by Meg Cabot
“Bind her hands,” Tory commanded.
And Lindsey and Gretchen dutifully produced a black satin cord—probably the sash to one of their father’s bathrobes—and began to wind it—not very loosely, I don’t mind saying—around my wrists. In fact, they tied me up quite tightly.
“You guys,” I said. I told myself not to panic. It was probably only some kind of stupid hazing ritual. Probably, they were going to make me join their dumb coven and pledge some stupid oath. Just a little bloodletting, to make us “soul sisters,” or whatever. Still. “I think you cut off the circulation to my fingers.”
“Shut up,” Tory said.
“Okay,” I said. “But if my fingers turn black and start falling off—”
“I said, SHUT UP.”
That was when Tory got up from her chair and hit me. Hard. Open-palmed, across the face.
I guess you could say it was more of a slap than a hit. Still, it hurt. For a minute, I saw stars.
That’s when I realized this probably wasn’t about hazing after all.
“Is everything ready?” Tory asked her two accomplices, who nodded. Gretchen had a look of excitement on her face. Only Lindsey seemed a bit taken aback by the slap. At least, from what I could observe, through eyes that had automatically filled up with tears at the blow. Tory was much stronger, physically, than I’d ever given her credit for. That slap had HURT.
“All right,” Tory said. She returned to her seat.
“Tonight, under this new moon, a time for new beginnings, I am going to right a wrong,” she began. “A hundred and fifty years ago, one of the most powerful witches of all time, Branwen, who was born with the gift of magic, predicted that a descendant of hers would inherit her great powers. By every law that is natural and right, that descendant should have been me. But for some completely screwed-up reason, it looks as if it’s my cousin Jinx.”
“It’s not,” I said. Because, though I had seen Branwen in my own room that very night, I suspected that, based on her own experiences, she’d probably agree that denying possession of any witchlike abilities was the way to go. “It’s not me.”
Tory glared at me. “Don’t,” she said, “interrupt the ceremony.”
“But it’s not me, Tory,” I said desperately. “Come on, this is stupid. How could I have magic powers? You know I’m the unluckiest person on the face of the planet—”
“How do you explain Dylan, then, and his devotion to you?” Tory snapped.
“That was just a fluke.”
“Shawn?”
“That was you,” I said. “You’re the one who got him expelled.”
“Sure,” Tory said. “But everyone blames you. What about Zach?”
I blinked at her.
“Well, Jinx? What. About. Zach.”
And, just like that, it was back. The anger I’d felt earlier. The anger that Lisa had told me I would need when the time came.
“I told you a million times,” I said. “Zach doesn’t like me that way. We’re just friends…and we’re probably not even that anymore, thanks to YOU and that stupid doll of YOURS, so—”
Tory stood up, one hand raised as if to hit me again. I glared at her, daring her—just daring her—to try it. If she came one step closer, I’d kick her in the face.
But Lindsey, of all people, stopped her by whining, “Can we just get this over with? I’m starving. And you know what happens when my blood sugar gets too low.”
Tory glared at her.
“Fine,” she said.
That’s when Tory picked up the knife. A huge knife—a decorative one, like the kind you buy at those stores that sell ornamental knives, like those used in the Lord of the Rings movies.
One look at that knife, and I was done. That was it. I sprang up from the chair—only to have Gretchen shove me back and hold me down with both hands pressed, hard, to my shoulders, while I squirmed. Seeing I wasn’t going to escape that way, I opened my mouth to scream—
But Tory, anticipating the move, shoved both her long, silk gloves into my mouth, effectively gagging me.
“Stop struggling, Jinx,” Tory was saying, in what was actually quite a soothing voice, for her. “This is what you want, remember? You’ve always wanted just to be normal, right? Well, as soon as we get enough of your blood for me to drink, I’ll assume your powers, and you won’t have to worry anymore. I’ve made a banishing potion from some very rare mushrooms. You can drink it down, and you won’t have to worry about bad luck anymore. All the powers you inherited from Branwen will be gone. Instead, I’ll have them.”
