I wrote: I never doubted. Would you believe I made a breakthrough with charms too?
Her response came fast. Of course I believe it. When do you get back?
Early evening. Can you come over?
I’ll try. We need to celebrate.
Should I get champagne and cake ready?
Get your bed ready.
Wear the black bra.
I didn’t plan on wearing one.
“God help me,” I murmured, earning a surprised glance from Neil.
I sincerely doubted we would cross the line into sex during a furtive visit like this, but just the hint of her touch made everything else in the world fade to unimportance. I felt my pulse quicken as I thought of that look she got in her eyes sometimes, the animal one that had no interest in books and was usually followed by the urgency of her lips against mine and her hands tightening against my back. Everyone thought Sydney had passion only for intellectual pursuits. That was their loss.
Daydreams of Sydney kept me on a high for the flight home, even making Neil’s conversation bearable. He’d become uncharacteristically chatty, wanting to talk about how to help with the “Strigoi vaccine.” He also kept going on and on about how brave the Sinclair sisters were—especially Olive. I could spot infatuation a mile away and put on my gravest look for him. “I’ve never seen courage like hers. I can’t even begin to relate to it. You’re probably the only one who understands that sort of awesome bravery. She can tell too. It was obvious from the way she was talking to you.”
Neil’s breath caught. “You think so?”
“Absolutely. It was in her eyes. You should keep in touch. I’ll get her contact info when we’re back home. It’d probably help her, having someone else to talk to.”
That, at least, kept him dazed and happy. I was going to get in trouble with Jill for this, but I was still subscribing to the idea that she’d eventually thank me when she ran off with some Moroi prince. Or Eddie. I’d take either one.
When we landed in Palm Springs, I kind of hoped Sydney might be there to give us a ride from the airport, but we instead received messages to catch cabs to our respective homes. I also had a text from Jill waiting: I know what you’re doing with Neil. You’re mean. How will I ever have a healthy relationship?
By being with someone else, I wrote back.
Once I’d dropped off my suitcase and was in control of my own car, I headed out to a nearby grocery store. I felt like I was walking on air, buzzed with what I’d accomplished in Dallas and excited to see Sydney again. Being with her was about more than bras (or lack thereof). I also just wanted to be near her. I felt lonely inside my own head. Even with Jill or countless other friends, there was no one except Sydney that I truly felt comfortable with. She was the only one who truly saw me or heard me.
Inspiration hit, and I decided to make something for her tonight. Why wait for her birthday? Like she’d said, this was a special occasion. We were both celebrating our triumphs. Somehow, I became obsessed with the idea of making crème brûlée, even though I never had before. In fact, I’d never really made any sort of dessert, short of opening a carton of ice cream. But crème brûlée sounded classy, I was in love, and I felt unstoppable after doing what few others could do with spirit. How hard could one dessert be?
Before I could even answer that question, an internet search on my phone told me I needed a lot more equipment than my sparse kitchen had. By the time I hit the checkout line with my mini-blowtorch, ramekins, cream, egg separator, double boiler, and organic vanilla beans, I’d racked up a surprisingly high bill—more than my bank account held. Or my credit card permitted, for that matter.
“Sorry,” said the cashier, handing it back to me. “Declined.”
An uneasy feeling welled up in my stomach. “Can we try it again?”
She shrugged and ran it once more, only to get the same result. “Declined,” she repeated.
I nearly asked again but knew in my gut that nothing would change. Feeling like a total idiot, I abandoned my goods and left the store, unsure what I was going to do now. Panic began to rise up within me. I kept telling myself that neither my bank account nor my credit card were actually at zero. They just didn’t have enough to cover a crème brûlée cooking kit. But just how much was left? That was something I needed to go find out. I only had to survive two weeks until my next payday, and as I made the agonizing drive home, I tried to add up what expenses I had to juggle. Gas. Groceries—unless I could get Dorothy to feed me. Had I paid electricity yet? I couldn’t remember, but I knew cable was taken care of—not that it’d do me much good if they turned the power off.
Relax, Adrian, I told myself. You’ve still got money. And they won’t cut the electricity if you’re a little late on a bill.
But when I got home and checked my balances, I saw that even though I wasn’t at empty yet, I was pretty damned close. What was I going to do? I could barely scrape by with my living expenses, let alone the ever-looming task of Sydney’s birthday. I sank down on the floor near the still-packed boxes of records and glared at them.
“Stupid, stupid,” I muttered. “I am so stupid.”
The high I’d been riding from my triumph in Texas crashed to the ground. Despair settled around me, its dark tendrils slowly creeping under my skin. After what I’d done yesterday, it was expected that I’d be susceptible to the magic’s ups and downs. I’d had the up earlier today . . . now the down would try to come, seizing on annoyances like this and making them bigger than they were. And then, on cue, I heard her voice.
Why are you so sad? You aren’t stupid. You’re my brilliant, beautiful boy. You’ll figure a way out of this.
I could hear Aunt Tatiana’s voice as clearly as if she stood beside me. I buried my face in my hands. “Go away, Aunt Tatiana. I don’t need to add hallucinations to my growing list of problems.”
Since when was I problem?
“Since you died and I started imagining I could hear you.”
Are you saying you can’t, sweetling?
“Yes! I mean, no. This is a trick. This is all in my head.” It was another secret I’d kept from Sydney, how in my darkest moments lately, I imagined conversations with my dead aunt. It was one of the most terrifying things that had ever happened to me because while certain actions might be jokingly called crazy, there was no question that ghostly imaginings actually were crazy. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
Why? Haven’t I always been there for you? Didn’t I always look after you?
