Wicked Sense Page 4

  What I don’t say is that my mother is Katherine Lexington-Ellis, a British theater legend who’s been working in Hollywood and in indie movies since she won her Oscar nine years ago. I also omit that she’s a witch. She named me Skye, after the Scottish island where my parents met. Mum told me he was a charming, powerful male witch, but just a fling.

  Drake awakens me from my reverie. “Are you here with her? Do you have plans to move soon?”

  “No, I’m staying with a friend of hers, my Aunt Gemma.”

  “So, you’re not an exchange student, after all,” he says, sounding pleased.

  “No, I’m here to stay,” I lie. Actually, I’m here until we find the Singularity.

  He seems satisfied, so I finish my scone in silence, absorbing the vibe of this place. I’ve lived in so many cities, so many hotel rooms, with so many tutors. Mum was always on set, or in another room with her male lead. Now she’s onstage in London, and the Mothers sent me here. Alone.

  I don’t want to think about it and I steer the conversation toward more mundane things. “Who are your friends? The ones with you on my first day?”

  “The short one with a buzz cut is Sean. The one that looks like the Terminator is Boulder.”

  “Sean shouldn’t wear sideburns and a soul patch.”

  He chuckles. “I know. And you met Sean after he trimmed them. You should have seen him before.”

  The conversation dies a little after that.

  Drake sips his coffee slowly, watching the city come alive, but glances at me from time to time. We don’t feel like we have to say something. It’s a nice feeling.

  I don’t sense Jane’s energy anymore. She’s gone. Good.

  The sights draw my attention again. Three-story red brick buildings surround us. On the street, an old car stands out. On its baby-blue sides someone painted an underwater scene, complete with starfish, dolphins, several types of fish, and seahorses.

  My eyes follow the strange car passing on the road. Only because of the car I notice the statue of a kneeling Jimi Hendrix on the next block. What an odd city.

  When I turn back to Drake, I catch him looking at me. He keeps staring while I chase after the scone crumbs on the table and stuff them in my mouth.

  “What?” I mumble, my mouth full.

  Drake smiles and says, “Have you seen the troll yet?”

  Chapter 9: Drake

  We’re headed to Aurora Avenue, but she receives a call. She has to go home. I turn around. I’ll show her the Fremont Troll later.

  While I’m driving her back, she says, “So, Priscilla tells me you’re a good kisser.”

  Huh? “I’ve never kissed her,” I say. I’d like to, but I haven’t.

  “She says that’s the word around school. So, what’s up with that? Did you kiss all the other girls in school?”

  Oh, I know. “No, I kissed just one. Brianna. But she gossips a lot.”

  Skye chuckles. I hope it’s from my joke, not from my lack of experience. But I see an opening and take a chance.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Do you have a boyfriend?” I make an effort to avoid being hypnotized by her unreal blue eyes.

  “No.” I was hoping for more, but I see her tensing a little bit.

  Since she’s new to the city, I take the longest route I can. I think of something to break the tension. “Girlfriend?” I ask. She chuckles again. “Husband?” She snorts.

  “No, I’m free as a bird, as they say. But I’m not looking for somebody.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, maybe somebody is looking for you.”

  She shakes her head, and then she stares at me. “If you know what to say at all times, how come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

  I shrug, my eyes on the road. “I guess I’m very selective.”

  She looks away, to the houses passing by out her window. I hope she’s not into my trick to stretch our time together.

  “You have a sister, right? Mona?” she asks, still not facing me.

  That’s an unexpected segue. “Yeah.”

  “I wish I had a sister,” she says, dreamily. “A real sister. Someone always by your side, you know? Someone you love. Someone you can talk to.”

  It’s my turn to chuckle, and she turns to face me. “What?” she asks.

  “Mona and I are not like that. At all. I mean, I like her–”

  “You mean, you love her,” Skye corrects me.

  “Okay, okay, love her,” I say, the L-word leaving a strange taste in my mouth. “But from a distance. Especially now that she’s in a freakish phase. We don’t chat, and we certainly don’t, you know, talk.”

