by Sarah Piper
“No, which is why his soul remains restless, reincarnating many times over.” Kirin glances at the page again. “Sometimes, he carries on his duties as the Magician was meant to, helping witches and mages become the masters of their own magick and manifestation. But according to some legends, every five thousand years or so, he rises in darkness, embarking on a quest for the sacred objects forged of his father’s flesh and blood—the pentacle of iron and bone, the chalice of blood and sorrow, the sword of breath and blade, and the wand of flame and fury.” Kirin skims down the page, muttering through the details, then reads, “It is said that he who is in possession of these objects, along with the blood of the world and an arcane spell of indeterminate origins—wait, there’s a footnote.” He flips to the back of the chapter, shakes his head. “They don’t really know much about the spell. But you get the point, right? Whoever has all of that stuff gets to claim magick for himself. Control it, basically.”
I lean back against the bookshelves and cross my arms over my chest, my mind working through the stories, automatically looking for connections. There’s something we’re not seeing—something so close and obvious, I can practically feel it taking shape, like my hands are holding a lump of clay, desperately trying to make an ashtray.
“So in these old stories,” I say, “the Dark Magician bent his will toward acquiring the sacred elemental objects and reclaiming the true source of magick, which he believes is his unequivocal birthright.”
“Precisely.” Kirin closes the book and slides it back into place on the shelf. “What we’re still trying to figure out, though, is how these legends connect with your visions, and what the larger meaning is. Symbology? Metaphor? Some other context we’re just not seeing?”
“Kirin, seriously?” I pop my hands on my hips. “You know that saying—the simplest explanation is usually the right one?”
“I’m familiar with the saying, sure, but statistically speaking, that’s not true. There are so many variables to every situation, and explanations can vary widely from—”
“Kirin!”
Kirin shuts his mouth.
“Here’s a thought,” I say. “A simple one. A possible explanation, if you don’t mind hearing it.”
“I’m listening.”
“What if it’s not a legend? What if the stories of the Dark Magician are real?” I step closer and lower my voice. “The passage from the notebook the other day?”
Kirin nods, and I repeat it softly:
Between the space where black meets white
Betwixt the woods of dark and light
A mirror flat reveals the sky
But turn it ‘round to know the why
Zero begets the next, the One
Innocence lost, magick undone
Beware the rise when darkness falls
For magick corrupts, and blood trumps all.
“Zero is the number of the Fool in the Major Arcana,” I say. “One is the Magician. Zero begets the One—The Fool is the father, the Magician is his son. Innocence lost—that’s also the Fool, right? And magick undone—that could mean the magician reversed. Basically, the Magician going dark.”
“Beware the rise when darkness falls,” Kirin repeats. “The rise of the Dark Arcana, when that darkness falls upon us. Trump is another word for the Majors. Blood trumps all—that could also mean the bloodline itself—the Fool’s and the Magician’s, or something else entirely…” He gazes up at the ceiling. “This is totally insane.”
“It’s all connected. All of it.” I turn and grab Kirin’s forearms, the ideas crashing into my brain so quickly, I know if I don’t get them out, I’ll lose them. “We keep looking for the bad guy in all of this, like some crooked, high-level mage making deals with humans and other crooked mages to wipe out the magickal population, maybe leave those few crooked mages in power positions, or pay them off. But that doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would any mage willingly give up power to humans?”
“He wouldn’t,” Kirin says. “He might play along though, plan a double-cross in the end.”
“This is bigger than a few crooked mages. Bigger than an inside job. This is a legend come to life.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying we might just be standing here at the five-thousand-year mark. And maybe that motherfucker is coming to take his toys back.”
Kirin opens his mouth to debate, but there are no facts and figures to argue, no easily accessible statistics disproving my theory.
“And if that’s true,” I say, “then what I saw in my vision was probably just a glimpse of what he’s got planned. Death, mayhem, an eternity of darkness…”
I lean back against the shelf again and close my eyes, the enormity of all of this weighing heavy.
Kirin has gone silent, and after a few moments of that, I say, “Okay, genius-boy. That’s enough quiet out of you. I know you’ve got a theory here—out with it.”
No response.
I open my eyes and find him standing before me, looking at me with an intensity I’ve never seen in him before. His pale green eyes are wild, his cheeks dark, his breath coming in short bursts, warm and gentle on my cheeks.
“What is it?” I whisper, gripping the shelves at my sides, preparing for the worst.
Kirin takes a step closer, erasing all the space between us.
“We’re standing here talking about death and mayhem and horrible legends that might actually be true,” he says softly, “and if they are true, a lot of people are going to die, including us, and all I can think about is… is…”
“What?” I whisper, my heart thumping, my own breath turning ragged.
Kirin reaches out, brushing his fingertips along my jaw, making me shiver.
“All I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you.”
Forty
STEVIE
My back hits the bookshelf, cracked leather spines pressing against my shoulder blades, the smell of old parchment and lemon oil swirling through my senses.
“I’ve been dreaming about your lips since the first time I saw you smile,” Kirin says, tracing his fingertip across my bottom lip. “Since that first day I walked into Kettle Black—when you made me the almond tea with pepper.”
