Page 17 of Practically Witches

I manage a nod, or I think so as I look up at him and he glances down at me. “I’m not going to let this happen to you, too.”

I want to ask what he means, but I can’t form the words. I can only think them. I also want to tell him about the syphoner. What I saw and how it all happened because I’m afraid if I close my eyes again, I’m going to forget.

Cords of light that moved in waves up and down, back and forth between Margery and the syphoner then Aimee and the syphoner. It didn’t happen to me.

I close my eyes and my fingers flex into his shirt. “It’s okay, RJ. I promise you’re safe now.”

He thinks I’m frightened, but really, I’m only trying to move, trying to make my body respond to what I’m telling it to do. I try to reach for Aimee, but for all the flexing my fingers can do, my arms are still immobile.

And that’s exactly how I am when Zane carries me up the sidewalk to the house.

His shirt smells like cologne and chest is hard beneath my cheek, but I can’t enjoy it. I don’t know how Aimee is and I don’t know how I am. I only know that I don’t like being helpless. I don’t like it one fucking bit.

He shifts my weight as the door opens and I hear my mother’s voice. It’s a comfort. She’ll know what to do. She has to. I want to reach for her, but I can see her face as Zane walks me past her.

“RJ!” And a second later, she gasps harder, louder. “Aimee!” She tells Zane, “Put her in the chair.” And to Dylan, she says, “Put Aimee on the sofa.” There’s a frantic undertone to her voice, but she would never show any kind of emotion in front of strangers. The chair is soft under my ass, and Zane arranges a pillow under my cheek as my head weaves and bobs into the arm of the chair.

He crouches in front of me, looks at me. “Do you know what happened?”

I can’t nod, so I lower my eyes and hold them closed for a minute.

“Is that a yes, RJ?”

I blink again, same way.

“You boys can go.” My mother’s voice is firm and angry. If I was grounded before, I’m going to be under lock and key now. But so long as Aimee’s all right, they can put me in a dungeon where I can’t drag her into anymore of my schemes for as long as I live. I’m certain my mother will consider it. “I can handle this now.”

Zane stands so that I only have a view of his legs. But then the door opens and closes and my mother comes around to stand in front of me, but she’s facing the sofa. She’s helping Aimee.

And then she’s in front of me. “RJ, what happened?”

I try to lift my head, pull it up not more than an inch and then it falls. I can’t answer anything yet. I whimper and she brushes my hair back. “My poor girls. I’m going to fix you, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

She pushes to her feet and walks into the kitchen.

Chapter

Nine

When she comes back, Mom’s dress swishes at her calves and her bare feet curl into the carpet. She comes to me first.

“Can you sit up?” I try but am unable, so she stands at the opposite side of the chair and slides her arm around my shoulders. She pulls me up, holds me with one arm and tips a metal cup to my lips with the other hand.

The liquid tastes terrible, but I can’t move enough to spit it out, plus, she would only make me drink more. I know that from a childhood experience with cough suppressant syrup that tasted like acid.

The liquid slips down my throat and a warmth starts in my belly then branches out into the rest of my body. Feeling returns and I clear my throat, move my ankles up and down, then my legs, and finally the rest of me.

Mom wipes the dribble of her potion off my chin and cheek. “Can you tell me what happened, RJ?” She moves toward Aimee, whose eyes are open now and she’s sitting up.

Before I can speak, Aimee shouts, or maybe it’s better described as a scream. Loud. Shrill. Sharp.

Mom startles, and I look at Aimee. She’s sitting up, holding her hands in the air with her palms facing her then she turns them away and back again. “Mom!”

Our mother rushes to Aimee’s side, takes her hands and holds them, trying to calm a panicked Aimee. Her face is taut with what is either horror or terror; I don’t watch enough scary movies to know the difference. But the screams that follow are definitely of the same genre.

Mom pulls Aimee into a hug as my stomach clenches and I stand, try to take a step then fall to my knees and pull myself to the couch where Mom is hugging Aimee. “What happened, Aimee?”

“It was a syphoner,” I say.

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