“It’s not poisonous,” she said with a satisfied smile. “It’s magic.”
I paused midway through tossing a tuber into the bucket. “What?”
“Magic,” she repeated and grinned. “That’s why they don’t want us touching them. It’s why the mushrooms are glowing. I bet the mushrooms would heal a regular human… at the very least. But for me...”
She grabbed the mushroom by the stem, snapped it cleanly off the stalagmite, and then, as I looked upon in horror, she took a bite out of the cap! Again, I restrained the urge to shout. I did, however, stalk over to the madwoman and snatched the bloody thing from her hand. Maybe it wasn’t poisonous, like she claimed, but maybe it was. Either way, better me than her.
“Spit it out!”
Jolie chewed deliberately then swallowed with a grin. “It’s just like Alice in Wonderland,” she said with a light, carefree laugh. She’d been doing a lot of that lately, and the sound was lovely. What prompted it, however, was not...
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you daft woman.”
She tried to snatch the mushroom from my hand and, when she failed, shrugged and took up another, smaller mushroom, stuffing it into her mouth whole this time. I stared at her, aghast. What was she doing? Did she think suicide was a nobler end than being beaten to death by the guards?
“Have ye lost yer bloody mind?” I insisted as I gripped her ‘round the neck and attempted to pry her jaw open in order to free her mouth of the offensive and poisonous things. But she swallowed the bite clear away. Then she grinned at me as though she had bested me.
“They aren’t poisonous, Morse!” she insisted.
She managed to swallow five of the fucking things before I finally wrenched her away. Pink spots showed high in her cheeks, and her skin seemed to glow faintly. Was it my imagination, or was her hair glowing a brighter gold?
She let out a deep, satisfied sigh. “Ah. I can feel the magic swelling within me, Morse.”
My cock twitched at the words, wishing I were hearing them in a different context.
“What are you going on about?”
She wiggled her fingers experimentally and, as I watched, a streak of blue sparks trailed like a streamer between her fingers. She did it again, allowing the glittering stripe to undulate with the motion of her dancing fingers.
“Bloody hell...” Either the poison was killing her or she was correct and the blasted things weren’t poisonous at all.
“Magic,” she pronounced with a wink. “And I think it may be our ticket out of here.”
I could not allow myself to feel any excitement at her words, for I realized how difficult it would be to escape our plight. “How do you plan to do that?”
Jolie scooted closer to me, grabbing ahold of the thick chain, clutching it tightly in her palms. She smiled sheepishly, glancing up at me shyly through her lashes.
“You’ll have to forgive me if it takes a moment. I’m long out of practice.”
“Take all the time you need, lass.” For my part, I was just hoping she would not prove us wrong and drop dead.
As she closed her eyes and her lips twitched, I imagined the freedom she promised. If she could get us the fuck out of this place, I’d declare her my bloody Queen, country, and fucking Goddess.
She closed her eyes more tightly, clenching them as her fingers curled still more tightly about the chain. Little lines formed between her eyes.
“I’m not sure I have the strength to just break the chains without hurting one or both of us,” she started. “But if I could transform it... yes, that could work.”
And, as I watched, the chain rippled, curling and bunching like a snake. But instead of growing scales, it solidified and turned a plain tan color. Jolie let out a triumphant laugh and shuffled back over to the stalagmite, tossing a loop of the new material over the rock.
Peering a little closer, I saw the chain had become rope. And now I understood her plan. It would work. It would get us free.
Jolie spent a minute or two sawing hard at our restraints, using the friction to aid her. Then at last, the rope snapped. She scrabbled to her feet, slipping what must have been the collar, and now appeared to be a noose, over her head.
I just stared up at her, completely speechless, in awe of her. I was so fucking hard it hurt, and every part of me yearned toward her. Talented, brave, and bloody beautiful. I’d kill to have her. But being near her would do. It would have to.
“It worked,” she said on a breath, her blue eyes wide.
“It worked,” I repeated, staring at her in wonder.
