‘Dreamt up by a child, made by a master,’ he would say.
What no one knows is that the famous Catalan architect who designed this palace, and every other building that makes Barcelona so famous, worked for Witches. Antoni Gaudí was a Warlock, part of the MA, and died in mysterious circumstances. That’s why the MA still has full command of his enchanting buildings and parks. It makes me laugh how tourists compare his houses to something from Hansel and Gretel without once thinking about the Witches waiting inside of them.
My favorite part of the MA HQ is the stone and mosaic roof. When we were younger, Mikayla used to compare it to a cartoon beehive. Although, if you ask me, the whole place looks more like a gothic Turkish hammam on acid.
I arrive at my mother’s fancy wood-paneled office, and her secretary tells me to wait. Editions of Mage Monthly are sprawled out on the fancy coffee table like a Japanese fan. Like all Mage magazines, this one is enchanted to not be visible or tangible to anyone without magic in their veins. I roll my eyes at the old-fashioned glossies, but I know people like my mother are too traditional for the Blood Web. I flick through a copy, then just as quickly discard it. Maybe if they made a bewitched version of Vogue I’d be interested — anything is better than this dry bullshit.
“The Second will see you now,” the secretary announces a few minutes later, her voice filled with great importance as if I were about to meet the pope for bubble tea.
Shoulders hunched, I enter my mother’s grand office.
“You’re late,” she says, signaling me over with a wave of her hand. Her long dark hair is pulled back tightly, giving her brows a slight cat-eye look. There’s not a single wrinkle as far as the eye can see.
Her cool eyes flicker down my outfit gradually, like an elevator descending my body. I can feel her train of thought.
Floor three: Boobs too big.
Floor two: Belly too large.
Floor one: Cheap jeans.
“Didn’t get a chance to change after your flight?” she asks.
I wore this outfit to make a point, but now I feel unkempt, large, and dirty.
“Nice to see you too,” I say with a forced smile, even though every inch of me wants to run back out the door.
Then I think of Jackson, of his assignment, and how I’m getting one over on my mom, and plop myself into the seat opposite her.
She checks her Cartier watch, even though I just got here.
“Should we get the tearful reunion out of the way now or schedule it for later?” I ask.
She ignores me, her manicured nails clicking against her recently-drained espresso cup. “Maribel is still missing.”
“I heard. Is she dead?”
Solina falters for a moment. It’s not normal to ask this casually about the death of the First.
“I don’t know for certain. That’s what you’re here for.”
All I can think about is my own missing sister. Two high-profile MA disappearances in the space of two years. Could they be connected? I don’t know if Mom is wondering the same thing, because her immaculate face is tight and unmoving. Witches don’t need Botox, they have magic, and my mother would rather be frozen in place than look a day older than thirty-nine.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask, suppressing a sigh. The least she could have done is given me the illusion of small talk.
“The only thing you can do,” she replies. “Tell me who’s lying.”
“What?” I feign surprise, even though I figured this out as soon as my mom demanded I visit and then I heard Maribel had disappeared. “Why should I?”
“For once in your life consider your own kind and be part of this family.”
What fucking family? A megalomaniac mother, a missing sister, and a dead father? What a jolly Christmas card we make.
Yet her for once in your life statement cuts deep to my core, despite the boundaries I built for this type of thing. I guess mothers have a way of being able to shatter carefully built boundaries with one word. Emotional dynamite.
She reaches out a hand and puts it lightly over mine. I know what she’s doing, I know the Touchmage shit she’s trying to pull. Luckily, I’m one step ahead and I have Angel’s brew bubbling inside my veins.
I recoil anyway. “Don’t use your magic on me!” I hiss, snatching my hand away. “Just tell me when my covert operation starts.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why? What’s happening tomorrow?”
“The equinox ball. It’s our most important dance of the year, and this year’s theme is excellent. The entire week is full of equinox events. Why on Earth do you look so surprised? For God's sake, Saskia, don’t you own a calendar?”
The equinox season is a big deal for Mages — like our Super Bowl, but less dick measuring and more wand measuring.
