Spellcaster. Cara Shultz Lynn

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 sighed, 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.

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