Enchantress Under Pressure

by A C Spahn

  Axel caught up with me. “Be safe. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Trust me, I have no intention of putting myself in danger again.”

  “I’m serious. Stay alive.”

  I frowned at him. “Is this part of me not being the enemy anymore? I didn’t think you cared.”

  “I don’t.” He gazed down at me seriously. “But you’re important. The enemy wants you. Wants your power. If they get it, you won’t be the only one to die. It’s not just self-preservation to keep yourself hidden. It’s the moral thing to do. Remember that.”

  I gaped at him, astonished to hear so many words in a row. “I ... I will.”

  He grunted, then returned to the desk.

  Desmond wanted to take me straight home, but I was starving for some real food after subsisting on hospital slop. We grabbed burgers and Greek-style fries from That Place on the Corner before heading toward my place. Desmond took a strange route, circling blocks and driving over a mile out of the way a few times before doubling back. Throwing off anyone trying to follow us, I realized with a sinking feeling. Though he chatted lightly with me, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror every couple seconds.

  I found myself watching him, studying the lines of his muscles and the strong set of his back. His hands were calloused both from work and his swordplay demonstrations at Renaissance Faires, plus the martial arts classes he took to supplement his training. His light brown skin glowed golden in the sunlight through the car window. My lips felt moist, heat creeping through my body as I looked at the man I kind-of-sort-of had an official relationship with. Everything about him warmed me, from the careful attention he paid to his driving, to the cute way his big ears stuck out from under his unruly black hair.

  He glanced at me and caught me staring, and his smile nearly made me melt. “What is it?”

  I smiled back, reaching out to rest my hand on his knee. “Nothing. Just you.”

  My hand stayed on his leg until we reached my home. When he finally parked behind the narrow building of studio apartments, I hesitated before getting out. “Why are you so good to me?”

  He blinked. “Uh. What do you mean?”

  “Watching my back, submitting my art to the contest, driving me around. Sticking up for me against the other Voids. I don’t deserve all this.”

  “If this is your way of saying thank you, it’s really uncomfortable.”

  “Thank you. But I’m serious, Desmond. All I’ve done is drag you into mortal peril over and over. You’re a Void. I’m an enchantress. This shouldn’t ... we shouldn’t work.”

  “You’re an artist. I’m an artist. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “It does, but ...”

  “We make each other laugh. We’re both hard workers.”

  “I guess so. I just don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

  His gaze dropped to the steering wheel. “Are you saying you want to stop ... whatever it is we have going?”

  “I ... no. I like you, Desmond. I like you more than anyone I’ve ever known. But I’m not good for you.”

  His brows came together. “How can you say that? Adrienne ... you’re the most creative, vivacious person I know. Even when everything is ugly and awful, you find a way to make something beautiful. You inspire me to be more creative, try new designs and techniques, branch out where I wouldn’t otherwise have gone. I used to think of being a Void as a burden, but the way you approach magic has made me see it’s also an opportunity to do good. You make me a better artist, but you’ve also made me a better person.”

  I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat. “I make you a better artist?”

  He brushed his thumb under my chin, dark eyes staring straight into mine. “Every day.”

  “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  “Stick around. I’ll say nicer ones.”

  I let my head rest on his shoulder. “I don’t deserve you.”

  His arm snaked around me, pulling me close. “I was about to say the same thing.”

  We snuggled there together for several minutes. At one point Harrow’s Void guard pulled up beside us, and Desmond waved him away. Apparently his job was to drive around my neighborhood and make sure nobody tried to kill me while I slept. Somebody else would do the same at Haven during the day. It was like being a celebrity, only crappier.

  “Promise me something,” Desmond said softly.

  “What?”

  “Don’t flee the city without telling me.”

  I sat up, pulling away from his arm. “You think I’d do that?”

  “I don’t know. You mentioned other times you’ve had to run. Other lives you’ve abandoned. I don’t want to be one of them.”