She smiled even more broadly. “Let’s get you out of those chains and then let’s blow this joint,” she said with another conspiratorial wink.
There was only one answer appropriate.
“Yes, your-bloody-fucking-brilliant-highness.”
SIX
EMMA
I sat under a tree on the quad and slung my messenger bag to the ground. It thumped against the grass with a thud and a hiss.
Hskhisss!
“Sorry, Gilda!” I said, kneeling to unbuckle the bag’s front latch. “I totally forgot you were in there!”
Gilda slithered out of the bag and sprawled out into the lazy shape of an S. Her black scales glistened in the mid-afternoon sun. In this light, her eyes looked like shiny green gemstones.
That’s quite alright. Gilda enunciated her words with rapid flicks of her tongue. The careful diction made her sound vaguely British. She could’ve been from Kensington as easily as she could’ve been from Saturn.
I guess that’s just the way with most demons: slippery creatures, hard to pin down.
If it weren’t for the magical, soul-enshrining bond of familiar-hood, Gilda might’ve made me kind of nervous. Luckily, she was magically contracted not to crush me with her giant python body and eat me with her giant python fangs…
I’ll just be more careful with the bag in the future.
Much as I trusted Gilda to protect me, I wasn’t nearly as familiar with my familiar as I wanted to be. She wouldn’t hurt me. I knew that—despite the fangs—but I still didn’t want to end up on a demonic python’s shitlist.
“How are you liking the bag?” I asked. “The inside part, I mean.”
Oh, it’s just marvelous, she said. I do enjoy warm, dark places, and I’m quite capable of withstanding a mild jostle. I’m quite glad to have it.
“That’s great.” I leaned back against the bark, smooth and cool against my neck. “I’m glad too. I’ll have to thank Professor Draper again for the both of us.” I eyed Gilda over the top of my book. Her shiny emerald eyes were open, but I couldn’t tell if she’d suddenly fallen asleep or not.
Why couldn’t I have summoned a familiar with eyelids?
It was going to take me a minute to get used to the feeling of being watched all the time, but Gilda was worth the concession; it’s hard not to feel protected with a couple hundred pounds of reptilian muscle on your side. Guess there’s a reason for everything.
“Hey, Emma.”
“Clark,” I said, looking up with a smile. The tree’s shade mostly blocked out the sun, but I still had to squint to see him. Clark’s curls were dark shadows against the light. He was tall enough that the afternoon sun perched right on his broad shoulders.
His dark hair was brushed back and flowy always but today, it was in windblown disarray. He was sweating slightly, a big smile on his handsome face.
Tan skin, a little flushed with exertion. Athletic build. Impressive height. Judging by his looks alone, he’d certainly earned the title of Elmington’s golden boy. And—as if the heartthrob good looks weren’t enough—he was on his way to a national title in competitive casting.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“I’m good, just reading some…” I flipped the book over, checked the cover. “… Malleus Maleficarum. Can hardly put it down.” Then I shook my head and sighed.
Clark chuckled and smiled in sympathy.
“For A Global History of Witchcraft?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
He nodded. “That’s my fourth period, too. Man, Truman’s reading assignments are killer. Shit’s pretty grim too.”
“Grim?”
He nodded. “The whole book is about how to find and kill people like us.”
“I’m not completely caught up on my reading just yet,” I said, with a shrug, figuring I should have already known what the book was about. “Who would’ve thought a sixteenth century German book about how to find and kill witches would be a one-way ticket to bummer-ville?”
Clark laughed again, a deep chuckle this time. His eyes flitted from me to the patch of grass to my left.
“Well, if you’re willing, I may have a one-way ticket back to... not-bummer-ville?”
“Happy town?” I offered. “Joy City?”
“The Commonwealth of having a good time?”
I giggled, letting my head fall back against the tree again. He laughed with me and gestured to the grass patch. “Mind if I sit?”
“Not at all! But, um…” I looked over my shoulder as I searched for the right way to say it. Something tactful but clear, subtle but direct. “Do you think Ellenora would be okay with that?”