“Toasted almond peppercorn,” I remind him, touched that he remembered the moment. I’ll never forget it either. The first day he walked into the café, everything about my life changed, as if my memories and future plans and everything in between were already rearranging themselves to make room for this moment, right here in the library in the Academy I swore I’d never, ever set foot in.
I couldn’t explain it at the time.
I still can’t explain it now.
But Kirin’s touch is driving me wild, sending cascades of shivers rolling down my spine.
“That’s the one,” he says, smiling. “Toasted almond peppercorn.”
He slides his fingers along my chin, then into my hair, cupping the back of my head.
Suddenly I’m stretching up on my toes to get closer.
Kirin’s eyes blaze with new heat.
We both smile—an invitation, an acceptance—and Kirin slowly lowers his mouth to mine.
His kiss is sweet and tender, savoring, tasting me in the same way he used to sip my teas at the café—with slow, deliberate appreciation. My lips part gently, and he deepens our kiss, a soft moan reverberating through his chest.
I slide my hands beneath the hem of his T-shirt, gliding over the smooth, hard muscles of his back, his skin warming at my touch. The strong, steady beat of his heart thuds through his skin, and I pull him closer, wanting more.
He hesitates for no more than five rabbit-quick beats of his heart, then slides his other hand in my hair, guiding me into a deeper kiss, the intensity building between us.
We’re walking on a precipice, both of us scared to fall off, to ruin the friendship we’ve been building since those first days at Kettle Black. There’s the translation and research work to con
sider, too—so much at stake. So much resting on us.
But right now, with his sweet mouth teasing and tasting me, his strong hands tangled in my hair, I’m ready to jump.
His chest brushes against my nipples, and I gasp, trying to steal a breath without breaking our kiss. Kirin pulls back, his gaze sweeping down my face, then leans in again, kissing my neck, my throat, working his way down the front of my shirt. He tongues my nipple through the fabric, then bites, making me gasp again. I reach out and grab the edge of the bookshelf behind me, and Kirin continues kissing and biting, his glasses falling to the floor, his mouth eager and hot, his hands roaming along my curves.
Then he drops to his knees.
A pulse of white-hot desire floods my core, and I close my eyes, focusing on the feeling of his nimble fingers as he undoes my jeans.
His hands are trembling, but his mouth is urgent, insistent.
He presses it to the top of my pink panties, dragging his lips along the edge, tracing his nose down the front. His tongue darts out, teasing my clit through the lace.
I open my eyes with another gasp.
“Kirin,” I breathe, sliding a hand into his hair, sinking back against the bookshelf.
He looks up at me with so much admiration in his eyes, so much tenderness, I nearly melt. It’s the kind of look that could make me go supernova, the kind that could make me start to feel things… To fall…
I close my eyes again and arch my body closer, showing him how much I want this.
He presses another kiss to the triangle of lace, then slides my jeans down over my hips, letting them pool around my ankles. Warm, rough palms glide up my calves, my thighs, my ass.
He kisses my thigh, then traces a path to my hipbone with his tongue, taking the edge of my underwear between his teeth.
My core is throbbing for him, desperate for his mouth, his fingers, anything to relieve this mounting ache…
Reaching up with his hands, he guides the underwear down, leaving me bare and exposed.
I start to lift my foot, to step out of the pants, but Kirin grabs my leg, holds it steady. I let him take control, trusting my body to him, my pleasure, all of it.
His mouth lingers at the apex of my thighs, the tip of his tongue swirling just out of reach, driving me wild. I try to spread my legs, to give him room, but the jeans and his firm grip hold me in place.
Hot breath ghosts over my clit, and he curls his hands around the back of my thighs, fingertips teasing my entrance. When he feels how wet he’s made me, he leans in closer, moaning softly against my bare flesh.
Slowly, maddeningly, he guides my thighs apart, teasing me with deeper strokes as he presses a hot kiss to my clit, then tongues me. I fist his hair, the fire building between my thighs, the tingling already starting in my belly, my leg muscles trembling. Kirin continues to tease me, slow and savoring, just like everything he does, pulling back and then moving close once again, another kiss, the ghost of a breath, and I’m writhing in pure agonizing pleasure, willing him to take me harder, faster, more, and then suddenly he’s pressing his face between my thighs and sliding two fingers deep inside, sucking and nipping, stroking, and suddenly I’m falling headfirst over the edge.
I clamp a hand over my mouth and let out a stifled cry as the orgasm rushes through me, my shoulders hitting the shelves again, a few books toppling to the floor.
And here between the stacks of Arcana Myths and Legends and Astrological Correspondences for the Major Arcana, a bright flash of light explodes before us, the ground shaking, books tumbling from the shelves, glass breaking in the distance, a fire raging across the walls, devouring every book in its path…
“Kirin! The lightning!” I shout, and he’s on his feet in an instant, cupping my face, whispering that everything will be okay, that he’s sorry, that he shouldn’t have done this…
“Come back,” he says. Begs. “It’s okay, Stevie. You’re safe. I’m so, so sorry.”
