And just sit there.
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, trying to find something in my brain to draw. But the only thing I’m feeling or seeing is my confusion, my lack of knowledge.
Come on, powers, work.
I’m not sure what I want them to do. Maybe they could show me some answers for once? What did Miss Mae say? That the stars were within reach and the power was in my hands, or something.
Hands that I draw with. Hands that were sparkling only hours ago.
I lower my pencil to the paper, deciding not to think at all, to put everything aside. If the key to all this is in my hands, then I’ll shut off my brain and let my fingers take over. I’ll wipe my mind clean. Of words, images, even of this blank paper in front of me. I’ll think about nothing but black.
With every ounce of will I have, I look. At nothing but slate. Obsidian. Pitch.
That strange twinge surfaces behind my eyes. My fingers twitch, making my breath hitch. I struggle to keep my body from reacting. And I feel it, something creeping over my skin, movement like a small breeze lifting the hairs on my arm. And my hand moves again. And again.
Until it’s dancing all over the paper in a frantic pattern. The odd sensation in my head grows with each stroke, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut and don’t let myself look until my hand stops moving.
My heart is pounding against my ribs so hard it’s making me lightheaded. I likely just drew a big scribble. That’s what it felt like.
I squint my eyes open and take a peek.
And my body goes numb.
A pentagram? It’s an intricate drawing of a pentagram, with depth and shading and everything. Like something on the cover of a heavy-metal album. Or something in a witchy movie. Within the design of the circle that rims the star, there are weird symbols that could be a strange language, and there are four other stars around the circle—Stars of David—each one with its own word underneath. A few weird symbols are drawn at specific points and seem to coincide with the points of the larger star.
A chill works over me as I study the complex drawing—a drawing that I did with my eyes closed. It’s completely freaky.
I lift my hands to look at them again, feeling like they’ve betrayed me. Then I reach down and crumple the paper in my fist. But just as I’m going to toss it in the trash, I decide to take a picture of it. Who knows what it is, but there’s a reason I drew it, and knowing the reason might be important.
I flatten it with my hand, take the shot, then realize that throwing it away won’t be enough. Not for this. It’s a magic thing, witchy magic of some kind, I’m sure. And nothing good from the feel of it.
Don’t they usually burn evil things in movies?
I dig in my desk drawer and find a lighter from when Samantha and I snuck her dad’s cigarettes. It’s pink with a Playboy bunny on it, and it reminds me of two summers ago when we thought that getting asked to a dance was more important than anything else. If only.
I flick the lighter to life and hold the edge of the paper over the flame.
The fire begins to climb, eating away at it as grey ash falls on my desk. Then the flames reach the first point of the pentagram.
The fire hisses and sparks.
I drop the paper on the carpet as it’s devoured, curling in on itself. And burning the carpet! I step on the fire, sending ash and sparks up, and when I’m done, the white Berber is spotted black, and my sock is singed grey. Plus, my foot stings; I probably burned it like an idiot.
I try not to panic, try to decide what sort of furniture could be put on top of the ruined carpet to hide it.
A loud beep, beep, beep fills the air. The fire alarm above my bedroom door going off.
The door bursts open, and my dad flies into the room, looking for an emergency. He gasps in air to catch his breath, then spots the burnt blotches on the carpet, my sock. “Thank God. You’re okay.”
I look down at the mess. I don’t think so.
TWENTY-TWO
Aidan
I can’t shake the feeling that Ava’s eyes are on me constantly. Last night was the second time I dreamed about her, dreamed a memory. Exactly like I used to do with my mom. And that stopped once my mom’s ghost was gone.
Now it’s happening again, this time with Ava. It makes me think she’s sending them.
I get out of bed and go to my jeans on the back of Kara’s chair. I dig in the pocket for the note, pull it out, unfold it. And there’s nothing, no new writing answering my ink message. I knew it seemed too easy.
