Poison

by Molly Cochran

  • • •

  There was something about my great-grandmother’s Cadillac that caused my heart to fall into my stomach. “Oh, no,” I whispered as I crept closer.

  There was someone inside.

  I could see him only in silhouette at that distance, but it was pretty clear what he was doing. I ran toward him, not knowing what I was going to do with a car thief once I caught him. “Hey!” I shouted. “That’s my car.”

  He heard me and turned toward me. It all seemed to happen very slowly, maybe because I was very scared, and maybe because I couldn’t believe my eyes. But it was true.

  It was Peter.

  I gasped so hard that my lungs hurt with the inrush of cold air. A car behind me honked and swerved around me while I stood in the street, shaking and shocked.

  “Katy,” Peter said.

  “Don’t open the window!”

  I could see the tension in his face. He wanted to touch me, but he knew I was right. “Gram sent me to get her car.” He held up the extra set of keys.

  I nodded.

  “Eric . . .,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. I knew Eric could bring him back. My heart was racing with joy. “Yes.”

  “And Hattie apologizes. I don’t know exactly what for.”

  I couldn’t talk, so I waved the words away, trying hard not to cry.

  “And . . . ” His eyes were pained. “I love you.”

  I covered my face with my hands.

  “I’m going to fix this, Katy.”

  A low moan escaped from my lips. I knew he would try. Peter would do everything he could for as long as he could, I knew, but he didn’t have enough magic to overturn this. Avalon and everyone in it would die, and most of them would never even know why. I was poison, and would be poison forever. Some things, once started, just couldn’t be stopped.

  “I will. I promise.” He pressed his hand against the window, his long fingers splayed. “Tell me you believe me.”

  I matched his handprint with my own. The glass between us grew warm.

  “Tell me.”

  “I believe you,” I croaked.

  “And you’re going to come home. To me.”

  I felt my heart breaking.

  “Tell me!”

  “I’ll come home to you.”

  His jaw clenched, and I knew he was trying to hold things together for both of us. For a long time we just stood there, our hands touching opposite sides of the glass, looking into each other’s eyes.

  “Whatever happens, I’ll always love you,” I said quietly.

  Peter swallowed. Then he started the car. “Remember your promise,” he said before driving into the road.

  I watched him until the car was out of sight. Then I looked at my hands. My fingers were still spread, remembering.

  CHAPTER

  •

  FIFTY

  He’s alive!

  Whatever else happened—and it would be very bad, I knew—at least Peter had been spared. Eric had brought him back from the death I had inflicted on him, and he would now have the life he was meant to live.

  As long as I stayed away from him.

  I could do that. I would. I just wished I’d been bright enough when he was there to ask him for something—anything, a handkerchief, a glove—just something of his I could hold.

  I closed my eyes and remembered the smell of him, clean and healthy and full of love for me. I would never forget that, or the milky sweetness of the skin on his neck, or the electric velvet feel of his mouth touching mine. I knew just how his hand fit with my own, and how our bodies brushed together when we walked to class or worked side by side in the restaurant.

  I never thought it would all end so soon.

  Why had I walked away from him back at the Shaw mansion when he’d told me about his project? All I’d thought of at the time was that I wouldn’t be able to see him as much as I wanted to. And I’d stomped away like a spoiled child. If I had that moment to live over again, I’d have told him to do whatever he needed to do, because knowing he was happy was more important than getting my own way. I wouldn’t have ruined our time together. Our brief time.

  I spent the rest of the day—all of it, I guess—looking out the window of my dad’s apartment, watching the sun crest and then fall. The people on the street below were like insects in an ant farm, moving back and forth, performing what seemed to be meaningless tasks, going about the business of living while I looked on, disinterested, apart.

  We are one. The homeless man’s hands had looked cold when he’d held out the bottle of wine to me.

