Spellbound (13 page)

“But how will I know my soul's mate?” Archer asked the hag.

She said signs would be put in place, signs that would suffice for a clever man and maiden. These signs would
be no match for their attraction, which would be a great force on its own.

But Archer desired something definite—that could not be disputed. He had to know the woman he held was, indeed, Gloriana. The hag agreed to mark Archer's mate with a symbol—his family's crest—as it appeared now, with a weeping rose to honor his fallen, murdered love.

“Happy are you now?” she croaked. “You can not dispute the attraction when she's wearing this mark. Even a fool would recognize his soul's mate.”

Pride still colored Archer's demands, so he demanded of the hag that his soul find rest in a descendant—one from his own proud bloodline. He should have a brilliant mind, the strength of ten men and be more handsome than any lord, with enviable wealth. For Gloriana, he begged speed, knowing his clever bride would have escaped the mercenaries had she been of fair health.

“Are these all your conditions?” The hag cackled. “Nothing more?”

Archer agreed to the contract, and the hag went to work. The simmering cauldron in the fireplace suddenly burst forth with blue flames, and the sinister black liquid inside started to bubble.

She held Gloriana's love poem in her withered, leathery hand.

Archer watched as the fragile parchment in the hag's hand crumbled to ash, blue flames shooting from her
palm. She threw the ash into the cauldron, and it boiled angrily.

The hag withdrew a dagger and, taking the medallion from Archer, scraped the blade three times across the back of the medallion. She collected the scraps of metal and tossed them into her cauldron, which hissed and smoked.

Grabbing Archer's hand, the hag cackled again, holding the dagger high before dragging the jagged blade across Archer's palm, squeezing his hand to force the blood out. It spilled into the cauldron, and the liquid swirled and bubbled. Using a spoon carved from bone, the hag scooped the blue-black serum into a curved gray-white bowl. Archer reeled at the sight, fearing the bowl had been carved from a skull. The hag handed the potion to Archer, instructing him to drink the bitter, vile liquid. As he choked down the thick serum, the witch began chanting:

“Death? What magick is this? A lifetime is what I require!” Archer shouted. The hag cackled, and her wrinkled face began to smooth. The hair on her chin withered, and her milky eye turned clear as both eyes began to glow yellow. The hag stood up straight, and transformed into a young man. His catlike beauty peered out from the cloak, which began to shimmer as if it were on fire. Archer realized the witch was, indeed, a true agent of the devil.

“You might have thought of that before damning your true love's soul from entering Heaven,” the feline man said,
grinning and baring a row of sharp, fanglike teeth. “Perhaps her soul should have been of more concern than your own beauty or wealth. But don't worry, you selfish fool, you'll reunite with her again. And again. She'll always be wearing your precious crest. And you'll know the fresh pain of her loss for all eternity.”

“No! I pray of thee, say lifetime. Give us a lifetime together!” Archer screamed, falling to his knees. The man laughed at Archer's torment, as Archer begged him to change or undo the spell. But it was too late. He had damned his and Gloriana's souls to an eternity of pain, a never-ending cycle of reunion, romance and then tragedy, as their love would be cut short by her death. They would reunite in another life, only to repeat the same doomed cycle.

The next three pages were missing. I shut the book and, very carefully, placed it in the leather bag. I looked for my cell phone to call Angelique, but saw the time—1:10 a.m.
Damn.
I had been reading for almost nine hours straight. I didn't know if it was coffee or adrenaline, but I didn't feel the slightest bit tired.

Moving my neck from side to side, I became aware of a sharp strain from sitting still, in the same position, for so long. I heard my neck crack and stood up to stretch out.

It was a good story, nothing more. Right? How many fairy tales had caught my attention in that book before I found one that revealed the origin of my crest? Before getting lost in the tale of Lord Archer of Aglaeon, I read epic fables of evil witches and sorcerers and knights who rescued fair maidens from dragons. And come on, there's no such thing as dragons, right?
Right?

I reasoned with myself. My necklace has to be an antique or something. My brother Ethan just picked it out because he thought it was cool. And Ethan happened upon a legitimate antique at a yard sale. Isn't that the ultimate dream of everyone who watches
Antiques Roadshow?
That some hand-me-down
was, truly, a valuable antique? What are the odds that my medallion, through some dark magic, found me to mark me as someone's true love? My charm was merely a bauble worn around the neck of a society woman. Or a brooch, pinned to her coat. Just like in the dream I had, where it fell off my coat, and rolled away from me before I died. The three scratches on the back of the crest couldn't be from a witch in the woods, right?
Right?

I paced my room, gripping my mug.
Okay, let's run with this a minute. What else do I have to lose?
Let's say that the crest is a sign. That I'm wearing the legendary Crest of Aglaeon, which marks me as someone's true love. That this medallion has found its way to me, its doomed, but rightful, owner. The fable—and it was just a fable, right?—had mentioned other signs, signs that a clever lord and lady would pick up on. And am I supposed to believe that Brendan is my destiny when the only thing he's shown me is indecision?

