“Okay,” I said carefully. “I don't have a phone at the moment, but I can give you Evan's number.” Evan flinched beside me.
“No,” the vampire said, and Evan relaxed. “I will find you if I learn anything.”
“Fair enough,” I said. Also creepy. Now I did stand, and the vampire did the same.
“Until we meet again,” he said, and bowed ever so slightly.
Evan and I returned to our table, and I doubted I'd ever see the vampire again. He was probably just embarrassed at his attempt to enchant me and giving me lip service by way of apology.
“Why would you make a deal with him?” Evan asked. “He's a vampire!”
Said vampire was now waiting for the elevator. He smiled at me. He'd most likely heard that.
“Believe it or not,” I said, “not all vampires are downright evil. And I'd like to know why they wanted you, so we can make sure nothing else happens.” Because I didn't have enough on my plate.
Walter approached again, “You know, I just thought of something that might be the kind of unusual you're asking about. When I got here tonight, the bartender who was going off-duty said he'd been weirded out by some of the patrons who were here earlier. Three witches–a young lady and two young men–came in. They ate some pretzels and ignored the bartender completely. After about half an hour, one of them got a text message and said their meeting was canceled, so they left. The bartender said they made him very uncomfortable. Especially the men. They were twins.”
Crap.
My expression must have changed, because Evan said, “What is it?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.” I pulled out a couple of twenties and handed them to Walter. “For his drink and keep the change. And if anyone comes in and seems to be asking about me, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention me.”
He half-smiled and handed back one of the twenties. “They gave my friend the creeps. You don’t give me the creeps. I never saw you.” He slithered away.
I looked at Evan. “Time to go.” We moved to the elevator.
“So, you know the witches he mentioned?” Evan asked as I pressed the call button, which was always visible on this end.
I tapped my foot impatiently. “They're the people who want to kill me. My friends.” I paused. “Well, Chloe was never my friend, exactly. It's a long story.” The elevator opened, and we stepped in.
“I have a feeling a lot of your stories are long,” Evan said.
I didn't argue.
FOUR
We got back to Evan's around midnight. I was glad to have begun looking into Evan’s predicament—I'd already come to like the guy and sincerely wanted to help—but otherwise felt completely lost. I had no idea what I was looking for. I felt like a blind fish swimming in an ocean looking for a single speck of food.
Evan looked exhausted. He’d definitely had enough Other for one day. Probably for the rest of his life.
For that matter, I was tired, too, despite sleeping for so long earlier. My brain was on overload.
I didn't feel comfortable sleeping in Evie's room. Wearing her clothes was enough. So Evan set me up on the couch in the den. I threw on a pair of Evie's old pajamas, then I asked Evan for one last thing.
“Candles?” he said. “Yeah, we've got some. Ooh, are they for a spell or something?”
I smiled wearily. “Not exactly. Hopefully I won't even need it, but can you bring me one?”
He did, a slightly used white pillar candle. I set it on the coffee table.
Unable to stall anymore, he said, “Well, good night.”
“Try to sleep, okay?” I told him.
“I’ll do my best.” He disappeared upstairs.
I lay down on the couch and thought, allowing my mind to wander. What to do about Evan? I wasn't doing him any favors, dragging him into my problems. Nor, though, could I just abandon him until was sure he was safe from Forrest and whoever else might be involved. And I wondered what to do about my own problems. I was floundering about aimlessly. I'm not a detective. In all the years I'd worked with Stephen and the others, I'd pretty much just had to do what he said to do and everything worked out. Stephen had done all the investigating in advance. We worked for the greater good, protecting the world from some nasty supernatural threats, and I'd been content with being a tool in that process.
I slowly willed myself to sleep. In the morning, I would be glad I'd gotten the candle.
* * * * *
I hate the screams. The fire in my dream is bad enough—hot, suffocating, ridiculously vivid—but the screams are the worst. They claw their way into my head and take root in my brain. I'm trapped as the fire blazes around me. The screams don't stop. Some of them are my own.
