by Sarah Piper
I kissed her with abandon, drinking in the taste of her mouth as my hands roamed her soft curves.
When I finally came back to reality, back to the wretched squalor of that room, I wanted to leap across the table, take her in my arms, and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe.
There was a moment, no longer than a heartbeat, when she looked into my eyes and gasped, and I swore she’d seen the same thing.
That she’d wanted the same thing.
Ten
STEVIE
The harsh light on my face is all wrong, the angles shifting too fast, the crappy prison bed rumbling beneath me in a way that crappy prison beds typically don’t.
It takes me half a second to realize I’m not in my prison bed. I’m in a BMW, with butter-soft leather seats and climate control.
Moving on up in the world!
Except… all indications are I’ve just been kidnapped.
I try to sit up, but my seat is reclined all the way back, restraints locking across my chest as I fight for freedom.
“Relax, Miss Milan,” comes the stern voice beside me. The driver. He hits a button on his door, and my seat tilts upward, the restraints relaxing their grip. Seatbelt. Just a damn seatbelt. “You’re alright. Unharmed, I assure you.”
I unhook the belt and turn to glare at him, taking in the sight of his smug, handsome face as memories rush back in fuzzy fragments.
Dr. Devane, my so-called attorney.
Salad and eggs and lemon kombucha.
The Academy’s offer.
The watch alarm and the Moon card and the pulsing light and the… the gun…
“You shot me!” I gasp, clutching at my chest.
He glances over casually, offering a raised eyebrow in lieu of a response.
My fingers search for the wound, for a tender spot, anything. But there’s no pain, not even a dull ache from the beatings I took in jail. Peeking down the front of my construction-cone-orange jumpsuit, I see nothing but smooth skin. Dirty and slicked with sweat and more than a little ripe, but smooth.
And there’s no blood on my clothing. No holes. If he had shot me, and I’d somehow healed myself, there would still be some kind of evidence.
I let out a breath. Apparently he’s telling the truth.
“There’s water, if you’d like.” He gestures to the cup holders beneath the radio, where two water bottles sweat it out.
“How do I know it’s not poison?”
He lifts a shoulder, darts another quick glance my way, again with the stupid eyebrow raise. “Drink it. Fastest way to find out.”
Oh, this one’s a laugh-a-minute.
Taking my chances, I grab the water bottle and crack the cap, down half of it in a few gulps.
“Feeling better?” he asks as I relax back into the seat. The superiority in his tone drips as thick as my boob sweat, and just as annoying.
“Other than the fact that you tried to kill me, I’m feeling awesome. Fit as a fucking filly.” I blink the haziness from my eyes and look out the window, trying to get my bearings. It’s afternoon, and we’re still in Arizona, the rose-colored desert whizzing by as Dr. Devane cruises along a lonely stretch of roadway.
I wonder how fast we’re going. How bad it would hurt to jump out and roll. I steel a quick glance at the speedometer—sixty-eight miles per hour. The scrub grass lining the roadway is a beige smudge out the window, but maybe…
“Don’t even think it.” Devane sighs, condescending as ever. “If you want out, just say so. I’ll pull over.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Sure you will.”
“You’re not my prisoner, Miss Milan.”
“You sure about that?”
He glances in the rearview and clicks on the hazard lights, despite the fact that there’s no one else on this desolate road—rule-follower till the end—then navigates us to the shoulder. Killing the engine, he glances out the windshield and says, “We’re a good fifty miles from civilization, and I haven’t seen another car pass for two hours. But please—leave, if you must.”
“So you can shoot me in the back? I may be a fugitive, Doc, but I’m not stupid.”
No response from the good doctor now.
I sit there stewing, the engine ticking down like a bomb. Without the air conditioning, the smothering desert heat is already creeping in through the vents, sending a fresh trickle of sweat down the valley between my boobs. Up ahead, the road looks like its melting, the surrounding landscape wavering before my eyes.
I try to imagine the walk, how I’d look marching down the road. Devane’s car, speeding away. Me, with the prison-issued slip-on shoes and fashionable orange jumpsuit. A neon target for the cops or the buzzards.
My shoulders drop. In the face of my piss-poor survival odds, most of my ire drains away.
“You tried to kill me,” I remind him.
“I didn’t try to kill you, Miss Milan. I only made you believe that I did.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you now? After you’ve just admitted to messing with my head?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he says irritably, like I’m a petulant child refusing to brush my teeth before bed. Then he grabs my hand and presses it firmly against his chest.
I try to pull away, but his grip is fierce, his heartbeat tapping a strong, steady rhythm against my palm.
It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening.
He’s letting me read him. Lowering his walls so I can feel his vibe.
I stop struggling, relax into his energy. It encircles me like a caress, like a cool night breeze drifting across the ocean, carrying with it the salt of distant lands and ancient secrets. In my mind a picture forms, moonlight shimmering on black waves.
He’s trying to help me. I know it like I know the feel of my own skin. Intentions can be obfuscated, but they can’t be faked, no matter how skilled he is at mental magicks.
