He looks at me for a long time, fingering the chunky silver ring engraved with the Roman numeral one that’s on his middle finger. I wish I could erase the look on his face—like he’s considering doing something he really doesn’t want to do just to make me happy. But I need this. I can feel how close he is to agreeing.
He keeps twisting the ring around. The ring that, given to Bishop by his mother on her deathbed, gave him extra lives and saved him from dying in the swamp after Leo stabbed him not long ago. Now it’s just a chunk of useless metal. I wonder why he still wears it.
“Fine,” he finally says. But when he smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll ask my uncle about it tonight.”
I smile back. “Or how about right now?”
11
Bishop drums his hands on the steering wheel to a punk-rock song blasting from the speakers. His leather jacket is pushed up to his elbows, revealing part of the sleeve of colorful tattoos on his right arm. The setting sun glints off his aviator sunglasses and makes the dark hair around his jaw shine copper.
I smile at my sexy boyfriend. In fact, if I weren’t on my way to try out black magic that could set me on fire if it doesn’t send me to a mental hospital first, I’d probably tell him to pull over right now so we could make out.
Cars whiz past on the freeway. Houses and shops slowly give way to desert the farther we get from L.A. I had to lie to Aunt Penny and say I had cheerleading practice to score myself a few hours of free time after school. If she weren’t so overwhelmed by the influx of Halloween shoppers down at the Black Cat, I’m sure she would have noticed that it was a Wednesday, and we only practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And, ya know, that I’m not a cheerleader anymore.
Double score that the shop has extended hours and doesn’t close until ten tonight, giving me a bit of extra time before I have to be home.
“So where are we going anyway, Antarctica?” I ask.
Bishop grins. “We’re almost there.”
A noise from the backseat makes me jump. I swing around. An old army-green canvas backpack I didn’t notice before lies across the faded red leather seat. I can distinctly make out the shape of a box inside the backpack.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
The backpack shakes, and I nearly leap out of my skin. “It moved!” I shriek.
Bishop glances at me, his eyebrows pinched together. “If you’re that scared when it’s inside the bag, I’m not sure how you’re going to do this spell.”
I want to demand that he tell me what the hell is in the bag already, but I’m determined to prove that I’m not a wuss, so I pointedly turn around and don’t look back even when the bag rocks so violently I have to bite down on my lip to keep from yelping.
A half hour ticks by on the dashboard clock. Soon, we come to a massive mountain range topped with bright green trees that go on for as far as the eye can see. A big sign that reads ANGELES NATIONAL FOREST passes by on the left.
Bishop turns off onto a dirt road.
“Isn’t this a popular area for hikers?” I ask. “I thought the point was privacy.”
“Yeah, it’s popular,” he answers. “But haven’t you heard of all the dead bodies they find dumped here?”
Um. What the hell do dead bodies have to do with our excursion?
Bishop catches the apprehension on my face and explains. “Some of the places in these mountains are so remote you’re unlikely to ever pass another human, unless they wandered off the paths or got lost or something.”
Joy. Glad we cleared that up.
Bishop pulls into a small lot in front of a little white information building. He reaches into the backseat and pulls out a pair of knee-high rubber boots. “Put these on,” he says. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“Shouldn’t I be wearing hiking boots?” I ask as he climbs out of the car.
“You need these,” he says.
He closes the door before I can protest further, leaving me alone in the car with the mystery bag and a lot of questions. I can’t get out of there fast enough.
Outside, a cool breeze makes goose bumps rise on my bare arms. It’s at least a few degrees cooler than when we left the house an hour ago. The scent of turned soil and pine trees fills the air, and insects chirp loudly within the thick tree cover. I kick off my wedge sandals and slip into the rain boots.
Bishop’s back in a moment, carrying two hiking passes on lanyards. He reaches into the backseat and pulls out the backpack, then slips the straps over his shoulders. He links arms with me, and we set off into the forest.
We walk for a while on a wide path dotted with educational signs about the flora of the Angeles National Forest, but it’s not long before Bishop pulls us off the path and the easy hike ends. Trees press in on either side of us, branches clawing at my bare skin as we climb over exposed tree roots and boulders. The boots are a half size too big, and they chafe against my heels as they slip up and down. It’s slow and exhausting work.
“How far do we have to go?” I ask.
“Not much farther. We didn’t see anyone on the trail, so I think we’re pretty safe.”
Finally, Bishop stops in a little clearing.
“Dear God, tell me we’re here,” I pant.
“This is good enough,” he answers.
The sun is low enough now that what little light penetrates through the trees casts ominous shadows and makes the tree trunks look like skeletons in a graveyard.
Bishop shrugs out of his backpack, then starts walking around with his head down, kicking aside fallen leaves.
“What are you looking for?”
“A stick,” he answers. He picks up a thick, ropy branch from the forest floor. Before I can ask what he needs it for, he starts carving a pattern into the dirt. The carving starts to take the shape of a large circle with seemingly random lines inside it—though I’m sure they’re anything but random. I watch quietly as he works, my arms wrapped around myself to fend off the cold.
He stands up finally, a layer of sweat on his forehead. Satisfied, he tosses the branch aside, then crosses back to the bag. My heart is in my throat as he reaches around inside the backpack, but he only pulls out an intricately carved black candle.
“Here,” he says, passing it to me. I take it, inspecting the swirling design in the cold wax.