Wicked Sense Page 5

  “Thanks.” She pauses for a while. “You’d tell me if you knew who did it, right?”

  It upsets me, but it’s her right to ask. She’s known me for, what, a few days? “Of course.” A second passes, then I add, “When I heard about it, I immediately thought it was Jane, but Sean told me he saw her in the crowd. There’s no way it she did it.”

  She shakes her head. “A girl led me out and took away my towel. I didn’t know her voice.” She sounds like she could kill someone. I don’t blame her.

  “What now?” I ask, shrugging. Since she didn’t ask me to sit down, I’m guessing it’s going to be a short visit.

  Her shoulders sag. “I go back to school. What can I do? It’s not like I’ve got much more to hide.”

  “I notice you and I are using all kinds of excuses to miss school,” I say.

  “And get attention.” She looks at me.

  “Especially medical attention.”

  She smiles. I did it! Mission accomplished.

  I point to the door. “I’ll let you rest.”

  She nods. “Thanks for coming.”

  I just smile all the way home.

  Chapter 12: Skye

  I ring a bell to ward off any evil. Then I light my candle. I select one of the incense sticks from my stash and light it up too. A bowl already contains my offering: small chrysanthemums, recently picked from Aunt Gemma’s backyard.

  I begin my cleansing, the gestures and words unique to my ritual. Each Sister is supposed to come up with her own ritual. The energy flow, the prayers, the meaning, they are all personal.

  Today I pray to make a speedy recovery and to be protected from any other attacks.

  I miss Judi’s estate outside London. Our dear Judi would host Mum and me every summer. There I could go outdoors at night and dance, alone, unafraid, familiar with the forest. That’s my place. My home. I used to do it a lot when I was younger, but in the last two years I’ve been traveling with Mum more often, and my connection to the place has weakened.

  These thoughts interrupt my meditation. My desire is to be outside. My personal rituals are much stronger when in I’m in touch with nature. Gemma told me Seattle has many parks, but I didn’t have time to check them out yet.

  It’s okay. I don’t need a paradisiacal meadow a hundred miles from civilization; any patch of nature with some privacy would do. Maybe a trail. Maybe the trail where Drake had his unfortunate encounter with the falling tree—I don’t remember anyone interrupting us when I was saving his life.

  But for now I push these thoughts aside and try to connect with the Goddess.

  ***

  The principal issued a blanket warning and assured me that if any cell phone pictures showed up online, he’d call the FBI guys and sic them on the students. A few angry parents complained, but most of them understood my predicament, and the protests died down. Still, the pics are probably being passed from cell to cell for private viewing right now.

  Kids at school don’t know me. Why should they care about my feelings? Besides Drake, only Priscilla has been nice, helping me at school, calling to check on me, visiting briefly after Drake left.

  I can’t imagine who did this. It can’t be Jane; Priscilla had told me she too saw Jane in the crowd. Besides, even blind, I’d feel Jane’s magical energy close to me. Nobody can turn it off.

  Nobody but the Singularity, that is. Maybe. But why would the Singularity do it? It would only attract attention and accomplish nothing, besides scaring me. And if she knows I’m a Sister, she knows Jane’s one too. The Singularity would feel threatened by Jane as well.

  Bottom line is: somebody tampered with my face cream. It wasn’t a coincidence; it was planned. I ended up naked, blind, defenseless, and humiliated.

  And nobody besides Jane has been openly hostile to me.

  Today I go back. I can’t apply make-up to hide the redness because it’ll irritate my skin. I don’t care; I’m not so vain that a puffy face will ruin my day.

  Skincare has never been a concern for me. All my life the Allure took care of zits, small cuts, unwanted facial hair, and other small imperfections. Even the moisturizer cream wasn’t really needed; I was just trying to accelerate the healing. Not that I’m using it again: the dermatologist didn’t detect any allergies and told me to stop applying anything to my face.

  Sometimes I wonder how I’d look like without Allure. I once asked Mum about it, and she looked at me as if I was crazy. “What are you talking about?” she said. “You are who you are. You and your magical energy are one, inseparable. It only leaves you when you die.”

