Witches of Barcelona: A Dark, Funny & Sexy Urban Paranormal Romance Series (Blood Web Chronicles Book 2)

by Caedis Knight

  So now I have to go. But I won’t go unarmed.

  “You have to help me,” I say to Jackson, resuming our earlier argument. “I moved my flight by a day so you can get me some protection. I need the warding equivalent of a Trojan Magnum.”

  “And how would I procure that, Saskia?”

  My eyes bore into his. “You have a Witch-for-hire in your employment, and I happen to know she’s good, what with all the bewitched gadgets you’ve given me on the job.” I think back to my fake passport that makes any immigration officer let me enter a country without question, or the Vamp antidote to Witch blood that Jackson gave me. I know he’s paying some Witch, somewhere, for these trinkets, and whoever she is, she’s more powerful than me.

  “Maybe she could place a protection spell on me that neutralizes my mother’s Touchmage abilities?”

  Jackson turns his attention back to the scrolling code on his desktop. “Not sure this Witch has that kind of power.”

  Ping!

  I throw up my hands in irritation. “You’re lying!”

  “I’ve asked you to not use your Verity Witch magic on me.” Jackson’s slick English accent makes every phrase sound like a scold. Or a tease.

  “Unlike you, I can’t just turn my powers off.” My fingers dig into the micro cloth of my swivel chair as I sit back down. Regardless of how inconvenient they are to my boss, these measly truth-telling powers of mine will do nothing to protect me from my mother, the great Solina de la Cruz, or the vast influence she has over me by touch alone.

  Jackson is watching me carefully. “Why is this so important to you, Saskia?”

  “You don’t understand, Jackson, she… she…” My voice fades. I can’t find the words to explain what it is my mother does to me. How it feels.

  I’ve never been able to talk about her powers and their effect on me, except to my sister Mikayla, and even she didn’t get it. She found Touchmage powers comforting. What little girl wouldn’t want her mother to be able to magically make her worries and anxieties vanish in an instant? Especially after losing her father.

  But it’s not that simple. My mother might have been able to make nightmares disappear, but she’s the scariest nightmare of them all.

  A moment passes, but Jackson is still watching me.

  “Touchmages can control you,” I say. “They can make you feel whatever they want. It’s like being a prisoner. A caged pet.”

  This seems to awaken something in him. He sighs deeply.

  “The type of spell you want would involve personal contact. I try to protect my employees and their identities.”

  “Surely you trust me by now?”

  Jackson doesn’t say anything. I lean forward. His golden eyes meet mine. Every time I look at him — closely cropped hair, neat suit, mysterious tattoos winding up his arm — I can’t help but wonder what type of Shifter he is. He still hasn’t told me, and I doubt he ever will.

  This isn’t about me; Jackson doesn’t trust anyone. I reach out and place my hand on his. He flinches but stays silent.

  “You clearly have no problem feeding me to the lions,” I continue. “So at least give me some lion repellent.”

  I can feel the tension crackling between us. Mounting. My eyes are watering, and it has nothing to do with my acting abilities. I’m genuinely scared and Jackson can see that. His nostrils flare as if he can smell my fear.

  “Fine,” he growls. “I have a call to make.”

  An hour later, we’re walking across a loud and busy street in the Bronx. I’ve managed to convince Jackson to stop at a famous bagel shop called Dreidels and Bagels, where a multi-generational Jewish family sells both hand-carved wooden items and rainbow bagels.

  Jackson is not as impressed by my meal as I am. He cradles his black coffee between large leather-clad hands and shifts from one foot to the other. Whatever type of Shifter he is, he doesn’t seem to like the cold. I cross ‘snow leopard’ off the imaginary list that lives in the corner of my mind. I guess I’ll be forever playing Twenty Questions: The Jackson Edition.

  “You’re missing out. This lox, capers, and jalapeño cream cheese bagel is basically ambrosia,” I declare through a mouthful.

  “I told you we could go to dinner later.” Jackson discards the now empty Styrofoam cup and rights his coat with distaste, throwing me a side glance. “You don’t have to eat while you walk. Like some…”

  “Animal?” I cut in. At that precise and inopportune moment, a caper escapes my mouth and tumbles down my shirt. “Spells are exhausting. I need to preload on carbs.”