I blink hard, shattering the image behind my eyes. When I look at him again, he’s staring at me intently across the small space between us, a wrinkle of confusion drawing his eyebrows together, like I’m a puzzle he needs to solve. The severity of his grip lessens, though he doesn’t immediately release my hand. Beneath my touch, his heart beats a little faster now, just like mine.
Did he see it too, I wonder? The ocean, the moon?
“Miss Milan,” he whispers, his eyes holding a thousand secrets but his lips refusing to betray a single one. “I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Not a killer.” I jerk my hand away, buckle the seatbelt. “Just a sadist. Good to know. Can we get some A/C in here now?”
I feel his eyes linger on my face a moment longer, but then his energy recedes, walls going right back up. The silence is heavy and awkward as hell, but I don’t care. Anything’s better than facing the intimacy of his eyes, the hot touch of his body, the strange pull I’m starting to feel toward him.
“It was a tactical maneuver designed to outwit our opponents by making them believe I assassinated you,” he finally says, turning away and starting the car. The blissful artificial chill blasts out from the vents. “And it worked. Exactly as intended, aside from a minor explosion that’s since been remedied.”
“Assassination? Explosion?”
He clicks off the hazard lights, hits the indicator, eases us back onto the lonely desert road as if his biggest concern is a traffic ticket and not the fact that he used impersonation and magick to literally bust a so-called killer witch out of jail and is now cruising across the state with her in tow.
“I was on death row,” I say. “Why would you bother pretending to assassinate me?”
“As much as they love throwing you in lockup, witches actually pose a significant problem for the human authorities. Your execution may have been imminent, but they still have to guard you and keep you alive until then. It’s costly, and as you probably gathered, makes the guards and the other prisoners uneasy. So, with a bit of help from an insider with flexible ideas about law and order, I offered to
relieve them of that burden.”
An insider?
Asshole in Charge, my tormentor in chief. No question about it.
You got one hour. Get it done.
“But it didn’t go as planned,” I say, remembering the alarm on the watch.
“Hence the last-minute improvisation.”
“Hence the shooting me.”
“Fear is our most primal, most powerful emotion. It leaves an imprint—almost like a ghost in the room. When I pulled the trigger, it didn’t matter that the gun wasn’t loaded. Your fear of death by gunshot was completely sincere, and left an intense imprint that my spell was able to amplify. That imprint, combined with the power of suggestion planted in the rich soil of a soft mind, was enough to make the guard truly believe that I killed us.”
“Us?”
“Murder-suicide. No loose ends.”
“Won’t they get suspicious when they don’t find our bodies?”
“They’ve already found them. Along with my associate, posing as the medical examiner.”
“Hmm. Sounds like more power of suggestion mojo to me.”
“And a couple of forged death certificates for the archives, should anyone come sniffing around later.”
“Who’s the associate?”
No response.
“Whoever it is, you two went to a lot of trouble for one witch,” I say, which is about as close to a ‘thanks’ as my exhausted brain can muster right now.
He turns and offers a quick smile, there and gone again. “You’re innocent, and a member of the magickal community. Trouble or not, the Academy has a duty to protect you.”
Now that’s a stretch. Yes, the fact that the Academy went to such extremes to get me out speaks volumes, but probably not the volumes Devane is pedaling.
They need me. A lot more than he’s letting on. Which explains why they waited to make their so-called “offer” until I was in such a compromised position I’d have no choice but to take it.
I twist around and peek out the rear window. “You’re sure this is going to work? No one’s coming after me?”
“It’s already worked, or we wouldn’t be here. Understand, Miss Milan—the human authorities have jobs to do, but in the cases of magickal crimes, they’d rather not. Sure, the guard will receive a slap on the wrist for violating protocol in not logging my visit or confirming my identity, and we’ll likely see some protests in the magickal community about your unfair treatment once news of the murder hits the papers. But in the end, it will all be forgotten.” Devane sighs, adjusting his hands on the wheel. “It always is.”
I take a deep breath, trying to make sense of this insane story. The fact that it was so easy for him to mess with the guards’ minds, to make me believe I’d been shot, to cast that crazy spell with the Moon card…
“Mental magicks, huh?” I rub the chill from my arms, but the goosebumps remain in place. “You teach this stuff at the Academy?”
“Yes,” he says, turning down the A/C. “As well as how to defend against it, which is the more important piece where you’re concerned.”
“I guess we’re lucky the guards never took your class, or we’d both be capital-F screwed.”
This gets another smile, then silence descends once again, tires humming along the road, the soft whoosh of the air conditioner lulling me into a comfortable daze. Ahead, the road stretches on like a thin gray ribbon, surrounded on all sides by the tall spires of red sandstone monuments rising from the earth like craggy fingers.
My own fingers itch to climb them, to feel their rough, warm grit against my skin. To feel part of the earth. Home.
I take another swig of water, washing away the tightness in my throat. “Where are we, anyway?”
