“You’re serious,” he said after a moment. “You really want to do this. Be my Paladin. Fight the forces of evil during your Cotillion.”

I laid the pen on the notebook and met his eyes. “It’s the only choice. These people want me out of the way—”

“Dead,” David interjected, and I scowled at him.

“Yes, dead.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Why do you keep bringing that up?”

“Because I want you to get it,” he snapped back, his hands squeezing the steering wheel. “Because the idea of someone— anyone—dying for me makes me feel sick, and the thought of you dying for me is . . .”

Breaking off, he squeezed the steering wheel again, fingers flexing almost convulsively. “Pres, this is real. It’s real, and it’s scary, and it’s so messed up, I don’t even know where to start. You could die. I could die. People are actively trying to hurt us. And I feel like we both need to . . . acknowledge that. Use words like ‘dead’ instead of cutesy euphemisms.”

Cold sweat was still prickling all over my body. Outside the car, on one of the benches, a harried young mom in jeans and black turtleneck called out something to her kid, probably “Be careful!” My own mom had sat on that same bench, saying the same thing to me.

I thought of Mom’s tired smile, of her sad eyes, and the big hole that Leigh-Anne had left in our house. If something happened to me . . . Blinking against the stinging in my eyes, I picked up the pen and started to write again. I would have to make sure nothing did happen to me.

“You’re right,” I said, and David didn’t say anything for a long time.

Then, finally, “It hurt you to say that, didn’t it?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lean back in his seat.

“The words nearly choked me, yeah.”

He snorted, and I went back to writing. “So yes, people want me dead. They might do a spell that makes you dead. Happy now?”

David leaned back in his seat, reaching around the headrest to stretch his arms. “Will you start saying the real F-word with more regularity, too?”

“Don’t push it,” I replied, as outside, a gust of wind sent dead leaves rattling against the car. Cotillion was only three weeks away. Three weeks didn’t seem like nearly enough time to plan for something this big. Heck, last year’s Spring Fling had taken me over two months to prepare.

Glancing up from my notebook, I took in David as he slouched in his seat. Once again his hair was all mussed and his glasses were slightly crooked, and he was obviously thinking over something pretty hard. His brow was furrowed and his fingers drummed against the steering wheel.

“What are you fretting about so hard over there?” I asked him.

He worried at his lower lip for a moment before answering. “Remember when I told you about those crazy dreams I always had?”

“Yeah.”

“Well . . . one of them was about you.”

My heart thudded heavily in my chest, but I made my voice as light as I could. “Ew. So don’t want to hear about that.”

Now he did smile, but only a little. “No, not like that. You asked me the other day why it was that you and I could never seem to get along. And, I mean, yes, part of it was competition.”

“Egregious,” I muttered, and now his smile was a little wider.

“Felicitations,” he replied, and some of the tightness in my chest eased. “But part of it—” He broke off and thumped his head back against the steering wheel.

“God, this is so dumb.” He sat up again, his eyes on the ceiling. “When I was like five or six, I dreamed that you killed me.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, and he swiveled his head to look at me.

“I always knew a dream was a stupid reason not to like you. But now . . . Pres, apparently I can see the future. What if—”

I cut him off with a wave of my hand. “No. Saylor said you were only now starting to come into your powers. You probably didn’t even have them when you were five.”

He nodded, but his knuckles were white around the steering wheel. “Only . . . you weren’t angry in the dream. Neither was I. It was like we were both . . . sad. I woke up crying and everything.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Even as he said it, it was like I could see it. Me and David, staring at each other, tears streaming down both of our faces. There was something in my hand . . .

But wait. No, there was no way that could happen.

Making a fist, I pulled my arm back and swung at his face with everything I had. David gave a startled cry and flattened himself against the other side of the car, but the punch never landed. Instead, my fist came to a halt six inches from his nose.

“See?” I said, and relief washed over his face.

“Right.” David gave a shaky laugh. “You can’t hit me.”

“I can’t so much as pinch you,” I replied. “So killing you? Totally off the table. Now let’s drop that, and get back to the real problem, namely this.”

I thumped the notebook with my pen, dismayed to see that everything Blythe had told us didn’t even take up a whole page. “You need to call your Aunt Saylor.”

