Witch-Child

by Gerilyn Marin

  Now I'm angry, my cheeks flaming for an entirely new reason. "Fine, whatever. We're supposed to be looking at that stupid basement, right?"

  I turn in his grasp, and slip out of his arms.

  But he's still holding my hand. He pulls me back and brings his mouth down over mine, his tongue plunging between my lips.

  A little, surprised whimper escapes me. I kiss him back, stroking his tongue with mine, before retreating only enough to gently nibble and graze it with my teeth.

  He makes a rumbling noise in the back of his throat. Releasing my fingers, he slides his hands down over my hips, and pulls my body tight against his.

  I break the kiss and lower my face, dragging my lips and the tip of my tongue down the side of his neck, just below his ear. Without really thinking about what I'm doing, I slip my hands up, inside the back of his shirt. I've been too damned curious about what's under here, anyway. I run my fingers along his lower back, and then up his sides as far as I can reach with his arms around me. I trace the texture of lean, lightly-sculpted muscles—oh my God, he has muscles!

  With the side of his jaw, he nudges my face away from his neck and quickly lowers his head, catching my earlobe between his lips to rake his teeth delicately over my skin. His hands slide down from my hips, moving to—

  The blaring screech of an alarm cuts through the stairwell. Grey pulls away, his head falling back. I imagine he lets out a frustrated groan, but the shrill noise echoing around us would swallow any sound he might be making.

  I take the moment to catch my breath and calm myself. Part of me wants simply to drag him by the front of his shirt down around the next bend in the stairwell, so we can continue, hidden from view. But the rest of me says Down, girl! There's no guarantee some overly-helpful faculty member won't poke their head around and catch us.

  He drops his head back down, pressing his forehead against mine. "Worst timing for a fire drill, ever."

  I laugh, hearing the first sounds of classes being marched into the stairs. "We should go, there'll be another day to check out the basement."

  "I guess."

  We slip out of the nearest door and tag along with the first group of students to exit. We explain to their very confused looking teacher that Grey was escorting me to the nurse's office when the alarm went off.

  Thank God he's got a better poker-face than I do. And that we didn't have time to get any further, or we'd be stuck in the stairwell waiting for him to . . . um, calm down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Pretense

  "I don't know if I'm going to go," Wendi says forlornly as we walk through the costume shop on Friday afternoon.

  We've waited all week to come here. Our tradition since junior high has been to find costumes on the spur of the moment, while we trek through the seasonal warehouse store. The only difference this year is that we've decided to do said shopping earlier.

  Apparently, we consider a week and a half before the dance early.

  I'm almost relieved to hear her say she doesn't want to go to the Halloween dance. I've spent the last week wondering how Grey and I will slip away from her—which is probably going to be trickier than sneaking into the subbasement—but I also feel terrible.

  Not just because she doesn't want to go, but also because of that almost-relief.

  "But we go every year," I remind her as I pick a pair of fluffy, white angel wings off a rack.

  She frowns at the wings, but takes them from my hands all the same to slip the elastic straps around her shoulders.

  "You and I go every year. Well," she pauses, her eyes rolling as she waves dismissively, "except for freshman year, when I went with Duncan. And sophomore year, when you went with Mark. But we were still together those times, even though we had dates."

  Wendi looks adorable in the wings, and I can't help but giggle at the short, pixie-haired angel with her big, dark, puppy eyes pouting in my face.

  "We'll still be together," I say with an easy shrug.

  I haven't yet considered, exactly, what Grey and I are going as. I told him to leave the costumes to me. I need to find something that's common, something that Halloween partiers wear every year so that we blend. We can disappear easier from the dance if no one immediately notices when we go missing.

  "No." Her tone is a little huffy. She picks out a long, black wig and pulls it free from the package to shake out the fake hair. "You're going with Grey."

  Now I frown as she sets the wig on my head and tucks my natural, auburn hair behind my ears. "And that's different from the previous years when we've had dates, how, exactly?"

