Wicked Sense Page 12

  She raises an eyebrow, also grinning. “I’m glad you’re concerned about my health.”

  “Well, you know me: always thoughtful.”

  She touches her lips absent-mindedly. She’s killing me. As if that’s not enough, she says, “You’re right, I need to get rid of these clothes.”

  A long pause. “You can drop me off at home,” she adds, smiling coyly.

  I shake my head, faking disappointment. I don’t need to fake much, actually. “You tease,” I say.

  She smiles a new smile. It lights up her face. Her eyes play with me.

  She’s definitely changed.

  No more Miss Nice Skye.

  Chapter 32: Skye

  After I enter the house, I realize I can’t stop grinning. I lean on the closed door and sigh. Goddess, I’m swooning! What’s wrong with me?

  Noises come from the kitchen, and I find Gemma there, putting a lasagna in the oven. She looks at me inquisitively—I’m still drenched. I announce I’m going to take a shower.

  I catch myself skipping all the way to the stairs. Skye, seriously?

  The dresser’s mirror doesn’t lie. The smile on my face is plastered; my brain can’t dismiss it. I can’t help but check my reflection, seeing me as Drake saw me: my hair messed up and chunky, my face devoid of make-up, my slightly purple lips. How this wreck of a person had that effect on him, I’ll never know. Thank Goddess for the Allure.

  I undress regretfully, throwing my clothes, my partners in crime, into the hamper. Something makes me hesitate before I go into the hot shower. I realize it’s the idea of having Drake’s scent washed from my body. I sigh, but enter the world of warmth anyway.

  It’s a long shower, where daydreaming is the main activity.

  ***

  My actions after Jane’s attack are surprising even me. From my control of the situation at the hospital to my teasing Drake, I am a different person. I hope it’s not a temporary thing. I like the new me.

  I even confronted Connor. Granted, I haven’t called him out yet on our most important issue, but the old Skye would never corner him, curse him, make him feel small. Serves him right.

  While I brush my hair in front of the old mirror, a plan comes to mind. In order to find the Singularity, I must be more active. I can’t just wait for her magical energy to find me.

  Even if she has some kind of magical shield, she can’t entirely suppress her energy. I wonder if she uses it for rituals or spells; maybe the places where she used it carry some traces of energy. Even things belonging to her might carry her energy, as they carry her scent. I never knew magic worked this way, but old rules don’t seem to apply to the Singularity. I mean, hiding your magical signature? That’s unheard of.

  Or, maybe if I get really close to people, I can sense it. Maybe if I touch her. Yes, I could try that. I could be like Priscilla, who’s unable to carry on a conversation without patting, hugging, poking, leaning over, or touching whoever is chatting with her. Especially men.

  That’s a good excuse to touch people indiscriminately. I could be like that. Skye, the Personal Space Invader.

  One thing is sure: I have to get Jane off my back. Especially if she’s indeed a Night witch. Now that she knows she can attack me and I won’t go to the police, she is free to try whatever her twisted mind can imagine. I have to show her I’m not afraid, and that I can be dangerous too.

  Chapter 33: Drake

  The rain doesn’t let up. When I’m almost home, I see Mona walking alone. She looks more drenched than Skye.

  I approach her slowly, not giving the car any gas. When I get very close, I honk the horn. I was hoping to startle her, but the effect is bigger than that. She lets out a horrific scream and jumps to the side, hitting a fence with her hip. Her hands clutch her chest, and she has a terrified look on her face. She searches for the source of the noise; when she finds me, she begins to cry.

  I leave the car, motor running and everything, and rush to her. “Sorry!” I plead. “Sorry, Mona!” She can’t control her crying. “Are you okay?”

  She manages to answer me between sobs. “No, I’m not okay! I’m very un-okay!” she yells.

  “It was just a joke, Mona. I’m sorry. For real,” I say. I really don’t know what to do. Physical affection is not huge in the Hunter family. I just stand by her, shifting my weight from one leg to another, trying to figure out how I should behave.

