Nothing. Not only were there no signs of wicked magic; there were no signs of magic, period. No candles, herbs, incense. Not even any protective crystals.
Scarlett spotted a book on the nightstand, the spine cracked from overreading: How to Combat Loneliness. Beside it stood a single photograph in a cheap frame: Gwen dressed in a graduation gown standing with an older couple, presumably her parents but possibly her grandparents. They had their arms around her, and all three were smiling for the camera.
Scarlett hadn’t seen Gwen smile like that since before the incident.
Feeling a pang of guilt, Scarlett turned and was about to leave the bedroom when her gaze fell on another photo. This one wasn’t in a frame, just tucked into the edge of a mirror, creased and wrinkled with time. But the faces were instantly recognizable. Gwen, laughing. And beside her, with an arm wrapped around her neck in a hug . . .
Harper.
Scarlett tore her gaze away and headed back into the living room. She dumped her purse on the floor and dug through it until she found the ingredients she needed. Her onyx bowl went in the center of Gwen’s shredded rug. Then, with a grimace, she took out the small zip-lock bag that held the item she’d acquired at Cauldron and Candlesticks. “I’m sorry, Minnie, I have to,” she whispered in the near dark.
Bile surged in the back of her throat when she opened the bag. The smell of formaldehyde mixed with blood filled her nostrils. The smell alone made her eyes water and burn. But in magic, like called to like. To detect wicked magic, you needed to dabble in it yourself. Scarlett held her breath and upended the contents of the bag into her scrying bowl. It landed with a horrible squelch.
She lowered her hands over the bowl, as close as she dared. Then she shut her eyes. Concentrated. Magic gathered and sparked in the air. The lights flickered on and off, over and over. Wind rattled the windows.
“Heart of wickedness, heed my command,” Scarlett whispered, hardly daring to say the words any louder. She’d never done anything like this before. Her mother would flay her alive if she found out. She forced the anxious thoughts from her mind. She needed to concentrate. To focus on the spell. “Blood to blood, like to like, let any wicked magic be revealed to my sight.”
Silence. A beat. And then, just as she started to wonder if she’d said the words wrong . . . thud. Thud, thud.
She cracked open an eye, her own heart racing. In the scrying bowl, the preserved rabbit’s heart she’d purchased had begun to beat. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. She watched, horrified, as viscous blood leaked from it, filling her scrying bowl.
Quickly, she extended her hand and let Gwen’s silver ring drop into the bowl. It landed on top of the thick liquid, then slowly sank beneath the surface, like it was being swallowed up. Her stomach roiling with nausea, Scarlett closed her eyes again, repeating the chant. “Let any wicked magic be revealed to my sight.” Her voice grew stronger with every repetition, steadier. The pulse of the heart in the bowl kept up, getting faster, faster. Thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud.
Finally, when she felt the energy crackling, aching for release, her eyes snapped open once more. “Show me,” she commanded in a voice deeper and huskier than her own.
The blood that now filled the bowl shimmered and shifted. While Scarlett watched, an image resolved in the muck. Gwen’s face—not as she’d looked in those smiling photos in her bedroom, but as she’d appeared when Scarlett last saw her. Thin and wan, her hair and skin a mess.
The spell should reveal any ill intent, any proof Gwen had dabbled in the kind of wicked magic she’d shown an interest in as a freshman. But her face in the bowl remained unchanged. After a moment, a faint yellow glow suffused her image. It spread until the whole scrying bowl glowed with golden light, so bright Scarlett couldn’t even see the heart at its center anymore.
She glanced around the room. Nothing. No smoky clouds, no apparitions lurking in the corners. No signs of any magic at all. Just that steady yellow shine.
Gwen hadn’t used wicked magic. She hadn’t cursed anybody. If the contents of her apartment were any indication, she didn’t have any powers whatsoever.
Scarlett sat back on her heels, unsure whether to be relieved or upset. That was when she heard the distant bang of the screen door out front. “Shit.” Scarlett scrambled to her feet and grabbed the plastic bag she’d brought the heart in. She dumped the entire scrying bowl straight into it, nose wrinkled. She’d have to dispose of the contents somewhere along the walk home. No time to do it now.
Holding the bag of spent magic and her purse, Scarlett hurried to the apartment door and paused, one ear pressed to the wood, listening. No footsteps or sounds from the other side. It must have been a neighbor. Taking a deep breath, she eased the door open, turned the lock, and pulled the door shut behind her. She stepped lightly down the stairs and slipped out the screen door, careful to slow down the door so it wouldn’t bang shut.
Someone right behind her said, “What are you doing here?”
Scarlett nearly leaped out of her skin. She whirled to find Jackson leaning against the brick wall beside the entryway. Shit. Why was he everywhere all of a sudden? It took her speeding pulse a moment to settle. When it did, she narrowed her eyes. “Me? What are you doing here? Following me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I know this may come as a shock, but not everything is about you, Scarlett.”
“Do you live here?” Scarlett forced as much derision into her voice as possible.
He grinned. “Why, were you looking for me?”
She made a point of eyeing him up and down, maintaining her best poker face all the while. He wore ripped jeans and a faded blue T-shirt. She paused a second too long on the rich brown skin that peeked through the purposeful tear above his knee. When she looked up, Jackson ran a hand over his close-cropped fade, and she found herself staring into his brown eyes, which popped with mischief above his enviable cheekbones. She had to admit he wasn’t bad-looking—not that she was remotely interested. She had Mason. “Hardly,” she said, head held high. “I was trying to find Gwen.”
“She’s not home right now.”
“You seeing her or something?” Scarlett lifted her eyebrows.
Jackson tilted his head, that infuriating smirk growing wider. “Jealous?” Her glare must have been answer enough. Jackson’s smile faded a little. “Gwen and I have someone we care about in common. Maybe you’d remember.” Jackson moved closer, and Scarlett caught the faint scent of his cologne. Something woodsy and sharp.
She took a step backwards. “Who, some other jilted lover?”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed; any trace of amusement was gone from his expression now. “My stepsister, actually. Harper Wilson.”
Scarlett’s breath caught in her throat. Oh, shit.
Jackson must have read the thought on her face. “Yeah. That’s right.” He crossed his arms, jaw set hard. “She was a Kappa. And two years ago, you and your sisters killed her.”
Chapter Nineteen
Vivi
Vivi was enjoying all her classes so far, but to her surprise, her favorite was art history. Growing up, she hadn’t felt a particular affinity for art. It had been years since she’d lived in a city with major museums or galleries, and people gushing over the hidden symbols in wobbly blobs of smeared paint reminded her of Daphne’s clients grasping for meaning amid the cruelty and randomness of the world.