Hexed (13 page)

P
anic surges through me. They’ve got Mom. Evil sorcerers have got Mom, and I’m trapped in some invisible mime-box.

Even though it’s been nothing but a waste of energy so far, I start to pound my fists against the wall. But this time I don’t meet resistance, and I stumble forward.

What the … ?

But I don’t spare more than two seconds to consider my turn of luck before I’m at the window ledge, wildly searching left and right, up and down, for a sign of which way they’ve gone. Nothing. Not the scuffing of footsteps retreating down Fuller Avenue. Not the shriek of car tires against pavement. Not even a distant speck in the moonlit sky.

She’s gone.

My heart knots up as if someone’s squeezing it, wringing it out like a wet dishrag.
What
do
I
do?

I thrash through the pile of untouched homework and old dishes on the computer desk until I find the house phone. My hands tremble as I dial 9, but I stop there, because what will I tell the police? Two sorcerers just stole into my room and kidnapped my mom, and they won’t give her back until I unlock the secret spell that binds
The
Witch
Hunter’s Bible
? Yeah, I’m sure that’d go over real well.

I smash the phone against the wall, sending springs and batteries flying over my bed, and start pacing my room. Mom needs me—I’ve got to think of something, anything. But what? I’m not a witch. If I am, I must be the crappiest witch on the planet. I couldn’t do a thing to help Mom. I let out an anguished groan.

I need help. That much is clear.

I don’t waste time scrolling through the options. There’s only one person I can trust who will know what to do.

I throw on the first clothes I stumble across and fly down the stairs and out the front door. Only when I get outside and see that all the lights are off inside Paige’s house do I remember that it was after eleven when Paige left, and that was ages ago. I can’t just knock on the front door, unless I want to explain all of this to Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy. No thank you—straitjackets do nothing for my figure.

I could call, but I’m already outside. Plus, let’s be honest: it’s not like I haven’t done this before. And so, stumbling over the unwound garden hose, I tiptoe around the side of their house until I’m standing beneath Paige’s window.

“Paige!” I stage-whisper. “Paige, it’s Indie.”

I wait only a second before I start feeling around on the ground for a rock to throw at her window.

“Bit of break and enter?”

I shriek and scuttle backward from the dark figure leaning against Paige’s house.

“Bishop?”

“You expecting another ridiculously handsome man to appear right now?”

“Oh, Bishop, thank God it’s you!” I push to my feet and plow into his chest, wrapping my arms around his middle and holding on to him like he might disappear at any moment.

“Uh, okay.” He laughs, then pats my back. “Not exactly what I was expecting, but I’ll take it. Shall we find a bedroom, or is here good for you?”

“They came, Bishop.” I pull back so I can look at him. Aside from serious five-o’clock shadow and a slouchy knit hat he sports despite the heat, he looks just like he did the last time I saw him: all height and leather and tattoos. “They wanted me to break some spell on the Bible,” I continue, “but I couldn’t because I’m not a witch, but they wouldn’t listen to me, so then they kidnapped Mom at knifepoint, and I have to find her, Bishop. I love her so much, even though it might not seem like it at times. But she can be so frustrating, you know? But I do love her—”

“Whoa, what? The Priory was here?”

The window above us cracks open, and Paige pokes her head out. “Indie, is that you?”

“Why are you here?” I ask Bishop. “Did you know about the Priory coming after me?”

“How would I know about that?” he asks defensively. “I only just got released from headquarters.”

“What’s going on down there?” Paige asks. “Is that Bishop with you?”

“Whatever, how do we get her back?” I ask.

“Well, since you asked,” he answers, “here’s what we’ll do. First we’ll drive to the sorcerers’ lair. Then we’ll knock on the front door and we’ll simply ask if they’d be so kind as to give your mother back. I’m sure they’ll be very reasonable.”

I cut him an icy glare.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’m being rude, but I don’t think you’re getting the gravity of this situation. I’m just one person. Who knows how many they’ve got down here.”

“Well, don’t you have any warlock friends? And what about the Family? Why not get them to help us?”

“No, I haven’t got any friends, and you’re forgetting that I just barely escaped headquarters after losing the Bible. The Family isn’t very likely to want to do me favors at the moment. And that’s not to mention the fact that they don’t care about your mom.” I gasp, but he shrugs. “I’m sorry, but they don’t. They’re worried about the lives of thousands of witches and warlocks; they don’t have time to save one human.”

“But the Bible! Won’t they want to get it back? Those guys have it.”

“You mean, won’t they want to run into a group of sorcerers with centuries of pent-up anger ready to explode at any moment? Sorcerers who’ve just discovered the secret means to kill them? Yeah—no. They’re busy building an army, planning defensive tactics, et cetera, et cetera.”

Tears of frustration well in my eyes.

“Hello!” Paige calls down. “Anyone care to tell me what’s going on? Is your mom in trouble or something, Indie?”

“Hold on. So what then, Bishop? You’re saying that it’s useless?” My voice cracks, and I don’t even care that I’m crying again. I don’t think I’ll care about anything until I get Mom back.

“I didn’t say useless,” Bishop corrects. “I said it wouldn’t be easy. And since you’re not getting any help from the Family, you’ve got to master your magic, and fast. Most witches take months to get any good at this stuff, but we obviously haven’t got that much time.”

“I told you: I’m not a witch.”

“And how do you know that? Just because you don’t know how to use your magic doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“Told you so,” Paige says, leaning out the window.

I let this sink in. “So let me get this straight: you’re suggesting we practice magic before going after my mom?”

“Finally! I was starting to think you ride the short bus to school.”

“You’re the stupid one if you think we have time to just sit around and practice. They took my mom. They had a
knife
to her throat. What are you not getting?”

