“It’s great, isn’t it? I was worried you wouldn’t like it.”
“Who cares if I like it?” I say. “It’s your car.”
He guns the engine in response.
Sure, why don’t you wave a cigarette and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s out the window while you’re busy making Aunt Penny hate you?
Bishop maneuvers the car through traffic until we hit the open freeway. The engine rumbles beneath me. Hot wind snaps my hair across my face, and the radio, tuned to some obscure punk-rock station, blasts a song I actually know. Bishop mouths the lyrics, tapping his hands on the steering wheel as sunlight reflects off his aviator sunglasses. Before I know it, I’m singing along too. Bishop smiles. I smile. There’s a whole lot of smiling going on. And I just know that this memory will be forever burned into my brain, because this kind of magic—the kind that can’t be conjured with a spell, where everything is just right, and all your problems vanish for three perfect minutes—doesn’t happen every day.
But then the song fades away, and guilt stamps down the thrill of the ride. How can I have a great moment when Mom’s dead? What kind of person does that?
Bishop turns the radio down. “You all right?”
I nod and force a smile, looking out the window. He leaves the radio turned nearly to mute, so that the hum of the tires on the freeway is the only sound in the car.
“So are you going to tell me where we’re going, or what?” I ask, just to fill the silence.
“The Guadalupe sand dunes,” he answers.
I glance over at him. “Um, why?”
“Because it’s big and open and there are places in the dunes so remote it’s highly unlikely we’ll come across another human, which is a rare thing in L.A., and I’d prefer not to have to wipe anyone’s memory if at all possible.”
“That’s great, except remember that whole part about the Priory trying to kill me yesterday? Don’t you think it’s a bad idea to go out, just the two of us, to some remote sand dunes? They could attack us.”
“That’s exactly why it is a good idea. No way would the Priory think we’re stupid enough to be alone after yesterday. They’d think it was a trap.”
“Yeah, ’cause it’s definitely not stupid,” I mumble.
“Just trust me, okay? I’ve got something up my sleeve if that happens, which it won’t. I’m completely prepared.”
As usual, he has an answer for everything, almost as if he’d planned out this conversation or something. “Hey, have you done this before?” I ask.
“What? Drive my 1969 Shelby GT500 to the Guadalupe sand dunes with a hot cheerleader? No, I haven’t. Why?”
“No, jerkass,” I say, grateful he has to pay attention to the road so he doesn’t see my pink cheeks. “I meant teach someone magic. Have you taught other gir—er, other people before?”
Bishop laughs. “Have I taught other girls? Nope. No other boys, either.”
I shake my head, looking out the window instead of at him so that I can suppress the smile threatening to spread over my face. Soon his laughter ebbs, and the radio takes over the silence again.
After driving for miles, we exit the freeway, and a short while later we arrive at a huge parking lot with a squat information building and a single car parked close to its entrance.
“This is it?” I ask.
“Not quite.” Bishop shifts the car into park and opens the door. “No vehicles allowed past here. We walk the rest of the way.”
“Since when do you care about rules?” I slam my door and follow him toward the edge of the lot, where the sand dunes begin.
“I’m making an effort. Don’t want to sully your impressionable young mind.” He glances back and grins.
“You’re not even two years older than me,” I point out. But then a thought strikes me. “Unless you’re secretly two hundred years old or something?”
Bishop laughs at the horrified look on my face. “Nope. I’m really eighteen.”
“Oh good,” I say, relieved. There are already too many ways I feel inferior without being a virtual toddler in the life experience department compared with him.
Bishop smiles, then lets his shades slide back down onto his nose.
We’ve been walking for only minutes, me doing routine shoulder checks for the Priory, when I become aware of the sweat beading my brow, the hot sun tingling my bare shoulders. I’m at least appropriately dressed for the heat, having donned a pair of cute canvas shorts and a loose ballet top this morning, whereas Bishop sports his usual trim black pants, motorcycle boots, and a V-neck band T-shirt. He left his leather jacket in the car, but I still don’t know how he can stand all the superfluous clothing.
I squint at the huge sand dunes rolling across the horizon, set against a sky so blue it looks like it’s been Photoshopped.
“This far enough?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Bit farther. Then we’ll fly farther in.”
I groan.
It doesn’t take long for the hard sand under my shoes to turn doughy as the dunes begin to rise in small undulations. Soon, my legs sink ankle-deep into the sand, and I have to lift them higher and higher to travel across the soft soil. It’s so much work that I almost forget to be worried about the Priory attacking. As if reading my mind, Bishop stops abruptly and scans the area around us.
“Ready?” he asks, taking off his shades and slipping them into the neck of his T-shirt.
I exhale. “So ready.”
And then there’s this awkward pause that never existed between us before.
“Should I … ?” I hold my arms out to the side.
Bishop jerks into action. “Yeah, sure, good idea.” He places one arm under my knees and another around my back, cradling me like a baby. His face is just inches, maybe centimeters from mine, but I don’t dare look at him. Not when he swallows, and it’s so loud it would be comical if I were in the mood to make fun of him. Not when he asks if I’m ready, and the way his breath—minty and woody, like he’s been chewing on a toothpick—rushes against my ear and makes goose bumps rise over my arms. Not when his fingers touch the bare skin on my back, and that touch makes my heart pound against my rib cage so violently I’m sure he must feel it. And so when he lifts up off the ground, I pretend to be riveted by the sand dunes rippling twenty feet beneath us, like giant waves in an angry sea, the sand twinkling in the bright sun.
Something’s got to be wrong with me, I decide. Mom’s death must be taking my emotions on a wild roller-coaster ride—amplifying everything, not just the hurt. This makes me feel a bit better about myself.
After a few minutes of flying, Bishop lowers us to the ground. When he places me on my feet, I teeter a bit, like I’ve just had a few drinks.
“Little tip,” I say. “Might want to pick another remote location next time. Mount Lukens, maybe? It’s boiling out here.” I fan out the shirt that clings to my sweaty skin.
Bishop gives a pointed look down at my chest. “No, I think I made the right choice.”
I could kick myself for nearly smiling. “If you don’t cut it out I’ll be forced to rate your performance as Very Poor on the Magic One-oh-one feedback questionnaire.”
Bishop gasps. “Scoring poorly on a test! You wouldn’t threaten me with something so vile.”
“Very funny. Can we get started, please? It’s getting late.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Bishop holds out a hand, and a broomstick materializes in it. Not a common kitchen broom or even a janitor’s push broom. Nope, this is a broomstick that TV and movie witches would be proud to ride: a bundle of yellow straw tied to a long brown handle.
I look from the broom to Bishop. “You can’t be serious.”
“More serious than I’ll ever be.” He pushes the broom into the space between us.
I push it back. “You don’t use a broomstick to fly.”