Steadfast(26)

“She didn’t. People will know that. It’s okay.”


“Wish I could believe you. But come on, help me clean this up. What the hell is that gunk on the floor?”

Before his father could bend down to examine the smoldering black stuff, Mateo caught his arm. “Don’t touch it, Dad. No matter what you do, don’t touch it.”

Nadia had meant to go home with Dad and Cole; by now Cole was sobbing. Ever since Mom left, he got scared so easily. Something like this meant nightmares for sure. If she sang him to sleep, or rubbed his back, maybe it would help.

Just as they got to the car, though, Nadia looked up and saw a figure sitting on a corner bench, pale in the nighttime gloom. As always, Elizabeth wore a white dress. She hadn’t gone home; she just sat there with her hands folded, as though waiting for a bus.

“Go home without me,” Nadia said quietly to her father. “I’ll be there soon.”

Dad was too distracted to argue. “Yeah, check on Mateo. Tell his dad to talk to me if that guy tries to sue. I can find a good torts lawyer for him.”

“Sure.”

Nadia crossed the street, walking toward Elizabeth. In a town as small as Captive’s Sound, even this spot by one of the main intersections was quiet and almost deserted. Nadia didn’t see anyone else any closer than the La Catrina parking lot; their only audience was a crow that had perched on a nearby lamppost and seemed to be watching them with odd, grayish eyes.

Elizabeth’s pale face and curling hair made her look like a pre-Raphaelite painting, soft and dreamy, but there was no mistaking the menace just beneath the surface. Like that Ophelia picture, Nadia thought . . . if the girl climbed out of the river and decided to kill Hamlet instead.

As Nadia took the final steps and stood in front of Elizabeth, she was able to see the new burns on her shoulder—two lines that crossed the ones she’d made when Mrs. Purdhy collapsed, but at an odd angle. She willed herself to remember the pattern, to memorize it.

“You’re killing people,” Nadia said.

“They won’t die.” Elizabeth motioned toward the other side of the bench, inviting Nadia to sit by her; Nadia remained standing. If Elizabeth cared, she gave no sign. “At least, not yet.”

“Then why are you hurting them?”

“If you knew more about witchcraft, you would understand. That’s why you must become my student.”

Nadia had to laugh. “Why would you ever, ever think that could happen?”

“Mateo isn’t here now. There’s no need to posture for his benefit. We can be entirely honest with each other.” When Elizabeth leaned forward, her usual hazy inattention to the mundane world around her vanished; Nadia felt the full sharpness of her attention. “You’ve taken yourself almost as far in the Craft as you can go on your own. Already you’re working at the very limits of your knowledge, and you’ve seen the dangers, haven’t you? Face facts. You make mistakes. Some of them are merely amusing, but some of them go beyond that.”

They’d taken Mrs. Prasad away in a van. Apparently she was still under twenty-four-hour psychiatric observation. Her son had already been killed; would she wind up in an institution, too?

“I’m still learning,” Nadia said, as evenly as she could manage. Anger bubbled beneath the surface, but she was trying to keep it under control. The less Elizabeth expected a fight, the more shocked she’d be when she got one. “Every witch learns throughout her lifetime.”

“From her teacher.”

“And from experience. And the spells of other witches.”

“Which they learn in covens, not from some notes Prudence Hale wrote four hundred years ago.” Elizabeth cocked her head, a movement uncannily like the crow perched nearby. “You must acknowledge that you will never fulfill your true potential as a witch without a teacher, and I’m your only chance.”

“Okay, then, I’ll never fulfill my potential,” Nadia snapped. “Maybe I won’t be as strong as I might have been, but—that doesn’t mean I can’t be good. And it definitely means I don’t have to work for the One Beneath, or ever work with you.”

Elizabeth’s smile was easy, even contented. “You can say that so easily only because you haven’t even begun to grasp what your true potential really is.”

What did she mean by that? Deep within Nadia’s revulsion and anger, another emotion flickered—curiosity.

But Elizabeth continued, “I am engaged in magnificent work, Nadia. Work that can reshape everything we have ever known about magic. You should help me. One way or another, you will help me. You can’t imagine the glory waiting for you if you join me—though I can tell you what will happen first, if you continue to resist.”

Nadia was very aware of the weight of her bracelet around her wrist. If Elizabeth cast a spell at this moment, could she counteract it? Did she intend to just strike her down, here and now?

Instead Elizabeth said, “First, I’ll go back to your house, just like I did yesterday. Your father didn’t mention it, did he? But not because he forgot. I promise you, he’ll never forget yesterday afternoon.”

“What did you do to him?”

“A spell of desire.”

There was no such thing as a love spell; love sprang into being of its own accord, and that was all there was to it. But there were spells of desire—spells of lust, basically. Mom had always said it was wrong to use them outside of an existing relationship, “just to spice things up once in a while.” They would be effective on anyone, though. A spell of desire put someone in your bed. Nadia remembered the way her father had wanted a drink, how flustered he’d been when Elizabeth walked in, and thought for a moment she might throw up.