by Sarah Piper
I step up next to him, hoping my rank smell isn’t too overpowering. He lifts his hand to the door, but before he can knock, I’m hit with another wave of magick, stronger than the last. This one is way more invasive. Assessing.
“Wait.” I put my hand on his forearm as the magick dances over my skin like a hundred tiny fireflies. “The weigh station… Lala… Is this some kind of test?”
Isn’t that how it works? The whole guardian-at-the-gate thing? Only the worthy shall enter the enchanted forest and search for the magickal elixir, save the princess, slay the dragon, etcetera, etcetera?
Why else would he drag me to a witch’s cottage in the middle of the desert?
“A test?” Devane eyes me close, his gaze raking down my entire body before coming back up to rest on my eyes. Then, with a wink so fast I’m not even sure I catch it, he leans in and whispers, “Only for the soap.”
Eleven
STEVIE
It’s the little things, really. Fragrant lavender shampoo. Hot water and handmade oatmeal soap to scrub away the filth of desperation, the rough hands of the guards. Fluffy white towels still holding the faint scents of bleach and sunshine.
And lotion. So much luxurious, vanilla lotion. I feel like I’m in a spa rather than a witchy hideaway in the desert, and if I could hit the pause button, I’d stay in this steam-filled bathroom oasis for the rest of the day.
Alas, the good doctor and my mysterious hostess await.
For a so-called “old” friend of the Academy, Lala doesn’t look a day over twenty, with shimmering black hair, golden-bronze skin, and wide, expressive eyes the color of dark chocolate. She doesn’t speak, either—at least not to me.
When she opened the front door, she looked right past me to Dr. Devane. He put a hand on my shoulder, and she nodded brusquely, as if the two of them had just shared a whole conversation about me in their minds. Entirely possible, given all the weird shit I’d already seen Dr. Devane pull today. I was about to ask them to let me in on the big secret when she gasped suddenly, grabbed my hands, and dragged me to the back of the tiny house.
Maybe the wind had changed and she got her first good whiff of the filthy beast formerly known as me, because suddenly I was being ushered into the bathroom and shown the towels and toiletries, along with a set of clean clothes folded neatly on the vanity.
I didn’t even have time to get a read on her energy before she zipped out of there, but hell, she was offering a hot shower to a road-weary fugitive. Automatic friend in my book.
Now, clean and refreshed, I dress in the clothes Lala left—a pair of dark jeans, a sports bra, and a short-sleeved black V-neck. Her jeans are a little snug, and there’s no underwear, but so what. I’ll take a little chaffing and a muffin top over the orange jumpsuit any day.
Back in the main part of the house, there’s no signs of life, but the place smells like the best Mexican restaurant ever.
“Doc?” I call out, my mouth already watering. Please, please say we’re staying for lunch. “Lala?”
“Out here,” he says.
I follow the direction of his voice to the back patio, where I find him sitting alone at a small outdoor table already set for lunch—yes, dreams really do come true—his eyes closed, face turned toward the sun. He’s lost the jacket and tie, his white dress shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal smooth and well-defined forearms.
Behind him, the property stretches out for miles, nothing but rolling red-dust hills dotted with scrub brush and the bent-arm silhouettes of the saguaros.
It’s all so still and peaceful, and I take a moment to just breathe.
When I pull out a chair to join him, he startles and looks up. His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of me, and for a brief moment, his energy wall slips. His feelings wash over me, stirring something inside me—a strange connection, almost, like the one I felt in the prison. His own energy is a mix of surprise and heat—an attraction he’s trying desperately to fight.
The combination of his sensual energy and the hungry way he’s looking at me sends tendrils of heat spiraling through my insides, making my heart race.
Still gazing into his eyes, I bite my lower lip, afraid he might break our connection. Afraid of what I might do if he doesn’t.
“Starla,” he says softly, no more than a gentle sigh on the breeze.
“Were you expecting someone else?” I tease.
“I…” Dr. Devane closes his eyes, then shakes his head once, sighing through his nose. When he looks at me again, his eyes are clear, the wall firmly back in place. Connection cut. “Of course not. I just… You look really… rested.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is clean.”
“Regardless, I’m glad you’re doing better.” There’s an awkward pause, him still staring at me, me still staring back, wondering what it would feel like to straddle him right here, to run my hands through his sexy dark hair, to feel the press of his palm against my breast.
But then he goes, “So, I hope you’re hungry, because Lala and I made tacos,” and I’m basically ready to marry him.
I laugh, because it’s either that or kiss the man, and I’m not sure that’s the best idea. I mean, it’s not the worst, but…
No. I’m a student now, and he’s a professor. And a mage. An old one at that. That’s three strikes and… Goddess, I’m still staring at him.
Now it’s my turn to close my eyes and shake some sense into my addled brain. When I look at him again, he’s avoiding my gaze, pouring me a tall glass of iced tea from a pitcher on the table.
“Gotta hand it to you, Doc,” I say as the ice cubes clink into the glass. “A hot shower and a hot lunch? You really know how to show a girl a good time.”
Thankfully, he laughs, and I reach for the tea, grateful for something to cool the heat churning inside me.