“What
you’re
not getting, Indigo, is that if we go in there unprepared, you—if not both of us—will die.”

I groan and scrunch my hands into the roots of my hair. “Just tell me where they took her then. I’ll do this myself if you won’t help.”

“And why do you assume I know where they are?”

“Tell me, Bishop.” I slam a hand against his chest as hard as I can, and it’s as if I’ve just punched a cinder block.

He doesn’t even have the decency to pretend I’ve hurt him. “You’ll kill yourself.”

“Fine, then, I’ll kill myself.” I massage my aching wrist. “Where are they?”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes! I don’t know how to make myself more clear to you.”

He sighs. “Fine. Get your car keys.”

“Where are we going?” Paige suddenly stands between our houses, backlit in the circle of light cast from our front porches.

“Oh no.” Bishop shakes his head. “She’s not coming. It’s enough to have one liability, let alone two.”

Paige huffs. “I’m glad you think so highly of us.”

He skirts around Paige, heading toward the driveway. When he reaches the driver’s-side door, he bounces on his toes like a boxer, waiting for us normal-limbed people to catch up. But when I enter the light, his bouncing comes to a stop and his jaw twitches, his eyes passing down my legs. I become aware that I’m wearing a pair of cotton shorts that could double as underwear in a pinch, and a holey T-shirt.

“They’re pajamas, perv.” I say.

He nods in appreciation. “Car keys?”

“What for? We aren’t flying there?”

“No, we aren’t flying. Why do you think I took you to the Hollywood sign the other night? No one can know about us. And I said she’s not coming.” He flicks his hand toward Paige in a dismissive gesture.

“Yes I am.” Paige places a balled fist on her hip and locks eyes with Bishop, giving him a death stare that would put Bianca’s to shame. “If Indie’s in danger, I’m going to help.”

“Okay, sure. You’re coming. What do I care if you die? I don’t. There we go. Car keys, Ind?”

I give Paige a grateful smile before running inside to snag the keys from the hook by the door. When I return, Bishop is holding out his hands to catch the keys.

“Dream on, buddy.” I push past him and slip into the driver’s seat.

The engine turns over as Paige buckles her seat belt and Bishop wedges himself into the tiny passenger seat. “Where to?” I ask.

“The Chinese Theatre,” Bishop answers.

“The Chinese frickin’ Theatre?” Paige says. And that pretty much sums up how I feel about it too.

“Yes.” Bishop cranes his neck to look back at Paige, dark eyebrows pulled up underneath the brim of his hat. “Is that not a good enough place for you to die?”

Paige does an impression of him yapping.

“Why there?” I ask, reversing out of the driveway. “This isn’t like last time, is it? Traipsing around the city for no good reason at all, just to amuse you at the expense of everyone else? Because we don’t have time for that crap.”

“Listen to you.” Bishop adjusts his seat to accommodate his freakishly long legs. “You’d think I wasn’t doing you a favor or something.”

I shake my head. “God, I’m so glad to have you back, you know, because you are just
so
pleasant to be around.”

“Oh, come on. I was just joking.” Bishop pokes my shoulder.

I don’t respond. I’m
so
not in the mood for this.

“Hey, I have a great idea,” he says brightly. “Let’s paint each other’s nails, bust out some magazine quizzes, and make this a real girl party!” He takes a chunk of my hair and starts braiding it. I knock his hand away.

He rests back against his seat, muttering under his breath. I only the catch the last words: “be such a stick-in-the-mud all the time.”

“Yes, well, when someone kidnaps your mom and you have no clue if she’s dead or alive and being tortured in a cellar somewhere, then we’ll see what kind of mood you’re in.”

“My mother is dead,” he says, his tone flat and even.

I glance over and pray, pray, pray that I see humor in his face, but he stares straight ahead, his expression hard and inflexible.

“Oh God.” I rub my temple. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. I shouldn’t have—”

“I said it’s fine. Now we’re even.” He gives me a half smile. But rather than comfort me, it leaves me with a grating sensation, like a mosquito buzzing around my head that I can’t swat away.

I squint at his face, studying everything from his intensely dark eyes to the caterpillar brows drawn over them to the tiny lines around his mouth that make him look so much older than a teenager, and finally, to the slick waves that frame his sculpted jaw.

“Ind, watch out!” Paige screams.

A horn honks and white light fills the car. I crank the steering wheel to the right, bringing us safely back over the yellow line. A car speeds past, its driver yelling obscenities out the window.

“Maybe he
should
drive,” Paige mutters.

“I knew we kept her around for a reason,” Bishop says.

I glance at him again, sidelong this time so I can still watch the road. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” he answers. “Why?”

I glance at him after verifying a Mack truck isn’t going to slam into us. “Where did you go to high school?”

“Nowhere you’d know.” He clicks the radio on. “Not in L.A.”

“What, was it some Hogwarts-type school?”

“No, it was a regular high school.”

“Then try me. I passed geography.”

He laughs. “Okay. Roosevelt High, San Antonio, Texas. Heard of it?”

“Texas? But you don’t have an accent.”

“Because I lived in California until I was sixteen and a bit.”

“Where?”

“Rancho Santa Margarita.”

“Why’d you move?”

“Because my mom died and I was sent to live with my uncle.”

I lapse into silence as I consider his responses.

“Done with the inquisition?” he asks, shining his ring on his pants. “My answers have pleased you?”

“What’s with that thing?”

“This?” he says, holding up his hand so that his ring—the chunky type with deep grooves etched into heavy metal that boys wear when they want to accessorize and still appear manly—glints in the moonlight. I notice that the grooves spell out the number two in Roman numerals.

“What’s the two about?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Family heirloom. Anything else?”

It’s an omission, at the very least, but I don’t bother pushing the issue because I can tell he’s not going to talk. Also, I don’t care.