“Um, I snuff computer duster?”
I cover my face with my hands and groan.
“Not this again,” Bishop says.
I shoot him a look. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not handling the news that you’ve been stalking me as well as you’d hoped?”
He grins.
“And why are you following me? That’s pretty creepy, you know.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” he says. “I was sent by the Family. They’re a group of the most powerful witches and warlocks in existence. They govern the rest of us regular joes. Make the rules, enforce the rules, intimidate—you know, that sort of stuff.”
“Uh, okay, why?”
“Because,” he says, sitting up and wiping dirt off his palms, “witches come into their powers on their two hundredth full moon. And since you have witches in your family, there’s a chance that you could be one too. Can’t have some newbie coming into her powers and accidentally blowing our cover not knowing what’s going on. And then there’s the more important issue of my taking the Bible back to headquarters.”
Witches in my family? I rub the slow throb starting in my temples. “So let’s pretend I don’t think you’re crazy. What ‘moon’ am I at now?”
“One ninety-nine,” he says, matter-of-factly.
I shake my head. “So you’re telling me that on the next full moon, I’m going to turn into a witch.”
“Yes.” He nods solemnly. “You’ll grow a hooknose with a hairy mole at the end, and your hair will turn gray and frizzy—or more frizzy, rather—and your back will grow a hump any camel would envy, and—”
“Be serious for once.”
He laughs. “You won’t turn into anything. You’ll just have access to powers you didn’t before.”
“On the next full moon.”
“On the next full moon. Maybe.”
I look up into the sky, where the moon floats against the star-studded canvas of night. I can’t believe I was ever disloyal enough to Mom to worry, even secretly, that Bianca was right about her. That she was crazy. But the fact that she officially isn’t, that witches exist and the Bible really is a centuries-old relic, is the one glimmer of light in all this darkness. “So my mom’s a witch too? I mean, she’s been saying that since I was a baby, but she’s a real witch?”
He shakes his head, then picks up a handful of stones and starts throwing them over the rock ledge. They land with a distant plink that reminds me of just how high up we are.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “How can I be a witch but not my mom?”
“Maybe a witch,” he corrects, “and your mom just got unlucky in the gene department.”
“Hey! Don’t talk about her like that.”
“I wasn’t being rude,” he says. “The gene for witches and warlocks is recessive.”
I stare at him. This sounds vaguely familiar. We covered genetics in Mrs. Crawley’s biology class last year.
“Oh, come on, Third-Highest GPA. Every witch and warlock has two copies of the gene for magic: one inherited from the mother and one from the father. Each copy can be either dominant or recessive. You need two recessive genes to be a witch. Your grandmother was a witch, so we know she carried two recessive genes. Your grandfather was human but a carrier of the recessive gene. So your mom had a fifty percent chance, at best, of becoming a witch.”
My grandma was a witch. What else don’t I know about my own family? Is Aunt Penny a witch too? I almost laugh at the thought. Aunt Penny’s made it abundantly clear what she thinks about witchcraft. Besides, if she were a witch, surely she would make life a little easier on herself. Erase a few bills. Conjure a few outfits. A mansion to live in instead of a puny one-bedroom apartment shared with three other girls.
“So what are my chances?” I ask.
“Depends,” he answers. “The Family hasn’t told me much about your dad. Just that he …” Bishop trails off and scratches his nose.
“Left,” I finish for him. “Don’t worry. I’m not all touchy about that, but it’s cute you thought I’d be.”
He shrugs. “Well, you know …”
“So, I have a zero to fifty percent chance is what you’re telling me?”
Bishop nods. “Wow, I’m impressed.”
I guess I retained more from biology that I thought. “So what is this Priory you mentioned? And what’s all this got to do with Mom’s book?”
“Ah, now we’re getting to the good stuff.” Bishop crosses his legs, as if preparing for a long story. “Where the Family is the governing body for witches, the Priory is the governing body for sorcerers. And like most powerful parties, they absolutely hate each other and always have. It only got—”
“Wait,” I say, holding up a finger. “What’s the difference between witches and sorcerers?”
“Essentially,” he says, “not much. Both can perform magic—some the same, some different. Sorcerers can’t fly, for example. But witches have to learn their magic, where with sorcerers it’s just this innate thing.”
“So then why do they hate each other?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Who knows?” Perhaps sensing I think his answer is totally lame, he asks, “You want to hear my theory?”
I nod.
“They’re jealous.”
I cock an eyebrow.
“Seriously. They’re envious of what we’re capable of. They want all the power for themselves.”
I consider this.
“Anyway,” he says, “that’s all beside the point. This hatred between the Family and the Priory only got worse after a witch killed one of the Priory leaders way back when for who knows what reason. The Priory retaliated by trying to kill every witch on the planet.”
A cold feeling hollows out my stomach. They killed witches? And I might be a witch? If he didn’t have my attention before with all the flying stuff, he definitely has it now. I scoot forward.
“They did a pretty good job too. Thousands and thousands of witches died. After a while, some inventive witch cast this spell—the most powerful spell in history—whereby any sorcerer who kills a witch is instantly drained of power. They can’t perform magic or read minds or … anything, really. They’re just regular humans A pretty good deterrent for a bunch of greedy-ass, power-hungry bastards. So this worked well for a while—I mean, yeah, there was still hatred and infighting and the usual political stuff, but at least no one was killed.” He pauses, twirling the ring on his finger. I lean forward in anticipation. “Until The Witch Hunter’s Bible. Some sorcerer figured out a ritual to get around the witch’s protection spell so that a sorcerer could kill a witch and keep his powers intact. A complicated ritual, but he laid it all out in the Bible. Witch genocide ensued, yada yada yada, until finally, a witch got her hands on the Bible. She tried to burn it, but lo and behold, it can’t be destroyed. Some kind of protection spell. So since then it’s been hidden here, there, and everywhere, never staying in one place for much longer than a few decades or so, and never, ever at the house of anyone important because it’d be too obvious. Lately it’s been hanging out at your place.”
I scowl at him.
He ignores me and continues. “But somewhere along my travels I noticed I was being followed. I could never get close enough to the shop to get the Bible because every time I did—bam!—Frederick and Leo were there, with some newbie sorcerer in tow. Finally I got sick of it and confronted them, and, uh, it didn’t end well. This led to that, and I guess they got the Bible.”
“But why were they following you?” I ask.
“They’ve been tailing any witch sent on a Family mission. I guess it worked out for them this time, because I led them right to the Bible.”