"I don't know." I looked around. "There's a snack bar. Probably restrooms, too. They could be there."

I walked toward the building. After a few steps, I glanced back. Simon was staring at the driver taking bags off the bus, still dopey from sleep. I continued on.

There was a man and a girl on the other side of the snack bar, and given the sizes, I thought it might be Derek and Chloe. It wasn't. I walked around the building. The snack bar was closed.

I continued to the bathrooms and tugged on the women's door. It didn't budge. The padlock probably explained that.

I checked the guy's bathroom, too, then strode back to Simon. "The snack bar is closed, the restrooms are locked, and there's no sign of them anywhere."

"You're the one who saw them get off the bus. Which way did they go?"

"Who said I saw them get off?"

"What?"

I shifted my bag onto my other shoulder. "I said they weren't on the bus so they must have gotten off. I didn't say it was here." I looked around. "Wherever hereis. We should probably just get back on-"

Too late. The bus was leaving. Simon waved and shouted as he chased it from the lot. I waved, too-didn't much see the point of yelling, when it wouldn't be heard over the motor. The bus kept going.

I walked to Simon. "All right. Looks like we need a plan."

Four.

"Okay," Simon said, reading the posted schedule on the snack bar's wall. "According to this, the next bus is in an hour."

"Two hours," I said, flashing my watch.

"Two hours for the next one heading in the direction we weregoing. One hour for the bus heading back."

"Why would we go back?"

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe to find Chloe and my brother?"

"And where do you plan to find them?" I poked the schedule. "Last we know, they were with us in Syracuse. There are four stops between here and there. If Derek was here, then sure, I'd say let's do that-he could hop off at each stop and sniff for Chloe's trail. Without him, we're guessing."

"I don't-"

"Derek's a smart guy, right? Knows how to look after himself? How to buy a bus ticket? How to get to your friend Andrew's place?"

"Sure, but-"

"I doubt Chloe could read a bus schedule if her life depended on it, but that's because she's sheltered, not because she's stupid. She's sensible. Annoyingly, boringly sensible."

"Which I happen to think is a good-"

"I know. You think everything about Chloe is perfect and magical. Point is, we have no idea why they got off the bus. Knowing Derek, he was hungry, and knowing Chloe, she went to keep him company because that'd be polite. Whatever the reason, the first thing those two will say is, 'We need to catch the next bus and get to Andrew's.' So going back to find them is ridiculous. We should push on."

Simon's jaw set. "No. We should go back."

"Why? Because I said we shouldn't? Fine. We've got an hour anyway. Plenty of time to think about it. You need to get something to eat, don't you? Aren't you on some kind of scheduled diet?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Derek says you can't-"

"And you're not Derek, so I'm not taking that from you, too. Despite what everyone thinks, I'm perfectly capable of handling my diabetes. It's six in the morning. I don't need to eat yet. I've got food in my bag. I'll eat on the bus."

"Fine. I'll go find something for myself."

He didn't offer to come with me. I didn't expect him to. Chloe would have. I know I shouldn't b.i.t.c.h about her being so nice, but imagine if someone only hung out with you because it was "the right thing to do." Not exactly BFF material.

Simon said he was perfectly capable of handling his diabetes. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, too. Been doing it all my life.

My mother-I refuse to call her Mom anymore-works for the group that did the genetic modification on all of us. I'm not even sure she sees me as her daughter. Maybe just a live-in test subject. No, that sounds like self-pity and I won't do self-pity.

So my mother works a lot at the lab. My dad runs a sporting goods business, which means he doesn't exactly keep nine-to-five hours either. Like Chloe, I had a live-in housekeeper. At least I did until I was twelve, when my mother declared I was old enough to look after my sister. Never mind that I had a social life and clubs and sports, or that we had enough money to hire twohousekeepers. But that's more self-pity, isn't it? I'll stop there.

My fourteen-year-old sister Lara is a brat. Unfortunately, no one sees it but me. To everyone else, she's adorable. She's tiny and blond and sweet and as helpless as a kitten. Chloe reminded me of Lara, at first. The difference, as I discovered, is that Chloe really is as sweet as she seems and she isn't as helpless as she looks.

