Season of the Witch (9 page)

I can set the table
. The words form in my head, ready to be spoken. I imagine myself clearing the table, laying out the plates, chatting about this or that. My mom will talk to me; so will my dad. Eventually, they’ll end up talking to each other. Katherine will fade out.

But then I remember what Cassandra said when I felt like I
needed to be nice to her mom: It won’t help her, and it’s a habit you need to break.

“Let me know when we’re ready,” I say, and go to my room.

Dropping my stuff on the floor, I lie on my bed. From outside, I hear the thud of a pot on the counter. My dad saying, “Claire?” and my mom, exasperated, “Yes, God, okay—”

They probably will get a divorce, I think calmly. My dad will move in with Katherine. In which case, I will definitely live with my mom.

Because even though she should have set the stupid table if she said she was going to? My dad shouldn’t have cheated on her. And he shouldn’t expect that everything’s forgiven just because he said he was sorry. You let people down, you deserve to be punished. Because otherwise? Anyone can get away with anything.

My phone buzzes. I have a text. I look at the number. Ah, yes, Chloe.

A little bird tells me you talked to O today. That’s a no-no. Punishment awaits
.

Guess that protection spell didn’t work out. No big surprise. Cassandra said you had to feel it. I didn’t feel a thing.

I’m feeling it now, though. Quite strongly.

I text Cassandra:

I’m feeling revenge
.

Maybe Cassandra’s my prince, I think. Or wicked witch. Or whatever. I don’t care at this point.

A moment later, I get a text back.
Meet me at the rock after school
.

CASSANDRA’S ALREADY THERE WHEN I get to the park. From the ground I can see her, perched high on the huge, smooth dome of the whale’s back. She gestures,
Come up
.

“I’ve got it,” she says happily as I collapse beside her. The book is in her lap.

“The spell?”

She nods. “So perfect. At first I was like, Hm, gutless, gutless, that’s a good image. Got to be something there, some way to attack his insides.…”

“Puking his guts out?”

She nods approvingly. “Like that. Save it.” She opens the book, turns it so I can see. “See what you think of this.”

A SPELL FOR SILENCE

As I stare, the words seem to rise off the page. I feel hypnotized by them. Maybe it’s that Cassandra has awesome handwriting. She’s a total artist. But it’s hard not to feel that the words alone have some kind of power.

Cassandra explains, “You know, ’cause he didn’t speak up for you.”

When I don’t answer, she tugs the book back. “Okay, not working for you.”

“No!” I grab the book. Then instantly let it go. I shouldn’t be yanking her Book of Shadows around. “No, I love it. I’m …”

How to put this?

“What would it do to him?”

“Put him into a deadly coma from which he never awakes, thus ensuring his silence for eternity.”

Her face is completely straight. Too straight.

I say, “Come on.”

She laughs. “Sorry, had to. You looked so freaked. No, what it will do is make him unable to speak, but not hurt him. And we can do it light. Just for a day or two, if you want.”

“How will it silence him?”

“Um, I believe the correct answer is … ‘magic’?” She looks at me: Duh.

“No, I know, but it won’t like, twist up his throat so he can’t breathe, right?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Only every other Tuesday.”

She grins, pleased that I got the joke this time. “No, this is a nonlethal spell. Technically, you’re supposed to use it against other witches so they can’t cast a spell on you. It’s a defensive move. I just liked the imagery of it, since his silence cast a spell on you and did harm.”

I like it too. I also like having Cassandra on my side, telling me that what people are doing to me is not cool. That I am not a skank.

I ask, “So how long, do you think?”

“How many days?”

I nod.

“Whatever you think is fitting.”

I think. How many days have I been in hell? It’s been almost a month since Chloe found out about me and Oliver. Thirty days. Is he responsible for all those phone calls and texts before school started?

No. But once it did, it’s a different story. He might say he has no idea what Chloe’s doing—but he does. School started two weeks ago—fourteen days. Should Oliver suffer in silence for that long?