  I wish I had more days to hide, but I need to help find the Singularity. I have no choice; I’ve been practically brainwashed to do it. For two years now, all covens have been reminded of the danger of letting the Singularity go unchecked.

  At the age of fifteen, a witch has a quantum leap in magical energy: it’s our Daybreak. From a very early age, we emit a faint magical signature. When we’re that young, only people in close contact to us can feel it. Mothers, being so close to their babies, are generally the first ones to sense our magic. When we reach fifteen years old, give or take a couple of months, we’re the source of an outburst of magical energy. Usually other witches in the same neighborhood can feel it. Two years ago, right after I had my Daybreak, the Singularity arrived with a bang.

  Her Daybreak was felt over the entire West Coast.

  All witches have roughly the same power. But this girl, whoever she is, is thousands of times more powerful than any of us. She has the potential of doing things we can’t even imagine.

  She also may signal the dawn of a new era, an age of great witches. That’s why she’s called a Singularity—nothing will ever be the same after her arrival.

  But we can’t find her. After her Daybreak, a Sister emanates energy continuously. Any witch could easily pick up the Singularity’s huge signature from miles away. However, since her Daybreak, no one reported such an anomaly. She must have risen magical shields that mask her signature, something none of us can do, not even for a small amount of time.

  We are simultaneously terrified of and fascinated with the Singularity. The effects of her magic could be so potent that she’d break the Veil, and people would not be able to reconcile reality and magic.

  The Sisters assembled a few scientists with Intellect Charms to create a model to predict what that would mean to us—and to the rest of humanity—if the Veil were broken.

  Eighty-two percent of the result scenarios pointed to persecution of some kind. The most common short-term scenario included mandatory testing and registration, vague accusations of terrorism, confinement justified by national security claims. The long-term ones spoke of special prisons or “designated areas” (an euphemism for ghettoization), criminalizing magic use, and the formation of private- and government-sponsored militias to capture or kill magic users.

  In other words, a new era of witch hunting.

  So, we need to find her and rescue her from herself, for her sake and ours. No coven has her, or so they claim. We believe each other, up to a point. That’s another side effect of the Singularity’s arrival: it created distrust and animosity between covens, something unthinkable just a couple of years ago.

  Also, we all fear she could join a Night coven and become a Night magic user. In this case, all bets are off.

  If she’s here, in Seattle, close to Greenwood High, I have to find her. My Sisterhood gave me so much, and I’ve never given back. I’ve never accomplished anything or done anything, in part because I don’t know what to do. With no interests, no talent, no hobbies, what can I do? My True Sight is the only thing that distinguishes me. I have this golden chance to use it, but I can only help if the Singularity is around here.

  I hate the situation, and I hate the Singularity. I just wish I could be a normal girl with normal-girl problems. Oh, and that I didn’t have to go to school after being humiliated in public.

  Well, since I’m wishing, I’d prefe
r not to have suffered the humiliation in the first place.

  I called my mother, but she simply didn’t understand. She saw it as a typical American high school prank. Sometimes I think she does live in the movies and plays. Also, she has no problem with nudity (which always made her a big hit with directors and audiences), and said it was no big deal. I hung up on her after she said that.

  Mad at everybody, I march down the stairs, dreading the glares and whispers at school—and that’s the best case scenario. Each step is deliberate and hesitant, as if I’m going to my own execution. I’m waiting for a reprieve; I’m looking for good news anywhere. And I think I get them when I reach the last step and my cell rings, the name “Connor” flashing on the display.

  “Hi, Connor,” I greet him, anxious. I can barely conceal my excitement.

  “Skye, your mother called me. She said somebody pulled a prank on you in school?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  He interrupts me, “Was it Jane?”

  What? “No, it wasn’t her,” I say.

  “Good. I was afraid she was trying to sabotage us,” he says, sounding relieved. “Listen, I’ve got to ask you something; it’s important.”

  “Okay,” I say, waiting. And maybe hoping.

