Breaking angelina (Paranormal investigations # 1.5) Read online

  down. “Not that you look like an athlete. Too

  skinny. What about a potion to give you some

  luscious curves?”

  I glance away from her beady-eyed stare.

  “There’s a guy—Jason—who doesn’t know I exist.

  He’s got his eyes on my sister.”

  “Ah, I see. So, you want to make her hair fall

  out, give her horrible body odor, oozing sores? By

  the time we’re finished, he will run screaming from

  her.”

  “She’s my sister!”

  “Of course. Don’t want to chance the parents

  finding out. Good thinking.” She grins at me, and I

  notice several teeth missing. “Maybe you could

  change her into a fish, or perhaps a nice magical

  poison, totally undetectable by scientific means. I

  have a few I’ve been aching to try …”

  “I don’t want to kill my sister; I just want to

  make him fall in love with me. Can’t you just mix up

  some kind of love potion or something?”

  “No, I can’t help you with that.” She gives me a

  flat look. Turning back to her shop, she waves a

  hand around the room. “Look around. Let me know

  if any curses strike your fancy. I have the best in the

  business.”

  I rummage through the books on one of the

  tables. A little leather-bound one and on the

  bottom says On Matters of Love across the front.

  Yesss, a love potion.

  He deserves to see me for who I really am.

  You dessserve a chance.

  Maybe if he just had the chance to see me

  without my sister in the way. He could get to know

  me and love me for real.

  You dessserve this.

  I deserve this. I’ve been thoughtful and helpful. I

  brought him homemade cookies at Christmas—

  baked them myself. I talked to him about the cars

  he’s been fixing up even though I hate cars.

  “How much is this one?”

  The old lady glances at the book in my hand

  and, shaking her head disapprovingly, scowls at me.

  “Bah, love potions—disgusting little abominations.

  They take away the target’s free will and replace it

  with such a pitiful emotion.” Huk huuuk pluth. She

  spits a disgusting green glob at my feet and

  splatters my new Candies. “I won’t make them.

  Besides, you have to get the blood of a siren or a

  succubus or certain types of fairies. Drain every last

  drop of blood. You are too prissy to put a simple

  little curse on your sister. You can’t handle this

  potion.”

  “Drain the blood? Won’t that kill it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Wait a minute—sirens don’t exist.”

  “Then neither do love potions, and I’m not a

  witch. Now out of my shop.”

  She studies me as if she could see the bones

  under my skin, the voices squirming inside my

  head, and I look away to hide from her piercing

  gaze.

  Sirens are monstersss.

  I can’t do it.

  They lure they’re prey with song.

  I’m a good girl.

  Then drown their victimsss.

  Maybe.

  You’d be doing the world a favor.

  “Then what do I do?” I ask.

  She throws her hands up in the air. “What do I

  care what you do next? Mix it into his beer or put it

  in his coffee. I’ve known some who put it in the

  frosting of a cake. Up to you.”

  “How do I find a siren?” I ask.

  She sniffs in disgust. “That information will cost

  you.”

  I reach for my wallet, but my pockets are empty.

  “Oh, I don’t want your money. Magic like this

  demands a higher price.” She reaches for my

  ponytail and wraps my hair around her finger.

  “Perhaps a lock of your hair.”

  “That’s all you want?” Odd request.

  Dooooo it.

  “Okay.”

  Cackling, she cuts a chunk out of my hair and

  tucks it into her pocket.

  “And how much for the book?”

  “Just get that revolting thing out of my shop.”

  The book of spells tucked under my arm, a

  name—the Hunter—and an address to a bar in my

  hand, I stumble out of the store and into the street.

  I’m going to finally get the one thing I always

  wanted.

  So why do I feel like I just sold my soul to the

  devil?

  You dessserve thisss.

  I do. I deserve one kiss from his lips.

  Chapter 8

  ~ HUNTER ~

  The man pours a crimson liquid into a goblet.

  Too thick to be wine, and he doesn’t look like the

  tomato juice type. I sniff the air. Under the smell of

  demon and filthy magic, I catch the smell of human

  blood.

  I feel sick. This sorcerer has sold so much of his

  soul to demons for power he’s turned himself into

  a vampire. All these creatures chained in his circus,

  easily available for food.

  The soul is in the blood. That’s why witches use

  blood sacrifices to boost their power. Why

  sorcerers and demons drink blood to take

  someone’s magic. Why you should never let

  someone get a hold of your bloody bandages.

  “What is it you hoped to find? Gold, artifacts,

  spell books, lists of names?” He twitches a finger

  and releases his control of my jaw.

  I search my brain for a quick lie, but my lips spill

  the truth before I can stop it. “I came to retrieve

  something you have stolen from its rightful owner.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific

  than that.” An amused smirk plays across his face.

