скачать книгу бесплатно
“Hey, don’t blame me for making you want to be nice to people.” I laughed, poking him in the chest. He grinned, grabbing my hand to kiss my fingertip, before dropping his hands to my waist, and drawing me close.
“I want to be nice because I’m happy,” Brendan whispered in my ear, his breath sending trembles across my skin. “And it is all your fault, because you’re the reason I’m happy.” He touched his lips underneath my ear, and I forgot that I was supposed to be avoiding the annoying girls in the bodega. I forgot that I had somewhere to be. I’d forget my eyeballs if they weren’t stuck in my head.
Maybe it’s because Brendan was smart, sweet, supportive and—let’s face it—smack-yourself-in-the-face hot. Or maybe it was because he could win a gold medal in making out. But most likely, it was because he’s my soul mate. My honest, true soul mate—reincarnated over a thousand years, only to be reunited and ripped apart, generation after generation, thanks to a curse set in motion by a brokenhearted ancient lord. When his beloved wife, Gloriana, was murdered, Lord Archer thought he was securing their reunion in another life. He made a deal with a witch: his and Gloriana’s souls would reunite in another lifetime—one where Archer would be reborn into a rich, handsome and strong descendant.
But Archer’s goals shouldn’t have been so selfish, so focused on his own glory, as the witch cruelly reminded him when she granted his proud wishes. When you make a deal with evil, there’s always fine print. The witch doomed our souls with a never-ending curse: after we reunited, Archer would relive the loss of his soul mate as she suffered an untimely, tragic—and brutal—death. Over and over again, lifetime over lifetime, condemning me from the moment I met Brendan. But after Anthony attacked me at the winter formal, Brendan risked his life to save mine—the key to unlocking the curse started by his selfish past life.
The fight also confirmed that I had some seriously untapped witch powers—Gloriana had practiced witchcraft, and that magic stuck with her soul, magnifying as the years passed. My late twin brother, Ethan, was able to warn me of the danger, through dreams and some seriously scary signs, of the impending doom. But when I was somehow able to summon his spirit to help me pull Brendan from an almost-certain death, as he clutched on to the rocks high above Central Park’s Turtle Pond after knocking me out of Anthony’s path, we realized I had some major magical talent flowing through my veins. Before I moved to New York, I had no idea that I was what Angelique called a “born witch.”
In the four months since we broke the curse, Brendan and I have been blissfully happy—and the only things threatening us from being with each other were my pitiful Latin grades (yes, we had to study Latin at Vincent Academy, a language deader than caveman grunts) and his socialite mom, Laura. She was proving to be almost as big a barrier to our happily ever after as the curse. Laura wasn’t too thrilled that her son risked his life to save mine. I had a sneaking suspicion that she wouldn’t have minded Brendan saving blue blood from being spilled—but I was a transplant to New York’s posh Upper East Side, living with my aunt Christine after my alcoholic stepfather, Henry, made life in Keansburg, New Jersey, hazardous to my health. Still, Laura’s disapproval didn’t deter Brendan from bringing me around his family. Like last week, when I joined them for Chinese food. Although when the Salingers get Chinese food, they don’t order in from the local Happy Joy Kitchen—they go to Mr. Chow, where they know the owner. Where the bill is three figures. Where a Grammy winner might be at the next table.
Sure, it was the best Chinese food I’d ever had, but Laura could make anything unappetizing. She should rent herself out to anyone wanting to lose weight. At least Brendan’s dad, Aaron, wasn’t a problem: he liked me. He also understood that I was Brendan’s soul mate—and that I wasn’t just some fleeting crush of his son’s. After all, the curse had come from the Salinger side of the family. But Laura…she frowned so much in my general direction I thought her chin might fall off. Impressive, I thought at the time—she’d had so much Botox for the grand opening of one of her husband’s hotels that her face was about as flexible as a brick.