Lara milks her adorability for all it's worth, meaning she never has to do anything. I usually ended up taking her ch.o.r.es, because if they didn't get done, our mother freaked out. Then Lara would cry about how much homework she had and how not everyone finds school as easy as I do, and my parents would say that I should help my sister out. If I argued, they'd make me feel like Iwas the lazy one. Eventually I started doing Lara's ch.o.r.es on my own. It was easier that way.

It doesn't help that I'm not adorable. Not sweet or helpless either. I know what I want and I go after it. If someone p.i.s.ses me off, I say so. I don't put up with any c.r.a.p.

I'm difficult, as my parents always say. I'm the bad child; Lara is the good one. It doesn't matter if I'm on the honor roll and I'm popular and I don't drink or do drugs or sneak out with guys. It doesn't matter if you can say any of that last bit-the drinking, drugs and sneaking around-about Lara. I'm still bad and she's still good.

I went off on a tangent there, didn't I? I guess it's been on my mind a lot lately. I thought I'd gotten over the resentment years ago. Just accepted the way things were, lifted my chin and marched on. But now I think of those months in Lyle House with my mother pushing me to overcome my problems, only to discover she'd known all along that I couldn'tovercome them. That she was responsible for those problems. Then I'd think about what she said in the warehouse, all the things she said . . .

I wish I wasn't her daughter. I hope she's happy with Lara. Silly, vapid Lara. I hope she realizes, someday, that I was the child she could have been proud of, if only she'd bothered getting to know me.

The town wasn't exactly overflowing with good eating options. Not at this time of the morning anyway. I bought a coffee and a m.u.f.fin, and returned to Simon. He was right where I'd left him.

"So, has your brain had a chance to wake up?" I said. "Have you realized your plan is moronic?"

I shouldn't have said that. When I'd walked over, he hadn't exactly welcomed me back, but he'd been friendly enough, asked if the coffee shop was far, said maybe he'd wash up before we left. When I made the crack about his plan, Simon's expression changed. Completely.

"I'm going back for Derek," he said. "I don't know what happened to him. For all I know, he's in trouble."

"How? Do you honestly think someone managed to drag a guy Derek's size off the bus?"

His scowl deepened. "Of course not. But have you forgotten that bounty on Chloe's head?"

"It's not a bounty. It's a reward for finding her-"

"If she got off the bus to use the bathroom, Derek would have followed. They both could have been stopped. Sent back to Buffalo." He gazed down the road. "I'm catching the bus back. It'll be here in five minutes. You can come with me or go to Andrew's."

"But I don't know Andrew or how to get-"

I realized that sounded like whining and stopped. I knew everyone was tired of looking after me. I was even more tired of needing it. I'd love to say, "Sure, I'll do that." Not like I couldn't ride a bus and find a house.

What would I do when I got there, though? This Andrew guy didn't even know we were coming. Was I going to ring his bell and say, "Hey, remember Kit Bae? That friend you had a big fight with a few years ago? Well, I don't know him, but I do know his sons and I'm hoping you'll let me stay at your place until they get here."

He might slam the door in my face. Still, I coulddo it. I wasn't afraid to do it. Not really.

"Fine," I said. "Just give me the address and directions from the bus station."

Simon took out his notepad. As he flipped past a sketch, I saw it was a picture of Chloe with a zombie. Remembering that scene, I can say with certainty that she wasn't nearly as calm and determined as she looked in Simon's drawing. Not at first, anyway. Was that how he saw her? I guess so.

What was it like to have guys draw your picture like that? Do I sound envious? I don't mean to. I don't have any trouble getting boyfriends-present company excepted. Keeping them away is usually the problem. Yet, I'm never the girl who inspires bad poetry and c.r.a.ppy love songs.

On second thought, the way I worded that might explain why I don't get poetry and love songs. I'd like to think I'd appreciate the effort but . . . Yeah, guys are better off saving the artsy, sentimental stuff for other girls.

I took the address. The directions were half-a.s.sed. Not Simon's fault. He'd never gone there by bus. I'd have to get directions to Andrew's street, and follow Simon's notes from there.

"If you don't find Derek and Chloe, will you come to Andrew's later?" I asked.

