“Don’t worry, we have it covered,” Beatriz says, her eyes shining with glee.
Nope, there’s no way out.
I turn at the sound of a lighter. Rafi is firing up a joint. He takes a long drag.
“Can we smoke in here?” I ask, looking around.
Luisa takes a hit and passes it to me, her tongue flicking between her fingers as she extracts a flake of tobacco from her lips.
“We can do what we want, Saskia,” Beatriz cuts in. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”
I take a long drag. The smoke makes me conscious that I haven’t eaten since getting off the plane. I pull the plate of pastries towards me and take a greedy bite of cake. It dissolves in my mouth, carrot and lemon, and... something else. The taste of hot chocolate, cinnamon and honey. I see my father by a stove, telling me that the best hot chocolate requires burnt milk. On my tongue I feel the layered taste of sweet milky film.
“What the fuck is this?” I say, with a sobering swallow.
“Memory cake,” Luisa replies. “We thought you’d like it.”
Rafi’s eyes light up and he leans forward. “What memory did you see?”
I’m not about to tell them I saw my late father making me a hot chocolate.
I hate it here. I hate that everything in the MA is about fucking control. Even your food controls and influences you.
“I told you she would have preferred the giggle donuts,” says Beatriz. Her tone is so obnoxious, like she knows me. Like she knows my magical food preferences.
Rage explodes inside of me like hot lava. “I need normal food, not these fucking theatrics!” I erupt, shoving the plate of cakes aside. “I just want a normal fucking coffee, non-sentient sugar, and a muffin that doesn’t give me an orgasm!”
I’m shaking, and tears have sprung to my eyes. God, this is so embarrassing. I’m triggered by a piece of cake.
Luisa puts a hand on mine. “Sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you.”
“That’s a good suggestion though, orgasm muffins,” says Rafi, grinning with the joint clamped between his teeth. “Better write it down for the Stovemages. Call it The Buttered Muffin.”
I’m not amused, but my lip tugs up at the corners anyway.
Beatriz remains silent; unlike the others, she has no interest in making me feel better.
“If you don’t like theatrics, then you’re really not going to like where we’re taking you next,” Luisa says with a grimace.
Oh god.
I gesture at the waitress. I’m going to need more carajillos.
Chapter Five
Looking up at the intricate art nouveau façade of a pharmacy, I frown. “This isn’t a clothes store.”
They have these all over Barcelona. Most of them were built or refurbished at the turn of the twentieth century. They’re stunning works of art, with stained glass windows, intricate wooden window framing, and mosaic tiling. But as pretty as they are, I have no idea why we’re here.
I roll my eyes. “Are our dresses made of bandages? Is the theme ancient Egypt?”
The image of my mother being brought out on a fainting couch, carried by shirtless men, makes me shudder.
Beatriz turns to me. “Yup, the theme is mummies and mommy issues.”
I scowl at her. Bitch.
But I bite back my reply because her mother is in a Mage asylum somewhere, and that’s nothing to joke about. Mikayla told me that bit of gossip years ago. I always knew Beatriz’s mom had gone away; I just didn’t know where she went.
Rafi waves his hand across the air like a film director. “How about Penis and Papyrus?”
“The theme this year is Shadow Self,” Luisa says, deadpan. “The themes are never literal. They stay open to interpretation.”
“Your mother is Solina,” Beatriz says with contempt. “The most powerful of Witches and acting head of the MA, and you seriously don’t know why we’re here?”
“Stop being a bully, Beatriz.” Luisa holds the door open for me. “Vinga.”
Rafi takes my hand like I’m a child and the pharmacy is a candy store. I’m so shocked by his overfamiliarity; I don’t say anything. I follow them inside, the noise and warmth of the street fading away.
“Have you seen Sleeping Beauty?” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth.
“Of course.”
“Remember the scene with the fairy godmothers and the dresses?”
I nod, looking around a very normal pharmacy. What’s his point?
“Or the scene in The Incredibles with Edna?”
“Magical clothes,” I say, catching on. “You know your animation.”
