Once A Witch Part 19

Okay, so what is your plan, then?"

"I'm going in there and I'm going to talk to him."

"You're going to talk to him? That's it? That's the big plan?" My hand goes to my locket and I press the tiny catch. It opens with a soft snick. I close it, open it, close it again. I'm a little too aware that I threw pretty much the same question at my mother earlier this evening just before she left. And that she hasn't come back yet as far as I know-The sound of the car engine hacking to life smashes my reverie to pieces.

"What are you doing?" Gabriel flips on his blinker.

"Stop," I say, clamping my hand over his wrist.

"You can stop me from using my Talent. I'm pretty sure you can't stop me from driving your a.s.s back home."

"Gabriel! Just hold on a minute, will you?" He leaves the blinker on but otherwise allows the car to idle at the curb. A quiet ticking, too reminiscent of the sound of a clock, fills the interior of the car.

"He's ... dangerous."

"All the more reason you're not going in there alone and-"

"He seems to be aiming at everyone in my life. First Rowena, now Agatha. I can't let you be the third casualty." Gabriel snorts.

"I'm pretty sure I can take him." I punch his shoulder, probably harder than I should.

"Would you not be such a guy about this? You can't *take' him because he's not... normal, really. He's evil. I shouldn't have to explain this to you, of all people." I take a breath.

"Please. I don't want him to know that you're ... important to me. He can't know that." The engine mutters and skips beneath us and I stare at the green blinker light flas.h.i.+ng on the dashboard. And then without warning Gabriel turns to me, grips the back of my neck with one hand, and pulls me to him. He kisses me hard, briefly, on my mouth.

"Ten minutes," he says, and his voice is husky.

"You've got ten minutes and then I'm coming after you. And I'm walking you into the lobby at least." Coming to a standstill before the huge darkened doors, I peer through the smudged gla.s.s. A security guard is slumped over the front desk, his head lolling on his folded arms.

"She's in there, right?" I ask for the fifth time, and to his credit Gabriel doesn't point that out.

"She hasn't left," he says quietly. As if his words conjure her up, Rowena comes skipping into sight. She is alone. I rap on the gla.s.s and she smiles, waves at me as if we're playing a game. She crosses the floor and leans over the security guard, her lips curving close to his ear. He turns his head in his sleep, and although his eyes never open, he fumbles at his belt, holds up a s.h.i.+ning ring of keys, selects one, and hands it to her. My sister smiles again and says something else to him, at which point he buries his head in his arms and seems to pa.s.s out again. She looms brightly toward us, unlocks the heavy doors, and swings them open.

"You made it," she says, as if she were the hostess of some spectacular party.

"Alistair will be so pleased to see you. Not you, though," Rowena adds with a frown that is still somehow charming.

"He said only her," she says cajolingly to Gabriel, flexing one finger at me.

"Stop it," I say briefly.

"He's not coming in with me so don't waste your time."

"Well!" Rowena huffs in an entirely different voice. I lean closer and examine my sister. Despite her relatively good spirits, she looks even paler than before and the whites of her eyes have taken on a yellowish tinge. She's still wearing the black dress, only now it's sporting a long muddy streak down the right side and a ragged chunk of the hem is missing.

"You look like s.h.i.+t, Ro," I say matter-of-factly.

"And that's saying a lot."

"I'm in love," she replies haughtily, her fingers flying to her cheeks.

"What about James?" If he's lucky, he's still comatose to this nightmare, tucked away somewhere in one of the house's many bedrooms. I look around the foyer of Lerner Hall. One fluorescent light buzzes and drones above the sleeping security guard's head. Other than that the building is dark and quiet. Rowena hesitates, her lips parted. Then somethingwithin her seems to stiffen and she pirouettes, moving away in bobbing steps like a balloon being pulled on a string.

"He's waiting," is all she says. I put my hand on Gabriel's arm-he looks distinctly unhappy.

"Ten minutes," he reminds me pointedly, and I nod.

"Ten minutes," I repeat, and for a second I wonder if he's going to kiss me again.

Or if I should kiss him. But he doesn't and I don't. Instead, I follow my sister, the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kling. It seems like years since I walked down this hallway during that first week of school, so determined to show my family that I wasn't useless after all, so hopeful that I would find whatever Alistair wanted. Or what he said he wanted. All too soon we approach his office. My sister raises one white knot of a fist and gives the door more of a caress than a knock. I roll my eyes-only for my own benefit, I know, but being snide gives me something like courage. Which I need now more than ever. The door opens under Rowena's hand and we proceed into the room. Alistair is seated behind his desk. In contrast to my sister, his skin glows with health and his gla.s.ses gleam as if he's just polished them. A simple bra.s.s tray holding two crystal gla.s.ses and a cut crystal decanter of some murky brownish-red liquid waits in the vicinity of one pointed black-suited elbow. My eyes skip over the tray quickly, scan the walls, then return to his face, which holds a politely patient expression.

