“Whatever danger there is, it’s bigger than the two of you.

“It’s got more hate than you two have love.” Angelique looked at me with sad eyes. “Brendan would do anything for you. He has done anything for you. More of his energy should be reflected in the crystals. Something this dark, it has to have some kind of magical force behind it.”

“So what do I do now?” I felt the panic rising in my chest.

Angelique took a deep breath.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Shultz’s…has the potential to do for witches what Stephenie Meyer did for vampires”

—Pink Is The New Blog

“Spellbound captivated me from beginning to end!”

—Rachel Hawkins, author of the Hex Hall series

“My kind of enchanted read. Perfection: a spunky Buffy-licious witch, a good dose of mayhem,

AND BRENDAN!”

—Nancy Holder

LOOK OUT FOR…

SPELLBOUND

Available now from Cara Lynn Schultz

www.miraink.co.uk

Spellcaster

Cara Lynn Shultz

To Mom.

Thank you for all your support, strength

and love through the years.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Playlist

Prologue

You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you. And you and I have a common enemy. How do you feel about getting a little revenge on Brendan Salinger and Emma Connor? You’re just the person to help me hit them where it hurts…

It had been only two months since I sent that email, and now, with our plan about to go into action, I couldn’t believe I’d almost abandoned my idea and deleted the message. I didn’t think anyone even remotely connected to Vincent Academy would want to associate with me. But I took a shot, and I did hit Send.

And now everything I could ever want was at my fingertips.

I hung back, following Brendan and Emma as they walked to the Eighty-sixth Street 6 train stop, passing an ice cream cone back and forth between them. Sharing an ice cream, really? What was next, holding hands and skipping through a field of daisies? Sliding down a rainbow? These two were idiots. I guess that’s what true love will do to you—turn you into a fool.

Revenge was the bait I used to lure in my partner-in-crime, who relished the idea of terrorizing Emma. And watching her, blissfully happy, I could understand the hatred. Why is she so damn special? Here she is, basking in the throes of true love, not a care in the world. When Brendan looked down at her with this nauseatingly happy smile, I had an overwhelming desire to snap her neck.

I really didn’t believe that old stupid legend was legit until I saw these two idiots in action—this was really true love. And this was going to be so…satisfying…to destroy. Oh, you have no idea, you weak little girl. You have no idea how I’m going to torment you, bit by bit. I hope you’re enjoying your time with your precious boyfriend, Emma. Because you’re going to run from New York. You’re going to be terrified. You’re going to be screaming—and Brendan won’t be around to save you.

Because tomorrow everything changes.

And then, I’ll be unstoppable.

Chapter 1

“They’re not looking at you. Those girls haven’t noticed you, Emma. You’re stealthy like a ninja. They’re not looking at you.” I repeated the mantra in my head as I pretended to study the beverage selection in the glass case before me, but a quick glance to the left told me I was lying to myself.

There, three girls in private-school uniforms similar to my own black, navy and green plaid one, were alternately staring at me and whispering to each other. I grabbed some iced tea out of the case and hurried to the cashier before they could say anything.

“It’s fine, Emma. They’re not going to say anything,” I silently promised myself, nervously tapping the sole of my Mary Janes against a rack of candy as I waited in line. You really need to stop lying to yourself, Emma. They’re so going to say something to you.

“Hey, are you, um… I’m not sure how to ask this,” the tallest girl, with black hair extensions that seemed as long as her legs, asked as she scrutinized my face. I wished I were wearing sunglasses. And a hat. And a ski mask.

I sighed, having been through this before. Yes, I’m Emma Connor. I’m the one whose boyfriend, Brendan, risked his life to save me in an epic battle with psychopathic classmate Anthony in Central Park after the winter dance. But what you don’t know is I used some of my secret magical powers to save us and you’re totally making me late for my spell classes with my friend Angelique. She’s a witch like me. That about cover it?

Okay, maybe I’d leave that last part out. Even I couldn’t believe it, and I’d lived it. And I really didn’t want to rehash the details of that night with some snooping schoolgirls.

“What she means is,” interrupted the shortest girl, who shot Extensions Queen a nasty look as she toyed with the glittering platinum-and-diamond pendant around her throat, “are you that Emily person? The one from Vincent Academy that was in that big fight a while back?”

I opened my mouth to correct them—a few papers had gotten my name wrong—but then a brilliant idea came to me. Lie. Of course. Why don’t I just lie?

“You know, I get that a lot.” I laughed casually, darting a quick glance out of the street-facing windows. Brendan was out of sight, talking to a basketball teammate on his phone around the corner. Liam had called him with some kind of crisis, forcing Brendan to wait outside while I grabbed a drink—ice cream made me thirsty. “I think it’s just that we both have long dark hair.”

“But you know her, right?” Shorty pressed. “I mean, you go to the same school.”

I was about to lie again, but then I remembered that Brendan had lent me his basketball team sweatshirt, since it was chilly out—and it bore the blue-and-gray Vincent Academy insignia.

“I’ve seen her in the halls and stuff.” I shrugged, feigning indifference. “I don’t know her-know her.” And then a flash of inspiration came to me.

“But I’ve heard she’s cool,” I said. I briefly considered constructing some elaborate story about “Emily” saving orphans and nuns and kittens and maybe even a baby panda bear from a burning building. Instead I went with, “She’s supposed to be really nice.”

“She’d have to be.” Shorty—clearly the ringleader of this little trio—sniffed in a knowing tone before leaning in to me conspiratorially. “That’s how I knew you weren’t her. I saw the pic the Post ran. You’re, like, way prettier than that Emily person. Not like that’s saying a whole lot.”

I grimaced internally as Shorty threw her head back and laughed at her own joke, her dirty blond curls bouncing with every cackle. A few papers had run our photos along with the story—the pics from our school IDs. The horrible, slack-jawed photo made me look like a zombie who just staggered out of a George Romero movie. Brendan, of course, looked like he casually sauntered out of some carefully cast reality show about high school rock stars. And I looked like I wanted to eat his brains. Fantastic.

“She’s so much cuter in person,” I muttered.

“She’d have to be!” Shorty snickered and leaned closer again with a confidential whisper, as if we were best friends, all of a sudden. “I mean, that guy Brendan is hot as hell. He hooked up with my friend at a party last summer. That Emily girl was nothing special.”

The trio laughed as I bit back a snort. Nothing special? How many newbie witches have you met in bodegas, Shorty?

“Yeah, I guess.” I excused myself as gracefully as I could, the girls’ gushing about Brendan’s finer qualities mercifully silenced as the sticker-covered door to the bodega slammed shut behind me.

I took a swig of my iced tea, checking my reflection in the store window—I know someone who thinks you’re special—before rounding the corner to meet him, more irritated at the reminder of Brendan’s past conquests than anything.

My little storm cloud of anger dissipated as soon as I saw him leaning against the rough brick building behind him. He had just gotten a haircut, but I only knew this because he’d told me. His thick black locks were as unruly as ever, hanging into his piercing green eyes.

“There’s my girl,” he said, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a sly, sexy smirk. Even though there was a slight chill in the March air, thanks to a forecasted rainstorm, Brendan kept his black wool jacket hanging open, the school uniform’s white button-down shirt concealing all the goodies that were underneath. I flicked his black tie away impatiently and rested my hands on the line of white buttons, trying not to think about how much more I liked this shirt when it was crumpled up in the corner of his bedroom two weeks ago. I couldn’t help it: Brendan was abs-olutely pec-tacular, horrible puns intended and very accurate.

“Everything okay with Liam?” I asked, and Brendan nodded, an amused smile breaking out across his face.

“So you know how he got into a fight during last night’s game?” I nodded as Brendan chuckled at the memory of how he and another player, Frank, had to hold Liam back from a mouthy player from Xavier High School. “Well, it was just some overheated shoving match, but little ol’ Liam’s freaking out. He thinks Coach Dunn’s going to kick him off the team or suspend him or something.”

“Do you really think he could get kicked off for that?” Liam was one of the few sophomores on the team, but he was still pretty impressive on the court.

“Nah, he’ll be fine.” Brendan shook his head dismissively. “Maybe he’ll get benched for a game, that’s it. He’s just worried ’cause he’s pretty new to the team. I mean, I got into a full-blown fistfight this year and I’m still on the team.”

Brendan paused, then added smugly, “That was before you moved here. I knocked the guy out with one punch, you know.”

I smiled indulgently. “Yes, I heard all about it, Braggy McBraggerson.”

“Hey, that guy tripped me and then took a swing at me! I was merely acting in my own defense.” Brendan pretended to be offended, holding his palms out innocently. “Liam will be fine—besides, it wasn’t his fault. So after I told him to stop acting like a whiny little girl, I told him what to say to Coach Dunn, and to go right ahead and use me as an example. After all, Dunn only suspended me. It’ll work out—if not, I’ll go to Dunn myself and threaten to quit or something.”

“You would do that for him?” My jaw dropped. Brendan was definitely one of the best players on the team—and he absolutely adored playing. It was one of the only things he liked about our school. As wealthy as his own family was, Brendan disregarded most students at Vince A, considering them all to be arrogant social-climbing snobs. And for the most part they were.

“It won’t come to that, but why not? He’s a good kid.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

I couldn’t help it, a big goofy smile spread across my face at the kind way he’d taken the sophomore under his wing. “Aw, look at you,” I murmured, tugging on his black tie. “You’re so cute.”

“Ugh, come on, Em. Don’t call me cute!” Brendan wrinkled his nose up, saying the word as if it pained him to pronounce it. “You say it the same way you talk about baby otters and those kitten videos you like. Guys don’t like to be called cute.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, you’re so awesome and can bench-press a bus and do a billion push-ups,” I drawled. “You’re not cute or sweet at all. Better?”

“So much better.” He chuckled, and I continued teasing him.

“You’re the original badass. You can roundhouse kick a quarter and get five nickels.” I held my fists up in the pose I’d learned from my kickboxing class, which I’d started taking after I healed from the winter dance, and pretended to kick Brendan.

“Oh, check it out, the mini-ninja has jokes,” he teased, blocking my weak, halfhearted kick with his forearm. “Are you done making fun of me yet?”

“No, but I’ll be nice and let you continue your story where you’re not at all cute or sweet about Liam. The horror!” I stood back upright, grinning as Brendan gently tugged on the cowlick in my bangs.

“You’re too much,” he said, shaking his head at me and smiling. “And so what if I’m friends with Liam? He’s a good kid.” Brendan tilted his head, giving me one of his signature flirty smiles. “You know, you really should stop making fun of me, because it’s all your fault, anyway.”

“What’s my fault?”

“Me, actually liking people at Vince A.”

“What a tragedy,” I deadpanned.

“Oh, it is,” Brendan insisted, his eyes open in mock horror. “I’m losing my cred. Next I’ll be voted prom king.” He shuddered at the thought and I laughed at the mental image. If that crown was placed on his unruly dark head, the heavens would open up and he’d get trampled by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“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.

“Anyway, I had one friend that I could do spells with and talk to about the supernatural, and that didn’t end so well.”

“What do you mean?”

Angelique fidgeted uncomfortably. “She was always a little—how can I put this?—dark. But then, some guy she liked totally used her. We got into a fight because I refused to help her do a love spell on him. She ended up transferring out after freshman year.” She paused, giving me a tight-lipped, grim smile. “It really, really just sucked losing someone I could relate to—over some lame guy, of all things.”

“Who’s the guy? From Vince A?” Not that I was surprised. You’d think they put pheromones in the water fountains, the hump-tastic way people carried on at that place.

“Not important. Besides, he’s pretty much gone,” Angelique said dismissively. “Anyway, I really don’t want to lose you, too—to something worse than some guy. And bonus points, you’re not already a little unbalanced like she was. So let’s just make sure you’re safe.”

“Aw, Angelique…” I began, but she returned to her brisk, businesslike demeanor, grabbing the dress from me and returning to her place on the floor.

“Do you care if I rip a piece off the dress?” she asked. As I was about to give her permission—the thing looked like it’d been through a blender, anyway—she ripped the satin liner from underneath the dress, laying it on the already destroyed throw rug and motioned for me to join her on the floor.

