by Sarah Piper
“Mr. Cinnamon Buns,” Jessa sing-songs, our magickal troubles fading in the wake of his complete hotness. “Braving the storm to get to his woman. Looks like true love to me.”
“You really need to stop saying that.”
“The buns part, or the love part?”
“Both parts! Jessa, you can’t just—”
“Anyway, men like that shouldn’t be allowed to exist. It makes the rest of us feel wholly inadequate.”
A sigh escapes my lips. No, Kirin shouldn’t exist. But like my magick owl and singing sand dunes and the fairy lights in the night sky over the Santa Clarita’s Canyon of Ghosts, somehow, he does.
Plastering on my biggest customer-service grin, I head over to greet him, hoping he doesn’t notice my lackluster hair and the slight whiff of eau de hot mess clinging to my skin.
I wonder if I look as nervous as I feel.
“Hey Kirin!” I blurt out as he walks through the door. “Hi! How are you? Crazy weather out there, right?”
Oh my Goddess, Stevie. Stop talking. Just stop.
Kirin pushes the wet hair from his forehead and raises a curious eyebrow, his fogged-up glasses sliding down his nose. Rain darkens the fabric stretched across his broad, take-no-prisoners shoulders, and he smells like storms in the summer, clean and electric.
The playful glint in his eyes makes me ache for something I’ve got no business even thinking about.
“I see you’re dabbling in the highly-caffeinated blends today,” he says in that deep, sultry voice of his, and I swear his eyes brighten when I laugh. The tingly touch of his magick whispers across my skin.
Okay, fine. I’m totally crushing on him. But that’s irrelevant, especially after this morning’s series of disastrous events. Me and mages? That can’t happen. Ever.
Jessa might think I need to find my true calling or whatever, and I won’t lie—the idea of learning my magick sends a forbidden thrill straight to my heart. But my parents made it clear that the Academy was off limits—the worst place imaginable. An institution that wrings every last drop of magick from your bones, then tosses you to the wolves as if you never belonged in their world at all.
No, getting involved with a mage isn’t exactly the same thing as enrolling in the traitorous Academy, but it is one step closer to magick. One step farther from normal. And one step over a line I vowed not to cross the moment my parents died.
“Sooo,” Kirin drawls.
“Sooo,” I echo. His smile is mesmerizing. I’m already starting to forget my own name.
He rocks back on his heels, the smile never faltering.
I’m bouncing on my toes like an idiot.
“Hey, Stevie?” He leans in close, his sultry whisper sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. “Do you, ah, mind if I take a seat?”
“What? Oh. Oh! Sorry.” I step aside, hoping to Goddess he isn’t gifted with mind-reading.
Tamping down the awkward, I follow him to his favorite two-seater by the window.
He arranges himself in the chair, the soaked T-shirt clinging to every ripple in his muscled torso as he removes his book and tries not to drip all over the table. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” I say. Seeing you wet is the highlight of my decade. “So, what are we drinking today?”
He removes his glasses and attempts to dry them on his shirt, giving me an unobstructed view of his eyes. “You tell me, queen of leaves.”
I open myself up to his energy, trying desperately not to blush at the intimacy of his penetrating gaze. He feels off today—tired, maybe a little on edge.
“Something rejuvenating,” I say. “With a little pep, but not so much you’ll be vibrating all night. Sound good?”
“Stevie, I trust you implicitly.” He puts his hand on his heart and smiles, just like always.
Goddess, those eyes…
“You’ll regret that one day,” I reply, just like always.
“Not a chance.”
It’s our thing, this banter. Yes, we have a thing. It’s sickening, and it makes my insides fizzy, and no matter how off-limits he is, right now he’s the only normal, predictable, routine thing about my entire day, and I desperately cling to it.
“Be right back.” I head into the kitchen, ignoring the heat between my thighs and Jessa’s know-it-all smirk.
“I’m warming up his buns,” she teases. “Maybe one day you’ll get to do the same. In bed. Naked.”