  Bread and wine. In his way he had offered me Communion. But that hadn’t happened, and not just because he’d been disgusting. It went deeper than that. We couldn’t be one, whatever he’d meant by that, because I could never be a part of his world, or my own, either. That is, the world that used to be mine. I would never hold Peter in my arms again, or feel his lips against mine. We would never jump handfasted over the bonfire at Beltane, or lie together as lovers, or grow old with each other. He would be doing all those things with someone else.

  And in the deepest part of my heart, I was glad. I wanted him to be happy, to have a life worth living, even if it was without me.

  As the last of the sun sank in a wave of red that spread over the snow-topped buildings, my cell phone rang. It was Becca again. I guessed it wouldn’t hurt to answer.

  “Why didn’t you tell me where you went?” she demanded immediately.

  I sighed. I didn’t even know where to start. “Who did tell you?” I asked.

  “Bryce.”

  The phone felt frozen in my hand. “Bryce came back?”

  “It wasn’t easy. They put him in a dungeon, Katy. Like with shackles on his wrists. Do you believe that?”

  “I do. They’re horrible. But didn’t they know he’s a shape-shifter?”

  “They didn’t think he’d try to escape. And get this. He wasn’t going to. Bryce said he was guilty and ought to be punished.” She clucked. “Honestly, he needs looking after. But then they went too far. They brought him outside, and that so-called Seer told him to turn into a fly. He knew what they were going to do.”

  “Trap him in amber,” I said.

  “So Bryce stopped being the good boy, for once. He told them to take their guilt and shove it, and he turned into smoke.” Becca laughed. “He appeared on top of the fireplace at my house. Unfortunately, that means my mom knows everything.”

  “Too bad,” I said. Whenever Livia Fowler was involved, things had the potential to get complicated. “But thanks for telling me about Bryce. I’m glad he’s okay.”

  “But he’s not okay,” Becca said. “He went back to Avalon.”

  “What? Why’d he do that?”

  “It’s for Peter’s big stupid project.”

  I felt a shiver of alarm. “What project?”

  “You don’t know? He’s been working on it for months.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Becca sighed. “Well, from what Bryce told me, it’s some kind of virtual video game system using touch-screen technology. You’re supposed to be able to walk into the game itself—there are multiple screens involved—and you don’t need special glasses. At least that’s how it started out. After the dance he began to modify it so that instead of going into a game, the players or whoever go to Avalon.”

  I gasped. “To save the people there,” I whispered. While I’d been hiding out feeling sorry for myself, Peter had actually been doing something to help those poor people whose world I’d poisoned.

  “Whatever. Peter’s calling them Travelers, like Bryce. Of course, they’re nothing like him—if they were, they’d be able to come here on their own—”

  “What?” I interrupted.

  “He wants them to travel here, to Whitfield. He used some painting or something, and Hattie and a few other big-time witches are laying magic on top of Peter’s electronics.”

  “Do you thin
k it’s going to work?”

  “I think the guy I love is going to be killed!” Becca screeched. “All for some place that doesn’t even exist on the same plane as us!”

  “But it still exists,” I tried to explain. “Those people—the Travelers—are real. And the trouble they’re in is real.” I knew that was the truth. I’d caused the trouble.

  “Okay. Saving them’s a noble thing. Everybody wants to help. The thing is, though, nobody seems to remember Eric’s prediction about how Peter was going to destroy Whitfield, along with a great witch who was going to help him.”

  A shiver ran through me. I did remember. I was the witch in that prophecy.

  But Becca barreled on. “Well, who’s a greater witch than Hattie Scott? Don’t you see, it’s all going to be a terrible disaster. And Bryce is going to be right in the middle of it.”

  What did she say? Hattie? Hattie was the witch who was going to help Peter?

  “You’ve got to stop him,” Becca said. “It’s the only way.”

  My head was still spinning. “Stop who?” I asked numbly.

  “Peter, Katy,” she said irritably. “Pay attention. You’ve got to stop Peter.”

