Banish

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Banish Page 11

by Nicola Marsh


  “’Fraid not.”

  “Pity.” Her smile faded and I noticed a subtle wringing of her hands before she clasped them and rested them on the table. “I’m well aware of your views on Wicca and your mother’s gift—” I cleared my throat and she silenced me with a glare, “—but I need to tell you. Your aura is growing increasingly dark, like there’s a malevolent force determined to do you harm.”

  Usually, I would have dismissed her dire warning with a smart-ass comeback, but as she’d echoed Tabitha’s prediction of less than an hour ago I wasn’t in a mood to joke around.

  “That dead body you saw could be part of it or not, I don’t know, but you need to take care.”

  Increasingly spooked, I nodded. “I will.”

  I pushed my chair back and started gathering plates when she added, “Dabbling in the supernatural can almost be as dangerous as the negative forces wanting to do harm.”

  My gaze flew to hers.

  She knew.

  Knew I’d used the Book of Shadows, that I’d pilfered a sweetgrass braid and was hiding something way beyond dead bodies randomly popping up on music videos.

  “Okay, thanks,” I muttered, whizzing through the clean-up in record time, eager to escape.

  I’d almost made a clean break when she laid a hand on my shoulder and swung me to face her. “I’m here for you, Lyssa. Whatever’s bugging you, whatever you’re facing, you can come to me.”

  I could handle her witchy predictions. But playing the caring, concerned aunt? Not so much. I wanted to trust her, but the few times we’d spent together over the years and the last six months while I’d been living here didn’t exactly make us BFFs. Not to mention the memories of how hard Angie had strived to make me believe in her witchcraft when I was growing up. That, more than anything, made me mistrust her. Then there was that tiny seed of doubt planted by Ronan; that she could be behind the dead body. Not wanting to consider it didn’t help the doubt go away.

  From what I could remember as a kid, whenever Angie visited she’d brought me a gift. A supernatural gift. Moonstones, a lapis lazuli doll carving, lengths of string in pretty colours knotted and braided into a friendship bracelet, an imitation plastic chalice, a mini cauldron, homemade candles.

  Mom wouldn’t say anything but I caught her frown every time Angie bestowed one of her “special” presents, so once Angie left, I’d hide them in a cardboard box in the back of my closet. Mom and I never spoke about those gifts. I’d broached the subject once, asking her why she didn’t like Angie giving me presents but she clammed up after mumbling something about irresponsibility and entrusting Wicca tools to mundanes.

  Needless to say, I didn’t tell Mom about Angie emailing me regularly once I hit my teens, sending copious links to forums I might find interesting. I hadn’t clicked on any of those links. Whether out of loyalty to Mom or fear of what I’d find, I didn’t know.

  Now, like then, the same feelings edged their way through, warring with allegiance to my aunt. Reservation. Mistrust. Suspicion.

  Why did Angie keep pushing me towards Wicca when I’d told her a million times I wasn’t interested? And how far would she go if she couldn’t take no for an answer?

  I tolerated her impulsive hug then bolted for the sanctuary of my room.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SCHOOL WAS TOTALLY crappy the next day. Spot quiz in maths, substitute teacher in chemistry who reeked of garlic, and another assignment from Mr Jackman, who assumed teens didn’t have a life outside of school hours. Sucked.

  The day didn’t improve when I arrived home to find Angie had left me a present.

  A DIY Wicca guide, complete with diagrams and glossary.

  I knew she was trying to help, and her obsession with converting me was kinda cute considering she treated me like a surrogate daughter, but I had no intention of raiding her box of magic tricks again. There weren’t evil spirits at play here, or old boyfriends intent on haunting me. Some sleazy magician had latched onto a bizarre scheme to stalk me. No idea why. Or how he’d hacked my computer or accessed Noah’s necklace. I really, really didn’t want to dwell on the latter.

  But Massimo had to be behind it. It was the only thing that made sense.

  I’d spent hours after dinner last night searching the internet for clues but for a guy who toured the country with his magic show there was surprisingly little about him, just a bunch of mentions of him appearing at backwater towns and local fairs. No Facebook page or Twitter account, and nada on Pinterest and Instagram.