“It’s one of my favorite D’s.”
I raise my brows as he counts down on his fingers.
“Disney, divination and dick.”
Dick? So maybe he isn’t with Luisa? Or maybe he likes a bit of both? Not sure why I’m obsessed with cracking their relationship, or how it’s any of my business, but something about them has me invested.
“You blow at divination,” says Beatriz.
“I do not! I was able to predict when it would rain last week.”
Luisa snorts. “That’s because you made it rain.”
“What? You can make it rain?” I ask.
Impressive.
“Drizzle,” Beatriz corrects. “On two square meters.”
“It’s a work in progress,” he mumbles.
Hmm, so Rafi is an Elemental. I’ve only met a few Elementals but haven’t seen any since childhood. All I know is that they can control the elements – water, fire, air, and earth. They do really well with their own businesses, growing the most spectacular gardens for the rich and famous overnight, or helping surfers win championships by controlling the waves in their favor.
The clerk doesn’t give us a second glance as we head behind the counter to the pharmaceutical section where they dispense prescriptions. At first, it’s stark and white, with shelves full of modern packets of pills. I have no idea what this has to do with clothes shopping. But as we go deeper, I find myself in something resembling an old apothecary. Wooden shelves line the walls full of glass bottles with peeling labels, earthenware jars of tinctures, and tiny drawers smelling of dried herbs.
A pharmacist in a white coat watches us pass, then turns back to her paperwork as if she's used to people coming and going unannounced.
We stop in front of a wooden panel, and Beatriz flashes her hand at it. The wall silently slides to the side, revealing a doorway.
“Woah,” I say silently under my breath.
Rafi squeezes my hand, which I’d forgotten he was still holding, and Luisa gives me a wicked grin.
“It’s like an automatic door sensor, except it senses MA initiation magic,” she explains. “All MA verified buildings have entrances like this.”
Great, so I’m going to need MA permission for any digging I need to do in these buildings.
I must be making a face because Luisa adds, “Don’t worry, your mother has already cleared your access. You can come and go from this building as you please.”
Awesome. Twenty-four-hour access to the headache tablets I’m going to be needing soon.
We start climbing a winding flight of wooden stairs and Rafi finally lets go of my hand. The stairs are steep, but we don’t stop at the first level or the next. Each level has a door, and each door is made from old oak adorned with art nouveau swirls and huge symbols carved out of the wood. We pass a spoon in a circle on the first floor, and judging by the fresh smell of cookies, I’m guessing someone is baking inside. Then, on the second floor, we pass a triangle with rays coming from it. None of these symbols are similar to the ones Jackson showed me.
“That’s my art studio,” Luisa says casually.
I want to ask her what kind of art she does, but I'm embarrassingly out of breath by the time we’ve reached the third floor. We’ve stopped by a door with a needle and thread on it, the thread in the form of a large S.
“What is this place?”
<
br /> “Just an average Mage workshop. Nothing special,” Beatriz trills.
Ping. Ping.
I don’t know why she bothers lying. She knows I’m a Verity Witch.
Her mouth sets in a straight line and she sighs. “At the end of the nineteenth century, when women were fighting for suffrage all over Europe, us Witches were persecuted more than ever. We had to learn how to hide in plain sight, and seeing as most Witches already owned apothecaries, they created these secret meeting points above pharmacies.” She smiles, clearly enjoying her new role as teacher. “They are now the offices of the Spanish Spell Smiths. Every creative skill you can think of – sculpture, painting, cooking, music. When it’s injected with magic, it all starts in buildings like this one.”
I grew up surrounded by magic-infused music and art, but it never occurred to me to wonder where any of it was created...or by whom.
“Mine and Luisa’s outfits are already finished,” she adds. “We’re here for yours.”
“What about Rafi?”
“I already have something,” he says nonchalantly. The ping of his lie hits me just as Luisa interjects.
“I told you, Rafi, we are getting your suit today too. It’s covered.”
