Seriously Wicked: A Novel

by Tina Connolly

  Dragon milk welled in her eyes and dripped into the glass jam jars that hung around her head to catch the excretions. Her neck sagged and she coughed, her wheeze shaking the jam jars against her side with clink-clinks. “We’ll get your chest looked at, I promise,” I said. I leaned my head into her rough scales and sent back images of one of my plane trips. I’d been sent to Brazil at thirteen to courier ingredients home for the witch. I showed her our plane flying through gold-lit clouds, I showed her tops of textured green trees, and I felt her warm rumble of enjoyment beneath me.

  Spending time with her almost made up for the fact that when I finally made it inside, I found that the werewolf pup had been so upset with himself for his part in the demon disaster that he’d chewed up my feather pillow and my left toe-loop sandal. Then hid under the bed, his tail wagging the dust ruffle like mad. Short tufts of werewolf hair floated out, silver in the lamplight.

  “Come on out, Wulfie,” I said. “It wasn’t really your fault.” He whined and licked my fingers, but he couldn’t talk in this state. (I dunno about all werewolves, but ours is only human on the full moon. He’s three years old, so once a month is plenty, believe me.) “Tomorrow’s another day,” I said. I dumped my jeans on the floor and my cell phone fell to the carpet.

  I stuffed my featherless pillow with an old sweatshirt and tossed it and the phone on the bed. The phone landed on a printout the witch had left for me. After punishments, she frequently left directions for an antidote spell in my room. Of course, since I couldn’t work the darn things, it was basically further punishment just to see them.

  The anti-itching spell on the printout started, “Take pi slices of blueberry pie…”

  I flicked it to the floor, scratching my arms. “I don’t do spells,” I muttered.

  I put the makeshift pillow behind me and picked up my phone. The phone was still black and cold, and I hadn’t brought up any dragon milk.

  I swallowed. “I don’t do spells,” I repeated. The window cleaner I spritz on for the bus driver, the disinfectant I’d flicked on the ninth grader—that magic came from the original animal or elemental. It worked regardless of who did the sprinkling.

  Not so with real spells.

  They required thought, patience. Intention.

  Witch blood.

  “And I am not a witch, no matter what she says.” Wulfie licked my foot.

  Still, elementals were powerful, even if I wasn’t a witch myself. Perhaps the dragon on my skin would be enough to boost my phone up again. I rubbed my dragon-smelling fingers around the keypad. “Up we go,” I said, like the phone was Wulfie. “Up we go.” Then I pressed the “power” button one more time.

  This time it came up.

  “Maybe it wasn’t really dead,” I told Wulfie. He settled in on my feet and draped his head across my ankles.

  Back to my demon bookmark. Ah, there it was: “The best way to stop a demon is not to summon it.”

  Too late for that.

  “Demons are bound by their contracts,” it continued. “Even the smartest witches have difficulty demonproofing the terms of their contracts. Demons are on the alert for any loopholes. A demon bound to a contract is obligated to continue working on it, and the only way to banish a demon is to fulfill the contract. Even this can lead to difficulties, such as in the case of Jim Hexar in 1982, when such a contract effectively prevented any chance of him winning his Head Warlock bid.”

  Hexar, I thought. Was that the same Hexar as the Hexar/Scarabouche T-shirt the mannequin wore? I had no idea the witch had had real political aspirations once. All the attempts at city-running I’d seen involved spells and schemes, not rallies and debates. I suppose I’d thought the shirt was a joke. It was hard to imagine Sarmine as a T-shirted young rebel in 1982, knowing her as the ancient-looking support-hosed witch I knew now.

  Though if she still acted like a twenty-year-old, it would be a lot easier to imagine it—because she’d look like it.

  See, witches live a long time, often three times as long as humans. But the interesting thing about witches is that they look whatever age they feel like inside. I don’t mean they can choose, exactly, though they sort of do. Basically they look the age they feel … and most of them feel old, which is why one of the things regular humans get right is imagining that all witches are ancient humpbacked crones.