“Lala’s not joining us?” I ask.
“She’s not big on company. Loves cooking, loves hosting, but the social aspects aren’t really her thing.”
“You said she was an old friend of the academy?”
“Eighty-four years old and a day,” he says, dead serious. “Her birthday just passed.”
“Wow. Glamour magick is a hell of a drug.”
“Lala is one of the most powerful witches in the country. In the world.” He watches me a moment, the wheels turning behind his eyes, as if he’s trying to decide whether to share a secret with me. Then, in a much softer voice, “She knew your parents, Miss Milan. I’m told she was one of the few who stood by them through the inquiry.”
My eyes widen, but Devane only shakes his head, already anticipating my next question.
“Lala only speaks when she believes she has something vital to say. Asking her questions, pressing her about her memories… It will only overwhelm her. I’m sorry. I just thought you might want to know that your parents, for all the persecution they suffered, weren’t entirely alone.”
Tears fill my eyes, and I nod my thanks. It’s all I can manage.
Dr. Devane has no idea how much it means to me. Not just to know that my parents had an ally during the darkest moments of their lives, but that he thought to tell me about it at all.
“I have no words for this.” I take another huge bite of taco awesomeness, salsa roja and melted queso dribbling down my chin. “And to think just a few hours ago I wasn’t sure I’d ever taste guacamole again.”
Lala may have the presence of a ghost, but she and Doc sure cooked up a feast while I was showering, and now I’m shamelessly inhaling third helpings while the professor watches across the table, his eyes sparkling with laughter.
He pushes a covered dish of rice and beans closer, waiting for me to load up before he starts on another serving himself. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but just beneath our relaxed and easy mood, I sense something festering.
“You okay, Doc?” I ask. “You’re being weird. Please tell me you’re not one of those men who expect their lunch companions to daintily nibble on l
ettuce leaves while you go beast-mode on fifteen tacos.”
He presses a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Miss Milan, if you nibbled on lettuce in the presence of authentic homemade tacos, I’d drag you out to the middle of the desert and leave you for the coyotes.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up.” I wash down another bite with a swig of iced tea. “Now seriously, what’s going on in that mental-magick mind of yours? I get nervous when you think too much.”
“I suppose I am. Thinking too much, that is.” He flashes a smile, but it fades fast. He pushes his rice around with the fork, waits another beat before speaking again. “In prison, did the guards… Did any of them… Were you…”
I shake my head, sparing him the awkwardness of filling in the blanks. “They knocked me around pretty good, talked a lot of shit about what they could do to me, but that was the worst of it. I think they were afraid of me. Afraid of my so-called murderous magick.”
Devane exhales in obvious relief, but he’s still gripping his fork so tightly, his knuckles are white.
In that moment, in the light of a simple kindness from a near-stranger, the reality of my situation hits me.
I knew it was bad when the cops barged into Kettle Black. Hell, I knew it was bad up on the Grande, as soon as I figured out Luke wasn’t Luke. But I guess some part of me still believed things would turn out okay. That I’d be acquitted. That someone—anyone—would put the pieces together and realize there was no way I could’ve committed that heinous crime.
But no one did. And if Dr. Devane hadn’t shown up, I’d be one step closer to Death’s door, slated for torment and execution, all because of the magick blood running through my veins, the damning pentacle inked on my skin.
He saved my life.
“Thank you,” I blurt out, a rush of emotion bubbling into my throat. “Maybe I haven’t said it yet, but I really… I just… Thanks. For breaking me out of jail. Literally.”
And then I laugh, because I never, ever thought I’d utter a phrase like that, and sometimes laughing is the only thing that keeps the monsters from busting down your walls, grabbing you by the hair, and dragging you straight down to hell.
He’s smiling again too, clearly glad for the levity. “I can’t take all the credit, Miss Milan. We make a good getaway team.”
“A regular Bonnie and Clyde.” I drain the last of my iced tea, but when I go to set the glass down, the napkin I’d folded beneath it turns into a Tarot card.
A young man is at the center, dressed in a short tunic and forest green wrap, a stick and bundle slung hobo-style over his shoulder. He carries a bouquet of mistletoe berries, and a black greyhound jumps up beside him.
Both are about to step gleefully off the edge of a cliff.
The Fool.
“Did that just… show up?” Dr. Devane asks as I pick up the card for a closer look.
An adventure awaits, Stevie. Leap with reckless abandon, a hopeful spirit, and all the optimism your youth affords. Yet you must remain ever-watchful, eyes wide open, for danger lurks over every ledge…
“It’s kind of a thing with me.” I hand over the card for his inspection, but it vanishes at his touch. “It started happening after my parents died. I can’t control it—just try to listen for the messages.”
He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, as if he’s trying to sense the magick that made the card disappear. “What does it mean?”
“It’s always different. But right now?” I push out from the table and rise to gather up the dishes, our momentary peace at its end. “It means it’s time to go.”
Twelve
STEVIE
Instead of climbing back into the Corolla-slash-BMW mystery machine, Dr. Devane leads us down a narrow dirt path behind the house to a rocky sandstone outcropping tucked in among the rolling hills. Down here, we’re totally shielded from all directions, our only spies the black vultures circling overhead.
