I slide the car into drive and merge with traffic. When Bishop turns up the radio, I don’t slap his hand away or complain we only listen to his music. In fact, I’m incredibly grateful to the aggressive punk-rock lyrics for sucking up the silence that I’m sure would radiate with awkwardness in the wake of his outburst.
“So, where to?” I ask.
“Mount Washington,” Bishop answers, buckling his seat belt.
“We’re trying flying first? Don’t think you’re going to lob me off the side of a mountain and hope I learn fast, because I’m not in the mood.”
Bishop shakes his head. “Nope. We start with the basics. Moving small objects: paper clips, pencils, et cetera.”
I roll my eyes. “Sounds like fun. What do mountains have to do with this?”
“They don’t. We’re going to my place.”
I glance over at him, expecting to see humor in his face, but he bobs his head to a song on the radio.
He can’t be serious. Mount Washington is one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Plunked among rolling green hills in the northeast of Los Angeles, the neighborhood features views of downtown L.A., the San Gabriel Mountains, and, oh, roughly one zillion canyons and valleys. And of course, homes so huge they can only be referred to as mansions.
“You live in Mount Washington?”
Bishop laughs. “What? Where did you think I lived?”
Actually, now that I think about it, I’ve never really put much thought into where Bishop lives. He’s always just been there. Though I guess he does have to go somewhere at night, hang up his leather jacket, lay his head down to sleep. But Mount Washington? Really?
I navigate the Sunfire through rush-hour traffic so insane there is no chance for thoughts of anything but avoiding an accident, until the lush green hilltops announce we’ve arrived in his neighborhood.
“This one here, on the left.” Bishop indicates what is, hands down, the nicest mansion on the block.
The Spanish-style home rises three stories high and stretches out for what seems like an entire city block. Towering palm trees and lavish gardens spring up from every corner of the property, lattices of ivy climbing the white stucco walls all the way to the terra-cotta roof. I start counting the arched windows, framed in ornate cast-iron grilles, but lose count around eighteen and give up. And I always thought white houses were boring.
I pick my jaw up out of my lap long enough to ask a question. “You live here?”
“I’m starting to get offended,” Bishop says.
Shaking my head, I pull the car around the giant fountain in the middle of the horseshoe driveway. “It’s just a lot fancier than I expected from a guy who wears leather constantly.”
I glance at the fountain as we pass and realize that it’s a mermaid, and that the water is shooting from her nipples. “Ugh.”
He laughs.
I park the car, and we step out into the fading evening sun.
Bishop leads the way to the entrance and pushes the big wooden doors open without having to unlock them first.
“Bit laissez-faire on the security, don’t you think?” I say, following him inside.
He digs into his back pocket and tosses his wallet onto a glass table in the foyer. “I’m a warlock, remember?”
“And they’re sorcerers.” I spin around, admiring every detail of his home, from the exposed wooden ceiling beams to the smooth archways leading down various corridors to the spiral staircase rising to the second floor.
“Exactly. You think a locked door will give a sorcerer pause if he wants to get inside my house?”
“Guess not,” I answer. “But what about other people? Your run-of-the-mill burglars?”
He shrugs. “Then I’d just drum up some more stuff, I guess.”
The pieces of the puzzle begin coming together. “So that’s how you afford all this?” I gesture around the house. “You created it with magic?”
“Created the money, anyway. Too much energy to conjure objects for long periods of time.”
Before I can ask another one of the boatload of questions on my mind, my ears perk up at the sound of metal rattling upstairs. I dart a glance at Bishop, but it’s as if he hasn’t noticed. The rattling intensifies, and a dog barks—a jarring sound that is all too recognizable.
“Bishop …” My voice warbles with uncertainty.
There’s a crashing sound, and then thundering steps overhead. My heart goes into overdrive, but when I look at Bishop again, there’s a smile spreading slowly across his face. The thudding becomes louder and louder until my fears are confirmed, and a rottweiler barrels to the top of the spiral staircase, a frantic mass of meaty limbs tripping over each other in their desperation to reach us. The dog regains its footing and charges down the stairs two at a time.
Every one of my instincts tells me to run, but something about Bishop’s smile roots me in place. Still, I recoil as the large dog approaches and Bishop still doesn’t use his magic against it. And when the dog is just one leap away, I can’t help the scream that escapes me.