  Because … yeah. I think all that paranoia gets to you, that and feeling a million times smarter than all the humans around you. Witches aren’t as a rule any smarter, as any trip around the WitchNet will show you, but they know magic, and they know they’re going to live a long time. If you know you’re going to be around to see it, you look at the fate of the world differently.

  Not that that gave Sarmine Scarabouche the right to wreak havoc on my high school.

  I clicked on “Jim Hexar,” but the biography was terse: “Vanished near the beginning of the twenty-first century,” it said, and then there was a smoky-smelling sign that said the article had been flagged for having virus spells attached to it. I shut off my phone before one could sneak through.

  Fulfill the contract, I thought. I turned off the light and smooshed my sweatshirt pillow into a better position. So Estahoth/Devon was going to be busy working on Sarmine’s contractual list of world-taking-over duties. If Witchipedia was right, there was no way to send a demon back to the Earth’s core until its contract was up. But what about getting a demon out of a particular human? Did such a demon-getting-out spell even exist?

  Well, even if it did, the witch wasn’t going to work it for me. I dismissed that option from my mind. It seemed like my best bet to save Devon’s soul was to help him complete the contract so the demon would leave.

  Which apparently included destroying five people and maybe making the school burn down.

  Un dilemme, indeed.

  6

  Sparkle This

  Devon was not on the bus the next morning. I walked up and down the aisle, checking, even though Oliver the bus driver looked at me funny and made a crack about walking to school.

  He was also not in Algebra II, which made me more nervous. Was the demon that in control of him that he couldn’t make it to school? I didn’t even know where he lived. What if the demon had already eaten his soul?

  At lunch, Jenah stopped me at the cafeteria door. “There’s catering where we’re going,” she said.

  “Where are we going?” I said.

  Jenah made shifty eyes. “You remember how you said you owed me big-time for tracking down Kelvin yesterday?”

  “And I stand by that,” I said. “Wait, you aren’t going to ask me to clean your half of the locker again, are you? It’s like a fake-hair factory exploded down there, and it’s only October.”

  “It’s nothing bad,” Jenah said quickly.

  “Good,” I said, as we set off down the hall. “And this nothing bad thing is…?”

  “Very last Halloween Dance Committee meeting,” Jenah said in a fast mumble. Like very last made it better.

  I stopped. “Jenah, you know I hate Halloween.”

  She grabbed my hand. “Yes, but you promised. Come on.”

  “I don’t know why you need me,” I said. Jenah understood dances. Parties. Committees. Today she was all in black and yellow, stripes and fishnets. Her clipped-in streak was highlighter yellow, and her eyes were winged in perfect cat’s-eye liner. I was in my second-best jeans—the ones that didn’t understand my butt and showed too much sock—and a vintage tee with a glittery rainbow.

  It was obvious who should be on the HDC.

  “The aura in that room is just awful,” said Jenah. “I need you to balance it out with me. You know what they can be like.”

  They? “Jenah,” I said, “is Sparkle on the committee?”

  Jenah grimaced. “Trying to run things, as usual.” The only person I’ve ever seen cow Jenah is Sparkle. Sparkle can make you feel more ridiculous than an elephant trying to squeeze into a tutu.

  “I’ll run backup.” I sig
hed. “The way I feel today, Sparkle just better not say anything.”

  “How do you feel?” said Jenah. “You look green and jittery around the edges. Rosemarie said she saw you on the bus with the new boy yesterday afternoon. He seems a little … off in his own world, doesn’t he? Always with those earbuds?”

  “There’s a reason for that,” I said defensively. I couldn’t tell Jenah the demon story, so I doled out other gossip. “Did you know he’s in a band?”

  “Ooh!”

  “He’s supposed to sing lead on the songs he writes, but he’s still working on his stage fright. He’s really very sweet. And kind.” And he has a lovely velvety voice …

  “We could help him with his stage fright,” said Jenah. “I just knew our lines were bound to be entangled in some way. I could see it from the moment I saw him.”

  “You and me both,” I muttered.

  “No cryptic utterances,” Jenah said firmly, “Or else—”

  “Our galactic jump rope gets in a knot. I know. You don’t really need me for Sparkle, do you?”

