Melissa de la Cruz - Bloody Valentine

She was right. He did not love her. He had loved her last night, as it was love that they had shared together. And now she was going away, but it was all right.

Oliver was himself again. He had the memories of his time as Schuyler’s human familiar, but he no longer felt the ache of need, the suffering in his very soul. Whatever he had felt for Schuyler had not been removed forcibly. Instead, his love had been absorbed and dispersed into his spirit. It would always be a part of him, but it did not have the power to hurt him anymore. Freya had done this. She had healed him. Freya, the witch.

“Thank you.” He rose to kiss her on the forehead. “Thank you so much.”

“Oh, sweetheart, it was my pleasure.”

One last hug, and then they parted.

Oliver walked down the street in the opposite direction. His cell phone began to vibrate, and when he saw the number, he answered it immediately. He listened for a moment, and his face broke into a smile. “Really? Wow. Congratulations. When? Of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

( For those who like their breakfasts fortified by a little magic )

eggs

salt

heavy cream

black pepper

chopped fresh mint

butter

As you chop the mint, repeat these lines:

Broken hearts take a toll .

Mint shall heal the shattered soul .

The Goddess breathes new life in you .

Go forth and find a love that’s true.

Whisk the eggs with the cream in a bowl. Add the chopped mint, salt, and pepper. Melt the butter on a pan over medium heat. Add the egg mixture; cook two minutes without stirring. Using a large spoon, gently turn over until it is cooked through but still soft.

Garnish with mint sprigs.

Serves one broken heart and one friendly one.

—Adapted from The Book of White Magic by Ingrid Beauchamp

*For more about Freya and her spellcipes, watch out for Witches of East End , due Summer 2011 from Hyperion.

When Allegra Van Alen woke up, her head hurt and it took her a moment to recognize her surroundings. She was wearing a hospital gown, but she knew she was still at Endicott, since the view outside her room showed the white clapboard chapel in the distance. She must be in the student clinic then, which was confirmed by the appearance of the school nurse holding a tray of cookies.

Mrs. Anderson was a universally beloved caregiver who watched over the students with a motherly eye and always made sure there was fresh fruit in the refectory. She walked in with a concerned smile. “How are you feeling, dear?”

“I guess I’ll survive,” Allegra said ruefully. “What happened?”

“Accident on the field. They said you got hit by the ball.”

“Ouch.” She grimaced, scratching the bandage around her forehead.

“You’re lucky; doctor said it would have taken out a Red Blood.”

“How long was I out?”

“Just a few hours.”

“Any chance I can get out of here today? I have a Latin test tomorrow, and I have to study.” Allegra groaned. Like the rest of the school, the clinic was comfortable enough. It was housed in a cozy New England cottage, with white wicker furniture and bright floral curtains. But right then she wanted nothing more than to be in the refuge of her own room, with its black-and-white Cure posters, old-fashioned rolltop secretary desk, and newly purchased Walkman, so she could be alone and listen to Depeche Mode. Even in the clinic, she could hear strains of a Bob Dylan song wafting from the open windows. Everyone else at school listened to the same music from twenty years ago, as if prep-school life was stuck in a sixties time warp. Allegra had nothing against Dylan, but she didn’t see the need for all the angst.

Mrs. Anderson shook her head as she fluffed Allegra’s pillows and set her patient back against the feathery plumpness. “Not just yet. Dr. Perry’s coming in from New York to check on you in a bit. Your mother insisted.”

Allegra sighed. Of course Cordelia would insist. Her mother watched over her like a hawk, with more than the usual maternal concern. Cordelia approached motherhood as if it were akin to guarding a precious Ming vase. She treated her daughter with kid gloves, and always acted as if Allegra was one nervous breakdown away from being sent to the nuthouse, even though anyone could see that Allegra was the very picture of health. She was popular, cheerful, athletic, and spirited.

Life under Cordelia’s care was suffocating, to say the least. It was why Allegra could not wait until she turned eighteen and got out of the house for good. Her mother’s all-consuming anxiety over her well-being was one of the reasons she had campaigned to transfer out of Duchesne and enroll at Endicott. In New York, Cordelia’s influence was inescapable. More than anything, Allegra just wanted to be free.

Mrs. Anderson finished taking her temperature and put away the thermometer. “You have a few visitors waiting outside. Shall I send them in?”

“Sure.” Allegra nodded. Her head was starting to feel a little better—either from the melted chocolate in Mrs. Anderson’s famous cookies or from the massive painkillers, she wasn’t sure.

“All right, team, you can come in. But don’t tire her. I can’t have her relapse now. Gentle, gentle.” With a last smile, the friendly nurse left the room. In a moment, Allegra’s hospital bed was surrounded by the entire girls’ field hockey team. They crowded around, breathless and windswept, still wearing their uniforms: green plaid kilts, white polo shirts, and green knee-high socks.

“Oh my god!” “Are you okay?” “Dude, that thing careened off your head!” “We’re gonna get that bitch from Northfield Mount Hermon next time!” “Don’t worry, they got flagged!” “Oh my god, you totally blacked out! We were sure we couldn’t see you till tomorrow!”

The cheerful cacophony filled the room, and Allegra grinned. “It’s all right. I got free cookies; you guys want some?” she asked, pointing to the platter by the windowsill. The girls fell on the cookies like a hungry mob.

“Wait—you guys haven’t told me! Did we win?” Allegra asked.

“What do you think? We kicked ass, Captain.” Birdie Belmont, Allegra’s best friend and roommate, gave her a mock salute that would have been more impressive if she hadn’t been holding a giant chocolate chip cookie in her right hand.

The girls gossiped conspiratorially when a male voice interrupted from the other side of the curtain that divided the room in two. “Hey, you guys have cookies over there? Aren’t you going to share?”

The team giggled. “Your neighbor,” Birdie whispered. “I think he’s hungry.”

“Excuse me?” Allegra called. She hadn’t even noticed that she was sharing a room until now. Maybe she had suffered a pretty hard blow to the head and not just a run-of-the-mill field injury.

Rory Antonini, a talented midfielder with the best scoring percentage in the league, pulled back the curtain that separated the room. “Hey, Bendix,” the girls chorused.

Bendix Chase was the most popular boy in their class. It wasn’t hard to figure out why: at six feet three, he looked a bit like a young blond giant, with his broad shoulders and powerful build. His face resembled that of a Greek god’s: with a fine brow, a perfect nose, and cut-glass cheekbones. He had a dimple on each cheek, and his clear, cornflower-blue eyes twinkled with fun. He was lying on a hospital bed with his right leg in a cast. He waved cheerfully.