“I’m sorry I can’t keep track of your many balls. Big balls, little balls…How do you juggle so many balls, Mother?”
“You have the sense of humor of a dim-witted child,” she counters dryly.
“I’m sorry that, unlike Mikayla, I don’t make jokes about Monet and Manet.”
“The difference is evident — Monet was a Warlock, Manet a drunk.”
“That was not my point.”
What exactly was my point?
“Mikayla had pride, loyalty to the cause, work ethic…”
“Has,” I correct her.
My mother pushes her empty cup away, a tremor in her hand. I fight the urge to tell her I saw Mikayla on a train platform, that she’s alive, but I’m scared to believe what I saw.
“With Maribel gone, I’m the acting First.” She says this as if it’s a heavy burden. “I need answers about her whereabouts, and I need them soon. Your abilities may not be impressive...”
She pauses, so I can let the insult sink in.
“But they are rare. And very useful in this instance.”
I grumble inwardly. I still need to get Jackson the scoop on the sigils, and maybe they’re connected to Maribel’s disappearance. I guess it won’t hurt to attend a couple of events and ask a few questions.
There’s a knock at the door, but whoever it is doesn't wait for an answer. A tanned man in his forties walks in, his stride confident. His dark hair is tied back, and his eyes are so brown they are nearly black. A large smile splits his handsome face as soon as he sees me.
“Saskia!”
I return the MA treasurer’s smile. “Salvador.” At least someone’s happy to see me.
“Look how beautiful you’ve become!”
My mother makes a face. Well, she would if her face could move.
“Solina,” Salvador says, turning to her. “We must go, the Fae wait for no one. This is their first visit in years.”
The Fae?
With one swift movement, my mother pulls her Ostrich Birkin onto her shoulder.
“You’re going already?” I say. It’s been less than three minutes. I sat on a plane for nine hours for this?
“I have an important meeting,” she says.
Salvador is already on his way out of the office. “We must catch up at the ball, Saskia,” he calls out merrily. “It’s been too long!”
“See you then,” I call back before turning to my mother.
“Is that the only reason you invited me?” I hiss under my breath. “So I can spy for you?”
She dismisses me with a flick of her hand. “Of course not. I’ve missed you.”
Ping. Ping. Bitch.
Wait, did she say the ball was themed? She turns to go but I shout out after her. “What do I wear tomorrow? Where is it? I don’t know anything about this grand ball.”
She doesn’t slow down, so I follow her into the reception room.
“Beatriz will tell you all you need to know.”
“Hola,” says a syrupy sweet voice beside me.
I turn and let out a long sigh. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Nothing has changed in twelve years. My mother is still dumping me with her friend’s kids.
<
br /> Beatriz smiles dutifully. She’s pure preppy — all long chestnut locks in a high ponytail and a big fake smile. She’s dressed like an extra from Clueless, complete with over-the-knee white socks and extra pearls.
“Remember me?” she asks in her Andalusian accent. “We played together as children in Marbella!”
Beatriz Duarte. Salvador puts a loving hand on his daughter's shoulders.
“Bea volunteered to give you a little tour of the city and take you dress shopping.”
Beatriz nods obligingly. Powerful. Beautiful. Tiresome. And we never played together.
“Oh, wow! So great to see you again,” I lie.
“Enjoy, mis amores!” Salvador calls over his shoulder as he leads my mother away, a hand on the small of her back.
Gross. I suppose everyone is up her ass now that she’s in line to be the First.
“Sorry my mother forced you to babysit me,” I say, turning to Beatriz.
She smiles, although it’s the practiced smile of an actress or politician, switching on far too quickly and brightly.
“Oh, no problem. I’m happy to do it, but coffee first...then shopping,” she says. “I invited some friends. Hope you don’t mind.”
The pinging of her polite lies trails me as I follow her out the door.
Chapter Four
Ten minutes later, we’re in the MA cafeteria, which is more like a hip underground cafe. It’s in a hidden corner of Palau Güell, tucked away behind a statue and down a secret staircase, inaccessible to the wide-eyed tourists permeating the halls.
