Page 44 of Practically Witches

Instead, I head toward the light burning in the building. It’s in the lounge of the lower level. I look in a window because the last thing I need is to be surprised when I open that particular door, but I see nothing except the triangle of light created by a half-closed—could be half-open if I had any optimism at all—door that is about halfway down the long center hall.

I pull the door open, trying to remember if this is the building with the squeaky hinges or if it’s another. Fortunately, it’s the other. This one is quiet and unlocked so the beginning of this very bad idea is at least going in my favor.

On the tiptoes of a very silent pair of black boots, I move toward that light and try to peek inside before I spring through the door and yell, “a-ha!” which is the only part of the plan I’m even semi-proud of. If I’m honest, it’s actually the only part of the plan that I have managed to visualize thus far.

It takes one deep breath and then another before I yank the door open and frame myself in the doorway. It’s also at that moment that I realize I don’t have a weapon of any kind or anything to shield myself from whatever spell the syphoner might throw.

I hear the buzz of lights and another fluorescent fixture bursts in a shower of sparks, even though the light isn’t on. It gives me the boost of confidence that I need. This bitch hurt my sister and Zane, who might someday be my boyfriend—especially if I am the one who returns his power because I went fifty shades of badass and took on a syphoner. Of course, I probably will have to mention that I am also a syphoner so I’ll lose some points, but being a syphoner who saves the day…I can see it going my way.

So, I’m going to do what has to be done. I can feel the magic of the Institute inside of me. I’m infused with it. I think. I feel something anyway, and I’m pretty sure it isn’t gas from the taquitos I ate earlier. If it is, this isn’t going to go well.

The words to the spell are fresh in my mind and I murmur the Latin phrases over and over so that a whip of activity swirls around me. I have to say the spell three times—I’m almost finished—and finish it withet ita fietorso it shall be done. As I’m about to utter those last words because the magic is swirling, the janitor steps out from behind a shelf and yells, “Stop!”

I twist toward him, the magic and spell broken. “What?”

And now I have to start again.

“You can’t kill her.” His voice is urgent, high-pitched.

And he’s right. I don’t have the scepter.

“Who the hell are you?” How the hell does he know what I can or can’t do, but I have a feeling he’s more than just the janitor.

As I’m standing, staring at him, a burst of magic nearly knocks me down and I turn. The syphoner is trying to attach herself to me the way I’d seen her do to Aimee.

I can grab the energy ropes and hold them because they have no effect on me. I know what it means and why but there are cameras all over this building and I don’t know if they’re monitored or not. Probably they are.

I can’t worry about that now. I snap the syphoner’s cords and she falls so I can drag her closer. She’s sliding toward me. Her body twisting, aiming her feet first and then her hands toward me. I’m careful because she still has magic inside of her—Aimee’s and Zane’s.

I don’t have magic, don’t have a way to use any, and theonly spell I know to fight her won’t work without the scepter, so I throw myself at her, use the momentum and strength in my body to keep her down, swing my arms without aiming and connect to her body with one hand and her face with the other.

She squeals and the intensity and pitch of the sound pierces my ears. There’s no defense to it except to cover my ears which leaves me vulnerable to her attack. But she rolls to her feet, stares for a minute, still screeching, then runs. Again.

And once more I’m too slow to do a fucking thing about it.

Chapter

Twenty

When I can stand again and the ringing in my ears dies, I look at the janitor. He’s still standing, still staring at me. He hadn’t made a single move to help me and I would like an explanation but first… “Who are you?”

As I stare, it appears as if a blanket slides off him and the face he’s wearing melts away as though it’s made of wax, but it’s a glamour. I’ve seen one before and I’ve seen it melt away.

I’ve seen his face before. All my life it’s hung in a portrait with my mother over the television. “Dad?”

He stares at me, unblinking. “Yes.” He takes me by the arm and I’m too dumbfounded to resist, although I would damned sure like an explanation. “We have to get out of here.”

I think of Zane in the Jeep in need of my mother’s help. That’s the only reason I’m letting him pull me toward the exit. “I have to get home to Mom. Zane needs her help.” I don’t know if he’s the one who’s been at school all these years or if he just assumed the face of theactual janitor, but I’m not about to stand around and explain anything to him. He’s the one who should be explaining things to me.

Because Zane is slumped in the front seat where I left him before I went inside the Institute, my dad—who I still can’t believe I’m seeing—sits in the back. He doesn’t try to talk to me, which wouldn’t do him any good anyway because I’m focused on the road and getting home as quickly as I can.

I don’t want to think about anything other than getting Zane to my mother and getting him healed, but my dad—a man I haven’t seen inyearsand could barely remember—is sitting behind me.

“Zane’s going to be fine, sweetheart.” It surprises me for a second that he uses Zane’s name, but if he’s been around the school, Zane’s is a name he would know.

I whip the car onto the road that leads to my house and then glance at my father in the mirror. “Don’t call me that.”

He left us. Good reason or not, I’m not a child. I don’t need his consolation now. The time for that, along with the truth, was years ago. So I don’t talk to him now, just pull up in front of my house.

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