  Considering he owned a shop in the heart of New York City where leases were at a premium, he kept a low profile. Which raised another red flag. Why wouldn’t he advertise his business? Why wouldn’t he be selling a range online like most shops these days?

  I could ask Angie. She’d have a handle on all the magic carpets flying around New York City. Lame-assed joke, I know, but this wasn’t Broadwater, where everyone knew when their neighbour changed coffee brands let alone the major stuff.

  Angie might be a high priestess of New York’s largest coven and a mentor to hundreds in the surrounding states, but that didn’t mean she would know anything about some low-life magician who happened to own a cool shop.

  Not finding any incriminating info on Massimo made me jumpy. I’d been so sure there would be some other link between him and Broadwater, maybe even to Noah’s family, but there’d been nothing. And that’s what had me skittish. If there wasn’t a logical, human explanation for all the oddball stuff happening to me, I didn’t want to contemplate anything else.

  While I sipped strawberry milk, I flipped through Angie’s gift, aptly titled Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about Wicca but Were too Afraid to Ask. There was the basic ­history of Wicca, a listing of major covens around the world, ­paraphernalia and basic spells. Nothing caught my attention until I hit the middle pages: “Signs You’re Being ­Targeted by Evil”. The spiel outlined attracting negative spirits and the dangers of novices practising magic, going as far as ­people being possessed and the need for exorcisms.

  I rolled my eyes, until I saw the list.

  • Unexpected contact from beyond the grave

  • Specific targeting from departed past relatives/friends where the relationship ended badly

  • Remnants/artifacts from those relationships appearing out of the blue

  • Unexplained visions

  • Vivid dreams that linger into waking

  • Voodoo dolls

  • Death signs

  My stomach griped and I rubbed it, some of those signs fitting what I’d been through. I hadn’t had the dreams or the visions, or the voodoo, and I sure as hell didn’t want to know what death signs were, but the rest?

  Yep.

  I scratched the back of my neck where unease prickled the base of my scalp. I’d dismissed Tabitha’s and Angie’s dire predictions as nothing more than women believing too much in their own PR. But now I’d seen the warnings in print of what I was going through? That cloud of darkness or evil or whatever thing was hanging around mightn’t be too fanciful.

  Annoyed with the direction of my thoughts, I snapped the book shut and glanced at my watch. Time to get ready for my date with Ronan. I didn’t need a reason to look forward to seeing him but tonight, I really couldn’t wait.

  With the escalation of stuff happening to me, I wanted a stress-free night of music, laughter and making out, without a hint of supernatural in sight.

  WITH THE DIZZY’S on a break, I’d hoped Ronan might come looking for me. When I saw him to the right of stage, in deep conversation with the bass player, I didn’t hold my breath.

  There’d been a reason Ronan had joked about casting a spell for a new bass player. I’d met the guy for the first time the other night and he could talk underwater with a mouth full of marbles. He didn’t care that I had no knowledge of jazz legends long dead, or little interest. He’d talked for fifteen minutes straight, making my ears ache, as I’d constantly darted glances at the stage, where
Ronan and the rest of the band were having a meeting. When Ronan caught sight of me and mouthed “sorry”, I knew I wasn’t the only one to be bored by the bassist’s mind-numbing chatter.

  Feeling sorry for Ronan being stuck with Mr Personality, I shouldered my way through the older, urban crowd. No-one gave me a second look, but I felt like I had a flashing UNDERAGE in neon on my forehead. It might be cool dating an older guy, and it felt right when I was with him, but hanging out on my own in here made me a little uncomfortable. I didn’t belong with elegant women wearing clingy black dresses, sipping cocktails I’d never heard of, and old dudes in suits discussing the stock market.

  But the way Ronan made me feel, like I could put the past behind me and look forward to the future? I could put up with the chic crowd that frequented this club.

  Leaving the money talk and Whiskey Sours behind, I stepped outside, and was immediately enveloped by the city I couldn’t get enough of.

