“Ind, watch out!” Paige screams.
A horn honks and white light fills the car. I crank the steering wheel to the right, bringing us safely back over the yellow line. A car speeds past, its driver yelling obscenities out the window.
“Maybe he should drive,” Paige mutters.
“I knew we kept her around for a reason,” Bishop says.
I glance at him again, sidelong this time so I can still watch the road. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” he answers. “Why?”
I glance at him after verifying a Mack truck isn’t going to slam into us. “Where did you go to high school?”
“Nowhere you’d know.” He clicks the radio on. “Not in L.A.”
“What, was it some Hogwarts-type school?”
“No, it was a regular high school.”
“Then try me. I passed geography.”
He laughs. “Okay. Roosevelt High, San Antonio, Texas. Heard of it?”
“Texas? But you don’t have an accent.”
“Because I lived in California until I was sixteen and a bit.”
“Where?”
“Rancho Santa Margarita.”
“Why’d you move?”
“Because my mom died and I was sent to live with my uncle.”
I lapse into silence as I consider his responses.
“Done with the inquisition?” he asks, shining his ring on his pants. “My answers have pleased you?”
“What’s with that thing?”
“This?” he says, holding up his hand so that his ring—the chunky type with deep grooves etched into heavy metal that boys wear when they want to accessorize and still appear manly—glints in the moonlight. I notice that the grooves spell out the number two in Roman numerals.
“What’s the two about?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Family heirloom. Anything else?”
It’s an omission, at the very least, but I don’t bother pushing the issue because I can tell he’s not going to talk. Also, I don’t care.
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Um, yeah. The shop, the party, the Hollywood sign, just now at your house—”
“Before that, I mean.”
He rubs his forehead. “God, now I feel bad. I slept with you, didn’t I? Oh, this is terribly embarrassing. This happens sometimes, you know. But it’s just so hard to remember all the faces, all the names—”
“Very funny,” I say. “You look really familiar.”
“Actually, Ind, he kind of looks like that Kyle Loza guy,” Paige pipes up from the backseat. “Indie used to have the biggest crush on this BMXer who was on that spin-off of The Hills.”
“I did not!” I snap.
“You are aware my bedroom faces yours, right? I saw the poster.”
Bishop laughs and pats me on the arm. “It’s okay, Indie. I completely understand.”
I shake off his hand. “Can we all not be having such a great time right now? My mom’s in trouble, remember?”
Paige sinks back into her seat, as Bishop mumbles apologies.
We’re quiet the rest of the drive. Only after we pass the Hollywood and Highland Center parking garage does Bishop pipe up again.
“What are you doing?” he asks, twisting around to watch the parking garage disappear behind us.
“What? You wanted me to park there?”
“Unless you want to pay the eight-hundred-dollar fine for parking in a red zone.”
This is not a conversation I thought I’d be having on the way to save Mom from evil sorcerers. I circle the block until I’m back at Hollywood and Highland.
The garage stares back at me in the glare of my headlights, and a cold shiver passes through me. I’ve never been a huge fan of creepy underground parking garages, but under these circumstances, as we slip into its darkened mouth, it feels as though we’re entering the maw of some predatory animal.
But even though it’s so late it can almost be called early, I’m happy to note there are still a good number of cars inside, and even a few people in club clothes marching toward the escalators to street level. It makes me feel a bit better, though I’m not sure why.
“I don’t get it,” I say, steering the Sunfire beneath the low ceiling and artificial track lighting of the garage. “Why here? There are tons of people around.” I slip the car into a spot and kill the engine.
“Exactly.” Bishop opens the car door and steps out.
Am I supposed to know what that means? I twist to look at Paige. She raises her hands, palms up, and shrugs.
I run after Bishop, and Paige follows suit.
“Okay, think about it,” he says, his footsteps echoing in the garage. “You’re a sorcerer. You’re away from home, out of your comfort zone without your sorcerer friends to help you, and every witch on the planet is hunting you. What better place to keep a hostage, or say, really important book, than in plain sight?”
“Still don’t get it,” I say.