“No arguing,” Beatriz agrees. “The Silkmage is usually booked up before the ball.” She turns to me, back to her haughty self. “But she made an exception for you, Saskia. She managed to squeeze you in.”
Silkmage?
As if reading my mind, the door flies open, and standing before us is an elaborately dressed woman. She’s old, her skin powdery and white like crinkled tissue paper. Her hair is just as pale, towering like cotton candy held up by golden knitting needles. She looks us up and down through her comically large glasses.
“Late.” Her nose creates a new set of wrinkles as she screws it up in disgust. “How can you all go out dressed like that? Embarrassing. Vile. Call yourself Witches?”
Beatriz smooths down her plaid skirt and pats down her hair, but she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground.
“Yeah, we get it. You wish we could go back to the days of corsets and guillotines,” Luisa says to the designer. “Alas, Señora Estrella,” she gestures at her ripped jeans. “This is what the kids are wearing these days. Are our dresses ready?”
“Bah,” the old woman mutters, waving her gnarled fingers in our faces. She ushers us in, and we shuffle after her. I notice she's wearing a diamond-encrusted thimble, and slung around her bony shoulders is a massive ginger fur.
I look closer at her stole and find myself eye to eye with a Persian cat’s face. It blinks.
“Holy shit.” I stumble backward. “Your shawl just winked at me.”
Estrella strokes the fur absentmindedly, and it begins purring.
“Cashmere doesn’t like strangers,” she says, as if that’s explanation enough.
“Estrella is like Cruella de Vil,” Rafi whispers from behind me. “But with kitties.”
She skins cats? I survey the room and see more eyes blinking at me. There are about half a dozen cats strewn around the atelier, but mercifully they are all alive.
Estrella’s sharp eyes follow me.
“You like the pussies?”
I swallow the immature laugh forming in my throat. Behind me, Rafi is less successful. She shoots him a dirty look.
“You’re not in the MA, are you, boy?”
“Rafeek is a talented MA Elemental,” Beatriz interrupts.
Luisa shoots the Señora a stern look and adds, “and he’ll be needing a suit.”
We pass rows of sewing machines and mannequins, cats winding around our feet. One hisses as Estrella accidentally steps on its tail with an irritable huff.
“Cats in an atelier is a bold choice,” I say. “Don’t they love shredding fabric?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “They are all declawed and enchanted to never shed.”
A gold serpent bangle glimmers on her wrinkly wrist, reflecting the weak sunlight flooding the workroom. It starts to move, and I realize this isn’t normal jewelry; it’s an actual ruby-eyed snake, dipped in gold, coiling itself around her liver-spotted skin. If one more of this woman’s accessories blinks at me, I’m leaving.
I point at the bracelet. “Former pet?”
“Moliere. The most wonderful snake.” She points at her scaly pink boots. “And these are Kellogg’s, a fish given to me by Warhol, and Rice Pudding, a gift from Pablo. Both named after the gift-giver’s favorite breakfast foods.”
The boots are thigh-high. How fucking big were these fish?
“Which Pablo? Escobar or Picasso?” Luisa asks with genuine interest.
I like that her brain goes there, considering the old woman just told us she’s wearing her former aquarium on her feet.
“Picasso, of course. Let’s begin. I have another fitting after yours.”
The large room is lined floor to ceiling with shelves stuffed with reams of fabric, rolls of delicate lace, colorful leathers, and slumbering balls of fur.
The ceiling is moving with light and shadows, every inch of space occupied with large papered cutting tables, Stockman mannequins, and paper patterns. Beyond the main area is a sunny fitting room where dresses of every style hang in the air as if suspended by a gossamer thread. One dress keeps changing color and pattern, like a psychedelic kaleidoscope. Another gown is tiered and bulbous, glowing electric pink like a jellyfish. I’ve seen plenty of magic in my time, but I’ve never seen outfits like these.
“I’ve dressed many Warlocks,” says Estrella. “Only important ones, though. My favorite was in 1991. The outfit was meant to be worn at the closing ceremony of the Barcelona Olympics the following year, but then the Warlock died. Great voice. Such a tragedy. They aren’t all as good as that one.”