As I sat down, she busied herself, pulling out some candles and a small, round marble canister from her desk drawer.

“What we’re going to do is find out if you’re in any kind of danger, or if there’s anything you need to be watching out for. Some of the stories I’ve read in the book, well, let’s just say that true love is something extremely powerful. Not just for you and Brendan—”

“You don’t have to roll your eyes every time you say his name,” I interrupted her. Angelique gave me a crabby look.

“You and Brendan—” she opened her blue-gray eyes really wide in exaggeration “—could be targets if someone wanted to hurt you, or steal your mystical energy for personal gain. Maybe that’s why I’m freaking. I just can’t help but think that this doom-and-gloom feeling I’m having has to do with you. I mean, I meet you, I start becoming empath-y emo girl. And you’re the only person I know who had a necklace that marked you as someone’s doomed true love. I mean, there’s a lot of mystical flotsam and jetsam around you.”

Reflexively my hands flew up to my neck, where a silver medallion used to sit. My brother, Ethan, had bought it at a garage sale, telling me it seemed like something I’d like. He had been right: I absolutely loved it—it was etched with a medieval crest, and I’d worn it every day, having no idea that it was a magical charm, finding me in all my past lives to identify me as Archer’s reincarnated soul mate. It was lost in the fight with Anthony, disappearing somewhere in the bushes near Belvedere Castle in Central Park. I liked to think it just poofed away, vanishing into thin air. The thing was magical, after all.

“Good point,” I conceded. “Did your senses feel heightened with that ex-friend of yours?”

“At first,” Angelique admitted. “But she got really dark, and we just weren’t on the same wavelength anymore. Regardless, it was never as strong as it’s been with you.”

“Well, maybe what you’re sensing has nothing to do with me,” I said hopefully. “Maybe your neighbors are into something freaky.”

“Oh, they are. I’ve heard them some nights.” She shuddered, a disgusted look on her face. “And that really sucks as an empath, by that way. So let’s hope it’s them.” Angelique crossed her fingers and shook them at me before lighting some rosemary incense—her go-to herb to help her focus. She opened a glass vial and let a few small droplets fall into a marble canister.

“What is that?” I asked, sniffing the fragrant air. “Not the rosemary—but that other thing?”

“Just some lavender to help you calm down and focus,” she said, rolling the canister between her fingers before placing it in my hand.

“These are blessed salt crystals. If you’re in any danger, these will show it.”

“Where do you get this stuff from, anyway?” I pictured her knocking on an unmarked door in some secret back alley. None of the witchcraft shops we’d been to stocked anything this cool—they mostly sold candles and overpriced tarot cards.

“Mostly I just buy online,” she said. Of course. Maybe a troll delivers it… .

Angelique held her hand, palm down, over the swatch of shimmery black fabric. I did the same.

“Em, repeat after me,” she instructed, her eyes closed.

“Goddess, we seek your direction

for your daughter who needs protection

If danger lurks, show us

sumn in periculo”

I kept my eyes shut and repeated the lines as I clutched the smooth marble jar, not quite sure what the crystals would do. Would they form the shape of Anthony’s face, meaning he was coming for me? Would they burst into flames? Would they fly in my eyes, blinding me? Even with my disinterest in Latin, I could figure out what that last line meant: Am I in danger?

“Now sprinkle the crystals on the satin. And focus,” Angelique told me.

I touched my hand to the black fabric, remembering how happy I had been when I first put on that dress. How Brendan held my hand and sweetly kissed the scar on my arm, making me feel beautiful. Then I visibly flinched when I thought about how the night turned out—how Anthony chased me through Central Park. How Brendan and Anthony tangled in a brutal, bare-knuckled brawl on Belvedere Castle’s cliff. How Brendan pushed me out of the way when Anthony came barreling for me. How Brendan barely survived, holding on to the rocks while Anthony plummeted into the murky green water of Turtle Pond.

With a deep breath, I slowly poured out the sandlike crystals. It hit the satin with a soft metallic sound.

I opened my eyes and forced them to peer down at the pile of crystals—and my face broke out in a relieved smile.

“Oh, the crystals didn’t do anything,” I exclaimed, staring happily down at the glistening black salt piled on the frayed satin.

I poked the grains with my finger, making an indentation in the pyramid-shaped pile. It felt exactly like digging in sand.

“Well, that was a big nothing,” I breathed, looking up at Angelique.

And then my smile faded.

Angelique stared down at the crystals, her pale skin even paler. Then her eyes met mine.

“Emma, that’s bad,” she whispered hoarsely. “Very, very bad.”

“Very bad,” I repeated woodenly, taking a deep breath. “Can you define very bad, please? How bad?”

“You’re in danger,” Angelique said, her normally level voice raising a pitch. “A world of danger.”

I dropped the marble canister from my hands, and it hit the floor with a dull clacking sound.

“I don’t get it,” I said numbly. “They’re just black crystals. They didn’t burst into flames, or fly across the room… .”

“It’s salt. It starts out a clear, whitish color. You know, like salt?” Angelique’s voice rose even higher as she stared at the coal-colored pile. “The color reflects the energy being directed at you. White or green would be good, signs of pure energy. Red would be love and passion.”

Angelique poked her finger in the crystals as I had, only she smoothed them across the fabric. She squinted, peering at the grains. She pressed her finger into the black crystals and lifted one red grain, embedded in her skin. It looked like a drop of blood.

“One crystal for love?” I croaked hoarsely.

“One. Just one for the soul mates who have been ripped apart and reunited over centuries. Just one for two people—the only two out of a thousand years and who knows how many reincarnations—who could overcome the curse because Brendan loves you enough to sacrifice himself for you.” Her voice was almost monotone as she rubbed her fingers together, letting the one red crystal fall into the pile of black sand, where it disappeared. I felt an almost irrational desire to find that one crystal and keep it safe.

She smoothed the glittering pile across the black fabric. “Brendan is your soul mate. He’s head-over-heels in love with you.” Angelique’s voice became increasingly frantic as she continued talking, fanning the black crystals across the satin, where they blended in against the inky fabric.

“You know he’s not my favorite person in the world, and he annoys the hell out of me. But as much as I would love for us to be single together and you to postpone the whole soul mate thing until college, I have to admit, that guy would do anything for you,” she said bluntly, raising her eyes to meet mine. “He has done anything for you. More of his energy should have been reflected here. Especially since you were just with him. Hell, you’ve still got smudged lip crap on your chin from sucking face all afternoon! There should be more red crystals. There should be more of something. Anything!”

“What does it mean that there isn’t any?” I asked, my voice coming out very small.

“Whatever danger there is, it’s bigger than the two of you,” she said, looking at me with sad eyes. “It’s got more hate than you two have love.”

“Is there any chance we did the spell wrong?” I asked, grasping at straws as my voice shook. But Angelique just slowly shook her head, looking at me with mournful eyes.

“So what do I do now?” I felt the panic rising in my chest.

Angelique took a deep breath.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

Chapter 2

“Emma dear, is something wrong? You’re being awfully quiet tonight.”

I looked up from my barely eaten plate of take-out eggplant rollatini to see my aunt Christine frowning at me with a concerned look on her face.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,” I fibbed, shoveling a big bite of mozzarella and eggplant into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to talk. “I’m just tired.” Tired of feeling like I’ve got the Sword of Damocles dangling over my head.

I peered up cautiously. Given the turn my life had taken, I half expected to see the mythical sword hanging over my aunt’s kitchen table, right next to her Waterford chandelier.

“Is everything going well at school?” Aunt Christine asked, expertly twirling a forkful of spaghetti with garlic and oil.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. The teachers are just really slamming us with homework before spring break,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant as I reached for a piece of garlic bread. Maybe if I stuffed my face she’d buy it. I hated lying to Aunt Christine, but there was no way I could explain that I’d just performed a spell that said I was in terrible danger. Again. Aunt Christine didn’t know about the magical side of my life—she just thought Brendan and I were a little (okay, a lot) too serious for our age.

“Dear, if that part-time job at the library is too much to handle—”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,” I interrupted, nearly spitting out garlicky bread crumbs. I wiped my mouth hurriedly and swallowed loudly. Jeez, Emma, eat like a grizzly bear much? I wiped my mouth a little more daintily and took a drink of water.

“Seriously, all I do is put away books, make sure the computers are turned off. Most of the time I’m just in there alone doing homework, listening to my iPod.”

I couldn’t give up that job. I’d lost my mom, lost my twin brother and was left with nothing but my boozed-up stepfather, until my godmother, Aunt Christine, had taken me in last summer after Henry nearly killed me with his DUI driving skills—the accident that left me with a pretty nasty scar on my arm. Christine paid for my tuition at the insanely expensive private school, offered—insisted, actually—to pay for college and didn’t ask for a thing in return. Aunt Christine had rescued me, and claimed my happiness was reward enough. I already felt guilty about how much she’d done for me, and I only felt worse when I sheepishly asked for spending money. The afterschool job at Vince A’s library was the one thing I got right—at least I didn’t need to pester Christine for spare change.

I dug back into my eggplant, winding a long string of mozzarella around Aunt Christine’s Christofle fork, hoping that was the end of the conversation.

It wasn’t.

“Emma, dear,” my aunt began, taking off her tortoiseshell-framed eyeglasses and setting them down on the pink-flowered tablecloth—a sure sign that she was about to get serious. “Are things going well with you and your beau? Or are your classmates giving you a hard time again?”

I squirmed underneath Aunt Christine’s intense gaze. Sometimes I think her background in New York theater is a ruse, and she really used to work for the CIA, interrogating prisoners. Her gentle cross-examinations are more effective than water-boarding.

“Yes, Brendan’s fine. Better than fine, actually,” I said honestly. Well, that was the truth. “He’s great. I’ve just got a lot of homework and projects and stuff. Otherwise, school is great.” That part was a big, fat lie. Vince A’s hallways were riddled with so many social land mines it was impossible to make it through the day without a few blowing up in your face.

Still, I smiled winningly, and it seemed to satisfy Christine.

“Well, dear, the weather should be getting nice soon, so you should be able to go jogging again. I know how much you like that. Maybe that will help with some of the stress.”

I nodded in agreement. Kickboxing was fun, but you were always surrounded by so many people. There was something about being alone, with your headphones, just working through your thoughts. And I hadn’t exactly been able to go running with ice on the ground. I’d seen some fanatics jogging through the streets in the snow, and had no idea how they managed to keep from slipping all over the place. But then a darker thought crept into my head—there was some kind of unseen danger lurking out there. Suddenly jogging alone in the park seemed like a very stupid thing for me to do. I kept my smile frozen on my face as my aunt continued talking.

“Don’t stay up too late studying,” she said, polishing off the rest of her spaghetti. “You’re going to be traipsing all over the Cloisters tomorrow, so you’ll want to be awake.”

I smiled and nodded, and went back to picking at my eggplant while Christine got up and walked over to the counter to make a martini—her nightly ritual in honor of her late husband, George. Flamboyant and more than a little dramatic, my theater veteran aunt and uncle used to toast each other every night. After his death, Christine continued that ritual, making two martinis and drinking just the one. (Except on Saturday, when she drank both.) I watched her make the martinis—a ritual I always used to think was sweet—and it now struck me as overbearingly sad. Aunt Christine had lost Uncle George. I had lost my mom and my twin brother within a year of each other. And who knew where the hell my father had gone after he abandoned us when Ethan and I were just kids. My family didn’t have an excellent track record of holding on to the ones we loved. Brendan and I may have broken the original curse, but that didn’t mean we still weren’t doomed. Christine had lost her soul mate, no curse required. What could this dark spell herald for us?

I felt a pang of guilt when I thought of Brendan—I’d texted him that I’d made it home, but used the old homework-and-dinner-with-my-aunt excuse to get out of a phone call. I knew if I called him, I’d tell him about the spell, and I’d end up freaking out…and he’d sneak out later to see me. Like that would go over well with Laura Salinger. Or my aunt, come to think of it.

