Season of the Witch (14 page)

I start walking toward them. Partly out of curiosity, partly because … I can.

As I get closer, I hear Chloe say, “Just
talk
to me, Oliver. Say something.”

I wait, along with Chloe. Oliver shakes his head.

Chloe reaches for his arm. Her voice breaking a little, she says, “You’re freezing me out and I can’t take it.”

Unfortunately, that happens to be when I pass them. Caught in her moment of weakness, Chloe spins toward me. Oliver murmurs, “No, Chloe, don’t—”

She shrieks. “Can’t you ever leave us alone? What do I have to do to get you away from us?”

It hurts for an instant, Chloe’s vision of me as some needy, pathetic loser who’s always crawling for her scraps. But then I remember Cassandra. I remember the plan.

“Maybe you’re the one who has to go away, Chloe,” I say. “You ever think of that?”

SATURDAY AFTERNOON, I TAKE MIMI and put her in the corner of the windowsill in a slice of cool, dark shade. Then I take Dallas, Boo Boo, Phoebe, and Gloriana and put them in a little circle with their backs to her.

I take Aura, put her next to Mimi. Mimi needs her power. She can’t do this alone.

Cassandra told me to come at ten o’clock. It feels creepy walking to her house this late. I keep looking over my shoulder, worried someone’s following me.

Walter is on the door and he touches the brim of his hat when I approach. “Ms. Cassandra?” he asks. I nod. “I’ll buzz and let her know. You can go ahead.”

I walk into the hall-of-mirrors lobby. An old lady comes out her door with a dachshund. I hear his little nails
click, click, click
on the floor. The lady saying, “Come on, Chowsie.” Walter saying, “Evening, Ms. Abernathy.” “Good evening, Walter.”

The elevator door slides open. I step in and ride up.

When I ring the bell, Cassandra throws open the door, says, “Abandon pity all ye who enter!”

I laugh. Drop my bag on the floor. “Nice to be here.”

“Ain’t a parent-free house a little slice of heaven on rye?”

Cassandra is wearing a black turtleneck and black jeans. Her hair is back, so her cheekbones are super sharp. She looks great.

I look down at my skirt and red tights; the only black thing I’m wearing is my hair bow. “Was I supposed to do all black?”

“Nah—no biggie. Just felt like going with the obvious. Some wine?” She points out a bottle on the dining room table.

“Mais oui,”
I say, although I don’t usually drink except at parties. Cassandra pours me an enormous glass. “Whoa.”

“My parents’ll never miss it,” she says, pouring herself one. “My dad’s been drinking so much, he’ll just think he went overboard one night.”

She gestures to her room. “Bring your glass. And the bag.”

As we go through Cassandra’s door, I say, “Okay!” She’s really done it up. A dozen fat red candles are burning. A spicy incense makes the place smoky and mysterious. She’s draped the window with a black cloth. In the center of the room, she’s placed an old battered pot. It’s black with colored spatters. Around it is a circle of charms of some kind. Shells and stones, and twisted little figures I can’t quite make out. Two scrolls tied with black ribbon lean against the pot.

There is also a knife. Slim, with a black-and-gold striped handle. It looks very sharp. For a moment, I wonder if that’s what Cassandra used on her wrists. Then I wonder how we’re using it tonight.

“Salut!”
she says, clinking my glass. As we drink, I immediately
notice this wine is a lot less sweet and syrupy than the party plonk I’m used to. Maybe it’s the incense—or the fact that I was too psyched to eat much today—but two sips go straight to my head.

For a little while we talk about school stuff. Cassandra’s dumped rugby. Rolling her eyes, she says, “Lizbeth was like, ‘Come back when you’re ready.’ I was like, ‘Yeah, never going to be ready.’ ”

Then she sits up, asks, “So you got it?”

I have Chloe’s hair safely stored in a plastic bag. Now I take it out, hold it up.

“Let’s put it in the stewpot,” says Cassandra cheerfully. I drop it in. It’s so light and brittle. That’s how I want Chloe to feel: a dry, fragile bit of nothing.

“Okay,” says Cassandra, rearranging herself slightly so we are sitting at either end of the pot. “ ’Tis the midnight hour.”