Not, I tell myself, that I actually believe in any of this. But it’ll make me feel better to do something.

Fourteen days is too long, I decide. Say this spell actually does something to Oliver’s throat. Fourteen days of messing with your vocal cords has to do some damage. I don’t want anything permanent.

On the other hand, I don’t want anything trivial either.

When could Oliver be silent and it would really, really hurt him? But not forever.

Then I remember: his Amnesty interview. Four days from now.

I really freeze up if I have to talk under pressure
. Why not strike where he’s weak?

I smile. “I think one week is sufficient.”

Cassandra lifts the book to the sky. “One week be it.”

The wind picks up, and the pages flutter like bird’s wings.

You can’t see it when you enter the park, but the rock has a large square cavern cut into it, almost as if the whale had a vast slice of blubber cut out of its side. Three sides are rock face, while the high wire fence to the playground faces you. Since there are trees and bushes planted on the playground side, no one can see what you’re doing. It’s the perfect place to drink, smoke weed—

Or do witchcraft. So that’s where Cassandra and I go. Down into the pit.

We begin by finding a piece of rock. It has to be thin, although Cassandra won’t tell me why. Finally, I find a sliver of dark shale.

“That’ll work,” says Cassandra.

We sit on the ground facing each other, the piece of shale in the middle. Then Cassandra reaches into her bag and takes out a small velvet pouch.

“How are you with blood?” she asks.

I have an immediate image of a slashed throat, blood gushing with every heartbeat. I shake it off.

“Um, define quantity.”

Cassandra holds up a large needle. It’s silver with a gold point. “A mere pinprick.”

I hold out my finger. “Okay.”

We arrange ourselves in a circle. “Okay,” she says, wiping my finger with an alcohol swab. “I’m going to draw blood. When I do, your job is to write an ‘O’ on the stone.”

“For ‘Oliver.’ ” She nods. “Will it work with just an ‘O’?”

“It’s harder than you think to get blood.” She smiles. “So, I think ‘O’ will have to do. Just keep him firmly fixed in your mind.”

She takes my hand in hers, her skin hot with tension. Then she holds up the needle. “Don’t look.”

I turn my head, stare off into the trees. As I do, I let images of Oliver come into my head. Oliver laughing at the party, the feel of him against me on the street …

No, these are nice images. I want the real Oliver, the one I don’t like.

Oliver not looking at me. Oliver with his dumb Uhhh. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

The stab of the needle hurts like hell. My hand jerks at the pain. Cassandra grips it tightly.

“Okay,” she says. “Go.”

My mind stuck on Oliver, confused by pain, it takes me a moment to remember what we’re supposed to be doing. Then, with a dim memory of becoming blood sisters with Amy somebody at camp, I squeeze the tip of my finger until a bright red blood ball forms. I start to write on the slab.

The first touch is too much. It leaves a clumsy crimson blotch on the stone, which soaks in.

“More,” says Cassandra.

I squeeze harder, drawing the tip of my finger along the stone. A thin line begins to form.

“Keep going,” she urges. “Think of him. Think of what he did. How he let you down.”

I do, pressing harder and harder until it feels like I’m going to crack my nail.

“Here.” Cassandra grabs my hand, stabs my finger again. I barely feel it, desperate to have enough to complete the circle. I start feeling light-headed, as if it’s gallons I’m pumping instead of droplets. It’s so slow, takes so long.

Weak, I think, don’t be weak. You can do this, you can.

When the two red swoops finally join at the splotch, I burst out laughing with happiness.

“Perfect,” says Cassandra.

Panting, I say, “The blotch isn’t so great.”

“No,” she says, her voice distant. “It’s the primal wound. The first hurt he gave you that started the circle of cruelty. Now you’ve brought it all back to him.”

“That’s right,” I say.

Cassandra takes a deep breath. “Before we go on, I do have to tell you one thing.”

“Okay.”