  "Hello? 'Cause it's you and Grey." She pulls the ends of the wig so the inside net-cap sits more snugly over my head, as she shakes her head at me. "That's different; you guys are like . . . a thing."

  Before I can answer, she clamps her hands over my shoulders, turns me and guides me to the long mirror at the end of the aisle. I blink a few times at my reflection. Huh . . . seems I actually make a pretty good brunette.

  The long, dark hair also gives me an idea on the common, blend-able costume issue.

  Suddenly, though, I feel bad. Granted, Wendi is kind of right. Grey and I have gotten sort of serious, recently. If things like skipping English to spend the period making out in the stairwell could be considered serious, that is.

  I return Wendi’s pout. "I guess I understand, but you might have fun!"

  "I don't want to feel like a third wheel," she says with a sigh as she picks up a package I point out, labeled Sexy Teen Witch, and hands it over.

  I carefully ease the dress from the plastic envelope, leaving a pair of elbow-length, fingerless, spider web-lace gloves in the bottom. "Why don't you just ask Jeremy?"

  Unfurling the dress, I give the slinky fabric a smoothing tug, then hold it against my body.

  Wendi groans. "I . . . I can't."

  In the reflection, I see her pick up a Sexy Angel costume. "Why not?"

  Here I'm thinking angels are supposed to be all, well, I don't know what all, but certainly not sexy.

  Of course, Victoria's Secret would disagree with me.

  "This is totally unfair," Wendi says in a miserable, whiny grumble, as she pops her head over my shoulder to meet my gaze in the mirror. "You have the boobs for these kinds of costumes. I don't."

  I shake my head and refold the dress before stuffing it back into the package—she envies my curves, I envy her tiny waist and slender thighs.

  "There's nothing wrong with your boobs. You're, like, a size zero . . . they're just in proportion, get over it. Now, back on topic—why can't you ask Jeremy to go with you?"

  Wow. I just talked about my brother and my best friend's boobs in the space of two sentences. Totally self-inflicted awkward moment.

  "I just . . . can't. I mean, we're not actually, like, dating or anything, and I doubt he'd want to go to a high school dance."

  "He graduated from that very same high school only two years ago."

  "I don't know," she says, pouting again as she watches me jump to snatch a silvery halo headband from a high shelf. "I . . . I kind of also want him to ask me."

  "I feel like I should yell at you, here,” I say, “and tell you some crap, like, we're too young to be old-fashioned, but it is nice when the guy asks." I can't help a little, dreamy sigh that escapes my lips at the thought.

  "So you see my problem."

  Nodding, I grab her hand and drag her toward the selection of men's costumes. "I do. And, if that's it, then I'll talk to him."

  "Oh!" Her gasp makes it sound like I've just suggested the most embarrassing thing in the history of ever. "Don't do that! I mean, if he doesn’t want to ask me out or anything—"

  "Please," I say, reaching for the costume I've decided on for Grey. "My brother's an idiot. He probably hasn't even realized how you feel, or he's being obtuse, and now that it's in the open that you two like each other, he just assumes things will happen on their own. I'll make a casual mention, and he'll take the hint." />
  "Really?"

  I hand her a costume package, laughably called Dashing Devil, and explain before she can ask. "For Jeremy. He'll need a costume."

  "But—"

  "Wendi," I say with a forced calm, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Just leave it to me."

  "Ow! What the hell?" Jeremy bellows, a split-second after my open hand connects with the back of his head.

  I hold out to him a plastic bag from the costume shop. "You're going to call Wendi. You will tell her that you're sorry; you didn't know she wanted you to ask her out, and you'd be delighted to take her to the Halloween dance."

  He looks like he's about to laugh, but I feel my expression darken, and his sobers instantly. "I—wow, okay. You're right. She's just . . . so . . . ."

  My eyebrows shoot up. "So what?"

  "Back-and-forth," he says quickly and his face tells me he wasn't about to say anything negative. "One minute she's open, and she's the coolest person. The next, she's this shy basket case who jumps out of her skin if she even thinks I'm going to touch her."