  “Desmond.” I took his hand, looking him seriously in the eye. “I meant what I said at the Ren Faire. I’m here for you.”

  “But you also haven’t ruled out running away. Don’t deny it.”

  “I haven’t,” I admitted, an edge creeping into my voice. “If it comes to a choice between letting the cult sacrifice me and running, I’m running.”

  He sighed, detaching his hand from mine to scratch the back of his neck. “That easily?”

  “It’s never easy. But I wouldn’t go without telling you. I’d find a way to say goodbye.”

  “It’s not worth staying here? Fighting to protect what you have?”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?” I folded my arms, feeling exposed. I wished Desmond had just kept his mouth shut and let us enjoy our tender moment together. “I am fighting, Desmond. I’m still here.”

  “You’re fighting because you’re still safer here than anywhere else. You’ve got Voids patrolling your neighborhood and the entire Union working to protect you. What happens if that changes?”

  I inhaled sharply. “Are you warning me about something?”

  “No! Mierda, Adrienne, I don’t know any more than you do about what tomorrow will bring. What I want to know is how deep your commitment goes. How much are you willing to fight?”

  “As much as I can!” My teeth ground together. “You seem to think I don’t care, Desmond, but I care a hell of a lot. This is the closest thing to a real life I’ve ever had. You’re the closest I’ve ever felt to another person. It would rip out part of my soul to leave here. But I can’t tell you I’ll stay no matter what. Think about what you’re asking me to face. Think about that dead boy in the morgue.”

  He flinched. “I know it’s a risk.”

  “Damn right, it’s a risk. I care about this life, but I won’t die for it.”

  His eyes closed. A slow breath made his chest rise and fall. “Okay,” he said quietly.

  My heart stopped. I’d just ruined us. I knew it deep within my soul. My confession had driven him away.

  He took my hand and looked me in the eye. I braced to hear the bladed words. Waited to hear him say we were through.

  Instead he spoke softly. “When you decide it’s time to run, tell me. And ... I’ll come with you.”

  I gazed at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

  “I’ll come with you. If this situation gets too dangerous, we’ll run together.”

  “But Haven ... your friends ... your family ...”

  “It’s a sacrifice,” he admitted. His eyes never left mine. “But I’ll make it. For you.”

  Tears pooled in my eyes and overflowed before I could take a breath. I fell against him, sobbing, feeling simultaneously like the worst person in the world, and the most blessed.

  When I finally got hold of myself, I nestled once more under his arm. My hand traced circles on his knee. “Gracias,” I whispered.

  He didn’t say de nada, that it was nothing, because it wasn’t.

  I had to say more. He deserved it from me. Deserved better than I’d given him in this conversation. “I won’t run–we won’t run–unless there’s no other choice,” I promised. He’d asked how long I would fight. But now I wasn’t just fighting for myself. I was fightin
g for him, for his life and work. For all that others would lose if I gave up. And it finally occurred to me that I should have been fighting for those things all along.

  “Kendall’s right,” I said. “I’ve let my past define me long enough. I need to reclaim my identity and shit.”

  Desmond chuckled, his warm laugh loosening the tension lingering between us. “I thought that was what you were doing with the art contest.”

  “That’s one step. I think I need to take another.” Fear still hounded my thoughts, whispering what-ifs and caveats. For tonight, though, I mustered the strength to push them back. I looked at Desmond and broke down a wall I’d kept around myself for years. “Voy a usar mi Español.”

  The joy and pride in his smile chased away the shadows that tried to close in. “Qué bien, querida.”

  The next day, Desmond picked me up for work with a fistful of fake flowers. I raised them to my nose and took an exaggerated sniff. “Mmm. Plastic.”

  “I thought you might like something you can use in one of your projects rather than some dead plants.”

  “Thoughtful.”