Okay. This was bad. This was really bad. I’d had some bad luck before this, it was true…but this was definitely the worst. I had to get out of this.
But how? I was completely helpless. Gretchen was strong. That cord was tied so tightly. I couldn’t cry out. What could I do?
What does anyone do when all hope is gone, and all else fails?
What was it that Lisa from Enchantments had said? Tory can’t hurt me if I…if I…if I what? Why couldn’t I remember?
Embrace the magic.
But how could I? How could I embrace something that had caused me nothing but grief for so long? I mean, look what had happened with Dylan. Look what had happened to the people in the hospital the night I was born. Look what had happened tonight at the dance. I couldn’t embrace something that had messed up so many lives, something that I’d assumed was bad.
“Wait a minute,” Lindsey said. “You’re going to drink her blood?”
“What did you expect?” Tory demanded. “It’s a blood ritual. Duh.”
“I know,” Lindsey said, growing, if such a thing were possible, even paler. “But I didn’t know you were going to drink it. Do I have to, too?”
“Do you want me to be a real witch,” Tory roared, “or don’t you?”
“Well,” Lindsey said. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t know. But are you really going to make her drink that stuff with the mushrooms in it? What if she gets sick? They could be poisonous, for all you know.”
“It won’t matter,” Tory said. “No one will believe her. They’ll think she poisoned herself, on account of what happened at the dance. And by then I’ll have her powers—which she never appreciated, much less learned how to use properly. And Mom and Dad’ll be putty in my hands.” To me, Tory said, in a voice that was soothing again, “And Zach will love me, not her. Just wait and see.”
But I barely heard her. Because I was thinking, What if what Lisa had said was true, and all of the awful things that had happened to me hadn’t been caused by bad luck, but by fear…fear turned inward? Fear of what I really was.
Fear of WHO I really was.
The magic will save me. Branwen will save me……if I embrace that which I fear.
And suddenly, my mind emptied. Instead, I thought about the magic and how it could save me. I thought about the moon, so bright and high, with that rainbow around it. I thought about the roses bursting into bloom all around the garden. I thought about Branwen, and how she’d given me back my necklace, and how calm I’d felt after I’d seen her, smiling, beside my bed.
And I thought about Zach, right next door. All he had to do was just look out his window. Then he’d see the gazebo…he’d see me.
“I don’t know how much longer I can hold her.” Gretchen’s voice sounded shaky with fear. I hadn’t noticed that before. But now, it was as if all my senses had been heightened. I was aware of the smell of roses in the air, so sweet.
Wake up, Zach. Look at the moon, Zach. I’m here, Zach. I’m down here.
“Fine.” Tory looked furious. “Then just shut up and watch while I do my thing.”
Tory then proceeded to “do her thing” by holding up the knife so that the blade glinted in the moonlight that sliced through the glass ceiling of the gazebo. Then Tory intoned, “In the name of Hecate, and Branwen, and…and all of the witches in creation, I draw from this woman that which rightfully belongs to me.”
She signaled for Lindsey
to reach down and grab my bound wrists—which she did, though I struggled to keep them from her, while at the same time struggling to break free from Gretchen’s heavy grasp—and hold them out across the chalice.
And, without the slightest bit of hesitation, Tory started to bring down the shiny blade she held.
Which was when three things happened simultaneously. Lindsey let go of my hands and cried, “Oh my God, Tory! You can’t really—”
And I raised my knee against the underside of the table as hard as I could, tipping the heavy glass—and the chalice, the candles, and mushroom potion on top of it—toward Tory.
And I heard the gazebo door crash open, and a familiar, masculine voice say, “What the hell is going on here?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Zach!” Tory cried, scrambling to her feet. “Oh my God! What are you doing here? How nice of you to drop by!”
Zach, however, didn’t seem to be in the mood for social niceties. Maybe it was the glass tabletop that had rolled over onto the hem of Tory’s skirt, which she was trying desperately—yet casually—to pull free. Or maybe it was the knife she still held in one hand, or the mushroomy potion spilled all over her dress.
