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

by Caedis Knight

  Luisa points at a garment bag floating my way. I reach for it and cradle it in my clammy hands. If these dresses are reflections of our inner power, then what will mine reflect? The truth? Nothing?

  Maybe it will be plain and full of tiny bells that ping every time anyone speaks to me. I’m scared to look at it. Scared to see what meager offering Señora Estrella has deemed fit for such a low-ranking Witch like me.

  “I can’t believe Maribel was going to ban bewitched costumes,” Luisa muses, climbing out of her dress.

  “Maribel was going to cancel a lot of things,” Beatriz replies. “Can’t say I’m disappointed she won’t be at the ball this year. Every event with her there feels like being on a date while your father watches.”

  “Your father is always watching,” Luisa says to her with a smirk.

  I tear myself away from their outfits long enough to take in what they’re saying. They appear to like my mom, but it’s pretty clear neither of them is sad about Maribel going missing.

  Interesting.

  Luisa has taken off her gown but is still walking about in her black lace thong and bra like we’ve been best buddies all our lives.

  “What about your dress?” she asks.

  “I’m going to try it on back at my apartment.”

  “Suit yourself.” She smiles. “Speaking of suits!”

  Rafi walks in and my mouth gapes open for the third time since I set foot in this bewitched workshop. Rafi looks… He looks nothing like the boy I first saw smoking a joint outside the MA building. He looks like the prince of darkness himself.

  “Nice, eh?”

  “Nice?!” Estrella huffs. “It’s exquisite, boy.”

  “How about you, Saskia? Pleased with your dress?” Rafi asks.

  Estrella watches me closely, her gaze piercing. My stomach aches in response. If I stick around any longer, they will force me to try on the dress and it will be my childhood all over again — a crowd of people staring at me with undisguised disappointment.

  “I better go,” I say, clutching my garment bag to my chest. “All I’ve eaten today is that weird cake, and I need to unpack and....”

  Luisa stands in my way and I stop abruptly.

  “Your mother told Bea we were to welcome you. You’re coming to eat at the port with us.”

  Rafi grins. “She’s right. We want to welcome you to Barcelona the best way we know how, which means feeding you until you can longer walk and introducing you to the finest crema Catalana.”

  I might be stubborn, but I’m no fool. Only a fool turns down crema Catalana.

  Chapter Six

  “I’m not going to make it to dinner,” Beatriz says with great importance as we leave the workshop. When no one asks her why she glances at her expensive phone, then consults her far more expensive watch.

  “I have an important meeting in Montjuic in half an hour. Here,” she hands me the MA credit card we used at Estrella’s. “Solina said to give it to you for expenses.”

  “Montjuic is pretty close to the port,” Luisa says. “Join us after.”

  “No, I won’t have time.”

  “Wait. Who has an important meeting at this time of night?” Rafi’s thick eyebrows dance with mischief, making Luisa laugh.

  “Yeah. What happened to Witches before bitches?” Luisa cries.

  “Or Warlocks before cocks?!” Rafi singsongs. The pair break into a fit of giggles like school children.

  Beatriz flips them off.

  “Go on, take care of your business,” Luisa snickers. “God knows you need it.”

  Beatriz doesn’t bother saying goodbye as she marches away, her heels clicking against the sidewalk. I follow Luisa and Rafi, heading in the opposite direction.

  “So, I guess she’s not going to a meeting then?”

  “She’s going on a date. Or to fuck someone,” says Luisa. There’s no judgment in her voice, just amusement. “But perfect Princess Beatriz would never admit that she needs to get a little action, like the rest of us.”

  I try to reconcile the Beatriz I remember from my childhood with this version. Even as kids, she liked to ensure Mikayla and I knew she was far too important to join in with anything silly, like spying through keyholes.

  Luisa and Rafi gossip as they weave their way down Las Ramblas towards the sea, dodging crowds of people watching other people pretending to be statues. I remember loving this place when I was younger, having my portrait painted with Mikayla, and looking at all the animals in cages. Good to see it’s mainly flowers they sell now, along with overpriced paella that’s straight out of the freezer.