  “Did it have anything to do with the search?”

  I say nothing. What about me, Connor?

  He misinterprets my silence. “If it does, we need to know, Skye. We might be close.”

  I take a deep breath. “No, Connor. It has nothing to do with it.”

  “Okay. When are you back to school?”

  “Today,” I say. I bite my lower lip.

  “Excellent. Good job, Skye. Keep me posted.” He hangs up.

  He hangs up. I stare at the cell for a few seconds, reading “call ended” over and over again. I sit down on the stairs, trying to make sense of it.

  He didn’t ask how I felt; he didn’t ask about what happened. He just didn’t care.

  What did I expect? That he would show up at my door, all concerned, bringing flowers, sweeping me off my feet? That he would vow to kill the bastards who did this to me?

  I expected… I don’t know what, but certainly not that. Not a perfunctory, cold business call. Couldn’t he stop by? The University District is ten minutes from here. He didn’t ask how I was doing. Even as a courtesy to our story together.

  Even as a courtesy, period.

  Maybe he’s keeping his distance, respecting me. He may not want to get involved, even a little, afraid that he’s going to hurt me.

  My cell is still open. “Call ended,” it reads. It ended, Skye.

  He’s not being cavalier. That’s how things are now. The past is just the past.

  A tear escapes my eye. I didn’t expect anything. When I came here, I wasn’t hoping we would get back together—that both of us, older and a tiny bit more mature, would realize how much we meant to each other, and live happily ever after. But I have to admit: in the back of my mind, I knew this was a possibility, one of the infinite possible outcomes of us meeting again.

  Now, with one phone call, it’s clear it’s over.

  I cry. Not for me, not for us, but for the death of this possibility, for the death of the what-if. It’s the end. It ended. I cry because it’s sad seeing a door closing, that’s all.

  I look one last time at the cell phone and see the time. I’m late for whatever punishment the mean kids will inflict on me today at school. I turn the cell off, angry. Connor made it clear: I have a job to do, no matter what.

  Still broken inside, I wipe my tears on my long sleeves. I stand up slowly and move to the front door. I take a deep breath before opening it.

  On the other side, I find Drake and his ugly car.

  Somehow his sweetness makes me even sadder, and the flow of tears return, now unchecked.

  He sees my breakdown, gets out of the car, and hurries in my direction. He stands in front of me, unsure if he should hug me, or hold my hands, or just leave me be. I make the decision for Drake and embrace him.

  I squeeze him tight, but he just touches me softly.

  We stay on the porch for a few minutes, hushed, motionless. I sob quietly, my tears and runny nose smearing his shirt, my arms squashing him, but he doesn’t move. His breathing is steady, relaxed. And relaxing.

  I’m so grateful he’s been quiet the whole time. Not only does he know what to say at all times, but he knows when to keep silent. I love how he does nothing, says nothing to spoil the moment. He says nothing better than anybody else.

  After I finally release my death grip on him, Drake takes me by the hand to his car, and helps me into the passenger seat. He closes my door gently, walks over in front of the car, his eyes never leaving me, and joins me inside. He gets a Kleenex box from the backseat and hands it to me.

  He looks straight ahead, his hands on the steering wheel, and I understand he’s giving me some privacy. I blow my nose infinite times, dab my eyes and cheeks. The mirror tells me I don’t look good. No amount of Allure can erase severe allergy aftereffects compounded with a massive crying session.

  Drake’s still respecting my right to be a wreck. I grab another Kleenex and wipe the mess I made on his shirt. It startles him, and he turns. He looks at me, inside me, through me, beyond the Allure, the puffy face, maybe beyond the Veil.

  I lean in and our lips touch. It takes him a while to respond, but when he does, it’s magic.

  Drake lives up to his reputation.

  Chapter 13: Drake

  When I decided to stalk her a little bit this morning, I never expected it would end like this.

  She pulls away from our brief kiss.

  It feels as if days have passed. It’s a weird sensation, like I’m disconnected from reality, floating in space. The car, the houses outside, even Skye, they all seem unreal.

