What isn’t?
There’s so much going through my head right now—guilt over Jezebel giving her life for my aunt when all we ever did was fight. Guilt over Cruz. Guilt over Bishop. Guilt over Mom and Paige and even the Chief. Over all the people I killed. And maybe I shouldn’t feel anything about them at all, but still, I can’t help the heart-crushing feeling that comes over me when I realize I was the instrument of their deaths, can’t stop the fear that comes when I realize I have something so black inside me that I could take a life.
I focus on what’s bothering me this very second.
“You risked your life to save mine,” I finally say. “And after I was so hard on you before. You tried to apologize and I wouldn’t even listen—”
“Indie,” she interrupts. Her voice is so unexpectedly stern that I look up through the blur of tears. She regards me without blinking.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But—”
“Nothing.”
I start to speak again, but she holds up a hand.
“Please,” she begs.
I drop my gaze into my lap. Her shoulders relax, her tone going soft again.
“We didn’t get off to a good start, did we?”
I give a brittle laugh, fingering the edges of the blanket in my hands. That’s the understatement of the century.
“I wish I could turn back time somehow and do things over,” she says. “Help you when I thought something was wrong. Bring Gwen back…” She sighs. “But since I can’t do that, all I ask is that we start fresh now.” She looks at me full on, watery eyes pleading.
I give her a weak smile as tears slip down my cheeks. “That sounds good.”
She squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. I can’t imagine a time where I’ll be able to think of Mom and have it not hurt in a physical way, but with Aunt Penny by my side, at least I won’t have to do it alone. And who knows, maybe one day that ragged hole in my chest will go away. I’ll think of Mom and I’ll smile, like Bishop does when he talks about his mom. Maybe I’ll think about the piles of dead bodies in Los Demonios and not shudder. Maybe I’ll sleep at night.
“You did what you had to do,” she says. “You were great.”
It’s like she can read my mind. I give her a grateful smile, my heart filling with so much warmth that it feels like the sun has been plucked out of the sky and put right into my chest.
It gets me to wondering. Maybe I’m not such a bad person after all. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, hurt people I care about deeply, but I’ve done good too. I saved Paige, put myself in danger and faced down my own dad to bring those teens home. Would someone made of evil do that? There’s something black inside me, but maybe there’s something black inside everyone. Maybe we all have to consciously turn away from it and try to be better—not just us teenage half witch/half sorcerers.
A knock sounds on the door before it cracks open.
“Hello!” Paige pokes her head inside, then stops short when she sees us on the couch. “Oh, sorry. I’ll—”
“No, come in!” I call, wiping the tears off my face.
Paige edges inside cautiously, an uneasy smile on her face. We must not look too inviting, what with the tears and snot and everything.
“Are you feeling better?” she asks Aunt Penny.
“Much. I’ve had a great nurse.” Penny looks at me, and we share a secret smile.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Aunt Penny says. “Come in!”
Paige pads across the room and sits down in the big reclining chair across from us. A few awkward moments pass in silence.
It’s been weird between us since we got back from Los Demonios. Paige didn’t remember anything from before the Chief wiped her, but she remembered the headquarters and the ceremony. She remembered all of the deaths.
I wouldn’t let them wipe her again.
I told her everything, about the Family and the Priory, about her old life before this whole crazy mess went down. I can’t imagine how weird it must have been to be told her best friend is a witch and that it’s a secret. Never mind—I can’t imagine how weird it must have been to be told who your best friend is and not even recognize her. But she tries. We try.
I constantly worry that she doesn’t like me. We met when we were kids, and without the endearing memory of our childhoods together, our moms forcing us to be friends, I worry she wonders how she ever liked me in the first place. From what she’s told Aunt Penny, I know she worries too. That I’m disappointed with her—that she’s not the best friend I remember. I try hard every day to show her that’s not true. I think that might be part of the problem: we’re both trying too hard.
But I tell myself I made the right choice. After everything that happened to her, I couldn’t bear the thought of another violation. I scour every spell book I can get my hands on for a way to reverse the mind wipe. I haven’t found anything yet, but I won’t stop until I do.
Together we decided on the story that she’d gotten homesick at music school. Her parents seemed hesitant, but they bought it—honestly, I think they were just happy to have her home.
The media have been having a field day with all the returned teens. They turned up the other night outside of Cedars-Sinai hospital in West Hollywood, their only memory of some underground rave. Doctors are calling it a “drug-induced amnesia.” The families are calling it the answer to their prayers. The answer to the mysterious blackouts that have been ripping through Los Angeles ever since the Priory descended on our town. As for Mrs. Hornby, her daughter is still one of the “missing.” It breaks my heart to know she’s probably holding out hope that her daughter will stumble into a hospital in the middle of the night.
“Everyone seems so dour,” Paige finally says. “Anyone up for a snack? I can make us some tea, and I think I saw some cream puffs in the pantry yesterday.”