He’s back in the suit jacket and tie again, proud and proper despite the heat and dust.
“What now?” I ask. “Is Uber coming for us?”
Without responding, he removes the silver Academy crest from his tie and pricks the tip of his finger with the pin, squeezing until a drop of blood appears. Then, kneeling, he draws a complicated sigil with his finger in the red earth, whispering an incantation I don’t understand. The sigil glows bright white, then sinks into the ground, swallowed by the desert.
Dr. Devane gets to his feet and reattaches his pin. Seconds later, the earth vibrates beneath us. Blinking away the dust, I watch in awe as an ancient-looking stone staircase shimmers into view, framed at the top with an equally ancient archway. Peering into the portal, I can just make out the turrets of a large, gothic-looking building, four black flags waving from the facade.
“Sweet, sweaty balls of the devil,” I breathe.
Dr. Devane’s lips twitch, but he reins it in before an actual smile busts through. “Though it must be done with extreme caution to ensure complete secrecy, a portal to the Academy can be opened at any energy vortex by any witch or mage who’s pure of intention. It’s advanced blood and sigil magick—a skill you’ll learn during your second year.”
“What if I need it before then?”
“First-year students aren’t permitted off-campus without an escort.”
“I’m twenty-three years old, Dr. Devane. This isn’t high school.”
Surprise flickers through his gaze, and I wonder whether he thought I was older or younger. But before I can ask, he says, “And some of our first-year students are in their fifties. Age isn’t the point. These are dangerous times for witches and mages. You needn’t look farther than your own experiences to understand that. And in your case, you must be doubly careful. You’re supposed to be dead. You can’t risk someone outside recognizing you.”
A chill creeps over my skin despite the oppressive heat, and I rub my arms. “What about on the inside? If I’m in the news, everyone on campus will know I faked my death.”
“The Academy protects its own,” he says, and then seems to realize his mistake. “It… it was a different time when your parents attended. The administration has learned much since those days.”
“Right. Because all magickal people are such upstanding citizens.”
“No. Because no magickal people want to draw attention to our Academy, risking their own safety.”
“Self-preservation at its finest,” I grumble. “Goddess, this feels like trading one prison for another.”
“You’re not a prisoner, but you will need an escort to bring you in and out.” Devane dusts off his hands, his watchful gaze scanning the horizon beyond the portal. “Understand, Miss Milan. We are tolerated by the human authorities. When that stops being the case? When they decide—in an official capacity—that our presence is more than a nuisance, that our bribes aren’t enough, that we pose a more serious threat? What do you think will happen then? It’s already starting. It’s what Anna believes your mother was trying to warn them about.”
I rub the skin on my wrist, the pentacle tattoo glaring back at me like an unsightly birthmark. It sucks that he’s right.
“You know what’s really fucked up about all this?” I ask. “We’re the ones with all the magick. Yet somehow, they have all the power.”
“No. They have the perception of power.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is it doesn’t have to be that way. If witches and mages realized how much power we had collectively…” He trails off into his own thoughts. Pipe dreams, more like. Compared to the human population, there are so few of us, and outside of the Academy, there are few opportunities to join forces and storm the castle together.
“So what happens now?” I ask. Before us, the portal glows pink and orange and purple, like a brilliant desert sunset.
Devane clears his throat and straightens his tie, perspiration beading at his temples. “Now is the part where I tell you your life will be in grave danger
. The moment you begin working on the prophecies, you’ll be on the enemy’s radar. And because we don’t know exactly who that enemy is or when they’ll strike next, it will be very difficult for us to protect you.”
This isn’t news, but it still sits heavy in my gut.
“My life was already in grave danger,” I say. “Probably for a long time now. Something tells me that’s just part of the gig.”
He nods, a little sadly.
“Well, here goes nothing.” I shrug and take a step toward the stone staircase.
“Not so fast.” Devane places a warm hand on my shoulder, his eyes serious. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss. Another option.”
“What option? I’ve just faked my own death and escaped prison. I’m a fugitive. You said it yourself—it’s not safe for me out here.”
“No. But enrolling at the Academy isn’t your only recourse.”
“I’m listening.”
“We can arrange for your relocation to another state, under a new and completely human identity. You’ll be set up in an apartment and given a job, a bank account, non-magickal college classes if you’d like. Everything you need to start fresh. To move on.”
“To move on from what? My life in Tres Búhos?”
“As well as your life as a witch.”
“Hmm. Witchy witness protection?”
“If it helps to think of it in those terms, yes.”
“No strings?”
“Not from us. But the offer isn’t without its drawbacks. For starters, it will require a brief but extremely painful spell to remove your tattoo, and ongoing injections to mute your latent powers.”
“Mute them?”
“As a natural-born witch, you’ll never be able to fully disassociate from your magick, which means you’ll live under constant threat of accidental exposure. Now, most witches can control their active powers, but the non-active ones, like your empathy skills and healing magick? Aspects of those powers work without your conscious direction. If anyone were to see something like that in action, you’d be identified as a non-registered witch and reported to the authorities. That’s if the locals didn’t decide to take matters into their own hands.”