* * * * *
I was jolted awake by Evan shaking my shoulders and calling my name. I sat up, my arm on the back of the couch for support, and tried to catch my breath.
On the coffee table, the candle was burning brightly, melted all the way to the base. I hadn't lit it before going to sleep.
“Are you okay?” Evan asked, his face heavy with concern. “I heard you when I got out of the shower. You were shouting gibberish and thrashing around.”
None of that particularly surprised me. I’d been having this recurring dream for a long time. “Sorry about that,” I muttered. I blew out the candle.
“Sorry? For what? You had a nightmare. That's not your fault.”
Problem is, it kind of was my fault.
* * * * *
After I took my own shower, Evan and I went to a coffee shop in town for breakfast. Literally, the sign just read COFFEE SHOP in plain letters over the picture window that looked inside. There were a few tables and a glass counter filled with baked goods. I had the best blueberry muffin I'd ever had and a cup of regular coffee. Evan had a chocolate chip cookie and some kind of frozen, non-coffee drink.
“Wuss,” I teased as I stirred in cream and sugar.
He rolled his eyes. “I love the smell of coffee, but I hate the taste.”
We ate in companionable silence. Evan was the first to break it.
“So, who's Josh?” he asked carefully.
I froze.
He continued, “You said his name while I was trying to wake you.”
I swallowed. “Josh was my brother.”
He hesitated for a few beats.
“He died a long time ago.”
“Oh, geez. I’m sorry. What happened?”
I took a drink of coffee. “A fire.”
“What about your parents?”
I held the coffee cup between my hands, suddenly cold in the air-conditioning. “They died when we were little. I was six, he was three. I barely remember them. After that, we lived with our grandmother. She died in the fire, too. I was the only one who made it out. I was thirteen. Six years ago.”
He stopped asking questions, thankfully. At least he didn't go on and on about how much it sucked. I appreciated that.
Afterward, we started walking through town. It was another beautiful summer day. The town was pleasant. It felt like I was just walking with a friend. Evan pointed out different places, things I hadn't noticed the night before.
I was also Feeling—capital F—for the supernatural, just as I’d done while looking for Kaotique. As we passed an alley between a laundromat and a drug store, I stopped. “Down here,” I told Evan, and started down the alley.
He followed. “Walking with a witch down an empty alley. What could go wrong?” he joked.
At the end of the alley was a plain door, covered in graffiti just like the rest of the wall, almost as though the taggers hadn't even seen the door was there. On the door was a placard that read VERONICA’S.
A bell jingled as I pushed the door open. Instead of a dark, windowless room, we entered into a quaint little shop. Big picture windows flanked either side of the door and looked not into the alley, but out onto Riverfront Drive. Sunlight streamed in.
Evan gaped. “Magic is cool.”
The shop was
filled with shelves that came to chest height, filled with jars and canisters and crystals and plastic baggies full of things. There were labels like GROUND DRAGON CLAW—extremely rare—and ESSENCE OF SUNLIGHT, which is a serious pain to bottle, let me tell you.
There was a counter with a cash register, behind which was a door. It opened, and through it came a girl with blond hair that fell just past her shoulder blades. She was somewhere in her mid-teens. She wore a pink shirt that read BLONDES ARE MAGICAL, underneath which was a sparkling magic wand.
Evan's eyes widened in alarm. When the girl noticed him, she scowled. “Evan Grant? What the hell are you doing here?”
Evan cleared his throat and said, in a remarkably controlled voice, “I could ask you the same thing, Megan.”
They glared at each other for a few beats, then I said, “I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you know each other?”
“We go to school together,” the girl who was apparently Megan said, turning her attention to me. “Who are you, and why are you bringing the Rockwelliest Rockwell into a magic shop?”
“None of your business!” Evan snapped. “What are you doing in one yourself?”
