Spellcaster
Page 43
Then she said, “Wish me luck.”
Before he could do that, or say anything else, Nadia gulped in a breath and went over the edge, diving into the chilly sound without hesitating. The boat rocked beneath him.
And then—only then—did Mateo remember the dream of her floating overhead, writhed in the murk, her hair flowing around her. He’d thought she was suspended in midair, amid the fog.
But what if the dream had showed her underwater?
The cold stabbed into Nadia through every inch of her skin, and it took all her will not to open her mouth and gasp water into her lungs. She slapped on the wrist light, pointing the beam ahead of her—and thanks to Mateo’s guidance, she saw it almost immediately. In a nest of seaweed lay a chest, half-dissolved by time and tide, its ancient boards warped free of the metal framework. A crab scuttled by in the murk, the light glinting off its shell.
With a few strong kicks, Nadia propelled herself toward it. With any luck she could grab whatever was in the chest right away and get back to the surface within seconds. Then she could put on her clothes, dry her hair, and be warm again—be ready to explore this thing—
Water stinging her eyes—ugh, she should have brought goggles, but what a time to think of it—Nadia reached the trunk. She couldn’t pry the lid up, but no need: The side of the trunk fell away even as she touched it, and a crab scuttled out. Nadia hoped for no more crabs but put her hand in half expecting to be pinched.
Instead, she pulled out—yes!—a book. A Book of Shadows.
It was huge—so big she could hardly wrap her hand around it. Despite its centuries of immersion in water, the book remained intact; when she opened it, Nadia suspected, the pages would remain dry.
No charms showed themselves; no more spellwork was required. And only one breath! Triumphantly, Nadia began kicking toward the surface—only to feel seaweed winding around her legs.
Tight.
So tight it was like being tied down.
Nadia kicked, then thrashed, but the seaweed only increased its hold.
The Book of Shadows had been protected after all—and by magic she didn’t know how to break.
11
FIRST, MATEO FELT IT—A QUIVER ALL AROUND HIM, as if the air itself were twisting away. At that moment, the unearthly glow beneath the water changed; it brightened sharply, then dimmed like someone had covered it. The darkness around them seemed almost complete, as if it were the dead of night instead of just after sunset. Without understanding how he knew, Mateo knew that a boundary had been crossed.
Again he thought of Nadia in his dream, floating, frightened, and trapped—
—and he had to trust the dream. It might be part of his curse, but it was also his only chance of keeping Nadia safe.
He was stripping off his sweater even before he saw the tiny beam of the flashlight go on, off, on, off. Nadia was in danger, and he had to get to her, now.
Mateo dove in. The biting cold that surrounded him, sliced into him, was less important than what he saw. Nadia struggled underwater, one arm wrapped around an enormous book, the other clawing at the seaweed tangling around her ankles. But even as she would pull one tendril loose, two more would writhe along her foot and hold her even faster. Her eyes were wide and desperate; she had been down for a while now. Way too long.
Quickly he broke for the surface again, took in the largest mouthful of air he could hold, and plunged in. Mateo kicked toward her, caught her shoulders in his hands. The panic in Nadia’s eyes was terrible to see. He pressed his mouth to hers, opening it—then blew the air into her lungs, giving Nadia precious oxygen. As he did, he felt Nadia realize what he was doing and inhale deeply; for a moment they remained tangled like that: two people, one breath.
Then he let go of her and kicked downward. His Swiss army knife had been in the exact same pocket of his jeans pretty much every day for the past five years; his fingers found it instantly, and he flicked out blades at random, the better to hack at the seaweed. Slash, rip, tear—his hand around Nadia’s calf, the seaweed still trying to twist around her but increasingly unable to. Then Nadia finally wriggled free, and Mateo followed her, both of them racing toward the surface.
When he broke the water, cold air slapped his face, burned his lungs. Next to him he could hear Nadia choking and gasping as she struggled to stay afloat without letting go of the book.
That book—the way it gleamed, like it was made of liquid metal, the lone light in the dark sound—was both one of the most frightening and most beautiful things he’d ever seen.
As was Nadia’s face, water beading on her full lips and flushed cheeks, still terrified but so determined, despite everything.
Mateo slung one arm around her and began pulling them back toward the boat.
Nadia sprawled on the floor of Mateo’s house, wrapped in his father’s heavy white bathrobe. She couldn’t go home with her hair soaked through—Dad might be preoccupied with his job or Cole, but he’d notice if she walked into the house wet as a drowned rat. But apparently the Perez men didn’t need a hair dryer. So she leaned back against the padded ottoman, hair streaming out behind her to take in the heat of their gas fireplace, as she propped Goodwife Hale’s Book of Shadows on one bent knee.
Every page was dry and fresh; the binding showed age, but only the many years it would have belonged to Goodwife Hale, not the centuries between then and now. It crackled with a pleasant, warming energy; Nadia felt as if she were between two gentle fires. Although the handwriting was spidery and strange, with old-fashioned spelling that was sometimes difficult to read, already Nadia was getting the hang of it.