  “A bracelet, stolen recently from the sorceress

  Jezebarra, who you used to apprentice under.”

  “Is that what she said?” He throws his head back

  and laughs. “I’m afraid you are misinformed.”

  “I’m supposed to believe you didn’t steal it?”

  “Oh no, I definitely stole it, but not from her. If

  she wanted it so badly, she should have tried to get

  it herself. But then Jez has always been lazy. She

  duped you. Plain and simple. And she said I had

  once been her apprentice? What a joke. She and I

  both apprenticed to the same master, and she

  convinced me to help her kill him. When the deed

  was done, she betrayed me and kicked me out of

  the castle.”

  Interesting. Why did she pretend otherwise?

  “Now you are my prisoner.” He studies me over

  his goblet. “And as you can see the bracelet is still

  mine. You have failed.”

  Alistrad reaches into his pocket and pulls out

  something. I think it was the bracelet, but as soon

  as he pulls it out, it flashes and disappears with a

  loud crack.

  The teleportation coin. It must have taken the

  bracelet and delivered it to its master. Jasper didn’t

  tell me it would leave me behind.

  That bitch Jezebarra betrayed me.

  “NO!” The sorcerer tosses me across the room.

  The binding spell doesn’t even allo
w me a chance

  to soften the landing, and my left arm snaps

  underneath me. A flare of white hot pain engulfs

  me.

  Black bolts of lightning crackle around the room.

  An invisible hand lifts me and drags me to him.

  “What other surprises do you have on hand?”

  He removes the rings that let me bypass the

  wards, takes the Stetson, the small rattle that let

  me hack into the safe, and an extra dimensional

  pouch. “I can feel the craftsmanship on these

  items. Your first job for me will be to retrieve the

  creator of your items. I could use a new talent in

  my services.”

  “Not on your life,” I grind out between clenched

  teeth. It hurts to push against the power of the

  spell.

  He smiles. “They all object until I break them.”

  I growl.

  “What have we here?” Reaching into the extra

  dimensional pouch, he draws out the dagger. As he

  holds it up to inspect, he seizes, crumpling to the

  ground, writhing in pain.

  The spell on me shatters, consumed by the

  dagger. I step over him.

  Well, Plan C worked.

  “Someone should kill you and put the rest of us

  out of your misery. But I won’t do that bitch’s dirty

  work for her.” I step on his arm and, with my good

  arm, wrench it up, snapping the bone in half.

  “Help me. I’ll pay you,” he whispers hoarsely.

  “I don’t want your money.” I grab my gear and

  run.

  Nobody stops me on the way out. The siren is

  no longer singing. The spectators are back to

  gawking, and the workers bustle through their

  chores. I’m just one more chimera in the crowd.

  I put my Stetson back on as I step out of the

  circus and into the public street. The sun is low in

  the afternoon sky.

  In. Out. I’m still alive.

  Chapter 9

  ~ ANGELINA ~

  “Hungry? I’ll order us a pizza,” Emma says.

  I don’t tell her how unhealthy pizza is, that it will

  make her fat and give her zits. “Yes, pizza will be

  fine. Order me a side salad with it.”

  Saturday Sister Study Session—we meet every

  week at her campus apartment. Emma just calls it

  study time, but I like my alliterated version better.

  The living room is small, the couches lumpy and

  ragged, but I like it here. It’s quiet, and for the first

  time all week, I can spend time with someone else

  without feeling judged.

  Even the voices whisper as if afraid Emma can

  hear them. Our weekly visit is my only moment of

  blessed peace.

  Spread out before me, I have the notes for my

  psychology report on schizophrenia—symptoms,

  treatments, types. Fear squirms in my stomach, a

  ball of writhing worms weighing heavily inside me.

  Hallucinations.

  Delusions.

  Paranoia.

  Disorganized speech.

  Disorganized behavior.

  Setting down my pen, I rub my aching eyes, the

  words still bombarding me, pricking me like little

  needles in my brain.

  It’s all in my imagination. I don’t have to listen

  to them. They can’t control me. If I wish it hard

  enough, they’ll go away.

  At least, I’m not disorganized. I have everything

  under control.

  The voices cackle. My skin crawls and prickles

  with fear.

  Emma looks up sharply. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What are you working on?” Emma picks up one

  of the printouts sitting in front of me. I resist the

  urge to snatch it back. “Schizophrenia—ha, you’re

  working on that freshman psychology report where

  you have to describe the symptoms of one disease

  of your choice.”

  “Yeah.” I squirm uncomfortably as she studies

  the pamphlet in her hand. She doesn’t know about

  the voices, I remind myself. Nothing in there will

  reveal my secrets to her.

  “Everybody always self-diagnoses themselves.

  Our professor warned about spotting phantom

  symptoms.” She hands me back my pamphlet.

