Hexed (14 page)

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Um, yeah. The shop, the party, the Hollywood sign, just now at your house—”

“Before that, I mean.”

He rubs his forehead. “God, now I feel bad. I slept with you, didn’t I? Oh, this is terribly embarrassing. This happens sometimes, you know. But it’s just so hard to remember all the faces, all the names—”

“Very funny,” I say. “You look really familiar.”

“Actually, Ind, he kind of looks like that Kyle Loza guy,” Paige pipes up from the backseat. “Indie used to have the biggest crush on this BMXer who was on that spin-off of
The
Hills.
”

“I did not!” I snap.

“You are aware my bedroom faces yours, right? I saw the poster.”

Bishop laughs and pats me on the arm. “It’s okay, Indie. I completely understand.”

I shake off his hand. “Can we all not be having such a great time right now? My mom’s in trouble, remember?”

Paige sinks back into her seat, as Bishop mumbles apologies.

We’re quiet the rest of the drive. Only after we pass the Hollywood and Highland Center parking garage does Bishop pipe up again.

“What are you doing?” he asks, twisting around to watch the parking garage disappear behind us.

“What? You wanted me to park there?”

“Unless you want to pay the eight-hundred-dollar fine for parking in a red zone.”

This is not a conversation I thought I’d be having on the way to save Mom from evil sorcerers. I circle the block until I’m back at Hollywood and Highland.

The garage stares back at me in the glare of my headlights, and a cold shiver passes through me. I’ve never been a huge fan of creepy underground parking garages, but under these circumstances, as we slip into its darkened mouth, it feels as though we’re entering the maw of some predatory animal.

But even though it’s so late it can almost be called early, I’m happy to note there are still a good number of cars inside, and even a few people in club clothes marching toward the escalators to street level. It makes me feel a bit better, though I’m not sure why.

“I don’t get it,” I say, steering the Sunfire beneath the low ceiling and artificial track lighting of the garage. “Why here? There are tons of people around.” I slip the car into a spot and kill the engine.

“Exactly.” Bishop opens the car door and steps out.

Am I supposed to know what that means? I twist to look at Paige. She raises her hands, palms up, and shrugs.

I run after Bishop, and Paige follows suit.

“Okay, think about it,” he says, his footsteps echoing in the garage. “You’re a sorcerer. You’re away from home, out of your comfort zone without your sorcerer friends to help you, and every witch on the planet is hunting you. What better place to keep a hostage, or say, really important book, than in plain sight?”

“Still don’t get it,” I say.

“Because,” he continues, “there’s nothing witches value more than secrecy. The last time the public found out about our existence it didn’t exactly end well. No witch would risk exposure by confronting a sorcerer in so public a place as the Chinese Theatre.”

“Or the Getty,” I mumble, remembering the news report. My footsteps sputter to a halt as I consider this, Paige stopping next to me.

“Right. They’ve been hopping around from one L.A. landmark to another for weeks, never staying in the same place for long.”

“So what’s the plan?” I call to Bishop’s back.

“What plan?” he answers without turning. “I’m the one who said we shouldn’t come here unprepared.” He steps onto the escalator. We scramble to follow him, lest we be left alone in the garage.

“Sorry for thinking you might have some brilliant idea,” I pant, out of breath. “You know, since you’re supposed to be a warlock.” I cross my arms and glare at him. Which, I have to say, is much less effective when you’re gliding slowly up an escalator to instrumental soft-rock music.

Bishop laughs. “You know, your mean face is pretty sexy.”

Ugh.

“Okay, I have an idea,” Paige says.

I take a reluctant pause from considering how best to maim and injure Bishop to look at Paige.

“Okay,” she says. “Bishop, you use your little magic thingy to get inside. Check out the situation, and then report back to us so we can come up with another plan.”

Bishop shakes his head and tucks his hair under his hat. “Fantastic. So look, if you’re not coming, then you might want to hang back.”

I huff, the neon of Hollywood Boulevard coming into view over the lip of the escalator. “So what are you suggesting, that we wait in the car?”

He steps off the escalator and turns to face me. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. But you’re perfectly welcome to follow me.” A smirk plays on his lips. He gives me a little wave before vanishing into thin air.

I
’ve lived in Los Angeles my whole life and have never been inside the Chinese Theatre. Outside is another story. I’ve driven or walked past it zillions of times, taken pictures of celebrities’ footprints and handprints on the Walk of Fame, and camped out across the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of Katy Perry at the premiere of her 3-D movie.

But I’ve never been inside. Which seems dumb, because it’s an L.A. freaking landmark! Either there’s been a huge line for tickets, or the movie I wanted to see sold out, or Bianca wanted to see something playing at another theater. I don’t know, but I’m slapping myself for it now. If I knew the layout of the place—the battlefield, as it were—rescuing Mom would be that much easier. And I would have to rely on Bishop that much less.

