by Claudia Gray
She shook her head sadly, and he leaned his head on her shoulder. Neither of them said any more; what else could there be to say? The future was rushing toward him—his future, and his curse. Nothing Elizabeth or anyone else could do would stop it.
But maybe—maybe if he stayed away from Nadia—he might have a chance to save her.
A large crow landed on the grass near them, cocking its head. It flew away in another instant, so Mateo couldn’t be sure, but for a moment it had looked as though there were milky cobwebs where its eyes should have been.
Crazy, he told himself. You’re going crazy. It’s already begun.
3
“SO, LET’S SEE—NADIA CALDANI.” THE GUIDANCE counselor shuffled through the file quickly. “Transfer from Chicago. For your senior year only?”
“Unless I flunk.”
The counselor—whose desk nameplate read FAYE WALSH—gave her a glance that clearly meant, we can joke around, but not right now. “I meant, it’s unusual for students to move to a new school and new state for their senior year. Work thing for your parents?”
“My dad wanted to quit working for a big law firm. Sick of the crazy hours, the corporate crap, all of that.” Was she going to get lectured for using the word crap? Apparently not. Ms. Walsh remained unruffled. She was unexpectedly chic for a school counselor, or really for anyone Nadia had yet seen in Captive’s Sound: close-cropped hair, big silver jewelry, and a white sheath dress that set off her dark skin. This was somebody who had a life outside Rodman High; Nadia could respect that. “He took a job here in Captive’s Sound—public-interest law. Representing lower-income workers who have disputes with their employers for back pay, workplace injuries, things like that.” Dad always claimed to be a do-gooder at heart, but Nadia had been kind of surprised when he stopped talking and did something about it. “And they’ll let him work from home sometimes, so he can be around for me and my brother.”
“That’s a definite plus,” Ms. Walsh said. She ran one perfectly manicured nail along the edge of the papers spread out on her desk. “Your dad’s the one who signed all the forms and consents.”
Oh, great—this was one of those counselors who expected to actually counsel you instead of just handing you college brochures. Nadia decided the quickest way out was to explain it all and move on. “My mother left my father several months ago. Didn’t ask for custody or alimony or anything. So she’s out of the picture.”
“How often do you see her?”
“Never,” Nadia said. “I see her never. She doesn’t want visitation. She doesn’t pick up the phone when we call, and I don’t think she so much as listens to our voice mails. I used to email her some; I think my little brother still does. But she never answers. Mom is—gone. Past tense. So Dad’s the one handling all the college stuff.” Hopefully that would be enough to shut Ms. Walsh up.
Usually it wasn’t, though. Other people who had heard this story, like her former friends back in Chicago, would pile on the questions: Really? Never? That’s so awful. That’s so weird. Did she have a nervous breakdown? Did your father hit her when he got mad? Was there, you know, somebody else? These questions always made Nadia want to scream. She had no answers, none, and Nadia didn’t see why she was responsible for explaining why her mother was such a loser.
Ms. Walsh didn’t ask any more questions. She only nodded. “You don’t have a lot of extracurriculars in your record.”
Nadia had more extracurricular interests than nearly anyone, but witchcraft wasn’t something you could put down in your college application. Honing her skills in magic, reading the ancient books her mother had given to her—it didn’t leave much time for show choir or the debate team. “Guess I’m not a joiner.”
“We should try to get you into something this year, though. To show colleges that you’re well rounded.”
“I’m not even sure I’m going to college. I’d rather look at culinary schools.”
“A chef, huh? You should have told me. If I’d known baked goods were involved here, it would’ve changed everything.”
That was almost funny. Nadia didn’t let herself smile. “Anyway, culinary schools don’t care about extracurriculars. They care about your flaky pie crusts and your béarnaise sauce.”
“You could always go to college and then culinary school.”
“Oh, yeah, more years of school. Fabulous.”
Ms. Walsh cocked her head, studying Nadia closely. “I realize how that sounds. But you strike me as a young woman with a great deal of potential. If you go to culinary school without getting any other education, you’re eliminating a lot of possibilities for your future. Never limit yourself like that.”
“Is this the part where you tell me there are no limits besides my dreams?” Gag.
But Ms. Walsh started to laugh. “Oh, no, Nadia. There are plenty of limits, and trust me, the world will smack you down and teach you where they are. But make the world do that. Don’t do it to yourself.” She snapped the folder shut. “Enough for today. Check in with me soon, okay? And let me know what I have to do to taste this pie crust for myself.”
Bribing school officials with pie: well, there were worse ways to get out of show choir.
The rest of the day passed more or less without incident. Mateo turned out to be in her chemistry class right before lunch. He sat all the way across the room and never even glanced at Nadia—if anything, she thought he was ignoring her—so she only learned two things about him that whole time.
One, his last name was Perez. Two, he apparently had a girlfriend.
Which was disappointing, even if she hadn’t intended on going after him. But not surprising, she told herself. Mateo’s a gorgeous guy, apparently an athlete—plus he goes around saving people from disasters in his spare time. He could be with anybody he wanted. Of course he’s already with someone.
