Spellbound (17 page)

“Yes, Aunt Christine.” I grinned.

“I assume, a boy?”

“Yes, Aunt Christine,” I said again, smiling.

“He must be some boy,” she mused, sitting down on the couch with a dog-eared
Ellery Queen
paperback. “I looked like that the first time your uncle George kissed me.” My hand flew to my mouth and I realized my lip gloss was a little smeared. She pursed her lips as if she were about to lecture me, but then I saw her eyes flicker to the photo of her and Uncle George on vacation in Dublin, their last trip before he died.

“It was opening night, at the party afterward,” she said of their first meeting, when she was a dancer on Broadway and he was a big-time producer. “We were inseparable and married six months later.”

“Uncle George was really something,” I said, looking at the photo.

“Yes, he was,” Christine said. She sounded happy, not
mournful. “I am a very lucky woman, to have had that kind of love. So, is this boy from school?”

“Yes.” I started nervously picking at my cuticles. “Brendan Salinger.” I trembled a little as I said his name out loud.

Christine's eyes widened at the name. “The Salinger boy?” she asked, surprised.

“Yes…is that bad?”

“Oh, no, it's not
bad,
dear. His family's quite…prominent, though. I know his mother from the school board and some of her charity work.”

Prominent?
Before I could ask her what she meant by that, she asked if I was seeing him again.

“I'm going to see him tomorrow, if that's okay.”

“Sure, dear. Ashley's family invited us over for dinner but I'm sure they'll understand. Just nothing too late, it's a school night.” I gave her a big hug.

“Thank you, Aunt Christine!” I hugged her more tightly, and whispered, “Thank you.”

As soon as I curled up underneath my purple comforter, thoughts of curses and witches and magical crests began assaulting my thoughts. I didn't understand how I let all of my concerns dance out of my head when Brendan was around—it was like each touch of his hand caused my IQ to drop a few points.
It's not just his hands…it's those hypnotic eyes…and those lips…and his hands… Okay, concentrate, Emma!

I resolved to keep my focus better tomorrow—to look for some tangible signs that Brendan really was my soul mate—before I started worrying about what doom that could bring for me. After all, he kissed me tonight and nothing bad happened, right? Content with my plan, I snuggled under the soft fleece comforter and shut my eyes, letting sleep take over my senses.

 

When I opened my eyes again, I expected to see my open bedroom door and the short hallway to the bathroom. Instead, I saw heavy velvet drapes and an unfamiliar, musty room. I sat up, swinging my legs off the bed, and stared down. I was wearing a long white nightshirt that looked hand-sewn—not my familiar blue plaid pajama bottoms. Disoriented, I stood up, and the stone floor was cold and clammy underneath my bare feet. Each step brought on a new wave of nausea, and all I could think about was getting outside. Suddenly, getting outside was imperative.

I found a narrow staircase, and eased myself down the steps. My brittle fingernails split as I dug them into gaps in the hard stone walls, dragging myself forward. Each footstep made me sicker, and my feet were clumsy as I staggered on. A series of spastic chills shook my body. I rested my forehead against the wall, feeling sweat trickle down my face as I tried to stabilize myself. My body was wracked with spasms. I tackled the steps slowly, and finally reached the ground floor. Using what little strength I had left, I heaved myself off the staircase toward a heavy wooden door. I knew I had to get through it—salvation was on the other side. I shoved it open, expending all my strength on opening the bulky, thick door.

I was outside. The smell of roses hung heavily in the air, mixed with the chilly scent of grass and trees at night. Shaken and spent, I surveyed the manicured grounds, looking for a sign of danger before slowly stepping into the garden. Each footstep equaled pain as I faltered toward the roses.

I heard a guttural shout and whipped around. A group of large, hulking men approached from the clearing on the left. I couldn't make out distinct forms—they were just a pulsating, terrifying mass. I heard my brother Ethan's voice yell to me, “Run!”

I began running to the right, through the fragrant roses, but three men met me in the garden. I heard shouts behind me. I was surrounded. My eyes spun around wildly, my hands formed into claws as I feebly held them up defensively.

The mass of men closed in, surrounding me. My ears felt like they were plugged shut—I could only hear my own pulse as it sped and throbbed in my head. I couldn't make sense of what they were saying; I could only see their angry, mottled faces and stained beards as they shoved me back and forth, jeering at me, spitting on me, tearing my clothes as they lashed out. One thrust a wood club into my stomach, and I collapsed onto the soft, dewy lawn. Clutching the ground, I looked up through the wall of dirty garments at the crescent moon shimmering in the black sky. The sky disappeared. Then pain—a searing pain ripped through my chest.

