Her head held high, she answers. “Expulsion, entrapment, and the sacraments: In—” Che Lin stops suddenly and Mrs. Bentham points at Che Lin to sit. I almost feel the relief wash over her. She smiles at me, like she knows she barely escaped some sudden death, before she looks forward.
“Miriam Dunlap, what are the sacraments?”
Another girl stands. “Incantation, iron, and salt.”
“Why do we fight the demon beasts away with these sacraments?”
Miriam pauses. “Because the demons learned that a witch’s essence was a powerful weapon and we must preserve our lives, for our essence contains the blood of angels?”
The room shifts in the silence. Mrs. Bentham stares at Miriam. “Is that a question or an answer, Ms. Dunlap?”
Miriam swallows so loud I can almost hear across the room. Poor girl.
“An answer, ma’am.”
“Then it would be correct,” she says. Miriam sits down almost immediately. Mrs. Bentham calls another name.
Six girls later, one more dismissed, and the rest of the story of our creation is retold. A war where demons seek angelic-witch blood to gain strength, where they single out Nons to build their army and draw out the witches protecting the Nons. They’re determined to gain access to witches through humans, and God through witches.
“Penelope Grey,” Mrs. Bentham says.
I stand to attention and study her lips. For some reason my whole brain is blanking. Like that time in the third-grade spelling bee when I misspelled “idiosyncrasy” because I was so excited I knew it that I accidentally said z instead of s. This was like that, minus the excitement, and with a lot more at stake than a trophy.
“Who was the original founding member of the Triad, the man God chose to lead his new creation?”
Nope, this is worse than the spelling bee: at least then I knew the answer. What was his name? Ananias Marx was one of the originals, but he wasn’t the leader. Names flash through my head. Jeremiah Hole, Micah Hanley, Jonas Mahoney, Stephen Taylor. Who was the leader? Everyone is looking at me. Oh my God, I can’t fail already. Not on the first day.
“I don’t know,” I say.
All the girls in the room do that annoying “whisper at the same time and no one will hear us even though it’s loud” thing. Mrs. Bentham crosses her arms. “Well, then, Miss Grey, you are dismissed. Mich—”
“Actually,” I start. Now this is weird. I’m pretty sure my brain told my mouth not to say anything. Why am I talking? Mrs. Bentham looks at me; she’s not alone. Too many eyes for me to count join hers, staring at me. This is crazy, but the thought already appeared in my head, and I have to follow through.
“Actually ma’am, the CEASE Squad Handbook, under article 5, number 12C, states that ‘when an agent is responding to a high-stakes intercommunity situation, the agent must always provide accurate information regarding the situation to any member of the community. If the agent deems to forfeit the information due to uncertainty, then said agent may be given admittance to delay an answer while parties seek out an appropriate response to be sought and delivered at a later time in the same day to prevent misleading or misdirecting toward an incorrect answer or solution.’” I pause for a breath. “And this situation, Mrs. Bentham ma’am, would be that case. ”
She crosses her arms. “How so?”
Oh my God, is this working? “Well, I would hate to give an incorrect answer when the correct one is out there somewhere and would only require one to seek it out. It would sort of go against the reason we exist; if we merely made up answers, then more often than not our own kind, as well as the Nons we protect, would surely die.”
I hold my breath, even though I’m not sure how I have any left. I am out of my mind. Mrs. Bentham looks amused, but it passes quickly.
“Have a seat. I expect the answer by the end of the class, and you will prepare for another question.” I pause, and fall into my seat before she can change her mind. I think my body is in shock. “What Miss Grey just did, ladies, is use the negative situation in a positive way, which is exactly what these training classes are for. She thought on her feet, and though it was risky, it paid off. No one else try it.”
I inhale as Mrs. Bentham continues. A couple of girls send me dirty looks, but Che Lin leans over and whispers, “That was brilliant. Everyone calls me Maple.”
I blink. “Like the syrup?”
She pats my hand. “Brilliant.”
I don’t feel brilliant. I feel like I almost lost everything, like my life is hanging on by a thread.
It’s another hour before Mrs. Bentham calls my name again. This time when she asks the question again, I get it right.