But all those concerns always melted away the second Brendan touched me. His lips left a featherlight path of kisses from my ear to my mouth. Even after months together and a billion make-out sessions (that’s a conservative estimate), every kiss kicked my pulse—and other parts of my body—into high gear. I clasped my hands around the back of his neck, eagerly returning his kiss before a wailing ambulance, heading to nearby St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital, reminded me of our location. “Whoa,” I said, pulling away. “We are in the middle of Ninth Avenue here.”
“We’re not the most scandalous thing someone’s seen in the middle of Ninth Avenue, I’m sure.” Brendan smirked, his green eyes sparkling mischievously. “Besides, no one’s watching.”
“Don’t be too sure.” I groaned, reminded of my encounter in the bodega. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to see if the annoying trio of girls was still around.
Yep. They were. And they noticed whom I was with—and what I was doing with him.
“What’s wrong?” Brendan’s jet-black brows furrowed with concern.
“Nothing. Let’s just get out of here, okay?” I ignored the furious texting from their perfectly manicured fingers.
“What, is some old creeper watching us make out or something?” Brendan asked, protectively throwing his arm over my shoulder and ushering me down the block toward Tenth Avenue.
“No, nothing like that! Some people recognized me, said some things…blah, blah, blech.” I waved my hands dismissively, omitting the part about his old hookup. Soul mate or not, I didn’t exactly break into a happy dance every time I heard about his previous—and prolific—conquests. Before me, Brendan got around more than the crosstown bus. So I could think of better ways to pass the time than discussing his past, like slamming my face into a drawer—repeatedly. But part of the curse was that Archer be handsome when he was reincarnated, and Brendan was, indeed, magically delicious. And girls most definitely noticed.
“What did they say to you?” His green eyes glinted angrily as he turned his head to glare at the clique, but I grabbed a fistful of his sleeve, pulling him forward.
“Please, just let it go. Please?” I pleaded. Brendan took in the exasperated expression on my face and sighed, resigned.
“I’m sorry you have to keep dealing with that,” Brendan apologized guiltily as we continued walking away from the bodega toward Tenth Avenue. The Salingers weren’t just rich, they were one of those families—the kind that had scholarships named after them. The kind that had buildings named after them. So when he fought off psychotic schoolmate Anthony after Anthony attacked me last December, of course it made headlines in New York gossip blogs. The only downfall for Brendan was that every now and then, some alpha-male tried to start a fight with him to prove how tough he was.
“It’s not your fault.” I quickened my step to get more distance between us and the gossipy trio. “I just don’t want to keep being reminded of everything that happened.”
“My dad’s lawyers think Anthony’s father has him holed up somewhere in Europe. Anthony’s not coming back—we’d have heard something,” Brendan reminded me. Anthony was also from a powerful family, and his father had him hidden well—a little too well for the private service Brendan’s father, Aaron, had hired after the fight. He’d even arranged for some security for Brendan and me in the weeks immediately after the attack.
Brendan continued, his voice grave and low as he pulled me closer. “Don’t worry about it, Em. If he tries to get anywhere near you, I’ll end him.”
I didn’t doubt Brendan’s sincerity—especially after what had transpired on the rocks. But the lethal tone in his voice caused me to stop in my tracks.
“Please don’t talk like that. I don’t want you getting hurt or—”
“Come on, Emma.” Brendan interrupted me, throwing his head back in a laugh. He picked me up—overstuffed backpack and all—and planted a quick kiss on my nose. “I’m a little offended by your lack of confidence.”
He set me back on my feet and I smoothed out my skirt, trying not to roll my eyes at Brendan as we resumed walking.
“Besides,” he continued. “Don’t you remember what happened last time? I can handle him.”
“I remember it very well,” I said quietly. “I remember thinking you died when you went barreling off the rocks.”
“I didn’t, though,” he reminded me, sliding an arm around my shoulders. “That’s all behind us.”
“I hope so.” I sighed, looking up at him. “I just worry.”