After clearing the table, I joined Christine on her pink floral couch for the first twenty minutes of the news. But I couldn’t listen to reports on New York’s budget, or the best viewing spots for the upcoming lunar eclipse, or the lighter-side-of-the-news story on the city’s best food trucks. I could feel the stress of the day weighing on me; I excused myself with the same homework line I’d used earlier. I’d barely shut the door to my bedroom when I felt the tears start. I slammed my iPod into its little docking station, turning it on loudly to block out the sounds of my crying and threw myself on my bed, my sobs muffled by my thick purple comforter.

Normally I was the world champion of stuffing my feelings deep down—purely out of survival instinct. I probably would have just curled up into a ball and let the world wash over me if I didn’t find some way to cope—and coping, for me, was to just not think about it. I locked everything away and soldiered on, not letting any cracks show on the surface. But this night, I was too overwhelmed. The cracks showed—Grand Canyon–size cracks—as I let myself feel everything, let the wave of emotion knock me down until I felt like I was drowning. I dwelled on how much I missed my mom, missed Ethan. I wanted my mom to hug me and kiss me on the forehead, to tuck me in with my stuffed puppy doll and tell me everything was going to be okay. I wanted my brother to text me stupid jokes until I felt better. I wanted my family—my whole family. Except my father, he could go to hell for all I cared. But still, I felt the sting of that rejection, and cried again over how hard my mom worked to be both mom and dad to us.

I drowned in every pain, razor-sharp and dull ache, all at the same time, until my chest actually hurt from crying and I was sure my fingers were going to be pruney.

I’d gotten so used to being unhappy, to just functioning, to just getting by. I’d been numb, and been okay with it, until I moved here. And now I felt stupid and ridiculously naive for basking in the untroubled happiness of the past four months. My life wasn’t perfect, but I had friends. My family—what was left of it—loved me. And I was in love. So in love.

But I felt like I would never get the chance to enjoy it.

My phone vibrated on my nightstand, and I grabbed it, finding a text from Brendan. I rubbed my tear-bleary eyes to read it.

I know you’re studying. Just want to say I love you. And you look crazy hot in my sweatshirt. Keep it.

I barked out a little half laugh, half sob at his sweetness, sniffling back my tears as I rolled onto my back. I stared up at the wall my bed was pushed against, my gaze falling on the pictures and mementos I’d taped up like a collage. A picture of my cousin Ashley and me, wearing reindeer antlers at Christmas dinner. A shot of me and Angelique, sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, from my first month at Vince A. A pressed rose from the bouquet Brendan gave me for Valentine’s Day, taped next to a photo booth strip of pictures, mugging for the camera. In the last frame, he has his arms around me, kissing me on the cheek and I’ve got the biggest, most blissed-out grin ever.

I reread his text message, and then wiped my tears on my comforter before jumping off my bed to rifle through the box of limited witch paraphernalia I’d accumulated—some from Angelique, some printouts from research I’d done online. The rest of my homework would have to wait; I had other work to do tonight. Just want to say I love you. It bounced around in my head, reminding me that I deserved to be happy—we both did.

I grabbed one of the textbooks Angelique had given me, flopping onto my bed with it. If something dark and magical was coming after me, then I definitely needed to sharpen my own magical skills.

Crying time was over. Now it was time to prep for battle, because I was not going down without a fight.

I balled up my comforter and rested my head on it as I read the chapter on focusing your emotional energy. I could memorize spells until I knew them better than my own name, but it was no good if I couldn’t focus—and that very focus was the hurdle I couldn’t get over. It was like having a car without knowing how to drive. I reread the chapter a second time, practicing the breathing exercises, which were supposed to help, as almost musical raindrops tinkled against my window, heralding the booming storm that was just a few moments away. A few hours later, I looked at the clock. Thursday had turned to Friday, and I realized that just hours ago my biggest problem was a gaggle of gossipy girls at a bodega, giving me the inquisition because my head-turner of a boyfriend famously rescued me from a psychopathic classmate.

“And that was when things were simple,” I moaned, shutting my eyes and placing the book over my head. Maybe the knowledge will come in through osmosis.

Instead the total darkness and a familiar playlist of songs lulled me into a deep, dead sleep. When I woke up, my alarm had been blaring for a half hour. I’d slept through the night (with the book on my sweaty forehead like a dumbass) but I was entirely unrested. I was crushed—although I had to crack a wry smile over the fact that I was bummed out that a horrific, prophetic nightmare hadn’t forced me to wake up screaming, as it had when meeting Brendan kicked the curse into action. But I’d had no dreams. No signs. Nothing. Whatever this was, I was going to face it alone.

When I got to the bathroom, I stared at myself in shock, before I had to laugh—some of the book’s text had transferred onto my skin. Well, that’s one way to remember how to stay focused—tattoo the instructions on your forehead. I had barely finished scrubbing the last tenacious bits of text off in the shower when I heard my cousin Ashley’s chipper voice in the living room. Ashley was a freshman, and lived close enough to pick me up so we could walk to school together. When I started school in September, Ashley was a tiny little thing—barely over five feet tall—but over the winter she’d had a growth spurt. In a few places. Her uniform skirts were suddenly just a few inches too short—and the third button on her Oxford shirt was definitely holding on for dear life as she finally grew into the family, um, inheritances—but Ashley wasn’t complaining. She was, however, likely to throw her back out, the way she seemed to stand in a permanent state of inhalation to flaunt her new toys.

“Sorry I’m running late, Ash,” I called, pulling on Brendan’s sweatshirt over my white Oxford uniform shirt. If something’s coming for you, might as well look “crazy hot” while you fight it… I fluffed out the ends of my shower-dampened hair, resolving to just let today play out like a normal day—until Angelique and I could figure out what we were dealing with.

“We should take the subway instead of walking, then,” Ashley called back as I stuffed my feet into my Mary Janes and ran into the kitchen to grab a foil-wrapped Pop-Tart package off the counter. I kissed Aunt Christine on her cheek as she sat with her mug of steaming coffee on the floral couch and we headed out the door.

I did my best to push my bleak thoughts out of my head, trying to match Ashley’s signature upbeat tone as we walked to the 6 train stop on Lexington, right outside of Hunter College. It was just a block and a half away from my aunt’s place on Sixty-eighth Street between Park and Madison. As I chewed my raw strawberry Pop-Tart, she chirped about a Battle of the Bands that was being put on by Magel High School, Vincent Academy’s “sister” school over on Sixth-fifth Street. All schools were invited—but neither Brendan nor I had been to any sort of school function since the ill-fated winter formal.

I had just brushed the crumbs from my hands when we arrived at the stop and heard the uptown train coming. We ran to the turnstiles, swiping our MetroCards as quickly as possible before racing down the musty-smelling stairs onto the platform.

Ashley and I had barely squeezed onto the jam-packed train—earning a dirty look from a businessman she accidentally whacked with her overstuffed backpack—before the doors slammed an inch from my shoulder.

“So, anyway, Em. This Battle of the Bands thing. I guess you’re not going, huh?” Ashley sulked, sticking out her bottom lip as she stuffed her MetroCard into the front pocket of her denim jacket, stumbling a little as the train started. “Me, Catharine and Vanessa are all going. There’s going to be a lot of cute guys there. Guys from other schools.” You’d think that guys from other schools rode minotaurs around the city, the way Ashley regarded them. Although given the supernatural turn my life had taken, it was quite possible they did.

“I never get to escape from the Vince A biosphere and meet a guy who isn’t from that damn place.” Ashley stuck her glossy lower lip out in a pout.

“Ash, why are you forcing it?” I asked gently, bracing myself by steadying my palm against the subway doors. “Don’t be in such a rush to get a boyfriend.” My little cousin had a tendency to dive into everything headfirst. Last year, she’d had a crush on Anthony—until he showed his true nature, spreading rumors that they’d slept together. (Thankfully Brendan had jumped in to dispel that nasty lie.) Her experience with Anthony initially made Ashley a little more cautious around guys, but since her growth spurt, she’d bounced back—and up and down—relishing the male attention.

“You got a boyfriend right away,” she pointed out, scrunching up her face in mock annoyance. “You still have the same boyfriend.”

“You weren’t the only one shocked by that.” I mimicked her tone, stepping closer to her as the train stopped at Seventy-seventh Street to make way for people exiting the train. Ashley pressed closer to me, swinging around to face the doors and accidentally whacked the businessman with her bag again.

“Ash, take your bag off,” I whispered, stifling a giggle. “You’re taking out all the commuters.” She rolled her eyes and slid the bag down between her feet, holding the strap tightly.

“You know, Em, you had a boyfriend when you were a freshman at Keansburg High, too,” Ashley reminded me after the train doors slammed shut and the subway started barreling through the tunnel again. Crap. She had me there.

“Yeah but he wasn’t a boyfriend-boyfriend. Matt and I knew each other since we were kids,” I explained about my sweet, if dippy, freshman-year boyfriend. “That was less a real relationship and more friends that made out every now and then.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” Ashley grinned, leaning against the subway doors with a dreamy look on her face. Uh-oh.

“Just don’t rush into anything, okay?”

“There’s nothing to rush into—not at Vince A, at least. Brendan’s the only good one. The guys at this school are so annoying,” she whined, coiling one of her red ringlets around her finger. “I mean, I guess there are a few cool ones, but it’s a lost cause. It’s embarrassing,” she added softly, “because they all know about the Anthony thing, and all those stupid rumors he spread about me. It would be nice to meet someone who hadn’t heard anything about me.”

I immediately felt guilty for dismissing my cousin’s interests outside Vince A as an overzealous case of the boy crazies. More than anyone, I understood what it was like to be talked about. “I completely understand,” I replied. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine, you’re probably right anyway.” She was quiet for a minute then gave me a sideways glance. “You know, you never told me what Brendan said when you asked if he had any hot cousins or friends for me.”

“It’s a dead end, Ash.” I chuckled as I remembered what he said. “I’m paraphrasing here, but the quote was something like, ‘All my friends are a bunch of pirates.’”

“Pirates?”

“Yeah. He said all his friends aren’t worth your time, they’re too shady.”

“Even the basketball team? And how would he know what’s worth my time?” she challenged, raising an eyebrow and adopting a haughty look. “I could be shady!”

Smiling at her indulgently, I shook my head. “Ashley, you’re perpetually sunny, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.” She folded her arms, pouting until the train came to a stop at Eighty-sixth Street. “Pirates. Why can’t you let me be the judge of that?”

I just raised an eyebrow at her—she’d refused to believe my insistence about Anthony’s true character at first—and Ashley relented.

“Fine.” She sulked, and was silent as we joined the crowd of people headed up the stairs to the sidewalk. After we arrived on the sidewalk—and made a quick stop in a deli so I could buy a sandwich to take on the class trip—Ashley turned to me with a glint in her eye.

“Since I clearly have no taste in guys, you two should come with us to the Battle of the Bands tomorrow night, and you can pick out a guy for me.” Ashley gave me a wide, toothy smile and nodded her head eagerly.

“Sorry, but it shouldn’t be a surprise to you that I’m going to be a no-show,” I said, and she frowned at me, fussing with the jeweled clip in her flame-colored curls.

“That’s a pretty clip,” I said, hoping to change the subject from my and Brendan’s avoidance of school functions. Ashley pulled it out of her tangle of curls and gently pushed it in my hands, nearly tripping over her own feet as she walked down the sidewalk.

“Here, you can wear it today,” she huffed as she pulled a black elastic off her wrist and pulled her hair into a messy bun. “My hair’s all frizzy and the clip won’t sit right.”

“Thanks!” I fastened it in the back of my head, putting my hair in a loose updo.

“You look good with your hair up. It’s kind of regal,” she observed, before her lips twisted in a smirk. “You can rip it down and wave your hair around in front of Brendan like a hot librarian or something.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “You watch too much porny late-night TV.”

Ashley ignored my dig. “So what are you guys going to do this weekend, then, since you two are, like, all overdramatic with the ‘Oh, no! No public appearances!’ thing.” Ashley turned her head away from me, throwing her hand across her face overdramatically.

It was my turn to ignore her dig. “No big plans, really. We’re just going to hang out. We’ve spent practically no time together lately. But Brendan’s mom left to meet his dad this morning and we have his house to ourselves.” Brendan had sworn he would cook for me; I had sworn to not snoop around for the cartons of takeout he probably planned on passing off as a home-cooked meal.