I roll my eyes. How she can go from impassioned magickal life coach to middle-school pun master in less than two minutes is beyond me.
“Sorry, Miss Velasquez,” I say. “Stevie can’t indulge in your pervy little fantasies right now. She’s busy working. You know, that thing we do here sometimes?”
“I’m working! I told you, I’m handling the buns.”
“Then you’d better stay focused.”
“Getting back to Kirin—”
“Buns, Jessa. Last time I checked, they don’t warm themselves.”
“The man looks good wet, is all I’m saying.”
I spare a moment to chuck a pen at her, which she deftly dodges. She winks at me across the stainless-steel counter that separates us, and I smile; we’ve got a lot to talk about, but our earlier fight has been forgiven.
The pantry shelf is full of hundreds of jars, canisters, and herb and spice bottles, each one promising a different blend, a different healing magick all their own. I take down what I need, then get to work on Kirin’s special brew.
“A natural healer,” Mom used to whisper, pressing a kiss to the top of my head as I made my blends. As much as my parents tried to downplay their magick, Mom could never truly hide her fascination when she saw my natural witchcraft at work, reading energies and concocting the perfect brew for every customer. She never shared much about her magick with me, but she once told me I was the first true empath in the family.
I blink back tears, refocusing on my task. I’m better at that now—coming back before grief takes hold. When my parents first died, it seemed like it was waiting for me around every corner, lurking in every shadow, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation—finding an old lipstick of Mom’s in a bathroom drawer, seeing Dad’s handwriting on a receipt, the smell of blueberry pancakes, some stupid song on the radio.
I didn’t speak for three months after—not even to tell Search and Rescue what’d happened. Everyone thought it was the shock, or some survivor’s guilt thing, but they were all wrong.
I was just afraid that if I opened my mouth, grief would reach a hand inside and stop my heart.
“I’m calling it Get Up and Go Green.” I pour Kirin’s first cup and set the teapot on his table. “Japanese green tea with dried pineapple and mango, a whisper of shredded coconut, and a pinch of coriander.”
Like a true connoisseur, he lifts the cup and samples its scent, then takes a sip, savoring it for a long moment before taking another—a practice I find both mesmerizing and endearing. When he looks up at me, his glasses are all steamed up, his energy brighter than it was a moment ago. “You’re amazing, Stevie. Beyond perfection.”
“Thank you,” I say, but my brain must be channeling Jessa, because all I really hear is…
You’re amazing, Stevie. Allow me to tie you down and remove your clothing with my teeth, after which I’ll read you dirty love poems and lick every inch of your skin until your legs are trembling and you’re begging me to make you—
“So, there’s something I’ve been dying to ask you,” he says, drawing me back to the fully-clothed present and gesturing for me to take the chair across from him. “It might be a little personal, though.”
“Um. Okay?” A nervous giggle bubbles up.
I’m such a freaking bottom-feeder. Seriously. Two hours ago I was scaling a dangerous rock face, battling storms and dark mages and who knows what else. Now, a few words from Kirin reduce me to a puddle of insipid ridiculousness.
Not that I’m going to let that stop me.
I perch on the
edge of the chair, still hoping he can’t read minds.
“I’ve been wondering,” he says. “Is it cheating if the queen of leaves drinks coffee?”
The genuine earnestness in his question makes me laugh.
“If I tell you something,” I say, “you have to swear you won’t tell a soul.”
He draws an X over his heart, a gesture that only serves to underscore his complete adorableness and does absolutely nothing to cool the heat simmering in my core.
“I kind of have a thing for vanilla cinnamon lattes,” I confess. “The ones they make at Froth? Two pumps vanilla, one pump cinnamon, a dollop of extra foam, finished off with a drizzle of honey and two shakes of cinnamon.”
“Okay, that sounds like more than a thing. You’re crossing into full-blown obsession territory. And I’m glad to hear that, because I was actually wondering if you might want to join me? I mean, for a coffee? Sometime?”
“But… but I just made your tea,” I blurt out.