Maybe it was Gretchen’s and Lindsey’s guilt-stricken expressions.
Or maybe it was the fact that I was bound and gagged and sprawled in an ignominious heap on the gazebo floor.
In any case, he didn’t respond to Tory’s question. Instead, he knelt down beside me and pulled the gloves from my mouth.
“Are you all right?” he wanted to know.
I nodded. I don’t think I could have spoken if I’d wanted to. Not because my cousin had just tried to kill me. But because Zach had rushed down to rescue me without remembering to put a shirt on.
Maybe Tory had killed me, and I had died and gone to heaven.
Except that if this was heaven, why was Lindsey crying?
“Oh, Zach, please don’t tell Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner about this,” she begged. “Mrs. Gardiner’s on the same volunteer board at Sloan-Kettering as my mom. She’ll KILL me if she found out I was playing around at being a witch.”
That’s when Tory shrieked, “LINDSEY! SHUT UP!” And then began to babble.
“We tried to stop her,” Tory said. “Honest to God, Zach. But Jean was so upset, you know, over what happened—my outing her as a witch at the dance, and all—that she tried to kill herself. This is how we found her. We were just about to call nine-one-one—”
“She gagged herself?” Zach demanded harshly. “And tied her own hands together? Nice try, Tory. But I heard what you were saying to her, you sick—”
Then Zach said some very bad swear words. The kind my mother would have charged him a quarter for, if he’d said them back in Hancock.
“God,” Tory said, sounding mad. “Fine. Don’t believe us. The only reason you’re on her side is because she cast a love spell on you. How does it feel, knowing you’re just a victim of her manipulative witch MAGIC?”
“No,” I tried to say. “Don’t listen to her. I did use magic. I called you here with magic, Zach. But to help me. Not to love me. Never to love me. That doll was hers! That doll was hers!”
But nothing came out of me except a croaking noise. I couldn’t speak, because my throat was as dry as sand.
“The only victim I can see here is Jean,” Zach was saying in a harsh voice. “What is wrong with you, Tory? You could have really hurt her.”
“Oh, sure.” Tory was sniffling now. “Take her side. That’s very nice. I’ve known you since I was in kindergarten, but take the side of the person you’ve only known a month—”
But Zach wasn’t listening. “Give me that knife,” he said to Tory, who mutely handed it to him, while Gretchen said, actually sounding scared, “I never thought it would go this far, Zach. I never thought Tory really meant to hurt her. When she told us about it, she said she would just prick her a little. Also, that Jean wouldn’t mind, that she was sick of her bad luck, or something, and wanted to get rid of it and give it to her.”
I said, “Never! I will never surrender my power! I’ve embraced it! I don’t fear it anymore!”
But all that came out was more croaking.
“Only that it wasn’t bad luck”—Gretchen was the one babbling now—“that it was magic, and she—Jean—just didn’t know how to use it properly. And that if Tory drank her blood—Jean’s blood—that doll thingy of hers would work, and you’d love her the way she wanted you to—”
“GRETCHEN!” Tory yelled. “SHUT UP!”
Zach used Tory’s knife to cut the cords that were keeping my hands tied. It was only when he pulled me to my feet that he noticed—we both noticed—I couldn’t walk so well. Not from anything Tory had done, but from the pain in my knee, where I’d rammed it so hard into the glass-topped table in order to tip it over.
“Come on,” Zach said, slipping an arm around my waist. “Lean on me.”
And he helped me hobble from the gazebo and out into the fresh night air of the garden, where Mouche met us, with a tiny, inquisitive “Mrow?”
“We can’t leave Mouche outside,” I tried to say. “Alice will freak out if she’s not on her bed when she wakes up.”
But my voice was still too rusty from the gag, and all that came out was, “Mouche.”
“I know,” Zach said. “I’ll come out and get her after I get you inside. Don’t worry.”
