“Don’t be an ass,” Mariabella and I snap at the same time.
And it brings me great satisfaction when Karsyn’s scowl deepens even further.
With a disgruntled huff, he stalks away from his girlfriend, purposely ramming his shoulder into mine when he passes.
“Watch it, Simone,” he hisses through gritted teeth.
“Back at you, Alder,” I reply, ignoring him completely to give Mariabella a tight hug. She immediately collapses in my arms with a pained sob and heart-wrenching whimper. I’m momentarily at a loss of what to do, so I settle for awkwardly patting her back. “There. There.”
Over her shoulder, I level my own glare at Karsyn, who is already retreating, his hands shoved into his pockets and his head hung.
“What the fuck did the asshole do?” I hiss.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She sniffles.
“Well…whatever it is, I’m sorry.” It feels like such an insignificant word, but it’s the only one I can think of to use. “I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but I’m sorry you fought.”
“I…I just…” She squeezes me tightly once before reluctantly releasing me. Bringing both hands up to her face, she begins to flick away tears as if they’re pesky inconveniences. “You’re a good friend, Peony.”
“If you ever need to talk…” I allow the offer to linger in the air, not bothering to say more. We don’t know each other very well, but I’ll be there for her if she needs an ear to listen to or a shoulder to cry on. Or a fist that can be used to punch Karsyn Alder in his stupidly handsome face.
And I also vow, right then and there, that no matter what happens, I won’t pull Mariabella into my revenge scheme against the Devils. Originally, I wanted to get close to her in order to harm Karsyn, but that’s not fair. It only makes me hate myself a little bit more. She’s innocent in all of this, and so far, she’s been one of my only friends.
I will make the Devils pay, but I refuse to drag Mariabella into hell along with them.
Chapter 17
The next morning marks the day of my first ever football game—and also homecoming. Per our coach’s requirements, I’m wearing the standard cheerleading uniform we were issued the day before. Fortunately, the black sleeves are long, stopping just at my wrist. It’s actually pretty damn comfortable, the material both soft and flexible. The dark red, almost burgundy in appearance, of the shirt contrasts nicely against the onyx black of the sleeves and skirt. I’ve braided the front of my hair away from my face and clipped it at the back, allowing the rest of my white hair to cascade in loose curls.
When I step into the kitchen, it’s to see Nana at the dining room table, bent over a spellbook. There’s a diagram stenciled into the table, but from this angle, I can’t tell for certain what it is. All I can see are sharp angles and numerous candles. An ancient grimoire rests in front of Nana as she closes her eyes and begins to speak softly in Latin.
A witch can perform a spell in a few different ways. Some can use their natural magical abilities and simply call upon their magic. It takes years and years of training to master that particular skill. And of course, there are the physical objects and hex bags that you can spell. Say, for instance, voodoo dolls? These usually require incantations and intricate spellwork, but it’s less taxing on your internal magic reserve. And finally, there’s the old-fashioned, recite-from-a-grimoire magic. Usually, these magical books are passed down from generation to generation. When Nana dies, she’ll gift the book to Mom as her last act before the ancestors accept her into the afterlife.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask cautiously, and Nana whips her head up so fast, I’m honestly afraid she broke her neck.
“Nothing,” she says quickly. Too quickly. She slams the spellbook shut and moves to stand in front of the table, obscuring the strange, chalk markings from view. Honestly, if she’s trying for subtlety, she’s failing at it epically. My curiosity now piqued, I attempt to look behind her.
“Seriously, Nana. What’s going on?” She doesn’t stop me as I peer over her shoulder at the pentagram etched in chalk across the table. The smiling photograph of an unfamiliar woman lies directly in the center. She appears to be around twenty, maybe a year or two older, with wheat-colored hair and sparkling eyes. “Who’s this?” I