I follow the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on my face, the summer-storm scent of his skin. The library slowly comes back into view, and I look around to assess the damage. The shelves are still standing, most of the books where they should be, save for the couple that fell out during my grande finale.
It was another vision. Just a vision.
“Okay?” Kirin whispers, and I nod, but my heart is still raging, my legs trembling in a way that has nothing to do with Kirin’s mouth.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper, terrified that anything louder will unleash another vision. “What’s happening?”
Kissing Kirin, kissing Baz, even those mental games with Dr. Devane… I always seem to get pulled into some sort of vision with them. Is it always like this for witches and mages? Or does it have something to do with the true form thing they were talking about at their meeting?
Kirin’s eyes are wild, his mouth glistening, and he’s looking at me like he doesn’t know whether to run, cry for help, or grab me in another breathless kiss.
I decide for him, leaning in and capturing his bottom lip between my teeth, grazing the tip of it with my tongue. I taste the salt of my own desire and slide a hand down over the front of his jeans, feeling the bulge of his hardness. Kirin shudders, his hands tightening on my hips.
But then he pulls back again, resting his forehead on my shoulder and letting out a deep breath. His grip on my hips loosens, and I know in that moment he’s letting me go.
“Kirin?” I whisper. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
His cock is hard, straining against his jeans in a way that tells me he wants this as much as I do. But then he lifts his head and looks at me with so much sadness and regret in his eyes, I almost fall into them and die.
“It’s… it’s the library,” he says randomly, clearly casting about for an excuse. He crouches down and picks up his glasses, then the books that fell, sliding them back into their right places on the shelf. “Someone might see us, and it’s probably against the rules, and I just… I’m sorry. I have to go.”
And there, in the space where commanding hands and a passionate, devoted mouth worshipped my flesh mere minutes ago, a cold emptiness echoes.
Forty-One
STEVIE
“Light some more sage,” Isla says from my living room couch, sipping her whiskey-spiked chocolate lavender tea, which is only about half as disgusting as it sounds. “And shuffle the deck again. Must be some stuck energy.”
“Isn’t it bad luck to keep asking the cards the same question and hoping for a different answer?” Jessa asks. It’s our inaugural Friday Night Witch-N-Bitch Happy Hour, and we’ve got her on video chat on my laptop, propped up on the coffee table. On her end, she’s got a margarita, just like old times.
“It’s definitely bad luck,” I say, but I’m already lighting another sage bundle, passing it over my cards anyway. At this point, I’ll try anything to change the outcome of this dumb story.
“Maybe the crystals are in the wrong positions.” Nat rearranges them. Again. “Or maybe we need different ones. I think rose quartz is supposed to be good for love.”
“I’m not in love with him,” I clarify.
“Which him?” Isla teases, and I reach over and smack her foot.
“Either him. As far as I’m concerned, they’re both crazy and destined for eternal bachelorhood and celibacy.”
All three women shoot me the same mischievous, knowing glances.
After that insane night at the library last week, I haven’t seen or spoken with Kirin at all—not even about the Dark Magician legends we were working on. Every time I went to the library this week, his office was locked, and he wasn’t in the archives. Professor Phaines popped in to help with Mom’s translations once, but when I tried to casually ask about Kirin, all he said was that Kirin was working on another high priority project this week.
As if saving the world from the Dark Arcanapocalypse isn’t high priority enough.
On top of that nonsense, Baz is being chilly, too. He’s n
ot ignoring me outright—he always says hi in class, jokes around a little bit, but it’s nothing like before. He never runs to catch up to me after class, or makes any more comments about rescheduling our little “makeoutus interruptus” session.
I’m even starting to miss his damn innuendos.
The only good thing about Baz sidelining me is that I’m basically off Carly’s radar now, so that’s going in the “win” column.
Dr. Devane is actually being nice to me, which is a mindfuck in the other direction. Pretty sure it’s only because he’s worried I’ll get myself worked up and fall into another acid trip down undead-army lane, and none of us wants that.
The only one being totally normal is Ani, and if it wasn’t for him and my witchy-bitchies here, I’m pretty sure I’d be looking for the escape hatch on this Academy right now.
“Okay, try again,” Isla says.
I take a deep breath, shuffle my cards, and ask the question of the hour:
“What is Kirin Weber’s dumbass, bumble-fucking problem?”
“Suggestion?” Nat raises her hand, then smiles. “Maybe reword the question without so much rage?”
I blow out a breath. “Okay. Why is Kirin being such a dickhead?”
“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Nat says. “One more time?”
“Fine. What kind of asshole gives a woman a mind-blowing orgasm with the tongue of a master cunnilinguist, then bails on her, leaving her shoved between bookshelves like a dusty old book with her pants literally around her ankles?”
Nat doesn’t offer any more helpful suggestions this time. Just passes me the bottle of whiskey, which in the moment feels like an even better suggestion.
I take a swig, then turn over three cards.
The Tower—the one with all the fire and brimstone, people jumping out of burning buildings, all that fun stuff.
Three of Swords, which is basically a big heart with three swords run right through it. Subtle, Universe. Real subtle.