  “Be-because of the prophecy?” Suddenly I could see what Hattie’s point had been when she’d said it was all ridiculous. Eric might have been the greatest healer that Whitfield had ever produced, but he was still a brain-damaged kid who barely knew his own name. No one in his right mind was going to take anything Eric said seriously.

  Becca made a conciliatory noise. “Okay. Actually, it’s my mother who’s saying we shouldn’t be bringing all those people into Whitfield. But a lot of people are agreeing with her. Personally, I don’t care. I just want to get Bryce out of danger. He’s all alone over there, trying to get most of the population of Avalon to come to Whitfield while a bunch of demonic witches in Avalon are using all their magic to stop him. The only way he’ll come back is if Peter shuts the whole thing down. You can make him do that, Katy. Just tell him to stop.”

  It was hard to take in everything she was saying. All I was getting was that Peter and Bryce were trying to rescue the people of Avalon, and people on both sides of the border were trying to stop them.

  “Becca, what—” There was a commotion at the front door to my dad’s apartment.

  “Hello?” Becca said, but I was concentrating on the door, which was swinging open. I looked around to see if there was anything I could use for a weapon. I didn’t think it was likely that burglars would be witches, so my poison, deadly as it was, wouldn’t affect them.

  “Hey, are you there?” Becca’s voice floated tinnily through the phone.

  Then my dad and Mim walked in, carrying about a dozen suitcases and packages apiece.

  “Katy?” Becca said.

  I’d forgotten about Becca. “I’ve got to go,” I said, and hung up.

  “Don’t tell me we forgot to turn off the lights when we— Oh, hello, Katherine,” my dad said. “What are you doing here?”

  I froze. Oh, God, I thought. What if I kill my father? I mean, the encounter with Summer and Suzy might have been a fluke. They’d been involved with magic, whether they knew it or not, but . . . I backed up slowly. “I . . . That is, I’ve got . . . I mean . . . ”

  “Kathy!” Ignoring anything I said, as usual—although I have to admit, I wasn’t saying much—Mim swept past Dad in a cloud of exotic perfume. “Give us a kiss, darling.”

  I flattened against the wall. “No!” I exclaimed, my voice cracking. “Er, that is, you can’t . . . er . . . ”

  “How many times have I told you not to say ‘er,’ ” Mim said, grabbing my shoulders and planting two lipstick-reddened kisses on my cheeks.

  I choked noisily.

  “What? Oh, for Christ’s sake, say what you mean. And why are you staring at me like that?”

  “Are . . . Are you all right?” I asked in a squeak.

  “Of course I’m all right. What’s wrong with you?” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “Madison,” my father chided.

  “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  I heard myself breathing again. Mim was as good as ever. Well, she was alive, anyway. She’d touched me, and she was still standing. Apparently the no-cowen rule was still in effect.

  “I’m not pregnant,” I whispered.

  “Excellent,” Dad said, setting down his parcels.

  “Oh, Dad,” I said, feeling my facial muscles smiling for the first time in what seemed like years. I ran into his arms.

  He seemed surprised. And glad. “That’s my angel,” he cooed. “Are you all right, hormonal changes notwithstanding?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Didn’t I tell you I was going to India?” he asked, dumping a box filled with Mim’s cosmetics onto the dining room table.

  “We,” Mim corrected. “We went to India.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “And we lived in an ashram where a lot of movie stars go.”

  “I didn’t see any movie stars,” Dad said.

  “It’s the off-season. And we chanted. And became vegetarians.”

  “God, I need a steak,” Dad said. “Tonight.” He turned toward me. “Will you join us?”

  I almost said yes. I was hungry. The two bites of bagel I’d eaten in the park yesterday morning had been used up long ago. But then I remembered the message. The homeless guy’s message. Miss P’s.

  Just do what you can. That meant doing something, even if I wasn’t sure what that was. It meant being where I belonged, even if no one wanted me. It meant finding a way, no matter what.