"Of course. I'm not abandoning you, Tori."

"That's not-" I meant that I wanted to be sure he wasn't wandering around for days, maybe not looking after his diabetes and pa.s.sing out behind a truck stop or something. But I couldn't say that without sounding like I was still crushing on him.

"Never mind," I said.

We sat in silence until the bus pulled in.

Five.

Simon got on the bus, ticket money in hand. He chatted to the driver for so long that I wanted to give him a shove and say, "If you're getting on, get on already." Typical Simon. He's one of those kids who talk to adults like there's no difference between us and them, like he doesn't expect to be treated any differently either.

Then his voice rose, just enough for me to notice. He sounded p.i.s.sed off. I got up from the bench and walked to the bus.

"I amfifteen," he was saying. "I'm in tenth grade. I'll be sixteen in a few months. I was born in-"

"So you gotta prove it," said the woman behind the wheel. "Either a parent has to accompany you or you need ID that says you're fifteen. You don't look fifteen."

"How old do I look?"

She tilted her head and studied him. "Thirteen. Fourteen, tops."

"What?" He sounded outraged.

"He is fifteen," I called.

Simon spun to see me at the bottom of the steps. "So how old does shelook?" he asked as he waved at me.

"Fifteen," said the driver.

He started to protest, then stifled it and took a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was calm and reasonable. "Okay, but teenage girls look older than boys, right? So that probably means that we're the same age."

"So I guess you're both fourteen. So neither of you is getting on my bus."

She shooed Simon off. He kept arguing until she threatened to call the police.

I'd backed up to resume my seat on the bench. As Simon stalked over, he glowered at me.

"You did that, didn't you?" he said.

"Did what? Cast a spell to make her refuse to sell you a ticket? Um, I don't know any spells, remember? That's the problem. Magic just happens with me. If there is such a spell, you'd be the one who knows it."

"Not if it's witch magic. Sorcerer magic is different. But no, I don't think you cast a spell. I think you signaled or mouthed to her that I was underage. You were right behind me."

"Not until I heard you fighting. Then I tried to help. You can always catch the next bus."

"Sure, the one going the direction youwant."

I didn't bother to answer. He was p.i.s.sed off and nothing I could say would help.

"So witches cast a different kind of magic?" I ventured after a few minutes.

He didn't answer. I sighed.

Simon had been raised a sorcerer, like Derek had been raised a werewolf. They grew up knowing they had supernatural powers. Chloe and I didn't. She'd apparently been clued in by the guys, who'd figured out she was a necromancer because she was at Lyle House for seeing ghosts.

I'd worked hard at hiding my magical outbursts. If I hadn't, maybe they'd have realized what I was, too. Maybe things would have been different. But that wasn't how I handled stuff. If weird things were happening-things my mother insisted were signs of mental illness-I would cope in private, take therapy, swallow pills, do whatever it took to get better. Only I couldn't get better. This was me. Victoria Enright, teenage witch.

My mother was a witch, too. Was Lara? Didn't know. Didn't care. Okay, that's not true. In spite of everything, she was still my sister and I worried that maybe she was a science experiment, too. I hoped she was okay.

I wondered how it had been with Chloe, when she'd confronted her aunt Lauren about knowing she was a necromancer. She musthave confronted her-I'd seen at the lab how mad she'd been with her aunt. So we were in the same situation, betrayed by someone we loved. Only it wasn't the same situation, because I'd also seen how bad Chloe's aunt felt. She'd helped us escape. She might have even been killed helping us.

And my mother? When I'd confronted her, she'd told me to grow up. Deal with it. Then she'd tried to befriend Chloe. Told Chloe shewas the strong one. The daughter she wished she'd had. Even when I'd beaten my mother with magic, she didn't look at me any other way. She hadn't helped our escape, either. If Chloe's aunt was dead, it was because my mother killed her, trying to foil our escape.

So I knew nothing about what I was. Nothing about my power except what I'd experienced. Nothing about what it meant to be a witch.

"Yes, witches and sorcerers are different," Simon said, after nearly twenty minutes of silence. "They have different kinds of magic. Apparently, sorcerers can use witch magic and vice-versa. I haven't learned any of yours yet."