Page 103 of Our Crooked Hearts
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The suburbs
Right now
Billy’s car had a busted AC. All the windows were down and the wind came roaring off the highway, pummeling my head and making it easier to hold my thoughts away from me, where they wouldn’t hurt. My sense of time was pulpy. The car clock said 3:07 but that had to be a lie. The night had already stretched so long.
Maybe Marion was packing extra minutes into every hour to make room for me to come find her. To findthem.She and my mother and Aunt Fee had lived through a nightmare. Now I was going to look for them at its source.
We’d climbed down from the tree house and Marion wasn’t waiting for me. Billy grabbed keys and shoes and a bag of pretzels just in case and still she didn’t come. But that didn’t mean her eyes weren’t on me.
We hit our exit and a few minutes later we were driving through a college town. Campus was a warren of lawns and pedestrian walkways and parking garages. We got as close as we could and I still couldn’t see what I was looking for.
“I’m gonna find a place to park,” Billy said, turning his blinker on even though it was the middle of the night and there were no other cars in sight.
“Wait,” I said. “Pull over here quick.”
When he had I turned to him and took his hands and said, “You know you’re not coming with me.”
“Ivy,” he began, and I shook my head.
“If I’m right, and they’re there, I can’t be focused on protecting you.”
“You wouldn’t—” He cut himself off, thought about it. “But if she… what if she comes at you with a candlestick or something? You need someone watching your back.”
“It’s not gonna be a candlestick. And if she knows… I mean, look at us.” I waved at the space between our bodies, a zinging arena of heart arrows, basically. “She knows who you are, to me. She could use it.”
He dropped his head. “I hate this.”
“This is what it is to be with a witch,” I told him. “You have to let me be stronger than you.”
His eyes went wide and he kissed my knuckles. “With you,” he said, grinning. “With awitch.I’ve known you were stronger than me since I was seven. It’s awesome. I just hate that I’m a liability. I wish I could help you.”
“Youarehelping me. You’re my getaway vehicle, right? Also my getting-there vehicle. Also my—”
He kissed me. “I’m your ride. So I wait here. Watching my phone in case you need me.”
“Wish me luck,” I told him, and stepped out of the car.
When I was alone I could let myself feel afraid without worrying he’d try to stop or follow me. I slipped around the side of a concrete building. I was starting to mistrust Google Maps when I saw the narrow sidewalk.
It ran beneath old lamps, their bulbs the safety-orange of construction lights. At the path’s end was a house built to such sinister specifications I didn’t need to see its sign to know I was there. I’d read about it on the drive and learned it had been closed for a long time, for renovations. But there was no scaffolding, no sign of work in progress. Just an unlit house on a lawn of clover in the center of a dark campus. I reached the end of the path and stopped.
The library’s front door was open. Just like the house in the woods.
I walked on.
Everything I’d cast so far had been by instinct. I’d reacted, I’d panicked, I’d reached for what was right there. I had this idea that I would use an unlocking charm to get into the library that had once been the occultist’s house. Now that I didn’t need it the magic gummed up in my head like gauze on a nosebleed. I spent it on a charm for clarity of sight.
It made the moonlight brighter, turned the volume up on all the edges of things that wanted to lie flat in the dark. I stepped into a foyer scented with old books. As I stood there getting my bearings a headache began to form, so dispersed and metallic it felt like I’d breathed in silver dust.
Another old/new memory shouldered its way to the front of my brain: I knew this feeling. I was bobbing in the wake of someone else’s bad magic.
I followed it. My mother had made this walk, or somethingclose to it, the night she’d pushed Marion through the mirror. A dreamer’s version of this place had been Marion’s cell for more than twenty years. I felt their footsteps alongside my own as I walked over dusty inlaid floors, past bookshelves, beneath stained-glass windows casting eerie shapes on my skin.
I ascended two flights of stairs on the trail of the awful feeling, my headache blooming into a full-body tremble. At the bottom of the third flight, I looked up. I saw nothing but drifting dust motes and moonlight but the thought of climbing filled me with a deep-space terror. I took three breaths and began, shoulder set against the raw edge of recently worked magic.
All was silent, all was still, but my heart beat in quick hard pulses, like the steady squeezing of a fist. I came to a halt below a trapdoor cut into the ceiling. Up there was the source of everything, and still I couldn’t hear a sound.
