For Better or Cursed Read online

  Then it hit me. A realization that brought with it a pit-drying chill. Up to this point, I’d been pretty sure Cassandra wasn’t afraid of anything. The look that I’d seen flicker across her face earlier? That was fear.

  My life has changed a lot in the past couple of months, since I met Cassandra and found out I was a Sitter—aka, a superpowered female tasked with protecting the innocent and keeping evil at bay. Most Sitters spend a lifetime preparing for their seventeenth year, when they’ll assume their role, but Cassandra and I were thrown in. The Spring River Portal, which is the interdimensional doorway between our regular old world and the demon-infected Negative dimension, was supposed to be sealed, so our Counsel, Brian (who also happens to be an interior designer turned high school football coach and my dad’s best friend), was tardy with our training. Sure, he showed us a fancy PowerPoint, but demons? Dimensions? Magic spells? Kinetic powers? It’s going to take a while for all that to sink in, much less make sense.

  Maybe this wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but things hit code red on Halloween, when Cassandra’s brother, Dion kidnapped my babysitting charge MacKenzie to use her in a powerful ritual to blast through the sealed Portal. MacKenzie got sucked into the Negative, Cassandra dove in after her, and I had to form a coven with my dog, my mom, and my best friend to get them back.

  It turned out that Dion had been acting under the influence of their dad, Erebus, who had acquired illegal powers through the use of Red Magic, which is a kind of perverted Sitter magic that can be used for all sorts of evil.

  About fifteen years ago, the Synod caught Erebus using Red Magic and banished him to the Negative. He’s still pissed about it and wants out. He even cursed my mom to try and tried to ransom her for his release, but the Synod has never bit.

  Mom has been cursed for as long as I can remember, and she can barely interact, much less take care of herself. Underneath the curse, she’s loving, funny, and the best mom anyone could hope for. I know, because I met the real her on Halloween.

  Dion’s ritual worked, Erebus escaped and her curse lifted for a few, brief, glorious hours before the Synod showed up and put Erebus back where he belonged, which brought the curse clanging down again. Before that, I’d always just thought my mom was mentally ill, and I’d pretty much accepted it. I was still getting used to the fact that Mom didn’t have to be the way she was, and that was harder. Actually, I was still getting used to a lot of things, and they were all hard.

  Brian’s car smelled different. Normally, it smelled like a new car, because he had an air freshener on the dash that was literally called New Car Smell. In my opinion that’s weirder than having your old car smell like old car.

  But now the car smelled fresh. Crisp. Green, and seasonal AF. I leaned forward from the backseat and sure enough, New Car had been replaced with Balsam Fir. “I like this one better,” I said. “It’s less headache and more nature.”

  “Good,” Brian said. “It’s my seasonal scent. I find it very festive.” “Jingle Bell Rock” was playing softly on the radio, a countrified version that I had already heard seventeen billion times this year, even though Christmas was still three weeks away. Cassandra reached out to change the station, and Brian swatted her hand from the knob like she was trying to steal his last mozzarella stick. “I like this song,” he said. Of course he did.

  “Okay,” she said. “What’s up? Why are you so snappy? That is not the holiday spirit.”

  Brian sighed, then flipped down his visor, and a piece of thick white paper fell into his lap. He picked it up and handed it to Cassandra. “This,” he said.

  She looked at the paper for a second, then handed it to me. The paper was so thick and soft it felt like it was made from bedsheets. It was blank, so I flipped it over and saw six words in ornate purple script printed right in the middle of the page.

  The Summit

  Spring River, Kansas

  Friday evening

  “What is this?” I said, passing it back to Cassandra, who held it out to Brian. He rolled through a stop sign, and that’s when I knew beyond a doubt he was upset.

  “The Sitters are coming,” he said.

  His pronouncement sounded both innocuous and ominous at the same time. “Okaaay,” I said. “Which ones?”

  “All of them,” he answered.

  The traffic light in the distance turned red, and Brian kept driving as if he was going to run it. Then, at the last second, he slammed on the brakes, sending Cassandra pitching forward into the dash.

  “Maybe you should pull over so we can talk about this?” she said, and I nodded vigorously in agreement.

  The light changed and Brian gunned it, cutting across two lanes of traffic to the side of the road and pulling to a stop. I’d known Brian for a long time, and I’d never seen him this flustered. He took a deep breath.

  “The Synod has called a Summit, to be held here in Spring River.”

  “Brian,” I said, “you’re doing it again.” Brian had this thing where he talked about Sitter stuff like Cassandra and I had been doing it our whole lives and knew exactly what he was talking about, like he forgot that we were brand-new and basically clueless.

  “A Summit is a gathering of all the Sitters from our region,” he explained. “Which is the entire country. They rarely happen. But one is happening now. And it is happening here.”

  There was a sound of grinding metal, and then the car filled with light. Cassandra leaned forward and looked in the side mirror. “Coach,” she said, “it appears you have parked at a bus stop.” The words were barely out of her mouth before the bus driver laid on the horn, a blaring that caused Brian to throw the Explorer into drive and move forward half a block before pulling to a stop in front of a pawnshop.