“His dad travels a lot, doesn’t he?” Ashley asked, stepping over a large puddle pooling by the crosswalk as we hurried against the light on Park Avenue, and got stuck waiting on the center island in the middle of the two-way road. I explained that Aaron Salinger was overseeing the opening of some resort in South America, and Ashley got a saucy look in her crystal-blue eyes.

“So, does Brendan get that big town house to himself a lot?”

“Well, if his mom’s not there, yes,” I said hesitantly, not quite sure what she was getting at. I hope she doesn’t want to throw a party. “But she’s always either traveling with Brendan’s dad or working on her charity stuff so it’s not like she’s there when Brendan gets home from school. He’s pretty self-sufficient—he’s going to be eighteen next month, remember?” Never mind that Laura Salinger was not the type of woman to have peanut butter crackers and apple juice waiting when her son got home from school anyway.

“So you guys get a lot of alone time, huh?” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down suggestively and I instantly got her hidden meaning.

“Looks like someone put on her pervy pants this morning,” I observed.

“Well, someone else put on her I-don’t-tell-my-cousin-juicy-details pants. And let me tell you, those pants are not a good look on you!”

She gave me a wide-eyed, so-there look, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “C’mon, I don’t have a boyfriend, so I have to live vicariously through you,” Ashley cajoled, tugging at my sweatshirt sleeve. “Give me some details! How did you get him out of this sweatshirt? What else have you gotten off him? I know you said you haven’t gone all the way yet but there’s a lot that happens in between kissing and doing it. Come onnnnnnnn!” She drew the last word out so long I thought she was going to pass out from lack of breath.

“Go watch Cinemax and stop harassing me for dirty details.”

“Come onnnnnnnn!” Ashley repeated as I smirked at her.

“I’m so not talking about this when we’re across the street from school,” I said adamantly as we waited for the Park Avenue light to change. Never mind that there wasn’t much to tell from our four-and-a-half month relationship beyond kissing and some wandering hands. My virginity was still firmly intact. I mulled this over as Ashley pouted, and felt even guiltier not telling Brendan about the spell immediately. Brendan hadn’t once tried to pressure me into anything, respecting my boundaries whenever I put a halt on anything physical—and he had so many notches in his bedpost the damn bed was in danger of falling down.

I sighed, looking up at the entrance to the school as we crossed the street—and spied something that effectively ended the conversation.

“Oh, yeah, I’m definitely not talking about this now,” I said, catching sight of Brendan from the back. He was standing near the bus, wearing an army-green military-style jacket that I didn’t recognize. I was surprised he was waiting outside so late—Ashley and I were cutting it close. I had two morning classes before we were due to leave for the Cloisters.

“Well, let me know if you guys decide to go to that Battle of the Bands thing,” Ashley said, calling out her goodbye as she raced into the ornate entrance of the school. The main building of Vincent Academy was an old mansion that had been converted into a school—and the marble entrance looked less like a high school, more like some posh old billionaire’s home.

I approached Brendan from behind, appreciating the way his black pants hung on him. I pinched his butt before throwing my arms around his waist in a big hug.

“Guess who?” I teased—but Brendan’s body just stiffened. He spun around with a confused expression on his face—which I then realized wasn’t Brendan’s face at all. It was Liam.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I, um, thought you were Brendan! I mean, obviously, I just… Oh, God. I pinched your butt,” I stammered, embarrassed, to the sophomore I had just accosted in the middle of Eighty-sixth Street. I hadn’t realized that he’d started styling his black hair to resemble Brendan’s messy, very unstyled hair. If I hadn’t been so embarrassed, I’d be collapsing at the adorableness: Brendan—aloof, hotheaded Brendan—had accidentally cultivated a little mini-me.

“Oh, my God, you just startled me,” Liam gasped, his palms up.

“You and Brendan look a lot alike from the back,” I explained, positive my cheeks were about to burst into flames.

“So you were checking out my butt?” Liam said with a smirk and I smacked his arm.

“Your hair, Liam,” I repeated dryly, and he let a nervous laugh escape.

“Hey, at least I get to tell people I got to first base before lunch,” he teased before putting his hands up again in protest. “No, I won’t! I’m kidding. Oh, my God, Brendan would murder me.” His brown eyes widened in terror.

“He probably would,” I agreed, stifling a snicker at Liam’s mini-freak-out—especially since Brendan would probably find the whole thing entertaining. Still, I couldn’t believe I’d pinched his butt. Why don’t you go feel up the black-haired barista at Starbucks next, genius?

“Don’t you usually come with your cousin?” Liam asked, looking around the street.

“She went in—we’re late,” I said, pointing to my wrist as if I had a watch on.

“Oh. Yeah, I should probably get inside,” Liam said, falling into step alongside me as we entered the building. “I have to talk to Coach during my free period this afternoon.” He grimaced.

“Brendan thinks you’ll be fine—and from what I could see, it was a big nothing,” I promised him, and Liam’s worried face relaxed a little. I had to race up the stairs to my history class, with barely enough time to pull my sweatshirt off and slide into my desk before the bell rang. It wasn’t part of the school uniform—and was a surefire ticket to detention. Although you might be safer sanding the pencil grooves in detention than strolling around Manhattan, doomsday girl.

“Cutting it close, Connor,” my friend Jenn Hynes whispered, turning around in her desk in front of me to wink at me as Mrs. Urbealis walked into the room, calling the class to attention. This would be an easy class today—we were watching old news footage of U.S. protests of the Vietnam War. I tried to focus on the grainy black-and-white telecast—sticking to my earlier vow to just treat today like a normal day—but sitting there, with time to think, the spell I’d done with Angelique began rattling around in my head. Finally I resolved to tell Brendan on the bus ride to the Cloisters instead of waiting until school was over. He had a right to know.

I had math immediately after history, so I stayed in my seat and chatted with Jenn as other students filed in. Jenn was a little bleary-eyed from staying out too late last night, and was filling me in on her weekend plans—she was going to crash with her sister at the NYU dorms. Suddenly she stopped talking and grabbed my forearm, twisting around even farther in her seat.

“Call me crazy, but why does it feel like everyone’s whispering and looking at you?” she hissed, pulling her honey-brown hair in front of her face to hide what she was saying. She might as well have cupped her hands around her mouth—she was as obvious as if she’d been doing semaphore.

“Because they usually are,” I replied, nonplussed. I didn’t even bother lowering my voice; it’s not like it was a secret.

“No, I mean—” Jenn flipped her hair back, glanced around then pulled her curtain of hair back “—it’s different this time. It’s not the usual ‘Ooh, there goes Emma, I heard Anthony was in Monaco’ or some crap. They’re really staring and whispering.”

The serious look on Jenn’s face made me pull my eyes from her (slightly bloodshot) ones. I pretended to scratch an itch on my chin, rubbing it on my shoulder as I stole a look around the classroom.

Madison Wefald and Rebecca Curry were speaking in animated, hushed tones. Nicole McAllister leaned so far over in her desk to murmur in Paul Cuevas’s ear, she was practically lying on the top of the desk, her butt sticking in the air and giving Marcus Colby a first-class ticket to Hineytown. And they were all casting furtive glances my way.

“What did you do now?” Jenn asked, her expertly made-up eyes wide. I shrugged, slinking a little lower into my desk self-consciously.

Mr. Agneta, the math teacher, strode into the room and took one look at the chattering students. He grabbed the large wooden compass, which he used to draw arcs on the blackboard, and pressed the chalk end on the board, causing it to screech uncomfortably—and the low buzz of voices stopped. Nicole flopped in her seat, and Marcus visibly frowned at the end of his free show.

“Yes, yes, so exciting. Well, math is exciting, too,” he said, and I knew I wasn’t imagining him shifting his eyes to glance my way. And I definitely didn’t imagine hearing Marcus Colby whisper, “Salinger, really?” to Nicole before bending over in his seat to check out her butt again.

My hand twitched to pull out my cell phone and text Brendan. Immediately the spell Angelique and I did assaulted my mind. What if Brendan was the target, not me? Was he hurt? Sick?

I thought about leaving the classroom to use the bathroom and text Brendan, but the expression on Mr. Agneta’s face every time he scanned the classroom and saw me craning my head to look out the door told me that wasn’t going to fly. I don’t know what I expected to see out there—it’s not like Brendan was going to be holding up a big neon sign in the hallway spelling out what happened. But it was clear that something had happened—something big. I nervously spun the Claddagh ring Brendan had given me around my finger, my stomach twisting into knots like it was trying to win a Boy Scout badge.

At the end of the class, Mr. Agneta screeched the chalk end of the compass against the blackboard again—he just loved doing that—shouting, “Just a reminder, all art history students need to report downstairs for the trip to the Cloisters.”

And then, my fears were confirmed when he looked straight at me. “That means you, too, Miss Connor. The bus leaves in fifteen.”

I grabbed Jenn’s sleeve as I pulled my backpack on.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked her, worried.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” she promised. “Drop your books off and I’ll meet you at the bus.”

I scrambled down the stairs to my basement locker—a chill coming over me as it did every time I stepped into the room where Anthony first confronted me. As a latecomer to the school, my locker was in the highly undesirable, out-of-the-way basement. After last year’s winter formal, the school had tried to find me another locker, but considering the main building was actually an old mansion, it wasn’t exactly built with a locker room in mind. There just weren’t any free ones—even in the annex. And I was not about to take over Anthony’s now-vacant locker. I was way too much of a magical novice to tackle whatever exorcism that would entail. So Brendan let me leave whatever I wanted in his fourth-floor locker, which admittedly had become jam-packed with more and more of my stuff.

I threw my books in, grabbed a spare notebook and slung my bag on my shoulders as I raced back upstairs, finding Jenn talking to our friend Cisco Fernandez in front of the bus. And for once, Cisco wasn’t smiling. And Jenn’s eyes were open so wide I could practically see inside her skull.

“Okay, Em, what have you heard so far?” Cisco asked, his dark brows knotted in worry.

“Nothing, other than overhearing Brendan’s name. What’s going on? Is he okay?” I fretted. Cisco jerked his head toward the bus.

“Let’s get on and I’ll tell you all that I know,” he said, his voice low. I followed him onto the bus, guilt eating away my insides like I’d just drank battery acid. The spell foretold something about Brendan, not you. And you didn’t warn him. Your fault. After he begged you to always tell him if something concerns you. “Just please don’t worry so much that you don’t talk to me,” he’d said. And you didn’t talk to him. Your fault.

Cisco led me and Jenn to the highly undesirable three-seater in the back of the bus, right on top of the engine. They sat on either side of me on top of the very loud, rumbling engine that would mask what we were about to talk about.

“Cisco, what is going on? Please tell me,” I implored, grabbing his hand.

“Okay, so I was in chem this morning, and I got there early because it was Brendan’s turn to do the lab report and I needed to copy it.” Cisco and Brendan were lab partners and had worked out a little schedule where they alternated doing homework. It was brilliantly sneaky and meant they each did half the work. “He gets there early, he’s his usual self—I mean, he’s fine, Emma. He’s not acting sneaky or weird about anything.”

“Sneaky? Why would he act sneaky?” I asked, confused.

“Let me finish. Mr. D walks in, class begins, the usual.” And then Cisco frowned.

“And then what?”

“About twenty minutes into class, Principal Casey comes storming in, interrupting Mr. D’s lecture, and says, ‘Brendan Salinger, come with me immediately.’” I groaned internally as Cisco mimicked our principal’s aggressive swagger. Casey, with her orange lipstick and “power suits” was about as cuddly as a rusty chainsaw.

“What did he do this time?” I asked, my thoughts running to a basketball team prank on a rival school to a saucy remark in class to countless uniform violations. All had landed Brendan in Casey’s crosshairs before.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think anything. He looked surprised, to be honest. He even pointed at himself and went, ‘Me? You sure?’ And here’s where it gets weird,” Cisco added, leaning forward, his fingers nervously curling around the base of his black tie.