I screamed, sitting upright in bed. My hands clutched at my chest. I could still feel it—the dreadful, burning pain that scalded my heart. Frantically, I clawed at my chest, and my finger slipped through the fabric of my tank top. There was a small hole over the spot where my heart was pounding.

The hole hadn't been there when I went to sleep.

I slipped my finger through the fabric and felt my heart thudding. I knew what I had seen: I had dreamed Gloriana's last moments.
My
last moments. Terrified, tragic moments.

What was I doing? Could I really face a fate that terrible? How could I do this to my family—to my aunt? To
myself?
A dizzying panic began to whirl around me, and I felt like I needed to lie down—even though I was already in bed.

I glanced at the time—it was too late to call Angelique, so I texted her.

Please call me back asap. Urgent development.

I sat up, waiting for her to call back. I had been promising
myself to keep a better eye out for signs that the curse was real, I told myself. My fears were just manifesting in my dreams.

Oh, Emma, who the hell are you kidding? You wanted a sign, and you got it.

Now what was I going to do with it?

I woke up Sunday morning, stiffly curled up in a ball with my cell in my hand. Angelique hadn't called back, so I called her immediately. My first voice mail was pretty calm. “Hey, Angelique, it's Emma. Can you give me a call?”

I tried her again after showering. My second voice mail was a little more agitated. “Angelique, it's Emma. Please call me back. There are new developments and only you can help me.”

My third voice mail sounded like I called her from inside of an insane asylum. “Angelique! I dreamed Gloriana's last moments! And I'm supposed to hang out with Brendan today. Yeah, it's Brendan. He's the guy. Shocker, I know. Do I go? What's going on? Please, please call me back!”

I was desperately trying to get a hold of her before my meeting—oh, who was I kidding, date—with Brendan. Everything, as crazy as it sounded, pointed to one thing: we were cursed soul mates—and still, I couldn't stay away.

“If Angelique calls me back, I won't go,” I decided, and plugged my phone back into its charger.

But she didn't call back—and all my calls eventually went
to voice mail. And I reasoned, I couldn't cancel on Brendan.
More like
wouldn't
cancel on him, Emma.

And the more I thought about him—and how I felt when he kissed me—the more I knew I wasn't going to stand him up. But mostly, when I was with him—I was happy. The happiest I had been in years. And whether that was from a curse or just from my emotional wounds finally healing, I'd be crazy to let go of him.

So I decided to stuff all of my newfound knowledge into the back of my head, and go downtown to Brendan's house. But all that information refused to go unrecognized; it kept me frozen on the sidewalk as I regarded the four-floor, classically Manhattan brownstone. A scrolled, wrought-iron banister wound its way down the stoop, and the matching eight-foot-tall fence stuck out in comparison to the more modern structures lining the street, which faced a park with striking views of the Hudson River.

I checked the gilded numbers on the gate again. I was pretty sure I was on the right street. Brendan hadn't told me an apartment number, which meant the entire thing was his family's.

Now, what Christine had said made sense. When she called his family “prominent,” she meant “rich.” Very rich. Completely, totally, vacationing-in-Dubai rich. Well, Archer wanted to be reincarnated into someone wealthy, and it looked like he got his wish.

A tinny voice shook me from my thoughts, barking at me from the small, white security box on the fence.

“Are you going to stare at my house, or are you going to come in?” Even through the crackling security speaker, I'd recognize Brendan's voice anywhere.

I heard a buzzing sound, and realized he had unlocked the gate. I pushed it open, and the heaviness of the gate brought
me back to my horrific dream, reminding me of how I struggled to open the door to the garden. My stomach began churning.

I was going to Brendan's house, and we were going to be
alone
. Just me, Brendan and the knowledge that he was most likely my soul mate. Come to think of it, it was going to get awfully crowded in there.

I was still walking up the steps when Brendan pulled open the heavy front door, dressed casually in jeans, socks and a black hoodie, worn open over a white T-shirt. I, on the other hand, had opted for gray corduroys, a scoop-neck black shirt and my fiercest heeled boots.

“Hey, Emma,” he said, snaking one arm around me while he held the door open with the other. Still keeping a tight hold on me, Brendan whirled me around and kicked the door shut. Any anxiety I felt melted away the instant he pressed his lips to mine for a sweet, short kiss.