Before he could do that, or say anything else, Nadia gulped in a breath and went over the edge, diving into the chilly sound without hesitating. The boat rocked beneath him.
And then—only then—did Mateo remember the dream of her floating overhead, writhed in the murk, her hair flowing around her. He’d thought she was suspended in midair, amid the fog.
But what if the dream had showed her underwater?
The cold stabbed into Nadia through every inch of her skin, and it took all her will not to open her mouth and gasp water into her lungs. She slapped on the wrist light, pointing the beam ahead of her—and thanks to Mateo’s guidance, she saw it almost immediately. In a nest of seaweed lay a chest, half-dissolved by time and tide, its ancient boards warped free of the metal framework. A crab scuttled by in the murk, the light glinting off its shell.
With a few strong kicks, Nadia propelled herself toward it. With any luck she could grab whatever was in the chest right away and get back to the surface within seconds. Then she could put on her clothes, dry her hair, and be warm again—be ready to explore this thing—
Water stinging her eyes—ugh, she should have brought goggles, but what a time to think of it—Nadia reached the trunk. She couldn’t pry the lid up, but no need: The side of the trunk fell away even as she touched it, and a crab scuttled out. Nadia hoped for no more crabs but put her hand in half expecting to be pinched.
Instead, she pulled out—yes!—a book. A Book of Shadows.
It was huge—so big she could hardly wrap her hand around it. Despite its centuries of immersion in water, the book remained intact; when she opened it, Nadia suspected, the pages would remain dry.
No charms showed themselves; no more spellwork was required. And only one breath! Triumphantly, Nadia began kicking toward the surface—only to feel seaweed winding around her legs.
Tight.
So tight it was like being tied down.
Nadia kicked, then thrashed, but the seaweed only increased its hold.
The Book of Shadows had been protected after all—and by magic she didn’t know how to break.
11
FIRST, MATEO FELT IT—A QUIVER ALL AROUND HIM, as if the air itself were twisting away. At that moment, the unearthly glow beneath the water changed; it brightened sharply, then dimmed like someone had covered it. The darkness around them seemed almost complete, as if it were the dead of night instead of just after sunset. Without understanding how he knew, Mateo knew that a boundary had been crossed.
Again he thought of Nadia in his dream, floating, frightened, and trapped—
—and he had to trust the dream. It might be part of his curse, but it was also his only chance of keeping Nadia safe.
He was stripping off his sweater even before he saw the tiny beam of the flashlight go on, off, on, off. Nadia was in danger, and he had to get to her, now.
Mateo dove in. The biting cold that surrounded him, sliced into him, was less important than what he saw. Nadia struggled underwater, one arm wrapped around an enormous book, the other clawing at the seaweed tangling around her ankles. But even as she would pull one tendril loose, two more would writhe along her foot and hold her even faster. Her eyes were wide and desperate; she had been down for a while now. Way too long.
Quickly he broke for the surface again, took in the largest mouthful of air he could hold, and plunged in. Mateo kicked toward her, caught her shoulders in his hands. The panic in Nadia’s eyes was terrible to see. He pressed his mouth to hers, opening it—then blew the air into her lungs, giving Nadia precious oxygen. As he did, he felt Nadia realize what he was doing and inhale deeply; for a moment they remained tangled like that: two people, one breath.
Then he let go of her and kicked downward. His Swiss army knife had been in the exact same pocket of his jeans pretty much every day for the past five years; his fingers found it instantly, and he flicked out blades at random, the better to hack at the seaweed. Slash, rip, tear—his hand around Nadia’s calf, the seaweed still trying to twist around her but increasingly unable to. Then Nadia finally wriggled free, and Mateo followed her, both of them racing toward the surface.
When he broke the water, cold air slapped his face, burned his lungs. Next to him he could hear Nadia choking and gasping as she struggled to stay afloat without letting go of the book.
That book—the way it gleamed, like it was made of liquid metal, the lone light in the dark sound—was both one of the most frightening and most beautiful things he’d ever seen.
As was Nadia’s face, water beading on her full lips and flushed cheeks, still terrified but so determined, despite everything.
Mateo slung one arm around her and began pulling them back toward the boat.
Nadia sprawled on the floor of Mateo’s house, wrapped in his father’s heavy white bathrobe. She couldn’t go home with her hair soaked through—Dad might be preoccupied with his job or Cole, but he’d notice if she walked into the house wet as a drowned rat. But apparently the Perez men didn’t need a hair dryer. So she leaned back against the padded ottoman, hair streaming out behind her to take in the heat of their gas fireplace, as she propped Goodwife Hale’s Book of Shadows on one bent knee.
Every page was dry and fresh; the binding showed age, but only the many years it would have belonged to Goodwife Hale, not the centuries between then and now. It crackled with a pleasant, warming energy; Nadia felt as if she were between two gentle fires. Although the handwriting was spidery and strange, with old-fashioned spelling that was sometimes difficult to read, already Nadia was getting the hang of it.