I rub my thumb over the pink bloodstained paper and focus my energy on trying to feel her, my sister, the girl in the dream who had no choice when her home was ripped away. She was so little. And I never knew how to help her.
“I’m sorry, Ava,” I whisper.
Kara releases a sigh in her sleep and rolls over, settling into a patch of rising sunlight. I was weak and stayed the night after our meeting—I started leaving the house a thousand times but then kept telling myself, just one more hour, then one more, until I was telling Kara if she’d go to bed and get rest, I’d lie there while she fell asleep. She was so tired. What’s happening with Sid seems to have completely overwhelmed her, body and mind, and I have no clue how to help her. No idea what to say to comfort her. All I could do was wrap her in my arms as she lay shivering in our bed, praying that my energy would heal her heart like it’s supposed to. Like hers always heals mine.
I should be at the club, staying off the radar. What if the cops come by with more questions for Sid? And here I am serving myself up on a silver platter. But at the same time I can’t just run off and hide forever. How will I protect Kara, protect them all if my sister comes to hurt them when I’m away in my hideout? As much as I want this thing to be between me and my sister alone, I know she won’t let it. She’s made that perfectly clear.
I settle into the chair beside the bed and watch Kara sleep, dread filling my gut, realizing Eric was right. There’s only one way for all this to end. Only one way to settle things. And it will destroy people I love one way or another.
I grip Ava’s note in my hand and then start to fold it back up. Where are you, Ava? Why’re you doing this—
Something rattles, knocking my focus back to the room. I glance at Kara, but she’s still, sleeping soundly in the morning light. She hasn’t moved at all. Maybe it was someone in the other room.
I finish folding up the letter and slide it back into my jeans pocket.
The rattle comes again, like stones clacking together. I’m pretty sure it’s near the bed.
I lean forward in the chair, looking underneath. The shadows are shaped by a stack of board games, my duffel bag, and a shoebox filled with Kara’s pin collection. I don’t see anything that would make that sound.
After there’s silence for a solid minute, I sit back up, pull my jeans on, grab my shirt off the end of bed—clack, clack, clack comes again. Definitely under the bed. I set the shirt back down and drop to my knees, looking more closely. I pull my duffel out.
When I open it and look inside, it’s suddenly very clear. The alabaster box. It’s set on top of a folded pair of board shorts, stark white against the black fabric of the bag. If it had eyes, I’d say it was looking at me.
I reach in and take it out, then set it on the wood floor in front of me. It’s heavier than I remember, solid. The winged sun carved into the lid reminds me where it came from, how old it is. And who it belonged to.
Eric said that it wouldn’t open unless there was something it could give me. And if it rattled, I’m guessing it’s trying to get my attention.
My raw nerves spark as I wonder what it might want to give me. What it needs to prepare me for. The last time I opened it and held that feather inside, it gave me a dagger to kill a demon. Which I did. Maybe that means whatever I pull out of there, it’ll work?
I take the lid between my fingers. It lifts right up, revealing the white feather inside. I read over the Hebrew lettering of Psalm 91 on
the shaft—He shall cover you in His feathers; and under His wings you will find refuge—and the night of the cave comes back to me in a wash of emotions and images, the helplessness mixed with determination. No realization of what I was walking into.
I study the feather and wonder what it was that my father used it for. What things in his life brought him to open this box? I pick the feather up by the quill and hold it out in front of me. Dark-brown spots still speckle the afterfeather and shaft; dried blood from when I fought the demon. There’s a smell to the object, a dusty rose scent that tingles in my nose and behind my eyes.
And the twinge grows, heating my forehead until I’m squinting. What the hell—?
My fingers spark to life, a flicker of light that pulses up my arm in a quick burst. And I’m no longer holding a feather.
It’s a . . . well, it’s a pen.
I stare at it in confusion until I realize what I was doing when the box got my attention. I was holding the note from Ava. I move, reach into my back pocket, pulling it out, studying the pen as I unfold the paper. It’s a normal office pen from what I can tell. Like the one I got out of the glove compartment and used to write the message.
