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  I try the kitchen door, balancing the flasks. The door makes a creaking noise when it opens. As soon as the tattooed guy turns, I throw the flask’s liquid in his face.

  He’s startled by the attack, but he doesn’t make a noise. He brushes his fingertips quickly against his face and looks at them. Then he collapses in a heap, unconscious.

  My mind registers I used the sleep potion. Drake and the skinny guy don’t move; they both watch me with glazed eyes. Then Drake tries to get up to divert the guy’s attention.

  I use this moment to throw the contents of the second flask on the guy’s gaunt face. I hope it doesn’t spill on Drake.

  The potion’s effect is immediate. The skinny guy starts to flail about. The second potion was shivers.

  I glimpse a silhouette against the front window. Jane. Ignoring Drake, I race to the front door. I reach for another flask from my pocket.

  Jane, no doubt already sensing me, opens the door, switchblade in hand, trying to figure out the scene inside. I don’t wait. In one motion, I pop up the lid and throw the potion on her.

  She ducks.

  My potion misses her and goes out through the front door. Jane straightens herself and smiles. Without looking back, she closes the front door behind her.

  “What now?” she hisses, challenging me.

  Behind me, I hear Drake stumbling. Jane is still three steps away from me. I get my last flask and try to pop up its lid, but Jane closes the distance insanely fast, and closes her fist over my hand, preventing me from opening the flask. Her hand is crushing mine. I’m afraid the flask might break. The potion is going to spill on me.

  Her smile is horrific—as if her face is made of pure evil. I cower. I feel weak, defeated, but something inside me compels me to fight. It’s not real.

  Not real.

  I force myself to see her how she really is: I try to pierce through her Intimidating Charm.

  The glass flask is about to crack under her death grip on my hand. Turning the bottom of the flask in the direction of her face, I push with all my strength, in a stabbing motion.

  She tries to turn away, but the butt of the flask hits her cheekbone and breaks. Tiny pieces of glass get stuck deep into her flesh. Liquid spills over her face and my hand.

  I yank my arm from her grasp and look at my hand. There were only two potions left. One is decay. The other…

  Jane puts her hands over her eyes and screams. The same scream I let out in the locker room.

  Breathing hard, I manage to whisper, “Blinding potion, bitch.”

  Broken glass decorates my right hand, and droplets of blood emerge. I look at them, bewildered. Something inside my head reminds me not to get my hand, dripping with a little blinding potion, next to my eyes.

  I barely notice when Jane swings her arm swiftly in my direction. I try to dodge, but I’m too slow. A sharp pain comes from a deep cut on my forearm, just below the elbow.

  I gasp and step back, trying to avoid her wild swings. She’s got her switchblade in her hand, and even blind, she guesses my position.

  A while ago, I took a single self-defense class. I use the only thing I’ve learned then. Her swooping slashes leave her body hunched forward, her arms wide, and I see an opening.

  I kick her in the groin with all my strength.

  She whimpers, falling backward. The knife drops to the floor, beyond her reach. She reaches for her aching crotch, gasping in pain.

  Drake stumbles in my direction.

  “You okay?” Drake asks with a raspy voice. He trips and almost falls down. I support him with my shoulder.

  Looking at his bloodied face, I say. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  I guide him to the front while Jane lays on the floor. Not screaming anymore, just moaning. For some reason, it’s scarier.

  The street is deserted. I’m guessing screams are a common occurrence around here. I help Drake into the passenger’s seat and run to the driver’s side, disregarding the trail of blood I leave on the sidewalk.

  Jane’s bike is parked behind us. Defenseless.

  I check the empty street for onlookers, then awkwardly use my left hand to put the Volvo in reverse and smash the side of her precious machine. The bike tumbles to the road.

  “Whoa,” Drake says.

  I twist again to put the shift in drive and hit the gas, leaving all things Jane behind.

  Chapter 47: Drake

  We don’t go to the hospital this time. We’re in Skye’s bedroom. I suggested going to my house, since Dad’s at work and Mona is wherever freakish fourteen-year-old girls hang out, but Skye told me she had healing herbs and potions here. Aunt Gemma is out, bird watching again.