“You didn't run here from your aunt's house, did you?” Brendan smiled, breaking away from the kiss to help me out of my worn wool jacket, which he hung up on an antique-looking rack in the foyer.

“No, I took the subway,” I mumbled, leaving out the part about how I got off on the wrong stop.

Brendan paused, looking down at my high shoes. “Not that I don't appreciate the look, but my mom has this stupid ‘no shoes in the house' rule. Do you mind?”

“Nope,” I replied, bracing myself against his shoulder as I used the tip of my right boot to pry the left one off. I was happy to remove them—they were already pinching—and happier still that I'd opted to wear cute polka-dotted socks.

Brendan grabbed my hand and offered to give me the grand tour. And holy crap, it was grand! He led me past a formal living room, decorated with jewel-toned, brocade-covered
couches, to a cherry wood staircase. The stairs terminated in an impressively modern kitchen. It looked like it didn't belong in the same house as the old-fashioned room downstairs—let alone the same century. The kitchen resembled something from a Martha Stewart set. Airy and impeccably decorated, a double-door, stainless-steel fridge was the centerpiece. Brendan stopped at the fridge, rooting around in there while I surveyed the room. A white ceramic bowl filed with oranges sat on the stainless steel countertop and orange linen curtains hung in the nearby window. There was a modern-looking white table to the left, surrounded by citrus-colored chairs, and I realized the bowl of oranges was merely decorative. Who knew there was such a thing as fashionable fruit? Were bananas passé this season?

“This is your favorite, right?” Brendan asked, handing me a lemonade iced tea.

“Yeah, I love it. You too?” I asked. As I took the bottle from him, I noticed a case of the stuff chilling in the fridge.

“Nah, but I asked Dina to pick some up for you,” he said, grabbing a Pepsi for himself.

“Dina? Is that your sister?”

“No, she's our housekeeper,” he said nonchalantly. “Want to see the other living room?”

I nodded numbly, letting Brendan lead me into a large room behind the kitchen. Housekeepers? Four-story mansions in Manhattan? The
other
living room? Why would you even need a spare living room? If the first one is unable to fulfill its living room duties, the runner-up gets to step in?

But when I stepped into the spare living room, I realized that this “other” living room would be the centerpiece in anyone else's home. There was a giant TV and a complicated-looking stereo protected by a glass cabinet—which looked like it held nearly every movie and video game ever made. My
toes sank into the thick, plush burgundy carpet. The room opened out into a balcony, which overlooked a meticulously cared-for garden.

I took a sharp breath, turning over in my mind the fact that this was, without a doubt, the most expensive home I'd ever been in. Or heard about. Or seen on television.

“Prominent” was the understatement of the decade. Possibly the millennium. All my thoughts about Brendan and I being “destined” suddenly seemed foolish. My dream was just that: a dream. How the heck could I ever think I belonged with someone this rich, this “prominent”?

“I know it's a little showy,” Brendan said, curling his lips in an annoyed-looking grimace. “The kitchen alone…you'd think someone in this family actually cooked. My floor is way more low-key.”

“Your
floor?
” I croaked. He might as well have said, “My island. You know, it's just a little place I keep, for fun.” My stomach twisted in knots. Destined soul mate, my rosy peasant butt. There was no way this perfect guy, with this kind of life, was going to settle for me.

Brendan pulled me back to the staircase again, and we passed the third floor. “My parents' floor—their bedroom, and my dad's office, some other crap,” he said dismissively as we continued climbing. Finally, we arrived at the fourth floor.

“You're in the penthouse?” I squeaked, meaning for it to come out teasing. Instead, it came out insecure. If Brendan noticed, he ignored it.

He pushed open the door, which was the same dark wood as the stairway. I braced myself, expecting to see a four-poster bed, or oh, raw uncut diamonds just scattered about, glittering on the floor. Maybe his walls would be solid gold. I stepped in and was happily surprised.

Pushed against the exposed-brick left wall was a bed, messily
covered by a dark blue comforter. There was no majestic, fit-for-a-king headboard or frame—although it was a pretty big mattress—and a TV hung on the opposite wall, which was cool white plaster. His computer desk looked like it was from IKEA—simple and functional. Perched on it was a pricy-looking laptop, and several expensive-looking speakers snaked out from behind it. Aside from his deejay equipment pushed into a corner, there was some other modest furniture—a couple of dressers, a dark couch, a nightstand—but, like the computer desk, they all looked simple. The only adornments on the snow-white walls were a corkboard above his desk and some framed posters of musicians—from classic rock like The Who to deejays I'd never even heard of.