Rafael Ezrati.
She asks another question, which I also know, before I sit down. Two hours in, and twenty girls have gone home. I was almost twenty-one. I almost lost everything I’ve ever wanted over a freaking Ninja Turtle. I will not come that close again.
Chapter Five
Ric doesn’t laugh when I tell him the story. “You better name your future kid after the dude so you can’t forget it.”
I step forward. The barista looks at me like I’m boring her, and I order my latte before she waves me off. “I can’t believe I was almost out.”
“This is the one time having no social life works to your advantage,” he says.
I smack his arm. He’s right; I’ve memorized the stupid handbook like it’s a second skin. I think I know more about being an Enforcer than I can remember about my own father—which is sad.
“I can’t believe you lost twenty-seven. Only ten boys went home,” Ric says, straightening his backpack on his shoulders. I brush past him toward the corner booth. This was the longest day ever.
“I should get to work. The Nons don’t stop buying pants just because I’m exhausted. Stay out of trouble,” he says.
I snuggle into the booth after Ric leaves. As soon I sit my phone beeps. Another death covers the home page of the WNN. A witch was attacked by a demon while he mowed his lawn. Demons are growing more powerful every day, and attacks on Nons and witches are increasing. There’s no way that they can up their attacks and not be upping their numbers. It’s not something anyone talks about, but it’s the bedazzled elephant in the room.
An elephant that’s killing our kind.
I close my phone as the waitress brings me breakfast and my coffee, a caramel latte with extra foam and whipped cream.
“Well, well,” Carter’s familiar voice calls. I roll my eyes and focus on my cup. Maybe I can will him to go away. Close my eyes and wish? Nope. Carter’s still there in all his brown-leather-jacket-in-the-summer and bright-blue-shoes glory.
“My stalker,” I say, setting the cup down next to my phone. “I see you’re already busy at work.”
“I can’t take time off. Got to know where you are or else I couldn’t bother you. I did tell you I’d see you,” Carter says. He pulls out the chair next to mine, and it scratches across the floor. I glare at him. I hate when people encroach on my space. “Plus, where else can I be in the presence of such an incredible amount of snark?”
I snort. “I’m sure you have no problem finding large quantities of it.”
“You’d be surprised,” he says, his eyes focusing on mine. I don’t linger in his look. I focus on my coffee and Rafael Ezrati, because that is what’s at stake. I take another sip of my coffee, but my stomach has that queasy feeling again.
“What have you been up to this morning?” he asks.
“You’re the stalker. Shouldn’t you know?”
The waitress—a young Non with pink-and-blue-streaked hair—walks up to the table. I steal another sip of my latte but it doesn’t sit well. She smiles at Carter, completely ignoring me, and leans against the table, purring like a cat in heat. She chomps her jaws, blowing a bubble with her gum. Gross.
“Can I get you anything?”
He leans forward, his arms crossed over the table. She leans in, too. I stare at my coffee, not wanting it anymore. “What would you
recommend?”
She blushes and tosses her hair. “We have the most unique coffee in town. It’s best dark and strong.”
I roll my eyes. Is this working? I hope she chokes on that gum.
“I’ll take it,” he says with a wink. I’m going to barf. In fact, it’s as if there’s a storm stirring inside me. Like it’s only going to take a small tilt to push me over the edge. I tilt the coffee around in the cup.
The waitress skips—actually skips—away from our table. I silently wish for her to trip. Carter looks very pleased with himself and laughs a little before settling his gaze back on me.
“You’re something else, you know that?” I say.
“Jealousy is cute on you, Pen.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, pushing my coffee away from me. “And I’m not jealous.”
He leans back on the chair. “Sure. And I don’t think you’re adorable.” I jerk my eyes up. He’s smiling. Screw this—this is so frustrating. I tap my foot under the table.
“We’re stating the facts, right?” he says.
“Right,” I say.
I don’t have time for this. And what is wrong with this coffee? I feel like I swallowed a fire and it’s all just burning at my stomach.
“You look sick again,” he says.