  I’m concentrating so hard on keeping my food in my mouth and off my clothes that I don’t realize Jackson is no longer beside me. He’s noticed something in a store window and has stopped suddenly. I join him staring at a display of hamsters and rats for sale in a shabby pet shop.

  “I guess I’m not the only one that’s hungry,” I say with a grin, watching Jackson’s reaction.

  He rolls his eyes. “I fucking hate pet shops.”

  Unlike me, Jackson rarely swears. I turn back to the display and watch as a black rabbit slowly hops across a floor of hay. My heart squeezes at the memory of black fur on white snow. Of dark blood and a tiny sound that was far too small for death. I left Moscow six weeks ago, but I still have nightmares about my Shifter friend, Ansel, being murdered. What chance did she have of protecting herself when the only thing she could change into was a rabbit?

  For what feels like the billionth time, I ask myself how I could have helped her, whether I could have saved her life. Then, inevitably, I think of Lukka — the white-eyed Russian Vampire who stole a small piece of my heart and left the rest as empty and frozen as a Siberian winter.

  Jackson shifts uncomfortably beside me. “You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?”

  He knows all about Lukka and he’s still not happy I stayed in Moscow longer than I had to. He knows I stayed for a Vampire, yet I’m not sure if it’s Lukka himself, or what he is, that bothers Jackson the most.

  “Yes, I’m thinking about him. And Ansel.”

  “We should go.” Jackson tries to be objective, but I know Shifters mean more to him than Vamps. “Have you had any further contact with him?”

  I frown. “With Lukka?”

  Jackson nods. Face strained.

  “No,” I reply. “Lukka isn’t the Zoom catch-up type.”

  Even through his thick tweed coat I can see his shoulder ease.

  “Good.”

  Why the fuck does it matter to him if I talk to Lukka?

  Jackson has marched on. I take another greedy bite of my bagel and catch up with him. “Careful, Jackson, or I might think you’re jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous. I just don’t want my best reporter in contact with a homicidal Vampire.”

  I hear the ping, but I’m not sure which part of the sentence it applies to. Either he is jealous, which would be super weird, or I’m not his best reporter, which is likely.

  “Chill. You need to reLox,” I tell him, waving my fishy bagel in his face.

  Jackson stomps away, muttering something along the lines of ‘I’ve hired a bloody child.’

  I follow him. He can grumble all he wants — I don’t care as long as I get that protection spell. I make like a good New Yorker and turn my attention back to my bagel.

  My calves burn by the time we make it up the six-floor walkup to the Witch’s apartment.

  Jackson’s mysterious Witch-for-hire lives in a brick building the color of dried mud, framed by zigzags of red fire escapes. The hallways scream neglectful NYC landlord, with curls of chipped paint littering the floor like fall foliage. I tiptoe around them as we pass an array of cracked windowpanes and busted lightbulbs. Despite its decrepit appearance, the building smells nice, like someone’s cooking garlic and onions lathered in spices. Like someone is waiting for their loved ones to come home. My stomach tightens when I think about my apartment that only ever smells of day-old Pizza Hut.

  By the time
Jackson pauses at the end of the hall, by a green door with a brass knocker in the shape of a mermaid, the delicious smell has shifted from spices to essential oils. Patchouli, frankincense, and the sickly-sweet scent of jasmine hits my nose. We’re clearly in the right place.

  Before we have the chance to knock, the door swings open, and a beautiful man with long lilac hair and lashes triple the length of mine smiles at us.

  “Jackson, nene guapo! Come in, come in.” The man ushers us through a tight entryway, full of haphazardly strewn high heels. He throws a curious glance over his shoulder. “And who might this pretty little thing be?”

  Ping. I feel the sting of his lie. He doesn’t actually find me pretty, and he doesn’t know I’m a Verity Witch.

  “This is Saskia. Saskia, meet the ever-talented Angel.”

  “Hola,” I say, already having noted his Puerto Rican accent.