Paige and I lean over the dash and scan the garage for signs of Bishop.

“Maybe he didn’t go inside,” I say. “Maybe he just got mad at us and left.”

Paige shakes her head, bangs shuffling over the rims of her glasses. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not? He took off before.”

“But your mom wasn’t in danger.”

“What does he care about my mom?”

“He cares about
you,
obviously, or he wouldn’t have come back.”

I snort. “Oh yeah, he
really
cares about me.”

“Has it escaped your notice that the two of you have done nothing but flirt since the minute you met?”

I laugh. “You obviously don’t know what flirting is. We’re
fighting.
Big difference.”

“God, are you really that blind? It’s like in kindergarten when a boy pulls a girl’s hair. He likes you.”

I shake my head. “No way. And in any case, he’s a jerk. I would never be interested in him.”

It’s her turn to laugh.

“He’s completely not my type, Paige. He wears leather. He looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in weeks. He’s wearing a freaking beret!”

“It’s not a beret, it’s a beanie. A slouchy beanie. And you know it’s sexy.”

“Sexy?” I draw back to get a better look at her. “You can’t be serious.”

She shrugs.

“What, do you have a crush on him now or something?”

“Why, would that bother you?” She cocks her head, waiting for my reply.

My mouth opens and closes before I get a handle on what I should say. “No! Not at all. If you like him, go for it.”

She doesn’t look convinced. I change topics.

“What could be taking him so long?”

Paige looks out the window at the shadowy corners of the garage. “Getting the layout of the place, I guess.”

Neither of us mentions the idea that maybe he’s been caught, even though we’re both obviously thinking it.

A group of clubgoers totter around the corner, talking and laughing loudly. We edge up in our seats to look for Bishop, because there are scantily clad girls involved and it’s entirely possible he got distracted. But he’s not there.

“Should we check on him?” I ask.

“Yeah, no. If Bishop can’t get in and out safely, we most definitely won’t be able to.”

Before I can argue, something lands on the roof of the car with a jarring thud.

We shriek, instinctively ducking. Metal crunches overhead, and then two shiny alligator shoes step onto the hood. My heart races, adrenaline surging through my veins.

The feet hop off the hood. Frederick bends next to the driver’s-side door, his face just centimeters from mine. His mouth curves into a menacing smile.

“Drive!” Paige yells.

I fumble with the keys, unable to break eye contact with Frederick. But the car won’t start. The engine doesn’t even attempt to turn over.

“It won’t start!” I cry.

“Try harder.”

“I
am
trying! It’s not working.”

Frederick circles around the front of the car, knocking out a tune on the hood.

As Frederick nears Paige’s side, she inches back against me so that she’s practically in my lap.

I catch sight of the group of clubgoers a few car lengths’ down, and for a fleeting moment hope flares up inside me that they’ll help, or at the very least, run for help—but they don’t move. A girl holds a camera out and her friends all huddle for a picture, but they’re just as frozen as if I were looking at a photograph. No one’s going to come. No one’s going to help us.

“Now this is just getting silly,” Frederick says, his voice muted by the quarter-inch of glass between us. I can hardly hear him above the sound of my heartbeat.

He circles around the car again, and Paige and I crane our necks to follow his movements. He nears my window and bends low, regarding me with icy blue eyes.

“I just want my mom back,” I manage.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” he says. “She’s in good company. You might know him, actually. A little brat by the name of Bishop. They’ve been great support for each other. And you know, support is very important when you’ve …” He trails off, then waves his hand. “Well, better not get into specifics.”

A sob escapes me, a sick sense of foreboding clamping down on my chest.

“But then I got to thinking. You know, it’s not very fair for them to have all the fun.” He smiles to reveal a row of crooked, decaying teeth, then braces his hands on the hood of the car.

The rocking starts gently, like the tremor of a small car as a semi whooshes past on the interstate. A spider of dread climbs up my spine. Paige and I exchange wide-eyed stares, and the spider becomes a big, hairy tarantula. Frederick quickly picks up momentum, and the car rocks hard from left to right, knocking Paige and me against each other and the windows, then is suspended on two wheels for mere seconds before crashing down hard in the other direction. My head smashes against the window, and a searing pain shoots through my skull. White spots dance in my vision. I feebly brace my arms, trying to stop some of the impact, some of the pain.

But then the rocking stops.

My first thought is that someone’s saved us. But when my eyes adjust, Frederick is still there, walking in front of the car, taking slow, purposeful steps as if he’s got all the time in the world. He locks eyes with me and tips his head to the side, one thumb under his chin as he taps an index finger on his lips. And that’s when I realize something: he’s not going to kill me. Even if killing me wouldn’t bleed him of his powers, he wouldn’t do it. He’s going to keep me alive until he gets what he wants. But Paige? He has no reason to keep her alive.

“Should we make a run for it?” Paige asks between gasps for air.

