All I want is to get through one full day where absolutely nothing bad happens so that I can bask in the glow of my magic and try to forget about Mom’s death and the sorcerers trying to kill me. I don’t think it’s too much to ask, but no sooner does my butt hit the chair in homeroom the next morning, I get called to the school psychologist’s office, where I’m accosted with lame pamphlets for a crisis helpline and a journal that I’m to bring to my new weekly sessions. Great.
I mean, it’s nice that the school is concerned about me, but I’m getting pretty tired of the kid-glove treatment. It’s like they all think I’m going to commit suicide if they don’t ask me how I’m coping at least three hundred times a day.
I’m sitting in history when the overhead speaker beeps, alerting the classroom to yet another Mrs. Malone announcement.
“Ms. Indigo Blackwood, please report to Coach Jenkins in the gymnasium. Thank you.”
Seriously, universe?
I stuff my books into my bag and trudge down the hall to the gym. When I push open the double doors, I’m surprised to find a half-dozen massive floats in various stages of completion spread out across the shiny gym floor, twinkling under the harsh fluorescent lights.
I recognize the squad’s float instantly—an old-school gilded carriage with big wheels and a velvety roof, pulled by two white unicorns. The carriage was Bianca’s idea—to haul the homecoming-court nominees around at the parade—but I’d suggested the unicorns in place of horses, and the whole squad loved the idea. I know it’s ridiculous, all things considered, but I feel a pang in my gut that I missed out on its creation, on what could have been had life not completely changed for me. Maybe I do need a therapy session after all.
I swallow the lump growing in my throat. “Coach Jenkins?” I call.
“Over here,” Carmen answers. I follow her voice to the back of the gym and find her standing on the bed of a float, snipping at the blue and silver tissue paper of a giant football with a pair of craft scissors.
“Indigo, thank you for coming,” she says.
Like I had a choice.
“Please, have a seat.”
I sit down heavily on the bed of the float and pull my bag onto my lap. And the whole thing is so depressing—the stupid floats, the way Carmen won’t look at me, the corny speech I’m sure to endure. I just want to get this whole thing over with, no beating around the bush for half an hour. “So, my mom died,” I say.
Carmen snips away at the tissue paper without responding.
I sigh. “So, do you want me to tell you how I’m feeling or fill out a journal or something?”
She continues with her arts and crafts project as though she hasn’t heard me.
“Look, I know I missed a few practices, and I’m sorry I haven’t helped with the float, but I don’t plan on missing anything else, and I’m totally committed to the squad and … hello?” I lean across the trailer, trying to catch her eyes. “Coach Jenkins?”
She doesn’t answer.
I knock on the wood, but she doesn’t look up.
A sinking sensation washes over me. I cautiously look behind me, and am beyond relieved when no one’s there. But when I turn around again, the scarred man who held the knife to Mom’s throat—Leo—stands behind Coach Jenkins, a maniacal smirk on his face. My body shifts into panic mode, and I scrabble back.
Leo scratches his marred cheek, and Coach Jenkins scratches her own smooth one.
“Kind of fun,” he says.
“Kind of fun,” Carmen repeats.
I gasp.
Leo scratches both his armpits, ooh-ooh and aah-aahing in a lame monkey impersonation, and so does Coach Jenkins.
Leo holds up his fisted right hand, like a magician performing a trick, and then swiftly jams it into his neck, chortling all the while.
“No, Carmen, don’t!” I scramble to my feet, but it’s too late. Carmen jabs her right hand—the one holding the scissors—into her neck. Blood spurts out of her mouth as she cackles, falling to her knees.
Oh God …
I ease Carmen onto her back and frantically search for something to stanch the blood flow, but when Leo steps around her I have to give up any notions of dressing her wounds. Because if I don’t get the hell out of there—and fast—it won’t just be Carmen fighting for her life.
I leap off the trailer and dash across the gym, weaving between the floats so fast I nearly lose my footing. I’m almost to the double doors when I hear Leo’s voice.
Palms out, I slam into the door. But instead of it flinging open, my body crashes against the metal so hard it makes my ears ring. Locked. Of course.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. I wheel around and flatten myself against the door, my chest heaving as I gasp for breath.
