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"We don't need them, Paige," she said. "If they don't want us here, screw 'em. We can take their money and get a better place. You like Boston, right? You always said that was where you wanted to live, not this backwater dump. We'll move there. The Elders can't complain. It's the town's fault, not ours."
"I won't go," I said.
"But, Paige--"
"She's right, Savannah," Cortez said. "At this point, it would appear an admittance of guilt. When this is over, Paige may well decide to reconsider the offer. Until then, we can't dwell on it." His voice softened. "They're wrong, Paige. You know they're wrong and you know you don't deserve this. Don't give them the satisfaction of upsetting you."
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to the lids, cutting off impending tears. "You're right. We have work to do."
"There's nothing we need to do right now," Cortez said. "I'd suggest you rest."
"I'll go practice my spells."
Cortez nodded. "I understand. Perhaps I could--" He stopped short. "Yes, that's a good idea. Spell practice should help take your mind off things."
"What were you going to say?"
He took his DayTimer from the end table. "There were a couple of spells ... I thought ... Well, perhaps, later, after I've made some more calls, and you've had some time to yourself ... if you wouldn't mind, there are a few witch spells I'd like to ask you about."
He flipped through his DayTimer, eyes on the page, as if he wasn't awaiting an answer. I couldn't help smiling. The guy could handle homicide cops, bloodthirsty reporters, and the walking dead with implacable confidence, but turn the conversation to something as remotely personal as asking to discuss spells with me and suddenly he seemed as flustered as a schoolboy.
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," I said. "Spell for spell, even trade. Deal?"
He looked up from his book with a crooked smile. "Deal."
"Make your calls then, and give me an hour to clear my head, then we'll talk."
He agreed and I headed downstairs.
An hour passed. An hour of practice. An hour of failure. Was there not some benevolent force in the world that rewarded perseverance and good intentions? If such a being existed, couldn't it look down on me, take pity, and say, "Let's toss the poor kid a bone"?
One good killing spell to protect Savannah. That's all I asked for. Well, okay, if there was such a benevolent force out there, it probably wasn't about to give anyone the power to kill. But I needed to know how to do it. Couldn't whatever supreme being who governed witchcraft realize that? Yeah, right. If such an entity existed, it was probably looking down and laughing, shouting, "Those spells don't work, you little fool!"
"Those spells don't work," said a voice at my ear.
I jumped about a foot, nearly toppling from my kneeling position. Savannah peered down at my grimoire.
"Well, they don't, do they?" she said. "Other than those few you got working, the rest just fail, right?"
"You've tried them?"
She dropped down beside me. "Nah. I can never find where you hide the grimoires. But I know what you're practicing from your journal, remember? I wondered if I should tell you they don't work, but I didn't figure you'd listen. Lucas thinks I should tell you, so you stop wasting your time."
That stung, the thought that she'd been talking to a near-stranger about things she didn't feel comfortable discussing with me. Yet I had to admit she was right. I wouldn't have listened. I didn't want to hear anything that might relate to her background, to her mother. That had to change.
"Why don't you think they'll work?"
"Know, not think."
"Okay, then, why do you know they won't work?"
"Because they're witch magic."
"And what's wrong with witch magic? There's nothing--"
"See, I told Lucas you'd do this."
I settled back onto the floor. "I'm sorry, Savannah. Please continue."