“You know I feel the same way you do. That night, when I couldn’t find you…” His voice trailed off, and Brendan just kissed me softly on the top of my head. “I understand feeling protective—trust me, I get it,” he added with a humorless laugh. “Just please don’t worry so much that you don’t talk to me or tell me things because you’re trying to protect me or stop me from going off. Even if it comes to some idiot girls running their mouths in a bodega, okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed with a small smile. I pulled back from him reluctantly when I felt my phone vibrate in my sweatshirt pocket.
Where R U?
“Well, I should definitely get upstairs,” I muttered, texting Angelique back. We had just gotten to her family’s apartment building on Tenth Avenue and Fifty-first Street, and I was already running late due to a Latin study session after school. Honestly, a few stolen kisses along the way contributed to my delay; with my new afterschool job in the library, witch classes with Angelique, my weekly kickboxing classes, basketball season in full swing—and, of course, SAT prep—Brendan and I hadn’t had much time together outside of school. I’d missed him.
Still, Angelique had insisted that we have a lesson today. She and Brendan weren’t exactly best friends—or friends at all, for that matter. She had dismissed him as an overprivileged rich jock; he had written her off as a self-important, bratty witch. Well, they were both right about one thing: Brendan was rich, and Angelique was a witch. She came from a family of witches, actually. She was also a burgeoning empath—she could sense people’s emotions. So far, her talent was unpredictable, but getting stronger every day: some days she could sense everything—she was in tune with the world. Other days, nothing at all. So I helped Angelique cultivate her empath skills, and Angelique helped me develop my newly discovered abilities as a born witch.
But after a successful initial run of spells, all I’d done in the past month was create some very smelly potions—one of which burned a hole in Angelique’s rug—and levitate a yellow highlighter. And that was only for a few seconds. Angelique kept telling me the key was controlling my emotions, but I’d either get too frustrated when something didn’t work or too excited when it did and screw it up—badly. Hence the hole in the rug.
“So what was so important that you had to have witch class today? Are you still—what, spellblocked? Witch’s block? What’s the magic equivalent of writer’s block?” Brendan asked, arching one black eyebrow as he walked me up the concrete steps framing the plaza surrounding Angelique’s apartment building. Although he’d initially balked at the idea of me being a witch, after the fight, Brendan was all for anything I could do to protect myself—be it the pepper spray he bought me or something magical in nature. He even taught me the kind of fighting I wasn’t going to pick up in my Beginner’s Kickboxing class—all the dirty, street fighting tricks he’d learned over the years. But we found out the hard way that I had a pretty good right hook when he got, um, a little distracted during one lesson. I’d apologized a billion times, but Brendan assured me it wasn’t his first bloody nose, and likely wouldn’t be his last. I just had to promise to stop wearing low-cut tank tops when we sparred.
“Witch’s block is a good term for it—and yes, I’m still witch blocked like crazy.” I sighed, running my hands through my hair and tugging at the strands. “I can’t seem to focus on anything. It’s killing me. I don’t know if I should just give it up, or what.”
“You’ll get there,” he said supportively, kissing me on my forehead before tilting my chin up to steal another kiss.
“Nice try! Stop trying to make me later than I already am,” I said, pushing him away with a laugh.
“You’re always late. To everything. And you’re here already. So what’s another ten minutes?” Brendan argued, trying to slide his arms around me again.
“Thanks a lot,” I replied sarcastically, using his joke about my tardiness as an excuse to pull myself from his arms, however unwillingly. “I’m being rude. Besides, spring break starts Wednesday, and we have all day together tomorrow.” We were both taking art history this semester, and tomorrow was an end-of-week class trip to the Cloisters, the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s medieval branch in upper Manhattan.
“Fine.” Brendan sighed in mock annoyance, releasing me from his grasp. “Have fun. Play nice with the other witches.”
I promised him I’d text him when I got home, and I headed up the concrete steps into Angelique’s apartment building.