She takes a swig of wine, waits until I do the same. Then she hands me one of the scrolls—heavy, yellowed paper. I tug the black ribbon loose, unroll it. Cassandra has written the words of the spell in thick black ink. There’s a violence to the writing; the letters look scratched into the surface of the paper.

I’m about to say “A for penmanship,” but I hear in my head,
No more jokes
.

I take a sip of wine.

“Go easy,” says Cassandra, gently directing my wrist to set the glass down.

She picks up the knife, then, with one quick, savage cut, slices the ball of her thumb open. Blood wells up, starts to drip.

“Now you,” she says, thrusting the knife at me. “Come on, hurry.”

Panicked at what I have to do—I can never match Cassandra’s
guts—I fumble with the knife. It falls on the floor. Blood smears the rug.

“Crap, I’m sorry—”

“Forget it. Do it.”

I grab the knife, press it against my hand. Bracing myself for the pain, I push. But I’m not ruthless enough; the skin stays whole. No blood comes.

Blood is dripping down Cassandra’s wrist.

“Here,” she says, and takes hold of my wrist. Before I know it, she’s sliced me open. It stings—more than stings, burns—but then she’s pressing the palm of her hand against mine, holding them over the pot. Slowly, the blood starts to drip on the hair. Fascinated, I watch as it falls, heavy and thick onto the dry strands, flattening them, collapsing them. Overpowering them.

“The first five lines,” whispers Cassandra. “Say them now.”

My voice shaking, I read,

Finished, I look up at Cassandra. Her eyes are bright, fierce. Letting go of my hand, she picks up one of the candles.

“Give me your ribbon,” she says softly.

It takes me a moment to realize she means my hair tie. I reach back, pull the bow off. I hand it to her. She holds the bow over
the candle’s flame, lights it on fire. Then she drops it into the pot. Instantly, the hair flames up, threatens to leap out of the pot, engulf the room.

“Quick,” she says. “The rest of the spell.”

My voice is stronger this time, my delivery better now that I’m used to the rhythm.

The fire is dead. All that’s left is smoke that stings my eyes and makes me cough. Raising her wineglass into the smoke, Cassandra closes her eyes and says, “Hecate, we call upon you to deliver your servant Antonia from the malice of Chloe Nachmias. Use your power, Hecate. Render Chloe Nachmias helpless. Sap her spirit, cut off her energy. Let your servant know the sweet thrill of vengeance on those who have wronged her.”

Drink
.

I do, draining the last of the wine.

“Okay,” says Cassandra. “Done.”

For no reason, I burst out laughing. Then I’m crying. It’s so intense. What did we just do? Cassandra gathers me up, hugs me. Her arms feel good and strong and safe. Stroking my hair,
she says, “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. We did it. You’re safe now, she can’t hurt you.”

Waving a hand in front of her face, Cassandra gets up to open a window. “Witchcraft is stinky, hey?”

Laughing weakly, I say, “Sorry I screwed up the cutting.”

“Don’t worry. I was prepared. Doesn’t matter who does the cutting, blood’s blood. You did very well.”

She hoists the window up. A blast of fresh air blows into the room. I breathe deep. Normal is still out there. We haven’t destroyed it, I think crazily.

Cassandra points to my hand, waves her own. “We should clean up.”

Cassandra is so prepared she even has gauze pads and hydrogen peroxide ready in the bathroom. As she dabs disinfectant on my hand, I see it’s really not that deep a cut.

“Maybe a little scar,” says Cassandra.

This makes me think of her scars. “What were you feeling?” I ask. “When you—” I nod to her wrists.

Cassandra wrinkles her nose. “An early attempt at a spell—the pity spell. The ‘Oh, I’ll hurt myself and he’ll come running’ spell. The kind that never, ever works.” She raises an eyebrow at me, lays the gauze over my cut.

“God, I’d have come running.”

She smiles. “Yes, but we know this about you. You still have pity in your heart.” She draws a light X just above my breast. “One day, it shall be gone.”

“Not totally, I hope.” I smooth out the tape at the edge of the gauze. “I mean, kind of sucky world otherwise.”

“It is a kind of sucky world,” she says. “Come on. Bedtime.”

We have one more glass of wine, then pour the rest down the drain. “Remind me,” says Cassandra, “to take the evidence to recycling tomorrow.”

