Born Wicked

XXIX

I didn't go to the game. When I'd finished changing, I peeked out the door to the parking lot and both Ethan and Julian were standing there. I'd decided to cut through the gym instead and walked home. I'd sent Ethan a text telling him I didn't feel good and that I'd see him Saturday afternoon.

I shut my phone off before he could respond.

What I figured was that he would show up at my house after. I was right. I stood at the top of the stairs while Gran told him I was in bed sick, like I'd asked her to. She was curious I could tell, questions probably burning the back of her throat, but she'd remained silent and done as I'd asked.

I spent the evening in my room sifting through the pages of the big blue book. They're gold leaf and worn and yellow with age. As I suspected, the whole thing is in Latin. There were images though, which I hadn't expected. Sketches of symbols that I didn't come close to understanding. I did however recognize two.

One, was the cross, identical to the one dangling from my wrist. The second, though. The second was a circle with odd shapes and markings within, like spokes. It's eerily similar to Ethan's tattoo. I'm sure of it. Curiouser and curiouser. I placed a piece of notebook paper to mark the page and then around midnight, I tucked it back into my nightstand drawer.

Ethan is prompt. At exactly one o'clock he pulls into the driveway and Gran's already gone to Beverly to visit some friends of hers when I leave. He stands in the drive in jeans and a black hoodie and he looks positively bad, with his dark, wayward hair, eyebrow piercing and severe features. His eyes are hooded as he holds the passenger door open for me.

"Hi," I say softly with a shy smile.

He watches me, his green eyes dark with censure. "Are you done ignoring me now?"

I grimace guiltily. "I'm sorry," I offer, "I just needed some space yesterday." I step up on my toes and press a kiss to his hair roughened cheek.

He nods and when I sit in the seat, he shuts the door. He backs the car out of the driveway and heads east, toward the Sound.

"C'mon," he says, shutting off the engine. He's parked on the street in front of a small, non-descript blue clapboard house with white shutters and an ugly garden gnome by the concrete porch. There's an oak tree in the yard, shedding its leaves, preparing for winter.

I get out of the car and scan the yard.

"It's not much," he says with a shrug.

I smile. "It's not bad, Ethan."

He leads the way up the gravel driveway to the front door.

"Why didn't you park in the driveway?" I ask, gravel and dead leaves crunching under the soles of my Converse shoes. These ones are purple and they're my favorite pair.

"The paint," he explains, motioning to the car. "Restoring a car is expensive, the gravel will ding my paint. Last house we had, the driveway was paved."

I chuckle. "Boys and their cars."

He raises his eyebrows. "That's a 1970 GTO."

I grin. "I get it, Ethan. It's a classic car. I think it's cute."

He clears his throat, his face pink with a faint blush, and unlocks the heavy white door. He pushes it open and it squeals loudly. "C'mon in."

He motions me past him and I step over the threshold, eyes touching everything in the sparse, small living room. It's not poor, but you can tell they're two guys who live in a house with no woman. It's not dirty or anything like that, it's just kind of bare.