CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"So I couldn't find my old prom dress," Moms says, bursting into my room with a pile of shiny material in her hands. "But, I did find this."

I pull the hairbrush out of my wet hair, a panic blooming in my gut as she drops the satin train and hold the dress up by each thin strap.

"Mom," I start to say, unsure of exactly what I'm feeling, "I can't wear your dress."

She holds it up a little higher, letting the light catch on the shimmery satin. The material is soft, blush tone, cut with a V-shaped neckline. To add a feminine, almost bohemian touch, the empire waist is lined with a delicate lace detail and again along the shoulder part of the strap—I think my mom once called this a flutter-sleeve. The dress is simple, but absolutely stunning in every sense of the word.

I reach out, fingers brushing along the crème lace sleeve.

It will reveal your wound, the invisible woman whispers inside my head. Reflexively, I pull away. My arm begins to sting as I drop it to my side, now hyperaware of lack of coverage a sleeveless dress would have.

"Oh, honey, it'll be fine. It's not like I'm ever going to wear it again." She smiles, but it no way does it meet with her eyes. The sadness that shows instead twists my heart.

"Mom, I can't wear your old wedding dress to a school dance," I say. I don't mean to make her sad, but the words just come out. I try to soften the unintended blow, adding, "I mean, don't you think everyone will know it isn't a prom dress?"

Mom falters for a few seconds. "I think it will be fine. It's homemade, so it's not as if it looks like it was purchased at a bridal shop. Just wear your hair down and it will tone it down."

My heart pangs in my chest. This dress has been sitting in her closet for over eighteen years. Part of me yearns for the day that she admits she is still in love with Dad. I mean, how can she actually move on without acknowledging that he still has such a stronghold on her heart?

"If you don't want to wear it, that's fine. I just don't have anything else outside of an old cocktail dress and a few questionable Halloween costumes."

I laugh. "Yes, that's perfect! I'll go to winter prom as Carrie! Mrs. Hatfield will sure love denying me entry for that."

Mom scoffs. "Oh, that woman is just too bored for her own good. She's always been more interested in what other people have in their gardens that she forgets to prune her own."

"Thanks, Mom." I put on a smile. I'm still apprehensive about wearing it—not entirely because of the history weaved into its delicate train—but I accept the dress anyway and make my way to the closet. She stays in the doorway, watching as I pull a hanger out, slip the sleeves over the edges, and hook the dress over the top of my closet door.

"Alright," She clears her throat, erasing any detectable melancholy in her tone. "I'll leave you to get ready."

I nod and we both separate like athletes in a huddle. As grateful as I am to her for giving up her gown, I'm relieved to finally be alone. The cut on my forearm hasn't stopped burning since I left the school.

Once I've checked that Mom has disappeared to her room, I quickly lock my door and head back to the closet. I open the second door of my closet and take a long look at myself in the mirror.

No wonder everyone has been so worried. I look exhausted. As if I've been sick for the last six months and hidden from the sun.

With a sigh, I break my eyes away from my face and force myself to focus on the more important issue at hand. Mentally steeling myself over, I cautiously begin to peel the grey cardigan off of my burning skin.

I'm not sure what I expected to find where the area stings, but when I finally look, I gasp in horror at the vile wound festering on my forearm. The cut itself is sheathed with a pitch-black scab, but the creases in the hardened skin are glowing like a lava flowing beneath black rocks. Spidering throughout my forearm from the heated wound are my veins, black as onyx, contrasting with my otherwise pale skin.

I reach over and take hold of my skating bag hanging off of my desk chair. From it, I retrieve the all-too-familiar plastic bottle with a white cap. My name is slightly faded from the label, but there's still enough pills in the bottle to meet the line where my name is printed.

'You should take your medication tonight. Forget about all of this and live a normal, human life.' The last words Beck had said to me ring inside my head. 'You can forget about all of this, not live in fear.'

I stare at the bottle in my hands, the black veins slowly moving into my palm. It takes everything in my power not to burst into tears.

I fail.

"What is happening to me?" The words are barely audible through my sobs.

The more you fight, the worse it will become. My subconscious says, but I quickly realize it's the foreign voice from before. I can heal you.

"I don't trust you," I say aloud to my reflection in the closet mirror. If Mom walked in right now, she'd be shoving these pills down my throat in a heartbeat. I twist my forearm so I can also see its reflection in the mirror. It looks even worse up close. I sniffle. "How do I know that you're going to help me instead of hurt me?"

There is no reward without risk. You must learn to trust me, she assures. Somehow she sounds more real than ever, closer in a sense.

"How? How would you heal me?"