“I’m sorry I’m a little late,” I apologized as soon as Angelique answered the door. “I had Latin review after school.”
“Yeah, Latin review is why your lip balm is smudged,” Angelique said tersely as she shut the door behind me. “That first declension really screws up your makeup—as if I needed lip gloss all over your face to know what you’ve been doing.” She shuddered in a melodramatic way.
“Empath skills rearing their ugly head?” I asked as I sheepishly wiped my mouth with the heel of my hand. I felt like Aunt Christine had just caught me making out with Brendan.
“Big time.” Angelique grimaced as if she’d just smelled something gross. I guiltily hung my head as I followed my friend down the apartment’s cheerful, yellow-painted hallway to her more dramatically decorated bedroom.
“But then again, you seem to have that effect on me,” she added dryly, and I ducked my head a little more. Angelique had always been able to read auras, but meeting a fellow witch like me had somehow triggered her latent empath talent. Although she was still learning how to harness it, Angelique could always read me crystal clear. “It’s like your emotions are in HD,” she’d complained. That’s how I was able to help her develop her talent—I’d think of something that evoked a strong emotion, she’d guess what I was feeling. We were like a really bizarre supernatural game show—Stump the Empath.
“How come your hair is wet?” I changed the subject, noticing that Angelique’s damp, jet-black hair was leaving little wet spots all over her oversize, comfy-looking burgundy T-shirt. She was naturally a blonde, but dyed it dark, save for the occasional colorful streak.
“Oh, my cousin Miranda’s on spring break from college, so she came over and helped me touch up my roots,” she replied, pointing to her scalp with a charcoal-gray-painted nail. “We added a few streaks of purple and blue in.”
Angelique loved being a witch—and she positively adored dressing the part. Her Goth attire hadn’t won her many friends at Vincent Academy, where the aesthetic was more Chanel than Charmed. But her flair for the dramatic was one of my favorite things about her. The rest of her witchy family—the ones I’d met, at least—didn’t share her darker sense of style.
“So what are we working on today?” I asked, kicking off my beloved, but ridiculously scuffed, Mary Janes. After taking a swig from my still-cold iced tea, I sat cross-legged on Angelique’s bed, fighting the desire to just sprawl out on it and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck all over the purple walls. She had the most comfortable bed in the world—thick feather bed topped with a black velvet comforter. It was like lying in a gigantic plush marshmallow.
“Are we doing potions? Spells? Maybe some kind of magic to fix my witch’s block?” I asked, glaring at my backpack on the floor. Maybe Angelique’s presence can help you successfully pull off a little spell… .
“Emoveo!” I yelled, pointing at my backpack as it sat upright in the middle of the floor. And then my jaw dropped, practically falling onto her bed as the bag slid, slowly along the linoleum—to Angelique, who had dragged it closer to where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor.
She gave me an entertained look, shaking her head.
“Did you think you moved your bag?”
“Kinda,” I admitted, embarrassed. I started inspecting my dark nail polish so I wouldn’t have to look at her. I didn’t have to see her face to know she was frustrated with me. I could hear it in her voice.
“You’re not concentrating nearly hard enough. Born witch or not, you’re new to this. Just shouting out spells isn’t going to work,” she said sternly, adding, “as I’ve told you about a thousand times.”
“It did in the beginning.” I sulked, thinking of some early spells that I’d successfully pulled off. It’s probably because the spell is in Latin. And you hate Latin.
“Well, your focus was a lot better then,” she retorted. I looked up as Angelique stood and tossed the bag on the bed next to me, adding, “And the spell is a repulsion spell. It’s meant to make something move away from you, not go sliding across the floor to you.”
She took an oversize blue pen out of the bright yellow souvenir Florida mug on her desk and cleared a space for it on the messy surface.
“Watch,” she instructed, turning to her desk with her eyes slitted in concentration. She held her left palm out and took a deep breath.
“Emoveo,” she whispered, her fingers splaying out as she focused.