I laughed out loud, thinking of Archer showing up at Gloriana's door, one day full of praise and adoration, and ignoring her the next day when she tried to show him the beauty in another ladybug. Ladybug.

“I hope it brings you good luck, Ladybug.”
The words my brother said to me when he gave me the necklace.

My mouth was suddenly dry, and I put the coffee to my lips with shaking hands—promptly spilling it down my shirt.

I put the mug on my nightstand and ran to the bathroom, wetting a hand towel and dabbing at the spots on my blue tank top. I regarded my agitated reflection in the mirror.

Did I look like the reincarnated soul of a tragic fabled peasant? My life was no fairy tale. Sure, once upon a time, I was happy. Then my twin brother, my best friend, died of meningitis. Then my mother got sick—and married her loser
boyfriend so I wouldn't be alone after she was gone. But I would have been better off alone—my wicked stepfather practically killed me driving drunk and now I'm stuck dealing with a bunch of rich princesses on the Upper East Side, living with my aunt Christine…who was my godmother. And had been like a fairy godmother to me. I stared at my reflection.

Do I look like a freakin' fairy-tale princess to you?

“Actually, would that be an earl-ette, since Gloriana married the earl?” I asked myself, then realized, wow, I really was going bonkers.

I splashed water on my face, trying to stop my heart from beating right out of my chest. The story says there were other signs. What other sign was there, other than my unnaturally strong attraction to Brendan? I'd had crushes before. And my freshman year boyfriend, Matt, was pretty cute. But even my biggest crush didn't compare to the pull I felt to Brendan.

Brendan, who's smart. Very smart. Just like Archer was supposed to be, when he was reincarnated.

The signs flashed through my head, coming at me faster now, like a meteor shower.

His name was Brendan Alexander Salinger. Alexander was Gloriana and Archer's son. And, come to think of it, I
was
pretty speedy, just like Gloriana was supposed to be when she was reincarnated.

Brendan was strong, too—he knocked down Anthony like he was flicking over a domino. And Brendan was definitely more handsome than any lord—I mean, he was certainly the best-looking guy at school. His family was probably loaded, too. Most people at that school were.

And then there was the biggest sign of all: the crest in his locker. What could that mean to him? What could it mean that I was wearing it? I braced my palms against the marble sink in the bathroom. Was he into witchcraft? Had he seen
the design in a textbook, as I just did? Or was it…his family crest?

“Could the street lamps flickering really have been a warning, like Angelique said?” I asked myself.

I stared at my reflection—dark bangs, freckle underneath my right eye, nothing special—until the bathroom light started to dim. My heart pounding, I ran back to my room, throwing myself facedown on the bed, refusing to glance back through the open door to see if some supernatural force had triggered yet another light to burn out as a warning.

Cautiously, I raised my head and peered through the doorway, where the bathroom light shone brightly.

“You're losing it, Emma. You are seriously losing your mind,” I croaked, my voice hoarse. “Your poor aunt is going to have to have you committed, and locked in a little padded room. You're seeing streetlights explode and you're believing in legends and that bulbs burning out are some ominous sign that you're destined to have a doomed fairy-tale romance.”

And now you're talking to yourself?

I pulled the covers over my head, telling myself that I was just tired, that I hadn't been sleeping well—thanks to dreams where I lived in another time. Where, in a medieval gown, I tended to a rose garden and was covered in blood. Where my brother warned me to stay away from
him
. Where I died.

I hugged my pillow to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut, but I was hyperaware of every sound. The traffic four stories below me. The rolling sound of an approaching storm. The raspy wheezing of my overexcited breathing. There was no way I was getting to sleep tonight.

Throwing my covers back, I got up and defiantly turned off the bathroom light. When I got back to my room, I grabbed my laptop and pressed the power button, anxiously peeling off my nail polish as I waited for it to turn on. In the
search engine, my fingers shook as I typed in “Reincarnation dreams.”

More than a million hits. I clicked on the first one that looked halfway legit and didn't have a web address like “MagikSoulTime.com.” I skimmed the site.

 

“Past lives and past memories can manifest in your subconscious dream state. Although it's more likely that what you're seeing are images from movies, television and film…

“Ultimately, no one except the dreamer will know if the dream is, in fact, a past life reaching out, or if it's merely the product of a mind overexposed to mass media…

“…if it is a past life, the dreamer should consider what message is being conveyed, as most adherents to the tenets of reincarnation believe that the soul returns to learn lessons and atone for sins committed in a previous life. Once when the soul reaches true enlightenment, it may exist in Heaven…”

 

I clicked on a few more sites, but saw nothing about a witch's curse forcing my soul to be earthbound forever. My eyes were starting to get heavy, and the web pages blurred in front of me. I shut down the computer and rested my head on my pillow, staring at my nightstand. The lights on the alarm clock read 5:46. Great. School began in less than three hours.

I huddled under the comforter, which provided little comfort to me this night. Part of me wanted to sleep—to stop my mind from twisting itself into a frenzy.

