“That’s not it,” Bishop says, turning his attention back to me. “No one is happy this happened to Paige. It’s just that we care about you and we don’t want to see the same thing happen to you.”
I bark a humorless laugh. “So everyone figures we should just cut our losses and move on.” Bishop opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him before he can get a word out. “No, that’s it, isn’t it? You just want to go back to a normal life. Paige being in Los Demonios must be convenient. ‘Hey! Would have liked to continue spending my every waking second searching for this girl I don’t really know, but sorry, she’s in this other dimension, so no can do. Wanna make out?’?”
“Indie,” he says, shaking his head.
“Don’t ‘Indie’ me,” I say. “You’re not even two years older than me, so you can stop treating me like a child. Everyone treats me like a child, and I’m done with that.”
He strides up to me with a challenge flashing in his dark eyes. “So you think if you die too that’ll make this whole thing better?” he demands.
“Who says I’d die?”
“Just look at history, Indie. No one who’s gone into Los Demonios—”
“Has ever come out,” I finish for him. “God, did you and Aunt Penny read the same textbook or something? Yes, it’s not going to be easy. But just because something is hard doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”
“Indie.” He grabs my wrists and pulls me to him.
“No!” I shout so loud that Lumpkins lets out another bark. “This can’t be fixed with a make-out sesh, okay?”
Hurt flashes across his face and he lets go of my wrists. I feel a quick stab in my gut—God, what is with me lately?—but I turn my back to him so he doesn’t see the tears that spring to my eyes.
And then, for the second time in a day, I storm out of a house while pleas to stop follow me out the door.
6
The engine idles. Through the bug-splattered windshield, I watch the sun sink into the ocean, casting the sky into the oranges and pinks of sunset.
The boardwalk is practically a ghost town. The crowds have disappeared, leaving just a few dozen people scattered across the huge expanse of beach. A woman closes the shutters on her booth, while another sweeps the stairs in front of her shop. A few people stand in line at a pizza parlor, but otherwise the place is empty.
I don’t know what I thought I’d accomplish by coming here, but I’m sure that whatever it is won’t happen with me sitting in the car.
I turn off the engine and step out. Without the sun stinging my shoulders, the breeze coming off the water sends goose bumps racing up my bare arms. I wish I’d brought a sweater. I make a mental note to remember that next time I run away from home.
I trudge through the sand toward the boardwalk. A single seagull circles overhead, silent. The Black Market is gone. Except it’s not really gone, just hidden from view.
“Videre.”
I say it only once, and as I blink, the market appears.
The place is suddenly teeming with activity. It’s so crowded my eyes can’t catch on one single thing to notice instead of another. Where the boardwalk was alive with tourists this morning, twilight seems to have brought out all the witches and warlocks. The market gave me the creeps before, but with the sun setting and Bishop not a comforting presence by my side, a spider of dread climbs my spine.
Irena wasn’t exactly friendly when we chatted last, but I can’t deny she knows more than I do about witchcraft. Most people know more than I do about witchcraft. But maybe she’ll be more forthcoming without Bishop there making her go into heat.
I weave through the crowd, trying not to wince or shriek when someone bumps my shoulder or loudly calls to a friend behind me.
I’m almost at Irena’s tent when a strange sensation comes over me, and I’m overcome with the feeling of being watched. My breath catches as I recall the woman from this morning.
I spin around wildly. Sure enough, there she is, staring at me from her darkened booth. A breeze blows wisps of thinning hair across her face. Her penetrating gaze almost makes me cry out, and I realize my hand has involuntarily come up to my heart.
The woman crooks a bent and knobby finger in the air. Instinct tells me to run far and fast from this creepy lady, but for some reason I don’t. She settles her hand back into her lap and waits, like she’s sure I’m going to come closer.
And I do.
Alarm bells sound in my head the nearer I get to the witch, but my feet keep moving, almost of their own volition, like an undercurrent is pulling me toward her across a sea of people. I start to wonder if she’s doing some sort of spell, and my heart beats so fast I think it’s finally going to crap out from all the stress I’ve put it under lately. By the time I’m standing in front of her booth, I’m so sure she’s going to kill me that I’m wondering why my life isn’t flashing before my eyes.
“Hello, Indie,” she says. I don’t know what shocks me more: that she knows my name, or that she has the clear voice of a woman much younger than the minimum seventy I’d pegged her as.
Up close, I see that the sallow, sagging skin, lifeless eyes, and thinning hair have lent an aged appearance to what is probably a woman no older than thirty. What could have happened to a person to make her look like this? Also: how do I avoid it, and is it contagious?
“H-h-how do you know my name?” I stammer.
“You need help,” she replies. It’s a statement, not a question. I can’t even reply before she says, “Come in,” then climbs off her stool and disappears behind the curtain into the dark recesses of the shop.
A moment passes. I look behind me; the boardwalk is a zoo, but no one’s paying attention to me. I could leave right now and be home in half an hour, snuggled up under my big, warm duvet.