  We only need to clean the bloodstains from the hardwood floor, that’s all.

  After examining the bump on my temple, Skye makes a quick bandage and hands me a huge ice bag.

  “They hit you exactly where the tree hit it,” she said.

  “Guess I can recycle the scar then,” I say.

  I use tweezers to pick every tiny shard of glass from her hand. Instead of using soap or antiseptic, she brushes a few herbs over her wounds and pours cold water over her hand. I don’t even ask. I hope she doesn’t get an infection.

  Even with the odd circumstances, I feel warm inside, having her hand resting on mine, while I do glass-picking duty.

  “How are you going to explain the gash?” I say, nodding to the bandage on her other arm.

  “I’ll just wear long sleeves.”

  I find another piece of glass, slowly pull it out, and drop it on her dresser.

  “So, great plan, huh?” I say, my eyes fixed on my job.

  The answer is slow to come. “It was a car wreck.”

  I’m surprised she’s this calm. She was just attacked—again—by a knife-wielding notorious psycho, and she fought her way out of a room with three adversaries.

  “You saved me again,” I point out.

  “I put you in danger in the first place,” she replies.

  “Where we at? In saving each other, I mean. We should be even by now, right?”

  “I stopped counting a while ago,” she says, her voice lively now.

  I chuckle.

  “You should get another CAT scan,” she says softly. Her hand touches my scar.

  “If we go back to the ER, they’ll probably report us to the police,” I say, looking at her now.

  She shakes her head dismissively. “Under what charges? Getting hurt too much? Is that a crime?”

  I imagine running into baby-doctor once again. “I wonder if the hospital has a frequent customer punch card,” I say.

  “Hits to the head are serious, Drake.”

  “Tell you what, once the bump goes away, I’ll make a return appointment. I can tell them I’ve been having headaches. This ought to get me another scan.”

  “Deal.”

  The silence comes back, resilient this time. Only when I’m almost finishing up, Skye mumbles, “I feel sorry for her.”

  I stop the improvised surgery. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  She gives me a pained look. “We broke into her house. I attacked her. I hurt her.”

  “Awesome,” I say. “I couldn’t care less about her. Well, maybe I could, if I tried really hard…”

  “Come on, Drake. You’re better than this. What if I hurt her?”

  I drop the tweezers and hug her. “You didn’t, Skye. She tried to kill you. Don’t forget it.”

  After I break our embrace, she nods, unconvincingly. She motions for me to resume the operation. I remove another shard, and Skye grimaces.

  “We made a mistake,” she says after a while. I don’t contradict her. “Many mistakes. This is getting way out of control.”

  “Well, if they had let me go after I broke in—into what I thought was an empty house, by the way—nobody would be hurt. Including me.”

  “The same applies if we didn’t break into her house to begin with,” Skye says.

  “Good point. Useless
now, but good. Hindsight is a bitch.” Something else bothers me. “Who were those guys? How did she get them to work for her?”

  Skye shrugs. “If she’s really a Night witch, I’m guessing they work for potions, sex, or money. Even drugs: some of us can brew powerful hallucinogens. A few Sisters actually make a living of it.”

  “I loved what you did with the potions,” I say. “But you should have told me before. I’d recommend using a Super Soaker: much more effective.”

  She chuckles, but her expression is still pensive.

  “Do you think Jane is calling the police right now?” I ask.

  “I’ve been thinking—Ouch!” Oops. I made a mistake and pushed a shard of glass even deeper. She removes her hand, blows a little on the wound, and then says, “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t know. Many things are hard to explain. Why would we go to her house? What is all that glass and strange liquid all over the place?”

  I take an involuntary look at the bloodied glass I’ve been depositing on the dresser. “She doesn’t have to explain anything. Actually, she just has to tell the truth. Because we acted like criminals. And she has our blood in her house. And someone might have seen my plates—not that are many caramel-colored Volvos in the city.”