  “Don’t worry. You’re the least schizo of anyone I

  know. Straight A’s, completely logical and

  organized. If I was a psychologist, I’d diagnose you

  as OCD.”

  I nod, avoiding her eyes.

  She looks back to her book. “Back in my

  freshman year, I picked OCD because I thought it

  would make me understand you better.”

  “Does it make you mad?” I ask.

  “Of course not, I realized that you’re Virgo, not

  OCD, and you just like things to be a certain way.

  Which I love about you. We’re all unique, Angelina;

  that’s what makes us special.”

  The room is quiet for a long moment, and then

  she laughs. “For weeks, I couldn’t walk down the

  sidewalk without avoiding stepping on cracks. This

  stuff messes with you.”

  “Does it?” I’m afraid to ask more, worried I’ll

  reveal my secrets.

  “It’s like most first year medical students. They

  start thinking they’ve got every disease in the

  book.” She laughs. “At least, you have nothing to

  worry about. Little Miss Perfect.”

  “I’m not so perfect.” A tear slips down my

  cheek, and I brush it away.

  “Angie baby—” Using her childhood name for

  me, she sits beside me, hugging me to her. A sob

  breaks free, and the tears stream, the sudden

  kindness breaking the dam of pain I built around

  myself. I feel loved, warm, safe.

  Emma wraps her arms around me, and I cry in

  her shoulder. Her hand pets my hair gently. “Hey,

  girlie, what’s wrong? Let me help.”

  “Nothing.”

  She holds me at arm’s length and studies me, a

  worried frown creasing her forehead. “Bottling it

  up never works. Look how well it works for Dad.”

  I open my mouth to tell her, to give her every

  last secret and beg her for help, but nothing comes

  out. The presence of the voices pushes on my

  tongue, cleaving it to the roof of my mouth. Spikes

  of pain twist through my skull, and I close my eyes

  and take a big calming breath.

  “I can’t. I just can’t,” I finally squeak out.

  “Okay, okay, but if you ever need me, don’t you

  hesitate. Promise? Even if it’s in the middle of the

  night, I’ll come rescue you no matter what.”

  “Yeah.” My voice hitches and quavers from the

  crying, and I take another shuddering breath.

  “Yeah, I promise.”

  The door bell rings, and standing up, Emma

  places a comforting hand on my shoulder and gives

  it a squeeze. “That’s our pizza. I’m starved.”

  She leaves the room, and I can hear her talking

  with the pizza man as he flirts with her. But as

  usual, Emma is oblivious.

  I pick up the list again. “‘Lack of emotional

  expression,’” I read. “
‘Inability to cry or express

  joy.’”

  Definitely not me. I just cried my heart out.

  I just have an overactive imagination, and I need

  to ground myself in reality. Most important thing is

  to realize these voices don’t control me.

  Forget this whole stupid love potion thing. I

  imagined the witch and the Hunter. It was all born

  from my wishful thinking about Jason.

  Sudden pain rips through my head, tearing and

  shredding my brain, and I stumble to the floor as I

  grip my broken skull in my hands, trying to keep the

  pieces together.

  “Oh shit, are you okay?” Emma’s arms are

  around me, lifting me up.

  “Headache. From the concussion a few weeks

  ago.” I whimper.

  “I’ll drive you home and tuck you into bed.”

  Curled into a ball, I sob into my pillow, my ratty

  old teddy bear clutched in my arms. Emma made

  me tea, gave me some medicine, and tucked me in.

  Sweetest sister a girl could ask for.

  Guilt squeezes my heart. I don’t deserve her

  kindness and love.

  She doesn’t love you. She’s using you.

  No, it’s not true.

  How could she love you? She knows how evil you

  really are. She can see your wickedness, how

  twisted you are inside.

  This is the schizo paranoia talking. You’re not

  real. This is all my imagination.

  I shove them away, but the voices scream only

  louder in my head. They pound against the walls of

  my skull until I think my head will shatter. Until I

  want to tear my head off just to get away from the

  pain.

  Their claws rake across my skin. Their teeth

  gnaw on my bones.

  I don’t want to make a love potion and murder

  an imaginary Siren. Maybe I don’t want Jason’s

  attention anymore.

  “Let me go. Set me free.”

  You will obey usss. Pain slices through my head

  like ice picks through my skull.

  “Yes, yes, anything you want.” I sob. Anything to

  appease them—steal, destroy, sell my body on the

  street corner, sell my soul to the devil … though I’m

  not sure I still have a soul.

  Good girl.

  Euphoria fills me, replacing the pain. I giggle like

  a maniac.

  My masters approve of me.

  I clutch the leather-bound book in one hand and

  the card with the old witch’s scrawl in the other.

  The address leads me down another deserted alley.