The rottweiler jumps up against Bishop’s chest, and delivers sloppy kisses all over his face.
What the …?
Bishop kisses the dog back, murmuring, “Good puppy,” and “That’s my baby,” into its fur. I relax my shoulders a tiny bit, but my heart still races as Bishop finally straightens and pats the dog on its head. “All right, Lumpkins, that’s enough.”
When he faces me, my mouth is hanging open.
“What?” He adjusts his shirt, which twisted up during the lovefest.
“Is that …?” I gesture hesitantly at the dog.
“The dog from the theater? Yes.”
“And his name is?”
“Lovey Lumpkins.”
“But …”
Bishop scratches the dog behind the ears, and Lumpkins’s eyes loll back in his head. “But he needed a home, and I just happened to have one.”
“But he’s evil.”
Bishop draws back like I’ve just insulted his mother. “Indigo Blackwood.”
“He tried to kill Jezebel!” I cry, though now that I think it over, that is one of his most endearing qualities.
“That was before,” Bishop says, and bends low to hug the dog around his thick neck. “And plus, Frederick made him do it. He’s learned his lesson. He knows not to mess with Daddy. Isn’t that right, Lumpkins?”
“Daddy?” I laugh, because this is just too ridiculous.
“You hungry, or should we just get started?”
I shake my head to snap out of the spell this sight has put me under. “No, I’m not hungry.”
Bishop straightens and hikes up his pants. “All right. Follow me.”
He leads me upstairs, and down a wide, light-filled corridor, Lumpkins following disconcertingly close on my heels.
When Bishop opens the door to what has to be an office, Lumpkins runs inside and hops up on a leather couch, curling into a slightly less intimidating ball. I decide he’s okay for now, and enter.
Pale sunlight streams in through ceiling-high arched windows, lighting the room in soft white. The walls—or rather, the tiny cracks visible around the collage of random framed pictures of every shape and size that clog the walls—are such a rich shade of gray that they almost appear black. The leather couch Lumpkins rests on is pressed against one wall; opposite it is a long black desk, flanked on one side by a potted ficus tree and on the other by a tall, skinny bookcase with an odd assortment of items like a broken globe, a battered copy of Catch-22, and what appears to be a bowling trophy. A fluffy bearskin rug covers the dark wood floor, and beanbag chairs in every color cushion the corners of the room.
It’s so Bishop that if I hadn’t seen the naked mermaid fountain outside, this room alone would convince me that this really is his mansion and he isn’t playing a trick on me.
I crane my neck to see the framed pictures that reach all the way to the ceiling, trying to assign a common theme to the randomness. There’s a giraffe, a woman’s naked back, the Ramones in concert, a man holding up a huge fish, Britney Spears circa 1999, and a picture of a mountain under the words REACH FOR THE TOP that seems like it would be better suited in a guidance counselor’s office.
“Who’s this guy with the fish?” I ask, pointing to the picture of the man.
Bishop sidles up behind me and leans over my shoulder, so near that his chest brushes along my shoulder blades. A surge of heat runs down into my stomach.
“That’s my uncle.”
“Really?” I ask, my voice higher than usual. “The one from Texas?”
He nods.
I examine the picture closer now. The man’s middle-aged, with short gray hair poking out the sides of his baseball cap and a large belly poking out from under his neon life vest. He looks nothing like Bishop at first glance, but when I peer closer, there is something similar in his smile, in the lines around his mouth. I wonder why Bishop lives all alone in Los Angeles when he’s got family in Texas.
“Is he …?”
“Alive?” Bishop finishes for me. “Yes.”
I want him to elaborate without me having to ask, but he doesn’t go there. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. And so then it becomes really strange that he’s still pressed up against me. My heart gallops like a prize racehorse. He must realize how weird this is too, because how could he not?
I swallow. “Do you see each other often?”
“Not anymore. I lived with him for a year after my mom died, but I haven’t talked with him much since he asked me to work for him remotely. Big honor.” I can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Guess a year of living with me is a lot for one person to handle.” He says it self-deprecatingly, but I get the sense that he’s hiding something under the humor.
“What is it you do for him, exactly?” I ask. “I haven’t noticed you doing a lot of work since I’ve met you.”
“Odd jobs, really. Nothing interesting.”