We need the book.

"The book—" Just when I go to ask what she means, the voice in my head whispers an inaudible word in a language that I think is Latin.

The grimoire, I realize. She wants me to use the grimoire. "Like hell am I going to ask Olivian for her spell book."

Perhaps we don't involve those unnecessarily.

"You want me to take Olivian's grimoire?" The suggestion sits uneasily in my gut. Olivian would murder me if she knew I was even considering taking her family's spell book. Then again, she did try to choke me out when we first met.

Trust me.

There are those two words again. Trust me...from the voice inside my head that I'm still not even sure is real. It's just as likely that all of this magic juju has become so convoluted in my head that its destroyed any ounce of sanity that I had prior to learning all of this—if I was ever sane at all.

The voice shifts warily in my head, as if sensing my hesitation. We need it to heal us.

"You mean me, right? My arm?"

We heal us and this will all stop.

"Stop? As in no more voices? It'll just be me inside my head again?"

Yes, but we need the book to do so.

I take a beat, closing my eyes off to my reflection. I inhale and exhale slowly so I have time to weigh the options. If I do this, I could very well destroy whatever semblance of friendship I have with Olivian. If I lose Olivian, I could lose Beck too. Is that something I'm willing to do?

They will never have know.

I open my eyes and stare at the mirror again, straight at the fiery wound blistering against my pale forearm.

"No," I say. "I can't. I can't let you in."

Let me help you, she pleas. I can make you stronger, better.

Peeling my eyes off the mirror, I step further into the closet to retrieve my skating bin. Once I find it, I pull it into my room and rip off the lid. I dive into the box, pulling out costume after glittering costume, searching until I feel the silky smooth material I'm looking for.

"These will do, at least until I can figure out how to fix this." I let out a sigh. I can't even trust my parents; how can I trust an alien voice inside my head?

Mom doesn't allow me to distract myself with this for much longer, knocking on my door to give me a time check. I thank her as I shove the Ironide back into my bag and proceed to blow-dry my hair, overwhelmingly nervous the closer I get to being ready.

By the time I've finished my makeup and am securing a few loose strands from my messy fishtail braid, another knock sounds at my door. I immediately shove my arms through the gloves before moving to unlock the door.

"Shell? Are you ready? I don't want you to be late. It's nearly seven-thirty." Mom's voice is muffled through the door.

Be excited, be happy, I tell myself, forcing on a smile and allowing my shoulders relax a bit. For a last-minute plan, I feel relatively put-together. The dress feels amazing, like a cool cloud against my fiery skin.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, placing my hand on the doorknob and letting the door swing open.

Mom gasps. "Oh, you look beautiful, Shelly!"

"Are you sure the lipstick isn't too much? I haven't worn this much makeup since my last tournament, so the eyeliner and everything is kind of making me feel like a hooker."

"Don't ruin it," she says, her smile flattens slightly. "You look...grown up." I can hear the crack in her voice just before she sniffles. "Shelland, just think. After this dance, there are just a few months left before you graduate."

The anxiety flares up in my gut again. "Oh god, Mom. Don't give me a panic attack after putting all this stuff on."

She ignores me. "Come outside so I can take a few pictures." Mom already has her phone pulled out, the camera aimed at my face. "Are you sure you'd like to wear the gloves, though?"

"Yeah, everyone's wearing them. It's like a retro thing, now." I lie. Little bursts of nerves explode in my gut as she snaps a few pictures. "Okay, Mom, we should probably get going. It took longer than I thought to get ready. I don't want to be late and miss pictures at the dance. They have a Photo Booth and everything."

Mom puts on an encouraging face, but I can see the disappointment in her eyes. I wish I had the courage to show her, to possibly even ask for her help, but I know that would result in an intervention with her and Dad and I'm not sure that I can handle the two of them together right now. They've both been lying to me for longer than I can remember, and who knows if what they say now will even be the truth.

Pete ignores all six calls me from me. The first two rang three times, the third only twice, and the last three send me straight to voicemail. I haven't seen him since I last saw Beck, but I didn't think we parted on bad terms.

Olivian probably convinced him I was losing my mind. I mean, I can't really blame him. Pete's always been there for me, as a normal human person. I guess part of me had hoped that all this insanity wouldn't matter. That he would stick around through the thick of it. But Pete didn't sign up for fireballs and werewolves and evil witch ghosts, especially not ones trying to burn me alive from the inside out.

I sigh, loosening the iron grip I have on the steering wheel and finally getting out of my car. Music is spilling out of the gymnasium, and though I can't make out the words, I can feel the base vibrating against the pavement even this far into the parking lot.

