If only there were a spell to just de-magic another witch, or remove evil intent, or—but she stopped herself. The highest level of witching magic was spell creation; that was when a witch invented her own spells instead of relying on those handed down through the centuries. Most witches never ascended to those heights. Mom had said that only a couple of witches in a century mastered magic so completely.
(When she was little, Nadia had protested that if it could be done, then she should try to do it. Mom had laughed and told her to worry about that when she was big enough to brush her teeth without being reminded.)
There was no point in dreaming of something that could probably never be. Nadia needed to find a weapon against Elizabeth here and now.
And when she found that weapon, she intended to use it.
School had been canceled on Monday due to the carnival fire. It made no sense, but Nadia figured in Captive’s Sound, people made the most out of every bit of excitement they got. Now, though, Rodman High’s students had returned, and the rumors could really get going.
“So, I heard that some guys were smoking in there,” said Kendall Bender as she walked down the hallway, holding court, trailed by rapt listeners. “And also, like, apparently they’re worried about arson, and maybe there was some faulty wiring, too. Plus some people said they saw lightning? Which, you know, it wasn’t raining, like, at all, but maybe it was heat lightning, if heat lightning can start fires.”
Well, at least people didn’t have any idea what was really going on.
What with all the chaos and chatter in the hallway, she found Mateo only a few moments before class began, and Verlaine just after that. Mateo held out his arm for Verlaine to take hold of, an old-fashioned gentleman’s move that made Nadia smile.
“I can’t believe I’m actually happy to see Rodman High,” Verlaine said. Today her clothes were from the 1940s—a dark brown skirt with a silky, red shirt that tied in a bow at the neck. “Maybe at this point I’m just glad for a little bit of normal, you know?”
They turned the corner—and nearly ran into Jeremy Prasad.
“Long time no see,” said the dead guy with a smile, before heading off to class.
3
VERLAINE MANAGED TO WEDGE HER PHONE BETWEEN HER copy of Great Expectations and the end of the desk. Sound to silent—okay—let the texting begin. How is Jeremy alive?
Maybe it didn’t really happen, Nadia texted back. Mateo might have seen some . . . nightmare vision, because of being my Steadfast. Elizabeth was doing some intense magic that night. Who knows?
That made sense. Relaxing slightly, Verlaine peered over the cover of her book at Jeremy, who sat in front of her, one row over.
She’d spent a lot of time in Novels class watching Jeremy Prasad. This was partly because Novels class was a no-brainer to anyone who actually read for fun; Verlaine had usually gone through the assigned book three or four times before the rest of the class had found its way to Chapter Two.
But it was mostly because she liked looking at him.
It was one of the things she hated most about herself—the involuntary attraction she’d always had to Jeremy Prasad, one so strong that even his obnoxious personality couldn’t overcome it. Her mind was well aware that he was arrogant, entitled, mean-spirited and more than a bit slutty, and despised him for all of it. (Except the slutty bit, because slut-shaming was a tool of the patriarchy, even when applied to guys.) Her mind definitely had all Jeremy’s flaws down pat.
However, her body only knew that he was completely scorching hot. Whatever it was about him—whether it was his angular cheekbones, his dark skin, that thick, shining, curly black hair he wore just the tiniest bit long, his lean, wiry body—well, there was something about him that got to Verlaine on a level she couldn’t entirely control.
She justified this the same way she usually did. I’m not responsible for . . . involuntary hormonal tsunamis. Besides, given all the crap Jeremy dishes out, especially at me? He owes me a nice view.
Today he was living up to his end of the bargain in a black sweater cut close to his body. . . .
“So, here we meet Miss Havisham,” said Mrs. Bristow. “What’s the first thing that strikes you about her?”
“Um, she’s crazy?” someone said in the back, and most of the class snickered.
“Fair enough.” Mrs. Bristow wrote Insanity on the board. “But she’s not out of control, or even delusional, is she?”
“I’d argue that she’s delusional,” Jeremy said.
Verlaine sat up straighter. Jeremy had never volunteered to speak in class before. Not in Novels, not in any other subject.
Mrs. Bristow looked as surprised as Verlaine felt, but she recovered quickly. “Okay, Jeremy, why would you say that?”
He doubled down on the surprise factor by not giving a smart-ass answer. “Well, she blames the man who jilted her for ruining her life. He hurt her, of course, but he didn’t ruin her life. She could easily have found someone else or done something productive with her time. Instead she locks out the world and surrounds herself with memories of how someone wronged her. Miss Havisham didn’t give herself any more chances for happiness. So I think she’s delusional for blaming anybody else. She ruined her own life.”
“That’s—very good.” Mrs. Bristow blinked. “Excellent insight.”
It was the first evidence Verlaine had ever had that Jeremy might have a brain in his head. She had a lot of evidence to the contrary. And he’d been polite, even pleasant, when he spoke—