The poorly—or perfectly—timed waitress comes back with Carter’s coffee and a whole tray of drinks. Carter, obviously, flirts again. I don’t know if he’s doing it to get a reaction out of me, but I’m not going to give him one. I watch him and say nothing, but the whole time it feels darker inside my head and my stomach whirs. It’s more empty, and more full, and unsettled at once. The waitress turns to leave a when it happens.
The waitress coughs, as if she suddenly can’t breathe, and trips. She flies through the air. The tray spills all over a table of four. I gasp, horrified. Another waitress grabs her by the waist, trying to give her the Heimlich. The waitress coughs out the gum. She’s crying hysterically, apologizing to the customers dripping with water.
The weirdest part? As soon it happens, all the fury that was building up inside me disappears. It’s calm again, normal. The change is so sudden that my fingernails dig into the table. All I can hear is the waitress’s cry.
“I don’t know what happened,” she sobs over and over again. I close my eyes. Everything inside me is completely still. No storm, no clawing, no emptiness or fullness. In fact, I’m suddenly starving.
Carter’s looking at me when I open my eyes. There’s something unsettling in his gaze, something suspicious.
“I gotta go,” I say. He starts to say something. I don’t stay long enough to find out what it is.
Somehow I just did magic.
“Target ready,” a crisp robotic voice yells out at me.
I don’t even let the whole phrase finish before I pull the trigger. There’s a pop that echoes, and orange paint pellets hurl toward a human-shaped target. It hits right in the heart and explodes. Another pretend demon down. I feel like a Power Ranger—well, I would if I had power. Whatever that was at the coffee shop an hour ago is long gone now.
I load the paint gun with another round. I wanted that waitress to choke on her gum. I wanted her to trip. And she did. Pretty much simultaneously. How did that happen? Even if I could’ve, I didn’t call on my magic. I didn’t connect to it with the elements; I saw it and then it happened. I can’t create something from nothing. That doesn’t happen. But it did—twice. What does that mean?
Thank God for the shooting range. Even if it’s only paintballs it’s a good stress relief.
I pull the trigger and shoot, shoot, shoot. Three pink shots, all in a row.
A hand brushes my shoulder and I jump, gun pointed at the angst-interrupter. It’s Pop, and his hands are raised in the air. I toss the gun down like it’s poison.
“I could have shot you!”
Pop laughs, a deep hearty laugh that warms up the room. “I reckon I shouldn’t sneak up on a girl with a paint gun. You weren’t answering the phone. Been waiting outside for half an hour.”
I toss off my protective eyewear, which is a fancy phrase for big, ugly plastic glasses, and pull out my phone. Seven missed calls. Oops. Guess I was in the mood to kill some things, even paper things.
In the car, Pop taps the steering wheel as we drive home. The whole car smells like engine oil from the shop, but it’s oddly comforting. It’s almost enough to take my mind off this horrible day and Rafael Ezrati. Almost. Until Pop decides to talk again.
“How was your first exam day?” There’s a glow hidden under the shade of his eyes and a soft smile on his face.
I huff as the car slows to a stop outside our house. Pop looks out the window, then back at me. There’s something lingering on his lips. I can see the fight under the surface. He always gets this strained furrow between his eyebrows when he’s not sure what he wants to say. In the end, the easier side wins. I think it’s the easier side anyway. Unlike Gran, it’s harder to tell what’s going on with Pop.
“Come for a walk with me,” he says.
I don’t hesitate. I unbuckle the seat belt and trip over myself trying to get out of the car.
“You okay?” he asks, closing his door. I nod. Sure, I’m okay. Yesterday I expelled a demon. Today, I practically lost everything, and almost killed a waitress with Jedi mind tricks. I’m peachy.
I strap on a smile. “Of course I am. It was a long day.”
“How did it go?”
“I’m going back tomorrow, so I guess I didn’t do too badly.”
We walk together in silence. Past the Nons barbecuing on their lawns, trimming the grass, playing with water sprinklers in their front yards. Some of them wave, but most of them don’t pay attention to us. The life around us is a melody, happy and bright. Pop doesn’t speak. I like the silence between us. Pop is good with silence. He has this presence about him so even when he’s not speaking, he’s saying more than words.