  “I can think of only one reason,” Skye says, raising the index finger on her good hand, “that would stop her. The Veil.”

  “Does she care?”

  “If she does, she must belong to a coven. And that would be an even bigger problem.”

  Chapter 48: Skye

  Jane doesn’t show up at school the next day. Nor do the police.

  I’m wearing long sleeves and knitted gloves. When I look at my wounds, the word that comes to my mind is “evidence.” If Jane wanted to get us in trouble, it would be too easy.

  But no sirens and no calls to the principal’s office mean we get a reprieve. At least for today.

  Today I’m glad I got my Jane alarm. Drake, however, has no True Sight. He’s so uneasy. Jumpy, really. It’s odd seeing him so subdued.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask after we make out. “I mean, besides…” I let my voice trail.

  We’re at Priscilla’s—now Drake’s and mine—hidden picnic table behind the building.

  “I’m not worried about you,” he says. “I mean, you can detect Jane, and you showed me you can take care of yourself. But I wonder if she will go after me, you know?”

  “After you? She already went after you.”

  “After my family. It’s the oldest trick in the bad guy’s handbook, right? And it would be easy. Dad is so trusting, and Mona is already hanging out with crazy people.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  Chapter 49: Drake

  At night, I get to sleep really late, concerned about Jane, the human wrecking ball, and all the other weird stuff. I wake up so tired that I don’t have the energy to be worried. My body just drags itself downstairs.

  When I arrive at the kitchen, I see Dad drinking coffee. He sets the mug on the table deliberately. A big grin lights up his face.

  “No work today?” I ask.

  “No,” he says.

  I’m too sleepy to investigate further. I just pour myself some coffee and munch on an Eggo (a habit I retain from my toddler years).

  Sounds come from upstairs. Mona is up, and she’s probably rummaging through her drawers. Doors are opened and closed, faucets turned on and off. I sip my coffee and notice some neatly stacked sheets of paper on the kitchen island. My brain is too sluggish to register their meaning, though.

  Mona finally comes to the kitchen. She’s as surprised as me when she sees Dad at home.

  “What are you doing here, Dad?” she asks.

  “Well, I live here,” he says, still grinning. What’s up with him?

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in Renton by now?” Mona asks while she steals half of the Eggo from my plate. I’m too slow to react.

  “I’m going to Vegas today,” Dad says, and we can tell he’s been dying to say it for a while. He glances from me to Mona and back, scrutinizing our reaction.

  I finally feel strong enough to get back to the world of the living. “Are we that deep in debt? Are you trying to gamble your way now?”

  Nothing fazes him and his (rare) grin.

  “We have an IT convention in Las Vegas,” Dad says. “Tom was supposed to go, but he came down with the flu, and the company gave his spot to me.” Dad seems very satisfied with the arrangement.

  Mona leans back on the counter. “Really? Because this sounds like an elaborate story.”

  Dad goes on the defensive. “No, I really have to go to Las Vegas. I’m a vendor. Look, I have the badge and everything.” Beaming, he shows us a fancy name card with the company’s name and the convention logo. I decide to have some fun

  “’Shopped!” I say.

  “What?” my father asks, confused.

  “I don’t even work with computers and I can create a better Photoshop than that,” I explain, handing him back the badge.

  He snatches it from my hands. “You two are impossible,” he mumbles.

  “Come on, Dad. It’s a joke…”

  “Go have fun!” Mona says.

  “Yeah!” I say. “Just don’t come back married, okay? I don’t want an exotic dancer as a stepmother.”

  He chuckles, but his expression becomes solemn again. He points to the papers on the counter. “I printed the hotel information and the whole schedule so you guys can find me if you need me. There’s an envelope with money for expenses, but only use it if you really need it. The bills are paid, the fridge stocked.” He stares at us, and I recognize the same look he gave me when I was six and he left me at the kindergarten for the first time. “Are you going to be okay? I have to stay there until Friday, but I’ll call every night.”