  Finally we have some contact. She punches me in the guts. I don’t even register it, but it pains me in other ways. “Why are you so mean to me?” she asks. “What have I done to you?” She balls up her fists and throws a barrage of weak punches on my chest.

  I do what I haven’t done in years. I do the unthinkable. I hug my little sister.

  She nests herself on my chest, sobbing quietly. I’m her shelter against the heavy rain.

  “What’s going on?” I ask softly. “Are you in trouble?”

  She doesn’t answer, but I sense her tensing up a bit.

  “Can I help?” I say. She shakes her head, still buried on my chest.

  The frustration bubbles up. I hate myself for not being able to help Mona. Out of nowhere, these words escape me: “I wish Mom were here.”

  Mona immediately stops sobbing and pulls away from me. “Why? She’s never done anything. She left us!”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she could help. She’s a mother; that’s her job. Right?”

  “I don’t even remember her, Drake.” Mona sounds tired.

  “You’re lucky,” I reply.

  “Because she was horrible?”

  “No,” I say. “Because she was great.”

  ***

  I don’t remember much about our mother. The pictures that helped me puzzle together my few memories were lost to the fire. In my mind, I have glimpses of her. A short and strong woman of extraordinary beauty. Hiding my face in her curly light brown hair. Being carried away and cared for when I broke my toy car. And songs before we went to sleep.

  I could never remember the words though.

  She left us absolutely. Besides the pictures lost to the fire, there was nothing else of hers. No clothes, no jewelry, no mementos. Those pictures—and Mona and I—were the only evidence my mother had ever existed.

  Dad never told us exactly what happened. In his oblique way, he let us know she didn’t love him anymore. He never elaborated on that and deflected our probing questions. With time, we got frustrated and stopped asking.

  I was five; Mona was two. Total calls, letters, postcards, emails since then: zero.

  Dad rarely speaks of her. We’re a happy family, but not a complete one.

  After I drive Mona home, I wait in the living room until she changes her clothes. She comes back with her spunkiness restored.

  “Playing the big brother role scares you to death, doesn’t it?” she asks.

  “You have no idea,” I say.

  “It’s sweet of you, but you don’t need to worry.” She sits on the couch, and I see she brought some purple nail polish with her. She starts to work on her toes.

  “Come on, Mona. What’s going on?”

  She shakes her head, but she doesn’t look up. “It’s nothing, Drake. Let it go.”

  “Is it boy stuff?”

  She snorts, her eyes still down.

  I wish she were more comfortable talking to people. Mona saw a therapist a while ago, but left after two sessions—and nobody can make her return.

  “I’m not into boys,” she finally says. “Yet,” she adds when she sees my expression. She paints one of her toenails deliberately, and I wait. At last, she says, “I’m trying to figure some stuff out. Nothing serious.”

  “But the reaction you had—”

  “I was feeling down, and you scared the hell out of me. Everything came crashing,” she says, shrugging. “Don’t worry, it’s not sex, drugs, or money problems. I won’t turn into a Lifetime movie, okay?”

  What can I do? I have to trust her. “You know you can count on me, right?�
�

  She finally raises her eyes. She smirks at me and cocks her head.

  I feel stupid. “Okay, I don’t have any answers, but at least I can listen, right?” I say, my arms wide open in an apologetic gesture.

  She doesn’t answer. I stand up, write my new cell phone number on a piece of paper, put it by her side on the couch, and leave. My clothes are still wet, and I need to shower.

  When I’m almost at the stairs, Mona says, “Hey, Drake. The lighter. I threw it away, okay?”

  I don’t turn. I just keep walking, smiling.

  ***

  I drop by Boulder’s. Of course Sean is there too. I find them in the garage. They’re raiding the fridge. Sean has a Mountain Dew, but Boulder got a beer. The Mustang’s radio is on, the announcer trying to sound hip and ten years younger.

  “Hey, D-Man! Want a cold one?” Sean asks.

  “No, my body is a temple,” I say.

  Boulder snorts. “Yeah, yeah, but the congregants are Doritos,” he says, conveniently forgetting he usually asks for two meals at McD’s. “Where have you been? You missed school again.”

