“Okay, so what are you really doing here?”
“I’m offended, Indie.” She ambles over to the computer desk next to my nightstand and falls into the little wooden chair. “But…since we’re both here, there is something I wanted to talk about.”
Ding, ding, ding!
Jezebel leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees, giving me an intense stare. “The Family, they really screwed us over, didn’t they? It’s not like they just created this fake Bible and sent it out into the world not knowing what deadly consequences could arise from it; they knew the Priory was gunning for it, knew you were being targeted, and they didn’t help—they even agreed to help us on the night of homecoming and then didn’t show up. They knew we’d die and they didn’t care, just as long as their own Bible was safe.”
“Yes, thanks for the reminder,” I say dryly.
“The Family is supposed to lead us. Protect us. They’re supposed to uphold the law for witches and warlocks everywhere, but how can we trust them when they’d do this to their own people?”
“We can’t,” I agree.
“Exactly.” She leans even farther forward, a fiery glint in her eyes. “That’s why we have to get rid of them.”
My heart falls into my stomach. “Get rid of them?”
“Exact our revenge,” she says, and now her eyes look downright maniacal. “Let them know they can’t do this anymore. Take away their power and give it to someone who would rule fairly.”
I snort. “Like who, you?”
“No, not me.” She dismisses me with a wave. “I don’t know who, just not them. They’re murderers, Ind. Don’t you understand? It wasn’t the Priory who killed your mom—it was the Family. It was because of them that the sorcerers were after you guys in the first place.”
I think about it. She’s right, in a way. “So what are you suggesting?”
A smile creeps onto her face, and I’m suddenly not so sure I want to know the answer to that.
“We use them as bait, just like they did with us. How many people were at your homecoming dance? A couple hundred?”
Dread pinches my nerves.
“A couple hundred people saw a dragon chase you through the ceiling of the Athenaeum.” She pauses to let that sink in. “And yet not one person has come forward to accuse you of witchcraft. Not one picture, not one cell-phone video has leaked to the Internet. How is that possible?”
I already know the answer. I just didn’t want to acknowledge that I was the reason that hundreds of my classmates had their memories erased. I was once a victim of that myself, and I still feel sick to my stomach when I think about what might have happened to me before my memory was wiped. I wouldn’t wish that feeling—one of such deep violation—on my worst enemy (i.e., on Bianca Cavanaugh).
“So what’s that got to do with your plan?” I ask.
“It’s the key to the plan,” she answers cryptically. “We know the Family will come running if there’s a chance the public could find out about witches. It’s a risk to their very lives. Sorcerers can’t kill a witch without draining themselves of their own powers—not without The Witch Hunter’s Bible—but a human? A human could kill a witch. And look at what happened the last time the public thought witches existed. They can’t risk a repeat of the Salem witch trials.”
I have an idea where this is going, though I wish I didn’t.
“All we have to do is stage something big—something that would get the Family to race over to clean up the mess and make sure there are no witnesses—then hit them with force when they’re caught off guard.” Jezebel leans back and drapes her arm over the chair back, satisfied. “I haven’t thought of the perfect thing yet, but it’d have to be big. We could blow something up—”
“Blow something up?” I shriek.
“I know,” Jezebel says. “That wouldn’t really work. The public might think it was terrorist activity. It’d have to be something obviously paranormal.”
I feel dangerously close to puking up my pork chop.
“It’d have to make the news too,” she adds, lost in thought, her eyes focused on the middle distance. “Have to involve an L.A. landmark of some kind, something that people really care about. Maybe the Capitol Records building or the Staples Center. Oooh!” She straightens up excitedly. “LAX!”
“Jezebel,” I say. “Are you crazy?”
Her smile melts into a scowl. “That’s exactly what Bishop said.”
“You talked to Bishop?” I ask before I realize how jealous I sound—correct that: am.
“He didn’t tell you? Interesting.”
So like Jezebel to latch on to my weakness like a vulture. The simmering heat in my core rises.
“I don’t like the Family any more than you do,” I say carefully, steering us back on topic, “but you’re talking about putting innocent lives at risk. I wouldn’t want any part of your plan even if I had the time to care about the Family. My best friend is missing, and all I care about right now is finding her.”
“You’re so small-minded,” she spits, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Think about someone other than yourself for once. This is for the good of our people, not just you.”
“Oh please,” I retort. “You can act like this is all for the greater good and blah blah blah, but it’s obvious you just want to get back at the Family for bruising your little ego.”
She stands up, her beautiful features twisted in anger. I kick off the blankets and stand too, though I wish I hadn’t when I only come up to her chin (and I’m not short, not by a long shot).
“Can I get you a step stool?” she asks, giving a condescending laugh.
“Get out,” I demand through gritted teeth.
It takes her a moment to realize I’m serious. I swear I actually see her eyes turn a darker shade of green. “You’re going to regret this,” she says, staring down her nose at me.
“Not as much as you’re going to regret it if you don’t get the hell out of my room,” I counter.