I look over at Beatriz and Luisa, but neither of them seems to get the reference.
“Who will be settling the bill?” Estrella asks, pausing by an old-fashioned card machine.
Beatriz points at me. “Hers is billed on the MA account, but Rafi’s needs to be split between both these cards.” She produces a credit card, and Luisa does the same.
The old woman has already taken the card out of Beatriz’s hand and is shuffling over to a set of curtains. With a wave of a crooked finger, she parts them to reveal an elaborate changing room.
“Seriously, you guys don’t need to get me a suit,” says Rafi, but he’s smiling.
“Relax, pringat, before I make you relax,” Luisa jokes.
Beatriz slings an arm around him. “Someday you will make it rain for us, Rafi. But, until then, it's our treat.”
“Boy, come with me to get measured!” Estrella snaps. “I’m running out of time.”
“But you haven’t measured me yet,” I call out to her retreating back. “And I haven’t discussed dress ideas with you. Do you have a catalog?”
Beatriz and Luisa give me a warning look, and I stop talking. Too late. Estrella whips around, her wide eyes behind her large spectacles making her look like a chameleon. “A catalog?”
She shuffles towards me, then reaches out her hand and runs it down my shoulder. Her bug-eyed gaze sweeps over me as she mutters something under her breath. Turning my head away from her feline stole, I wonder if she’s considering making me into an accessory.
This hat made of skin was a sassy Verity Witch.
I feel my skin prickle. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking your measurements and feeling your power.”
Feeling my power? Why? She’s focusing hard. With a feverish buzz, the sewing machines behind her come alive as if a hive of bees were waking all at once.
Fabric floats from the shelves to the chalk-marked table a few feet away, followed by scissors and thread.
“See?” Rafi whispers. “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.”
“Done!” Señora Estrella exclaims.
Done? How are we done?
“Boy, follow me. I’ll take your measurements in private, nothing worse than poor tail
oring in the groin area,” Estrella says, looking bored at the prospect.
I watch them go, mouth wide open.
“Trust her. We get the dress that is meant to be,” Luisa explains.
“And we’re wasting time chatting. Come on!” Beatriz runs over to the two dresses suspended in the air beside us and reaches for the name tags. The two of them gasp in unison as they rip off the plastic cover and wriggle into their gowns.
“Well?”
Luisa gives me a twirl. As she spins, the elaborate black dress changes from having long sleeves to a strapless top and the train climbs higher over her thighs until it clings to her legs like a pencil skirt.
“Don’t like it?” she says.
She twirls again, and it morphs into a gown with a full skirt and a plunging sweetheart neckline that exposes her tanned chest glistening from the heat of the room. I swallow.
“That’s the one you like the most. Right?” she says, with a cheeky smile. “My dress knows. I can look however you want me to look.”
“Ignore her,” Beatriz says, adjusting her own dress. “Witches like her have no decorum.”
“Whatever, Dreamchaser.” Luisa sticks her tongue out. “Better than giving people nightmares!”
Dreamchaser? Beatriz is a fucking Dreamchaser? Witches in her faction have the ability to affect a person’s dreams and, in some cases, even their memories. I wonder, fleetingly, whether she’s always had that power. Did she alter my memory as a kid?
“Careful, Luisa,” Beatriz coos. “Or I’ll give you a sex dream with Donald Trump.”
Luisa’s dress turns into a spiky number. “You wouldn’t dare!”
I laugh, and I turn to Beatriz, who’s adjusting her own outfit.
“Wow.”
Her gown isn’t even made of fabric. She looks like she’s wrapped in black smoke, tendrils climbing up her neck and twisting around her middle. As she moves, the cloud moves with her, dark and whimsical and deadly.
A dress made of nightmares.
“Your gown is ready, Saskia!”
Witches of Barcelona: A Dark, Funny & Sexy Urban Paranormal Romance Series (Blood Web Chronicles Book 2) Page 5