And now I was in my room, head buried in cotton and flannel, hiding out.
Some friend I was.
Every five minutes, I’d touch the tips of my fingers gingerly to the bottom of my spine, thinking I’d be able to feel some change when, and if, the mark disappeared. Every fifteen minutes, I’d climb out of bed and twist around in front of the mirror, making sure the mark hadn’t decided to fade.
There was no change.
At least, not physically. Emotionally, I was freaking out. And not the kind of freaking out that lent itself to finding a friend and venting. This was the kind of freaking out that was almost . . . paralyzing. The kind of fear that made you hunker down, avoid others, avoid the issue.
And so I lay in bed, sunlight shifting across the room as the day slipped away. The suite being relatively small, I heard Scout and Lesley return, mill about in the common room, and then head into their respective bedrooms. They eventually left for dinner, after a prospective knock on the door to see if I wanted anything. For the second time, I declined. I could hear Scout’s disappointment—and fear—when she double-checked, but I wasn’t up for company. I wasn’t up for providing consolation.
I needed to be consoled.
Eventually, I fell asleep. Scout didn’t bother knocking for breakfast on Sunday morning. Not that I could blame her, I supposed, since I’d ignored her for the last twenty-four hours, but her absence was still noticeable. She’d become a fixture during my first week at St. Sophia’s.
I snuck down to breakfast in jeans and my Ramones T-shirt, my hair in a messy knot, the ribboned key around my neck. I wasn’t dressed for brunch or socializing, so I grabbed a carrot raisin muffin and a box of orange juice before heading back to my room, bounty in hand.
What a difference a day makes.
It was around noon when they knocked on the door.
When I didn’t answer, Amie’s voice rang out. “Lily? Are you in there? Are you . . . okay?”
I closed the art history book I’d been perusing in bed, went to the door, opened it, and found Amie and Veronica, both in jeans, brown leather boots, snug tops, and dangly earrings, standing there. Not bad outfits, actually, if you ignored the prissiness.
The last time they’d sought me out, they offered a chance to go treasure hunting. The offer this time wasn’t much different.
“We’re really sorry about what happened,” Amie said. “We’re heading to Michigan Avenue for a little shopping. Are you up for a field trip?”
I was an intelligent person, so my first instinct was, of course, to slam the door in their faces. But as they stood there in my doorway, hair perfect, makeup just so, they offered me something else.
Oblivion.
The opportunity to pretend to be an It Girl for a little while, in a world with much simpler rules, where what you wore meant more than how many Reapers you’d thwarted, how much firespell had taken you down.
Call it a weak moment, a moment of denial. Either way, I said yes.
Twenty minutes later, I was in boots and leggings, black skirt, black fitted shirt, jacket and drapey scarf, and I was following Amie and Veronica out the door and toward Michigan Avenue. We strode side by side down the sidewalk—Amie, then me, then Veronica—as though we were acting out the opening credits of a new teen drama.
Even on a Sunday, Michigan Avenue was full of tourists and locals, young and old, shoppers and picture-snappers, all out to enjoy the weather before the cold began to roll in. It was understandable that they were out—the sky was ridiculously blue, the temperature perfect. Windy City or not, there was just enough breeze to keep the sun from being oppressive.
This was my first time on Michigan Avenue, my first opportunity to explore Chicago beyond the walls of St. Sophia’s (apart from my quick jaunt around the block with Scout). I was surprised at how open Chicago felt—less constricting, less overwhelming, than walking through the Village or midtown Manhattan. There was more glass, less concrete; more steel, less brick. With the shine of new condos and the reflection of Lake Michigan off mirrored glass, the Second City looked like Manhattan’s younger, prettier sister.
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.”