Hexed

“What?” I ask.

 

“It might not work, you know.”

 

“Yeah, you said that. Like six hundred times.”

 

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed. It’s not really complicated or anything, but it only works if, well, if …”

 

“What?”

 

He sighs. “If you’re really close with the person who died. Not just anyone can summon the voice of the dead.” He holds up his hands in defense. “I’m not saying you weren’t close, I’m sure you were. I just want you to be aware that there is a chance, that for whatever reason—”

 

“It’ll work.” My voice is even, giving him no room to argue, but as soon as the words leave my mouth an ice pick of worry chips away at my confidence. Maybe it won’t work. Maybe I was too busy with school and cheerleading. Maybe I wasn’t as close with Mom as I thought. “So how do we do this?” I ask.

 

Bishop looks around. “Too bright in here,” he mumbles.

 

“I can take care of that.” I walk around him and pull down the blinds until we’re cloaked in darkness, save for the thin strip of light that creeps around the blinds’ edges. “What now?”

 

“Now we light candles.”

 

I snort.

 

“What’s so funny?” Bishop asks. “Candles give our magic extra power. Like an energy drink for witches.”

 

“Candles? really?” I remember the night of my two hundredth full moon, when Mom and Paige both suggested we light candles and I’d said that it wasn’t a séance. They’d been right all along. “Okay, well, there are candles on the shelf over—”

 

There’s a quiet pop, and then Bishop’s holding a tall taper candle. A golden flame flickers under his chin.

 

“Oh. Uh, great.”

 

Bishop smiles before striding backward and dropping into a cross-legged position. He places the candle in front of him and pats the floor, indicating for me to sit.

 

“Should I bust out a Ouija board too?” I sit across from him and mirror his cross-legged pose. “Okay, what now?”

 

“Now you relax and quit asking so many questions.” He gives me a pointed look, then reaches around the flame to take my hands in his. I swallow, looking first at his warm fingers cradling mine, then at his eyes, which are tightly closed, séance-style. Jezebel enters my mind. Beautiful, bitchy Jezebel—his girlfriend.

 

“Why are you helping me?” I ask.

 

He doesn’t open his eyes. “I thought I said no more questions.”

 

“Last one.”

 

He sighs. “You wouldn’t be able to summon without me transferring power to you.”

 

“Oh.” A feeling I don’t want to think about analyzing squeezes my chest, but I won’t let him off that easy. “But why are you here at all?”

 

He exhales. “I don’t know. Can we just focus on this? Close your eyes.”

 

“How do you know they’re not already closed?”

 

He pops one eye open, then closes it again. “Close your eyes, Indie.”

 

I do as I’m told. And I decide that it’s true what they say: when you lose one sense, the others become heightened. How else can I explain the way the hair on the back of my neck stands on end when Bishop brushes his thumb along my index finger? The way I’ve become acutely aware of the sweat collecting along the lines of my palms. The way the sound of the wood floor creaking as I adjust my position echoes like an old house in a storm.

 

I don’t have time to analyze the phenomenon further, though, because my hands suddenly grow so hot that I know it has to be the magic working. The heat borders on uncomfortable. I try to pull my hands back, but Bishop grips my wrists, not letting go. My fingertips begin to sting, an almost too painful to stand, pinprick burning, like taking the first step into a hot bathtub.

 

“Bishop.” I try to wriggle free, but his grip becomes like iron shackles around my wrists. Panic ignites inside me. I open my eyes, because I’m sure my hands are on fire, that the candle is burning me, but it’s not. Bishop’s chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, and his jaw is so relaxed that his lips part slightly.

 

Doesn’t he feel this? Doesn’t this hurt him too?

 

But just when I think I can’t stand the heat any longer, it shoots up my arms like a current of electricity, collecting in my chest in a swirling, molten ball of lava, like the sun has been plucked from the sky and shoved into my body. Only now it’s not painful. In fact, it’s undeniably exhilarating.

 

“Wow,” I exhale, breaths coming hard and fast.

 

“Think of your mom.” Bishop squeezes my hands.

 

I need only that little reminder for her image to come charging back into my mind. And I’m thankful that, for once, it isn’t Mom from the theater, but the smiling, wild-haired Mom I thought of moments ago.

 

“Will I be okay leaving you two alone?”

 

I suck in a quick breath.

 

Mom.