Until We Meet Again Page 15

  "Listen, Thema has a message for you," Aaron said. "She says that she'll wait in the city for you for as long as it takes. We still have a few hours before we depart, and I know where she is. Would you like for me to deliver a message to her?"

  What can I say? That I'm sorry that I took her sister, her best friend, away from her and got her arrested? She opened her mouth to deliver an apology, but then she realized that she had something better, more important, to say. She had been stupid to believe this mission was only about her. It wasn't. It didn't matter whether or not she was captured, she was going to get out and fix things, and she was also going to bring Adanna and Thema back together. She would find her mom too. Nothing was impossible. She had been chosen for this job for a reason.

  "I have a message for her," Eden said.

  "What is it?" Aaron asked.

  "Tell her, until we meet again, I'll look after her sister." Eden reached over and squeezed Adanna's hand.

  CONTINUED IN BOOK TWO

  About the Author

  S.E. Campbell had her first book published at the age of seventeen. Now, at twenty, she is still typing away at her computer, one day at a time. When she isn’t reading or writing, she likes to dance, take karate lessons, and run. After all, you never know when you’re about to be sucked into another world.

  Also from Astraea Press:

  Chapter One

  I can’t remember how I got conned into this.

  I remember Parvani saying, “Evie, I need you to buy me a spell book.” I vaguely remember my mouth forming the word, “Okay.” But I honestly don’t remember what happened afterward. Maybe selective memory loss is one of the seven stages of grief.

  I knew Parvani wanted to cast a love spell on Jordan Kent. She had a major crush on him, even though I’d told her he and I used to be real tight. Of course, I’d never explained why we’d had our falling out, or how I still thought about him every waking moment. And Parvani hadn’t ever asked. She couldn’t stop hyperventilating about him. Even I could see she barely registered on Jordan’s radar. I mean, other than Honors Geometry and me, what did they have in common?

  Hence her need for a love spell.

  Parvani, who had at least three hundred dollars’ worth of gift cards to a major chain, insisted an authentic spell book could only be found in a used bookstore. How she came up with this idea is beyond me. Maybe she’d watched too many episodes of Charmed. Anyway, the oldest, moldiest, used bookstore ever was three towns away, and two blocks from my mother’s favorite art supply store. Since Parvani’s parents had every second of her life scheduled, I was stuck with the task.

  As if I didn’t have enough problems.

  Parvani is my best friend and I had promised I’d help, so I hustled down Solano Avenue toward Well-Read Books. Warm pizza smells escaped through Paduano’s open door, making my stomach rumble. A homeless guy with bloodshot eyes jangled a foam cup full of coins at me. I warded him off with an apologetic shake of my head.

  Tugging Dad’s camouflage cap lower over my forehead, I opened the door to Well-Read Books and crossed the scuffed threshold. The glass door slammed shut behind me, frenzying a string of tiny pewter bells. I flinched, certain all eyes were upon me.

  For a second my brain went on autopilot, taking in the cashier with her magenta Mohawk and silver eyebrow stud. The fluorescent bulbs humming overhead bathed her in a stark light. She stood behind the cash register, helping a bearded customer. The guy smelled like he hadn’t changed his tie-dyed shirt since the sixties.

  It would make a cool photo. I imagined where I’d crop the shot. Maybe I’d print it in black and white. It would look so noir if the only pops of color were the cashier’s hair and the green tattoo on her wrist.

  Magenta Mohawk crossed her arms over the black muscle tee barely containing her cleavage, and threw me a what-are-you-staring-at look. Dad would have disarmed her with a grin and then taken the shot. But I’m not my dad. I’m not Dash O’Reilly, the famous photojournalist who’d gotten himself blown up in Afghanistan. I have his blue eyes, and beneath the weird auburn dye I’d recently used, I have his strawberry blond hair, too. But I’m nothing like him.

  Magenta Mohawk narrowed her eyes as if she considered me a rival gang member or potential shoplifter. A hot flush fast-tracked up my throat. My gaze darted to the quickest escape route, the worn stairs leading to the basement where the occult books were shelved.

  I fled past a display of political books and thudded down the steps. I paused on the second to last step and surveyed the room, the way Dad would if he’d just returned from a risky assignment. To my right, an organic-foods-and-sensible-shoes type woman pulled a British travel guide off a high shelf. To my left, a shabby professor-sort thumbed through the record collection. Hello, have you heard of a little thing called mp3s?

  No axe murderers. No deranged homeless people.

  I went in.

  The basement smelled like old books and damp wool. A college-age guy, a real hottie, emerged from the medieval history section, a latte in one hand and a paperback copy of Medieval Strongholds of Britain in the other. He gave me an indulgent smile, like I was a kid or something.