I smooth out the note on my leg and grip the pen to write—
Shit. Something jabs the pad of my finger before I can get any words down on paper. I hiss in pain and look at my thumb, my finger. And of course there’s blood. When I study the pen, I see the grip has tiny needles sticking out.
Not a Bic, apparently.
Blood. It uses blood in the ink.
I sigh and get ready for the pain, then grip the pen again and write, I found the witch. I need to see you, I need to understand. Please, Ava. No more games. No more death. It stings my fingers, but it’s not unbearable, and the words flow onto the page in black ink and blood.
The page sizzles, and threads of smoke begin curling up from the words I wrote. I stare in amazement as my writing flares, then becomes burn marks. Exactly like the ones from Ava.
The only way to distinguish my message from hers is a light-blue glow along the charred lettering.
I’m pretty positive she’s gotten the message now.
The house is still asleep when I go downstairs to check on Sid before I head back to the club. My chest feels a hundred pounds fall on it when I look at him. I go into the living room and sit next to Connor while he pretends to read Huckleberry Finn.
“Hey,” I say. “How did the night go?”
“Uneventful.” He looks up from the book and gives me a weak smile. “How’s our girl?”
“Exhausted. I’m letting her sleep.”
“You’re going to go see Tray today?” he asks. “Are you okay with Kara joining you? Because, if you’re worried about him listening to you, you could take Jax instead. They don’t get along great, but at least there’s a history.”
“I’ll let Kara sleep for as long as I can, but she won’t be happy if I ditch her. And I think she’ll be okay.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I meant, are you okay with her, you know, convincing him to come over to this mess of ours.”
I have to smile at that. “What are you thinking she’s going to do to convince him, Connor?”
He grunts in irritation, like I’m not understanding. “You’ll see them together and you’ll get what I mean.”
That doesn’t sound helpful. “This isn’t about petty shit. And if Tray isn’t interested in the bonding spell, then I suppose he goes on with his life, and we go ahead with our plans.”
“Eric said the spell needed at least eight for it to work.”
“I know, we’ll figure it out.” I study him, sensing his tension. “Sorry I sprung that Rebecca stuff on you, by the way. How’re you feeling about it?”
He stares down at his book and picks at a corner. “I really wanted her to be out of this mess for good.”
“Me, too.” I glance over to Sid and have to turn away after only a few seconds. “I sent a message to Ava, telling her I want to meet.”
“Good. Let me know when we’re headed out with knives and pitchforks.”
I start to get up, but then reconsider. “Why don’t you go to bed, Connor. I’ll ask Jax to take a shift before I go. You need sleep in case something else crazy happens.”
He grunts and moves his stiff limbs to rise. “Fine. But text me when you and Kara head over to Tray’s.”
“I will.” I lean back against the couch, realizing I still have things to tell him about Rebecca, but I’m not sure how. And I’m not even sure it’s my place, so instead I just say, “You should text Rebecca and be sure she’s all right before you crash. I think she could use someone to talk to.”
“She texted me earlier.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I guess.” But he’s still tense.
“What?”
“Is there a reason you didn’t tell me right away after you found out she was a Light?”
“No.” I give him a questioning look, and the bitter scent of envy filters strong between us. “Are you jealous?”
“What do you think?” His eyes dig into mine. “You’re close to her, obviously. And you see parts of her that I can never understand or know. You were her first choice, and she was meant for you. No matter what happened with Kara, Rebecca’s got that way about her. And you two would fit. I’ve seen it.”
I lean forward, hoping he hears me. “Connor, nothing’s there. It never really was. I liked her, she’s beautiful, but she’s not . . . well, she’s not Kara.”
He nods slowly.
I pause before rising back to my feet. I can’t leave while he has that look on his face. He’s obviously disturbed. I decide I need to just tell him everything and ask forgiveness from Rebecca later. “You should know that I didn’t read her after the exchange with Kara, and I only did it this time because of something she told me.”