My breath caught in my throat as the blue pen twitched.
“Emoveo!” Angelique repeated more forcefully, holding her arm out straighter, locking her elbow at the joint. The pen flung backward as if someone had tugged it off the surface with an invisible string. It hit the wall before falling down behind her desk.
She turned to me with a self-satisfied smile while my eyes were about as wide as bagels. Angelique rarely flaunted her skills just for the sake of showing off. Sure, her empath side would occasionally get slammed with someone’s mood on the subway—and she’d elbow me with a whispered “They totally just did it” and nod toward two people sharing shy glances—but generally, Angelique thought it was an abuse of the craft to just show off.
“Have you always been able to do that?” I asked, awed at her display.
“Of course not. I wanted to show you what a little practice can do,” she said, her voice dripping with a “nyah-nyah-nyah-I-told-you-so” tone.
“Message received.” I bowed slightly to her. “I’ll practice on focusing my emotions more.”
“Good,” she replied, a big grin on her face. “Remember, dabbling with witchcraft is like playing with guns. It’s dangerous. Besides, the more you practice, the more quickly you should be able to find your emotional center. It’s something you have to feel out…it’s not really a tangible thing. Once you can access that emotional place, your spells will come together more, um—” her eyes darted to the burn mark in her rug “—effectively. Which is why I asked you to bring the dress. Did you?”
I nodded, digging in my backpack and pulling out the item she had asked me to pack—the black tulle dress I’d worn to the dance where Anthony had attacked me. I didn’t know why I’d even saved it. It was ripped and dirty, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. I felt like I needed a reminder—like I couldn’t get too comfortable with my current, blissful situation. So it had spent the past few months tied in a plastic bag in the back of my closet.
“Well, considering our last couple of potions haven’t gone so well,” Angelique began, cautiously eyeing the burn again, “I was thinking we should go back to the basics.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, not looking directly at the dress as she inspected the tulle and satiny liner.
“Well, your most effective spells were, um, ones that happened when your emotions were running very high. And since you’re so happy these days, you’re having a little trouble finding your center to do these spells, so I had an idea…” Angelique trailed off. I had a sinking feeling that I knew where she was going with this.
That night on the rocks, I was able to somehow summon my brother’s spirit to help me pull Brendan to safety as he dangled more than one hundred feet above Turtle Pond. Thinking about my brother, and how I felt like I lost him twice—Angelique knew the kind of pain that caused me. And there was no way I was going to reach out to his spirit, especially if he was finally at peace.
“No,” I interrupted. “I don’t want to disturb Ethan or do anything like that.”
“I don’t mean…summoning spirits,” Angelique said, raising her palms. “The spell I have in mind, you need for this to work. I’m hoping this dress will just be a prop to remind you, kind of a shortcut to take you to back to that emotional place.”
“So this dress is my GPS system?”
“Basically.” Angelique nodded.
“I was able to levitate that highlighter. I mean, that was cool, but it wasn’t exactly crucial that I do it,” I countered. I was not looking forward to reliving that battle in Central Park with Anthony.
“I don’t want to take any chances. The spell I have in mind, you need to do.”
Her ominous tone sent shivers through my body, and I nervously began tugging on the row of small silver hoops in my earlobe as she pulled a large boot box from underneath her bed. She plopped it next to me, the weight of the box causing the comforter to pillow and plump on the sides. Angelique lifted the lid to reveal the worn, intricately carved leather cover of Hadrian’s Medieval Legends, nestled among some tissue paper and small jars filled with herbs.
“You still have it? I thought your mom had to return it!” I exclaimed, staring at the book in awe. It was in that old book that I had learned about the ancient curse that bound my soul to Brendan’s—and doomed me. It was also where we figured out that we had broken the curse—but our story shared space with tales about dragons, demons and witches. And those weren’t real…well, except for the witch part.
