Spellcaster

“You’re bleeding a lot,” he said. I looked down, and blood was pooling at the top of my white ankle sock.

“When I tripped, I fell onto a tree branch,” I explained. At least that part was true.

“Poor Emma, you’re having a really sucky day.” He pulled some napkins out of his backpack and handed them to me.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, wiping up the streaming blood from where it left trails down my leg, and winced when the napkins brushed against the splintered bits of branch in my leg.

“There’s your culprit,” Cisco said, pointing to the tree that just minutes before, I’d blasted my attacker into. “Damn trees. Don’t worry, I got a good description of the perp. Tall, skinny, really bad skin. Forces me to make bad jokes because you’re having such a craptacular day.”

“It was a funny joke.” I smiled weakly, thinking of how I actually didn’t get a good description of the actual prep. Not so tall, possibly skinny, penchant for cheap, ghoulish Halloween hoods…busted left eye.

“Do you need help walking, or something? You look really shaken, I won’t lie,” Cisco added, giving me a sideways glance. “You tripped and fell? That’s it? That knee looks brutal, Em.”

“Yeah, I just fell. I’m okay, though, thanks.” Out of habit, I brushed my grimy hands on the shirttails that were peeking out from the bottom of the sweatshirt then grimaced when I realized I’d smeared blood and dirt all over the front of me. Great, so I’m attacked and I get to look like a dirtbomb.

“Are you sure?” Cisco asked, his cocoa eyes twinkling mischievously. “I mean, what if I carried you? You could throw the back of your hand to your forehead and swoon. Give them something to really talk about.”

“Yeah, and you can have your shirt half-ripped off, showing off your man cleavage. Your he-vage,” I joked as we trudged up to the Cloisters.

“I’ll be all sweaty and glistening all over my heaving pectorals.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “They heave?”

“Please, Emma. They’re the heaving-est.”

“It’ll be like a romance novel cover,” I said, amazed that I was able to joke after everything that had just happened.

“Seriously, though, are you okay?” Cisco asked, looking at my disheveled appearance. “You look kind of a mess, Em. No offense.”

“None taken. My knee and my pride are hurt—and that’s it.” I grinned weakly, my mind still reeling over what had just happened. Part of me wanted to call Angelique and tell her she was right. So very, very right—witchy powers really are rooted in emotion, and in the past twelve hours I’d been more in touch with my emotions than most self-help gurus are. Another part of me wanted to brag that I actually managed to remember the pronunciation for Emoveo—it was in Latin, after all. Part of me just wanted to shout from the treetops that I just used magic—and my own inner kung-fu master—to disarm, and defeat, a hooded attacker. But then, as the fact that I was just attacked, on purpose, began settling in, all I wanted was to curl up in Brendan’s arms and stay there for a week.

“Let’s find you a first-aid kit,” Cisco said as we climbed the steps to the Cloisters, but I protested.

“Really, I’m fine. Let me just go to the bathroom and clean this up.” I gestured to my knee, which was still bleeding.

“I’ll tell McNelly you fell and need a minute,” Cisco offered, before he headed off in search of our art history professor.

I found the bathroom, frowning when I surveyed the damage. No wonder Cisco kept asking me if I was all right. I looked like I had been through a war. My hair was wild, with sweaty strands plastered to my face—my Wite-Out–pale face. And my leg looked like a zombie had tried to eat my kneecap. I wet a paper towel and cleaned off the dried blood, dirt and bits of branch as best I could, my face twisting at the sting. At least it didn’t seem like it would scar. I had a bottle of vitamin E at home—the car accident with Henry and the battle with Anthony had left me with plenty of battle scars. Literal battle scars, much worse than this. But the tree branch bits proved to be pretty stubborn, and finally, I just resolved to have a piece of Fort Tryon Park stuck in my knee until I made it home. If you need to knock on wood, you’ll have some handy.

I brushed my hair and wet my face, but the bottom of my shirt was a lost cause, smeared with bloody fingerprints along the front. I thought about trying to dab at them with a damp paper towel, but my life at Vince A was frustrating enough without my classmates thinking I had peed on myself. I stuffed the shirttails underneath the sweatshirt instead.

My classmates. I steadied my hands on the sink, grateful that no one else was in the bathroom. The adrenaline rush had worn off, and surprisingly, anger—not fear—was starting to set in. Was my attacker someone from Vince A? It was plausible…Angelique was a witch. I was a reincarnated witch. Brendan’s wealth, strength—hell, even his looks—were a part of Archer’s millennium old bargain. Who knew what other kinds of supernaturals strolled the halls of Vince A? From the looks of that knife—and that getup—I didn’t need yesterday’s spell to clue me in that this was definitely magical in nature. Besides, who else would know where I was today?

I reached in my pocket, relieved to find that my cell phone and camera hadn’t fallen out during my sprint from the psychopath. The last thing I wanted to do was go wandering around the area where I was just attacked looking for them. The first thing I wanted, however, was to hear Brendan’s voice, but I knew if I actually spoke to him, there was a good chance I’d break down and tell him everything, and he’d go crazy being trapped at the school waiting for me to show up.

If he was still at school.

If he was still allowed at school.