“Brendan stands up to get his bag, and Casey tells him to leave it. Brendan says, ‘All my stuff is in there.’ And she sends a cop in to take his bag and they escort him out.”

I gasped, almost choking on my own breath.

“A cop? What the… Why would they even… I don’t even…” I stammered, not sure what to say.

Jenn popped her head up, checking out the students who were sitting around us. I didn’t have to look to know they were all probably gawking at us as if we were giant talking chickens. I was suddenly glad for the loud engine, even if it did reek of diesel fuel. “They would only have cops there if they thought Brendan did something illegal.” She paused. “Did he?”

“Like what?” I asked. Apart from some minor trespassing and graffiti offenses, and a few fistfights, Brendan wasn’t really bad. Okay, maybe he is a little bad.

“Let me finish,” Cisco continued, running his hands through his dark brown hair. “Brendan just looks at me and shrugs in this, ‘Well, this should be interesting’ kind of way. I mean, he didn’t look nervous or worried or anything, Emma. He didn’t do anything, that I’m sure of,” he added reassuringly.

“I know he didn’t,” I said loyally. However, you didn’t do anything to protect him. You should have told him…should have said something…’cause he’s so clearly being set up by someone.

“Anyway, I go to my next class, and it’s Latin, which I have with Frank, who had a free period that morning.” Cisco stopped, his head snapping up as Dr. McNelly came around to take attendance.

“Everyone’s accounted for,” she announced. Everyone except Brendan. And it’s your fault.

The bus kicked into gear as McNelly began her lecture on what we were going to see at the museum.

“So anyway,” Cisco continued, “Frank says—”

“Everyone needs to listen,” Dr. McNelly announced loudly, steadying herself by holding on to the backs of the red pleather seats as she walked closer to the rear. “And that includes the back of the bus.”

I fidgeted as we sat there with our mouths shut, my stomach twisting and turning like double Dutch jump rope as she droned on and on about the key pieces we would see, including the famed Unicorn Tapestries. Originally I had been excited to see them: maybe it was because a unicorn had been the centerpiece of the silver medallion I used to wear. Or maybe it was because, hey, I’m a girl. I’m genetically hardwired to like unicorns and kittens and hearts and all that crap. But right now, all I could think about was that Brendan was in trouble and getting farther and farther away from me with each spin of the bus’s wheels.

Finally, after what seemed like a millennium, McNelly’s lecture ended, and Cisco jumped right back into the story.

“So Frank had a free first period, and he asks me what happened in chem that morning. I tell him, and he tells me he got to school late, and when he went to his locker, there were two cops standing with Brendan by his locker, going through it with rubber gloves and everything.”

“What the hell did they think he had in there, some kind of super-flu?” I asked, and then it dawned on me. They thought he had drugs in his locker. And the school had a zero-tolerance policy.

“Emma, does he…?” Jenn asked, trailing off.

“Hell, no!” I practically cried, and a few people turned their heads. I didn’t care if they heard me.

“Brendan’s not like that,” I stated emphatically. A few of the other students at Vince A, well that was another story. Some of my classmates had blown through more powder than the Olympic skiing team, but Brendan was clean.

“Sorry,” Jenn said guiltily. “I mean, he’s a DJ, he hangs in clubs…how would I know?”

“Anyway,” Cisco interrupted, getting back to the story, “Frank couldn’t see what was going on, just that when they were leaving, Casey was hauling Brendan out of the hallway by the back of his collar and down the stairs. I guess to Casey’s office.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“Then Frank had to go to class,” Cisco said. “I just don’t get it—why they would think Brendan, of all people, was on drugs? I mean, the guy looks as healthy as they come.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Jenn murmured, more to herself than me. Incredulous, I elbowed her, and Jenn blushed. “Yeah, sorry. I mean, he doesn’t look cracked out or anything.”

“That’s because he’s not,” I insisted. I pulled my phone out of my backpack to text Brendan. If he even has his phone with him. I didn’t know what else to do. I felt powerless.

“This really sucks,” I moaned, dropping against the uncomfortable, upright back of the seat. I kept the phone in my hand, ready to open it as soon as it vibrated.

“I’m sure it’s fine, and it’s just Casey taking full advantage of the whole zero-tolerance policy. Besides, I bet she’d love for you or Brendan to look a little at fault after the whole Anthony thing gave the school’s image such a black eye,” Cisco mused, and Jenn nodded in agreement.

“Look, there’s nothing you can do now,” Cisco advised me. “Just put it out of your mind until you talk to him, and maybe you guys can laugh about this later when you’re at his house, counting his mother’s diamonds or, I don’t know, planning a trip to Bulgaria or whatever it is that you do when you’re at his megapalace downtown,” he teased.

“I don’t think they do much talking,” Jenn said, combing her fingers through her hair as her eyes drifted off to the ceiling of the bus. “I wouldn’t.”

I smiled—even in light of Jenn’s blatant fantasies about my boyfriend—and threw my arms around both of them.

“Thanks, guys,” I whispered. They continued to reassure me that this was just a prank—or revenge. Jenn even theorized that it was an attempt from a rival school to take the star basketball player out of commission, but my thoughts kept going back to the spell with Angelique.

It’s got more hate than you two have love.

This seemed pretty hateful to me.

We arrived at the Cloisters, and I kept surreptitiously checking my phone, waiting for Brendan to text me…once they gave him back his bag and cell phone, that is. If they gave it back to him. All I could think about was that he was going to get kicked out…suspended…arrested. The words kept ringing in my ears, louder than anything McNelly said: It’s got more hate than you two have love.

And that hate was directed at Brendan, not me.

As we walked through the halls, I ran my fingers along the stone architecture, a brief thought flitting through my mind that I might have walked through these very halls in a past life. The Cloisters were the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s medieval branch, with parts of the structure actually dating as far back as the twelfth century. I scribbled meticulous notes, trying to keep track of what she was saying to share with Brendan later, for the inevitable test that he might fail since he missed the trip. That is, if he’s still a student at Vince A.

I was surprised that my number-one nemesis at school, Kristin Thorn, and her little horde of hangers-on stayed as far away from me as possible—I had imagined myself being tripped down one of the several uneven, stone staircases in the Cloisters. Then I noticed that Kristin had her phone’s browser open to the Cloisters webpage, and periodically brought up points as if they were her own. No wonder she’s avoiding you—she doesn’t want you to witness her shameless kiss-assery.

I should have known she wouldn’t keep her distance for long—Brendan’s little scandal provided her with the fodder she needed to jab at me. Just as we were breaking for lunch, I fell behind Cisco and Jenn, kneeling down to fix the twisted strap on my Mary Janes when Kristin sidled up to me. She stomped her red-soled Christian Louboutin heel an inch from my right pinky.

“Watch it!” I gave her a dirty look, snapping my hand back and briefly wondering if she’d missed her intended target. I bet she had planned to impale my finger with her heel like a shish kebab. I wouldn’t put it past her.

“Where’s your boyfriend, Emma? Did he have a bad day? I mean, a worse day than usual. Since he’s wasting his time with you, I figure his days usually suck,” she cooed in a baby voice that dropped with false concern. Her fake tan had persisted through the winter—the girl looked like a grilled cheese sandwich in a push-up bra.

I usually try my best to ignore Kristin—going back at her only made things worse. The school’s resident rich bitch had had it in for me since the second I started school. She’d had a thing for Anthony, and it had been Kristin who had facilitated Anthony’s attack on me last December. Her little role in the ordeal had earned her a week’s suspension. I had thought (hoped?) that Anthony’s brutal treatment of her would soften her cruel streak—and it did, for a little while. But recently, she’d started up with me again. I guess somehow, in her overprivileged, spoiled little brain, she had managed to twist things around to the point of where it was my fault that she had gotten in trouble. That I was the reason Anthony was a psycho. In the past few weeks, her cutthroat behavior was worse than ever—and, of course, her sycophants followed suit. Her much unrequited crush on Brendan just fueled her attacks, even though he’d done everything short of doing an interview in the Vincent Academy Observer proclaiming how uninterested in her he was. I used to wonder why she hadn’t gotten expelled, but realized all too soon that her lax punishment coincided with the purchase of twenty new laptops for the library. Whatever daddy’s little girl wanted, she got—except for Brendan.

I continued ignoring Kristin as I followed Jenn and Cisco out of the museum—we’d decided to eat lunch in Fort Tryon Park since it was nice out—but she wouldn’t let up.

“So, the cops came, right? I guess hanging out with your low-class ass is finally rubbing off on him,” she snapped, her overly made-up-for-school-are-you-kidding-me-with-those-false-eyelashes eyes narrowing as she looked me up and down. And then we walked right past Kendall, one of Brendan’s discouragingly pretty, strawberry-blonde ex-flings. Oh, joy.

“So what’s the story with Brendan, Emma?” Kendall asked, lounging against the banister and crossing her legs—legs so long only the ground stopped them from going on forever. I ignored her and quickened my walk.

“I know how to make him feel better—better than you could, at least,” Kendall purred as I hurried past. “He had a lot of fun last time,” she called after me, Kristin joining in on her cackling as I tried to push the mental picture of Brendan kissing Kendall, holding her close as those mile-long legs wrapped around him—No!—out of my mind, but it was like an alien invaded my head and was forcing me to think of different scenarios with them. Unrealistic scenarios, too. No one is that bendy.

I kept my pace level and my head high, not wanting the Bitch Twins to see that they’d gotten to me. After what felt like an eternity, I finally met up with Jenn and Cisco where they had set up camp on a low stone wall that had dried enough from the previous night’s storm.

“You look pissed,” Cisco observed, unwrapping a massive pastrami sandwich.

“Kristin.” I just had to growl the one word, and both Jenn and Cisco wore identical expressions of sympathy as I pulled my sandwich out of my bag.

“If you make it through this year without punching that girl in the face, you owe me five bucks—or maybe even a pony,” Cisco said as I squirted a packet of mayo onto my turkey-and-cheese hero. I bit into the sandwich angrily, even though guilt, worry and plain old annoyance had vanquished my appetite.

“It will never stop amazing me how Kristin was in a few commercials as a kid, so now she thinks she’s better than everyone.” Jenn frowned, glancing over to where Kristin was lounging on a bench with Kendall, who effortlessly looked glamorous. Hell, even Kristin managed to look effortlessly chic.

“So, any word from Brendan?” Cisco asked, and I pulled my phone out of my sweatshirt pocket to check it for the billionth time that afternoon.

“Nothing.” I shook my head bitterly as a fresh new wave of guilt slammed into me. “So, Jenn, what’s up with Austin? You guys haven’t seemed…friendly…lately,” I said, changing the subject without any tact or grace. But Jenn’s on-and-off romance with the very enthusiastic junior Student Council rep had always been a source of amusement for Cisco and me.

“He kept trying to force me to try out for the spring choral performance,” she snorted, picking apart her BLT and flinging an anemic-looking T into a garbage can.

“Do you even sing?” I asked, and she emphatically shook her head. Austin took his role in student government way too seriously. The guy lived and breathed for Vince A. He probably wept every time there was a snow day, drying his tears with the school handbook.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Austin was going to get a tramp stamp of the school insignia,” Cisco cracked, and I nearly choked on my sandwich, laughing.

“Oh, he’s talked about getting a tattoo of the school insignia. Over his heart. You guys don’t even know. Anyway, enough about Austin.” Jenn waved her hands impatiently. “There are plenty of cute guys at my sister’s dorm. You know, if you two weren’t so settled in relationships, you could come and wing me. Or you could come and pretend to be single and wing me. The dorm parties are awesome. Em, you could bring Ashley. And Cisco, I bet Gabe won’t mind.” She smiled, hoping to entice him with the offer, but Cisco shook his head.

“I’m quite happy with Gabe, thank you very much.” Cisco smiled. He was out everywhere except Vince A, where people wore judgey pants as if they were part of the school uniform.

“But speaking of Gabe—” Cisco paused, taking out his cell phone and showing me a bright orange flyer “—I’m sending you this even though I know you’re probably a lost cause. Gabe’s new band is playing the Battle of the Bands tomorrow night at Magel. They’re awesome. They used to be called Duck Duck Goose, but some band at Collegiate had that name. So now they’re Freeze Tag. Anyway, Em, it would be nice if you saw him actually sound good. They do punk covers of pop songs, it’s hysterical.”