After my parents died, he would sit with me. I had this spot in a closet in the upstairs bedroom that no one’s used since the 1900s. I found it, crawled inside and never wanted to come out. Pop would bring me sandwiches, even though Gran insisted I needed to come out. I slept there for two nights. When I opened my eyes, he’d be there, watching me. We never said anything, but having him near was enough.
I wish I were small again. Then, maybe, it would be enough still.
It doesn’t feel like his presence can fix any of this. It can’t fix who I am, who I’m not. It can’t give me what I want. I don’t know which part of that is the worst. Pop can fix anything—he’s a master mechanic and builder—but he can’t fix me.
“Penelope,” he starts. His eyes are on me. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. His brow furrows up and I know it’s the battle from the car again.
My phone beeps in tune with Pop’s. It’s the WNN; I don’t have to look to know that. He pulls out his phone and scrolls the screen. “John Lebow was attacked on his porch.”
My eyes shoot up. His porch? Demons are getting ballsy. That seems unreal.
Three Enforcers pass by us with their little gold triangles. My heart jumps into my throat. That’s where I belong, what I want, and I know it as much as I know how to read.
“Pop,” I say. I want to tell him why I need this. Why I need him to support me.
One of the Enforcers backtracks to us.
“Frank, we could probably use your help,” he says. His name is Jim Wooley. His daughter, Elyse, is in our ST class. Jim pushes up his large black glasses on the bridge of his nose and sniffs. He reminds me of a beagle. He’s tall and lanky, and his eyes are a little droopy.
Pop looks at me. The battle is clear on his face—and this is one that I know all too well. I can’t be left alone in case a demon comes. I show Pop my new necklace from Connie with the little salt-filled glass vial.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I even have on iron earrings.”
They sound inefficient, but you can do some damage wit
h a stud in the eye.
Pop runs a hand through his thinning hair. “The Lebow place?” Jim nods. “I’ll meet you in five.” Then Jim is gone, running off to join the other Enforcers.
“I can walk myself home,” I say through gritted teeth.
Pop huffs. “I heard about yesterday.”
My throat constricts a little. He can’t know about that. “What about yesterday?”
“Phelps and Mayer reported you at the scene of a demon attack. A Non died yesterday, Penelope, and you were there. That could’ve been you,” he says.
Thank God it’s not the demon from earlier yesterday. I mean, not that this is better. I should’ve known they would tell Pop. Gran was retired from teaching and she still heard about anything we did wrong. Pop hasn’t quit the CEASE Squad yet; he still went on patrol whenever he wasn’t moonlighting at the garage, and my name would’ve definitely been mentioned to him.
“You can’t go looking for trouble just because you’re taking the exams now,” he says.
“I wasn’t! I was on a run and I stopped. I didn’t mean to find the demon, Pop. It happened. I’m okay. I had salt.”
“It takes more than salt sometimes, Penelope. You have to be careful.”
“Grandpa.” I reach out to him. “I’m fine.”
Pop shakes his head. “We operate the way we do for a reason. You have to be trained to take them out, and you aren’t. Not fully. Yes, we encourage everyone in the community to be prepared, but we don’t expect them to fight without proper training. It’s how we’ve done it for centuries.”
“I know,” I snap.
“Stay out of the way, Penelope. Your grandma would lose her mind; you know how she worries.”
“Okay, Pop,” I say. Pop nods, and I know that’s the end. My grandpa may be nice and hopeful, but when he was done talking, he was done talking.
Chapter Six
I need someone to invent a coffee IV drip for mornings when I have to be awake with the sunrise. I slump down with my Iced Rage coffee drink of deliciousness in a seat on an oversize couch in the back corner of St. Elmo’s Coffee Pub, waiting for Ric to meet me. This place is halfway between our houses, and it has the best coffee. I take a sip, then a bite of my bagel, and log in to WNN on my phone. There were more demon attacks last night. The cases are spread out among the other regions, but it’s still a lot more than normal. We’ve had a pretty quiet year but now they seem to be in full force. It’s weird.
Salt Page 5