  She stares at me as if I had just strangled a kitten or something.

  We reach a light, and I stare back at her. The green light appears, and I lose the staring contest. I snort, but I feel compelled to add, “Guys don’t talk.”

  “You do,” she says—not asking.

  “I don’t.”

  “You would,” she replies with authority.

  I keep my mouth shut. Yes, I would. Who’s this girl, this stranger who knows so much about me? Damn, Skye, stop it. No need to make me want you more.

  We mercifully arrive at her house. I want to be with her, but I know the way she can see through me might do me harm. She should come with a warning: enjoy Skye with moderation.

  ***

  I drop by Boulder’s after I recover from hurricane Skye. Of course, Sean is hanging out with him. They’re taking turns updating their status on Boulder’s computer. Hip-hop plays quietly—which strikes me as pointless, but I say nothing.

  The futon is free, and I let my body plunge there. It’s cool that I can just be there while I try to organize my thoughts. No need to force conversation. Sean browses through an Xbox magazine, sitting close to the desk where Boulder mans the laptop. Sometimes Boulder says, “Check this out,” and the two of them stare at the screen, laughing. “That’s so messed up,” Sean says, shaking his head. Watching them is maddening; they could be talking about anything.

  Sean finally leaves Boulder’s side. He drops on the futon next to me and slaps my leg.

  “So, how’s the head?” he asks.

  “Do I know you?” I deadpan. “Where am I? What is this place?”

  Sean’s chuckle is familiar and comforting. “We were worried, man,” he says.

  “Yeah,” Boulder booms from the computer desk, still glued to the screen. “When we heard you were alone with a girl.”

  I can’t help but join Sean’s laugh.

  Boulder continues, “Yeah, you’re alone with the new hot chick, you convince her to follow you to the woods, and what do you do? You faint!”

  Sean and I guffaw. I see Boulder joining us, his shoulders going up and down.

  After our laughter fades, Boulder asks, “Are you going to school tomorrow?”

  “Nah,” I say. “I’ll milk this injury as much as I can. I’ve got a note from the doctor keeping me from school for a week.”

  Sean nods in approval. “Nice move. What about the girl?”

  “I know where she lives,” I say, shrugging. “I can drop by and talk to her away from a crowd.”

  After a pause, Sean says, “I still can’t believe that you took her to the hospital for your first date!” He chuckles again.

  “It’s worse. She took me to the hospital—” I have an epiphany. “A date! I forgot to ask her out.”

  “Classic Drake,” Boulder says from the desk, shaking his head.

  Chapter 10: Skye

  Drake drops me off just as the phone is ringing. It’s my mother, calling from London. I do the time zone conversion: it’s 2 a.m. there, 6 p.m. here. Her performance is over and she’s checking on me. No way I’m telling her—or anyone else—about the ritual in the woods. I’m not supposed to have performed it. It’s waaay beyond my training.

  “How are you, darling?” Her familiar, stage-trained voice greets me. “Found the Singularity yet?”

  “Mum!” I say, admonishing her. �
�Someone might be listening.”

  “Rubbish! This is paranoia talking. Or are you assuming the spy role? I’ve always told you, darling, you’d make a fine thespian.” Mum sometimes speaks as if her life is a play, which is not far from the truth. “But tell me, any progress?”

  “I’ve just arrived. I’m still meeting people,” I say evasively.

  “Use your True Sight, find the Sister, and come back to me, darling. I miss you.”

  No, Mum, you think you do. If I came back, I’d get a week of attention, but soon you’d be back to your fellow actors, parties, interviews. And when you’re in a play, you sleep until 3 p.m., leaving me alone and vulnerable to all kinds of dangers. Like Connor.

  As if reading my mind (a Charm I’m sure she doesn’t possess), she asks me, “So, any good-looking fellows on your side of the pond?”

  “Mum, please.”

  “It’s only natural that I ask,” she says, defensively. Natural to her, maybe. “After Connor left, you never went out.”

  “I did,” I say, but I know what she means.

  “With a group, yes, but not with a lad. That’s not healthy. Have you seen him yet?”