And then there was the other part of me, the part that was so terrified of what I might see in my dreams, it shook me into consciousness when I'd start to slip into slumber.

After dozing off in fitful ten-minute intervals, around the time the view outside my window turned from a dark shadow of the building across the street to a hazy fog, I finally fell asleep.

My eyes felt like they were pried open by crowbars when my alarm went off, the sound piercing into my brain. I stared at the foggy weather through the raindrop-stained window.

Oh, today's just going to be great.

“Holy sh—sugar, Em,” Ashley said when she saw me, censoring herself as my aunt sat in the floral recliner in her pink bathrobe, sipping a steaming mug of coffee.

“Hey, Ashley,” I croaked. She had come upstairs to get me since she didn't feel like waiting in the drizzling rain.

“I didn't really sleep well last night.”
Or sleep at all
. I figured I had ninety minutes, total, of sleep. And that's a generous estimation.

I felt guilty as my aunt soothed me with a cup of warm tea, clucking about how hard I had been hitting the books lately. Well, I had been hitting the books, they were just antique volumes filled with supernatural tales, not my Latin books. Christine took pity on us and even though the rain had halted to a fine mist, handed over a crisp twenty-dollar bill for a taxi to school.

“I feel bad for you, dear, lugging all those schoolbooks around,” she said, gesturing to the tote bag filled with Angelique's books. I had covered the telltale antiques with an old sweater, and I never felt guiltier in my life—especially since I should be focusing on Latin, not doomed medieval romance.

In the cab, Ashley rummaged through her bag and shoved some concealer in my hands.

“Seriously, you look like you just went ten rounds in the ring.” I surveyed the destruction in her mirror and stared,
dismayed, at the dark rings under my eyes. I had more bags than Louis Vuitton. I brushed my hair hastily with the tiny plastic brush that Ashley kept in her backpack—seriously, that girl's bag had more beauty products than books. I couldn't get rid of the tangles so I just gave up, slipping an old baseball cap on and pulling my damp hair back into a loose braid. I tried covering up my eye bags, but the makeup looked chalky on my skin, and drew even more attention to the shadows. Resigned, I handed Ashley back her mirror.

“You really look like hell,” she said, then made an embarrassed face. “Sorry.”

“It's okay, I feel like hell,” I replied. “At least it's Thursday. Just one more day of this.” She raised an eyebrow at me.

“You stayed up all night
studying?
Really?” Ashley sounded unconvinced.

“Yep, I just took on this project,” I lied. “It's an independent study.”
Well, it's kind of the truth.

The cab went too far and dropped us off a block past the school. We walked back the rest of the way, but Ashley may as well have been carrying me as my tired feet—laden with Angelique's books—plodded forward slowly.

As we approached the school, my heart leapt—then fell.

Brendan was back. The hood on his North Face jacket was up, shielding him from the misty weather as he leaned against the damp mailbox, looking in the direction I normally walked from. My cousin rolled her eyes at me and ran ahead, yelling, “Emma, see you later.”

He turned around, his face brightening when he saw me—then his features fell when he got a good look at me. I self-consciously smoothed my messy braid and suddenly was so thankful for my cap. I pulled the brim lower as I approached.

“Emma, hey,” Brendan said, flicking his hood back and
brushing his damp hair off his forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I was just up late…reading?” It sounded like a question.

“Oh, reading? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” And suddenly, the easy, breezy familiarity was back. Lord Archer would never play games with Gloriana like this. I stuck my tongue out at him. I couldn't summon a mature reaction. I was too tired.

“Well, Emma, I was waiting for you to ask you something, but you've made me late for class. Always a troublemaker, huh? I'll see you in English,” he said, a smile playing on his lips as he swiftly went to the door and opened it for me. I stood in the entranceway, dumbfounded—until I realized I had about three minutes to get to my basement locker, then back up to my third-floor class before getting a tardy slip. I raced away, barely beating Mrs. Urbealis to history class.

I was useless again in my classes, and told Jenn that I just didn't feel well. At least this time, I looked the part. I was tired yet somehow full of a single-minded energy…I had to get to English, my only class with Brendan. The one thought raced through my mind: What did he have to ask me?
Can I copy your English notes? Want to catch a movie with me? Want to start a fairy-tale romance with me? BTW, it might be doomed, k?

Finally, in English class, I felt like I could relax, because I knew my eyes would find that familiar face coming toward me, those eyes twinkling at me, that smile hiding more than it let on.

Brendan walked in late, of course, but still managed to beat Mr. Emerson. With just a nod and a smile in my direction, he slid into his desk and faced forward.
Is that a snub? Another snub?
I was furious. What did he want to ask me? And who does
Brendan think he is, toying with me like this? I was too tired to think it through anymore, so my body reacted for me.

I kicked the back of his desk. The rubber bottom of my shoe didn't make enough of a noise for anyone to notice, but his desk pitched forward a few inches. Brendan threw his left arm behind his seat, twisting around in his chair and staring at me with those green eyes, which I saw were sparkling, if a little stunned.

My eyes narrowed and I pursed my lips, giving him a dirty look.