  It’s nearly nine o’clock and the restaurants are only just opening for the tourists lining the streets, their cameras slung around their necks while pointing out the statue of Columbus. We cross the road to a wide sidewalk dotted with palms, the sea before us full of expensive yachts. The sun has already set but it’s not fully dark yet. I feel the hot air kiss my skin and finally relax a little into the walk, allowing Rafi and Luisa’s MA gossip to wash over me.

  “Are we eating over there?” I ask, pointing at the busy port lined with bars and restaurants.

  Rafi laughs. “Only if you want to pay a fortune for shit tourist food.”

  We turn down a side road and head for what looks more like a dingy bar than a restaurant. I can’t help but smile. Any good Spaniard knows the crappier the restaurant looks, the better the food will be. Rafi holds up three fingers at a waiter who waves back eagerly.

  “For you, the best seat in the house,” the waiter says, heading over to us. He’s gazing at Rafi all doe-eyed and simpering. “Follow me.”

  Luisa leans into me and whispers, “Rafi has friends in all the right places.”

  We settle in a corner of the busy restaurant. None of the chairs match, and the tables are all different shapes. They’re covered in thin paper tablecloths and aren’t even the same height. Ours wobbles as we take a seat.

  “Did you hear about the MTI breakout among the Stovemages?” Luisa says, glancing at the waiter as he fusses with cutlery and wine glasses. “Apparently, they spread it to the Brew Witches.”

  Rafi snorts, folding a paper coaster into a square and wedging it under the table leg. “What? Some Brew Witch woke up, suddenly able to make ganache?”

  They both burst out laughing, but I don’t join in.

  “What are MTI’s?”

  “Magically Transmitted Infections,” Rafi says.

  “You’re messing with me. That’s not a thing.”

  “Tell that to my friend, Lydia, who got a nasty one from a rather sexy Andalusian Touchmage,” Luisa says.

  “Yeah, well, Touchmages are dangerous,” I reply, almost instinctively.

  A look passes between Luisa and Rafi, but they don’t comment.

  “Explain it to me, then. Tell me how these infections are transmitted.”

  I’ve dated plenty of Paras but never a Mage. But still, how have I never heard of this?

  “Magical sex can be messy,” Rafi explains. “Energy can linger and cause a kind of magical infection, dulling the power of the carrier. Or, in rare cases, one Mage may pass some of their power to their partner. Depending on the magic, it can sometimes be a positive thing, and sometimes a nightmare.”

  I’m curious now. “How could it be bad or good?

  He leans over and drops his voice into a fake whisper. “For example, I shared a night with a Nox once. Saw dead people for a week. Some dead people you really don’t need to see again.” Rafi’s face grows somber, then his lips twitch into a smirk. “You could say he gave me a Bruce Willy.”

  I laugh so loudly the family beside us gives me a dirty look.

  “On the flip side,” Luisa intervenes. “I got with a French Dreamchaser once, and I had the most amazing Parisian sex dreams for a month.”

  “What’s a Nox?” I ask.

  “Mages who communicate with the dead.” Rafi looks at me incredulously. “You’ve seriously never heard of them? Well, they are rare
r than other factions.”

  “Haven’t fucked a lot of Witches, have you?” Luisa asks me. Her gaze is darker now, her eyes and leather jacket flickering in the candlelight.

  “Or Warlocks,” Rafi corrects her.

  “No, I haven’t. Mage relationships aren’t really my scene.”

  “Your loss,” Louisa says. She takes a sip of her Coke then pouts at it. “It’s flat.”

  I’m about to catch the waiter’s attention but Rafi has already reached over for Luisa’s drink. He holds his palms over it and straight away bubbles start to rise, gathering at the surface until he’s turned the Coke into a mini jacuzzi.

  “Right,” I say, putting my hand down and feeling stupid. “Elemental. I forgot.”

  “Carbonating drinks is my calling.” Rafi smiles, pushing Luisa’s drink towards her. “Luisa thinks of me as her personal Sodastream.”

  She sticks her tongue out at him. “It’s give and take, and you know it.”