“She’s not—”

“I know, I know.” Lifting a hand, I waved him off. “But you know what I mean. We need to talk to her as soon as possible and tell her what happened. Call her and tell her to meet us—” I checked my watch. It was only a little past one in the afternoon. Hard to believe it had only been a few hours since David picked me up. “Tell her to go to Miss Annemarie’s Tea Room.”

David already had his phone out, but he paused, lifting both eyebrows. “And you want us to talk about this in Little Old Lady Land why?”

Miss Annemarie’s was a Pine Grove institution. A tiny room filled with china, chintz, and more ceramic cats than anyone should ever own, the tea room catered almost exclusively to senior citizens. It was one of The Aunts’ favorite places to go for lunch, but today was Saturday, and they only went on Wednesdays.

“I want to talk this out in a neutral area,” I told David. “And, no offense, but ever since that night, your house gives me the creeps.”

He nodded, sympathetic. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Plus, everyone at Miss Annemarie’s is ancient, so there’s less chance of being overheard.”

“Good thinking.” David went to dial, but before he did, stopped, ducking his head a little so he could meet my eyes. “So we’re really doing this. You’re going to fully accept Paladin-hood or whatever.”

The way I saw it, my only foolproof way of getting out of this thing alive was getting rid of Blythe and ensuring the spell didn’t happen at Cotillion. It had taken the Ephors seventeen years to find her; who knew how long they’d have to search for a new Mage? Besides, no Blythe, no spell, no need to kill David’s Paladin.

But all I said to David was, “Harper Jane Price doesn’t quit. Ever.”

David’s lips quirked. “Yes, I believe I’ve picked up on that over the years.”

He turned back to his phone, punching in Saylor’s number. As he talked to her, making plans to meet in a few minutes, I watched the kids playing and tried to tell myself I wasn’t making a huge mistake.

Chapter 24

“You should try the oolong,” Saylor told David as she unfolded her menu at Miss Annemarie’s. As I’d anticipated, the tea room was nearly empty, with the exception of two women sitting by the front window, both of them easily in their eighties. Outside, the wind had picked up, and gray clouds moved swiftly across the sky. Miss Annemarie’s was situated in the town square, right next to the jewelry shop where The Aunts bought all my Christmas and birthday presents. In the middle of the square, there was a statue of one of the town founders, Adolphus Bridgeforth. David was glaring at Saylor over the top of his menu. “I hate oolong,” he told her. “It tastes like leaves.”

“It is leaves,” I noted, opening my napkin over my lap. “Touché,” he muttered, a faint smile hovering on his lips. Saylor was watching David, and the look on her face wasn’t

quite sadness and it wasn’t exactly longing, but it was some mixture of the two. Then she folded up her menu, slid the corner of it under her saucer, and folded her hands on the table, fingers clenched.

Her diamonds winked in the light from the tiny lamp in the center of the table, and now her expression was as placid as all the china cats dotting the restaurant. Seriously, Miss Annemarie’s could give Saylor a run for her money in the glass knick-knacks department. “Well,” she said at last. “I assume the two of you had a reason for bringing me to Miss Annemarie’s.”

I squirmed a little bit in my rose-patterned damask chair. I’d made my chart and I thought I had a good idea of what I wanted to tell Saylor, but there was no escaping the fact that David and I had kind of screwed up today. Even though I knew Saylor wasn’t the person I’d thought she was, old habits die hard, and I hated the thought of disappointing her.

Maybe David picked up on that, because he leaned over the table, and in a very low voice, said, “Something happened today.”

Saylor didn’t move, but her eyes flicked to my hand. We’d stopped on out way back into town to get bandages and antibiotic cream for my cut, and the majority of my palm was swathed in gauze. “I can see that.”

As quietly and quickly as he could, David told Saylor about Blythe, pausing only when Miss Annemarie tottered over to take our orders. When he was done, Saylor sat very still, her face totally blank. But her hand was clutching her fork so hard, I was afraid she might actually bend the metal. “And the two of you decided to tackle this by yourselves why exactly?” she asked, voice syrupy sweet, eyes blazing.

I took a sip of ice water, stalling for time, but David already had an answer. “Because I don’t trust you,” he said. “Her,” David added, gesturing to me with a teaspoon, “I trust.”