  I blink hard and give my head a sharp, quick shake. I don't want to know how much time they've spent together recently; time about which I've clearly been kept out of the loop. Though, I'm not sure I can blame them.

  I can picture them—my best friend and my big brother—using Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide which of them gets to talk to me about what is or isn't happening between them.

  But I was totally right. My brother is obtuse.

  "You moron," I say with a frown, and a bit of amusement as I watch him pull his costume from the bag and mouth the name on the label. "She is a teenage girl. We're all lunatics! We're nuts, and boys are idiots, and it's a wonder teenagers of opposite genders can even carry on a conversation. Now get off your ass and call Wendi before I hurt you!"

  Jeremy jumps up from the couch and pulls his cell from his pocket. "All right, all right. Jeez."

  Breathing a contented sigh, I turn on my heel and start up to my room.

  I'm not totally comfortable with a Wendi-Jeremy relationship, but I want them to be happy.

  Huh . . . it occurs to me that this also might be the perfect distraction to allow Grey and me to vanish during the dance. Wendi will be so focused on Jer, she won't notice that I'm not there.

  Sometimes things just work out.

  "Dracula?" Grey asks doubtfully, as he looks into the bag I hand him on Monday when I meet him in front of his locker at lunch period.

  I could have swung by his house over the weekend, but his parents have been out, as per usual, according to him. We’d only been alone in that stairwell for a few moments last week, and we ended up kissing. And hands wandered. So did lips. The idea of being alone with him in his house terrifies me, just a bit.

  Terrifies, in a butterflies in the stomach, weak in the knees, whole body feels all warm and melty, sort of way. We've only been dating—actual dating, not fake-dating, like we were at first—for about a week and a half, if I count from that first kiss in the car. I have the feeling we both get easily carried away in the physical affection department, and I don't want us falling into a bed or anything sooner than we're actually prepared to just because the opportunity is there.

  I nod. "I told you, we'll need to be able to get lost in the crowd. Draculas and Witches are the most commonly overdone Halloween costumes, like, ever."

  He grins. "You're . . . going dressed as a witch?"

  A moment drifts by before I realize what he finds so funny in this.

  "Oh," I giggle, and then pull my phone from my pocket. "You're cute."

  I select an attachment, hit send, and simply wait.

  His cell chimes, and he gives me a puzzled look, before opening the screen. His eyes widen and his jaw drops a little.

  I really need to thank Wendi. She took a picture of me while I tried on my sexy witch costume and sent it to me.

  "I don't think Elizabeth Riordan ever dressed like that," I whisper as I stride past him.

  Grey forces a cough and then clears his throat before he turns and falls into step beside me. "I—I'd guess not. So . . . ya know, this totally sidetracks what I was about to say."

  "Sorry." No, I'm not.

  "I was going to say that I think we need to focus on what we're supposed to do. Or we'll end up like we did last week."

  I arch a brow at him as we enter the stairwell and start downward, in the direction of the subbasement.

  "Not that I have any problem with how we ended up last week, but you have to admit that was not the reason we cut class."

  Letting out a sigh, I nod. "You're right."

  We pass the cafeteria and wind around the bend in the stairwell. He continues to the door of the subbasement while I wait at the top of the steps, playing lookout.

  My eyes are forward, but my ears strain to hear what's happening behind me. I'm glad we probably won't have time to eat lunch; the possibility of being caught has my stomach all knotted up, anyway.

  There's a metal-scraping-on-metal sound, and Grey curses softly a few times.

  "Got it," he says in a triumphant whisper, after what feels like forever.

  I glance over my shoulder to see him slowly, quietly pull open the door.

  When we're inside, there's a little light that filters in from some high windows. Luckily, just enough to see by, but we employed a bit of foresight and downloaded flashlight apps to our phones last week just in case.

  No way am I creeping around a school basement at night on Halloween without my own source of illumination.

  "Okay," he says softly. "Do . . . whatever psychic, witchy-thing it is that you do."

  I laugh. "Nice encouragement there, devil-boy."