Holy shitcakes, is he asking me out? He’s asking me out. Code red! Code red!
“Right,” he says. “I meant some other time. This weekend, maybe? I just thought it might be fun to hang out. You know, outside of Kettle Black. We can talk about…” He picks up his novel, something with an old farmhouse on the cover. “…books! Or, you know, anything you like. What do you like? Other than tea, I mean. And rock climbing and biking—I know that much. Okay, I’m rambling. Save me, Stevie. Say something before I make an even bigger fool of myself.”
“Kirin, I… I don’t even know what to say.”
“How about yes?”
My heart is going crazy again, and I’m trying to focus on his eyes, on his words, on what all of this means, but a big white blur outside the window captures my attention.
I chance a quick glance.
The sight makes me gasp.
A snowy owl hovers in front of the café, white with dark brown spots, piercing gold eyes locked on mine. The rain seems to part around him, as if he’s encased in a protective bubble. He flaps his great wings, watching me. Studying me.
“Are you seeing this?” I turn back toward Kirin, but he’s staring at something at the center of his table where his book used to be—something I’m certain wasn’t there thirty seconds ago.
The Tower card.
My blood turns to ice.
“Tell me that’s yours,” I say, even though I know it isn’t.
“You know I can’t,” he whispers.
Our gazes lock, intense in a way that has nothing to do with our innocent flirting. Suddenly it feels as if we’ve known each other for decades. Lifetimes. Eons.
Something is about to break. The message hits me hard and fast, a shot of fear straight to the gut. Kirin feels it too. I know he does.
Outside, the owl takes flight, vanishing from view. A bolt of lightning splits the sky, the thunder immediate and fierce, so close it rattles the windows.
“Listen to me,” Kirin says, his face pale, his voice a ghostly whisper. “Do you have a back door? You and Jessa need to—”
There’s a commotion at the entrance, and three cops burst into the café, guns drawn.
“Starla Eve Milan?” the lead cop barks at me. He raises his weapon, aiming right for my head.
Kirin leaps from his chair, but a second cop approaches the table, holding up his left hand in warning, as if that’s more convincing than the gun in his right.
“Sir, you need to remain seated,” he says. “Hands on the table.”
“What’s this about?” Kirin steps in front of me, shielding me.
“You live at 129 Pinon Canyon Lane?” the first cop asks me, ignoring Kirin.
Petrified, I can only nod, stiff and dumb, my heart ready to explode.
“Sir, I asked you to sit down,” cop two says, just as Jessa emerges from the kitchen with a plate of those cinnamon buns. When she sees the cops, she drops it, the ceramic shattering. Cop three turns a weapon on her.
“Yes, it’s me!” I shout, desperate to keep them focused on me and not my innocent friends. “I’m Starla Eve. Stevie. I live on Pinon Canyon Lane.”
Cop number one holsters his weapon, his pals keeping their guns raised. He removes the cuffs from his belt and slaps them over my wrists, ice-cold and bruising. “You’re under arrest for public witchcraft and the murder of Lucas Hernandez.”
Seven
STEVIE
Never before has the dawn been so cruel.
I crack open my eyes, squinting against the too-bright light slanting across my face. Everything aches, inside and out, and my first deep breath of the day unleashes a searing pain in my chest. My head is locked in a vice grip of pain.
For the first fifteen seconds of consciousness, I’m pretty sure I’m halfway to Death’s door.
Then it all comes back.
The guards. The beatings. The fact that my body isn’t healing as fast as usual—probably related to the meal plan; I’ve eaten nothing but cold broth, stale bread, and a few past-due vegetables since I’ve been here.
Don’t even get me started on the caffeine withdrawal.
Welcome to hell, day three. Or maybe four? In the wake of my 24/7 headache, time is starting to blur.
I try to sit up, but my arms and legs are shackled to the bed.
One of the guards must’ve drawn the short straw last night, and crept in here while I was asleep to lock me in place. They don’t like dealing with me one-on-one. Always afraid I’m going to fry them with my non-existent magick.