Okay, maybe just direct.
“Ellenora and I broke up,” he said with a shrug and another smile. The surprise must’ve been evident in my face because he chased the announcement with, “Don’t worry—it was a long time coming.”
“Really?”
I guess it was understandable; Ellenora was notoriously difficult to deal with. But Clark was also notoriously good at dealing with things. In an odd, un-romantic, unpleasant-to-look-at sort of way, they seemed like a good match for each other.
“Are you okay?” I asked. He seemed fine enough, but ‘seeming’ one way or another wasn’t a good enough lead to follow.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he beamed. “I feel like a dick saying it, but it feels like I’m a new man. Like I’m turning over a new leaf and all that crap.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Hopefully not too new,” I teased, trying with all my might not to ask how they broke up—moreover, who broke up with whom. “Are you guys on... okay terms then?”
He smiled, a little sheepishly. “Not exactly. I don’t think Ellenora’s ever been broken up with before. She wasn’t really sure what to do with it.”
So he did dump her! Somehow that information pleased me. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe just because Ellenora was a right, proper bitch.
“That must be tough.” I placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. The jersey was damp with sweat. We both noticed at the same time, and I pulled my hand back, placing it in my book.
“Sorry,” he chuckled, “should’ve warned you about the sweat-storm. Just had a hell of a practice.”
I giggled and closed the book, giving up any pretense of getting more reading done. “It’s all good. Did you just come from casting practice?”
“Yeah.”
Clark nodded, but the answer was obvious enough. He wore his forest green Casting Team jersey. Number 17. If you could manage to read the words without getting distracted by his large biceps and athletic build, that is.
Damn. I surprised myself with the thought. I mean, Clark was nice, always had been nice, and fun to be around, even if his ex-girlfriend was the Queen Bitch. He’d been a good lab partner. Our potion got us both a B+ on the lab and a passing grade in class. We’d actually become something close to friends that semester.
But—given the Ellenora of it all—we never hung out much outside class. Until now. Now, we could actually talk, and no one would glare at me from over his shoulder.
“Where’d you go over break?” I asked.
“I went home to Toronto,” he answered. “Most of my family’s back in Canada.”
“Canada? I don’t know that I’ve ever met a Canadian before.” I elbowed him playfully in the side. “Aren’t you supposed to be handing out syrup and apologies left and right…eh?”
Clark chuckled, flashing his perfect teeth. I remembered his endearing case of metal mouth freshman year.
Those braces really paid off big time.
“Well, that is protocol,” Clark said. He lowered his voice, as if to tell me a secret. “And since we are known for our extreme politeness—” He stood up and offered me a hand. “Would you allow me to escort you back to your dorm, miss?”
“Well, that is very polite,” I agreed. “You Canadians really don’t mess around.”
There was a chivalrous policy on campus that, once the sun set—which looked about twelve minutes off—male students should offer to walk female students to their dorms. Or if there were no male students around, female students should walk with each other. It was a common practice on live-in campuses.
I was never afraid walking through Elmington by myself—until the thought of the ghost in the graveyard hit me like an ice pick through the eye; I shook the memory out of my head and focused again on Clark’s chiseled face. Suddenly, I was very grateful for his offer.
“Yeah, thanks, Clark.”
I took his extended hand. Unlike his jersey, his palm wasn’t sweaty. His skin was saturated with sun-baked warmth. Once on my feet, I watched Gilda slither back into the messenger bag, and Clark slung it over his shoulder.
“Man, this doesn’t weigh a thing!” He looked down at the bag, impressed.
“Yeah, it’s enchanted,” I explained.
“Where’s…” I tried to remember his lizard’s name.
“Otis is back at the dorm,” he finished for me with a shrug. “A lizard in the pocket can be a hazard in casting practice.”
“For the players or the lizard?”
