B*witch

by Paige McKenzie

  “Forget about the yoga-ball lady; we have more important things to deal with,” Binx said dismissively. “So I think we can say for sure that a witch killed Penelope and then used magic to make it look like a suicide… and used magic to do that other weirdo stuff, too. But why would a witch kill another witch?”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Greta agreed. She clutched at something at her throat—her raw amethyst pendant, probably, which she always kept hidden under her clothing. “Do you think…” Her knuckles whitened as she curled her hand into a fist. “What about those shadow messages? Do you think Div and I are next?”

  “No!” Iris blurted out.

  “I mean…” Binx said at the same time. Greta and Iris both looked at her, horrified, so Binx shifted gears. “Look, whatever this person is planning, we need to find them ASAP. Do we for sure think the Antima are involved?”

  “Why would the Antima be teaming up with witches, though? They hate us, right? I mean, not us specifically, but our kind,” Iris pointed out.

  “Yeah, but those shadow messages sure sounded like they came from the Antima, so there’s that,” Binx mused.

  “Did Penelope get a shadow message, too?” Iris asked.

  “I don’t know,” Greta said. “Binx?”

  Binx shrugged. “I’ll ask Ridley if she knows. Except, wouldn’t she have told us? I mean, that’s kind of major.”

  Greta frowned. “Unless Penelope swore her to secrecy.”

  “Okay, I’ll text her. Again.” Binx pulled out her phone and began typing.

  Greta began typing on her phone, too. “I’m texting Div. Our covens need to meet and figure this stuff out before…”

  Her voice trailed off as she fought back fresh tears. Binx knew exactly what she meant.

  The meeting of the two covens was set up for noon. As Greta and Iris headed off to their respective homerooms, Binx decided to stop in the girls’ bathroom to decompress and collect her thoughts. She felt as though she’d undergone a mental system crash, and she wasn’t ready to face the day.

  Luckily, the bathroom was empty. Leaning against a sink, Binx scrolled through her phone. Still nothing from Ridley.

  She typed:

  Hey are you getting my texts?

  No response.

  Are you okay??? I’m worried about you.

  Still no response.

  Why did Neo cross the road?

  That didn’t work, either.

  Binx sighed and stepped back from the sink. She caught her reflection in the mirror: sleep-deprived, circles under her eyes, a pallor not unlike Baklora the Bloodless, whose witch army was forever storming castles in search of the elusive Chromalian Cure. Which was no surprise, considering that Binx had barely slept in days… not after what had happened.

  Last night, for example. She’d awoken at two a.m. and tossed and turned for an hour before giving up on sleep altogether. She’d gone to her computer, tried to play Witchworld, and stopped after a few minutes (the violent melee at Gasterly Point wasn’t amusing). Then, unable to help herself, she’d meandered through the Internet, revisiting Penelope’s social media.

  Her full name was Penelope Rue Hart, and she would have been sixteen in October. A junior league tennis champion, a competitive gymnast, and a member of the local dressage team (a quick Google search had revealed that “dressage” had to do with horses, not dresses). An only child (just like Binx, unless she was inclined to count the smelly, noisy, infant half brother, which she wasn’t).

  When Binx had clicked over to Penelope’s YouTube channel, she’d been shocked (well, maybe not shocked but disappointed in the human race) that her subscriber base had tripled over the weekend. Her other accounts (her Instagram and her Twitter,) had insanely high numbers, too. Nothing like a young girl’s untimely death to explode interest in her content.

  Binx had noticed, too, that a bunch of randoms had posted disgusting comments. Like: R.I.P. in Hell, Witch… Magic cant save u now… and One less to deal with LOL. All with the hashtags #stopwitchcraft and #antima.

  Seriously?

  She’d had to use every ounce of restraint in her body to not engage with these haters… or send them a powerful cyberspell through the Internet and fry them into oblivion. (She didn’t actually have a spell like this in her arsenal, but she was more than motivated to invent one. Bring. It. On.)