  Jenah suddenly stopped. “Ooh, isn’t that him? What on earth happened?”

  A tall, weary boy was slodging through the crowds milling around the front door.

  It was the weirdest thing, but when I looked at him the first time, it looked as though his hair was completely black.

  But it must’ve been the way the shadows and backpacks moved, because when he looked up and saw us, he was his normal blond boy-band self, except very, very tired-looking.

  His face cleared at the sight of me. “Cam,” he said, and then stopped. He blinked and swayed on his feet, like he was too tired to think of words after that. His jeans were muddy and his T-shirt sleeve was torn. He was carrying a cardboard box, also muddy, with little bits of stalks and grass stuck into the mud. A leggy lump on the top looked like a squished water bug.

  “What happened to you?” I said.

  For an answer, he lifted the flap of the box about a half inch. I peered in, and through the light from the airholes punched in the top, I saw a hoppy mass. For a moment I thought they were frogs, but then I saw that the little green blobs had wings. Sparkly green wings that winked in and out of sight like lightning bug bellies.

  Pixies.

  “Wow,” I said. “One hundred?”

  “One hundred,” said Devon.

  “One hundred…?” said Jenah.

  “Frogs,” I lied. “One hundred frogs.”

  Devon nodded to Jenah over the box and lifted dirty fingers. “I’m Devon,” he said. “I’m new.”

  “True but not very explanatory,” she said. “I’m Jenah; I’m in your algebra and your American history, so I already know some-things about you but not the most important question: Why do you have a box of frogs?”

  “Science project,” I said.

  Jenah looked thoughtful. “None of the science classes are currently doing projects.”

  “Extra credit?” suggested Devon.

  “Catching up from his old school,” I said simultaneously.

  Jenah shook her head at us, lips pursed like she was buying none of it. She pointed a finger at me. “Thirty seconds,” she said, and then collared a passing Mohawked boy to catch up on the latest news from the punk world.

  Devon smiled shyly at me.

  “How are you, um, doing with you-know-who?” I said.

  “I tried to go to sleep last night but he dragged me down to the creek behind my house,” he said. “We caught four pix—er, frogs there. Then down the creek to where it goes in the sewer pipe. Another two frogs inside the sewer. Then he marched my legs overland till we found where the creek starts up again. Like, half a mile. Another three frogs. The creek widened until it hit a lake. All around the lake were enormous houses with motion detectors that went off if I chased the frogs in the wrong direction. By then it was after midnight…”

  “Gah,” I said.

  “I just found number one hundred in a culvert three miles from here,” he said. “I found a bus stop, but the driver wouldn’t let me on with a box of pix—frogs. I don’t mean to complain.” He yawned. “I’m just dead.”

  “What’s he doing now?” I said. “You know. Him.”

  “Catching up on sleep,” Devon said in a low voice. “And now I have to figure out how to save these frogs. I had to fight to put airholes in the box, and a bowl of water. His reflexes are better than mine, so I tried to encourage him to catch some flies for the box. I don’t even know if they eat flies.”

  I nodded. “Flies, spiders, and dew that still has dawn reflected in it.”

  “I couldn’t see them at first till he rubbed my eyes around with his fingers,” said Devon. “My fingers. Whatever. Now my eyes feel like they’re full of Vaseline.” He shrugged his shoulders, swaying again. “I could crumble up an energy bar for the frogs. Do you think they’d eat it?”

  “Doubtful,” I said. Pixies were picky. “I could help you catch spiders after school if you want. But they definitely need the dew tomorrow at dawn or their lights will dim.”

  “I remember the first time I dealt with a kitten at the shelter that wouldn’t eat anything,” Devon said. “Tried cloth soaked in milk, baby formula, water … Dunno why I didn’t think of dawn-reflected dew.”

  “Ready to go?” said Jenah from across the hall.

  Devon bent toward me. “How can I deal with it, Cam?” he said urgently. “Estahoth said he’s here till Friday no matter what. How can I make it two more days without going crazy? Everything he made me do last night, from smashing birds’ nests to throwing the pixies in the box with no food … He’s my opposite. What do I do?”