“His old band wasn’t that terrible,” I lied, and Cisco just raised his eyebrow at me. It was true—Cisco’s boyfriend, Gabe, played drums in one of the worst bands in history (with one of the worst names).

“So, Broken Echo is no more…no more…no more… .” I called, letting my voice fade out like an echo as I pretended to wipe a tear from my eye.

“Kenny decided he wanted to go solo as a rapper. You should hear him try to rap about life on the street. Like life on Central Park West is really hard. ‘Soy milk in my latte, who’s ready to par-tay.’” Cisco’s brown eyes twinkled devilishly as he mocked the band’s grandstanding guitarist.

We busied ourselves coming up with some non-PG raps for Kenny as we finished our lunch. As we were trying to find something that rhymed with “foie gras,” Jenn jumped up, wiping the last of the bacon from her mouth. She hopped off the stone wall and skidded on the wet grass a little, grabbing the wall to steady herself.

“I’m still hungry,” she announced. “Wanna come with me to the café, buy some overpriced cookies or something for the ride home?”

The ride home…when I’d find out what happened to Brendan. And suddenly I felt horribly, terribly, soul-crushingly guilty for the levity I’d enjoyed for the past ten minutes.

“I’ll come,” Cisco said, standing up more carefully than Jenn had, crumpling the remains of his sandwich into a ball. “Emma, are you coming?”

“No, I think I want to walk around, take some pics,” I said, finally finding my new camera—a Christmas present from Aunt Christine—in my backpack. Brendan had told me how much he liked Fort Tryon Park, but he hadn’t been there since he was a little kid. I wanted to take a few pictures of the grounds for him. But the truth was I really just wanted to be alone in case I started crying. Between my little breakdown last night—and the crushing flood of guilt I was drowning in—my emotions were bubbling right under the surface. Angelique would be proud of how in-touch with my inner emogirl I was. Meet the worst superhero ever! Emogirl, whose superpower is crying on command.

They headed toward the café as I took a deep breath and tried to calm my stripped nerves. I started walking along a path on the grounds, taking pictures of the impressive Cloisters. It was pretty here. Quiet—much more relaxing than Central Park. The birds were louder than the minimal traffic noises from the nearby parking lot.

I wanted to get a full shot of the museum, so I walked several yards away, farther into the park as I toyed with the panoramic setting on my camera.

I turned to my left, taking a shot of the trees, bright green with new leaves.

I turned west, snapping a pic of the beige stone structure. It looked like a knight should come barreling through those doors instead the group of tourists who emerged, cameras in hand as they piled into their tour bus.

I continued walking, into an area more densely packed with trees, trying to play with the nature settings on my camera. There were too many shadows.

“Like I know what white balance even is,” I muttered aloud, playing with the buttons. I looked at the digital screen again—there was a bigger shadow.

I put the camera down and squinted my eyes in the distance.

There’s no way I was mistaken. A person—at least, I think it was a person—in all black with a black hood covering the face—was standing amidst the trees, the figure obscured by the shade.

And then the figure started running toward me.

Chapter 3

At first, my feet were frozen to the ground. My brain screamed to my body to run, but I couldn’t force my limbs to move. It was like they were locked—immobile from the fear that this was happening to me. Again.

“This can’t be real,” I whispered, my brain reeling as the hooded figure swerved around the trees, coming my way.

“Run.”

I heard the disembodied voice from somewhere. The rough sound of it was enough to jolt me out of my shock until I realized it was mine. I spun around and started running through the trees, back to the path, the panic building as I stumbled through the unfamiliar terrain. The last time I had to run for my life, it was right after the winter formal, when Anthony chased me through Central Park. But then, I knew the area. I knew the park. This time, I was racing through Fort Tryon blind.

I sprinted back toward where I thought the path to the Cloisters were, weaving my way through the landscape. I had no idea how close the hooded figure was. I just knew I had to get away.

My shoes skidded on the rain-dampened blades of grass. I pitched forward, my palms outstretched as I stumbled into the trunk of a nearby tree, the slick soles of my Mary Janes slipping on the wet ground. I whipped my head around, looking for the hooded figure. I didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean anything. He could be anywhere. He could be behind me.

He could be Anthony.

The thought was like an injection of ice water into my heart, pumping the chilling fear through my body as I pushed myself off the mossy tree trunk. I whirled around, seeing nothing but trees.

I heard a car horn in the distance and headed off after it. The West Side Highway—the Cloisters sat high above the busy thoroughfare. I could flag someone down—someone would see me.

I pumped my arms, trying to force momentum as I slammed each foot into the ground. I weaved through the trees, skidding a few more times on the slick grass until I stumbled forward. My left knee plowed into a splintered tree branch, a casualty from last night’s storm. I cried aloud at the sharp jolt in my knee, as the broken-off wood ripped into my skin, stinging my jagged, torn skin. I shook it off, forcing my hands to push myself off the muddy ground.

Then a different kind of pain—blunt, dull pain against my shoulder blades, as I was shoved. I stumbled forward, my hands outstretched and taking the brunt of the blow, protecting me as someone tried to slam my face into the trunk of a tree. My head jerked back as he grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking Ashley’s clip and some of my hair out. I instinctively jabbed my right elbow behind me, catching my assailant in the ribs.

I heard a muffled grunt and his grip disappeared altogether.

I whirled around and, crouching slightly, put my fists up in the self-defense pose Brendan and kickboxing had taught me.

Standing a few feet away from me was the hooded figure, his right hand resting slightly on his abdomen, his shoulders rising as he panted from the struggle. He—or she, it was hard to tell—was shorter than I had first noticed. Definitely wasn’t Anthony, whose massive size eclipsed Brendan’s six-foot frame. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t behind this.

The thin figure had some kind of black silk mask covering his face underneath a nondescript, bulky black pullover hoodie. A silver pentagram and another charm I didn’t recognize peeked from under the blackout mask, hanging from a thin, roped band. Baggy black jeans and black leather lace-up boots completed the look. I almost expected cloven hooves. The normal attire—and the fact that his hand hovered over his abdomen, where I had elbowed him—were almost comforting; at least I knew this monster was human. That I could hurt him. That I did hurt him.

“What do you want?” I growled, trying to make my voice sound menacing in spite of my terror. I searched the black figure for some kind of identifying mark. Some telltale sign. Hell, even just knowing what gender would have been helpful.

“What do you want?” I shouted again, taking a threatening step forward as I cocked my right fist back, searching the black hole where a face should be for a target. As I advanced, he stepped back a little, and I felt emboldened.

I reared my fist back and slammed it into what I assumed was the right side of the face. The head snapped back and black-gloved hands flew up as he—I assume a he—staggered back a few steps. I took a step forward—push him, Emma. Just knock him down and then run—but he reached his right hand behind him to quickly pull something from the back of his belt.

The hooded figure shook his head back and forth, slowly, like he was shaming me. He raised his shaky right hand high, and the sun glinted on what he held through the dappled light.

I knew how to throw a punch. I knew how to dodge a punch.

But I had no idea what to do with the silver blade that the shadowy figure held above his head. His shoulders raised up and down with exertion as his black-gloved hand flipped the handle so the blade now faced downward. The better to stab you with, my dear.

“This doesn’t have to be so hard,” a muffled voice said, and I gasped at how, well, human it sounded. And oddly false, like it was deliberately brought down a pitch. Almost…female? No…

“Just let me cut you once, Emma.”

I fought my body’s urge to lock in fear that this psycho knew my name. And said it with such disgust. Instead I screamed loudly, trying to attract attention as I shuffled a few paces back, but my hooded assailant mirrored my movements.

“Don’t make it worse for yourself, bitch,” the voice said, more a growl this time than anything. It’s got more hate…

My eyes quickly searched the ground around me, looking for a rock or some other weapon. And then I realized something.

I could be a weapon. And it might be the only thing to save me.

I took a deep breath, letting my rage and fear saturate into every pore as I kept my fists up in defense. My palms got hot, and that burning heat raced up my skin, taking over my body as the edges of my vision seemed to get a little sharper. Just as the hooded psycho pulled back the knife, charging forward, I lifted my knee, extending my leg with all the force I could muster. As the bottom of my foot smashed into his stomach, I extended my palm, screaming out, “Emoveo!”

It was the spell Angelique had managed to make work—but had always failed for me. Until now. The figure blasted back several yards—farther than ever would have been possible by the force of my kick alone. He flew backward, feet kicking uselessly in the air, his body emitting a heat-wave-style ripple around him until he crashed into a tree about eight feet off the ground. My attacker slid down the length of the trunk, shredded fragments of bark falling around him as he collapsed at the base.

The hooded head jerked up, a blank black hole facing me. I didn’t need to see his face to know that we both wore matching expressions of shock. He jumped up—my muddy footprint front-and-center on the black sweatshirt—and raced away, deeper into the park, limping slightly.

At first, I was too in awe to move from where I stood, my fists still held up in their defensive pose. I didn’t know whether to cry or cheer or yell, “Yeah, I thought so!” after my attacker. I briefly entertained the thought of chasing him down—but disappearing farther into the park didn’t seem like such a bright idea. I pulled my backpack from my shoulders, digging in it until my fingers closed on the small pump of pepper spray Brendan had given me. I slipped it in my sweatshirt pocket—I didn’t know if it would work against someone in a mask, but better to have it—right as I noticed something glinting in the grass near where the hooded psycho had fallen. It had to be Ashley’s hair clip…about twenty feet away. Impressive. I looked down at the foot that kicked him, expecting it to glow or shoot lasers out of the toes. Instead my shoe was just a little muddy.

I bent down at the spot where the figure had landed to examine the shiny piece of metal. It wasn’t the hair clip. What it was set my stomach to churning again, as I squatted in the wet grass, staring at the very intricate, very fancy, very demonic- and evil-looking knife. This wasn’t just some kitchen knife, conveniently grabbed to mug unsuspecting teenage girls by a psycho in a cheap Halloween mask. This knife was special. Of course, the handle just had to be carved with a bunch of grinning skulls. I would never be so lucky as to be attacked with a boring old wooden-handled steak knife, would I? Noo…I get the skull monsters.

As if the psycho knowing my name didn’t clue me in, the creepy knife confirmed it for me. This was the evil Angelique’s spell had warned of. A sickly chill washed over me. Obviously, what Brendan was going through at school was just a nasty prank, one that would blow over—the real danger was after me all along.

I pulled my sleeves down around my hands and used my fabric-covered fingers to pick up the knife, willing myself not to retch as I touched it. I just hoped Angelique knew what this knife was—maybe the skulls were famous skulls, what did I know? She was the one who had recognized my medallion as being significant, after all. I had just slid the knife into my bag when I heard footsteps behind me.

I jumped up and whirled around, grabbing the pepper spray from my sweatshirt pocket. I shot a stream of the toxic liquid in the grass, right at Cisco’s feet.

“Whoa!” he shouted, putting his palms up and backing away from me, his eyes wide as he took in my appearance. “What happened to you?”

“I just—um,” I stammered as I held on to the silver pump. You just what, Emma? You just somehow used magic to disarm your demonically dressed attacker? And used your own unmagic fists of fury to punch his face?

I slid the canister back into my pocket.

“I fell down—you just scared me,” I said, trying to sound sheepish. I couldn’t exactly explain what had just happened. “I thought you guys went into the café?”

“We did, and then you were nowhere to be found, so I went to find you before McNelly had a conniption,” Cisco explained, looking at me curiously. “And then I heard screams and some kind of commotion.”

“I must have screamed when I tripped…and fell.” I shrugged, running my hand through my hair in an effort to look nonchalant. More likely, he heard you scream, heard your spell—then heard your attacker go smashing into a tree trunk.

“Whoa, your leg is bleeding—like, gushing blood,” Cisco blurted. Now that he reminded me about my sliced-open leg, it burned like I’d just set it on fire.

“You’re bleeding a lot,” he said. I looked down, and blood was pooling at the top of my white ankle sock.