I was aware of Brendan's eyes watching me as I walked along the perimeter of his room, examining his well-stocked collection of vintage vinyl, and stopping to look at the Han Solo figurine perched on top of his speakers.

“Oh, hey, wait,” Brendan said, racing over and pulling something off the corkboard above his desk.

“What, is that an ex-girlfriend's photo?” I asked lightly, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice.

“No, it's nothing,” he said, stuffing it into his pocket.

“C'mon, let me see,” I wheedled, tugging at his shirt. “You said no secrets.”

Brendan grabbed me around the waist. “Maybe later,” he murmured into my ear, kissing my neck. I felt my knees go a little weak and was glad that he was holding me—I could have collapsed at that moment.

“I'm really glad you came over, Emma,” he whispered, his voice tickling my ear before he resumed kissing my neck. I leaned into his chest, happily, perfectly content—until a voice in the back of my head told me I
should
be uncomfortable in this situation.
You're reading fairy tales and all of a sudden, you go
to some strange guy's house? Alone? Way to put yourself in a bad situation. What's next, taking apples from strangers? Is this just a big seduction ploy?

I disentangled myself from his embrace—without any grace at all, I basically just bolted from his arms. I hoped I hadn't hurt his feelings, but I'd felt too comfortable, too content—all too quickly—in his arms.

“Did I do some—” Brendan started, but I wouldn't let him finish.

“I just— I mean, I still don't— Um, I'm sorry,” I stammered, feeling foolish. I daydream for a month about kissing him, now I flee when he does?

Brendan seemed to understand, and just grabbed his laptop and sat on his couch.

“Hey, want to see something?” he asked, sitting cross-legged on the worn-looking black leather.

“Check these out. My grandfather gave me a bunch of old family photos. I scanned them in. There's some great pictures of old New York in here.” I figured he was looking for a less seductive way to pass the time—and pictures of the family were a surefire way to kill the mood. I appreciated the effort.

As I joined him on the couch, Brendan twisted his head to face me.

“As you reminded me, you know nothing about me or my family, right?” He looked at me pointedly.

“Right,” I mumbled.
If only you knew what I thought I knew….

“Maybe knowing a little more about me will make you more…comfortable,” he said. I sat down next to him, leaning back on my arms as Brendan clicked through some faded photographs.

“This is my mom, when she was sixteen,” he said, pulling
up what looked like a teenage model's headshot from the 1970s.

“She was a model in the '70s,” he explained.
Of course.
Blonde and fresh-faced, she looked nothing like her rakishly handsome son—except for the green eyes that stared doe-eyed and glamorously out of the monitor.

Brendan continued to click through the pictures, showing me old shots of family members from the '60s and '70s, often at some gala event. I definitely recognized some celebrities in those pictures.

“My grandfather gave me this one picture that's
so
old,” he said, clicking on JPEGs and then shutting them. “What did I name this JPEG?” he asked himself. “Emma, it's almost 100 years old, this shot. It's of the house that used to be on this site.”

“This house is new?” I asked.

“Not really
new
. My great-great-grandfather bought this land and had a house built here. That was the early 1900s. This house, the one we're in now, my great-grandfather had built, right before the Depression. Oh, here it is!” he exclaimed, and double-clicked on the icon.

Even though the scan was grainy and creased, withered with age, I recognized the house. I'd recognize it anywhere. The image that filled the screen had filled my nightmares. It was the burning white house.

“No,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut and turning away. My gaze landed on the view outside the window, where the Hudson River sparkled in the distance, and I knew I'd seen it from this vantage point before. Something flashed through my head—a feeling, a fleeting memory—
something
, that made me think I'd seen this view before. I tried to grab the memory, but it was gone. A sickening sensation washed
over me, and even though I had never had it before, I knew what to call the feeling.

Déjà vu.

“Emma? Are you okay? You're looking a little pale.” Brendan was staring at me, concerned, as I sat there, refusing to face him.

“Emma?” he asked again, sounding worried. “Emma, you're shaking.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“I dreamed of that house.” As soon as the words were spoken, whispered with a trembling voice, I regretted it. I returned to face him, to see the “uh-oh, she's crazy” look on his face. But Brendan wasn't looking at me like I was insane.