  “So that piece of paper,” I said, “that’s the invite.” Brian nodded. “There’s no more information?” I asked, and he shook his head. “Which Friday?”

  “This Friday,” he said, and swallowed. “Keeping things last-minute makes it safer.”

  “So, all the Sitters are going to come here?” I asked, and Brian nodded again. “Doesn’t that leave all the other Portals unprotected?”

  “They’ll be sealed,” he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Including this one. That’s why Summits happen so rarely. Sealing all the Portals is a huge drain on powers. And such seals are not without consequences—for individual Sitters too.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Sitters are intuitively connected to the Portal that they are charged to protect. That’s why it opens automatically when you are set to do a Return. When the Portal is sealed, that connection is blocked. All of your senses will be off. It’s like being psychically constipated.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Thanks for that, B.” I had definitely hoped to go my entire life without hearing the football coach refer to me as being any kind of constipated, but what Brian had said did have a ring of truth to it. My mind was clearer now. I felt more in sync with everything around me. And even though life was about ten million times more stressful, I had fewer moments of wanting to climb inside my locker and never come back out. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like I liked school now. It was more like I could see where school ended and the world began. There was just something about chasing monsters that helped put a chem quiz in perspective.

  The sound of Cassandra playing with the lock on the passenger-side door pulled me back. “So, if seals make everyone constipated,” she said, and I cringed again at that word, “they must have really not wanted my dad to get out after they put him down there. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble of draining their powers and plugging up everyone’s pipes.”

  “Cassandra!” I hissed. “Can you stop with the poop metaphor?”

  “You’re the first one to mention poop here, Esme,” she said.

  Brian ignored us b
oth. “I guess not,” he said. “To be quite frank, it was a controversial decision. Many in the Sitterhood thought it was an overreaction, but Wanda insisted it was necessary and pushed it through. I think she wanted to make an example of your father and send a message that Red Magic would not be tolerated. Wanda was the Synod’s HBIC, and definitely someone not to be messed with.”

  “Some seal if my idiot brother could break it with a Magic 8 Ball,” Cassandra muttered. “Like he did on Halloween….”

  “Dion didn’t break it,” Brian answered, ignoring her tone. “He was a vessel, like an empty bottle; Red Magic is what opened it. But right now, we need to talk about the Summit. Fortunately, I already had a few things prepared in case such a thing was to ever happen.” He cleared his throat. “Esme, there are a few binders in the box back there, with just a few of my ideas for the Summit.”

  There was a cardboard box on the seat next to me that I had just assumed was full of jockstraps and mouth guards, or whatever it was that Brian drove around with in the backseat of his car. I flipped open the top, and just as he’d said, there were binders. But more than just a few—the box was filled to the brim with them. I pulled out a navy-blue one and read the label: TABLE DECOR. It had to be an old binder, reused without Brian’s changing the label, so I flipped it open.

  No. Inside were pages and pages of pictures of…table decorations. Eucalyptus sprigs, quartz crystals, pillar candles, holly branches, air plants, river rocks, vases. I pulled out another binder. This one was labeled MAIN STAGE, and it was full of pictures of podiums. A clear acrylic podium, a wood podium, one that looked like it was made from brushed steel…

  I looked up at Brian. “What is this?” I asked.

  “I know.” He sighed. “The metal one is my favorite too, and I keep asking myself, ‘Is it really a good idea to use that much of the budget on a podium?’ But I think it’s very chic, and it sends the right message about who we are here in Spring River.”

  “ ‘Chic’ isn’t the word…,” I started, but then stopped myself. That wasn’t the point. The point was I had no idea what Brian was talking about. “You haven’t even really told us what a Summit is, much less what it has to do with podiums and table decor.”

  “Ah yes,” he said, nodding, “I do get carried away with the fun stuff. A Summit is when the Synod summons all of the Sitters to one location for further training, education, and connection. They happen approximately once a decade, but the exact timing is up to the Synod’s discretion, as is the location.”

  I pulled out two more binders, one labeled LIGHTING and another CANAPÉS. I didn’t even know what canapés were. “Where was the last Summit?” I asked Brian.

  “San Francisco,” he said. “The one before that was in Dallas.”

  “Well, I can see why they chose Spring River for this one, then,” Cassandra said. “Top-tier destinations only.”

  Brian stiffened in the driver’s seat. “The locations are not chosen haphazardly,” he said. “Sitters have always been on the forefront of technology, and it was very important for us to understand what was going on in Silicon Valley, as it was a hotbed of some of our greatest hopes and threats in 1999.”

  “And Dallas?” I asked.

  “There had been an unfortunate incident at Six Flags,” he said. “I’m not at liberty to say more.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding slowly. “And Spring River is a hotbed of what? Aside from oral herpes, of course.”

  “Don’t be daft, Esme,” he snapped. “If the Summit is coming to Spring River, then it means the events that transpired on Halloween are more serious than we thought.”

  “Oh,” I said, and swallowed. “Does this mean we’re in trouble?”

  “Not necessarily,” he answered. “But it does mean all eyes are on us.”

