But my heart rate increases. It’s only a matter of time at this point. Seconds.
Paige whirls to face me with a look of trepidation. “Shit.” She sprints toward me, buries her shoulder into my midsection, and lifts me off my feet. Without slowing, she carries me across the living room.
Light as a feather, stiff as a board, I think.
Paige shot puts me through my bedroom door. I fly backward. The air pressure in my bedroom increases as I sail in slow motion. It’s as if I’m suddenly caught in a vacuum. My ears plug, and sounds become muffled.
Paige grabs my loft door and slides it shut. The sound of the iron-hook slamming into place—locking me inside—echoes in my ears.
I land on the floor hard. I catch sight of my books and clothes rising around me and freezing in midair. Then I close my eyes and pass out.
Chapter 2
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I GUESS I SHOULD explain how I came to be who I am. Or what I am.
I grew up in Malbrook, Pennsylvania. The town is a popular destination for tourists looking to spend time in Stone Lake, a giant reservoir in what used to be an old limestone quarry. It’s a quaint little town with a rich history, family-owned shops, and good Christian people. It’s also the most sinfully dull place you could possibly imagine.
My father, Benjamin Caine, owned a small mechanic shop in town. He was well-liked and had a reputation for knocking twenty percent off his advertised prices, which were for the tourists. He taught me everything I know about cars. His weekend hobby was fixing up barn finds and reselling them. Some days, I would help him clean an old engine block or rebuild carburetors. Other times, I might go with him on drives to hunt for obscure and authentic parts.
For better or worse, this was the only way we could communicate. It wasn’t that he was cold or uncaring, but he did suffer from an overdeveloped masculinity. He was competitive with other men, only cared about things he considered “manly,” and buried his insecurities in silence. Don’t get me wrong—I loved my dad. He just didn’t have the programming to engage with an adolescent girl, even his own daughter.
My mother, Alice Caine, née Gatlin, spent her whole life in Malbrook. She was popular in high school, the kind of girl whose pretty face won her beauty pageants, student elections, and the attention of everyone around her. After graduation, she continued to cultivate her popularity by volunteering with the local clubs, heading the boosters, and hosting monthly dinner parties.
My mother named me Darcy after her favorite character in her favorite book, Pride and Prejudice. At least, that was what she would tell people. I was never quite convinced she read the thing. She often said giving me a literary name would help guide me in school—as if that would work better than taking an active interest in my life.
Now, to be fair, both my parents loved me… in their own ways. They just didn’t love me as much as they loved my big brother. Bennet was the pride and joy of the family. Two years older than me, he was the kind of kid you knew was destined for great things in life and not just because he inherited my father’s masculinity and my mother’s charisma. People recognized it the moment he walked onto a baseball diamond.
That kid could throw. When he would wind up, a hush would settle over the stands. His arm moved so fast you could hear it whipping through the air. By the time he was a freshman in high school, he was throwing eighty-five-mile-an-hour fastballs for the varsity team.
My parents attended every game, even the ones out of the county. My mother was an intimidating force on the high school booster club, and in her first year as president, she set a record for fundraising. My father had been managing Bennet’s career since middle school, befriending and inviting scouts and recruiters to see the next Nolan Ryan.
So I did what most young teens do when overshadowed by an older sibling—I rebelled. It will be no surprise to anyone who knows me that I went through a pretty serious goth phase. I’m talking black lipstick, nose ring, and dark clothes. Okay, so that last part hasn’t changed much. My best friend was a girl named Vivien Lemaire. Whereas I dipped my toe in goth culture, Vivien was all in. She wore leather corsets, was pierced from head to toe, and sported a purple pixie cut.
Vivien was also the Svengali who introduced me to the occult. Together we read tarot cards, used spirit boards, and studied astrology. She was a self-proclaimed Wiccan and taught me to how to chant. We would spend many hours in the deep Pennsylvania woods at a place called the Witching Well or Wishing Well, depending on who you asked. The well was a circle of granite stones no more than a foot high that surrounded a trickling hot spring. Local legend said the Shawnee tribe originally built it as a place to worship the Great Spirit. Because the Shawnee believed the Great Spirit was a goddess called Our Grandmother, this magical spot allegedly became a mecca for witches in Colonial America. They would come here to worship, practice, and pray. And that was what Vivien and I would do—practice our chants, pledge ourselves to the Triple Goddess, and pray for our deepest, darkest desires.
My foray into rebellion didn’t elicit much attention from my parents. Aside from issuing the occasional grounding when I skipped school or forcing me to attend counseling sessions with our Baptist minister, my parents remained focused on their favorite child. And then, in Bennet’s junior year, he suffered an elbow injury that threatened to derail his athletic career—the kind of injury no doctor wanted to risk with surgery.
That changed everything. Neither of