"Tamsin," he says softly, and I try not to visibly shudder at the quiet exultation in his voice. I think back to the last time I was here and how well he played the part of the anxious professor.

"Dr. Callum," I reply, my voice calm.

"Or should I say Dr. Knight?" He bares his teeth in a silent laugh. Then he turns to my sister, who has been hovering lovingly by his side, and says, "Wait outside," his voice low and expressionless. Her face goes slack as if all her features are sliding off her skin. But she doesn't protest, only runs her hand across Alistair's arm, touching his fingers lightly with her own before moving toward the door. Alistair acknowledges neither her parting gesture nor her departure.

"Sit?" he asks.

"No, thanks," I say as breezily as possible.

"And don't offer me any more tea or whatever that is to drink, either," I say, pointing to the decanter.

"I'm not in the mood for your hospitality.

"I'm not really into sports, but I figure a good offense is the best defense.

"This?" Alistair says with a little chuckle, pointing toward the decanter.

"I doubt very much you'd want to drink this. You're too ... ethically minded. But then again, that's always been the problem with your family" He folds his hands together on the desk and looks at me.

"Seriously, do you know how foolish your family is ... and has beenthroughout the years? Do you know how small they've made their lives and their Talents?

What a waste. A sheer waste."

"Where are my parents?" I ask through numb lips. Not that I expect him to really tell me the truth, but at least maybe I can tell if he's lying. But he waves his hand dismissively and says, "I wasn't interested in what they had to offer.

"I can't imagine what that would have been, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of asking. He leans across the desk, fixing me with his icy eyes, and I'm reminded of a large black crane.

"I am interested in what you can do for me."

"And what is that?" Alistair smiles.

"You can bring me what I want."

"I think I already did that. I brought you the clock," I say, "and now my obligation is done." He touches the rim of a crystal gla.s.s lightly. A hollow ringing sound fills the s.p.a.ce between us.

"Perhaps you can be persuaded to try again."

"And if I won't?" Sharp lines stamp themselves onto his forehead.

"Won't'?" he repeats softly. Then he lifts his voice just a notch and says, "Rowena, come in here please.

"The door opens at once and my sister glides back into the room. I wonder if she had her ear pressed to the wood the whole time. And then I wonder if she even understands what she has heard. She brushes past me and goes to hisside, and I can't help but notice the joyful expression on her face.

"I need your help," Alistair says to her with an awful gentleness, and then he pulls open his desk drawer and clatters around for a few seconds before offering my sister a bone-handled knife.

"Don't!" I say, but neither of them even looks at me. Instead, Rowena extends her arm, the white underside of it flas.h.i.+ng to the ceiling, and without even a fraction of hesitation she sinks the curve of the blade into her skin, as if slicing through a piece of meat.

"Stop!" I shriek and leap forward, s.n.a.t.c.hing the blade from my sister's fingers. My hand tightens over the smooth handle and for one paralyzing second as I stare into Alistair's eyes I picture myself plunging the knife straight into his heart.

"Do it and you won't like what happens to your sister," he hisses. Suddenly, I remember my mother's warning about the spell's mirror effect on Rowena and I throw the knife into the corner of the room, where it skitters across the floor and then comes to rest. Turning back to Rowena, I almost throw up when I see that she is squeezing her arm calmly, watching the blood thicken and dribble from the fresh marks on her skin into a little white china cup that Alistair has so thoughtfully provided.

"Ro," I whisper, and wadding up my s.h.i.+rt I try to stanch the bleeding. "No, Tamsin," she says gently, far more gently than the real Rowena would have if I ever got in her way.

"I need to give him this," she explains earnestly.

"It's so he can live."

"Thank you, my dear. That will be enough for now," Alistair says and reaches for the cup. My hand darts down and I s.n.a.t.c.h up the cup, flinging it at the wall behind me. The cup crashes directly into a framed print of a medieval hunting scene and shatters. Its contents ooze down the picture in a sticky red smear. I'm delighted to see that I've also managed to crack the gla.s.s of the frame. I turn back to Alistair, smile pleasantly.

"Oops. I always seem to be breaking cups in your office." Alistair's lips thin into a needle-flat line, but it is my sister who speaks first.

"Tamsin," Rowena cries.

