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 sig
hed, 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.