  “Drake’s got a dark side,” Sean says, faking an ominous voice.

  “Doesn’t your dad get calls from the school?” Boulder asks.

  “He does, but I tell him I’m not feeling well.” I tap my scar.

  Boulder and Sean nod admiringly. I’ve earned their respect.

  “I should have thought of that when I got mine,” Boulder says.

  We all feel awkward, thinking the same thing. Boulder’s concussion reminds us of football. Boulder is sitting out his last season. It’ll cost him a college scholarship, probably. In the first game of the season, he took exception to a tackle at his knees, and pushed and shoved the entire o-line of the opposite team (our hated rivals, the Eagles). He got suspended, but he didn’t stop there: he stole an Eagles’ offensive lineman’s girlfriend. In his return game, a rematch, he tried to take on the entire team, earning him a ban for the season and a civil lawsuit for breaking the Eagles’ tight-end’s collarbone.

  He also ended our shot at Regionals. Our own team shunned him. Now he hangs out with us full time.

  And talking about it is taboo.

  Sean breaks the stalemate. “You still driving the grandma car?” he asks, pointing his soda can in my Volvo’s direction.

  I shrug. I remember the front seats are still damp from all the wet people who sat on them today: Skye, Mona, me.

  More uncomfortable seconds pass. Our minds are still on Boulder’s deceased season.

  Boulder himself rescues us. “Hey, I didn’t see your girl at school today either.” He squints. “What’s going on, D-Man?”

  I look away. Sean laughs. “Is he blushing?” he asks.

  The best answer is not answering. But Sean won’t let it go. “Nah, it’s probably nothing. You’re not interested, right, Drake? We only saw you with one girl.”

  I take the bait. “That’s because I’m discreet.” No, it’s not. Maybe I’m just a… a what? A late bloomer?

  Boulder says, “Well, D-Man, if you’re not interested, please—please—let me know. I’d like to tap that.”

  This gets me going. I put my finger on Boulder’s chest, which looks ridiculous, because he’s like a foot taller and another foot wider than me. “Hey! Hands off. She’s mine,” I say.

  Boulder and Sean look at each other for about two seconds, and then they laugh at the same time. Radioactive-green soda comes out of Sean’s nose. Now I’m really blushing. I step back.

  “Who knew there was a caveman inside Drake?” Boulder says. Sean high-fives him.

  I look outside, to the rain falling on the street. Images of the make-out session at U-Dub’s parking lot come to my mind.

  “No, I don’t mean it that way. I just like her. I think we might be soul mates,” I add. My brain betrays me again.

  Sean stares at me. He’s too stunned to even laugh.

  Boulder puts his free hand on his forehead. “You sooo need to get laid,” he says.

  Chapter 34: Skye

  Drake was supposed to come to Gemma’s for our morning ritual, but I called him last night and canceled. Today I’ll do a proper ceremony, something that I’ve been putting off since I arrived. I need more protection. Those improvisations I do every morning help, but aren’t powerful enough. The ideal spot would be the wilderness, away from the city vibe. But one of Seattle’s many green areas will have to do for now.

  I leave the house before dawn and go west to a bus stop on Aurora Ave. The early morning walk is invigorating. The streets aren’t busy: the businesses are closed, except for the coffee shops, and only a little traffic disturbs the chilly city. The bus leaves me a few blocks away from Ravenna Park.

  With my hands tucked in my jeans’ pockets the whole way, I arrive at the park. I don’t see anyone around and just keep walking. Bird calls saturate the air. The early fog brings a primal quality that can only be helpful to my purposes—the mist beckons to me.

  At a creek, I discreetly fill a vial for my ritual.

  A perfect spot is hard to find, but I settle for a small clearing behind the yellow-leafed trees. It’s far from the pathways. I need some privacy, even though I haven’t seen other people in the park yet.

  Kneeling on the dirt behind a thick hedge, I line up my props on the ground. I do my breathing exercises, and when I feel relaxed enough, I begin the placement. The only moment I lose focus is when I ring my ceremonial bell: someone might hear it, even from a distance.