  He smiles at her adoringly and I look away. It’s weird to witness these moments of intimacy between them. I don't remember the last time I shared that kind of friendship with anyone. Distant images of Mikayla and me on the beach float up to the surface of my mind. I drown them.

  Our food arrives, causing me to lean back as a giant platter is laid before us.

  “But we didn’t order...”

  Luisa grins. “You get whatever is fresh on the day here, that’s why it’s so hard to secure a table. Even this time in the evening.”

  I’m conscious of the fact this is the third time today that the decision of what I eat has been made for me. It reminds me of dinnertime as a child, but I ignore it because I know they mean well.

  Besides, I guess that’s the beauty of Barcelona. A tantalizing assault on your senses — the music, the aromas, the food. You don’t choose in Barcelona; Barcelona chooses for you.

  The platter before us is nothing but seafood. It looks like a giant crown with langoustine and golden calamari rings at the top, boquerones, octopus’ legs, mussels, and clams tumbling down the bottom, and beneath it all an assortment of grilled fish, including sardines and sea bream.

  “No way will we eat all of this!”

  “This is just the first course,” Rafi says with a grin. “There’s way more to come. Seriously, forget the MA, the only reason I’m in Barcelona is for the food.” He lists the dishes on his fingers. “Canelons, Arròs Negre, Botifarra, Escalivada…”

  Luisa elbows him and nods at the food, dipping her calamari in the aioli. With a wicked grin, Rafi twists the head off a giant prawn and sucks it.

  I take a deep breath, and for a moment, I forget I’m surrounded by powerful Mages. The Spanish chatter and the smell of seafood take me back to my childhood in Marbella and I’m happy. For a split second, my father hasn’t died yet, I haven’t discovered how useless my magical powers are, and my sister is my best friend.

  I blink and reality comes crashing down.

  The waiter places a bottle of red wine and three small glass cups on the table. Luisa takes no time pulling out the cork and pouring it out. I go to ask what wine it is, but Luisa cuts me off.

  “Calla i menja.”

  Eat and be quiet was a phrase I heard all the time as a kid in Spain.

  “Venga, get your hands dirty!” Rafi shouts out.

  Using my fingers, I take a bite of the sardines, then involuntarily groan at the flavor.

  “I know, right?” he says, dangling an octopus tentacle into his mouth.

  The rest of the meal is peppered with small talk. I tell them lies about my fake accountancy job in New York, they tell me what life is like in the MA, mainly studying and the odd bit of spell work. I don’t get one lead whatsoever about the sigils or their missing leader, but it’s nice.

  And they were right about one thing, we manage to finish all the food and everything else that follows. The creamy Catalan pudding arrives last. Overcome with nostalgic bliss, I crack the golden sugar crust with a spoon. I grin at the sounds it makes, like jumping in icy puddles.

  The waiter brings us the bill, but he only has eyes for the Warlock. I’m sure if Rafi let him, he’d sit on his lap while we pay.

  Rafi reaches for his wallet, but Luisa stops him with a stern look. She whips out her own card and places it on the bill.

  “No,” he says, pushing her hand away. “I told you, business is doing well.”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen Rafi look even mildly angry. I place another card on top and shove theirs aside.

  “Just bill it to Solina’s account,” I say.

  Luisa lets out a whistle. “Jesus, you really hate her.”

  “How could I? She’s my mother,” I say with a shrug, as if that’s an answer. Though in Witch speak it is — mothers are holy. They can do no wrong in our culture, which makes it all so much worse.

  I sign the bill and Rafi jumps up. “Let’s go. Hopefully you’re a better swimmer than you are liar.”

  Chapter Seven

  Swimmer?

  If he thinks I’m getting in the sea, he can think again. The last time a cute guy convinced me to go swimming at night it resulted in me blowing up an entire Merhive.

  We’re heading away from the port and restaurants towards the large, dark expanse of beach. To our left, hundreds of yachts and sailing boats bob and clank together in the light breeze, and as we head towards the beach the restaurants thin out into busy bars and clubs, then nothing but dark sand and inky black water. I shudder.

  “You look worried,” Luisa says, slowing down and falling into step beside me.

  “I don’t like the sea, remember?”