I swallow. “On the count of three”—I drop my voice to barely a whisper—“you go left and I’ll go right.”

“What? No way.” Paige clings to my arm.

“It’s the only way either of us has a chance.”
It’s the only way
you
have
a
chance.
I squeeze her clammy, shaking hand.

She nods, biting down on her lips as tears stream over her pale cheeks.

“Good luck.”

Frederick moves in my peripheral vision. Time’s up for mushy moments.

We scramble to open the doors, and without another glance at each other, dash across the garage in opposite directions.

“Indigo, what sort of way is this to treat your old pal?” Frederick says, his lilting voice sending a chill rippling through me. But his voice is distant now, like he hasn’t moved. Like he’s letting me run. Which should make me feel relieved, but instead it just makes me wonder what he’s got up his sleeve. If he’s going to go after Paige instead of me.

But I can’t turn back now. Because if I can just make it upstairs to street level, maybe there’ll be people there who can help. He can’t have frozen all of Los Angeles.

I careen around a corner and make a mad dash for the escalator, leaping the moving stairs two at a time. My chest burns with every gulp for air, adrenaline pushing me forward like an Olympic sprinter. Hollywood Boulevard comes into view. I jump onto the street and blindly hang a right. That’s when I spot them: people. Moving, living, unfrozen people, milling around outside the Hard Rock Cafe. Sure, the women wear miniskirts and six-inch heels and the men sport shirts unbuttoned to reveal waxed chests, but they’re
people.
They can help me. My heart pounds so hard I think it might break free and make a run for it if my pesky rib cage weren’t getting in the way.

I run toward them. “Help! Help me!”

Heads spin in my direction, and I notice their eyes: red, burning, demented. As if on cue, they surge toward me like zombies in some cheap horror film, shrieking and frothing at the mouth, flailing their arms in their desperation to reach me. Behind them is Frederick, leaning against the huge windows of the bar, casually pushing back his cuticles.

I stumble backward and run. I run past the Dolby Theatre. Past a Starbucks. Past a knockoff Madame Tussauds wax museum. I run so hard and fast over the stars of Hollywood Boulevard that sweat breaks out in beads on my lip, and my chest burns, and my muscles ache with lactic acid buildup.

The tip of my shoe catches in a crack in the pavement, and I pitch forward. I hold my hands out against my fall, thudding hard against the ground. Shrieks and moans and the clacking of heels draw nearer. I push myself up, gravel stinging my palms, and run for my life. Exhaustion weights my every step, but I don’t dare stop, don’t dare slow my frantic pace. And just when I think I can’t possibly make my legs move anymore, that I’m going to have to find somewhere to hide until I regain energy, I realize that the sounds of pursuit have stopped. I slow to a jog and wheel around. No one is there.

Relief floods me. I did it!

“Spot of tea?”

I yelp and spin around. Frederick is seated at an outdoor bistro table across the street.

Shit, crap, shit.

I dart down the street, across four lanes of halted traffic. Around a car with a driver paused in the action of applying her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Around a black Escalade that must hold a celebrity, based on the sheer number of people pointing cameras outside their car windows at it. I veer onto Las Palmas, careful to stay in the light so that Frederick can’t jump out at me from any more dark corners.

A streetlamp crashes down inches from my face, inches from flattening me. It hammers the earth so hard I jump three feet into the air. A firework of sparks rain down from the exposed cables.

“Just break the spell, Indigo. It’s that easy.” I look up. Frederick sits on a window ledge five stories above me, swinging his legs like a kid in a too-big chair.

I whirl around and bolt in the only direction left: a dark, narrow alley.

One hand on the cool wall and the other clawing the air in front of me, I move into the dark. Moonlight fractures a patch of graffitied stucco and the overflowing Dumpster beneath it, and absolutely nothing else. The reek of garbage and sweat clogging my nostrils would be enough to make me gag if I didn’t have other reasons to want to puke, and a steady, syrupy drip sounds from somewhere just ahead. I slow my steps, despite everything, for fear of what I might smack into in the dark.

Footsteps thud on the pavement behind me, echoing against the walls. My mouth turns dry and parched. What does Frederick have in store for me this time? Rabid dogs? Buildings collapsing onto me, burying me under a ton of brick? I sob, because I know I can’t keep running forever. It’s pointless. This ends when he wants it to end.

Steeling myself with a big breath, I turn to face Frederick. “I’m ready.”

“really, now? And what on earth changed your mind?” He laughs, his sharp nose and open mouth backlit by the streetlights.

I swallow the cry of fear bubbling up inside me. “I-if you take me to the book, I’ll break the spell.”

He stops laughing now and tips his head to the side, as if to judge whether I’m serious. And then he disappears—vanishes before my very eyes.

Before I can even whirl around to look for him, his breath warms my neck as he leans over my shoulder. I scream, but the sound is muffled when his long, cold fingers clamp around my neck.