"Why did you do that?" She crouches in the corner of the room and begins to pick up shattered bits of china, her fingers instantly stained crimson.

"Leave it," Alistair says, and his voice is almost as sharp as the knife and seems to cut as deeply, because my sister looks up, the expression of dismay on her face almost too much to bear.

"You may go," he says, still in that cold tone, and my sister bows her head, rises to her feet, and, still cradling the pieces of the cup tenderly, slips out.

"You and I are more alike than you think," Alistair says at last, his voice thoughtful, his eyes quietly fixed on mine. I snort. I can't help it.

"I don't see that at all," I say, kicking aside a shard of china. It bounces off the baseboard.

"Besides the fact that we both lied about our names," I add. But he ignores that.

"We would both do anything for our families." I lift my gaze, stare at him, then open my mouth. No words. I have no words to deny this.

"And we've both been deprived of what is naturally ours. By the doing of your family."

"That's not true," I say instantly. One eyebrow twists up.

"Isn't it? Hasn't your family kept the truth about your Talents from you?" He leans across the desk, eyes pinning me to the wall.

"All these years?" I force myself to say, "They had their reasons."

"Amazing. That you would defend the very people who have denied you your birthright" He shakes his head as if I am a particularly difficult specimen to cla.s.sify.

"I have no such compunctions."

"What is this?" I manage finally.

"The explanation of a madman before you kill me?"

"A madman?" And now he looks amused.

"Oh, no, Tamsin. Not a madman. I take objection to that. I am nothing if not methodical. I had to be. When all you have is a single name to go on all these years, you learn to be ... precise." There is a ringing in my ears.

"A name?" I say stupidly, and then it dawns on me.

"Rowena's name. That's why you came into the bookstore that night. You were looking for Rowena. Why?" Alistair smiles.

"Yes, Rowena Greene. It's the name that's been promised as our salvation.

When your family murdered mine, our only hope was one glimpse into the future, one glimpse at the book that your grandmother, your whole family, sets such store by."

"And you saw Rowena's name?" I breathe. Alistair shrugs.

"Of course I didn't. This was more than one hundred years ago. My relative did and that's the name we've held on to for centuries. We knew that she was to be the key."

"What do you mean my family murdered yours? We didn't kill anybody!"

"Are you so sure about that?"

"You were the ones murdering people. That's why we stopped you. That's what my-" I swallow the rest of my words. That's what my mother told me sounds incredibly childish here.

"Is that what you think? That we were murdering people and therefore the Greene family swooped in and saved the day? Lies," he says crisply.

"Your family cared nothing, nothing about who we took for ourselves as long as it wasn't one of their own. But be that as it may," he says, his voice rising, "make no mistake about the word murder." I stare at him, at the way his mouth splits and curls into a snarl. "Do you know what it's like to grow up knowing that you were meant to be something else, something so very different from all the ordinary filth you see in the streets around you, something beyond this ordinary mortal life? To walk around and know that you should have a Talent, know that with all your heart, and yet you don't because of something that happened more than a hundred years ago?" He stares at me, his hands curling and uncurling on his desk blotter. Then he takes a breath and says softly, "When you deprive someone of their Talent, of their right to have a Talent, you kill a part of that person. From what your sister has told me, I think you just might be able to understand that. Think, Tamsin. Think how different your life could have been." I shut my eyes, my brain rus.h.i.+ng and tumbling with scenes like a river swollen with rain: Rowena and Gwyneth laughing, their mouths wide and red; Gabriel and his unanswered letters; Silda pulling gradually away from me; and the early years of school, when people looked at me as if I was weird when I was really no different from them. What if all that had never happened? What if I had known from my eighth birthday just exactly what I could do? There's no part of my life that would be the same. Then I open my eyes. Alistair is watching me, satisfaction smeared across his long face. We stare at each other for the length of a heartbeat before I look toward the door, wondering if my sister is still bleeding.

"What do I get in return? If I help you?"

"Your sister's life," he says, leaning back in his chair and touching his finger to the rim of the goblet again.

"And Agatha's," I say, trying to keep the cold, trembling sickness that's welling up inside me out of my voice. His eyes flick to the decanter again, and now there is such a possessive hunger on his face that I almost look away.

"Perhaps."

"'Perhaps'?" I echo.

"What does that mean?"

"Perhaps it depends on you. If you can find what I want and bring it to me soon enough, perhaps it won't be too late for the lovely, lively Agatha." My mouth feels as if it's full of cotton, but I force the words out.

"What do you want with Agatha? She doesn't have a Talent-she's ... normal . .