  I already told them the full Siren story over dinner. Realization dawns behind her eyes, and she gives me a tight-lipped nod, before taking Rafi’s hand and swinging it back and forth, whispering in his ear.

  I take off my shoes. Today has been warm but the sand is cold between my toes. It’s kind of soothing.

  “This will do,” Rafi says, dropping to the sand. He pulls off his sneakers and t-shirt, the moonlight picking out the contours of his abs.

  I look at the patch of sand. “This will do for what?”

  He pulls something out of his pocket. A fat bag of weed.

  “We get high, then go for a swim,” he says, taking a book of papers and expertly skinning up.

  “Rafi, I just told you. Saskia doesn’t want to go in the water.”

  “It will be fun, I promise.” Rafi’s eyes shine with mischief. “Don’t forget I’m an Elemental. Keep your clothes on and I can pull the water out of them after. You’ll be dry in seconds.”

  “Per déu, she said no!” Luisa’s voice is loud, and her words clipped.

  Without another word Rafi goes back to rolling his joint, lights it, then hands it to us. “Sorry. Here you go, chicas!”

  I clear my throat and take a hit, thankful for the distraction. As soon as the smoke hits the back of my throat, I start coughing.

  “Shit, this is strong stuff!”

  “Only the best,” he says with a grin.

  I pass the joint to Luisa, who takes a long drag, all the while looking at me slow and steady like she’s trying to figure something out. “Rafi grows this himself.”

  That makes sense. Elementals are amazing gardeners; they can do more than make Coke fizzy.

  Rafi looks really proud of himself. “Give me your phone,” he says, punching in his telephone number. “Call me, then I have your number. This way, you’ll never run out of weed.”

  It’s not exactly a big concern of mine, but I smile at him indulgently.

  “What do you call this wonder weed of yours, then?”

  “MaryAire.”

  “What?”

  “Mar. Sea. Aire. Air.” He pauses, gesturing at the beach. “Sea and air – my two favorite things. Plus, it sounds like Marijuana, but…”

  “But the initials are MA and that gives you a kick,” Luisa cuts in. “And it sounds like Maribel, and she hates you growing the stuff
.”

  I sit up quickly. Too quickly for the potent stuff we’re smoking.

  “Maribel knows you grow this?”

  Rafi blows a smoke ring; it floats up like a water bubble. “She had me perfect a few strains. The MA owns stock in a couple of local weed cafes, but she doesn’t know about my side hustle. What Luisa means is that she wouldn’t like me growing it for my own fun or profit. It’s a control thing.”

  No surprise there.

  “She wants you exactly where she has you,” says Luisa bitterly. “Someone like Maribel would never let someone like you rise in the ranks, that’s why she wants your power leashed.”

  When it rains, it pours. I didn’t have to push after all. They are both unloading to me about Maribel like I’ve been part of their gang for years.

  “Sounds like you’re not a fan of the First,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can.

  “She’s OK,” Luisa says.

  Ping.

  “But sometimes she could be…I mean, can be, a bit…you know. Old fashioned. Archaic.”

  No pings, but the change in tense doesn’t escape me.

  “She’s racist and sexist. I think she regrets allowing me into the MA,” Rafi says with a shrug. “But I’m useful to her, so she has to bite her tongue.”

  More truths, although nothing I couldn’t have already guessed. I grew up with that bitch in our house all the time. I know exactly how mean she could be.

  “Well, you do grow the very best weed,” I say, taking another drag. “MaryAire. That’s clever branding.”

  “Oh, I’m very clever,” Rafi says, running his finger over the sand and making it swirl in spirals. My stomach contracts as I’m taken back to my last vacation with my sister in Malibu, sitting on the beach talking like this, tiny sand mandalas forming in the air. Except Rafi isn’t doing anything small, the grains of sand are mounting and forming a large intricate pattern. A giant sigil. My stomach clenches tighter as I realize where I’ve seen this sign before.

  “MaryAire. My brand,” he says. “You may have seen it advertised around the city.”

  “That was you?” I exclaim.

  The sigils I came here to investigate, the ones carved into stone walls all over the Gothic Quarter, were Rafi’s doing?