’t know him well, but the few times we met up at events, he seemed like such a good man.” He shakes his head sadly. “He’s in the hospital now.”
“Who was it?” a girl asks excitedly…though I find it kind of demented for her to get excited about a cockless teacher. But to each his or her own, I suppose.