  She still has her hand on my shoulder, the Kleenex squeezed against my shirt. She looks at it, tries to pull the tissue back, but it’s stuck. “Oh,” she says.

  And just like that, the spell is broken. She grabs a handful of new tissues from the box and begins to clean my shirt in earnest. I stay still, searching furiously for something smart to say. Actually, forget smart—anything will do.

  Skye hasn’t smiled yet, and that worries me. She looks around quickly inside the car, and then shoves all the sticky tissues into her jeans’ pocket.

  She stares outside, at nothing in particular. “Let’s go someplace,” she says.

  I guess she means not school. My inner responsible self twitches, but I calm him down by saying that the school will surely cut us, recent accident victims, some slack. I turn the key in the ignition and the Volvo purrs, obliging.

  I’m still stunned, but I do a little happy dance inside my head.

  ***

  We drive in silence. She doesn’t even ask where we’re going. It’s not a long way to Green Lake. I expected a deserted lot, especially in this crummy weather, but it takes me a while to find a parking spot. After we leave the car, she reaches for my hand. We avoid the noise coming from the kids’ play area and stroll toward the lake.

  We stop by the kayak rental kiosk, but it’s closed in October. Behind the kiosk, people wearing jeans and winter jackets play tennis on the court. Athletic and not-so-athletic morning joggers follow the trail, focused, lost in their own private worlds. Dogs are almost as prevalent as ducks and people.

  In a simultaneous impulse, we both move to follow the trail. I embrace her shoulders, and her arm goes around my waist. It’s not only a protection against the chilly wind. It feels natural.

  I don’t remember being this close to anyone.

  We amble like that for a long time. Sometimes we hear the regional “on your left” warning from cyclists coming up behind us. It’s unnecessary here, because the paths are separate for bikers and joggers, but Seattle’s people are too polite.

  Eventually, an abandoned bench beckons. We sit, still embracing, and stare at the lake. The water’s color matches the dark
ening sky. Green Lake should be renamed Gray Lake for today.

  After a few minutes, she says, “So, Drake…” Uh-oh. Here it comes: the dreadful talk.

  “Yes?” My voice is low, afraid.

  “I’m glad we did this,” she says, still not moving.

  “Did what?” I ask.

  She takes a while, but turns to me. She puts her hand behind my neck, pulling me to her, and we kiss. Just one long, tender kiss.

  “Oh, this,” I say. “Wait. Are you flirting with me?”

  Still no smile. Wow. I’m out of ammo. Well, I guess I don’t need to say much. And if that is the talk, it couldn’t be less painful.

  I’m ready for more making out, but I’m not expecting more. Skye seems fine too.

  We just watch the people. A jolly trio of seventy-year-old men on their morning walk, their feet making a crushing sound on the gravel path. A kid on a bike with training wheels laughs manically as she accelerates. Two shirtless guys, being either brave or showy, flirt with a girl wearing a sweater and knitted gloves.

  Skye tells me she’s hungry, and we leave the bench in search of food. I guide her to a taco and burrito street truck on the edge of the park, close to Aurora Avenue. It’s opening for lunch. When we order, I learn she’s a vegetarian. There’s so much I don’t know about her.

  The road noise so close to us annoys her. After we get our orders, we go back to the park. I find an empty picnic table and we have an impromptu—and completely unhealthy—brunch. The messy meal couldn’t be more unromantic, but she’s fine with it, not grossed out by my food. Good, because I eat a lot of crap.

  We talk about innocuous things: Seattle and London mostly. Nothing about our past and, maybe most important of all, nothing about our future.

  I love listening to her voice. Her accent comes and goes. Every time she slips into British, she forces herself back to American. She talks to me, but her mind is somewhere else. Still no smiles.

  We resume our walk, but soon we stop at the Bathhouse Theater. She inspects the old building while I watch her from under a poplar tree. She stares at the announcements with uninterested eyes. Across the trail from me, an elderly couple tend to a small flower garden. Their deliberation is soothing. I can easily see their love for gardening, and for each other.