Page 22 of Practically Witches

I don’t tell her that it’s because it’s a memory. Information won’t help her. She needs consolation, probably distraction, too. Those things I can give her. “I have to tell you something.”

“Tell me…?” She’s wary, as if she doesn’t quite know if she wants to hear what I have to say, but she doesn’t want to tell me.

I can’t let her apprehension bother me. I don’t know how I would act if I couldn’t do the one thing I’d been born to do—although with me, we don’t really know exactly what that is.

“The grimoire showedme something.”

She tucks her hands under her face and smiles at me. “The grimoire?”

“Mom left it on the table. It was open to a certain page, and when I tried, it wouldn’t let me turn it.” The book itself is infused with magic, so everything and anything is possible, although it hadn’t seemed so before.

“RJ.” She sounds disappointed, as if she doesn’t believe me. I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t believe me either. Although I would have believed her if she’d said it.

“It doesn’t matter if you think I’m making this up.” It’s hurtful, but doesn’t really matter. “We have things we can check out.” If for nothing else than because I won’t be one of those women who life happens to. That isn’t the life I want. I tell her about the club and the names and the great hall.

She shakes her head at me. “They’re the great families.”

The great families? “What?” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“RJ, do youeverpay attention in history class? The ninegreat familiesare the ones who started the Institute. Even Mom told us about it when she worked there.” She shakes her head, and now I know why Dean Ryman didn’t deny Mom’s request for me to be able to start the Institute early. Aimee clicks the names off on her fingers. “Steros, Chadwick, Foster, Bradbury, Faulkner, Tempest, Strain, Dupree and…” She pauses. “Hadley. They’re the nine most magically powerful families in all the world.”

I played enough games of Battles of War on the computer to know that it is bad strategy to have the nine most powerful families—magical or not—in one place. The target is too big, too easy to hit.

“So, the syphoner wants the power of the nine families?Why?” I say it aloud, though I doubt she has an answer anymore than I do.

“Maybe we should ask your new friend.” And she smiles because she has a mood recovery time that borders on bipolar. “Your book.”

“Ha ha, laugh all you want, but that book gave us information we didn’t have. And it told me to go to Club Mera.” I cock a brow at her, haughty because this time I’m the one with the information. Even though I have no idea what the information means or why I need to know it.

“Club Mera?” She shakes her head. “Isn’t that the club in Andover?”

Two towns over. A forty-minute drive with traffic. There isn’t much we can do tonight, while the house is dark and the creatures that steal magic in the dark of night are still prowling. But tomorrow, classes or not, we’re going. “Yeah. They don’t open until late, but someone is there after 1 p.m.” They have to be to accept deliveries. “We can go after lunch?”

She nods and yawns. “Okay.”

When Aimee falls to sleep again next to me, I go to the desk and retrieve the notebook so I can read what I’ve written using the light of my cell. My account is as complete as I can remember. When I finish reading, I drop the notebook onto my chest and check my inbox for new messages.

There are none, so I do what girls who are crushing on a hot guy do. I Google him, check his socials, wonder about things that I’m far too mature to wonder about, like what a girl has to do to change the social media relationship status of a guy like Zane Bradbury.

Such are the problems I encounter when I stay up late and let my mind have its way. Of course, it’s not all bad.

His socials are a treasure trove of pictures of him. At the beach with his friends. In his suit, obviously posed for the awards night gala the Institute holds once a year that I didn’t go to because who wants to go to that thing without a date? Aimee went, and is in the background of one of his pics. There are pictures of him with his mom. With his younger brother. With his sister. None with a girlfriend. Not even a past one.

Maybe because it’s almost daylight and I haven’t slept much, or maybe because there is a force working against me in this world, I accidentally like one of his photos from two years ago. As soon as I realize what happened, I toss the phone like somehow that will erase what I’ve done, like he won’t know I did it if I’m not holding my phone.

When my phone tings a message a second later, I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see his name or the name of whoever he might be with right now who saw what I did.

But the masochist in me has to look. If it’s bad, she’ll delight and I’ll cringe, but what the hell. I don’t have much to lose at this point, and no matter what this message says I’ll have the memory of his chest under my cheek when he carried me inside. I’ll have the way his arms felt around me.

I pick up the phone and take a deep breath.

Z_MAGIC_MAN0105

Hey.

Of course, it’s him. I would know that handle anywhere, and just seeing it makes my heart throb a little harder.

WishIHadAGirlName7

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