Bishop drops his gaze to the sidewalk, still twirling the ring.
“Okay, why did the Priory want to kill you?”
He shrugs. “It’s like they knew about the Bible, somehow, though I’m not sure how. They’ve been tracking any witch or warlock sent on a Family mission, but they’ve never killed anyone until now. I don’t know how they knew. But the point is it didn’t work. Pain in the ass busting out of the ambulance strapped to that gurney, though.” He shakes his head. “Come on. Let’s go.” He starts toward the car.
“And I saw you?”
He spins around and walks backward while talking to me. “Yep. You wore this horribly cute miniskirt with suede boots. Not that I was looking or anything. And let me just say this: it’s a good thing I had an extra life, because I sure wasn’t getting any help from you.”
I want to say something, anything, but I can’t, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. I jog to catch up to him.
“So why don’t I remember any of this?” I get the impression he’s trying to change topics. And judging by the way he’s practically running away from me, I think I’m right to suspect he’s still hiding something. “Be honest. You’re not telling me everything.”
He stops walking and rubs his forehead like he can erase the crease in his brow.
My stomach knots up so tight I’m not actually sure I want to hear what he has to say. But it’s too late.
“They erased your memory.”
My stomach does a nauseating flip. “Wh-who?”
“Frederick and Leo. They erased your memory. Not everything, obviously”—he scratches his nose with his thumb—“just, you know, stuff about the accident and about them. … They did it to everyone who saw me die. That’s why you can’t remember that conversation with your mom. It was right after you saw me land on the street.”
My skin prickles as the distinct sensation of being violated creeps over my body. I’m about to ask when this happened when I remember the day I awoke in Mrs. Malone’s office, only to forget why I was there in the first place. I’d thought I was going crazy.
I give my head a tiny shake. “But how?”
“They’re powerful sorcerers, Ind. Use your imagination.”
“Well, what’s stopping them from doing it again?” I ask, ignoring his badly timed jab.
“A sorcerer can’t erase a witch’s memory. You’re only at risk before you come into your powers. Same with mind reading. So cross your fingers you’re a witch.”
“Yeah. I’ll get right on that.”
The vague, nonsensical comment Frederick made that night in my bedroom about plucking what he needed out of my head suddenly makes sense.
“You’re lucky, if you think about it. Those guys could have killed you like they did me and made the whole thing disappear. I think the only thing that saved you was that you had information on the Bible.”
I snort. “Oh yeah, I’m really lucky. Luckiest girl on the planet.” I recall the drive to the Chinese Theatre the night Mom died, when I’d questioned Bishop about recognizing him from somewhere, and he hadn’t bothered to tell me about the time I saw him die. I glare at him through eyes narrowed to slits. “Why would you hide this from me?”
“Whoa, there,” Bishop says. “What’s with the suspicious tone?”
“What’s with all the secrecy? In fact, I don’t think I want to go anywhere with you until you can give me a good answer. Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“You want to know why?” Bishop stalks over, so that his shadow falls across me. “For one, those guys could have wiped out your whole memory. The fact that they didn’t meant they might be back. Two, I wanted to protect you. What they did to you, it doesn’t feel good, does it? Feels like you’ve been violated? Yeah, that’s what I thought. I didn’t want to tell you because I care about you, and I didn’t think seeing me die and then coming face to face with evil sorcerers were memories you wanted to cherish for the rest of your life. I thought, ‘Hey, I would be happy to forget those memories,’ but then maybe I’m just weird. Maybe I need therapy. There. You know the truth now. Are you happy? Do you want more information? Like where I get my hair cut? Franky’s on Sunset. And I got this T-shirt at the thrift store on West Pico. And Quilted Northern is my preferred toilet paper brand.” He storms off toward the car.
I should be angry—I think I’m pretty within my rights to have been suspicious—but everything he said after “I care about you” flew right out the window. Despite just finding out some pretty horrifying news, despite losing Mom, my best friend, and my boyfriend all in the span of a week, a tiny bit of hope flutters its wings inside my heart. Because it turns out I still have a lot to be thankful for. I just didn’t know where to look.
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