Abigail’s mom came by them and said, “Something is wrong in this town. Really wrong. You see it, don’t you?”
“Well, obviously,” Dad said.
“I mean, strange.” She leaned closer to both of them, and Cole felt weird, because he didn’t like seeing a grown-up as scared as a little kid. “This isn’t natural, what’s happening here. Maybe it sounds like something out of—a bad movie, I don’t know. But it’s real. You know it as well as I do. And we have to put a stop to it.” With that she stalked off, pulling Abigail behind her.
Cole watched Abigail go. “Are we not having the Thanksgiving pageant?”
“I don’t think so, buddy.”
“What did Abigail’s mom mean? Was she talking about the birds?”
Dad didn’t seem to be listening, but he said, very slowly, “About the birds, and other things.”
Nadia started getting the texts first thing in the morning. First Mateo—but his messages were blank, or garbled nonsense. At first she’d assumed she was just receiving butt texts that would stop when Mateo took his phone out of his back pocket, but they kept coming, one after another. It was like he was genuinely trying to reach her but wasn’t coherent enough to do it.
Just as she was trying to tell herself not to be stupid, a message came in from her father about the chaos at Cole’s school. Nadia was trying to think of what Elizabeth might have to gain by taking away some little kids’ Thanksgiving play when her dad texted: BTW, Elizabeth dropped by again. Seems odd. Does she have problems @ home? Might want 2 talk w/ school counselor.
At first all Nadia could feel was triumph. Elizabeth must have made her move on her father, and failed. The Betrayer’s Snare had worked.
But then she realized that Elizabeth had attacked the school, too, which meant she was springing all her traps at once. Those garbled messages from Mateo went from merely odd to terrifying.
When the bell rang for third period, Nadia dashed into the hallway. Through the scanty group of students still attending full time, she caught a glimpse of a fuzzy, pink sweater over a wide, white circle skirt—pure 1950s. “Verlaine!”
Verlaine turned from her locker, at first merely blasé, but her expression shifted into concern as Nadia pushed toward her. “Oh, crap. What’s happening now?”
“I’m not sure, but we have to get to Mateo, this instant.”
“Sounds like a good excuse to skip.” Verlaine shoved her books back in her locker and slammed it shut. “To the Batmobile.”
That was when the ground began to shake.Nadia gasped and put her arms out, the better to hang on to the wall of lockers—but they were squeaking wildly, shaking open, sending heavy textbooks and tons of crap flying. Verlaine took her hand and pulled her back toward the center of the hall.
“Earthquake!” someone yelled.
“Since when can Elizabeth make earthquakes?” Verlaine huddled on the floor next to Nadia, both of them putting their hands over their heads just like in those stupid drills.
“She can’t.” Some things were beyond even the power of witchcraft. “But the One Beneath can.”
After only a few moments, though, the tremors stopped. The school still seemed to be in one piece, though people were crying and freaking out. “Forget about skipping,” Nadia said as she and Verlaine rose slowly to their feet. Plaster dust had fogged the air. “I think school’s out.”
Verlaine coughed once. “Okay, even if you didn’t know about witchcraft? You’d have to know this whole situation is severely screwed up.”
She was right, Nadia realized. It took very little to veil the world of witchcraft from everyday people simply because they were so quick to explain away deviations from the norm. To convince themselves they hadn’t seen something that would make them question the reality they knew. But Elizabeth and the One Beneath were abandoning even that faint pretense. They meant to terrify. They meant to be known.
“Come on,” Nadia said. “Whatever’s going on, it’s happening to Mateo.”
Together they ran for the doors, but they swung open just before Nadia and Verlaine would have slammed through. Faye Walsh stood there, her once-pristine white sweater twinset now grubby with dust and debris. “Excuse us,” Verlaine said as she tried to duck past, but Ms. Walsh put out her hand, halting them in their tracks.
“We need to talk,” Ms. Walsh said. “Nadia, I’ve been trying to talk to you for a long time.”
Nadia forced herself not to scream with frustration. “Yes, ma’am, I know, and I’m sorry, but honestly—is this the time?”
“Oh, yes. It’s time.” Ms. Walsh crossed her arms. “When I see evidence of witchcraft, I want to talk to a witch.”
24
AT FIRST NADIA COULD ONLY GAPE AT MS. WALSH. WHEN she could speak, she said the only thing she could think of: “You’re not a witch.”
“No, I’m not,” Ms. Walsh said. “But my mother was, and my grandmother before her. They taught me the signs. Bound me close. Made me a Steadfast.”
“You’re a Steadfast?” Verlaine, who had been looking even more panicked than Nadia felt, brightened, but only for a moment. “Wait. If your mom and grandmother were witches, why aren’t you one?”
Ms. Walsh stiffened slightly; this was a difficult subject. “I didn’t have the gift. It happens that way sometimes.”