  Little blows shook my soul. How could I explain to him how his words hit home? How do you deal when some random statement hits to the core of your deepest fears?

  We looked at each other for ages. I don’t think either of us could’ve spoken if we tried.

  Then Jenah grabbed my arm and the moment collapsed. “Have. To. Go,” she said. “Come on down to the choir room if you get a chance, Devon. I’ve got ideas for you.” She grinned and dragged me down the crowded hallway. “Mick says the punks poll one hundred percent in favor of Lice Blanket, and zero percent in favor of the band Sparkle wants. God, the only people who like that band are Sparkle’s girls and maybe also the pink-sweater-vest crowd.”

  “You don’t have to pull,” I finally managed, halfway down the hall.

  “Oh good, Miss Giant,” she said. “Then come on.”

  “If you were any shorter, I’d step on you,” I said. I went through the motions of the familiar teasing, but I was still thinking about someone driving my life, someone who was the opposite of everything I stood for.

  But we were at the door to the choir room. “Focus! Free food!” Jenah said in my ear, and shoved me through.

  The room was full of Sparkle’s friends, claiming the space by draping themselves on the risers and around the piano. Jenah was right: deep soul-searching would have to wait. I shook my head and tried to focus.

  The catering was good as usual when Sparkle was involved. No, I don’t know why we get catering for a party-planning committee, except that Sparkle gets her best friend Reese’s mom to donate for whatever Sparkle wants. I’m not complaining. Sushi and sashimi out the ears, plenty of the stuff I like and the witch hates. I get to eat Cantonese at Jenah’s place (her mom sighs and fixes it when the tradition-loving grandparents are there), and pizza when I sneak off by myself on teacher workday holidays (I don’t tell the witch those days exist), but otherwise it’s beet salad and raw carrots all the way. The witch refuses to get take-out because she says the delivery people’s vibes interfere with her spells or something.

  Sparkle was standing by the spider rolls in a white tank and turquoise sequined skirt. I could almost feel cheery toward Sparkle for the catering choices, but of course she immediately studied my butt in my second-best jeans and said, “You should definitely have some more tempura, Camellia.”

  I put a
nother handful of fried things on my plate. “Excellent suggestion,” I said. “You should definitely have some more total pain in the—”

  “Oh, Camellia, don’t,” said Miss Crane ineffectually. We all knew Miss Crane, as she was the choir teacher, and also the one dumped with unfun tasks like trying to stop Sparkle from running everything. She was probably young, but she wore long shapeless skirts and button-down shirts like a refugee from one of her own choir concerts. “Grab your food and sit down, girls. This is our last chance to finalize.” She perched on the edge of her high stool as if she would flee at any moment.

  “Something’s going down,” Jenah whispered to me. “I can feel it.” She whisked over to a random girl, not one of Sparkle’s, and moved her to the top riser. “You sit here,” she said to the girl. “Better feng shui.” Jenah moved the trash can next to Sparkle’s sidekick Reese and sat down again.

  “Jenah, please,” said Miss Crane. “The party is this Friday and I need to double check the last few party essentials. Benjamin, do you have the receipts for the streamers? And, Sparkle, I still need to approve the playlist for the band.”

  “I’ve approved it,” said Sparkle from her spider-roll position.

  Miss Crane fluttered her hands, her hot-pink manicure flashing arcs through the air. The manicure always made me wonder if she had a secret life in which she wore nonchoral clothes and didn’t let teenage girls walk all over her. “I know you have excellent taste, Sparkle, but, er, per the school board, I have to approve what’s in their songs, or they can’t play.”

  “Pop Pop is all set,” said Sparkle. “End of discussion.”

  “Pop Pop?” said Jenah. “We settled on Lice Blanket and you know it.”

  “I don’t think a band called Lice Blanket would be ideal,” protested Miss Crane. “I’m positive their lyrics would never make it past the school board. Now, Sparkle. What kind of music does Pop Pop play?”

  Sparkle rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “You should definitely invite whatever band you want, Jenah,” she said. “The Halloween Dance would be remembered for all time.”