“I’ve got it,” I say suddenly. “What about wind? Like I used that day on Jezebel. Say someone tries to attack me with an arrow or a bullet or anything that flies—I can knock it back with force.”
“Deadly wind,” he says. “Awesome, if we could figure out how you did it. Controlling the natural elements—the sun, the wind, et cetera—that’s not something we’re supposed to be able to do. I’ve researched this in everything I can get my hands on, but I can’t find anything to explain what you did. Hey, are you sure you didn’t do something else? Maybe Jezebel flew backward and you thought you pushed her with the wind?”
I glare at him.
“Okay, okay,” he says, hands held up defensively. “I believe you. I just don’t know how to help you with that. Maybe just try to simulate the situation. What were you feeling when it happened?”
“Anger,” I say, remembering that night. “But fear mostly. That she was going to hurt me.”
“Okay, so let’s try that.”
Except I’ve already tried. If I couldn’t summon it when a massive bat was attacking me, I’m not sure anything Bishop could try on me now would help.
I dig my fingers into my scalp and pace around the room. I’m fully aware of how impatient and unreasonable I must appear to him, but Paige doesn’t have time for me to slowly improve. I need to get better, fast.
I can feel Bishop watching me. Finally, I turn to him again.
“Isn’t there some other way?” Desperation clings to my voice.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I throw my hands up. “I don’t know. That I could learn faster?”
“You tried for like, two seconds,” he says. “You need to relax—”
“Don’t tell me to relax!” I yell. I feel guilty as soon as the words are out of my mouth, but seriously—who has ever actually relaxed when someone has said that?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that since the moment I found out I was a witch I’ve been hunted. And my mom…I just want to get good at this fast. I don’t want to practice for weeks or months or years.”
I take a shaky breath. When I look at him, I know he sees the naked desperation in my eyes, and it makes me feel so exposed. I pace to the window and look out at Paige’s room. The curtains are up, and I can see the yellow paint on her walls. I wonder how long her parents will keep her room this way. When they’ll realize she’s not coming back. Whether her room is going to become some shrine to the daughter they once had.
“This is really important to you?” Bishop asks.
I don’t answer. I can feel tears hot in my throat, and I don’t want to cry right now.
“There is something we can try,” Bishop finally says. His voice is dark, hinting at something dangerous.
I turn around.
He glances at the door as if to confirm Aunt Penny isn’t listening in, and then crosses over to me. “There’s this spell,” he whispers. “I heard my uncle talking about it once.”
I nod, urging him to continue.
“You know how scientists say that humans use only ten percent of their brain’s capacity at any given moment? Well, it’s the same thing for us. Even the most powerful witches and warlocks on the planet use only a small portion of the power that’s available to them. The rest is there, but you can’t access it all at the same time.”
“And this spell gives you access?” I ask, hope blooming in my chest.
“For a short time, if you can do it.”
“So why didn’t you teach this to me ages ago?” I ask. “It’s not like we’ve been short on occasions where it would have been helpful.”
“Well, mostly because I like my girlfriends alive,” he says. “I mean, I may not have been too discriminating in the past, but I do draw the line at necrophilia.”
I shake my head. “What are you even talking about?”
“It’s dangerous,” he says. “Like, very dangerous. We’re talking about black magic, Ind.”
A shiver moves down my spine. “Dangerous? How so?”
“Because black magic comes with a price.”
“Well, that’s vague,” I answer.
“All that power can be too”—he waves a hand absently, as if searching for a way to explain—“too overwhelming for your brain, I guess. It can put you out of your mind. It’s just ugly, okay? Let’s stop talking about it. It was a bad idea. Are you hungry? I could really go for—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “How do you know about all this?”
“From the So You’re a Warlock pamphlet the Family gave me on my sixteenth birthday.” I kick him in the shin. “My uncle’s friend tried it,” he amends. “He was a warlock with twenty years of practice under his belt, and he ended up setting himself on fire. Don’t ask me how. Another guy got himself admitted to a mental hospital.”
“Really?” I ask, disbelieving.
“Opening those pathways in your brain is dangerous. But that’s not the worst part. There’s a price you pay when you do black magic. It could be big, it could be small, but the point is, you don’t know what it will be, or how badly it will affect you. Most people just know better than to try. It’s not worth the risk.”
I chew the inside of my cheek as I consider. I’m willing to try anything, but I have to admit that becoming a burn victim or mental patient does give me a bit of pause.
“But you said it’s for only a short time, right?” I ask.
“A couple of hours,” he says.
“And you’d be there helping me. I mean, you wouldn’t let me do anything stupid. Your uncle’s friend was probably alone when he tried the spell—you wouldn’t let me burn. You’d help me.”
“Listen, I shouldn’t have mentioned it—” he starts.
“Don’t be like that,” I interrupt. “When I met you, you were fun and spontaneous. Aren’t you even curious about it?”
It’s a low blow, and I feel a pang of guilt.