  At Crafter’s Haven, we opened up shop, raising the blinds and turning the hand-painted door sign. Desmond turned on the playlist of songs by local artists and went through the aisles straightening shelves while I checked my project list in my workspace to see how far behind I’d fallen on my orders. Desmond hummed softly as he worked. He had a lovely singing voice, though he’d die of embarrassment if I ever told anyone. Warm sunlight seeped through the windows, brightening the colors of the murals on the walls and soothing the aches lingering in my body. Sandalwood, fresh paper, paint, yarn, and sawdust scents mingled in the ever-present aroma that heralded art. I watched Desmond out of the corner of my eye as he finished tidying an endcap display of foam board and little figurines for the annual school projects of building California mission models. He didn’t act like a man who’d volunteered to drop his life to run away with me. But then, he expected us to win. To beat back the cult and continue our comfortable routine for the rest of our lives.

  “Let’s make that happen,” I murmured to myself. Picking up my phone, I resumed calling paint companies, investigating the vision the dead boy had left me as his final act.

  While placing calls, I set about catching up on my projects for customers. One was a joint project with Desmond for a customer who wanted a wooden sign for his yard: “Abandon all hope, ye who solicit here.” Desmond had done the carving, and I was going to burn the letters to make them stand out before I would stain and varnish the whole thing. Besides that, a college sorority wanted matching t-shirts with custom spray-paint designs, and a couple wanted a clay replica of their own house for the little village model they set out every Christmas. The familiar movements of crafting chased back my fears from the previous days. At one point I actually found myself humming along to some rock song that used a xylophone as I worked. I couldn’t know when the panic would return, when that drowning feeling would seize me and try to pull me under. But for today, I was all right.

  Kendall had classes all day, and I didn’t expect to see Sam until after her summer school lessons. Desmond minded the register when customers came in to buy supplies for their own projects, and went out to the loading bay to mess around with his woodworking during lulls. I finished the no soliciting sign and started in on the t-shirts, and also packed up items for delivery to customers who had bought from my online shop. Customers who saw me expressed relief that I was feeling better and asked after my health. Desmond must have told them I was under the weather, if not precisely what had made me sick.

  No one mentioned the car accident. The Void Union had done a good job quashing that story.

  None of the painters I called had any knowledge of strange occurrences involving dripping green paint.

  By the time Sam’s class let out, I’d worked enough that my days incapacitated hadn’t put me too far behind schedule. I toyed with the idea of making some pieces for the Dayfall Gallery show, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous. No sense getting my hopes up when I probably wouldn’t make the finals anyway. My work for the Union had also hit a dead end, and I’d spent the last hour off the phone, trying to think of other ways to decipher the enchanted message.

  With a puff of warm spring air chasing her in, Sam slunk through the door and dropped her backpack on the floor in front of my counter. Usually she’d make some snide remark about the quality of the American education system, but instead she just slouched over to her tire project on the far end of the counter and picked at a loose thread of rubber. I still had no idea what she was trying to make, but she’d been very busy slashing and braiding.

  After several minutes of silence, I ventured, “Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” she snapped before I finished speaking.

  “Yeah, okay, no.” I set aside the sequins I’d been sewing onto a customer’s handbag and crossed to face her over the mangled tire. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you want me to teach you about tracking magic this afternoon?”

  A sullen nod.

  “Then talk.”

  Sam huffed. “My dad ... he had a bad weekend. Not the worst, but ... anyway, my gym teacher saw a bruise on my arm and made me stay after class. Asking if there was anything I wanted to talk about, and saying this was a safe space, and all sorts of bullcrap.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That I tripped getting off the bus and a guy grabbed my arm to catch me.”

  “Did she believe that?”

  “No more than you do.” Sam’s shoulders slouched even further. “Why does everybody have to stick their noses in? I’ve got things under control. The last thing I need is someone showing up at my house asking questions that set my dad off even further.”

  Considering my words carefully, I asked, “Would it be so bad for someone to know your home situation?”