Couples and groups are hanging in the lot still, some of which look like they're freezing in their chiffon and billowing gowns as they hide behind a tall Escalade and sneakily pass around a full plastic bottle not brimming with water.

I enter the building and follow behind another late couple, the music muffling how our shoes clack against the white tile as we head toward the gym entrance. The usually locker-filled hallway is now covered by thick white curtains, with battery-powered string lights hanging in rows from the ceiling, illuminating the painted cardboard trees sporadically lined down the hall.

Bright blue light melds into the white from the tree-framed entrance, the music now pouring through the open doors.

As I step half-way down the hall, something electric shivers through my veins. It's a welcoming sort of tingle, unlike the fire beneath my wound. This is a sweet, almost savory kind of energy. An energy I haven't felt since the hotel room.

It's here.

My feet stop dead in their tracks without my command. The energy buzzes, the vibrations reaching out like fingers as if they could reel me in.

"No," I say too loud. The girl in front of me turns her head, her brows furrowing before shrugging at her boyfriend. I pull my cellphone from my clutch and hold it to my ear.

Quietly, I whisper into the phone. "No. I'm not doing this now."

We're close.

I look around, making sure no one else is within hearing distance. "Just one night, okay? Give me one last night of being normal, and I'll concede. Reek havoc on my brain, do whatever you have to, but you have to give me one more night before that happens."

I wait for the voice to respond. No words sound, but the electric surge slowly fades to a soft, tolerable buzz.

I pull the phone away from my face and take one final second to mentally displace everything negative affecting me. I push aside the pain and stress with an exhale, and walk through the tunnel of winter-white trees.

White curtains drape from the ceiling in waves, cascading down the walls with strings of blue lights to the floor. A faux crystal chandelier drips from the center of the roof, refracting the blue lights all around the room as if it were made of mirrors.

I stand at the top of the steps, scanning the room for a familiar face. Everyone looks so beautiful in their glittering gowns and rented tuxedos. For the first time in a long time, I suddenly feel normal. In this room, I'm just a girl enjoying one of her last high school dances. The feeling is bittersweet, but I think that's how it's supposed to feel.

I click down the staircase and weave my way through the crowd, checking each face for Pete's. After the first round, I land at an empty table between the photo booth and the drink area. A few minutes pass before I pull my phone from my clutch again and check my messages. When there is nothing but the time blaring from my home screen, I open up my messages and draft a text.

At the dance. Please tell me you're here.

I hit send and wait for a reply. I'm alone, sitting awkwardly for what seems like ten minutes, waiting for my phone to either buzz or die. A few classmates say hello as they pass by for punch, but not really anyone I could hang out with and it not be weird. It's in this moment that I realize how unsocial I actually am. The only person, literally the only person I have willingly spent time with outside of school is Pete. Every moment I had where I wasn't studying, was dedicated to skating. I ate, breathed, and slept figure skating. Hell, before Beck rampaged into my life, everything I did revolved around routines and jumps and classical music.

I take another look around, glancing at everyone swaying out of sync to an electronic beat, my forced smile officially fading from my face.

Nevermind. See you when I see you, I guess.

"This is dumb. So freaking dumb," I say. Apparently, Pete read my message five minutes ago.

I told you not to trust them, the voice says. I shove the phone into my bag, yanking the zipper closed, and looping the wristband around my gloved hand. Standing up, I weave my way between the tables, avoiding others as to not spill anything on my mom's dress.

When I reach the hallway again, I raise my phone up to my ear, the abandonment fueling the anger bubbling in my blackened veins. Without a second thought, I say, "Show me where to go."

Though the voice doesn't verbally respond, I feel that delectably energy spike up again. This time, it's stronger, as if pulsing through the air with the beat of the song. When the coast is clear, I take a right toward the curtain, lifting the bottom up and over my head.

This side of the hallway is cloaked in darkness, save the dim light shining from the Exit sign ahead. I step further into the dark as to get away from the curtain cutoff. Using my phone as a flashlight, I turn toward the pitch-black corridor that splits toward the commons and lunch room.

"So, how exactly am I going to find this thing? I'm sure Olivian has it locked up in some sort of magical armory."

I will lead you to the Grimoire. Once we have it, I can heal you.

I exhale, squinting into the dark as if its an alternative to night-vision. "I guess I'll just have to hope that you won't lead me into a pole."

Learn to trust me, Shelland.

"Yeah, you keep saying that, but you're not really pleading your case all that well. You can't keep telling me to trust you instead of showing me why I should."