Despite being underground, the cafe is overgrown with leafy vines. Magical ivy, I note, as the green and red leaves pulsate and swirl around themselves.
We take a table at the back. A moment later, Beatriz jumps up to wave at someone.
“Here they are!”
I look up as two people push their way through the crowd. It’s the boy I saw outside earlier and the girl with short dark hair.
The boy grins at Beatriz and I catch the girl’s eye. She gives me a half-smile, her teeth scraping her bottom lip. Her pixie-cut hair is wild and damp from the helmet, slightly longer on one side, which keeps falling in her eyes. Though her face is young and dotted with freckles, there’s an edge to her I can’t place.
She calls out to a nearby waitress and holds up four fingers. “Carajillos, por favor!”
“I’m Luisa,” the girl says. “Beatriz’s roommate and sometimes friend, and this is Rafeek Amir.”
“Their sometimes roommate and always friend,” the boy says with a wink. “Call me Rafi.”
“I’m Saskia.”
I consider reaching my hand out but think better of it. This isn’t a meeting at The Chronicle and I'm not sure people my age in Spain shake hands. The boy kisses Beatriz on both cheeks, as is customary in Spain, then repeats it with me. The girl holds back and takes a seat.
“We know who you are.” She nods at me but directs the comment to the boy beside her. She leans closer to him and adds. “Mira, another de la Cruz Witch.”
The boy next to me is so close I can smell him — weed and something earthy, like cloves.
“The famous Saskia,” he says to me in Spanish. I detect an accent, maybe Arabic, but it’s faint.
The waitress brings over four tiny cups and a pot of sugar. Carajillos. Only in Spain is an espresso with brandy a daytime beverage. I reach for mine, but Luisa stops my hand mid-air. Our eyes lock, and with a sly smile she lifts the lid from the sugar pot. Tiny white shapes flutter towards me and I nearly duck, then realize they’re butterflies. One settles on the rim of my glass, flaps its delicate wings and dives in. It dissolves instantly in a flurry of bubbles.
I stare at the cup, dumbfounded, but recover quickly. I'm not about to be impressed by sugar cubes. I’m not Seabiscuit.
Luisa smiles warmly, but I don’t care how cute her smile is. These are MA Witch bitches, the most cunning of the toxic lot, and no amount of carajillos is going to make me forget that. I down my drink, wincing as it scalds my throat.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of the famous Saskia de la Cruz visiting us?” Beatriz asks, sipping her own coffee carefully.
The way she says famous sounds less sincere than Rafi. More of a jab. Then I realize what ‘having heard of me’ must mean.
“My mother mentioned me?”
They all look at each other, a secret joke passing between them.
“No. She doesn’t talk about you,” Rafi says. “You are more of a…rumor.”
Luisa leans in closer, her voice just above a whisper. “Is it true? The Merpeople thing?”
I could lie, or I could tell a version of the truth. I weigh up which will impress them more, because if I’m going to find out anything about Maribel, I’m going to need these three by my side.
“The fact I blew up a Siren’s nest in LA looking for my sister? It was nearly two years ago, but yeah…it’s true.”
More glances pass between them, then the boy smiles. “So how come the MA didn’t take you?” he asks. “You’ve clearly got talent and massive cojones.”
The waitress returns with a fully-loaded tray of cakes and normal lattes. I reach for mine gleefully, only to find the latte art shifting between my palms. A bunny running through flowers morphs into a dolphin jumping through waves, which turns into a bear pawing at a honey hive. The wholesome images flicker into each other like claymation made out of foam. On any other day, I would have found it adorable, but right now I’m fed up with all these smoke and mirror distractions.
“I’m not in the MA because I choose not to be,” I say coldly, dragging a spoon across the foamy petting zoo in my cup.
Beatriz shakes her head in tiny motions, mouthing the words ‘Verity Witch.’
Luisa’s face sets hard. “Cabrons feixistes,” she whistles under her breath.