  Anger flashed in Sam’s eyes. “Of course it would! Best case scenario, I get yanked out of my house and stuck in some foster home with who knows what kind of whackos, where it might be even worse. I’ve got friends in the system. I know how some of those homes are.”

  “You could wind up somewhere better.”

  “I’m not about to take that chance. And with my powers?” She waved her hands vaguely in the air, at the magic lightly drumming against us. “I’d get labeled ‘troubled’ and given extra supervision before you know it. You’re the one always going on about practicing magic safely. What if they stick me somewhere that I can’t channel my power the right way?”

  “That is a risk,” I admitted. “But if we worked together, maybe ...”

  “I’m fine,” Sam said, eyeing me as if I might try to drag her to a counselor myself. “I’m almost seventeen. In another year I’ll be an adult. I can last until then.”

  A familiar heaviness settled in my chest. I felt a kinship to Sam’s problems at home, and her frustration with others’ attempts to help. Her nature as an enchantress further tangled an already complex situation. I wished I could do more, but my attempts to pry always shut her down. The last thing I wanted to do was chase her away. “I wish I could let you live with me,” I said quietly. “A month ago, I would have. But now ...”

  “Too dangerous, I know. Like I said, I can last.” Sympathy flashed in Sam’s eyes. With everything going on in her life, somehow she found the empathy to feel sorry for my troubles.

  “Just remember that you can come to me, if you need help. Desmond, too. And Kendall.”

  “Psh. Kendall thinks I’m bad news.”

  “Maybe so, but she’ll still try to help you. You can trust her.”

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  The words were too familiar. I could almost taste them coming off my own lips. “You’re afraid.”

  “Am not.”

  “Mistrust comes from fear. Fear can keep you safe,” I admitted. “It’s kept me alive more than once. But it also takes awa
y all the good things that come from living. Look at me. I trusted Desmond and Kendall with my real identity. They’ve had my back. I can’t imagine life without them.”

  Sam’s lips twisted. “You only told them about your past when you had no choice.”

  “That’s true. But I’m glad I was forced into it.”

  “I’m not there yet.”

  “Don’t wait too long. You can’t spend your whole life running away, Sam.” The irony almost made me laugh. Who was I to tell someone else not to run?

  She grunted noncommittally. “Can we do tracking magic now?”

  “Is your homework done?”

  “Almost.”

  “Homework first.”

  “Ugh. Fine.” She retrieved her backpack and perched on my counter with a sheet of math problems.

  I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I continued sewing sequins, and tried to stop my own hypocrisy from echoing in my thoughts.

  Chapter 16

  DAYS LATER, the sequined handbag was finished, as were the sorority t-shirts, and I was putting the final touches on a new order for some painted garden rocks. Sam had been using up the ambient magic in Haven during each day’s practice session, which let me continue to rest.

  None of us had received new information from the Void Union. My bodyguards continued their patrols outside my apartment and Crafter’s Haven, and Axel responded to our inquiries with monosyllables, but there were no new developments in the case. Either Harrow had the investigation fully under control without us, or he hadn’t gotten any new leads from Vince. At least there hadn’t been more ghost sightings. The magic around the store and my apartment had been behaving normally, so maybe whatever ailed the magic elsewhere in the city had resolved itself.

  I snorted. Maybe I should hope Geralt would forget I existed, while I was at it.

  One good thing had come from the downtime. I’d finally moved the drawing of my enchantment tattoo to a more secure location. When I’d first moved to San Francisco, I’d stashed a bag of cash and supplies in a hollow tree near my apartment. If I needed to bug out of the city, it contained enough to let me survive for a while in hiding. Now it also contained the drawing. I had thought about stashing the fake ID from Harrow in there, but I felt more secure keeping that on my person. Even now it rode in my purse, in a hidden pocket I’d sewn into the lining, along with another stash of cash. Just in case.