But in a group, armed with batons and tasers? Then it’s party time, boys and girls, and I’m the piñata.
Could be worse. The fact that they believe witches are damaged goods is probably the only thing keeping me from getting something much more horrifying than a beating.
Nutless cowards. Once I figure out how to channel my magick again, I’m going to kill them first.
I wriggle my arms, but it’s useless. The worst part? The restraints aren’t even necessary—just a nice little touch to remind me who’s in charge here.
I’m in a special cell reserved for witches and mages, with fancy “bars” made of some kind of deadly electricity—a complicated spell undoubtedly created by a crooked magick-user on the payroll. Upon arrival, I was given a demonstration of what would happen to me if I attempted to cross the glowing bars.
The poor mouse was vaporized on contact.
In addition to the bars, the cell itself sits inside a secure room that can only be opened via fingerprint scanner from the outside. The outer wall is made of a strange magickal glass, concentrating the sunlight on me until I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.
It’s impossible to break.
I blink the sleep from my eyes, try to swallow past the dryness in my throat. Outside, all I see is scrub brush and cacti for miles—a deadly, beautiful barrier that would likely kill any prisoner who dared attempt an escape—witch and human alike.
I don’t even know what town we’re in, whether we’re still in Arizona or even in the states.
Tres Búhos feels so far away, I may as well be imprisoned on Mars.
“Wake up, heathen,” a gruff voice barks over the intercom. The outer door beeps, then slides open, revealing my tormentor in chief—the Asshole in Charge Around Here. He’s wearing his usual suit and tie, like maybe he’s penciling in a few business meetings around his regularly-scheduled beating of prisoners.
Two other guards file in behind him, meaty hands wrapped around their electrical prods.
“Bet you boys haven’t gripped anything that big in a while, huh?” I ask. “Just remember—stroke, don’t choke.”
“Shut it, slut.” Asshole in Charge taps a code into the keypad on the wall, and the electrical barrier vanishes. His face is even more dour than usual. “Your attorney’s here.”
I open my mouth to tell him I don’t have an attorney, but think better of it. Sure, it’s probably a trap. But whoever it is, they can’t be worse than the guards. Maybe th
ey can even help me escape this living hell.
Maybe it’s Jessa…
The thought is as fragile as spun glass, and then, right before it turns into hope, I smash it.
If Jessa were allowed to visit me, she would’ve been here by now, even if she had to borrow a car and drive all night. She’s probably going crazy, no idea where I am, no idea what’s happening, no idea if I’m even alive. She tried to get answers from the cops the other day in Kettle Black, but once they had me cuffed, they hustled me out of there pretty quick.
My only comfort was Kirin. He stood by Jessa’s side, gently holding her back from charging after me. He knew a losing battle when he saw one. His reassuring gaze—serious, sad, shockingly bare—was the last thing I saw as the cops dragged me away. In his deep, calming voice, he promised me that he and Jessa would find a way to help.
It was a lie—we both know there’s nothing a mage can do for a witch ensnared in the human justice system.
He said it for Jessa’s benefit.
I appreciated it more than he’ll ever know.
Thinking of him now sends a little flutter to my heart, followed by a deep sadness.
We never got to go on that coffee date. Never got to talk about books or anything else.
All three guards crowd into my cell, the prods within zapping distance as Asshole in Charge unlocks my restraints. He hauls me to my feet, then cuffs my hands behind me and shoves me forward.
He doesn’t issue any warnings or threats, doesn’t rattle off the rules. He doesn’t need to.
Outside my special room, the hallways are lined with regular cells packed with humans—women. Some of them don’t look a day over eighteen. Others look like they’ve spent their entire adult lives behind bars.
None of them are friendly—not to the witch accused of murdering an innocent human. The witch who gets her own private room.
“Dead witch walking.” They chant and whistle as I pass, throwing things at me from behind their cages. Balled up paper. Shoes. Books.
Halfway down the walk of shame, a soggy rag smacks me in the face, then slides unceremoniously to the ground.