“What?”
“She went to see Miss Mae, and apparently the woman told Rebecca that she’s actually a witch, and that her energy is untethered now with her anointing, and her connection to me gone.” I let the information settle in. “And that’s why I read her. That’s the only reason. And when I did . . .” I pause, feeling the amazement again at how striking her energy was. “What I saw when I read her—I saw her, Connor . . . It was stunning. She’s not the same. She’s nothing like she was—”
“Stop,” he says, the smell of his jealousy sharpening into fear. “Just fucking stop.”
“Connor . . .” I don’t know what to say, though. I don’t want to make it worse.
He stands and runs agitated fingers through his hair. “You did this to her, you know. Your choices did this to her. And now, she might—” He seems to stumble on his words, but then says, “I’m sorry, but I won’t sit back and watch her get twisted or hurt anymore. I’ll protect her, Aidan. From your horrifying sister. Even from you.”
And then he’s walking away, leaving me to carry the cold realization that even my best friend believes I’m the enemy.
TWENTY-THREE
Aidan
Kara picks me up at the club a couple hours later. “Betsy’s ready for our adventure,” she says, patting the dashboard of the Camaro as I get into the passenger seat. “Are you?”
“I hope so.”
To my relief, she seems much clearer and lighter than she did yesterday. I can’t help a smile filling my face as the warm glow of her joy hits me. It smells sweet and rich, like chocolate. Her cerulean energy is slinking down her shoulder and over the seat, reaching for me. She seems so much better, and I have to wonder if curling up with me to sleep really could have had such a huge effect at healing some of her crushed spirit last night.
She pops an 8-track tape in—The Monkees, which she explains is Connor’s favorite. I try not to think about the conversation earlier with him and just enjoy the feeling of Kara beside me. I let myself rest in the simple moment of it just being the two of us on the road. Even if it is a road that mi
ght lead to more disappointment.
After twenty minutes or so she exits the freeway. When we stop at a light, she turns, glances at me, and I realize she’s becoming tense the closer we get. I take her hand in mine and attempt to settle her nerves with my energy.
She pulls over, parking along the curb in front of an apartment building. After turning off the engine, she bows her head, smelling like misery. “I was feeling so much better when I woke up,” she says. “But now, being out, away from Sid. I’m turning raw again.”
I unlatch her seatbelt and tug her toward me as much as the bucket seat will allow. I cradle her face in my hands and kiss her forehead delicately. “I know.”
“I’m scared this all could end.”
I’m not sure what she means by this—the world? The house? Us? I don’t think I want to talk about it, but I sense that she needs to, so, for her, I ask, “What?”
“She wants to kill you, Aidan. You know that, don’t you?”
A chill works through me. “She wants me to be like her, I think.”
Kara pulls my hand from her face and weaves her fingers through mine, squeezing them tight. “You’ll never be like her,” she says with a sharp edge to her voice.
“I could, Kara. She and I aren’t that different.” We come from the same blood, the same place, and . . . I’m crushing as much life around me as she is.
“Are you kidding?” Her light eyes glint with frustration as she moves her body to face me. She places a hand over my heart where my seal is. “Listen to me. I know about evil, and you are not even close. You’re goodness and light. Your love is inside me, waking my spirit and healing my scars. You’re mine, Aidan. Mine—do you hear me?”
I stare at her, my pulse racing at her words. I can only nod.
“So, stop saying things that make me want to punch you,” she says. “Let’s do this. We’ve got a Light to find.” And then she nudges me to get out of the car.
Once we’re on the sidewalk and I’m looking around, I realize the location feels familiar. There are dozens of places in LA that look just like it, though. Cookie-cutter projects, all in a row. I follow Kara down the street, along a chain-link fence, toward some basketball courts a block down. We pass a small golem-like demon perched on the fence, facing the courts. A raven is roosting next to it, like they’re keeping each other company. I try and hold tight to my power, not wanting it to spark so close to the demon, not wanting the thing to sense me.
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