“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that would happen!” I’m out of breath, dehydrated, and weak. I don’t know whether to be excited or terrified.
Peregrine’s eyes narrow. “Power to communicate with the spirit world like that is a great gift. It figures you wouldn’t appreciate it.”
I want to ask them what Glory meant when she said her killer was in our midst, but my eyelids are growing heavy, and it’s getting harder to stay on my feet. “Guys?” I say. “I think something’s wrong with me.”
“That’s what it feels like after you’ve been possessed,” Peregrine says. “The spirits take your energy with them.”
“We should get her home,” Chloe suggests.
Peregrine nods. “Well, the good news is that we know she’s definitely one of us. She’s a natural.”
I see Chloe’s forehead crease in concern, so I ask the obvious question. “And the bad news?”
Peregrine’s tone is somber as she turns her attention back to me. “The bad news is that now, you’re a target for Main de Lumière too.”
My house is dark and silent when Peregrine and Chloe drop me off, and I head straight upstairs. I’m swaying on my feet by the time I finally make it to my room and collapse into bed.
That night I dream again of the parlor and blood pouring out from beneath the doors. But this time, the images are blurry and vague, as if my brain can’t muster the energy to form them whole.
Still, I wake up with my heart racing, the alarm clock blaring on my bedside table next to me.
I haul myself out of bed and head toward the bathroom. As soon as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I stop in my tracks and stare.
It would be no exaggeration to say that I look like a model. The so-called magic mask seems to have continued working overnight, making my lips even fuller, my skin even more luminous, and my eyelashes even thicker. My hair, which is normally creased and wild when I wake up, looks like it’s been professionally blown out.
I dress quickly in my school uniform, then dig into the box of accessories Peregrine sent to my house and pull out a pair of huge diamond studs. I’ve only ever had the fake kind you can buy at stalls in Chinatown, though I have the feeling these are the real thing. I put them on and study myself in the mirror, admiring the way they catch the light. I’m about to dig back into the box to see what else is there when Aunt Bea’s words from yesterday flash through my head. They may be your sister queens, but that doesn’t mean you have to become one of them.
I’m hit with a surge of guilt. Am I doing something wrong by embracing the advantages zandara can give me? Then again, my ancestors risked their lives so that we could have this kind of power. After a minute, I close the box up, but I keep the earrings on.
Downstairs, there’s hot coffee in the pot on the counter, and Aunt Bea has left a note saying she had to get to the bakery and will see me this afternoon. I guess that means I’ll be walking to school. I shoot Meredith a text saying, You’ll never believe the makeover I got, toast a Pop-Tart, pour myself a paper cup of coffee, and head out the door. Maybe the walk will clear my head.
But Peregrine’s Aston Martin is already idling in my driveway. “Get in,” she says through her open window, looking me up and down. “No, on second thought, go back inside, change your shoes, and get in.”
I glance down at my loafers then back at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Giving you a ride,” she says calmly. “Unless you insist on wearing those hideous things. The least you can do after we went out of our way to help you yesterday is to wear some heels.”
“But I don’t want to wear heels.”
“There are at least six pairs in the box I sent,” she says. “Seriously, go. The purple stilettos will look perfect with your skin tone.”
I retreat back inside and throw the shoes on, grateful that Aunt Bea isn’t here to see this. When I totter back out, Peregrine calls from the car, “Now roll up your skirt. What are you, a nun?”
I suppose she has a point, so I roll it once at the waistband, raising the hem an inch from my knees.
“Roll it again!” she commands.
I shake my head vehemently. “I’m not a nun,” I grumble as I climb into the passenger seat, “but I’m not a prostitute either.”
She makes a face. “This would be so much easier if you’d just accept my fashion advice.” She revs the engine, puts the car in drive, and roars down the hill toward town. It’s only when I glance absentmindedly toward the backseat that I realize her creepy snake is sitting there, his eyes fixed on me. I shriek, and Peregrine swerves.