  I passed one of the binders up to Cassandra, and she flipped through it quickly. “So, what do centerpieces have to do with it?” she asked.

  “If the Summit is to be held at our Portal, then we are the hosts,” Brian answered. “And there are a lot of responsibilities that come with that.”

  “Such as?” Cassandra said, holding the binder up to reveal a page of colored sprinkles pictured alongside corresponding Pantone colors.

  “Such as decorating,” Brian said. “As well as welcoming everyone and making sure they are comfortable, and, most important…” He took a big breath and paused dramatically before continuing. “Planning and executing the closing event.”

  “And by closing event, you mean like making sure everyone gets to the airport on time?” I asked, hoping I was right about that.

  Brian cleared his throat. “No, I mean a party,” he said.

  And that was when it hit me: Yes, Brian was terrified of all the Sitters coming to town and what that might mean for us, but he was also excited. Excited as hell.

  “A party?” I repeated, as I was significantly less excited. Mass socializing? I preferred demons.

  “Esme, if you could, in that box, there’s a yellow binder,” Brian said. “It details past closing ceremonies, so you can get an idea.”

  I looked in the box and pulled a yellow binder out from the bottom of the stack. I started to flip through it, and within two pages, my jaw dropped. The pictures looked like they had been taken at the Olympics. Or the CFDA Awards, or the VMAs. These were ragers, where everyone looked glam and cool. One party looked like it took place in a museum, another in an airport hangar, one in a stadium. Oh my FG. I looked up at Brian.

  “These are all past parties?” I said. “They look epic.”

  Cassandra reached around and took the binder out of my hands. She flipped a page, then held it up so she could get a closer look.

  “Is that Angelina Jolie?” she asked, pointing to a young, pouty-lipped woman in one of the photos.

  “Yes,” Brian said. “She studied with several Sitters to prepare for her role in Tomb Raider and was given special dispensation to attend the closing event. From all accounts, she had a wonderful time.”

  “Brian,” I said, beginning to lose my cool, “I don’t want to be the one to burst anyone’s bubble, but this is Spring River. Angelina Jolie does not want to come here.”

  “That was twenty years ago, Esme,” he said. “She’s a mom now. I’m sure she has other things to do.”

  “No, I’m not talking about Angelina Jolie,” I said, not quite able to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “I’m speaking metaphorically. I mean cool people. There’s nothing to do in Spring River. The closest we have to a music venue is the karaoke machine at the Ford dealership.”

  “Can you rent the dealership out?” Cassandra asked. I shot wads of chewed-up gum into the back of her head with my eyes. Cassandra should be helping me out, but instead this was one of those times when she seemed to be opting for the deliberately dense route.

  “No one wants to sing ‘Single Ladies’ to a bunch of four-door Fiestas,” I said. “We can’t do a party like this. I would say we can’t do a party at all, but somehow I know that is not an option.”

  “You are correct,” Brian agreed. “You have no choice. You don’t have to like it, but you are required to throw a party.”

  “So, we have to lower expectations,” I said, grabbing the yellow binder back from Cassandra. “A lot.”

  Brian gestured to the box. “I think there are a lot of good ideas in there.”

  He was right. There were a lot of good ideas in the binders, if we were planning a wedding for a couple of forty-something divorcées. But it was going to take a lot more than a hot-chocolate bar to have a good party in Spring River. For one thing, Brian was talking about a budget—so who exactly was going to pay for all of these podiums?

  “What if we got a ton of those sub sandwiches that are big enough to feed a whole party?” Cassandra said. “What are those called again?”

  Oh my God.
“Party subs, Cassandra,” I answered. “They’re called party subs.”

  “Yeah, those,” she said. “I really like the meatball ones.” Brian pulled out a notebook and, with a shock, I realized he was actually writing that down.

  “People your age like those?” he asked.

  “Well, I love them,” Cassandra said. “Especially when they have melted provolone….”

  I slumped back in the seat. I was outnumbered. It was two against one. I cringed at the thought of trying to make small talk while attempting the delicate operation of cramming a meatball into my mouth without getting sauce up my nose. Meatballs weren’t finger food, even when you shoved them between bread. I massaged my temples. Brian was right. Like so many things in my life, this party was happening whether I wanted it to or not. “Okay,” I said. “So, the invite says Friday.” Brian nodded.

  “And today is?” I asked.

  “Tuesday,” Brian said.

  I nodded. “That’s what I thought,” I said. “So that means we have”—I counted the days off on my fingers—“three days to plan this party.”

  “Exactly,” Brian answered. “Which is why it is so fortunate that I’ve been preparing for this. Of course, as the host Sitters, you two have to make the final party decisions. And I can only guide you….” His voice drifted off, a little wistfully.

  “Right,” Cassandra said, “party subs. What’s left to plan?” Brian looked like he might have a coronary.

  “Place cards, for example,” he said. “And floral arrangements.” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking we should go with dried. Something seasonal—it’s what I’m seeing right now.”

  “Why would anyone want dead flowers?” Cassandra asked.

  “Not dead,” Brian said. “Dried.”

  “What’s the difference?”