I narrow my eyes at him over my shoulder. “Well, that’s vague. What does your uncle do?”
“He’s a councillor for the Family.”
I remember Bishop telling me at the Hollywood sign that it was his job to fill me on all things witchy if I turned on my two hundredth moon. “Nothing interesting, hey?”
He smiles, shaking his head so that his hair falls in front of his face. “Not until recently.”
I face the picture again, processing this new information and adding it to the Bishop picture that’s being painted in my head. Bishop’s mom died. Bishop’s uncle cast him out (at least in his own mind). Bishop has no friends. And yet he’s constantly making a joke out of everything. Either he’s the most easygoing person on the planet, or else all the flip comebacks, all the womanizer talk, all the crass jokes, they’re just his way to hide the fact that he’s lonely, that he’s dying to connect with someone. I test my hypothesis. “So, do you really think your uncle sent you away because he was sick of you?”
Bishop lets out a wry laugh. “Well, don’t try to spare my feelings or anything.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks, but Bishop claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m kidding. He probably thought it’d be a good idea because of Jezebel. Little did he know she’d follow me here.”
I let out a false titter, because it’s just so awkward when he talks about Jezebel.
“So how has your girlfriend been keeping, anyway?” I blurt out.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bishop says.
“Nice try. She said so herself at the theater, and you didn’t deny it.”
“Jezebel hasn’t been my girlfriend in months.”
Hmm. “So why’d she say that, then?”
“Because she’s not used to not getting what she wants. We dated, I broke it off, she begged me to take her back, I refused. I guess she thinks she can wear me down.”
I know I shouldn’t ask more, that it’s really none of my business, but I can’t help myself. “Why’d you break up with her?”
“Haven’t you noticed her little attitude problem?” he asks.
“Oh, I’ve noticed. I just thought you might be more inclined to forgive something like that in light of the fact that you’re a horndog and she’s, you know, practically a supermodel.” I focus intently on the wall, embarrassed at the edge of jealousy in my voice.
He laughs. “Oh, trust me, I tried. And tried. And tried.”
“Ugh, thanks for the mental image.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “Look, Jez and I started dating at a bad time. I’d just moved to Texas after my mom died. I was feeling a little down, and she was great for a while. Distracting.”
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “And then what?” I ask.
“And then it wasn’t great anymore. It wasn’t real between us. It was just sex. I realized I was using her to try to forget about my mom, and it wasn’t working.”
I try to think of something encouraging to say, because he’s finally opening up and not hiding behind humor, but all I can think of is that they had sex. And it was great.
“Well, at least that answers the question of why Jezebel’s been so eager to help out,” I say.
“Let’s not talk about Jezebel anymore.”
I become hyperaware of his hand on my shoulder. That we’re both single, all of a sudden, and alone.
I clear my throat to break my train of thought (and whatever else is going on between us). “So, let’s get this over with. The sooner I can defend myself, the sooner I won’t need anyone to protect me.”
I said it offhandedly, but now I realize that truer words have never been spoken. I made a promise to myself that night—that if I made it out of the theater alive, and if I was truly a witch, I’d master my magic and quit relying on others to protect me. And I intend to keep my promise.
Somehow when I pictured doing magic, it didn’t involve crappy office supplies.
I stare at the paper clip on the carpet and will it to move. Sweat beads on my forehead. Thoughts of food consume me, and there’s a slow throbbing in my temple from all the mental exertion. But the clip doesn’t budge, hasn’t budged once in the hours I’ve spent trying.
I blow out through pursed lips, determined that the magic work this time, and reach around inside me for the heat Bishop says is there, that I only have to grasp onto and move to my fingertips, where it can be manipulated to my will with simple incantations. Which just sounds so easy when he says it.
Please, paper clip, I think. Just move so we can end this cat-and-mouse game.
After another hour of staring, with Bishop splayed out on the couch, reading Catch-22 with Lumpkins at his feet, my internal dialogue becomes noticeably more terse. Move it, goddamn it! I haven’t got all day. Move it or I’ll snap your twisty metal limbs in half.
Despite the threats of violence, the clip doesn’t budge.
“Ugh!” I chuck the clip across the room. It lands with a plink against the desk.