  “Yes, Mum. I saw Connor yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “And he sends his love and says he misses you,” I lie, hoping to appease her.

  “Oh,” she says, delighted. “He’s always been a gentleman.”

  No, he hasn’t!

  She continues, “Oh, look at the time. I’m meeting friends for drinks later, and I need to get ready. Bye, baby. Kisses. I love you.”

  Out for drinks at two in the morning? Typical.

  “Love you too,” I say. Because I do, nonetheless.

  ***

  The next day we have the dreadful PE class. I’ve always hated sports. If only I had an Athletics Charm… But then I’d be on the other extreme, with world-class skills. Most people think of steroids every time they see a great athlete performing beyond her age, or way above her peers. If she tests negative for performance-enhancing drugs, I’d bet good money she’s a witch with an Athletics Charm. It would be fun watching the Olympics onsite some day; with my True Sight I could spot all Sisters from the stands.

  We Sisters don’t necessarily hide. If everybody knew about magic, it would be easy to identify who’s a witch. Some of us possess Charms to grow old slowly, the reason some movie stars never seem to age. It amazes me how people never look into how some actors can change appearances from role to role. The Shifting Charm is handy.

  Many Charms enhance a Sister’s athletic abilities, but less obvious ones also exist. My True Sight is related to improved magical ability, and Judi, a friend of Mum’s and my main tutor in the Craft, has the ability to perform powerful rituals. Mum has the Charisma Charm, while other actors clearly have the Lust one. Intellect-related Charms owners can have great business acumen, visual arts skills, or scientific inclination.

  However, some Sisters just waste their Charms. I can’t blame them. I could have used my Allure to become an actress or a model. But that would lead to a life too similar to my mother’s. A fun life, granted, but that’s just not my thing. Also, I’d have to be a foot taller.

  “Come on, girls, look alive!” the PE teacher yells from the locker room’s door. Running is terrible, but it’s better than organized sports: I have no strength, and my timing is always off. I think I cannot hit, strike, or kick even a stationary ball. I leave in a hurry.

  We are supposed to circle the school three times. It involves going around the school building, the football field, the yard with outside cafeteria tables, the giant parking lot, and crossing the street to circle the pool building. So, we run. Or rather, the other girls run. I just walk fast, a kind of step-walk. I see a girl who outweighs me two to one passing by me. I have no excuse. This girl with a determined look and rosy cheeks is leaving me behind in last place. I’m a wuss. Being the spoiled daughter of a movie star (okay, an often-sought after character actor) will do that to you.

  I drag myself to the gym. With only my pride hurt, I get back much later than the others; our PE teacher is not even around anymore. Almost everybody has already left when I enter the shower. I rush through it, skipping the conditioner, fearful of missing my next class. Still wrapped in my towel, I open my locker, and I notice it’s unlocked. I may have forgotten to lock it when I left in a hurry. I am getting late, so I quickly apply my moisturizer. Seattle’s weather forces me to take hot showers, and they’re wreaking havoc with my skin, making my face dry and flaky. My Allure Charm should take care of it in time, but I want to speed up the process.

  After I’m done, I reach for my clothes. Suddenly my face gets hot and prickly, and my eyes start to water. I blink a few times, but my vision blurs, and the burning sensation spreads to my eyes. I rub them with my shirt. With my vision going away, I feel my way to the sink, open the faucet, and splash cold water over my face.

  I hear someone’s footsteps. “I can’t see!” I say. “Can you help me?” My voice is high, panicky. Everything is dark now.

  “What happened?” I can’t place the feminine, young voice.

  “I don’t know. The cream. I can’t see.” The burning is unbearable.

  “What do I do?” The voice’s owner is nervous too.

  “Nurse! Take me to the nurse,” I say. I force my eyes shut as if I’m trying to keep the pain outside.

  A warm hand lands on mine, and another on my elbow, guiding me. My other hand is still rubbing my eyes. I feel like scratching them out to make the sting go away.