“The MA’s prejudice has nothing to do with it!” I snap back in Catalan, even though she was coming to my defense. “It’s my choice not to join.”
Luisa’s eyes widen. “Woah, nice to hear someone speak Catalan,” she says, looking pointedly at the other two.
If she’s surprised by my linguistic abilities, then clearly the rumors about me didn’t extend far enough that they know I understand every language and can speak them too.
“More than your mom has managed to do,” she adds. “She’s worked in Barcelona for years and still insists on speaking Castilian Spanish.”
“Solina is from Andalucía, like me.” Beatriz sighs. “Last time I checked, Catalunya is still part of Spain.”
“Well, you would say that. Pija.”
‘Oh, god.” Rafi puts his head in his hand in mock despair. “Don’t start them off on this one again. I told you both, Mars is in retrograde. Miscommunication is rife right now.”
“Mars is always in fucking retrograde,” Luisa snaps.
Rafi rolls his eyes. “Such an Aries thing to say.”
I smile at him. “And where are you from?”
“Algeria,” he says. “And I’m from a non-Witch family, and I’m male.” He gives another cheeky wink and shrugs. “I’m a uniting force because everyone at the MA hates me.”
I laugh. “Join my club. There’s only one thing bigoted MA Witches hate more than foreign men, and that’s low-ranking Witches like me.”
We fist pump, and Luisa gives us a strange look. Shit! I forgot about their embrace outside the HQ earlier. If I’m going to keep them onside, the last thing I want to do is get between them.
“Yeah, the MA has its flaws,” Luisa says.
Rafi grins. “And one of those flaws is currently M.I.A.”
I look at him, then Luisa. So, they’re happy Maribel is missing? Interesting.
“I don't want to be in your creepy, inbred cult anyway,” I say.
Luisa snort-laughs, but Beatriz gasps.
“The MA is currently run by your mother,” she says. “You should show some respect.”
“Respect is earned, not given. And my mot
her deserves mine least of all.”
Luisa and Rafi stay silent, basking in the awkwardness.
Great, so my resolve didn’t last long. I can’t help myself. Beatriz’s preppy voice took me right back to being eleven years old again in Marbella, with her fawning over Mikayla and giggling about how unremarkable I was. Am.
I think back to the opulent birthday parties my sister and I used to attend for children of the MA. Bouncy castles and villas with infinity pools flood my head, every Kardashian-esque detail of those too-fancy parties, and the way the children would point at me and laugh because I couldn’t join in with their magical games. The Rudolf of the Witchling world.
“You’re nothing like your sister,” Luisa says. “She had no problem with Solina.”
“Has no problem with Solina,” I correct her. “Mikayla isn’t dead. She’s just…gone.”
I wonder if they knew she was possibly pregnant when she went missing. If they knew who the father was. I can’t risk asking.
“Mikayla’s cool,” Rafi adds. “We were a couple of years below her, but she’s kind of famous around here.”
“She was the most hard-working Witch the MA has seen in a long time,” Beatriz says.
“I guess that accolade goes to you, now,” Luisa says to Beatriz teasingly.
An uncomfortable silence ripples around the table, and for the millionth time since stepping on the plane, I question what the fuck I’m doing here. I came to Barcelona to investigate strange sigils and Maribel’s disappearance for Jackson, for my job, not to cozy up to a bunch of MA Juniors to appease my mother.
None of this adds up. If my mother really wants to know what’s happened to her boss, there’s no shortage of powerful Mages at her disposal. And as if all this isn’t frustrating enough, she expects me to attend the equinox ball like one of her MA show-ponies.
“What are we supposed to wear to the ball?” I ask, filling the silence.
I think back to my suitcase at the crappy apartment down the road. I have loads of cute dresses thanks to Konstantin and my time in Russia, maybe I could wear one of them. If I can avoid Beatriz taking me shopping, that’s a win.
Witches of Barcelona: A Dark, Funny & Sexy Urban Paranormal Romance Series (Blood Web Chronicles Book 2) Page 4