“The Threefold Law. Or the Law of Return, whichever you prefer,” she says, going back to her jokey voice. “Basically it says whatever energy you put out, you get back. Times three.”

“So, if I make Oliver silent for a week, I could be silent for three weeks.”

She nods. “Or—lose another sense. Your hearing, your sight.”

“In other words, karma’s a bitch.”

“Precisely. Now—do you want to know why I think that won’t happen?”

“Please.”

“I think it won’t happen because the Threefold Law has already been set in motion. We’re making it happen right now. If you do this, you even the score. But that’s just what I think,” she adds uncertainly. “I don’t want to talk you into it.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” I ask. “So I won’t be able to smell or whatever for a week.”

“You’re sure?”

I nod. “What’s next?”

Cassandra picks up her bag, draws out a nail and hammer. Something is tied around the nail. Two somethings—a small crimson thread and a blue thread, intertwined.

“I took the red thread from Oliver’s backpack,” she explains. “And I took the blue thread from your jeans when you came over.”

I remember Cassandra tugging, her little joke about OCD. “Just had a feeling you’d be needing it.”

She smiles. “Kind of. So, what you do is take this hammer and pound this nail through the ‘O.’ It fixes the spell in place.”

“Like a stake through the vampire’s heart.”

“Probably the same reasoning. I’ll say the words for the spell. And when I’m done, you do your thing.”

I take the nail, place it in the center of the “O.”

Cassandra asks, “Are you ready?”

I nod. She hands me the hammer. “I’m going to start now,” she tells me. “Whatever you do, do not interrupt.”

“Okay.”

Then she closes her eyes. “I call thee spirit, cruel spirit, merciless spirit …”

Cruel? Merciless? I open my mouth.

DON’T interrupt
, I hear in my head.

“I call thee, bad spirit, who takes away healing from man. Go and place a knot in O’s throat. In his tongue and his windpipe. Let the knots grow and swell for seven days. Then at the end of seven days, let them be no more. Because I wish it. Amen. Amen. Selah.”

She opens her eyes, looks at me. My turn.

I place the point of the nail in the middle of the “O.” Raise the hammer high. Then I bring it down hard on the head of the nail.

It goes through cleanly. Not a single crack.

Cassandra smiles. “Good.”

We bury the stone and the nail in the ground. I press the hill of earth smooth with my shoe, feel as if I’m stepping on a grave. This time the spell feels much more real than the safety thing we tried in Cassandra’s room. I’m exhausted, like I really did send some serious energy out to Oliver.

The sun is going down, casting flares and shadows around us. The cavern is cold. I remember that the park changes after dark. The creeps come out.

“Are you okay?” Cassandra asks. “It’s intense.”

“It is. But I think I’m all right. What do we do now?”

“Now? We wait. Oh—and I was thinking?”

I nod.

“Maybe it’s best if we don’t hang out so much at school.”

My heart lurches. The sucky thing about being rejected is you start to expect it all the time. “Why?”

Cassandra sighs. “Just, with Ella—I know you two are friends, and I know she can be sweet. But she needs other people’s lives to feed off, you know? I’m not saying she’s a parasite.” She shakes her head. “There I go again, bitch alert. Just … cousins get competitive. Our moms compare us, and it’s a drag. I’m sure Ella gets sick of hearing about my grades, sports, whatever. So, I don’t want the added drama of ‘You stole my bestie!’ You know what I’m saying?”

Remembering Ella’s comments about Cassandra, I can understand what Cassandra means. “I get you.”

“Also, if this works?” She nods back toward the rock. “We don’t want people asking questions. You know, it helped that I could get near Oliver’s stuff without him connecting me to you.”

I nod. Then think, What kind of questions could people ask?

What have we actually done?

The next day, I walk with Ella to school. As she chatters on about this and that, I barely hear her. All I can think is Is it today? Will it happen today?

What if Cassandra’s toying with me? Playing one of her not-so-funny jokes?
Oh, my God, you actually believed me? How sad are you?