Something Wicked Read Online Free PDF

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    “Fall,” I whispered into the wind, but he landed solidly, feet, then knees, then hands against her shingles.

    No wonder I’d heard him on mine.

    He looked over his shoulder while I bent past the dormers onto the skirt roof, and I saw his face in the glow of the streetlight from across the road.

    He was a complete stranger.

    A complete stranger with a camera slung around his neck. The hell! He was a reporter.

    Instead of circling the horizontal skirt out front—too visible from the street, I guess, or not steep enough to have dropped ice—the reporter began to climb the slope of Mrs. Hillcrest’s gable roof. I took a deep breath and ran across my skirt roof. My bare feet held to the cold, rough shingles for my last few, deliberately stretching strides. One, two—

    Three!

    Like riding a bicycle. But fifteen feet in the air. And without a bike.

    I flew over the snow-drifted alley, landed, and was scrambling up Mrs. Hillcrest’s roof with my next steps. I swung over the peak just in time to see my intruder gaining speed on the downslope. He vaulted across the next alley.

    “Fall,” I said again, through my chattering teeth.

    But he made it. Barely. One of his feet skidded off Mr. Lane’s roof, despite its dark shingles being snow-free. The intruder had to drop to his hip to keep from losing the other foot, too, and he probably scraped the hell out of his hands.

    “Damn!” he grunted, loud enough to hear over the wind.

    I was already gaining speed in my race down Mrs. Hillcrest’s house.

    The intruder crawled up Mr. Lane’s roof now, on his hands and knees, as I launched myself over the gap between the houses. I scraped a big toe on impact. My feet already felt burnt from the friction of the shingles and frozen from the temperature. As I crouched into my wobbly landing, stretching my good arm out farther to compensate for the weight of the cast on the other, the damned athame poked at my calf again.

    The athame, I thought, scrambling upward as the reporter hauled himself more laboriously over the roof’s ridge. I reached the peak moments after him. But instead of vaulting it, I dropped to my knees, supported myself with the elbow of my cast hand, and slid the athame free of my back pocket.

    The intruder gained speed, his legs barely able to keep up with his hurtling form. Just as he reached the gap between Mr. Lane’s house and the Milanos’, I pointed the athame at him.

    “Fall,” I commanded, loudly and clearly.

    A small cloud of erratic squeaking, fluttering birds darted by. He tried to wave them away…and dropped like an anvil.

    An anvil with a dirty mouth. But he shut up when a door slammed out front.

    Mr. Lane appeared in the drift-covered front yard, his flashlight sending a zigzag search across his roof.

    I rolled backward along the slope, once, twice. Shingles scraped my free hand and my feet, but I managed to roll out of his line of sight, into the shadow of the dormer windows.

    My hand curled tightly around the athame as I remembered my mother’s standard warnings. Never use magic to control another person’s actions. What you send forth comes back to you three times as powerful. Harm none.

    Not only had I directed the reporter to fall, I was glad of it. I hoped it was my doing.

    Sorry, Mom.

    “Who’s out here?” demanded Mr. Lane, sounding more belligerent than concerned. “What kinda nonsense are you kids up to? I’ll call the cops!”

    Yes, I thought, easing over the roof’s ridgepole, still hidden in the shadow of his oak tree. Good idea, Mr. Lane. Call the cops.

    But I didn’t point the athame in his direction; no need to go power crazy. Instead, I peered over the edge of the roof, where I’d last seen the reporter.

    He was hiding, crouched in a high drift where shadows had caught the snow behind a big plastic shed.

    I watched Mr. Lane and his aggressive flashlight follow the alley path closer to the shed.

    Closer…

    I pointed the athame toward