“Well, there it is.” Mom draws the blinds all the way up so I can see the fat yellow moon sitting high against the black sky.
“Yep. There it is.” I slap my hands on my thighs.
“Feel any different?” Paige asks.
I do a little inventory of myself. Ten fingers? Check. Ten toes? Check. Absolutely ridiculous Afro of curls? Check. “Nope. Everything’s just as I left it.”
“Think you should try some magic or something?” Paige asks.
I laugh. “Like what? I don’t know any spells.”
She shrugs. “Maybe try to fly, like Bishop.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know how to—”
“Well, that’s because you haven’t tried,” Mom interrupts.
I let Mom drag me off the desk to the center of the room. She backs up, and now both she and Paige look at me as if enough staring will lift me right off the ground.
“Try,” Paige urges.
I couldn’t feel sillier if I were wearing a clown costume, but I do as I’m told and widen my stance, closing my eyes and reaching around inside for whatever magic I might have. After a couple of seconds have passed, I blink one eye open to check on my progress, only to find that my feet are still firmly planted on the floor.
“You’re not trying,” Paige whines, fingers twined together in front of her.
“Yes I am!”
“Say something,” Mom urges. She’s pressed against Paige, mirroring her anxious pose.
“Like what?”
“Like a spell or something.”
I raise my eyebrows. “News flash: I don’t know any spells.”
“Well, what happened to Bishop showing you the ropes?” Mom asks.
“That’s if I become a witch, Mom.” I close my eyes so she won’t see I’m lying. “No reason to come by if I’m not, which is obviously the case.”
“Just try!” Paige and Mom cry together.
I sigh. “Okay, okay.” I take slow, measured breaths through my nose and concentrate on making my body listen. I’m weightless, I’m lifting from the ground, I’m flying.
“Fly!” I say, and feel endlessly stupid for it. But from the sounds of their clapping, Mom and Paige seemed pleased with my efforts, so I go on. “Fly, fly, fly!”
I crack one eye open. Still nothing. I close my eyes again. “Oh, God of, uh, the earth”—I lift my palms up—“please, pretty please, can I fly?”
I open my eyes and—yep, not flying. An emotion bearing an uncanny resemblance to disappointment mixed with embarrassment falls over me.
“Forget it.” I let my arms drop to my sides. “I’m clearly not a witch.”
“You don’t know that,” Paige says, but she doesn’t sound very convincing. “Maybe you just need to learn some spells or something.”
“Oh, sweet pea …” Mom strides up to me and wraps an arm around my deflated shoulders.
“Hello?” I say. “What’s with everyone? Remember the news? I’m not going to die at the hands of evil sorcerers. This is a good thing.”
Mom hugs me tighter. Damn it, why does she always see through me?
“You’re right,” Mom says. “Any other time I’d say being a witch is a blessing, but right now it would be too dangerous. We’re all glad you’re safe.”
“Good,” I say, a little too quickly. “Now I need to shower for school tomorrow.”
They exchange a knowing glance before Paige blows out her candles. “Yeah, I guess I should start my English paper.”
Mom pats my back. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
I wait until after their footsteps have retreated down the stairs and the front door clicks shut before I escape into the bathroom to begin my usual nighttime hair ritual—wash, condition, attempt to pass a comb through the poodle growing on my head, consider chopping it all off, then eventually wrestle the last knot out,and reconsider the drastic haircut—and though it feels strange to be doing something so normal after such a bizarre couple of days, it also feels kind of good. Like tonight is the start of my new life.
Mom must be feeling really bad for me, because I’m in the bathroom for what feels like forever and she doesn’t knock on the door twenty times to ask when I’m coming out or to remind me that it’s late and it’s a school night.
I wrap a towel around my midsection and open the door, releasing a wave of steam.
“Done!” I yell down to Mom.
She doesn’t answer.
I shrug and cross the hall to my bedroom, flicking on the light.
Weird—my window is open. A breeze flutters the curtains and makes goose bumps rise on my bare skin. Looks like I’m going to have to have another “my room is my business” conversation with Mom, I think as I pad across the soft carpet.
I muscle the old window down, and my breath catches in my throat. A man is reflected in the glass.
16
I whirl around, gripping the towel tight over my chest. “Who are you?”
The man smiles, but with his row of crooked teeth, it looks anything but friendly. “I’ve been called Mr. Wolf.” He takes three big steps forward, so that I’m backed against the window, and extends a hand. “But I also go by the name of Frederick.”
“Stop right there or I’ll scream!”
He laughs. “Relax, Indigo.”
I could stand naked in the middle of Melrose Avenue on a Saturday afternoon and not feel more exposed than I do right now in this thin towel. “Wh-who are you and how do you know my name?”
“And why am I in your room?” His eyebrow arches.
I brace my arms tighter over my chest to secure the towel.
Frederick grins. “Don’t worry, you’re not my type.”
He strides in the other direction, so I see the gray ponytail that falls down the back of his black suit jacket. My mouth has gone dry, and I can hardly think past the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
“Now, let’s talk about what you’ve done.” Frederick turns, regarding me with slanted blue eyes.
I wet my papery lips. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He stops in front of a corkboard covered with photos, cards, and every other item of junk I can never think of where to put, and leans in to inspect something. “Twilight?” he asks, full of disgust as he fingers old theater stubs.
I look at my open bedroom door. If I make a run for it, I can probably get out before he’s even—the door slams shut, and I gasp. He hasn’t moved an inch, and the door closed. The door closed on its own.
“You—you’re Frederick, from the Priory,” I stammer.
“And now that we’ve established the basics,” Frederick says without turning, “why don’t you tell me what you know. This can very simple, Indigo. You’ve put a spell on the Bible”—he runs his finger over a photo of Mom and me from the year I had my birthday at American Girl, before violently ripping it out from under the tack that holds it in place—“that prevents it from being opened.”
I swallow what feels like a whole fist in my throat. “You obviously don’t know what you’re talking about, because I’m not a witch, and I don’t know any spells.”
“really?” Frederick says. “Then tell me how a spell came to protect the Bible that is in your possession? It wasn’t your mother. It wasn’t your aunt. So who was it, then? The family cat?”
I race through my brain for an answer to his question. “My grandma! It must have been my grandma. She was a witch.”
He shakes his head. “This spell is new, Indigo, within the last few years. Strong and unbreakable. You know, this was so much easier when I could just pluck what I needed right out of your head.”