  Penelope’s Instagram had included photos of her and Colter—hanging out at the beach, watching a baseball game, sunbathing by a pool. In one of them, Binx noticed a little heart-shaped birthmark just above her bikini top. Her Instagram had tons of photos of her dog, Socrates, who was a big poodle with curly white fur and enormous brown eyes. Binx wondered if the poor creature was okay. Did he know that his owner was gone? He must.

  For some reason, the Socrates pix made Binx think about the stupid dirt-colored puppy that had shown up at her house last Thursday, along with the undead crow. She hadn’t seen it since then; had it gone back to its owner? Was it okay? Over the weekend, she’d gone to Pet Mart on an impulse and spent thirty dollars on different types of dog food—dry, canned, chicken, beef, gravy, no gravy, organic, not organic. (Actually, she’d charged it to the emergency credit card her father had given her, because wasn’t that what absentee dads were for?) She’d left the food out for the puppy, rotating the different kinds, but the bowl had remained full.

  She checked her phone again. Still nothing from Ridley… and nothing from ShadowKnight, either. They’d planned to talk over the weekend, but he hadn’t answered her videochat requests; hopefully he hadn’t gotten into further trouble with his parents. She’d started analyzing his new genealogy app—the one that was supposed to help him and his Libertas group find C-Squared’s living descendants—and made a little progress on Thursday and Friday. But she’d had to take a break because of the Penelope incident. She really wanted to get back to it; killing 6-129 and stopping the president’s new bill (and the Antima, too) seemed more urgent than ever.

  She also needed to get back to her coven-related assignment, to try to find witches at their school and around town. That, too, seemed more urgent than ever, but for a slightly different reason. At first they’d believed some witch might be helping them by enchanting the shadow messages. But now it looked like some witch might be after them.

  That witch had already gotten Penelope.

  In the mirror, Binx saw that her eyes were shiny with tears.

  Okay, no crying, you idiot, she chided herself. She hastily dug through her doge backpack for her makeup bag and pulled out a tube of concealer, a bottle of eye drops, and a new lipstick she’d bought at the drugstore after seeing Penelope’s dark-lipstick tutorial. It was time for her to perform some anti-Baklora-the-Bloodless magic on her tired features and face the day.

  She wished she’d had a chance to thank Penelope for the makeup tips.

  The bathroom door burst open, which made Binx drop her lipstick. In the mirror, she saw Ms. O’Shea.

  The history sub closed the door behind her and leaned against one of the sinks, catching her breath. “Calumnia. I saw you from way down the hall, and I ran, and… anyway, I was out of town this weekend, so I just heard about Penelope Hart. That’s awful.”

  Binx picked up the lipstick. “Yeah. It sucks.”

  “Principal Sparkleman said that you guys found her?”

  “Yup. Did you know that she was one of us?”

  “She was?”

  “That’s what she told Ridley, the day before she…” Binx stopped, uncapped the lipstick, and capped it again. She felt helpless suddenly.

  “I wish I’d known. I wish I could have protected her somehow,” Ms. O’Shea said quietly.

  “Us too.”

  “Principal Sparkleman said there was a suicide note at the scene?”

  “No. I mean, yes, sort of. But she didn’t write it; someone used magic to make it look like she did.”

  Ms. O’Shea covered her mouth with a shaking hand. “I can’t believe this. Why would any
one do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re all pretty freaked out. What if whoever it is comes after Greta or Div next? Or any of us?”

  “Tell me everything and spare no detail,” Ms. O’Shea said. “Even the tiniest thing might be important.”

  Binx explained about the handwriting-morphing and the eerie music and the energy barrier.

  When she’d finished, Ms. O’Shea was quiet for a long time. “This is bad… very bad,” she said finally. “I need to get this information to my coven ASAP.”

  “I just don’t get it,” Binx went on. “What was this killer-witch’s motive? And did the same witch enchant Greta’s and Div’s shadow messages? What’s the connection between the shadow messages and Penelope’s murder? And are the Antima involved at all, or are they just a bunch of idiots and posers who are doing their own thing?”