  “Enchanted.” Angel offers me his hand to shake then gestures for us to follow him through a curtain of shimmering beads.

  Who is this guy and why did Jackson refer to him as talented? Maybe he’s the Witch’s assistant?

  Angel’s long embellished golden nails glitter as he parts the beads and lets us through. He’s wearing a turquoise knitted caftan that exposes his large, tanned belly. His heavy make-up is made up of golds and blues, with perfect smoky eyes. I spot a ring light and color backdrop in the corner of the room. Of course, this flawless creature has a YouTube channel. But why are we here? Is Jackson throwing me a makeover?

  I guess the décor is what one would describe as ‘boho-chic.’ Jagged crystals in all shapes and sizes line the mantel, glittering throw pillows cover the floor, and in the center of the room is a fancy brass cauldron that looks more Crate and Barrel than any object of magic.

  OK, so we’re not here for a makeover. And it’s just the three of us. Where the hell is the Witch?

  I look over at Angel. His hair, which moments ago was lilac, is now a deep shade of pink, and his nails have turned from gold to neon green.

  Oh. I look at the cauldron and then at Angel again. Jackson’s Witch-for-hire is a Brew Witch… and a Warlock at that!

  Angel starts to gather supplies as I watch him warily.

  “You didn’t tell me your friend was a Warlock,” I hiss at Jackson under my breath. “Might as well give me a packet of sage and wish me luck!”

  Angel whips around. Shit, he’s heard me.

  “And you didn’t tell me your friend is a classist Bruxia bitch,” he says to Jackson. Then he taps his ear. “I brew a delightful hearing potion. Helps me gather all the gossip.”

  “I’m not classist! You take that back!” I say childishly. “It’s just that the spell I need is complicated and…”

  Angel sticks his tongue out at me. “You can take your Catalan cattiness and shove it up your culo plano, hooooney.”

  “I’m not Catalan,” I reply sulkily. “My mother is from the south. And my ass is not flat!”

  “You’re still bigoted.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “I’m good at what I do. I don’t need your archaic MA beliefs up in my temple of power.”

  Fuck. He’s right. I can’t believe I just pulled a full Solina de la Cruz and judged his Witching powers based on gender. The idea that Warlocks are less powerful has been ingrained in me since childhood.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I say, getting to my feet and stumbling over a floor cushion. “I don’t subscribe to their archaic ways either! I promise. I’m not even in the MA.”

  The Warlock watches me from beneath those giant lashes of his. I swear they keep growing. He’s certainly talented with beauty brews, I’ll give him that much. He points a phallic crystal at me. Wait, it’s more than phallic, it’s a literal rose quartz dildo.

  “A Spanish Witch who isn’t in the MA? Well, that’s refreshing,” he coos. “Now, let’s get to work. Sit by my cauldron. I’m paid by the hour and Jackson here knows I’m as expensive as I look.”

  Blue liquid bubbles in the cauldron, steam rising into my face and causing droplets to leak down my temples. I wipe the sweat from my brow. Very attractive.

  “Whatever that is, it smells like shit.”

  “The most powerful stuff always does,” Angel says, as he keeps adding ingredients to the copper cauldron.

  It’s true. I remember my mother had Brew Witches come to our house when I had chickenpox, and again when Mikayla had whooping cough. The brews always stank.

  “I’m going to give you a protection brew. It works as a vaccine of sorts. Although it will only make you resistant to a certain type of magic from one select person.”

  I’ve already told Angel why we are here, and to his credit the Warlock showed no signs of shock that I’m the daughter of the second highest Witch in the MA. Instead he looked at me with pure compassion — the kind of look only those familiar with the power of abusive parents can give you.

  “Do you have something of your mother’s I can use?” he asks me.

  I was prepared for this as many spells need an anchoring object. Reaching into my pocket I pull out a locket my mother gave me for my Witching Day. Mikayla got a diamond pendant, but I got a simple locket she forgot to fill. To this day, it’s empty of photos and full of the stench of disappointment. I place it in Angel’s outstretched hand.

  “The locket will be the anchor, but I still need to summon a trace of Solina’s Touchmage energy,” he explains. Regret flashes across his face, creasing his make-up. “Do you have any traumatic memories in which your mother used her powers on you?”

