Read Online The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series) by Madeline Claire Franklin - Free Book Online

heart. What on earth could it possibly hold that my mother had wanted the Patels to hold onto it for the last three years? And would it be wrong to ignore my mother’s wishes, or to take a hammer and wedge to the box and force it open?
    “Thanks,” I say, and press the box to my chest. “I guess I’ll take it, I mean, so long as your mom won’t be mad or anything.”
    “Nah,” Kyla assures me with a dismissive wave of her hand. “She never liked having it here anyway. She says… well.”
    “What?” I’m curious. “What does she say?”
    Kyla shrugs. “She says it’s bad luck to hold things for the dead. It’s like you’re waiting for them to come back.”
    I consider that, holding my mother’s gift to me from beyond the grave against my heart, and feel the strangest of stirrings inside.

— 14 —
     
    Later, when the party is in full swing, I get a few drinks in me and manage to forget about hooded men and heirloom boxes. Instead, I think about how much I hate going to parties at all.
    “Where the hell is Kyla,” I mutter to myself, taking advantage of my height to scan the crowd. As usual, I feel like a giantess, a freak among humans, leaning against the wall while the other kids mingle and dance. If being a girl who is over six feet tall isn't enough to make it hard for me to fit in, my bright red hair is usually a beacon for rude stares. Since I didn’t have my first big growth spurt until middle school, I've spent the last twelve years in public school being identified by this mop. Sometimes I want to cut it all off, or dye it black—but my mother had this same hair. Somehow, it feels like a betrayal to get rid of it.
    No one is staring tonight, under dim lights over a crowd much more interested in itself than the girl against the wall—but everyone who passes and bumps into me inevitably does a double-take.
    I don't know why I even bothered coming.
    But, actually, I do. I came because, no matter how much of an outsider I feel like I am, some part of me craves the feeling of belonging, of being just a normal kid, of being someone accepted and thought fondly of by more than just my best friend.
    “Hey, where's Kyla?” Andy asks, sidling up to me and shouting in my ear. I can't blame him though, it's loud in here. He looks me in the eye—he's one of the few guys I know who is tall enough to do that—waiting patiently and pleasantly for an answer.
    I shrug. “I don't know, I've been looking for her myself.” I look past him, around us. “Where’s your shadow?”
    He smiles. “He said he’d be coming around later.”
    Andy’s eye contact unnerves me, and I look away as if searching again. When I glance back at him, he's still staring at me. He looks me up and down—not leering, but studious, as if searching for something.
    “Hey, you don't have a drink. Let's remedy that!” He gives me a charming half smile and puts a hand behind my arm, giving just enough of a suggestion of a pull that I find myself detaching from the wall without meaning to.
    Andy is sly like that. He'll probably be a politician someday.
    “I'm fine,” I insist, thinking of the wine bottle I left with my coat in Kyla’s closet, but since I've already started to follow him he hooks my arm around his and leads me through the crowd. The physicality of it—of him—feels weird. Not forward, not frightening—just casual . I don't understand how it can feel so innocent when I know he's using all his charms.
    But why is he using all his charms?
    We emerge from the crowd and spill into the kitchen just as a handful of people are leaving, red plastic cups in hand. Andy takes his arm back, meanders to the counter, and starts to concoct a drink for me from the smattering of half-empty bottles of clear and amber liquids.
    It's quieter in here, the roar of the party muted. The swift change in volume is awkward, makes the world too focused, too fast. I wander about the kitchen, pretending to be interested in Amrita’s Indian