“I'm a witch! Duh!”
Now, I’d appraised her with my senses as soon as she'd walked into the room, and a witch she was not. I snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough.
Megan wasn't fooled. “What's your problem?”
She was starting to annoy me, and maybe I was feeling a little defensive of Evan. “You are not a witch.”
The door opened again and an older woman, fortyish, who was obviously Megan's mother walked in. She had the same color hair as Megan, but she wore it shorter. And she had a much better fashion sense—she wore a gray pantsuit that fit her perfectly.
“Veronica Chase,” she said, extending a hand. I shook it. “And you're right. My daughter is Talented, but she's not a witch. She's Intuitive.”
Ah. Megan was sort of a psychic.
“Mom!” Megan hissed.
I held up my hands placatingly. “Ally Barrett, and I didn’t mean any offense.”
Veronica smiled warmly. “I keep trying to teach Megan to be proud of who she is instead of making herself out to be something she's not. Maybe one day it will sink in.”
Megan plopped onto a stool behind the counter and sulked the way only teenagers who didn't grow up like I did can manage it. Megan was blissfully ignorant of the true horrors of the world, and, as such, still cared about slights to her own ego.
I, of course, had never behaved that way. Ahem.
Veronica continued, “She did pose a good question, though. Why have you brought a Rockwell into the shop?“ She then added, “Hello, Evan.”
“Hi, Ms. Chase,” Evan said sheepishly.
In case it isn't obvious by now, the Others are generally pretty guarded. We may live in normal communities and even have normal friends, but only rarely do we let them into our world. Rockwells associate with us and hardly ever realize what they're dealing with.
“He's a friend,” I said, surprised that I was affording him such a label so quickly. “And I give my word that our secret is safe with him.” That also surprised me, but even as I said it, I was confident it was true.
“Hello?” Evan chimed in. “I'm right here. I can give my own word. And I do promise not to tell anyone about this.” He snorted. “Not that anyone would believe it anyway,” he added softly. Good point.
Veronica nodded, satisfied. “Then I welcome you both.” We ignored Megan's soft scoffing. Veronica asked, “Can I help you find anything?”
“I'd like to go through your charms,” I said.
She led me to a series of shelves filled with crystals. Some were built into rings, earrings, necklaces, and even anklets, while others were just plain crystals. They were labeled things like GLAMOUR, TELEPATHY, INVISIBILITY, and LEVITATION. Each came with a small card containing instructions for usage, how long the charm would last, and any limitations.
Charms are a pain to make. They involve pouring energy into a physical object—usually, but not necessarily, a crystal—then shaping the energy for your intended use. Then you have to trap it in the object, so it stays put until you desire to use it. It’s pretty intricate magic, and it takes patience and skill. A lot of witches prefer to buy charms from a trusted source rather than take the time to make their own. I wasn't very good at them myself. That thing I did with the plastic bottle in Pittsburgh had been a very poor charm. I'd just slapped it together, and plastic is a very weak medium.
Veronica’s charms were solid. Energy hummed through them, and I felt it as I held them. I picked out a few to buy.
“You know how to invoke, of course,” she said, and I shot her a not-unfriendly PUH-LEEZE look. She smiled. “Just checking.”
Invoking, or activating, a charm requires one of two things, depending on the charm—a drop of blood or an ounce of will. Once invoked, it will only work for the invoker, unless it's given willingly to another.
At the register, I grabbed a pack of finger sticks—just like diabetics use to check their blood sugar—and added it to the charms I'd selected.
Veronica rang me up. I suppressed a grimace when she gave me the total. It was a fair price, but my cash was quickly dwindling.
“So,” I said as she put everything into a small paper bag, “where's the nearest library?”
She handed me the bag. “Up on Maple. Mary Hall runs it. Lovely woman, adores seeing new faces. Tell her I said hi.”
“Will do. Thanks for the help.”
