“That’s enough,” he says, cutting her off. His smile vanishes. “Thank you for the information. I’ll deal with it shortly.”
Jezebel exhales sharply; it’s obvious she’s not used to being spoken to this way by him.
The full realization of what’s happening sinks into me. Jezebel’s betrayed us. She’s working for the Chief.
I’m overcome with the desire to lunge at her. To tear out her gorgeous hair and smash her face into the ground. I dig my fingers into the velvet divan so hard I can’t believe the fabric doesn’t puncture.
Jezebel’s eyes land on me, and she gasps. If it’s true, and she’s part of the Chief’s plan, this could all end right now. All she has to do is out me as a witch and I’m a goner.
“You can leave now,” the Chief says. “Thank you, Jezebel. Your hard work is appreciated.”
Jezebel keeps staring. I beg with my eyes, Please, Jezebel, don’t say anything.
But why should she do me any favors? Last time I checked, I did almost slam her into my bedroom wall.
Finally, she breaks eye contact with me. “Thank you, sir. I’ll keep you updated.” She retreats toward the door.
She didn’t tell on me. It’s shocking, but I don’t for a second think it’s because she’s not up to something after all. This much is clear: Jezebel is a traitor. She’s working for the same sorcerers who had my mother killed. Who kidnapped my best friend.
“Oh, and, Jezebel?” the Chief says. She stops in the doorway. “Please send in a guard on your way out.”
She salutes, avoiding my eyes as she slips out.
I’m still reeling with anger when two beefy guards enter the room.
“Please escort Miss India to her living quarters. And remember to treat her nicely—she is our special guest.”
It’s impossible to suppress my shudder at his words.
I don’t bother resisting as I’m escorted down more winding, nondescript rock hallways. Eventually, we come to a stop in front of heavy double doors. The muted chatter of voices filters into the hall.
The room is about as big as the cafeteria at school. Though its walls are the same dark rock as the rest of the place and there are no windows to the outside world, the track lighting overhead is so bright you almost don’t notice. In addition to the puffy couches set up around big-screen TVs and card tables, there are braided rugs thrown down over the dark wood floors, modern art on the walls, and bright green planters springing up from every corner of the room. If it weren’t for the glass cubicle hanging from the center of the ceiling that holds a guard who surveys everyone with his hands clasped behind his back, it might even be called cozy.
The room is filled to the brim with teens. They’re wearing clean clothes and don’t look like they’ve been tortured recently. More shocking: they look happy.
I take a tentative step inside, listening in on a conversation at a nearby table in hopes of overhearing something useful about this place, but they’re just politely arguing the rules of rummy. People glance up as I pass and give me friendly smiles, which I find hard to return. I scan the group of teens around one TV, then another.
Finally I see her.
My heart lodges in my throat, the air punched out of my chest.
Paige looks exactly like she did the last time I saw her. Her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a spiky ponytail, her bangs brush the rims of her leopard-print glasses. She’s wearing a T-shirt with the name of some band I’ve never heard of and a pair of tweed trousers rolled up at the ankles to show off her Converse sneakers. She sits with her feet up on a coffee table, reading a large book spread open in her lap. Even the way she reads strikes a familiar chord in my heart.
I realize I’m smiling, and quickly wipe the grin off my face. I flick a glance up at the guard in the cubicle, but he’s looking the other way.
All I want to do is run over and pull Paige into a hug, but I can’t attract attention. I slowly cross the room, feeling the space between us shrink little by little. My chest is so tight I can’t breathe properly. I scan Paige’s arms as I approach, looking for signs she’s been hurt in some way….Nothing. Her face doesn’t contain a pinch of worry.
She doesn’t look up from her book until I’m standing over her and she’s steeped in my shadow. I open my mouth, ready to blurt out that I’m here to save her, that she doesn’t have to worry anymore, but the polite look she gives me stops me dead. She smiles and reaches out her hand. “You must be new. I’m Paige. Nice to meet you.”
Pain bursts through my chest.
“Are you okay?” she asks, leaning forward. “I can call the guard.”
“No,” I answer too quickly. I wipe my slick hands on my pants and then reach out to shake her hand. “I’m fine. I’m…” I almost say India, but then I drop my voice an octave and say, “Indigo. Indigo Blackwood.”
I watch her face closely for a flash of recognition, but she just smiles.
Oh, Paige. What have they done to you?
The discovery that she’s happy here should be a comfort, but instead I feel more disturbed than if I’d found her bound and gagged. What they’ve done to her is almost worse than physical torture. They’ve taken away the part of her that is Paige and left a hollowed-out version of her in its place.
Our hands drop. The world sways at impossible angles beneath me. I fall into the nearest seat so I won’t pass out.
She’s eyeing me strangely now, so I grab the nearest book off an end table beside the couch and open it to the first page. The words blur together.
“It’s strange the first day, but they’re really nice here,” Paige says.
I look up. Her face is so open—it’s like she really believes what she’s saying. My heart breaks.
I force a smile. “That’s good.”
She goes back to reading.
I don’t know what to do. I’ve gotten this far, but none of it will matter if I can’t get her to come with me.
She has to remember me. We have almost sixteen years of shared history—one spell can’t possibly erase all that.