  He opens his mouth to reply, but then simply shakes his head and steps back.

  Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and begin to sift through everything I can recall about Jack Addison. I think about his family; I replay the feelings that went through me when I'd read about what had been done to him.

  I focus on Elizabeth . . . and on Samuel Maris.

  That's when something tugs at me.

  I take small, uncertain steps, moving with my eyes still closed. Four, five, six steps; I drift left, then I move again . . . another two steps.

  The force pulling me suddenly switches direction and I'm yanked down; my knees slam onto the floor. I clamp my lips together to keep from yelling.

  Funny how, even now, I'm mindful that if I scream, we might get caught.

  "Cae!" Grey is over to me in a heartbeat, and his rushed whisper sounds horrifically loud in the large, cement room.

  I hear him, and my knees throb, but I can't move. Not yet.

  Whatever holds me . . . wants me to be here, wants to show me something.

  With another deep, deep breath, I push the pain away and just listen. A pressure begins behind my eyelids, like they're trying to open against my will and I have to concentrate to keep them shut.

  Blood . . . .

  Behind my eyelids, I see blood. And the circle, Elizabeth's circle, is beneath me. I know, I know, it. I see the colored dust of her handmade chalk on the floor.

  And I see Elizabeth. She kind of looks like me, but with dark hair, and deep mahogany eyes. I watch those big, brown eyes squeeze shut as she draws a blade across her palm.

  I hiss, but ignore the sensation as I feel a pain in my own hand—the same hand I'd cut on Jack's headstone. The wound just finished healing, too.

  She touches the forefinger of her other hand into the wound and proceeds to trace over the circle in wet crimson.

  "Cae!"

  I open my eyes to find Grey shaking me as he loudly whispers my name.

  "Blood," I manage to say as I painfully push myself to stand. This sucks; my knees are killing me. Crap, I don't really want to have to go to the nurse's office, but I'm going to need ice packs.

  He looks completely mystified. "What are you talking about? Are you okay?"

  "Uh-huh." I nod, feeling as tho
ugh I have Elizabeth standing right behind my shoulder as I relate to him what I saw.

  "Okay," he says as he helps me toward the door. "So if she used blood to seal him, then we need blood to release him. I'll do it."

  That doesn't fit right. Something in my stomach lurches, and the words tumble out of my mouth from the land of I Don't Know Where. "No. Human blood was used; human blood must be used again.”

  "Cae . . . ." He says my name slowly, as though if I don't spell out what I mean, then maybe there will be a way around this.

  I feel a cramped little fluttering in my chest as I realize he cares about me. A lot. I want to let him protect me, but there's no other way to end this for him. And it's just a little blood.

  "You're not fully human." I can't hold his gaze as I shrug and say, "We have to use mine."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Downtime

  "Honey, are you sure you want to do this?" my dad asks, glancing at me from the driver's seat of his Saturn.

  I frown. We get only one weekend together a month—due to his work schedule, not because of any court-ordered custody mess—and my request kind of infringes on that time, sure. But still . . . .

  "You asked me where I want to go," I say with a shrug. "I want to go visit Grandpa Mitchell for a bit."

  He frowns back, but stays silent.

  Unable to keep my own frown from becoming a pout, I turn my head to stare at him. Wow, he really looks like Jeremy when he makes that face. I know it's the other way around, but I'm more used to my brother's unhappy mug.

  I wonder briefly if seeing a face that so resembles Dad's every day makes Mom sad. Forcefully pushing the thought aside, I focus on my father's apparent, and uncharacteristic, callousness.

  "Wow, I didn't think you'd have a problem with me seeing him."

  "Okay, no." My dad slips a hand from the steering wheel just long enough to shake a finger at me, though he never takes his gaze from the road. "That isn't what I meant."

  My eyebrows shoot up as I wait for him to go on.

  "It's just that you get so sad when you visit your grandfather, honey. I've seen you—you spend hours afterward giving everyone, and everything, in your vicinity that you kicked my puppy face."