And Elizabeth Pike looked like the kind of someone he’d pick. She was beautiful—not the shallow kind of beautiful most people could buy with stylish clothes and good makeup, but the kind that shone from her even with a bare face and a plain cotton dress. The same fluorescent classroom lights that made everyone else look like zombies made her perfect skin peachy, and her reddish-brown curls shone as if she were in a shampoo commercial. She and Mateo had a lab table together, and she was superattentive to him—watching him almost every moment, sitting in the desk next to his. It was pretty obvious what was going on.
While Mateo never looked over at her, Elizabeth did once. Her blue eyes met Nadia’s steadily. There were no “stay away from my boyfriend” vibes there; she just seemed interested in the new girl. Maybe Mateo told her about the wreck.
And he hadn’t said anything to make Elizabeth jealous. So, okay. Nadia figured at least she knew where she stood.
The mystery of how Mateo seemed to know her would have to remain unsolved. Probably that was something I dreamed up because I was stunned in the wreck, she decided. Something like that.
Her heart told her that wasn’t all there was to it—but her heart told her lots of stupid things these days. Things like Mom will call soon, or You’ll find another teacher in the Craft somehow. She didn’t need to add Mateo will leave his gorgeous girlfriend for you to the list.
Besides, there was that feeling again—that static-electricity feeling that told her magical power was near, very near....
Nadia found herself glancing down at the floor of the chemistry lab, as though she would be able to literally see that force for herself. Which was ridiculous—magic didn’t glow green or anything like that, not unless you were a Steadfast, which she wasn’t. And yet the force was so near—so vivid—
—as though it were directly beneath her feet.
Under the floor of the chemistry lab? Come on. You’re so freaked out about not having a teacher any longer that you’re … making up stuff. Trying to create a crisis where there isn’t one, so you’ll have something to tell Mom that would make her come back.
And yet she felt it. Whatever t
his odd power was simmering beneath the surface—Nadia couldn’t ignore it. Couldn’t wish it away.
After school, Mateo parked his motorcycle at the bottom of the hill … the Hill, always capitalized by people who lived in Captive’s Sound. This was where the wealthy and privileged lived, in great houses with iron gates. At the very top of the Hill, shining white as though it were made of marble, was Cabot House.
Yours, someday, his father would always say, like that was a good thing. But Mateo found Cabot House creepy as hell and tried to visit as little as possible.
That suited his grandmother fine, most of the time. Mateo wondered if another guest had crossed the threshold of that house anytime in the past five years. Maybe not since Mom’s funeral, and even then, people came more to gawk than to sympathize. Not once had he ever dropped by unannounced.
Today, though—Mateo needed to learn more about what was happening to him, and there was nobody else who could possibly know.
He walked up the Hill. If she didn’t hear the motorcycle’s engine, then she wouldn’t know he was coming, wouldn’t have time to tell the butler not to let him in. The neighborhood was weirdly hushed, as if the residents kept noise out along with the poor people. Jaguars and Mercedes gleamed in the driveways, and more than one person had hedges cut into weird shapes. Who paid someone to cut a bush into a cone shape? Mateo figured that even in a world where he had infinite money, he wouldn’t see the point.
On the step, in front of the enormous black door, Mateo took a deep breath before swinging the brass knocker heavily, twice, three times. After way too long, the door opened and the butler stood there, blinking. “Young Mr. Perez,” he said, his voice creaky. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Just wanted to drop by and see Grandma.” Mateo stepped inside without waiting to be told whether or not he could. The butler hesitated, but no doubt he didn’t want to offend the so-called Cabot heir.
“She is in the music room,” the butler said. “Follow me.”
It had to suck to be him, Mateo figured as he walked behind him. Musty suit, Grandma for a boss, almost nothing to actually do; he was less a butler and more somebody paid to stand around being stiff all day until Grandma finally died, when he’d be the one to phone the undertaker. Probably he was hoping to inherit something in the will. Mateo had half a mind to sign Cabot House over to the guy when the time came. That way, he’d never have to live here himself.
The music room was as dry and joyless as the rest of the house. Ceilings stretched up twenty feet, hung with chandeliers gone cloudy, layered with dust. The heavy black woodwork scrolled and curled along every wall and column, like some kind of mold run amok. An enormous grand piano was even dustier than the chandeliers, and a few brass music stands clustered together in one corner, forgotten. No music had been made in this room for a very long time.
Seated by the far window, staring out at her own back garden, was Grandma.
“Your grandson, Mrs. Cabot,” the butler said. Without turning her head, she glared in their direction, and the room seemed to become ten degrees colder instantly. Right away the butler backed out, leaving Mateo to face her alone. Maybe Mateo wouldn’t give him the house after all.
“Mateo.” Her voice was hoarse with disuse. “To what do I owe this visit? It can’t be your birthday again already. I don’t have a savings bond for you.”
“That’s not till January,” Mateo said. She usually inspected him once a year, on his birthday, and they left it at that. “I, um—I wanted to talk.”
