Page 62 of The Magic We Made

“I know she said something to you, Emma. Were you aware she has a phone?”

I panic. It shouldn’t be a big deal—all of us have phones.

We just don’t have them with us at the present moment, because Haley said the cops would be able to use them to trace us, and then they’d put us in jail.

“No,” I lie again. “I had no idea.” I haven’t seen Trina since she said I could use her phone to call my mom. But then, I haven’t seen Meg, either.Everyone seems to be disappearing. “What... what’s going to happen to her?”

“What I said was going to happen if I found any of you disobeying me,” Haley says, matter-of-factly. “You’ll have to pay the price. Trina is learning that the hard—”

“I found it!”

A jubilant shout rips through the forest. I turn my head and see Bella standing at the bottom of the same gully I’m kneeling in. Only she’s on her feet and holding something small high above her head. The smile on her face is rapturous.

“Haley, I think I found it!” she cries.

Haley is already rushing toward her. The rest of us follow, eager to see what Bella has in her hand.

When I finally slog my way through the mud to her side, however, I see that what she’s holding is only a small, skinny stick. It’s whitish in color. But other than that, it seems unremarkable.

Not to Haley, however. She lifts the stick from Bella’s hand and examines it closely while the rest of us watch. I don’t know about anyone else, but I find myself holding my breath.

After a moment, Haley lifts the little stick high in the air, her expression ecstatic with joy.

“All hail Hecate,” she shouts joyfully to the sky. “We honor and salute you! Soon, you will once again reign over the sea, sky, land, and—” she lowers her head and looks at us, her eyes glowing with triumph “—all of humankind.”

Frankie

Ash has a body like the Greek and Roman statues Richard used to drag me to see at the Met. Not that I have anything against art; I just prefer the Impressionists.

Nevertheless, I visited that wing often enough to recognize that Ash bears an uncanny resemblance to the Met’s marble statue of a youthful Hercules—except that Ash’s hair is longer.

He’s hard as that statue, too... everywhere, especially where I wanted it most.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he’s such a generous and enthusiastic lover—generous about making sure I got off first, before he did, and enthusiastic about his work to get me there.

And get me there he did—several times.

Afterward, I run my fingers over those finely chiseled muscles and ask, “How did you get the name Ashraf?”

“Oh.” Ash lies there, panting. “SonowI’m allowed to talk?”

“Sorry.” Chagrined, I kiss his shoulder. “Yes, you can talk now. I didn’t mean to be so bossy earlier.”

“I liked it,” he says after wadding up one of my pillows and stuffing it beneath his head. “But it’s a little deflating to a guy’s ego after a performance like that to get asked about his name and not, you know, his technique. I’m not saying I expect a prize or anything, but that was really some of my finest work.”

I laugh and kiss him again, this time on the mouth. “That performance was a ten out of ten. I was just wondering about your name because it’s unusual, especially given the fact that you have an uncle almost the same age namedDerrick.”

“Yeah. Well, my mom is Egyptian and wanted to call me Farouk. My dad was from Ohio and wanted to call me Jason. They compromised on a name that could be easily pronounced in both Arabic and English—Ashraf, or Ash, for short.”

“That’s so interesting.”

“Is it?” He pulls me close, which is nice. Our bodies fit together weirdly well. “I kind of wish my mom had won. My dad didn’t like me very much, or my superpower. He was always threatening to send me to military school,” he says. “But fortunately my grandma intervened, and I got sent to boarding school instead—”

“Boarding school?”

“Yeah, in Switzerland. No one else there was called Ashraf, that’s for sure. But I didn’t mind being different.”

“Is it your name that’s always made you feel different,” I ask, “or your superpower?”