We clear away the pot and the candles. Each candle gets blown out, placed on the windowsill. The pot is washed, dried, put back in the kitchen. “My mom’s next batch of chili will be interesting,” says Cassandra. I giggle.

I want to ask Cassandra just what kind of spell we cast. What kind of thing might happen to Chloe?

Then I feel—or know this is what Cassandra would tell me—it’s done. Whatever will happen will happen. No point in worrying now.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so exhausted. I practically fall onto the old futon Cassandra lays on the floor next to her bed. My body sinks into the padding; I’ve never been so grateful to rest.

Cassandra switches off the light. I hear the slither of cloth as she gets under the covers. For a few minutes—or maybe hours, who knows, I’m so out of it—no one says anything.

Then Cassandra asks, “What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”

I come back to consciousness. “Me?” Knowing what Cassandra’s answer to that question would be, I feel oddly unworthy; what do I have that compares?

Then I think of Katherine’s snarky, choking
“Basketball.”
But I’ve never told anyone, not even Ella, about that. Telling would make it real.

But it is real. Maybe we don’t talk about it, maybe Katherine’s not around anymore, but she’s like a ghost haunting the house. And I know now: Spirits have power. They do real harm.

In the dark, I prepare myself to say the words out loud: My dad had an affair.

First I say, “This is a don’t-tell-anyone, okay?”

“Obviously.”

“This summer, we found out my dad was having an affair. With someone practically my age.”

Cassandra breathes, “Oh, shit.”

I don’t want Cassandra thinking my dad is some kind of psycho perv, so I say, “I mean, she was a grad student, but—”

“Still.”

“Yeah.”

“So that’s what happened this summer,” she says slowly, putting it together. “Did you know her?”

“Yeah, she was around the house all the time. My mom really liked her. They were almost friends, you know?” As I say this, I remember how great it was whenever Katherine was around. She was this exciting, energetic person from the real world bursting in on our dusty little cave.

“Wow,” says Cassandra. “So your mom had no idea.”

“No.”

“Did you?”

I’m about to say no, of course not. But then I remember being in the kitchen with Katherine and my dad. We were eating Italian
macaroons from this bakery in Brooklyn where Katherine lived. And I thought, This is so cool, the three of us. So much better than …

Cassandra says, “Some people are good at that, getting people to like them.”

“Well, I don’t like her anymore,” I say.

“Oh, they always end up betraying you,” says Cassandra. “It’s just about getting you to like them. When you need them to do something for you—”

“Like stop sleeping with your dad.”

“Yeah, kinda. They’re ego monsters.”

“Totally.”

I tell her about Katherine coming to the house, how she blurted out the news, then acted like I was the one hurting her.

“Then she went and called my dad and told
him
. And I’m sure she thinks she was being noble—”

“But really, she wanted to force it so he would leave your mom.”

“Exactly! I totally think that.”

“Evil,” says Cassandra simply. “But your dad ditched her instead?”

“Yeah.”

“Glad she got what she deserved.”

I hesitate. Did she? If so, why don’t we all feel better?

I shake my head, clearing it. Without thinking, I say, “What about you? What’s the worst—”

Then I remember. In my head:
Oh, my God, I’m so sorry—

“Don’t be sorry,” says Cassandra casually. “I know I didn’t want to go into it before. But I don’t want a big sign over my head—
Warning: Do Not Speak of the Bad Thing. It happened. Not talking about it doesn’t change that.”

“No, but—”

“The weirdest thing was he was quiet,” she says, as if I haven’t spoken. “When I went in, the water was like a blanket. Here, sweetie, let’s tuck you in. His eyes were closed. His hair waving under the surface. He looked calm and peaceful. I actually thought, Oh, sweet.”

I see it completely clearly, as if I am standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring down at Eamonn. There is nothing I can say. I hope Cassandra can feel how my heart hurts for her.

“Insane, right?”

“No. You didn’t know.”

“Oh, I knew,” she says matter-of-factly. “The second I didn’t hear him. If Eamonn was quiet, he had to be dead. But it wasn’t awful for him. That’s what I worried about at first. That it had been this terrible thing while he was drowning and he was scared and alone when he died. But when I really looked at him, I knew it was okay.”