  I loved New York. Loved how the sun shone between the skyscrapers and cast beautiful shadows during the day, how the smells of exhaust and concrete mingled with fried onions and pretzels, how people always rushed everywhere.

  And no city came alive at night like New York. The place buzzed with an unparalleled vibe. Not that I had much to compare it with—new release movie night at the town hall caused the biggest stir Broadwater saw every few weeks—but I couldn’t imagine any place on earth being as hyped as New York City.

  When I’d first arrived, I’d stuck close to the apartment, still mourning Noah and missing Mom when not at school. Then an interesting thing happened. Every day I took the subway and walked to and from school, I found something new caught my eye.

  I’d always been naturally curious and I’d soon wanted to explore the city, investigating every nook and cranny. I did the touristy things, like taking the thirty-minute Beast Speed Boat Ride for a close-up view of the Statue of Liberty and west-side Manhattan. I’d loved it so much I’d signed on for the three-hour Full Island cruise, checking out the Brooklyn Bridge, Yankee Stadium, United Nations Building and a host of other historical landmarks I’d only ever read about.

  My inner geek girl thrived on the “Museum Mile”, from 84th to 104th Street, The Met being my favourite. I’d gawked at Joe’s Pizza on Carmaine Street, where it appeared in Spider-Man 2. I toured Grand Central Station. I walked along Broadway and 5th Avenue and through Central Park. I rode the elevator to the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building, visited Madison Square Garden to watch the Knicks and explored Times Square.

  I still had loads I wanted to see, like the Bronx Zoo and Radio City Music Hall and SoHo, but I figured I had loads of time. Angie didn’t seem in any hurry to get rid of me, and Mom didn’t seem overly concerned I’d gone. She had her imaginary friends to keep her company.

  I hadn’t rung her since the dead body. I could lie to myself and say it was for her sake: that I didn’t want to upset her, I didn’t want her asking me questions I had no hope of answering. But deep down, I knew the truth. I didn’t want to ring Mom because I knew she wouldn’t say what I wanted to hear: that everything would be fine. Because it wouldn’t. Nothing would be fine, as long as Mom believed in talking spirits.

  I wished I could ring her and confide my fears and uncertainties and the exciting newness of my relationship with Ronan. I wished I could tell her how much I loved her despite the distance between us. Emotionally and ­physically.

  Sadly, if there was one thing I’d learned over the past five years, it was that wishing for something didn’t make it happen. I’d wished for Mom’s sobriety, for my old mom to come walking through the sunroom with her arms filled with wildflowers, for my mom to snaffle my iPod to load it with her favourite archaic songs from Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi and Guns N’ Roses.

  Those wishes not coming true? Further proof there was no such thing as magick.

  My stomach churned as it usually did at the thought of Mom and I inhaled deeply to ease its tossing as I re-entered the club. Smoke stung my eyes and I blinked several times. When I opened them a third time, Ronan had materialised in front of me.

  He kissed my mouth, a lingering kiss that made me want to grab the collar of his crisp white shirt and pull him into the nearest dark corner.

  “This’ll be the quickest set on record then we’re outta here,” he murmured in my ear, his warm breath tickling as his hands spanned my waist and made my skin burn beneath my silk top.

  “Play fast,” I said, trying not to jump up and down like a kid on Christmas morning as he nuzzled my neck one last time before heading for the stage.

  From the moment I’d met Ronan at his apartment tonight, we hadn’t been able to keep our hands off each other. We’d made out at the front door, necked in the cab on the way over to the club, and had got all hot and bothered in the dingy corridor backstage.

  Then I’d had to sit through two whole sets while The Dizzy’s belted out upbeat jazz mingled with slow, sexy ballads and for some reason those songs were really getting to me. More precisely, watching Ronan hold the sax, his long fingers mastering the keys, his lips compressed around the mouthpiece producing high notes that reached into my soul and tweaked, was getting to me.

  For the first time in my life, I felt the frightening, uncontrollable, exciting pull of something I couldn’t define but wanted to discover.