“She’s a little scatterbrained, as you know, and forgot that I even have it,” Angelique confessed. “She’ll remember when the school asks for it.” Angelique’s mom, Dr. Evelyn Tedt, was a professor of Medieval Studies at Fordham University, and one of the brightest minds in her field. She could tell you the date an illuminated manuscript was created just by inspecting the scrollwork in the border. But where Angelique had a photographic memory, Dr. Tedt couldn’t remember to put the milk back in the fridge. It had caused many an unpleasant surprise when Angelique and I tried to have cereal.
“Won’t you get into trouble with your mom? That book is ancient, I thought!”
“Not ancient. Just an antique. It’s from the late 1800s.” Angelique shrugged casually, as if the book was merely an old magazine.
“Still, Angelique—she’s going to kill you when she finds out.”
“I don’t care. I’m glad I kept it. Especially since I can tell you’re feeling a dozen emotions looking at it—that bodes well for the spell,” she added wisely.
“A dozen emotions might be an understatement,” I mumbled, my eyes still riveted on the book. “So what’s this spell that’s so important that I had to have props?” I held up the dress and shook it toward Hadrian’s.
“I’ve been feeling…I don’t know how to describe it. Almost like I’m on the verge of an anxiety attack at all times,” she said, getting that faraway look she always got when she explained what it’s like for her to read emotions and people. “You know when you’re watching a horror movie, and you’re waiting for the killer to pop out? And the music is building? Well, I feel like the music is building. And it’s getting louder and louder, but the killer hasn’t popped out yet.”
She rubbed her ear, as if she were trying to shake the ominous sound out. “I just feel very unsettled. The last time I was anxious like this…” she paused to look up at me, and when she continued, her voice was very low “…it was right before the winter formal. But I just thought I was feeling sick because of the flu—I’d never felt like this before,” she explained quickly. “How was I supposed to know I was sensing any kind of danger? I don’t know if this is an empath thing, or just me being in tune with the universe, but I figured I’d better pay attention.”
“You had the same feeling back then?” I whispered, and Angelique nodded, curling a finger around a drying lock of Tiffany-blue hair. “When I put two and two together—I had the same creepy feeling back then. I’d hate to think I was ignoring some kind of warning now, too.”
Angelique flopped on her bed, next to Hadrian’s Medieval Legends.
“There’s a lot in here,” Angelique confessed, flipping through the pages absentmindedly. “I’m not even halfway through it. The way it’s written isn’t consistent. Even the setting of the stories change—one’s in the 1800s, another’s medieval. But there are enough stories in here that make me feel like, well, my anxiety has to do with you, obviously.” She dropped the pages and looked at me seriously.
“Emma, someone with the amount of mystical energy you have needs to be a little more careful. And I’m not just talking about Anthony.”
Angelique was not one for any kind of emotional displays—the last time she hugged someone it was probably to give them the Heimlich maneuver—so what she said next floored me.
“Besides, Em, you’re important to me. You don’t know how nice it’s been to have someone I can talk to about this stuff. I haven’t had a witch as a friend in a really long time. Not since freshman year.” She twisted the piles of silver rings on her fingers as she spoke.
“Aww, Angelique,” I murmured, pausing my show of affection when she glared at me. I quickly changed the subject. “What do you mean you don’t have anyone to talk to? What about your mom and Miranda and the rest of your family?”
“My mom’s different—I mean, she’s my mom. I can’t talk to her about any spell that she might consider too dangerous, because then she goes all über-momwitch on me,” Angelique complained, studying the hem of her shirt. “I can sometimes talk to Miranda, but she likes to remind me all the time that she’s four years older and soo much more experienced. It’s annoying. ‘I was doing divination with stones while you were still playing with Barbies.’” Angelique affected a high-pitched, nasal voice as she mimicked her cousin’s conceited way of talking.
“You played with Barbies?” I asked, awed. I’d have been less surprised if she told me she played with live grenades. Angelique just gave me a withering look and I shut my mouth.