  “Yes, there’s a lot we don’t know yet, obviously. But…” Ms. O’Shea paused to adjust Theia. Binx gazed at the magical glasses longingly; with her own pair, she could do so much (like search for the dirt-colored puppy across long distances). “I do have some new information about the Antima that might be helpful,” Ms. O’Shea went on.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. And now that I know about Penelope’s murder…” Ms. O’Shea’s expression darkened. “Do you remember how I told you and Ridley at the mall that some bigwig in town might be organizing a new local Antima faction?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “My coven and I have learned that this group definitely exists. They call themselves the New Order. And we came up with a theory about who this bigwig, their leader, might be.”

  “Who?”

  Ms. O’Shea hesitated. “Is Penelope… was Penelope, I mean… dating a guy named Jessup? Colter Jessup?”

  Binx nodded slowly. Dread pricked at her insides. Where was Ms. O’Shea going with this?

  “We’re not absolutely positive—yet. But we think that the leader of New Order is someone in the Jessup family.”

  22

  SLEEPYHEAD

  Magic cannot manifest something out of nothing. For example, it cannot find courage where there is none.

  (FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)

  “Morgan? You awake, bud?”

  Ridley stirred at the sound of her father’s voice. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting bright white stripes across her room, and the alarm clock on her nightstand blinked 8:40 a.m. Wasn’t it Monday? Yes, it was definitely Monday. A school day. Why was she still in bed?

  And then she remembered… she’d been sick all weekend and asked to stay home. Chills, a marathon headache, fatigue. She’d even canceled her violin lesson with Mr. Jong for later, which was something she never did.

  Because, Penelope. Ridley didn’t know if the events of last Friday night had made her sick, or if it was a coincidence, or if her illness was all in her mind. What difference did it make, though? Sick was sick. And in any case, Penelope was gone.

  But Ridley couldn’t bear to think about her another minute; her brain had been on a nonstop Penelope loop. She kept going over their last conversation, wondering what if, what if, what if…

  “Morgan, you all right? I made you some of those cinnamon pancakes you like.”

  Ridley realized that her father was standing just outside her door.

  “Thanks, Dad! I’m not hungry!” Her voice was lower, gruffer. She hated that voice.

  “I’ll cover them with foil and leave them on the counter for you, then.”

  Ridley heard his footsteps plodding down the stairs. Come to think of it, Daddy rarely made her breakfast anymore, and certainly not on a weekday morning. He was no doubt trying his best to cheer her up. Of course, he knew only a magically filtered version of the events surrounding Penelope’s death. That night, Ridley had been forced to use a series of spells, both on him and the police officers, to make sure he wasn’t present when they’d questioned her along with Greta, Binx, and Iris… and to make sure she’d been Ridley the girl with them and Morgan the boy with him. She’d also had to use a calming spell on herself; having to protect her identity so vigilantly in the presence of the police had taken its toll on her. On top of the trauma over Penelope.

  The world was spiraling out of control. She was spiraling out of control. Maybe she could just stay in bed for the next few weeks. Months. Years. The rest of her life.

  The house was quiet now. Momma was no doubt still asleep. Daddy must have driven Harmony to her preschool earlier and come back; Monday was gardening day, which was her favorite because they got to pick peppers and other fresh vegetables for their snack.

  Harmony would want to play with Ridley later. There couldn’t be two bedridden Stones in the house.

  Just get up, she told herself. Baby steps. You can do this.

  With an effort, she sat up slightly, groaned, and slumped back down again. A few more minutes. Out of habit, she held up her hands to inspect her mani for chips… and was greeted by the sight of bare, bitten-down nails and thick, slightly hairy knuckles. Oh yeah. This happened a lot, especially first thing in the morning, expecting to be her real self and encountering Morgan instead. It was depressing.

  Of course, her favorite movie, as always, offered some consoling wisdom on this point: What is real? How do you define “real”? In any case, things were going to be so much better, so much more real, once she mastered those two super-advanced spells, vertero and dissimulatio.