Veronica smiled warmly as we headed for the door. “Stop in again, okay?” she said.
“But leave Evan at home,” Megan added, spitting out his name like a curse. Veronica hissed Megan's name as the door closed behind us.
Evan groaned and brushed his fingers through his hair. “Bitch,” he grumbled. His shoulders were tense.
We started back toward the street. “I guess you two aren't exactly Facebook friendly?” I said.
His breath escaped in a silent, humorless laugh. “You guess right.”
I stopped before we exited onto Riverfront Drive. I set the bag down and pulled out a charm and a finger stick. “This is a healing charm,” I told him. “Let's take care of that bruise on your arm.”
It was partially covered by his T-shirt, and he pulled his sleeve to his shoulder. “Clara did it,” he said, shuddering at the vampire's name. “When I tried to bolt, and she made it clear I shouldn't.” I handed him the finger stick, and he gave me a confused look.
“I could invoke it myself,” I said, “but it will work better if you do. Use the stick on your finger and squeeze a drop of blood on the charm.”
He fumbled with the finger stick and managed to prick his left index finger. I handed him the charm, and he smeared a bead of his blood onto it. The charm began to glow faintly.
“Whoa,” he said. “I can feel it.” The pricked finger was already healed.
“Hold it over the bruise,” I said.
He did, and the bruise faded and vanished. “That's so cool,” he said.
The charm stopped glowing when there was nothing left to heal.
“Put it in your pocket. It'll be good for a few more uses, and you won't have to invoke it again.”
He slipped the crystal into his jeans. “Thanks.”
We walked out onto the sidewalk. “So, what's the story with you and Megan?” I asked as he began leading me to Maple Avenue.
He sighed. “We got along up until eighth grade. We weren't friends, but we weren't enemies either. Then that summer she asked me out. I said no.” He paused. “I may also have told her I prefer girls with more substance.”
I chuckled. “She probably didn't like that.”
“She went around telling everyone I'm gay. Which would be fine if I was, but I'm not. And since she's a cheerleader and everyone falls all over her, they ate it up. And she's kept on talking crap ever since. This is a small town, you know? Once you’re the target of the popul
ar crowd, it never lets up. I never had a big social life to begin with, but by the start of ninth grade, virtually everyone was against me.”
I nodded sympathetically. My small circle of friends wanted to kill me now. There was only one I wasn't sure about, but I couldn't bring myself to think of him.
“But on the bright side,” Evan said, “I met my best friend Derek because of that whole ordeal, so there's that.”
We came to a brick building with a sign proclaiming it to be the Chandler Public Library.
“So, why didn't you ask me where the library was?” Evan asked.
“Because I wasn't sure you'd know. Not every town has the kind of library I'm looking for,” I told him.
“Oh,” he said, following me inside, “of course. You need one of those special libraries.”
The Chandler Public Library was decent for a town of its size. It consisted of two floors, and the first floor looked like it had been updated sometime in the past few years. They had fairly new computers, a few of which were in use, and there was a circular desk in the middle of the large room.
I love libraries. I love the smell of the books and escaping into the stories they tell. I love how the turning pages and the scratching pencils and the quiet clacking of keys can join together into a hypnotic white noise. When I was little, my grandmother took my brother and me to the library almost every week. She would comment on how much it had changed since she was a kid, but never in a negative way. Grandma had always stayed current. She was never averse to change.
“You know,” Evan whispered, “libraries probably won't exist in another few decades.”
I scowled at him. “Bite your tongue. These books are practically singing to me. Tablets can't beat the feel of a real book in your hand.”
By the staircase that led to the second floor, there was a sign that read RARE BOOKS with an arrow pointing up. That's where I headed. The second floor was completely empty, as I’d expected.
Evan frowned. “I don't like it up here. It feels weird.”
I said, “It’s a Rockwell deterrent spell. You’ll be fine.”
Runaway Witch Page 4