“When I tripped, I fell onto a tree branch,” I explained. At least that part was true.

“Poor Emma, you’re having a really sucky day.” He pulled some napkins out of his backpack and handed them to me.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, wiping up the streaming blood from where it left trails down my leg, and winced when the napkins brushed against the splintered bits of branch in my leg.

“There’s your culprit,” Cisco said, pointing to the tree that just minutes before, I’d blasted my attacker into. “Damn trees. Don’t worry, I got a good description of the perp. Tall, skinny, really bad skin. Forces me to make bad jokes because you’re having such a craptacular day.”

“It was a funny joke.” I smiled weakly, thinking of how I actually didn’t get a good description of the actual prep. Not so tall, possibly skinny, penchant for cheap, ghoulish Halloween hoods…busted left eye.

“Do you need help walking, or something? You look really shaken, I won’t lie,” Cisco added, giving me a sideways glance. “You tripped and fell? That’s it? That knee looks brutal, Em.”

“Yeah, I just fell. I’m okay, though, thanks.” Out of habit, I brushed my grimy hands on the shirttails that were peeking out from the bottom of the sweatshirt then grimaced when I realized I’d smeared blood and dirt all over the front of me. Great, so I’m attacked and I get to look like a dirtbomb.

“Are you sure?” Cisco asked, his cocoa eyes twinkling mischievously. “I mean, what if I carried you? You could throw the back of your hand to your forehead and swoon. Give them something to really talk about.”

“Yeah, and you can have your shirt half-ripped off, showing off your man cleavage. Your he-vage,” I joked as we trudged up to the Cloisters.

“I’ll be all sweaty and glistening all over my heaving pectorals.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “They heave?”

“Please, Emma. They’re the heaving-est.”

“It’ll be like a romance novel cover,” I said, amazed that I was able to joke after everything that had just happened.

“Seriously, though, are you okay?” Cisco asked, looking at my disheveled appearance. “You look kind of a mess, Em. No offense.”

“None taken. My knee and my pride are hurt—and that’s it.” I grinned weakly, my mind still reeling over what had just happened. Part of me wanted to call Angelique and tell her she was right. So very, very right—witchy powers really are rooted in emotion, and in the past twelve hours I’d been more in touch with my emotions than most self-help gurus are. Another part of me wanted to brag that I actually managed to remember the pronunciation for Emoveo—it was in Latin, after all. Part of me just wanted to shout from the treetops that I just used magic—and my own inner kung-fu master—to disarm, and defeat, a hooded attacker. But then, as the fact that I was just attacked, on purpose, began settling in, all I wanted was to curl up in Brendan’s arms and stay there for a week.

“Let’s find you a first-aid kit,” Cisco said as we climbed the steps to the Cloisters, but I protested.

“Really, I’m fine. Let me just go to the bathroom and clean this up.” I gestured to my knee, which was still bleeding.

“I’ll tell McNelly you fell and need a minute,” Cisco offered, before he headed off in search of our art history professor.

I found the bathroom, frowning when I surveyed the damage. No wonder Cisco kept asking me if I was all right. I looked like I had been through a war. My hair was wild, with sweaty strands plastered to my face—my Wite-Out–pale face. And my leg looked like a zombie had tried to eat my kneecap. I wet a paper towel and cleaned off the dried blood, dirt and bits of branch as best I could, my face twisting at the sting. At least it didn’t seem like it would scar. I had a bottle of vitamin E at home—the car accident with Henry and the battle with Anthony had left me with plenty of battle scars. Literal battle scars, much worse than this. But the tree branch bits proved to be pretty stubborn, and finally, I just resolved to have a piece of Fort Tryon Park stuck in my knee until I made it home. If you need to knock on wood, you’ll have some handy.

I brushed my hair and wet my face, but the bottom of my shirt was a lost cause, smeared with bloody fingerprints along the front. I thought about trying to dab at them with a damp paper towel, but my life at Vince A was frustrating enough without my classmates thinking I had peed on myself. I stuffed the shirttails underneath the sweatshirt instead.

My classmates. I steadied my hands on the sink, grateful that no one else was in the bathroom. The adrenaline rush had worn off, and surprisingly, anger—not fear—was starting to set in. Was my attacker someone from Vince A? It was plausible…Angelique was a witch. I was a reincarnated witch. Brendan’s wealth, strength—hell, even his looks—were a part of Archer’s millennium old bargain. Who knew what other kinds of supernaturals strolled the halls of Vince A? From the looks of that knife—and that getup—I didn’t need yesterday’s spell to clue me in that this was definitely magical in nature. Besides, who else would know where I was today?

I reached in my pocket, relieved to find that my cell phone and camera hadn’t fallen out during my sprint from the psychopath. The last thing I wanted to do was go wandering around the area where I was just attacked looking for them. The first thing I wanted, however, was to hear Brendan’s voice, but I knew if I actually spoke to him, there was a good chance I’d break down and tell him everything, and he’d go crazy being trapped at the school waiting for me to show up.

If he was still at school.

If he was still allowed at school.

How did everything go from perfect to utter disaster in twenty-four hours?

I pulled out my phone, and was consoled to see a small check mark in the win column. Some time in the past half hour, Brendan had sent me a text.

Don’t know what u heard, but u know it’s not true. I’m ok, just really pissed. Sorry I couldn’t text earlier. I’ll wait for u @ school. Want to come over?

I couldn’t type my reply fast enough.

Absolutely. Skipping work. See u soon. I really need to see u.

I sniffled as I typed that last part then hit the delete key. It would clue Brendan in that something was wrong, and he’d find out soon enough. I sighed as I scrutinized myself in the mirror, running my fingers through my now-smoothed hair. I looked fairly composed, in spite of eyes too bright from unshed tears, and my face a ghastly pale from being completely overwhelmed. Good. If my attacker was a classmate, he was not going to know that he’d ruffled a single feather. Even though your feathers have totally been sliced, diced and put through a blender.

I stepped outside, walking briskly through the exhibits until I found my classmates in a darkened room. I immediately started sneaking glances at their bags, trying to see who could be hiding a change of clothes—until I realized most of us had big backpacks on. Vince A piled on homework to the point where it was borderline abusive. Finally I looked up and realized I was in the room that housed the Unicorn Tapestries, recognizing the first one we had studied.

I surveyed the most famous of the collected works in the museum. I had been looking forward to seeing these, but now, all I could focus on was my heart, thudding in synchronization with the throbbing pain in my knee. I tried to maintain some semblance of composure as I looked at the tapestries in between sneak peeks at my classmates. In one, the unicorn reared up, resplendent and bright on the intricate tapestry.

And then I looked at the other tapestries—The Unicorn Is Found. The Unicorn Is Attacked. Each one an intricate scene where the mythical animal is hunted, cornered. It was reared up, surrounded. Dr. McNelly’s lecture about the unicorn being an allegory and the complicated weaving process fell on deaf ears as my eyes found the gruesome tapestry that seemed to celebrate the death of the unicorn. It hung there, lifeless, its eyes shut, its mouth open but unbreathing. It looked almost relaxed—there were no more battles ahead.

I took a sharp breath. I feel your pain, sister.

It seemed fitting, in a twisted way, that there had been a unicorn on my medallion. No matter how much I fought, it seemed like I was supposed to be doomed, too.

I gritted my teeth as I stared at the tapestry. Not this time.

After the last exhibit, I finally made my way to the front of the museum, where I rejoined my classmates as we milled about the parking lot. I spoke to Dr. McNelly, showing her my knee and explaining that I was fine, didn’t need to see a nurse and just wanted to go home. She clucked over my raw, shredded knee, and promised to explain my accident to Mr. Emerson, the English teacher who also oversaw the library operations. As much as I could use the money, there was no way I could suffer through stacking books today.

Jenn and Cisco waited for me before we all piled onto the bus—we were almost the last people on, but there was no risk of anyone taking our uncomfortable, noxious-smelling seats in the back. I tapped my foot impatiently. It felt like people were deliberately moving slowly. I tried to focus on the fact that in just thirty minutes, I would be home. But I should have known this day from hell would get one last lick in.

As I approached Kristin’s seat, Amanda—Kristin’s unfortunate-looking sycophant who occupied the seat behind Kristin—stood in the aisle, deliberately taking her sweet time sticking her jacket on the overhead shelf. Which left me standing right next to Kristin, the Creamsicle-colored harpy. I felt like that chained-up goat from Jurassic Park, just waiting for the T-Rex to come and bite my head off.

Kristin flipped her ultrawhite streaked blond hair. I groaned internally. Whenever Kristin flipped her hair, it was a sign that something incredibly bitchy was about to go down. She would be the world’s worst poker player—the hair flip was a big tell.

“Aw, why the sad face? Is Emma having a bad day, too?” She sneered in that same sickening baby voice. For a brief second I wondered if she was my attacker—but her left eye was (unfortunately) free of any bruising. I considered remedying that, but decided to just ignore her.

She looked me up and down critically, dissecting me for something to pick at. Then Kristin saw the bloody smears on the front of my shirttails, which were peeking out from the sweatshirt, and my red-stained sock, and grinned, baring a Pepto-Bismol–pink-painted mouth full of straight white teeth. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she had fangs. Or a baby bunny in her mouth.

“Nice shirt, Emma,” she scoffed, cackling. “So, like, what? Did you just get your period or something? Can’t your rich aunt buy you tampons?”

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying anything back to her. It was never worth it: the more I fought back, the more venomous Kristin got.

“Knock if off, Kristin,” Cisco said from behind me, annoyance permeating every syllable.

“Oh, shut up, Cisco,” Kristin snapped in reply. “Who asked you?”

“Can you please hurry up, Amanda?” I said calmly, lifting my chin. I didn’t want my friends getting caught in my drama—and this high school drama was definitely less significant to me than my real-life drama. “You’re holding everyone up.”

“Don’t worry about what she does, Emma,” Kristin snapped, flipping her streaked hair. “She’s the one who belongs here. You don’t. And Brendan will see that soon enough.”

She flicked a thick, shimmery-painted nail toward the bloody splotches and her pink lips curled up in disgust.

“At least we know you’re not knocked up. For now.” She sneered. “You’re just the type to try to trap someone like Brendan. He probably got an STD from your low-class ass. Or your little slut of a cousin.”

And with that, the thin thread that held my composure together snapped. I crouched down so my face was eye-level with Kristin’s.

“Since I’m so low class, what makes you think I won’t jump you after school today?” I challenged, staring at her with unblinking eyes. I was so angry, at that moment I was glad I didn’t know how to turn her into a toad, or I’d have done it. She put me in a dangerous situation with Anthony, countless awkward situations at school…but she was not going to slander the people I loved.

“You really don’t want to mess with me,” she said coldly, but she leaned back in her seat a little. “You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“Shove your idle threats up your ass, Kristin. You don’t scare me,” I hissed, not bothering to craft a clever reply. Simple worked. I didn’t wait for her reply. I whirled around and strode to my seat in the back of the bus, flopping in the window seat this time. I stared out the window, not even noticing that Cisco and Jenn had taken their seats next to me until he nudged me.

“I don’t know what you said to Kristin, but she looks scared. And angry. And oddly constipated,” Cisco whispered approvingly.

“That’s just her face,” I retorted, adding ruefully, “I’ll pay for it later.”

“Still, it was worth it. I never thought someone so orange could actually turn red. It was like staring into the sun,” he said seriously, and I chuckled.

Jenn was immersed in some game on her cell phone, so Cisco brought his voice even lower and leaned into me.

“Are you okay? I mean, really okay? I’m pretty sure I heard you scream loudly back there. And you usually don’t let Kristin get to you.” His brown eyes searched my face, and I squirmed a little.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just in shock when I fell,” I lied.

“Are you and Brendan okay? I mean…the cops show up this morning, you look like you were just attacked or something. It just…I don’t know, Em.” Cisco fidgeted with the tail of his black tie, curling it around his finger and unraveling it. “You can talk to me, you know. I can keep a secret if something’s going on with you.”

“I know,” I said. “Honestly, I do.” And I did—he was the first person at school I’d told my real story to. Pretty much everyone else still thought I had moved here from Philly, a lie constructed to put more distance between me and my painful past. But that was when my reality seemed…real. I didn’t know how I could explain the very supernatural turn my life had taken.