Clark stepped over a twig on the ground, looking at it thoughtfully. “Both, probably,” he said. “You send an enlargement spell to your teammate, accidentally hit the lizard and bam!” He swiped his hands together, a swift clap. “You’ve got yourself a Godzilla situation.”
“Is that a lizard in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
He laughed, steering us around a mud patch. We were almost to the dorms.
A few yards away, I spotted a cavernous puddle. It separated the end of the quad from the dormitories by a good fifteen feet. Seeing it, Clark slowed our pace a bit.
“What about you?” he asked. “What’d you do over the break?”
“Same as you.” His muscled arms in my periphery were making it nearly impossible not to stare at them. “Went home to see family, I mean. Minus the going back to Canada part.”
“Alright,” he said with a laugh. “If not Canada, where did you go to see your family?”
“Scotland.”
“Ah, land of the whiskey and rye,” he mused. “I’ve always wanted to go to Scotland. What’s it like?”
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” I said, picturing the scenic sights of Kinloch Kirk: the craggy Scottish moors—gorgeous shades of charcoal grey lining the cliffs against the sea. Soft, green rolling hills ebbing down to the village. The forest just outside the manor house. “There’s really nothing else like it.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have a Scottish accent,” he said. “No offense intended, but you don’t sound anything like Shrek!”
“No offense taken.” I laughed, bumping his shoulder at the jibe. “You don’t exactly sound like the maple leaf mascot yourself.”
“Oh, that’s just because I’m not watching hockey,” he assured me. “Get me by the ice during a match, you’ll be sorey you ever asked aboot the accent, eh?” He leaned hard into his inner Canadian. It was a strange and subtle difference, but suited him, I thought, a charming and hearty voice.
Of course, he didn’t need the accent to project either of those qualities: “star-athlete” does a lot of the heavy lifting charisma-wise, and Clark was the biggest star there was. The image of him in a hockey uniform came to mind, and a little flutter tickled my stomach.
“I try to keep the Canadian out o
f my voice when I can,” he said, smiling a little sheepishly.
“You shouldn’t,” I said, meaning the words wholeheartedly. “You’ve got a nice voice; no need to change it. American accents are so boring, anyway.”
“Says the woman who pretty much has one.”
I giggled and blushed. It was true, after being carted off to boarding schools for years on end, and hearing Aunt Bryn’s voice in my ear at all hours, I sounded effectively American, but—if I was home for too long—my words could take on a slight Scottish lilt.
“My aunt grew up in Montana,” I said, remembering the few details Aunt Bryn told me about her life before she’d come to Kinloch Kirk. “She didn’t move to Scotland until she was in her thirties, so she talks like an American. I guess it rubbed off on me… and on Rowan.”
“Rowan?”
I nodded. “She’s my cousin,” I added hastily. “We grew up together. She’s basically my sister.”
“What’s she like?” Clark asked. His easy charm and endearing demeanor were so comforting, I actually wanted to tell him. It wasn’t like me to share things about my family, or to share anything at all. With Clark, it just felt easy.
“She’s the best,” I said. “Big into plants and all that potion stuff. She’s super smart. Gifted smart.”
“Madame Blorth would’ve loved her.” Clark turned suddenly toward me with a comical frown, his best impression of our intro to magical herbs professor. As I giggled, he asked, “What’s your Aunt Bryn like? You mention her pretty often.”
“Well, she basically raised me after my mom died,” I said, surprised at how casually the words came out of my mouth.
“I’m sorry your mom died.”
I nodded and glanced down. “So am I. She was like… the best.”
“And your dad?”
I took a deep breath. “We aren’t close. In fact, I haven’t seen him in over a year.” I felt my jaw tighten. “He basically provides for me—sends me to this school, pays for my meals and clothing… that sort of stuff. But that’s it. He’s like a father in donations only.”
I looked up at him then and the pity in his eyes bothered me. I didn’t want him to pity me. My situation was what it was and it sucked, but I was still really lucky to have Aunt Bryn, Rowan and Mathilda. And I was lucky to have Jupiter and Kevin. Things weren’t so bad.
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