And then he was banging on a door, and a few seconds later, I heard Petra’s voice say sleepily, “Yes? Who is—oh, Zach? What are you—”
Then in a much less sleepy voice, she said, “Jean!”
Then the moonlight disappeared, and we were in Petra’s snug basement apartment, the door to which was right off the garden. Zach was lowering me onto Petra’s couch, and I had time to notice that Willem wasn’t sleeping there after all. He was standing in the doorway to Petra’s bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a really confused expression. He looked incredibly cute.
Although not as cute as Zach, in nothing but the jeans he’d thrown on so hastily, they weren’t even buttoned properly.
Zach’s hands were all cut up, too. What had happened to Zach’s hands?
Oh. The roses.
“Oh my God,” Petra was saying. “What happened?”
The roses. He’d cut them on the roses, climbing over the wall.
But Petra wasn’t talking about Zach, it turned out.
“She’s all right. She just needs some water,” Zach said. Then, three more words, uttered so coldly, they chilled my heart: “It was Tory.”
“Her wrists—”
“They tied her up,” Zach said shortly.
“Oh my God. I should wake the Gardiners,” Petra said.
“NO!” a shrill voice called out.
And that’s when I realized Tory had followed us from the gazebo.
“Petra, don’t!” Tory cried. Her expression—Willem had turned on the overhead light—was one of wild-eyed, near hysteria. She stood there in her potion-smeared white ball gown, looking like Cinderella at the ball—after realizing the clock had struck midnight. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad! Jinx told me she wanted to get rid of her powers. She told me she couldn’t handle them…she was tired of always having such bad luck. I was trying to help her. Honest.”
“Powers?” Willem asked. “What are these powers she speaks of?”
“Tory,” Petra said, as she knelt beside me and offered me a glass full of water, which I took and immediately drained. “Not now.”
“Wait,” Tory said. She was crying now. I watched as tears streamed down her pretty face. “It was a game. That’s all it was. Jinx was in on it. She liked it.”
“Oh, is that right?” Zach’s voice was hard. “And the dead rat? She liked that? And everyone in school thinking she’s a narc, when it was you—don’t deny it—who turned in Shawn…your own boyfriend? And what about the stunt you pulled tonight at the dance, bringing that guy from Iowa? I could see how much she liked
that.” Zach’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “And who doesn’t like being gagged and tied up?”
“I told you,” Tory shrieked, really hysterical now. “It was just a game! Jinx, tell them! Tell them it was just a game!”
I looked at Tory, standing in Petra’s tidy, warm living room, looking so incredibly beautiful. She’d always been the prettier one of the two of us.
But I had never resented her for it. I had accepted it, the way you accept that a sister might be taller than you, or a brother better at basketball.
But she had never been able to accept me, and what it was that I had, that she didn’t. That she would never, ever have.
The thing was, why should she have accepted it, when for so long, I’d been unable to accept it myself?
But not now. Now, everything was different. Everything.
Most of all, me.
“Tell them,” Tory begged me, through her tears. “Tell them it was just a game, Jinx.”
“No,” I said. And this time, when I spoke, I knew they could all understand me.
“No, it wasn’t a game, actually.”
Which was when Petra, pale but resolute, turned and headed up the stairs—and Tory raced after her, screaming, “No! Petra! I can explain! Wait!”
And Willem, looking confused but determined, went after Tory, apparently to make sure she didn’t do anything to Petra.
And then I was alone with Zach.
I was sure Willem’s display of devoted chivalry had to sting, so I turned to Zach and said, “I’m sorry.”
He looked down at me, clearly surprised. “Sorry? About what? None of this was your fault.”
“I don’t mean about that,” I said. “I mean about Petra. And Willem. I was going to tell you. But I never got a chance. You know.” When he continued to look at me blankly, I elaborated: “Zach, I’m sorry. But I don’t think they’ll be breaking up any time soon. She really loves him. And he really loves her.”
Zach’s expression, as he gazed down at me, went from one of surprise to one I recognized. It was the same look he’d worn on the baseball field that day—a mix of frustration and amusement.