Firespell (17 page)

We passed boutique after boutique, the chichi stores nestled between architectural masterpieces—the ribbon-wrapped Hancock Building, the castlelike form of the Water Tower and, of course, lots of construction.

“So,” Amie said, “are you going to tell us exactly what went on in the basement?”

“What basement?” I asked, my gaze on the high- rises above us.

“Coyness is not becoming,” Veronica said. “You were in the basement, and then you were in the hospital. We know those things happened.” She slid me a sideways glance. “Now we want to know how they connect.”

Sure, I was taking a breather from Scout and the rest of the Adepts, but I wasn’t about to rat them out, especially to brat packers. Trying to be normal for a few minutes was one thing; becoming a fink was something else entirely.

“I fell,” I told her, stating the absolute truth. “I was on my way back upstairs, and I slipped. The edges of those limestone stairs to the first floor, you know how they’re warped?”

“You’d think they could fix those,” Amie said.

“You’d think,” I agreed.

“Uh-huh,” Veronica said, doubt in her voice. “They sent you to the hospital because you fell down the stairs?”

“Because I was knocked unconscious,” I reminded them with a bright smile. “And had I not been down in the basement in the first place . . .”

I didn’t finish the sentence, letting the blame remain unspoken. Apparently, that was a good strategy. When I glanced over at Veronica, she was smiling appreciatively, as if my reminder of their culpability was just the kind of strategy she’d have used.

Suddenly, as if we were the best of friends, Veronica linked her arm in mine, then steered me in and through the pedestrian traffic.

“In here,” she said, bobbing her head toward a shopping center on the west side of the street. It was three stories high, the front wall a giant window of mannequins and clothing displays. A coffee bar filled most of the first floor, while giant hanging sculptures—brightly colored teardrops of glass—rained down from the three-story atrium.

“Nice place,” I said, my gaze rising as I surveyed the glass.

“It’s not bad,” Veronica said. “And the shopping’s pretty good, too.”

“Pretty good” might have been an understatement. The stores that spanned the corridors weren’t the kind of places where you dropped in to pick up socks. These were
investment
stores. Once-in-a-lifetime stores. Stores with clothes and bags that most shoppers saved months or years for.

Amie and Veronica were not your average shoppers. We spent three hours working our way down from the third floor to the first, checking out stores, trying on clothes, posing in front of mirrors in clunky shoes, tiny jeans, and Ikat prints. I bought nothing; I had the emergency credit card, but buying off the rack didn’t have much appeal. There was no
hunt
in buying off the rack, no thrill of finding a kick-ass bag or pair of shoes for an incredible discount. With occasional exceptions, I was a vintage and thrift store kind of girl—a handbag huntress.

Amie and Veronica, on the other hand, bought
everything
. They found must- haves in almost every store we stopped in: monogram-print leather bags, wedge-heeled boots with elflike slits in the top, leggings galore, stilettos with heels so skinny they’d have made excellent weaponry . . . or better weaponry than flip- flops, anyway. The amount of money they spent was breathtaking, and neither of them so much as looked at the receipts. Cost was not a factor. They picked out what they wanted and, without hesitation, handed it over to eager store clerks.

Although I put a little more thought into the financial part of shopping, I couldn’t fault their design sensibilities. They may have been dressed like traditional brat packers for their excursion to Magnificent Mile, but these girls knew fashion—what was hot, and what was on its way up.

Even better, maybe because they were missing out on Mary Katherine’s obnoxiously sarcastic influence, Amie and Veronica were actually pleasant. Sure, we didn’t have a discussion in our three- hour, floor-to-floor mall survey that didn’t involve clothes or money or who’s-seeing-whom gossip, but I had wanted oblivion. Turned out, trying to keep straight the intermingled dating lives of St. Sophia’s girls and the Montclare boys they hooked up with was a fast road to oblivion. I barely thought about the little green circle on my back, but even self-induced oblivion couldn’t last forever.

We were on the stairs, heading toward the first floor with glossy, tissue-stuffed shopping bags in hand, when I saw him.

Jason Shepherd.

My heart nearly stopped.