  Clearly, I needed to convince Mom to let me wear make-up. Just because she didn’t wear it shouldn’t mean I couldn’t. I’d only gotten away with the hair dye because Nana had bought it for me. Except for Mom, all the women in the Portland family either dyed or chopped off their hair when grief-stricken. At least I hadn’t gotten a crew cut or gone purple.

  I hurried past a hand-printed sign reading History of the Unexplained and headed for the section on magic. The books were shelved floor to ceiling—New Age, Earth Magic, and Astrology. I pushed aside gloomy thoughts of being buried alive if an earthquake hit, and knelt on the yellow vinyl floor.

  Under Wicca, I found The Solitary Witch, The A to Z of Witchcraft, and The Circle. I ran my hand over the colored volumes and closed my eyes. I willed my hand to stop over the right one. My fingers danced across several books, slid across a slim volume, moved on to the next, and then slid back. Pick me! the book seemed to scream.

  I opened my eyes. Teen Wytche. The slick paperback cover was the exact same shade as my chipped, Perfectly Plum nail polish. I tapped the new-smelling book against my unpainted lips. Somewhere behind the wall, an ancient heater rumbled to life and the vent over my head spewed warm air. A spicy, gypsy-like scent wafted my way.

  A fast scan of the book’s table of contents assured me there was a section on spells. Still, I scooted two feet toward the Pagan section. Sacred Stones. The Goddess Within. Still clutching Teen Wytche, I trailed my fingertips over volumes with titles printed in medieval-looking script. My pulse pounded like ancient drums.

  “Evie?”

  My heart catapulted to my chin. “Mom! You scared me.”

  “Sorry.” The woman is five foot six and walks like a panther. I’ve thought about tying a bell around her neck, or making her wear high heels. And makeup.

  “Did you find anything for Parvani?” she asked.

  “Yes.” I held up the spell book. “It’s for history class. She’s doing a report on witchcraft.”

  Mom arched one eyebrow. She took the book and flipped through it, pausing when something caught her attention. Her mouth tightened. She leaned closer to the page and her dark red hair tumbled across her shoulders. I flinched when she snapped the book closed. A pained expression haunted her eyes, and I was sure she’d say no.

  Instead, she handed me the book and cleared her throat. “Do you want to check out the photography section?”

  “No!” Heat rushed to my cheeks. What if we saw Dad’s book with his photo on the back, with him holding his camera and wearing his lucky cap? My legs melted into string cheese. I’m not ready to look. I can’t. I won’t. Because no matter what the grief counselor said, it was my fault Dad had died. Which is why I don’t take pictures anymore.

  Mom frowned. She still wore Dad’s emerald on her left ring finger—it glinted under the f
luorescent lights. “Honey, you’re the photo editor. Miss Roberts said you’re going to flunk Yearbook if—”

  “I said, no.”

  “Fine.” Mom’s eyes bulged with exasperation. “Let’s pay and get out of here.”

  I didn’t argue.

  We made our way up the stairs and around a half-dozen circular display tables. Mom stopped and righted an upside-down display book on herbology. I spotted the magazine rack. Shay Stewart, Hollywood’s bad boy, smirked at me from the glossy cover of Kiss. His dark hair was disheveled as if he had just woken up. His pouty lips begged to be smooched. My lower abdomen fluttered.

  “Wait.”

  “Evie.” Mom drew out my name like a warning. She scowled at the magazine, then read it aloud. “Five beauty tips that work! Channel your inner goddess! Shay Stewart in the flesh!” Her eyebrows knotted. “I don’t think…”

  “Please, Mom. I have my own money.”

  “All right. Just hurry up and pay.”

  “Yes!” I gave her an air kiss, then hustled over to the cashier. Magenta Mohawk must have gone on break, because an older woman wearing a silk headscarf and way too much jewelry rang up my purchases. When she took my money in her ring-covered hand, our fingers touched. An odd crackle zapped up my arm.

  The woman threw me a sly look as she dropped the book and magazine into a white plastic bag. She wagged a gnarled finger and warned, “Be sure to read every word.” Her voice rasped as though it had been pulled from the earth like a weed.

  Gulping, I nodded.

  She leaned closer and her musty breath breached the space between us. “Good luck, dearie.”

  The warm gypsy scent blew over me again. The bells on the front door tinkled. I angled toward the sound, the fine hairs on my nape standing on end. No one was there.

  I snatched the bag, rushed to Mom, and slid my arm through hers. “Do me a favor?” I pushed the bag into her hand. “Will you carry this?”

  She hesitated. “Okay.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced back at the checkout counter. The odd clerk had vanished. Magenta Mohawk was back on duty.

  Astraea Press

  Pure. Fiction.

  www.astraeapress.com