  The girl who owns the voice leads me gently but quickly across the room. I feel the chilly air against my warm skin when we leave the locker room: we’re outside. I’m still wearing only a towel, but the thought gets lost in my mind; I just want to get rid of this excruciating pain. We walk a few steps more. I can hear other people in the distance.

  The hands leave my arm and I stumble: the towel that wraps my body is yanked off, and I almost fall to the ground, exposed.

  Someone yells from a distance, “Naked chick!”

  I’m in hell, my eyes torturing me, and I don’t know if I should cover my nakedness or just keep rubbing my eyes. I turn and try to walk inside, anywhere, but my shoulder hits something hard, an open door maybe. I stagger and take a step back.

  Around me, I can hear shouts and catcalls, whistles and taunts, but I don’t care. I just want to leave. Hunched, I try to feel my way, but I trip on something and fall sideways, cold mud hitting my butt, my back, my sides.

  I don’t get up, caring nothing for my privacy anymore, just begging for the pain to go away. While I press my hands against my eyes, curled up in the mud, someone shouts, “Skye!” It’s Priscilla’s voice, close to me.

  Warmness envelops me, maybe a coat covering me, but that’s no comfort.

  “My eyes!” I shout. “I can’t see!”

  I hear other people close now, more voices, words like “nurse” and “water” bandied about, but I can’t think anymore.

  I’m a puppet, a doll with no will, shaking and screaming, while many hands carry me away.

  Chapter 11: Drake

  It’s always unsettling when the whole school sees your prospective girlfriend naked. Especially when it’s before you do.

  “What a day to miss school, man!” is Sean’s opening salvo. He tells me Boulder and he were going to class when somebody yelled, and they saw Skye naked, flailing about, screaming, bumping on doors, completely bonkers. She fell down, and Priscilla rushed to cover her with a jacket, followed by Ms. Capshaw and the nurse. They created a human wall and carried her away, Boulder tells me, disappointed. I ask the guys many questions, but they’re even more clueless than usual and give me only speculation. And anatomic details. They praise my taste.

  “She’s got a hip tat, you know?” Sean says.

  “A what?”

  Boulder explains. “A tattoo on her hip. Fancy one, too. Never seen a silver tat before.”

  I can get nothin
g useful out of them.

  That’s why I’m at her Aunt Gemma’s, waiting for Skye. The house is one of the oldest lots of our neighborhood, and it shows. Aunt Gemma looks young for her age, but her knick-knacks and furniture surely don’t. Add to that the dated wallpaper, the brown-framed single-paneled windows, and the dusty smell, and you’ve got the typical Grandma’s house.

  Aunt Gemma comes down the stars, saying, “She asked you to come up.” Her frown is so intense it feels like an extra presence in the room. I stand up, and she looks me in the eye as if I’m a criminal, but says nothing. Okay, message received.

  I walk up the stairs. All the doors are closed but one, and I glimpse a queen-size bed with flowery bed sheets in that room. I knock on the open door.

  “Hey,” comes the hoarse voice from the inside. “Come on in.”

  I push the door wide open and see Skye on a tattered love seat, wearing a robe. Her face is puffy, pink with red spots, and her eyes are swollen. She looks like a wreck, but still attractive. How is that possible?

  I’m shocked, but I smile to reassure her. She gives me a faint nod.

  Her bedroom is bare, except for her dresser. On top of it, I see a small wooden bowl and a few unmarked glass vials, like small perfume containers.

  Otherwise, it looks like a guest room, showing no signs of a personal touch. I wonder if it means she has no plans of staying long.

  “Hey, you,” I say back. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m better now. The swelling and the redness will go away in a couple of days.” She waves weakly to a few plastic orange containers on the side table next to her. I’m guessing they’re anti-histamines.

  “Good,” I say. “But I mean, how do you feel?” I mean the shame, and she knows it, judging by the way she looks at me.

  She straightens up on the love seat, a weary look on her face. She makes a helpless gesture. “Well, I guess I’m not the mysterious new girl anymore,” she says without smiling.

  “What they did to you was horrible,” I say. I know it’s obvious, but I want to say it, and I want her to hear it. “I’m sorry.”