Leo saunters up. “Indigo, it’s been far too long.” He smiles, but only half of his face moves. The sight is almost as unsettling as his predatory black eyes, the left one blinking far too frequently, flicking up and down my body.
I suddenly wish I hadn’t accepted Bishop’s offer to break for the night and take up training again after school today. Because as proud as I was of my skills yesterday, I somehow don’t think moving paper clips is going to help me in this situation.
“You know, I always thought you were pretty,” Leo says. “I came here to give you one last chance to break the spell on the Bible, but who’s to say I can’t have a little fun first?” He moves around the carriage, loosening his pin-striped tie. “Frederick never let me have any fun. Could waste half a day lecturing some dumb-shit teenager about a movie no one cares about, but the minute I try to have some fun, it’s all ‘we’re taking care of business.’ ” He gives a derisive snort. “But Frederick’s not around anymore, is he? Thanks to you.”
“B-Bishop’s protecting me,” I say. “He’ll be here any minute, any second.” I scuttle along the wall as he approaches.
Leo snickers. “And just where is he now, huh?”
Good question. I’d like to know the answer to that myself.
Leo unbuttons his shirt, loosened tie draped over his shoulder, revealing a sallow chest covered in sparse dark hair.
The sting of vomit burns my throat. I scan the room for an escape route. I spot the fire door at the rear of the gym. I’m willing to bet he hasn’t seen it—perfect. Except that I have to get there, past Leo, and all without him noticing so that he doesn’t lock it with his magic. I’m sure it won’t matter that I appear to be in better shape than him. Strong calves are probably not going to help against his magic.
Come on, Indie, think! Think, think, think. I do another quick scan of the room and stop at the first large object I spot—the carriage.
I’ve done it only once before, under the direction of a practiced warlock, but I try not to think about these little details. Instead I focus on the heat, will it to come, and it does without effort, tingling and stinging my fingertips. Like riding a bike.
But then I realize there’s a problem with this plan: I can’t say the incantation aloud, because this whole plan revolves around Leo not turning around for at least fifteen seconds, not guessing what I’m up to. I’ve never done a spell without saying the incantation, never even tried. Panic surges inside me.
Leo steps forward. He reaches his cold hand out and grazes my cheek with his fingers. I let out a little whimper, and he laughs.
“Don’t be shy, now,” he says. “I promise not to hurt you too badly.”
Sequere me imperio movere, sequere me imperio movere, sequere me imperio movere.
The front end of the carriage lifts up—oh my God, I did it!—so that it’s balanced on the back two wheels, hovering just inches from the floor, and I find myself strangely grateful that Leo’s too busy noisily unbuckling his belt to notice the slight groan of the metal. The upended float wobbles over the floor. It dips up and down as my magic wavers, and I have to bite down on my lip from the mental strain. When it’s a few feet behind Leo, I decide it’s close enough.
“Sorry I can’t promise the same thing,” I spit out.
I let the carriage crash to the ground. For a split second, it teeters on its back wheels like it can’t decide what to do, and I worry it might fall the wrong way. But then the carriage gains momentum and tips forward. I jump out of the way just as it crashes onto Leo’s back, flattening him to the ground with a crack that echoes through the room.
It worked!
But I’ve patted myself on the back too soon, because Leo’s already squirming under the carriage, his low growl turning into a thundering roar. I give him a wide berth and make a mad dash for the fire door, but when I pass Carmen lying in a bloodied heap on the football team’s float, my breath knocks out of me. I can’t leave her here.
“Carmen!” I rush to her side and try to haul her up, but she’s all dead weight. When I hear rustling behind me I have to give up. “I’m so sorry, Coach Jenkins.”
I lay her down gently, then run. The door is unlocked—thank God!—and I burst onto the fresh-mown lawn of the football field, so thick with fog it feels as though I’m running into a scene from a slasher flick starring me as Lucky Victim #2.
Every second counts, but I can’t help glancing behind me. Leo’s already at the door, hands braced against the frame. Blood gushes from his nose as he huffs through clenched teeth.
But he doesn’t follow.
And I don’t get it.
He must be up to something, I decide. Something bad. I tear my eyes from him and dart a glance around. That’s when I see them: Bishop and Jezebel, dashing onto the football field.
“You’re late,” I call out, slowing to a jog now that the situation is looking entirely in my favor. “Had to go ahead and save myself.”