Bishop doesn’t even glance up from his book. Maybe because it’s the third time I’ve chucked the paper clip, and the third time I’ve picked it up and refused his offer to break for a snack. I want to get this right. I have to get this right. Mom wanted nothing more than to be a witch all her life; it would somehow make this whole mess just the tiniest bit better if I got to carry out her dream.
“You need to relax,” Bishop says.
I walk over to the couch, blocking the last of the sun from his face. He still doesn’t look up. I pluck the book from his hands and drop it on his stomach.
“Hey,” he grunts. “I was just getting to the good part.”
“How sad. So look, can we not try something a little more exciting? Flying, maybe?”
He rolls his eyes. “How do you expect to fly if you can’t even summon your magic? You’ve got to learn the basics first.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Can I get a little more direction here? It’s obviously not working.”
“You need to find it on your own. But no worries—this is the hardest part. Once you know how to find it, it’ll always come easy. It’s like riding a bike: you can’t unlearn it.”
“If it’s even there,” I mumble. “What about candles? Energy drink for witches and all that.”
He snorts, which turns into a cough, and I get the distinct impression he’s fighting hard to rein in a huge grin.
“What?” I tilt my head to the side, hands on my hips. “You made that up, didn’t you?”
He shrugs and sucks in the corners of his lips.
“You jerk!” I punch him in the shoulder.
“Ow.” Bishop cradles his arm, full-on laughing now. “What’s with you being so violent?”
“You make me this way.”
“Oh, sure. Abuser blames the victim. Classic excuse.” He picks up his book and flips through the pages, searching for the spot where he left off. “Channel all your pent-up anger and you could single-handedly wipe out the Priory.”
“Hardy har har.” I turn to retrieve the paper clip from the desk but Bishop’s words, intended as a joke, bounce inside my head. Couldn’t hurt to try, I decide.
I think about everything that makes me angry: Bishop, reading his stupid book while I struggle; Bishop, using his magic like it’s the easiest thing in the world, while I burst a blood vessel in my brain from all the concentration and get nothing, nothing for my efforts; the fact that I have to do this at all, because there’s a group of evil sorcerers that wants me dead, all because I might be a witch, something I never asked to be.
My nostrils flare, and my breath comes hard and fast. I clench my fists and dig my nails into my palms, knuckles turning white. A warm sensation starts low in my stomach, like I’ve just drank hot chocolate too quickly. Sheer excitement almost knocks the heat right back to where it came from, but I force myself to concentrate, to think of the thing that makes me angriest: that they killed Mom, took her from me forever, and in the most brutal way possible.
The heat moves up into my chest, igniting into the ball of fire I felt earlier when Bishop summoned Mom’s voice, pulsing not just in my veins but in every cell of my body, surging from my center out into my arms with every beat of my heart.
“Do you feel it?” Bishop asks, bent low to my ear. I didn’t even hear him get up.
I nod.
“Repeat after me: Sequere me imperio movere.”
I glance over my shoulder at him, simultaneously shocked to hear this strange language slipping so easily from his mouth and sure that he’s screwing with me, because I’ve never heard him utter a word to make his magic work, but he repeats it again, urging me to copy with a little shove.
“Sequere me imper … imperi-something or other—” I groan as I feel the heat slipping away.
Bishop squeezes my shoulder. “Concentrate. Focus on the clip. And repeat after me. Sequere me imperio movere.”
I sigh, leveling my gaze at the paper clip on the desk. “Sequere … sequere me imperio movere.”
The left end of the desk pitches up so quickly that loose papers flutter to the carpet. A gasp tumbles out of my mouth, my heart pumping at a dangerous speed. The break in concentration makes the desk thunk back to the floor. But before Bishop can say a word, I lock eyes on the desk again and repeat the words. “Sequere me imperio movere.”
“What the …?” Bishop’s hand falls from my shoulder. He steps in front of me, eyeing the levitating desk with a mixture of awe and incredulity.
Once it’s up, I’m happy to discover it’s easy to move the desk where I want it simply by willing it there with my eyes. It takes everything in me not to grin like an idiot as I float the desk over the wood floor, over the bearskin rug, and drop it inches from Bishop’s bare feet, so that he has to jump back lest his toes be squashed.
I did it. My heart swells up like I didn’t think was possible anymore. “Oh my God,” I say. “I’m a freaking witch.”