Get the book. I'll be strong enough to show you then. The voice inside my head—who I should probably find a name for since she's basically living in my brain like a parasite—replies, spitting out directions like a built-in brain-GPS. Once we round the second corner, pass the lunch room, I know exactly where she's taking me: the library.

I push against the metal plate, but the double doors don't budge. I try again, a little harder this time, as if my lack of strength is the reason I can't get in.

Step back, she says. I do, and without my control, my right hand waves over the metal latch. "Aperiesque ostium."

A faint repetition of clicks sounds out as the heavy doors unlocks themselves. The side I had pushed on creaks open without my physical touch. The energy buzzing through my body is thrilling, suddenly more alive as if each little spell we cast intensifies the pull.

"Good thing that worked because I forgot to bring extra bobby pins," I joke.

Cautious. We can still be heard.

"Even in my own head I still get reprimanded." I roll my eyes and enter through the open door. The darkness follows us inside the library, making it virtually impossible to navigate without bumping into something, even with the dim light on my phone.

"Ignesco," she says for me. Before I can protest her using my voice again, a faint light, no larger than a firefly, materializes a few yards ahead. With each passing second, the bluish white light expands. Glowing bright enough to illuminate ten-feet in front of me.

"I can't believe she left her grimoire in the library." I half-whisper, astonished at Olivian's recklessness. With her severe paranoia of being exposed, I would have thought she'd keep her grimoire near the Fox Glove, not buried in the middle of a high school library. Well, if she wants to hide something this valuable in plain sight, it's her fault it gets discovered, right?

I follow the floating ball into the dim room. The light bobs above the bookshelves, weaving me past the long tables and through the Fantasy section before halting at a section of non-fiction books.

"The Truth About Salem: A History of Witch Trials." I laugh inside. Clever, Olivian.

Gently, I slide the book out of it's spot and take a seat in the middle of the isle. The book looks like any other novel on the outside. The cover is simply beige, with Papyrus text and a sketched side profile of an ambiguous puritan woman. Like most library books, the cover has a clear plastic cover over it as well—one of the most annoying things to touch while reading.

I set the book on the floor in front of me and swipe my hand over the cover. There's a small part of me that wants to back out. That knows I should talk to Olivian before attempting to cast any spells from her book. But then I think about the emptiness I felt in the gym, how she was partially responsible for causing it. She took Pete from me. I can take a measly spell from her.

I stretch my gloved fingers over the cover again. "Revelatum."

My fingertips prickle with warmth as the beige cover catches fire, crumbling upward until the false cover has completely burned away to reveal the old, worn leather of the Lucke grimoire. Just as I reach forward again, my fingers freeze in place.

Allow me.

Sticky notes with Olivian's chicken scratch flutter in the sudden breeze as pages begin to flip open without my touch. The book flips rapidly from right to left until the wind dies a third of the way into the book.

This is it, she rejoices. Now, read it.

The warmth buzzes along my skin the way sunlight shines through glass in the dead of winter. It soothes my body as each deficient cell sucks up what they have long been lacking.

Sana animam meam dolor. Say it. Focus on healing.

The blood beneath the black scab begins to buzz, and I rip the white gloves from my arms.  Where my wound is, the patches of red begin to glow like coal in the bottom of a fire pit. The light is refracting as if under great friction, but somehow, this doesn't burn.

"Sana animam meam dolor." I repeat the phrase beneath my breath and hover my free palm over the wound; thinking only of the power inside me and how I want it to heal my arm. I repeat it again, feeling the energy exchanging between my palm and forearm.

God, this energy is delectable. Fire-hot and surging from my fingers and curving tight around my muscles until they hit my shoulders. Even from there, I can feel the energy growing, stretching itself to wrap around my neck, to brush against my lips.

I close my eyes, succumbing to the electricity as its spreads throughout my bones.

Open your eyes, the voice says. Without conscious command, my eyelids flutter open to see a beautiful, orange and glowing light encompassing my forearm.  It dances like the northern lights, the buzz growing and growing until I almost collapse from the exchange. When I come to, my hand is pressed against the shelf, holding myself up as the other remain on the book.

Though faint now, the energy remains a quiet buzz beneath my skin.

I jolt upright, lifting my arm toward the hovering ball of light still above me. The phrase I was repeating is wrapped around my arm as if tattooed. I gasp, but as soon as the wound stitches itself back together, the words fade, along the black ink once saturating my veins. Soon, all that's left is a faint, pink scar. Barely noticeable to an eye not my own.

I fall on my back in the aisle, and take a moment to ruminate on the high still swirling in my system. Olivian has always been so afraid of magic, as if it's this evil curse only granted as punishment. But how could something that feels this good, be that bad?