And with those final words, the floor dropped out from beneath her and Bridget Bishop fell to the darkness below.
Chapter One
My body jerked violently as I woke up, just as the woman fell to her death. I was breathing heavily and my hair was matted to my head with sweat. My heart beat as if I’d just run a marathon, even though I’d been asleep for hours.
I looked over at the digital clock on my nightstand and cursed when I saw what time it was. I didn’t have to be up for school for another hour at least, but I knew from experience that once I’d had this particular dream, there was no going back to sleep for me.
Great. So I guess I’ll be applying extra foundation to cover the bags under my eyes today. I bet no one else has to worry about their beauty sleep being interrupted by the memories of a woman killed during the Salem witch trials.
I sighed and threw back my covers dramatically before hopping out of bed and making my way over to the bathroom. After pulling open the shower curtain, I turned the knobs in the tub until steam filled the room. A quick glance in the mirror showed me what I’d feared: I looked like I’d gotten only four hours of sleep.
That was actually the truth. I’d stayed up extra late, catching up with people on Facebook and adding friends who’d requested me. By the time I’d forced myself to crawl into bed, I’d accepted over twenty-five new people. My count was now at 11,280.
Did I know everyone on my friends list? No. But there was a very good chance they all knew me. I guess I’m what you’d call “popular” at my school. Not to sound snobby, but people seemed to be drawn to me. It’s always been this way, and after a while, I stopped questioning it. Because who really wants to question popularity? Unless you’re on the sucky side of it, of course.
I pulled at the bags under my eyes until they disappeared into my face. When I let them go, the puffiness returned, making me look much older than my seventeen years.
“Gross,” I said under my breath, and made a face at my reflection. Knowing what I had to do to rectify the situation, I concentrated on the dark circles and said, “Delemin barrit.”
I blinked and they’d disappeared. Smiling, I admired my fresh-looking skin from various angles, and then stepped into the shower and relaxed under the stream. Placing my hands on the wall in front of me, I let my head fall forward so the water was pounding across my neck and shoulders. Whenever I dreamed about Bridget Bishop, I woke up with the worst pain in my upper body. The rational part of me knew it was probably because of the stress, but the magical part of me wondered if my neck hurt because I’d been connected to Bridget when she was hanged in my dream.
An hour later, I was all washed up and heading downstairs to eat and watch CNN. Not many people my age watch the news, but I feel it’s important to be knowledgeable on what’s going on in the world. I hate being unprepared when people bring up current events. Besides, I think it’s important to try to fight the stereotype that pretty girls can’t also be smart.
I’ve been told on several occasions that I’m both.
I pushed the power button on the remote, then took the box of Fruity Pebbles out of the pantry and poured myself a generous bowl. Plopping down in the chair right in front of the TV, I let my legs hang over the armrest and started munching away. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I never missed an opportunity to start my day off on the right foot.
I tried to pay attention to what the anchors were saying on the screen, but after a few minutes, my mind wandered back to my dream. It was one I’d had before. Hundreds of times, actually. But it didn’t matter how many times I dreamed it, I was always left feeling uneasy. Beyond the fact that it was totally messed up to watch this woman be hanged over and over again, I knew that what I was seeing had really happened.
And to top it off, she happened to be related to me.
Okay, so the woman was a few dozen “greats” back, but it was true. I’m a direct descendant of Bridget Bishop. You’d think that’d be a fun fact I could throw out at parties, but people got a bit wigged out when you told them that your great-great-grandmother times twenty was sentenced to death by hanging for being a witch during the Salem witch trials.
Go figure.
And if that wasn’t disturbing enough, the fact that I had to watch it happen over and over again… well, they don’t call them nightmares for nothing.
This time was different, though. I’d never heard the conversation between Bridget and her daughter before. The exchange had left me feeling even more emotionally drained than usual. Not just because of the words they’d shared but because it seemed as if my mom had inherited more than just her good looks from Great-Great-Grandma Bridget. Since I could remember, my mom could always communicate with me telepathically. The only difference between our situation and that of our ancestors’ was that I’d learned early on how to block my mom out when I didn’t want her in my head.
This new wrinkle gave me something to think about, and I made a mental note to talk to my mom about it later.
When my spoon hit the bottom of my empty bowl, I was brought back to reality. Tossing my dirty dish into the sink, I glanced at the clock on the stove. I had only about a half hour to finish getting ready for school, and even with the little magical touch-up I’d given myself earlier, I still had to figure out what I was going to wear, and do my hair and makeup.
With a glance back at the TV, which was still blaring across the room, I said, “Octo alermo.” As I walked away, the screen shut off behind me.
I’ve always loved the sound that high heels make as I walk. Click-clack. Click-clack. Heels make a statement. They convey power, sophistication, and sex with every step. Click-power. Click-sophistication. Click-sex. Sure, they’re a bit uncomfortable and not very realistic to walk around a high school campus in all day, but the message they send makes the pain totally worth it.
I held my head high and shoulders back and gazed straight ahead as I click-clacked my way across the parking lot, reveling in the fact that I could see the people I was passing but they couldn’t see me watching them from behind my superdark sunglasses. Another thing I learned early on was that having an air of mystery about yourself can only work to your advantage. And you should never let go of all your secrets.
I spotted my group of friends before any of them saw me, and studied them critically. Bethany, Sofia, and Trish sat huddled on the steps of the school speaking quietly to each other. Probably about the latest gossip or even possibly about me. You never knew with those three. Their collective look was polished from head to toe and so similar that you’d think they’d gotten dressed out of the same closet. Only I knew that the kind of flawless they exuded took over an hour and a half to perfect. And that would be a secret that I’d take to my grave.
Our male counterparts leaned up against the wall behind them, hands in their pockets, looking very runway chic. Dressed in clothes that your typical teen wouldn’t even know what to do with, the guys took fashion to a whole new level. Somehow they’d managed to perfect their I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-looked-this-perfect-aren’t-you-jealous looks at the ripe age of seventeen.
This was the cool crowd. And I was its queen.
Sofia saw me first and scurried to stand as I walked up. She passed me a jumbo-size latte, still warm to the touch. “They were out of sugar-free vanilla today, so I had to get caramel,” she said apologetically.
I took a sip and smiled as the liquid warmed me from the inside out. “Good choice,” I said genuinely. Though I appreciated her effort, nothing could taste the same as vanilla. Not even something as yummy as caramel. Whispering a spell under my breath, I swirled the cup and took another sip.