Not just because it was Jason, but because it was Jason in jeans that pooled over chunky boots, and a snug, faded denim work shirt. Do you have any idea what wearing blue did for a boy with already ridiculously blue eyes? It was like his irises glowed, like they were lit by blue fire from within. Add that to a face already too pretty for anyone’s good, and you had a dangerous combination. The boy was completely
en fuego
.

Jason was accompanied by a guy who was cute in a totally different kind of way. This one had thick, dark hair, heavy eyebrows, deep-set brown eyes, a very intense look. He wore glasses with thick, black frames and hipster-chic clothes: jacket over T-shirt; dark jeans; black Chuck Taylors.

I blew out a breath, remembered the symbol on the small of my back, and decided I wasn’t up for handsome Adepts or their buddies any more than I had been for funky, nose-ringed spellbinders. Mild panic setting in, I planned my exit.

“Hey,” I told Amie, as we reached the first floor, “I’m going to run in there.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder.

Amie glanced behind me, then lifted her eyebrows. “You’re going to the orthopedic shoe store?”

Okay, so I really should have looked before I pointed. “I like to be prepared.”

“For your future orthopedic shoe needs?”

“Podiatric health is very important.”

“Veronica!”

Frick. Too late. I muttered a curse and looked over. Jason’s friend saluted.

I risked a glance Jason’s way and found blue eyes on me, but I couldn’t stand the intimacy of his gaze. It seemed wrong to share a secret in front of people who knew nothing about it, nothing about the world that existed beneath our feet. And then there was the guilt about having abandoned Scout for Louis Vuitton and BCBG that was beginning to weigh on my shoulders. I looked away.

“That’s John Creed,” Veronica whispered as they walked over. “He’s president of the junior class at Montclare. But I don’t know the other guy.”

I didn’t tell her that I knew him well enough, that he’d carried me from danger, and that he was maybe,
possibly
, a werewolf.

“Veronica Lively,” said the hipster. His voice was slow, deep, methodical. “I haven’t seen you in forever. Where have you been hiding?”

“St. Sophia’s,” she said. “It’s where I live and play.”

“John Creed,” said the boy, giving me a nod in greeting, “and this is Jason Shepherd. But I don’t know you.” He gave me a smile that was a little too coy, a little too self-assured.

“How unfortunate for you,” I responded with a flat smile, and watched his eyebrows lift in appreciation.

“Lily Parker,” Veronica said, bobbing her head toward me, then whipping away the cup John held in his hand. She took a sip.

“John Creed, who is currently down one smoothie,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lively, I believe you owe me a drink.”

A sly grin on her face, Veronica took another sip before handing it back to him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s plenty left.”

John made a sarcastic sound, then began quizzing her about friends they had in common. I took the opportunity to steal a glance at Jason, and found him staring back at me, head tilted. He was clearly wondering why I was acting as if I didn’t know him, and where I’d left Scout.

I looked away, guilt flooding my chest.

“So, new girl,” John suddenly said, and I looked his way. “What brings you to St. Sophia’s?”

“My parents are in Germany.”

“Intriguing. Vacation? Second home?”

“Sabbatical.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Sabbatical,” he repeated. “As in, a little plastic surgery?”

“As in, a little academic research.”

His expression suggested he wasn’t convinced my parents were studying, as opposed to a more lurid, rich-folks activity, but he let it go. “I see. Where’d you go to school? Before you became a St. Sophia’s girl, I mean.”

“Upstate New York.”

“New York,” he repeated. “How exotic.”

“Not all that exotic,” I said, twirling a finger to point out the architecture around us. “And you Midwesterners seem to do things pretty well.”

A smile blossomed on John Creed’s face, but there was still something dark in his eyes—something melancholy. Melancholy or not, the words that came out of his mouth were still very teenage boy.

“Even Midwesterners appreciate . . . pretty things,” he said, his gaze traveling from my boots to my knot of dark hair. When he reached my gaze again, he gave me a knowing smile. It was a compliment, I guessed, that he thought I looked good, but coming from him, that compliment was a little creepy.

“Cool your jets, Creed,” Veronica interrupted. “And before this conversation crosses a line, we should get back to campus. Curfew,” she added, then offered Jason a coy smile. “Nice to meet you, Jason.”