“To me?” That seemed to amuse her, for all the wrong reasons. Though she didn’t turn her head, showing him only her perfect white cameo profile, she smiled coolly. “That would be a first. Don’t tell me your father’s restaurant has failed to be profitable enough to build up a college fund for you.”
Mateo balled his fists in the pockets of his letter jacket. Later. He could let his temper out later. “We’re doing great.” Great was overstating it—Captive’s Sound never had anything like the kind of summer business it should have had—but they more than paid the bills. Mateo had been helping with the books since last year.
“Then why are you here? The pleasure of my company?” The acid in her voice made it clear she knew precisely how unpleasant she was, and liked it.
This was harder to get out than Mateo had expected. He swallowed hard, shifted his weight from foot to foot, swallowed again. “I—I wanted to talk to you about—about the curse.”
Grandma sat up very straight in her chair. “Has it come upon you, then?”
“No!” Mateo lied. She’d throw him out of here if he said anything else. “No way. I don’t even believe in it. You know I don’t.”
Until he’d seen Nadia that stormy night, he hadn’t.
“Then why talk about it? If it’s just a story, like you pretend.”
“Because I want to understand. Because every kid in school acts like I’ve got AIDS or something.” Only Elizabeth and Gage treated him like a human being, and in Gage’s case, that was only because he’d moved to Captive’s Sound too late to grow up with all the stories about the mad, dangerous Cabots.
“The children have heard the stories from their parents. Who heard them from their parents. It’s always the same.” She laughed mirthlessly. “They are frightened of the Cabots. Then they get older, decide the stories are only folklore. Tales to scare the foolish. Then the next Cabot goes insane, and they see the truth for themselves. Just as they saw when your mother degenerated so abruptly, and drowned herself in the sea. Just as they saw when your grandfather did this to me.”
She turned toward him then, showing him her full face, not only the profile. While the left side of her face remained pale and normal—smooth for a woman of her age, maybe because she never went outside—the right side was a ruin. Deep red slashes ran through her skin like fault lines; crinkles of scar tissue surrounded gouges in flesh that had never healed. Her blind right eye showed milky white, with one twitching red spot of blood that never, ever went away.
“You look pale.” Grandma smiled. It was a terrible smile. “I should think you’d be used to it by now. But I’m still not used to it myself, so how can I blame you?”
“What happened?” Mateo tried to plow on. “What made Grandpa do this?” He’d never known his grandfather, who’d been institutionalized long before Mateo was born. But Mom had always said he was a loving dad … at least, until that final year.
“The curse is what happened. Scoff all you like. I used to. Franklin Cabot was handsome, wealthy, kind, courteous—all the things a young man should be. So I ignored the stories I’d grown up with, the warnings of my own parents, and married him. Had his child. For the first decade, all was as it should be.” Her voice softened for a moment, like she was remembering what it had been like to be happy. “Then the dreams began.”
Mateo wished the butler had brought in another chair for him to sit on. “Dreams?”
“He thought they showed him the future. Or so he claimed. I noticed he never mentioned these predictions until after they’d come to pass. At first I thought it was no more than a mania—a terror of becoming what his mother had been before him—and that he would get over it. I told him all would be well. But he became more and more fixated on the dreams. Stayed up for days on end in an effort to keep himself from dreaming.”
He remembered that—the way Mom would pace for hours at night, and how he’d laid awake, pretending he didn’t hear her, that everything was actually okay.
Grandma, oblivious to Mateo’s unease, kept talking. “Your grandfather’s frenzies became worse and worse. Then came that day when he was up in the attic with the old oil lantern, and I dared to interrupt his ranting and pacing. That was the day he did this and set the rafters on fire.” She put two fingers to her ravaged cheek. “They acted faster to save the house than to save my face.”
Sleep deprivation could drive anyone crazy, Mateo figured. Maybe that was all it was. “That doesn’t prove anything.
”
“Generation after generation, the Cabots try to convince themselves of that. And generation after generation, they’re wrong. I tried to end it with your mother, you know. I told her never to marry or have children, and for so long she obeyed. Then your father moved to town when she was forty—even I thought it might be safe by that point—but here you are.” Grandma leaned back in her chair, as though exhausted; this was probably the most talking she’d done in a year. “You can break the cycle, Mateo. You can end this by refusing to father children. Don’t adopt, either. It will only be crueler for them when you go mad.”
“I won’t.” The words came out louder than Mateo meant for them to, so loud that her eyes widened. He tried again. “I mean, it’s not going to happen to me.”
“But it will,” she said quite calmly. “You are the only one of your generation. There is no rescuing you.” Her bony hand reached out to ring the small silver bell that summoned the butler. “A pity, really. You were such a lovely child.”
Then she turned back to her window, and the butler came, and there was nothing for Mateo to do but leave, even more freaked out than he’d been before.
As he stumbled out into the sunlight, which now seemed too strong to his eyes, the countless other questions he had welled up inside: Why did Mom go on for so long without it happening to her? When did it begin? What were the first signs?