  In the dirt, I draw a circle, then a pentagram inside it with my ceremonial knife—my athame. It has a white handle with my family crest embossed in gold. The preparation is part of the ritual, helping the Sisters transition into a heightened state of consciousness.

  Before touching each of my items, I rub a little bit of the lake water from the vial on my hands. It doesn’t matter the water is not clean, just that it’s from a natural source.

  I put a single candle in the middle of my arrangement and light it. I add my selected herbs to the cast iron mortar: wormwood and hyssop. Then it’s time for my special gesture, unique to my ritual: I touch my chest, mouth, and forehead slowly with my left hand. A long time ago, I realized this combination brings me peace and comfort, so I incorporated it into my rituals.

  After grinding the herbs with my iron pestle, I light the mixture. The flames liberate its fumes, which I inhale.

  I pray to the Goddess for protection. I ask for special shields for me and Drake. I beg for Mum’s health (even though I know London’s Mothers are performing much more powerful circles of prayers with the same intent).

  My own magical energy meshes with the world’s magic and returns to me. The sensation, an elation unlike any other I’ve ever experienced, overtakes me.

  Judi, my teacher before my Daybreak, once described it to me as “sensual,” which at the time didn’t help my understanding of it at all. After she saw my twelve-year-old, clueless face, she settled on, “it’s like a hot shower after a long walk in cold rain.”

  It’s much more than that. It’s a high, not a drug high, but a universal, ancient energy flow that, for those brief moments, invades your body and permeates you, bringing clarity to the mind, peace to the heart, confidence to the gut, and happiness to the soul.

  I reach an enlightenment that I can’t explain or understand. Only it doesn’t last. I don’t care.

  It’s the instant you’re one with the Goddess. It’s what I live for.

  ***

  “Are you all right?” Priscilla says. “You missed school yesterday.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie, hoping my hair still hides my scar. I thought about wearing a hat, but decided against it. It would call attention to the area, not divert it. Besides, the Allure Charm should take care of it soon.

  I open my locker and stare at my books as if they’re strangers.

  Priscilla smiles. “Oh, good. I thought your mother… How is she?” She starts to rummage in her locker
too.

  I smile back at her. Who would have guessed Priscilla would be so thoughtful? “She’s doing great. I mean, she likes to be pampered.” I call Mum every morning now, which is the middle of the afternoon in London, and she tells me about her day. So strange how I’m feeling more connected to her now, half a world away.

  I still feel a little guilty about not telling Priscilla the truth about my mother. It’s not that I don’t trust her; I just need more time. I’ve always been reserved. It’s hard to change overnight.

  My True Sight makes me tingle. Not for the first time, I wished I could turn it off. Jane is probably parking, and I can sense her all the way from there. Since the sensation intensifies the closer the subject gets to me, I can trace Jane’s steps all around school. I have a personal Jane radar. Sure, it’s useful, but it’s also a constant reminder of the danger she represents to me.

  And to the Singularity.

  “Hel-lo?” Priscilla says in a singsongy voice. “You’ve been staring into your locker like a zombie.”

  “I… uh… forgot to do my assignment. Again,” I say. Actually, this is true. “Can I copy yours? Or your notes?”

  Priscilla snorts, but tastefully. “You’re clearly confusing me with someone else,” she says. “Schoolwork is not my thing.”

  I smirk and get my books.

  Priscilla closes her locker and nudges me with her elbow, whispering, “Soooo, I noticed Drake disappeared yesterday too. Anything you want to share?”

  Okay. I can’t hide everything. During lunchtime, I tell her about my day with him. Omitting all the supernatural parts, of course.

  “That sounds like one über-hot day!” she says. “What did you do after that?” Her yogurt spoon is halfway to her mouth, and not moving.

  “He drove me home.”

  Her eyebrows rise. A mischievous smile sprout on her lips. “And?” she says, her spoon trembling a bit.

  “He went home,” I say.

  She stares at me for a while, and then finally eats her spoonful of yogurt.

  “It was just kissing,” I lie.