“Same here,” he said, bobbing his head at her, then glancing at me. “Lily.”

I bobbed my head at him, a flush rising on my cheeks, and wished I’d stayed in my room.

12

I’d spared myself a confrontation with Scout earlier in the day. Since she and Lesley were playing cards at the coffee table when I returned to the suite, two brat packers in line behind me, my time for avoidance was up.

I stopped short in the doorway when I saw them, Amie and Veronica nearly ramming me in the back.

“Down in front,” Veronica muttered, squeezing through the door around me, bringing a tornado of shopping bags into the common room.

Scout glanced up when I opened the door. At first, she seemed excited to see me. But when she realized who’d followed me in, her expression morphed into something significantly nastier.

I probably deserved that.

“Shopping?” she asked, an eyebrow arched as Amie and Veronica skirted the couch on their way to Amie’s room.

“Fresh air,” I said.

Scout made a disdainful sound, shook her head, and dropped her gaze to the fan of cards in her hand. “I think it’s your turn,” she told Lesley, her voice flat.

Lesley looked up at me. “You were out—with them?”

Barnaby wasn’t much for subtlety.

“Fresh air,” Scout repeated, then put a card onto the table with a
snap
of sound. “Lily needed
fresh air
.”

Amie unlocked her bedroom door and moved inside. But before Veronica went in, she stopped and gazed back at me. “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” Scout bit out, flipping one card, then a second and third, onto the table. “You should go. You have shoes to try on, Carrie, or Miranda, or whoever you’re pretending to be today.”

Veronica snorted, her features screwing into that ratlike pinch. “Better than hanging out here with geeks ’r’ us.”

“Geeks ’r’ us?” I repeated.

“She uses a bag with a pirate symbol on it,” Veronica said. “What kind of Disney fantasy is she living?”

Oh, right, I thought.
That’s
why I hated these girls. “And yet,” I pointed out, “you hung out with me today. And you know Scout and I are friends.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” Scout muttered.

“We were giving you the benefit of the doubt,” Veronica said.

Scout made a sarcastic sound. “No, Lively, you felt
guilty
.”

“Ladies,” Barnaby said, standing up to reveal the unicorn-print T-shirt she’d matched with a pleated skirt. “I don’t think Lily wants to be fought over. This is beneath all of you.”

I forced a nod in agreement—although it wasn’t
that
horrible to be fought over.

“Uh-huh,” Veronica said, then looked at me. “We did the nice thing, Parker. You’re new to St. Sophia’s, so we offered to help you out. We gave you a warning, and because you handled our little game in the basement, we gave you a chance.”

“So very thoughtful,” Scout bit out, “to make her a charity case.”

Veronica ignored her. “Fine. You want to be honest? Let’s be honest. Friends matter, Parker. And if you’re not friends with the right people, the fact that you went to St. Sophia’s won’t make a damn bit of difference. Even St. Sophia’s has its misfits, after all.” As if to punctuate her remark, she glanced over at Scout and Lesley, then glanced back at me, one eyebrow raised, willing me to get her point.

I’m not sure if she was better or worse for it, but the bitchiness of her comment aside, there was earnestness in her expression. Veronica believed what she was saying—really, truly believed it. Had Veronica been a misfit once?

Not that the answer was all that important right now. “If you’re saying that I have to dump one set of friends in order to keep another,” I told her, “I think you know what the answer’s going to be.”

“There are only two kinds of people in this world,” Veronica said. “Friends—and enemies.”

Was this girl for real? “I’m willing to take my chances.”

She snorted indignantly, then walked into Amie’s room. “Your loss,” she said, the door shutting with a decided
click
behind her.

The room was quiet for a moment.

I blew out a breath, then glanced over at Scout. Ever so calmly, without saying a word or making eye contact, she laid the rest of her cards flat on the table, stood up, marched into her room, and slammed the door.

The coffee table rattled.

I undraped the scarf from around my neck and dropped onto the couch.

Lesley crossed her legs and sat down on the floor, then began to order the deck of cards into a tidy pile. “Granted,” she said, “I’ve only known you for a couple of days, but that was not the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”