“Still about sixty miles from our destination.”
Our destination. The Academy.
I never knew the exact location—only that it was somewhere in my home state, which I always found strange. Fancy, all-important place like that? I figured it should be in Switzerland or Paris or New York City.
“How far from Tres Búhos?” I ask. “I’d like to see my friend Jessa and pack up some personal things, if it’s not too much trouble. I need to figure out what to do about my tea shop while I’m away, too. She can’t manage it on her own.”
There’s a long pause—no smiles or raised eyebrows this time. Then he shakes his head and says simply, “I can’t allow you to do that. It’s much too risky.”
Disappointment sinks in my stomach. “Can I use your phone? I need to call Jessa, let her know what’s going on. She’s my business partner. Best friend, too. She was there when the police came, and—”
“Again, we can’t risk it. Not while you’re still out in the open, outside the protective boundaries of the Academy.”
“But you said your plan worked! The cops would’ve been after us by now if it hadn’t.”
“It’s not the cops I’m worried about.” He glances in his rearview, then hits the gas, pushing us a little faster—a whole five miles above the speed limit now. “No calls until you’re safely settled on campus.”
“What about my things? My shop?”
“Returning to Tres Búhos is no longer an option,” he says, his tone much gentler than before. “I’m sorry.”
“Wait. Ever?”
“You saw the headlines. The story has made national news. The reason we had to go to such elaborate lengths at the prison was so the guards have a plausible explanation for your disappearance.”
“I thought you said all would be forgotten?”
“And it will be. But first, people need to believe you’re dead and justice has been served.”
Justice. What a fucking joke.
The images of Luke’s desecrated body flash behind my eyes. He didn’t get justice. His poor Mom didn’t get justice.
“I’m going to find out who did this,” I tell him, blinking quickly before the tears fall. “I’m going to bring the bastard to true justice. And after that I’m going home, putting on my bunny slippers, and fixing myself a cup of hibiscus ginger tea, and I really don’t give a shit what the Academy has to say about that.”
If Devane thinks I’m crazy or misguided, he wisely keeps his opinions to himself.
“You should probably get some rest. And I should probably just… think.” He hits the button on the sound system, flooding the car with cello music and ending the conversation.
Just as well. I’ve got so many questions, my brain is on complete overload. For now, sleep is my only escape.
I snooze for another hour or so, waking only when I sense the ground beneath the car softening, our speed slowing to a crawl.
I open my eyes and take in the surroundings. We’re still in the desert, though the paved roadway is long gone, the car winding up a long, dirt path toward the top of a rise. Late afternoon sunlight slants through the dust as we ascend, giving everything a smokey, magickal quality.
Slowly, like a plant blooming on a time-lapse video, a reddish-pink adobe house comes into view, nestled in among the saguaros.
There’s no driveway or parking area. Devane simply pulls the car up in front and kills the engine.
We sit in silence for a moment, him still thinking, me not knowing quite what to do.
The house is tiny—just a single-story box, really, with a shabby wooden door and two windows near the top, eyes on a blank brown face. A row of potted plants lines the front, an explosion of bright pinks and greens providing the only color contrast.
“Strange,” I say, unhooking my seatbelt. “I thought the Academy would be taller.”
Ignoring my weak attempt at humor, Devane gets out, stretches. Waits for me to do the same. The moment I close the passenger door behind me, the car turns from a sleek black luxury sedan into a rusty Toyota Corolla, so old and decrepit it’s impossible to tell what color it is.
“Um… what?”
“Glamour,” he says. “We’re safe here, Miss Milan.”
Taking him at his word, I
follow him to the front door, but I don’t get too close. I’m still a little self-conscious in my prison garb and grime.
“Safe where, exactly? What is this place?”
“It’s the home of Eulala Dominga Juarez,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb her. “Lala for short. It’s our weigh station—last stop before we cross over.”
“Cross over?” At my words, a breeze stirs my hair, carrying with it the scents of warm earth and fresh tortillas, onions frying in a pan, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. It makes my nose itch, my heart beat a little faster.
“That would be the magick,” he says, holding his hands out as if to grab hold of it. When he spreads his fingers, light dances across his skin.
I take another step toward the door, mirroring his motions. When the light touches my skin, it feels like a spray of warm water from a garden hose left baking in the sun, but less dense, and way more tingly.
“Lala is an old friend of the Academy and a formidable adversary to any who dare cross her, though you wouldn’t guess it to look at her.” Devane turns to face me, and here in the golden afternoon sun, he looks tired, weighted by some burden I can only guess at. His smile holds the ghost of a much younger man, but those flint-colored eyes are ancient.
Splitting the difference, I decide he’s in his early forties. Not quite old enough to be my father, but definitely too old to be… ahem… anything else.
Not that I’m thinking about ahem anything else.
…midnight waves nipping at my bare skin as a hot, wet mouth devours mine…
“Come,” he says, snapping me out of the fantasy and stepping onto the unfinished concrete slab before the door. “She’s expecting you.”