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “But you’re dead now, and I have to help my—”
I suddenly jerked my head up as an idea hit me. I sprang to my feet and hurried over to my dresser, where Aunt Tatiana’s cuff links glittered up at me. Sydney had said I’d have a fortune if I sold them—but I didn’t need to sell them. Not technically. I could take them to a pawnshop and get a loan. In two weeks, I’d go buy them out. Thrilled at my revelation, I scooped them up and started to turn away—then halted. Some inner voice of wisdom made me reconsider the logistics. After a moment’s thought, I set one of them down and sought out a pair of tweezers in the jumble of various other items piled nearby. After a little maneuvering, I plucked out one of the rubies and held it up to the light. No need to risk the others. This was all I needed. More than enough to get me through the next two weeks. Inside my head, Aunt Tatiana’s laughter echoed.
See? I always look after you.
“You aren’t real,” I said, striding toward the front door. “You’re just part of spirit messing with my head. All of this is a mental rebound after everything I did with Olive.”
If I’m not real, then how come you answer me out loud?
I’d known it would happen, that I couldn’t walk away unscathed from all that spirit. I just hadn’t expected it to bounce around these highs and lows or to escalate to this long of a conversation with my dead aunt. I had to nix this right now. I didn’t want Aunt Tatiana talking to me while I was negotiating with a pawnbroker, and I certainly didn’t want her around while Sydney was here. A check of the time told me I had a while before she showed up, giving me ample opportunity to fix my finances and blot out my aunt.
I hadn’t had my daily drink and decided it was worth doing it early in order to get a grip. The agreement’s terms referred only to “a drink,” with no qualifiers on strength. So, when I found an old bottle of Bacardi 151—the strongest stuff I owned—I didn’t really feel like I was cheating, even though it had enough kick for two drinks. After a shot of that, I was out the door. And once again, a bolt of wisdom struck me. The shot hadn’t hit me yet, but I prudently chose to walk downtown rather than drive. It was less than fifteen minutes, and by the time I reached the pawnshop I’d passed a dozen times in the past, I was happily buzzed from the rum. The store owner’s assessment soon put a damper on that, though.
“Two hundred,” he said.
“That’s bullshit,” I said, taking the ruby back. “It’s worth at least twice that.” It occurred to me then that if I hadn’t had the rum, I’d have full spirit to try to compel a higher price. Immediately, I regretted the thought. Even I had some morals. There was a reason the Moroi forbade the use of compulsion.
The guy shrugged. “Then run an ad. Sell it on the internet. You want fast cash? This is what you get.”
I nearly walked out the door, but desperation made me stay. Two hundred was less to pay back, and really, did I need much more than that to get by in the next two weeks?
“You won’t sell it?” I asked.
“Not if you can keep paying interest or come pay off the loan.” There was a look in his eyes that told me most people never came back to pay those loans. In some of my darker moments, I would wallow in self-pity over how hard my life was. But just then, I couldn’t help but think it must be pretty depressing to see the desperate dregs of the world coming in to sell off their prized possessions.
“I’ll pay it back,” I told him. “I’ll be back in two weeks, so take good care of it.”
“Whatever you say,” he said.
I gave him the ruby and filled out some paperwork. He gave me the cash. And like that, I was out the door, suddenly feeling a weight lifted off my chest. I’d dealt with the problem. I was in control of my life again. Thinking of Aunt Tatiana’s ruby in that grubby man’s hands did give me a moment’s pause, and I half expected her to protest. But the rum kept her quiet, and I told myself again that there was no harm done.
I made no attempts to repeat the crème brûlée experiment, but I did pick up some pain au chocolat on the walk home so that I’d have something nice for when Sydney came over. We could eat it by candlelight and catch up on what had happened over the last day or so. It cost me only seven dollars, so no one could question my fiscal responsibility.
My phone rang when I was nearly to my door, and to my surprise, the display showed Rowena’s name.
“Hey, Prince Charming! A bunch of us are going to the Matchbox tonight. Eighteen and over, so you can bring your fictitious girlfriend.”
“I’m bringing her to my apartment tonight for some very not-fictitious activities,” I said. “I haven’t seen her in almost two days.”
“Boo-hoo. It’s a wonder you haven’t fallen to pieces. You know where we are if you change your mind.”
My energy was running strong, and I started off doing some rapid-fire painting. After a while, I lost interest and decided to spend the rest of the day cleaning my apartment from top to bottom. I felt a burning need to prove myself, not just to Sydney, but to me. I didn’t want to feel like I was drifting through life. I wanted to be responsible and in control. I wanted to be a worthy partner to her and threw myself into my cleaning more than I had in . . . well, I really couldn’t remember the last time, seeing as I hated cleaning. But tonight, I was fired up. I was unstoppable, even going so far as to scrub my kitchen backsplash with a toothbrush. I was high and excited, and the earlier glum mood was banished to the winds . . . at least until I was dusting my dresser and I saw the cuff links with the missing ruby. My dust rag faltered, and I stared at the gaping hole in the platinum setting. I suddenly felt like I had a matching hole in my soul.
“No,” I told Hopper, who was sitting on the bed, undoubtedly weirded out by my frenetic activity. “It’s not gone. I’ll get it back.”
I could’ve sworn I heard Aunt Tatiana laughing again, and I rushed to the liquor cabinet, intending to take another shot. Sure, it was violating the agreement, but these were unusual circumstances. I was entitled to some leeway to fight against this spirit backlash . . . right?