  “I can’t,” I began, “because—”

  “What a pity,” Mim said, too quickly. “I suppose it’ll just have to be a little romantic tête-à-tête with just the two of us.” She blew Dad a kiss. “Communal living can be such a bore,” she added as an aside to me. “No privacy at all.”

  I took a deep breath. Might as well get this part over with, I thought. “I have to get back to Whitfield,” I said in a rush. “Can you take me?”

  Dad looked at Mim, who was shaking her head resolutely while stabbing at her iPhone.

  “Er . . . we can discuss it later,” Dad said, waffling. That was a normal reaction for him. Whenever there was any sort of disagreement, he waited for whoever won, and then did what that person wanted. Naturally, the winner was almost always Mim, but I had to at least give it a try.

  “Please, Dad,” I begged. “It’s important.”

  “Aha.” Mim looked up from her phone, beaming. “There’s a flight out of Teterboro in forty minutes. I’ll call you a cab.”

  “Problem solved, I guess,” Dad said. “It’ll be faster than driving.”

  And you’ll get your steak.

  For a moment—just the quickest, flickering moment—I wondered if my father would love me if Mim weren’t around. But that wasn’t worth thinking about right now. Getting back to Whitfield was the only thing that mattered.

  Getting back, and finding a way to help.

  CHAPTER

  •

  FIFTY-ONE

  The six-seater prop plane I was on landed at Lynne-Graham airport, about ten miles outside of Whitfield. At first I was worried about finding a cabdriver who would be immune to me, but then I remembered that it was the winter solstice, one of the eight Wiccan holidays. Our people didn’t work on holidays unless we absolutely had to, but just to make sure, I asked the driver of the only taxi at the airport if he’d been in the Meadow that day. If he said yes, I’d know he was a witch, and that I’d be SOL as far as transportation was concerned.

  Fortunately, he answered, “Huh?” So he was safe from me.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  The cab took me straight to the Shaw mansion, where a number of witches I knew were gathered outside. I could tell from the looks on their faces that they weren’t happy. As I’d expected, Becca’s mother, Livia Fowler, was in the thick of them. She appeare
d to be their ringleader, standing on top of a low stone wall bordering the front entrance so that she stood above the crowd.

  “There have been twenty-seven families in Whitfield for the past three hundred and fifty years!” she boomed. She was talking about the twenty-seven magical families who had come over from England on the same boat in the 1600s. Some Whitfield residents believed that the number should always be kept at twenty-seven because twenty-seven is a magical number, a multiple of nine, which is the number of completion. It all seemed a little silly to me, but apparently it meant a lot to Mrs. Fowler.

  “Twenty-seven! No more!”

  “No more!” shouted someone in the crowd. One man shook his fist.

  “And now some brainless teenagers”—she pronounced the word “teenagers” as if she were talking about ax murderers—“have taken it upon themselves to bring the entire population of a distant community into our midst. Now, these may be fine people, but we don’t know that. We don’t know what they are, or what they want to do to us.”

  “Where’s Jeremiah Shaw?” someone called out.

  “Where indeed?” Mrs. Fowler pointed to the mansion. “The ringleader of the gang of hooligans at the center of this is himself a Shaw, and one of precious little magic. This is no doubt just another scheme to add more gold to the Shaw family’s already overflowing coffers.”

  “At our expense!” a woman near me called out.

  So far I’d gone unnoticed in my hooded jacket and muffler. Fortunately, my layers of clothing insulated the poison I carried. But the closer I got to the big stone staircase leading to the mansion’s front door, the more conspicuous I became. It couldn’t be helped. I had to get inside.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Mrs. Fowler said, crossing her arms as I neared her podium. “The criminal’s little girlfriend.” She raised her chin to snarl at me. “Come to cheer the traitor on? Or just go to jail with him?”

  This last was just rhetoric, I knew, because no witch from Whitfield would ever call the police for something that involved magic. It was our first rule—keep silent. But Mrs. Fowler and her small crowd of followers could make life difficult. They already had. At least she didn’t know about the poison inside me. If she had, those people might have panicked.