My reality was highly unreal.

“Okay. Just know if you guys are involved in something, I’m not going to judge.” Cisco innocently held his palms up, and I couldn’t help but laugh at his insinuation.

“There’s nothing drug-related going on, I promise. No gangs. No sinister, clandestine meetings in the park. I swear.”

“Or anything else? You guys had a traumatic time of it just a few months ago…” His voice trailed off, looking down at my right hand. “And your knuckles look swollen, too.”

“Tree branch,” I lied again automatically, pulling them into the sweatshirt sleeve. “And I promise you, me and Brendan are fine.” That much, at least, was true. “In fact,” I added, pulling out my cell phone, “I heard from Brendan. He’s okay. Just pissed off. So it was just some big prank, I’m sure. Maybe Jenn’s right, maybe it was a rival school.”

“Maybe.” Cisco shrugged, dragging his fingers through his chestnut curls as he still eyed me suspiciously. “Well, if you guys feel like stepping out in public and showing how very undrugged out he is, you should come by Battle of the Bands and help me cheer for Gabe.”

I just gave him an apologetic smile as I shook my head. As much as I wanted to support Gabe, Brendan and I avoided school functions like the plague. Hell, the fact that you just got mugged, attacked, demonically assaulted, whatever that was, on a school trip proves that you and school functions go together like peanut butter and razor blades.

Jenn finished her game, and she and Cisco talked about making plans to meet up before the Battle of the Bands. My head was beginning to throb, so I leaned it against the chilly window, the cool pane of glass soothing my skin. I stared at the cityscape, relieved to see that we had made it across Manhattan and were just twenty or so blocks away from Vince A. The posh store windows on Lexington flashed by, their designer wares just a blur. A chunk of my resolve to maintain my composure broke away with each block we passed. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d last seen Brendan, and my world had completely transformed in that time.

Brendan had texted that he would wait for me outside the school. And as if there were an invisible chain pulling me to him, I knew exactly where to look for him the moment the bus pulled up.

His hands were in his pockets as he leaned against the school, his right foot propped up against the building behind him. He wore a navy hoodie over his uniform, keeping the hood up, his head casually resting against the stone structure. He looked calm and unbothered to any of the passing students who looked at him—and they most definitely did look at him, the scandal du jour—but his eyes were alive, actively scanning the darkened windows of the bus, looking for me. I held my palm up against the glass, and when our eyes found each other, his lips curled into a small smile—which faded almost immediately.

Brendan stood up straighter, and I could see his body get rigid. He squinted his eyes, giving me a questioning look.

“You okay?” he mouthed, taking out his earbuds and stuffing them in the pocket of his hoodie. I just shook my head.

My classmates had started filing out of the bus. I was antsy to get off, but we were stuck in the back, waiting for everyone to take their precious time exiting. Really, it’s the weekend. Don’t you all have somewhere to be? I glanced out the window and saw Kristin approach Brendan, holding out a Cloisters pamphlet and her notebook as if she were offering him her notes from the class trip. Of course, she held everything right underneath her overly padded chest—her boobs were practically sitting on her notebook. Really? Who did she think she was kidding? She must truly want me to jump her after school. She said something, but Brendan’s lips curled in disgust as if she were offering him a cool, refreshing drink of water from the subway tracks. He waved his hand as if he were swatting away an insect and walked away, continuing to scan the bus windows for me. Kristin pulled on his sleeve—and for a brief second, I considered doing the Emoveo spell on her from my perch in the back of the bus. I could feel the same heat taking over my body, crawling up my skin. In that moment, I had no doubt that I could definitely knock her down the block—or hell, through a building. I took a deep breath, regaining control of my emotions as Brendan jerked his arm back, giving Kristin the finger. Pure shock was etched on her tangerine face—surprising, since it wasn’t a secret that he hated her. She stomped away, pulling out her cell phone, no doubt to complain to one of her sycophants.

I looked up, and the bus had cleared out. I gave Cisco and Jenn hugs goodbye, and walked off the bus as quickly as I could, barely stopping myself from just running straight into Brendan’s arms.

“What’s going on?” he asked, taking my hand in his as we began walking slowly to the train station.

“Not here. People are looking,” I said quietly, casting a glance around at the students milling about.

“Don’t care. Are you okay?” he asked, kissing the top of my head softly. Finally I shook it back and forth, frowning.

“I knew it. As soon as I saw you, I just knew something was wrong,” he whispered, dropping my hand to rest his arm across my shoulder, tucking me into his side. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Chapter 4

“So is that everything?”

I searched for some kind of anger in Brendan’s eyes, but I didn’t see it. Just concern—and a little frustration at being kept in the dark—but there wasn’t anything hard in those glittering green eyes as he rested on his left side, his head propped up with his hand.

I nodded and he shut his eyes, taking a deep breath before leaning over me, steadying his balance with his palm resting over my left shoulder and taking care not to hit my raw knee. We were barely dressed, and we were sprawled out on his large bed in his family’s empty, palatial town house—but the situation was anything but romantic. For starters, I held a bag of frozen vegetables against my knuckles. Cisco was right, they were red. And puffy. And nothing sets the scene like a melting bag of broccoli. Seriously, it’s the sexiest vegetable.

Brendan just had on an undershirt and his black school pants, and my clothing was in the washing machine on the floor underneath his—yes, he had an entire floor for a bedroom. So Brendan, an only child whose parents traveled a lot, had the place to himself. He was like a teenage Bruce Wayne, but without a driver’s license for the Batmobile. In fact, none of my New York friends had their licenses.

I was in a pair of Brendan’s boxer shorts and one of his T-shirts, which hung on me like an oversize shirtdress, but when I showed him the knife, any possibility of romance went out the window. All my rage and thoughts of vengeance joined it as soon as I’d stepped foot in his room. I started sobbing, stuttering out everything—the spell that foretold disaster for me and possibly Brendan, Angelique’s mystical sense of doom, which clearly predicted the attack at the Cloisters, the magic mojo I summoned to disarm my attacker—even Kristin and Kendall’s catty commentary. I probably should have left that last part out, but every lurid detail of the past twenty-four hours came tumbling out as I blubbered like a big stupid baby in his arms. I even continued to blubber while he gently tended to my shredded knee, cleaning it and getting the splinters out while I sat on the rim of the bathtub in his messy bathroom, blowing my nose into a continuous roll of toilet paper like the sexy beast I am.

“I understand why you think you had to wait to tell me about the spell you and Angelique did, but I need you to promise me that you won’t keep things from me anymore, even if you think you’re just looking out for me,” Brendan implored, wiping away an escaping tear with his thumb. I thought I had gotten them all out, but much like me, a few of my tears liked to run late.

“Okay.” I sniffled, blinking back the rest.

“Don’t just ‘Okay’ me, please,” he said a little more firmly, his voice getting more agitated as he continued to speak. “We talked about this only yesterday, remember?”

He pulled at his black hair, frustrated. “Promise me you won’t keep this kind of stuff from me, not even for a little while. Especially when it’s something magical! I mean, hell Emma, only four months ago, we beat a millennium-old curse that could have tortured our very souls for all eternity. I’m not asking you to tell me every time you use the damn bathroom, but when you do a spell that indicates that there’s a major evil out there for you, that’s even stronger than us—because that’s what those crystals meant, right? A billion evil little crystals and one tiny red one for us?—then I need to know!”

He took a deep breath and shook his head bitterly.

I whispered another apology.

“Stop apologizing,” Brendan moaned, rolling onto his back next to me with such force he almost hit the wall. He rubbed his face with his hands so hard I thought he was going to take his nose off. Then Brendan propped himself back up on his elbow.

“Emma, I know there’s magic at play here, but can you do me a favor and remember that you’re also in New York City?” he asked, and this time I did see anger glinting in those green eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you thought this spell meant something had come gunning for me, right? Well, so what if it had?” Brendan threw his hand in the air, exasperated. “That doesn’t mean some random crackhead wouldn’t still try attacking you if you were alone somewhere!”

“I thought I’d be fine in the daytime!” I defended myself. “I was in a park on a school trip, and I just had to get away from everyone for a minute.”

“Still, Emma. And I have another question. Did it ever even cross your mind to, oh, I don’t know, call 911?” I flinched at his harsh tone.

“Um, maybe you missed the part where I kicked his ass?” I retorted angrily.

“So? Emma, I don’t care how you disarm someone—with a few self-defense moves I taught you, or with magic, or with Mace, or they somehow get burned to a crisp by fireballs you summoned from the sky—if someone attacks you, you call the police,” he said through his teeth.

“Brendan, I didn’t even have a description,” I protested, and he cut me off.

“I don’t care. You should have—”

“Okay, Brendan, I call the police. And say what, exactly?” I fired back, throwing the bag of frozen broccoli on the nightstand angrily. “‘Hey, someone—a guy, I’m assuming—in a blackout mask clearly bought on the clearance shelf at Ricky’s the day after Halloween, pushed me into a tree. So I used these self-defense moves my semi-notorious boyfriend taught me, I punched him in the face, then he asked to cut me, so I used a repulsion spell to kick him, through the air, about twenty feet away. And I think he stole Ashley’s hair clip.’

“One more thing,” I continued, annoyed. “Don’t forget that I would have had to turn over that evil-looking knife before Angelique could get a good look at it.”

I pushed myself up on my elbows and pointed at the knife, which sat across the room on top of Brendan’s desk, and shuddered as if it could somehow fly across the room and stab me. For all I knew, that’s what it was designed to do.

“That knife is just more of a reason why you should have called the cops. Someone comes at you with a knife, you call the people with guns,” Brendan demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“Did you get a look at that thing? It’s clearly a ritual knife—they’re called athames,” I explained, still irritated. “And that one looks like it was designed with a very clear purpose.”

“The police deal with the occult all the time, Emma. Assault is assault, no matter what sorcery this guy might worship at home.”

“And how would I explain how I got away? I couldn’t exactly tell them about the spell I used to disarm this psycho! They’d think I was insane,” I argued, slamming my fist down and wincing when my sore knuckles struck the pillow-topped mattress. I dropped my elbows and let my head fall back against his pillow. “Think about it. I’d be the one locked up in a padded room. They’d think I was making it up for attention or something. I mean, who gets attacked twice in four months? We have to figure this out on our own. Besides, could you imagine if people knew spells worked? That’s why Angelique is always telling me that real witchcraft isn’t something we want to go around advertising.”

“Then maybe she shouldn’t dress like she fell out of a Tim Burton movie,” Brendan said sarcastically. He looked away, exhaling sharply before biting his lip. I wondered what words he was swallowing. But when he faced me again, his expression was calmer.

“Since you seem so sure that she holds the answer to everything, me, you and Angelique need to have a little meeting. The sooner, the better.”

I mentally cringed at the thought. I did not want to deal with Angelique and Brendan in the same room for longer than a few minutes. I doubted I could focus on anything other than trying to keep them from snapping at each other—and clearly, keeping my magical focus was crucial.

“I was already planning on calling her,” I said. “I texted her from the bus that I had a pretty big tale to tell her. She’s at work until six, though.” Angelique worked at Vince A as part of her scholarship deal, but she worked in the front office, home to cuddle bear Casey and her assistant, Mrs. Gary, a steely woman who always seemed to be wearing gray. I thought I saw her in pink once and almost had a heart attack.

“I have to know if Angelique sensed anything. I told you about her empath abilities, right?”

He nodded, looking unimpressed. “And you also told me that she had no idea what the spell she did only yesterday meant—and today you get attacked.”

“Stop nitpicking.” I sighed, shutting my eyes. “Angelique really does know her stuff—she’ll know what’s going on. Or at least know how to find out what’s behind it,” I insisted, opening one eye. “You don’t have to be there, I’ll tell you what she says. Everything, I swear it.”

“You’re joking, right? Just try to stop me from going with you to talk to Angelique about this.”

“So I keep one little thing from you, and now you don’t trust me?” I asked, my voice rising in pitch. I couldn’t help it, I was a little insulted.

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