How did everything go from perfect to utter disaster in twenty-four hours?

I pulled out my phone, and was consoled to see a small check mark in the win column. Some time in the past half hour, Brendan had sent me a text.

Don’t know what u heard, but u know it’s not true. I’m ok, just really pissed. Sorry I couldn’t text earlier. I’ll wait for u @ school. Want to come over?

I couldn’t type my reply fast enough.

Absolutely. Skipping work. See u soon. I really need to see u.

I sniffled as I typed that last part then hit the delete key. It would clue Brendan in that something was wrong, and he’d find out soon enough. I sighed as I scrutinized myself in the mirror, running my fingers through my now-smoothed hair. I looked fairly composed, in spite of eyes too bright from unshed tears, and my face a ghastly pale from being completely overwhelmed. Good. If my attacker was a classmate, he was not going to know that he’d ruffled a single feather. Even though your feathers have totally been sliced, diced and put through a blender.

I stepped outside, walking briskly through the exhibits until I found my classmates in a darkened room. I immediately started sneaking glances at their bags, trying to see who could be hiding a change of clothes—until I realized most of us had big backpacks on. Vince A piled on homework to the point where it was borderline abusive. Finally I looked up and realized I was in the room that housed the Unicorn Tapestries, recognizing the first one we had studied.

I surveyed the most famous of the collected works in the museum. I had been looking forward to seeing these, but now, all I could focus on was my heart, thudding in synchronization with the throbbing pain in my knee. I tried to maintain some semblance of composure as I looked at the tapestries in between sneak peeks at my classmates. In one, the unicorn reared up, resplendent and bright on the intricate tapestry.

And then I looked at the other tapestries—The Unicorn Is Found. The Unicorn Is Attacked. Each one an intricate scene where the mythical animal is hunted, cornered. It was reared up, surrounded. Dr. McNelly’s lecture about the unicorn being an allegory and the complicated weaving process fell on deaf ears as my eyes found the gruesome tapestry that seemed to celebrate the death of the unicorn. It hung there, lifeless, its eyes shut, its mouth open but unbreathing. It looked almost relaxed—there were no more battles ahead.

I took a sharp breath. I feel your pain, sister.

It seemed fitting, in a twisted way, that there had been a unicorn on my medallion. No matter how much I fought, it seemed like I was supposed to be doomed, too.

I gritted my teeth as I stared at the tapestry. Not this time.

After the last exhibit, I finally made my way to the front of the museum, where I rejoined my classmates as we milled about the parking lot. I spoke to Dr. McNelly, showing her my knee and explaining that I was fine, didn’t need to see a nurse and just wanted to go home. She clucked over my raw, shredded knee, and promised to explain my accident to Mr. Emerson, the English teacher who also oversaw the library operations. As much as I could use the money, there was no way I could suffer through stacking books today.

Jenn and Cisco waited for me before we all piled onto the bus—we were almost the last people on, but there was no risk of anyone taking our uncomfortable, noxious-smelling seats in the back. I tapped my foot impatiently. It felt like people were deliberately moving slowly. I tried to focus on the fact that in just thirty minutes, I would be home. But I should have known this day from hell would get one last lick in.

As I approached Kristin’s seat, Amanda—Kristin’s unfortunate-looking sycophant who occupied the seat behind Kristin—stood in the aisle, deliberately taking her sweet time sticking her jacket on the overhead shelf. Which left me standing right next to Kristin, the Creamsicle-colored harpy. I felt like that chained-up goat from Jurassic Park, just waiting for the T-Rex to come and bite my head off.

Kristin flipped her ultrawhite streaked blond hair. I groaned internally. Whenever Kristin flipped her hair, it was a sign that something incredibly bitchy was about to go down. She would be the world’s worst poker player—the hair flip was a big tell.

“Aw, why the sad face? Is Emma having a bad day, too?” She sneered in that same sickening baby voice. For a brief second I wondered if she was my attacker—but her left eye was (unfortunately) free of any bruising. I considered remedying that, but decided to just ignore her.

She looked me up and down critically, dissecting me for something to pick at. Then Kristin saw the bloody smears on the front of my shirttails, which were peeking out from the sweatshirt, and my red-stained sock, and grinned, baring a Pepto-Bismol–pink-painted mouth full of straight white teeth. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she had fangs. Or a baby bunny in her mouth.

“Nice shirt, Emma,” she scoffed, cackling. “So, like, what? Did you just get your period or something? Can’t your rich aunt buy you tampons?”

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying anything back to her. It was never worth it: the more I fought back, the more venomous Kristin got.

“Knock if off, Kristin,” Cisco said from behind me, annoyance permeating every syllable.

“Oh, shut up, Cisco,” Kristin snapped in reply. “Who asked you?”

“Can you please hurry up, Amanda?” I said calmly, lifting my chin. I didn’t want my friends getting caught in my drama—and this high school drama was definitely less significant to me than my real-life drama. “You’re holding everyone up.”

“Don’t worry about what she does, Emma,” Kristin snapped, flipping her streaked hair. “She’s the one who belongs here. You don’t. And Brendan will see that soon enough.”

She flicked a thick, shimmery-painted nail toward the bloody splotches and her pink lips curled up in disgust.