Vyla chuckles. “Nah, babe. You did it.”
There’s a commotion downstairs, and Vyla leaves to take care of it. Camilla puts a hand on my shoulder. “Tell me, Linds, were you really mad when the bookcase fell?”
“Yeah.”
“And were you looking at it when it fell? Like, couldn’t tear your eyes away from it?”
“Yeah.”
“And while you were looking at it, did you feel anything, like, say, a growing heat in your chest that moved up your body the longer you looked at it?”
“Yeah. Wait, how did you know that?”
She cups my face and lets out a squeal. “We’ve found your power, little witch.”
I cover her hands with mine. “Whoa, really? What do you mean?”
“Uh huh. Good old-fashioned telekinesis.”
As in, I can move things around with my mind? “That’s crazy,” I reply, dumbstruck. “How can you be sure?”
“Most witches who have it don’t notice until something happens to draw out an extreme reaction. You’re not in control of it yet, so until you are, it’s going to appear when your emotions are most heightened, like”––she gestures at the pile of books and wood––“when your soulmate is almost sexually assaulted by a hideous monster, for instance.”
“You think he’s my soulmate?” I know it’s the last thing I should be focusing on right now, but I can’t help it.
“Oh, big time. A temporary relationship wouldn’t affect you like this. Part of you knows he’s it, even if the rest of you isn’t ready to admit it.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “But in other good news, we know what kind of witch you are now.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “You, my dear, are a gray witch.”
I vaguely remember reading that in the list of types of witches, but I can’t remember what it means.
As if reading my thoughts, Camilla explains, “Gray witches practice magic that’s both light and dark. You straddle the line, which means you’re incredibly powerful. Most covens keep their magic light, in an effort to fight for the greater good, but also because too many baby witches dabbled in black magic before they were ready and placed curses that seasoned witches had to go in and reverse. Dark magic is highly advanced, but to gray witches it comes naturally. You were born with the power to right wrongs using your magic. Do you understand? You can redirect bad energy to where it needs to go. You can correct injustice.Youcan avenge.”
I sit with what Camilla said and let it settle as a million things happen around me.
Gemma is unearthed from the pile of books, still unconscious, handcuffed, and dropped into the back seat of Otto’s cruiser. Vyla and I provide our statements, and Otto, without being able to say for certain, thinks Gemma will be sent to the rehab facility in Iceland for an extended period of time based on the severity of the crime committed. If she passes the test at the end of her stay, she can leave but she will never return to Mapletown. She’ll also have to wear a neon yellow bracelet at all times that identifies her as a convicted sexual predator.
Her house and her belongings will be auctioned off by the town. She’ll lose everything.
Camilla calls Morty, and he and Riz maneuver Nic onto a hospital bed, which they carry out of Gemma’s house and transport into my living room. When Camilla is back home with the kids, she texts me and says that Jules will stay at her house for the next two days, so that Nic can recover in private.
I’m tempted to press her on it but I decide not to. I have no idea what’s going to happen when Nic wakes up. Will he be deepin his rut and start ripping off my clothes, or will he come out of the drug induced haze slowly and want to talk about our future?
Over the next twelve hours, I continue to check Nic’s pulse and keep a fresh cold cloth on his forehead. I remember Riz said he left Nic’s phone in his truck when he drove it over here, and I hurry out to grab it so I can charge it for him. On the floor of the passenger side, there’s a bright yellow poster rolled up and secured with a rubber band.
In big black letters, it says, “Go Jules! Dancing Queen! You’ve got this. -Zad”
Zad?Could that be short for… I suck in a breath. “Zombie dad,” I mutter aloud. Has she been calling him that? Without me noticing? How?
My gaze drifts to the center console, and I find a folded piece of lined paper in the left cupholder. I shouldn’t be snooping like this, but when the top of the paper reads, “Lindsay Abbadelli: Likes and Dislikes,” I refuse to stop. On this list, he’s written everything I’ve mentioned liking or hating.
“Likes: Alanis Morrissette, Green Day, Drew Barrymore, Lilith Fair, cooking, sleeping with her foot out of the blanket, coupons, getting her nails done, everything Jules, fancy clothes, and peanut butter cups.”
“Dislikes: Picnics, men, Jules’s father, too much Carolina Reaper sauce, banana and mayo sandwiches, seafood, spiders, Gemma, and when she doesn’t know where I am.”
He’s even got, “Flowers” in the dislikes column, with an arrow next to it and, “Allergic to baby’s breath.”