  I tap my temple. “It’s an all-you-can-eat trauma buffet up there.”

  “Magic, similar to trauma, is stored in the body as an energy imprint. We need to go back to a few of those moments and bring that energy back in order to seal the brew. Can you do that for me? Can you go back?”

  I nod, fingers digging into the plush carpet beneath my knees. Angel looks at Jackson.

  “I will give you some privacy,” Jackson says. He gets to his feet, places his hand reassuringly on my shoulder for a couple of seconds, then leaves the room.

  “That is one fine specimen.” Angel hums in appreciation. “You two ever had a thing?”

  “Me and Jackson? No. Gross.”

  The Brew Witch laughs. He’s clearly not buying my feigned disgust.

  “OK, honey.” He positions himself behind me and starts to massage my tense shoulders. “Now, what I need you to do is visualize a moment your mother controlled you with her touch magic. Close your eyes.”

  I do as he says, and immediately Angel starts an incantation. I hear the bubbles in the cauldron intensify and feel his energy envelop me. Behind my closed eyelids, there’s only darkness at first, then slowly I begin to pluck a painful memory from my collection as if it were a floating ember in the darkness.

  I plunge in.

  I’m thirteen years old. It’s a week after my Witching Day.

  All my friends had discovered their abilities that day and were classified into their magical factions – Dreamchasers, Touchmages, Elementals…and then there was me. Saskia, sister of the talented Mikayla who’d been classified into so many magical categories on her special day that she’d lost count of her abilities. Saskia, daughter of the powerful Solina. Saskia, the little girl who had failed spectacularly in front of hundreds of people and hadn’t been able to produce one single spell. Whose only ability was to detect truth from lies, meaning she’d spent the day knowing that everyone who told her that it didn’t matter was lying to her face.

  I watch my memory unfold as I wandered into my mother’s expansive chambers to ask her if she could get me photos for my locket.

  “I’m busy,” she said.

  “You’re always busy. I need you.”

  She dipped low so that we were face to face. “Do you think your needs are more important than my MA work?”

  My mother waited for the silence that she knew would come.

  “Well, then, have the staff see to your n
eeds, and I will continue doing my job.”

  “Your job is also being my mom,” I spat. “And you’re bad at it.”

  The words that came out of my mouth were ugly, but they were the truth, and that’s when my mother slapped me hard across the face. She could have used a binding spell to hold my tongue, a trick MA moms often used, or relaxed me with her Touchmage magic, but instead she opted for the good old-fashioned backhander with fingers full of diamond-encrusted rings that caught on my mouth.

  Tears scald my wet skin and I wipe them away, unable to tell if I’m crying in my memory or in Angel’s living room.

  I cried so hard that day I started choking, and my mother clutched me to her chest. Yet at the touch of her embrace, I felt my anger towards her slowly ebb away and I was filled with an uncomfortable calm I hadn’t asked for.

  “I forgive you for disappointing me,” she whispered in my ear.

  I feel a release as Angel’s incantation comes to a halt and I open my eyes. My body is shaking slightly as I take a few heavy breaths.

  “That was good,” he says. “Although, unfortunately, we need to do it again.”

  “I don’t…” I start to argue, but he raises his perfectly arched brows.

  Fine. I close my eyes again. Refocusing. Plucking another cursed memory from my mind’s fire.

  I’m ten this time. Six months have passed since my father died. He’d been bitten by a Werewolf and then shot himself in the head. I never got to attend his funeral.

  I remember waking up from a nightmare, having heard the bang of a gunshot followed by a howl so loud I convinced myself there were Wolves outside my bedroom window — that they were coming for me next. I scrambled out of bed and scurried through the halls of our villa towards my mother’s bedroom. My bare feet smacked against the marble, her room so impossibly far. Finally, I reached it and knocked. There’s nothing I wanted more than to crawl into her bed, to have her smooth my hair and tell me I was safe. After a few urgent knocks, she opened the door, tying her silk robe around her waist. She looked down at me, surprise and irritation fluttering across her face like shadows playing tag.