Hexed

“Not anymore. I lived with him for a year after my mom died, but I haven’t talked with him much since he asked me to work for him remotely. Big honor.” I can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Guess a year of living with me is a lot for one person to handle.” He says it self-deprecatingly, but I get the sense that he’s hiding something under the humor.

 

“What is it you do for him, exactly?” I ask. “I haven’t noticed you doing a lot of work since I’ve met you.”

 

“Odd jobs, really. Nothing interesting.”

 

I narrow my eyes at him over my shoulder. “Well, that’s vague. What does your uncle do?”

 

“He’s a councillor for the Family.”

 

I remember Bishop telling me at the Hollywood sign that it was his job to fill me on all things witchy if I turned on my two hundredth moon. “Nothing interesting, hey?”

 

He smiles, shaking his head so that his hair falls in front of his face. “Not until recently.”

 

I face the picture again, processing this new information and adding it to the Bishop picture that’s being painted in my head. Bishop’s mom died. Bishop’s uncle cast him out (at least in his own mind). Bishop has no friends. And yet he’s constantly making a joke out of everything. Either he’s the most easygoing person on the planet, or else all the flip comebacks, all the womanizer talk, all the crass jokes, they’re just his way to hide the fact that he’s lonely, that he’s dying to connect with someone. I test my hypothesis. “So, do you really think your uncle sent you away because he was sick of you?”

 

Bishop lets out a wry laugh. “Well, don’t try to spare my feelings or anything.”

 

Heat blooms across my cheeks, but Bishop claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m kidding. He probably thought it’d be a good idea because of Jezebel. Little did he know she’d follow me here.”

 

I let out a false titter, because it’s just so awkward when he talks about Jezebel.

 

“So how has your girlfriend been keeping, anyway?” I blurt out.

 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bishop says.

 

“Nice try. She said so herself at the theater, and you didn’t deny it.”

 

“Jezebel hasn’t been my girlfriend in months.”

 

Hmm. “So why’d she say that, then?”

 

“Because she’s not used to not getting what she wants. We dated, I broke it off, she begged me to take her back, I refused. I guess she thinks she can wear me down.”

 

I know I shouldn’t ask more, that it’s really none of my business, but I can’t help myself. “Why’d you break up with her?”

 

“Haven’t you noticed her little attitude problem?” he asks.

 

“Oh, I’ve noticed. I just thought you might be more inclined to forgive something like that in light of the fact that you’re a horndog and she’s, you know, practically a supermodel.” I focus intently on the wall, embarrassed at the edge of jealousy in my voice.

 

He laughs. “Oh, trust me, I tried. And tried. And tried.”

 

“Ugh, thanks for the mental image.”

 

He squeezes my shoulder. “Look, Jez and I started dating at a bad time. I’d just moved to Texas after my mom died. I was feeling a little down, and she was great for a while. Distracting.”

 

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “And then what?” I ask.

 

“And then it wasn’t great anymore. It wasn’t real between us. It was just sex. I realized I was using her to try to forget about my mom, and it wasn’t working.”

 

I try to think of something encouraging to say, because he’s finally opening up and not hiding behind humor, but all I can think of is that they had sex. And it was great.

 

“Well, at least that answers the question of why Jezebel’s been so eager to help out,” I say.

 

“Let’s not talk about Jezebel anymore.”

 

I become hyperaware of his hand on my shoulder. That we’re both single, all of a sudden, and alone.

 

I clear my throat to break my train of thought (and whatever else is going on between us). “So, let’s get this over with. The sooner I can defend myself, the sooner I won’t need anyone to protect me.”

 

I said it offhandedly, but now I realize that truer words have never been spoken. I made a promise to myself that night—that if I made it out of the theater alive, and if I was truly a witch, I’d master my magic and quit relying on others to protect me. And I intend to keep my promise.

 

 

 

Somehow when I pictured doing magic, it didn’t involve crappy office supplies.

 

I stare at the paper clip on the carpet and will it to move. Sweat beads on my forehead. Thoughts of food consume me, and there’s a slow throbbing in my temple from all the mental exertion. But the clip doesn’t budge, hasn’t budged once in the hours I’ve spent trying.

 

I blow out through pursed lips, determined that the magic work this time, and reach around inside me for the heat Bishop says is there, that I only have to grasp on to and move to my fingertips, where it can be manipulated to my will with simple incantations. Which just sounds so easy when he says it.

 

Please, paper clip, I think. Just move so we can end this cat-and-mouse game.