  A metallic rattling sound. Across the room, her familiar, Agent Smith, was chewing vigorously on a carrot-shaped toy made of timothy hay (a rabbit favorite) that had been wedged into the wire fence of his exercise pen.

  “Hey, guy. I know, you need breakfast. One sec.”

  Agent Smith watched her with his translucent red eyes as he continued playing tug-of-war with the toy and rattling the fencing.

  “I promise, I’ll bring you a real carrot, and some kale, too, if we have it. I just—”

  With a sudden, swift motion, Agent Smith yanked the toy free with his Dracula-sharp teeth and flung it up in the air. It landed in his litter box, i.e., one of Momma’s old aluminum baking pans filled with recycled newspaper bits.

  “O-kay. Message received. Be patient with me, I’m having a tough time.”

  Agent Smith hopped into his litter box, still staring at her. They’d tried a more conventional litter box with him at first, made of plastic, but he’d consumed half of it, so they’d had to resort to something less edible.

  Ridley had inherited Agent Smith (formerly Cupcake, which was so not the right name for him) from their neighbor back in Cleveland, Mrs. Azar, who was moving to a retirement home and couldn’t bring him with her. The moment Ridley had laid eyes on him, she knew. He was her meant-to-be companion. Momma had agreed on their family adopting him on the condition that he got along with Pandy, the dog (technically, Momma’s dog). It had been touch-and-go at first, but they had eventually developed a grudging cross-species fondness for each other.

  Ridley’s phone buzzed on her nightstand. Again. She really should turn the thing off so she could get some peace.

  Another text from Binx; Ridley could barely keep up.

  Why couldn’t Neo eat his ice cream?

  “Because there was no spoon,” Ridley said out loud. For someone who claimed not to be a Matrix fan, Binx sure knew a lot of Matrix-y jokes.

  After a moment, Binx wrote:

  Dude if you don’t text me back soon I’m going to come over to your house and teach your rabbit how to yodel.

  Ridley grabbed her phone. She typed:

  I’m fine I’m just sick. Are you guys at school? How’s everyone doing?

  Not good. Did you get my text from before? About Penelope?

  I just woke up, sorry. What about her?

  When you guys talked last week, did she mention if she got a shadow message like the one Greta and Div got?

  No. Why?

  We were wondering if she was threatened, too
.

  Oh.

  Now Ridley felt like a terrible friend. She should have told Penelope about the shadow messages… and also about the defaced gravestones, about the Antima at school. If Ridley had warned her about all this during their coffee, Penelope might have been more careful; she might still be alive.

  I failed her.

  Binx texted:

  Also, did she talk about Colter with you?

  Colter?

  Ridley replied:

  She said he was really nice. She seemed pretty happy with him, I guess.

  What about his family?

  She said they were nice, too. Why?

  It’s complicated. I’m cutting class and coming over so I can explain in person. I know your dad doesn’t like visitors but just this once.

  Ridley bolted straight up. No no no no no.

  Don’t come over I’m super-contagious.

  No response.

  Besides I won’t be here. My mom’s driving me to the doctor’s. I’ll text you later. Swear on a stack of spellbooks.

  Binx finally replied:

  Okay fine, even though you’re totally lying. Call me, okay?

  Ridley waited to see if Binx might fire off another text. She didn’t. Still, what if she ignored Ridley’s orders and came over, anyway? It would be just like her.

  Ridley needed a Plan B (besides memory-erase spells, which would be her Plan C). Her mother was not the problem, since she would likely be asleep for a while; she’d been spending a lot of her time in bed since Daniel died.

  Her father, though. Would he be out of here in time should Binx defy Ridley’s orders and come over? He’d said something last night about his shift starting at nine thirty this morning. Or was it ten thirty?

  Ridley swung her feet over the side of her bed and stood up. The sudden motion made her head throb. Pressing her index fingers against her temples, she crossed her room (which she loathed; it was such a boring suburban boy room, with its charcoal-gray walls and blond fake-wood floors and black IKEA furniture) and poked her head out the door. “Dad, did you leave yet?” she called out.