  I wanted to have sex with Ronan.

  My body throbbed with it, alternating between hot and cold and shivery. I couldn’t sit still, squirming in my seat and spurred on by an insane urge to dance on the table. I’d drunk six diet colas; maybe all that caffeine was making me jumpy.

  Ronan leaped onto the stage and picked up his sax, his fingers sliding over the brass as he stared directly at me, and I knew the caffeine wasn’t giving me this buzz. I blew him a kiss and sat back to enjoy.

  The first few songs were dedicated to Ronan’s idol, Sam Bortka, a modern sax player he had on constant repeat on his iPod. I’d tried replacing him with Lady Gaga. Ronan had called me a heathen.

  Another two colas, the set was done and I was bounding backstage to grab my bag and my man. Another thing I liked about him. Despite the guys ribbing him he packed up super fast, as eager as me to be alone together.

  I flung myself at him, jumping into his arms and wrapping my legs around his waist, laughing when he spun me around, ignoring the wolf-whistles and ribald comments from the band. “You were amazing.”

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He slid me down his body real slow and I swallowed at the evidence of how much he wanted me.

  Did I really want to do this? Have sex for the first time with a guy I’d only just started dating? A guy I’d suspected of tampering with my computer and playing that stupid dead body trick?

  My head said whoa.

  My body? On hormone overload.

  I hadn’t wanted to complicate my life with sex the other night, but the way I was feeling now? I knew exactly what I was doing. I was desperate for a distraction from my topsy-turvy life by doing something monumental. Sex was scary. But not half as scary as the other crap I had to deal with.

  We slipped out the back entrance, hand in hand, while I delved into my bag for a mint. My teeth felt furry after all the colas, and with some serious kissing ahead I needed freshness. I groped around one-handed, searching for the tiny plastic box. Should have been easy to find, for despite the size of my bag it contained only a cell, purse, mints, lip-gloss, hairbrush and tampon.

  My fingers brushed something soft and squishy. I stilled.

  “What’s up?” Ronan turned to me.

  “There’s something foreign in my bag.”

  “Better get it a passport,” he deadpanned, and I whacked him on the arm with my bag.

  We’d stopped beneath a streetlight and I fished around in the bag, grasping things until I located the object again. Puzzled by its shape and stringy bits, I pulled it out.

  And screamed.

  Ronan glanced over his shoulder like he expect
ed a ninja to be sneaking up on us. “What the hell—”

  “No freaking way…” I flung the voodoo doll away.

  A doll that looked remarkably like me.

  With a hangman’s noose around its neck.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I HAD A hissy fit right there on the sidewalk.

  Not at Ronan, but at the whole freaking mess.

  I swore and stamped my feet and kicked the lamppost. Twice.

  When I’d gone ballistic in his apartment, Ronan had comforted me. He didn’t do that this time. He stood near enough if I needed him, but out of kicking range, waiting until I’d exhausted my fury and sank to the kerb.

  “You okay?”

  My eyes narrowed and I shot him a death glare.

  “Dumb question.” He picked up the doll and held it hidden in a clenched fist. “Don’t let this freak you out. It’s someone’s idea of a sick joke.”

  As I gazed into his wide hazel eyes, I wondered if I was looking straight at that someone. I hated doubting him, hated having these barriers thrust into our relationship at such an early stage.

  Jeez. Five minutes ago I’d been contemplating sleeping with the guy, now I was back to mistrust. My bag had been backstage with his. He could have slipped the doll in on a toilet break or when the band was packing up.

  First the dead body on his music clip, now this. Either Ronan was a psycho or someone wanted to make him look that way.

  I would have walked away right then if not for one salient fact: the doll had a noose around its neck. And Ronan didn’t know about Noah.

  He sat next to me. “You think I did this.” His flat monotone scared me more than the doll and I tentatively placed my hand on his forearm, relieved when he let it stay.

  “I did for a second but—”

  “I can’t do this.” He stood and my hand fell uselessly to the pavement. “I can’t have you freaking out on me all the time because someone at school’s playing stupid pranks.”

 

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