  “Don’t you guys go out after the convention?” I ask. Dad is reluctant to reply, so I go on, “Don’t worry about us. If we need something, we’ll call you. Just enjoy the trip.”

  He nods, grateful, and turns to Mona. “I’ll be back with plenty of time for your birthday, sweetie. Any ideas for gifts?”

  “A year in Europe?” She raises her eyebrows. I can’t even tell if she’s serious about it.

  “I can bring you a replica of the Eiffel Tower, what do you say?”

  “A replica of a replica? No, thanks,” Mona replies. She eats the last piece of Eggo. My piece.

  “I’ll surprise you, then,” Dad says.

  I can’t shut up. “You already did.”

  ***

  After I tell Skye about my Dad’s impromptu trip, her blue eyes sparkle.

  “What about your sister?” she asks.

  “Mona, the Queen of Dramaland, informed me this morning she’ll be staying over at Pain’s—her friend. Sleepover.”

  “Interesting…” Skye says. “So, you’re going to be home alone?”

  I grin. “Yes…”

  She slides her index finger down my chest. “I thought about something we could do.”

  “I thought about it too,” I manage to say. It’s hard to speak while holding my breath.

  “Cool. We need a good plan for the search,” she says, excitedly.

  I feel like someone poured icy water on me. “What?”

  Skye withdraws her wandering finger. “What? Isn’t it what you were thinking?”

  “No. Not even close,” I say.

  She bursts out laughing. When she sees my annoyed face, she stops. Unwillingly. She touches my face with her hands, holding my head between her palms and staring into my eyes. “Now that you mention it—not that you actually mentioned it—I understand what you mean.”

  I nod slowly, my head still captive in her hands.

  “It’s not a bad idea,” she says.

  I hope I heard her right. “You mean it?” I whisper.

  But there it is, a slight hesitancy. In a flash, I feel hopeful, crushed, and guilty about our exchange. I don’t want to put pressure on her. Well,
I’m not a monk, and I’d prefer not to wait forever, but the last thing I want is to leave her in an uncomfortable spot.

  “Why—why don’t you come over? I’ll cook something, we can watch a stupid movie, and just, you know, be together,” I say. “No expectations,” I add, after a pause.

  She shows me a sunny smile: an absolute, joyous smile.

  Then she moves closer and kisses me. This kiss—an enticing, lush display of passion—is nothing like we had ever had. It tastes like a juicy fruit, a scrumptious, fleshy delicacy. She pulls me to her as if afraid she might lose me. For some reason, this feeling of being desired puts it over the top for me.

  The kiss moves instantaneously to the top spot of my “best kisses ever” list. Fortunately, an ever-expanding list.

  Chapter 50: Skye

  Drake picks me up at home, under the suspicious glares of Aunt Gemma. Feigning innocence, I wave goodbye. I had mentioned to her that I might arrive home late, if not at all, and we had a nasty discussion.

  He doesn’t speak much on our way over. It’s weird going to spend the night, with the sun still up. Dusk won’t be upon us until around seven o’clock.

  He makes a point of opening the door for me and letting me in first.

  The house is neat—or maybe Drake slaved all afternoon to make it more presentable. We go through the kitchen to the deck.

  “I hope you like barbecue,” he says.

  He must see my eyebrows raising, because he adds, “I wanted to cook for you, but I don’t know how. Barbecue is a no-brainer.” He shrugs. “Don’t worry, I know you don’t eat meat.”

  “I love grilled veggies,” I say. He beams and proceeds to turn on the gas grill.

  I look for an MP3 player of some kind. When I ask Drake about it, he blushes a bit and points to a small pile of CDs by the home theater system. I browse through the plastic cases: it’s mostly emo and goth bands, and some indie rock. I smile: almost all the indie bands are from the UK. Dirty Pretty Things, the Arctic Monkeys. The last remnants of our old empire.

  “Are all of those yours?” I ask, raising my voice so he can hear me from the deck.

  “Only the music CDs. The downer bands are all Mona’s,” he yells back. He seems to be struggling with the vegetables he intends to grill.