I inch even closer.
“Oh, I know,” I whisper in her ear. “And I choose me.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Three days have passed since Beatriz killed her father, and I left my mother bound by death and hanging in the basement of the Nox.
Beatriz wasn’t seriously injured but is still recovering. Thanks to a talented MA Brew Witch, she’s nearly better, but we both know the invisible bruises on her heart will take a lot longer to heal. Luckily, she had enough energy left to Silence my mother long enough for the four of us to come up with a plan. Thanks to the power Beatriz inherited from both her parents, she’s now the most powerful Witch at the organization, so she was able to alter the memories of all MA members at the Ascension. As far as every Mage is concerned, the ceremony went ahead, and Solina is now the formal First and Beatriz her Second.
My mother will never breathe a word of this humiliation, of that I’m certain.
No one had to know about Beatriz’s involvement in Maribel’s death — but there was no hiding the mess Salvador had left behind, including his dead body. We ensured he got the full blame and everyone at the MA believes he took his own life. As I know only too well, Warlock suicide is not something any MA Witch cares about enough to question.
The sun shines through the tall windows as my feet slap against the floor of the medical ward.
I can’t get the image of my deranged mother out of my mind. For the first time since I arrived in Barcelona, I really want to go home, and by that I mean New York. Though I know Solina will do as she’s told, one step out of line and Beatriz can suck away her power and send her crazy in an instant, it’s still not worth the risk. Solina may be subdued, for now, but the more space between my mother and I the better.
I never belonged here in the first place, and although New York is not my true home, The Blood Web Chronicle is. Plus, I want to see Jackson. My stomach flips as I recall the conversation I had with him yesterday, and the concern in his voice when I told him what happened with my mother. God, I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed the overprotective asshole.
I knock on Beatriz’s hospital room door. Well, the nearest thing the MA has to a hospital — which is to say it’s better than any human hospital.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, rubbing my knuckles across hers. She gives me a rare smile, though it’s weak, and in a second it flickers and disappears.
“Luckily your mother’s aim is shit,” she says.
I laugh, although no part of what we’ve been through is funny.
“So… I see it’s officially official,” I say. “Congrats on becoming numero dos of the MA.”
That flicker of a smile returns. “We both know who the real number one is — but I’m happy for your mother to be the public figurehead. It gives me more time to get things done behind the curtains.”
“Do you have a list?”
She grins. “Of course. First order of business — the Nox don’t have to be confined to that shitty basement. Second on my list — make Rafi treasurer.”
I match her grin with one of my own. “And Luisa?”
“She doesn’t want a post. I did ask.”
She waves at a bouquet of wildflowers on the table. Amid the dozen opulent bouquets and ‘Get Well’ cards from MA officials sucking up to the new Second, is a mismatched bunch of rough and colorful field flowers. So very Luisa.
“About your father…”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Beatriz says. “Anyway, I hear you’re leaving?”
“Early tomorrow.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m so sorry about Xavi and what your... You two had so little time together.”
She blinks back tears, her lips pressed together. “I can make a real difference, now. I’m never letting anything like that happen again. As the real head of the MA I have a duty to more than just the Mage, I have a duty to the entire Paranormal community.”
“Tough road ahead.”
“Not really,” she says. “El bon camí, mai no és llarg de seguir.”
The right path never feels long.
I let out a whistle. “Finally learning some Catalan?”
“Xavi wanted me to,” she says with a sad smile. Then she waves at the table. “Plus, it was written in one of my cards.”
Luisa and Rafi were waiting for me outside the hospital, and we’re now sitting on the cool sand of the beach, Rafi skinning up a joint.
I finish a text on my phone. “I’m letting the Fae prince know Beatriz will be his new contact,” I tell them.
“I think you’re going to miss that icy bastard,” Luisa says with a smirk. I think back to that favor of mine he’s keeping in a little velvet box. Unfortunately, I’m sure to see him again.
“Does he even have a name?” Luisa asks me.
“Who knows? I assume he’s like Bono or Cher. Just ‘Winter Prince.’”
With a twist of a finger, Rafi creates a spire of sand and turns it into the silhouette of a man.
“Like the prince in Cinderella. Did you know ‘Prince Charming’ is literally his name? Talk about no backstory.”
He makes the sand silhouette crumble sadly, and we all laugh. I wish I could take them both back to New York with me.
I glance over at Luisa, but she’s already looking at me, her lips pressed together in a sad smile. She sighs and draws me to her, my head resting on her shoulder.
“It won’t be the same without you, meva bella Bruixa,” she says.
My beautiful Witch.
My chest aches as I gaze up into her hazel eyes. She kisses me, and I melt into her caress, savoring every second, knowing this is our last evening together.
“I wish I could stay.”
Luisa laughs. “No, you don’t. You don’t belong anywhere near the MA.”
“Well, at least it’s going to be a much better place with you guys running the show.”
“If only we could commemorate this occasion somehow,” Luisa says. “Everything we’ve been through. Everything that’s happened.”
Rafi has a wicked glint in his eye. “How about matching tattoos?”
“No time to get to a tattoo parlor,” I reply, glancing at the clock on my phone.
“Who said anything about a parlor?” He wriggles his brows. “Watch.”
Rafi takes hold of Luisa’s hand, and she smiles as he runs his palm over the inside of her wrist. With a light hiss, a tiny crescent moon made of fire fizzles out on her skin, scabbing over in an instant. A moment later, he does the same to himself while Luisa holds his hand.
“How did you do that?” I cry.
“It’s a fire tattoo. I scorched her, then sealed the burn with a thin film of water.”
“Nifty trick,” I say, holding out my own wrist. “Does it hurt?”
“Not with my help,” Luisa says with a grin, holding my other hand.
I feel the tickle of Rafi’s burn, and then Luisa’s magic floods me, stealing away the pain. My first fire tattoo. I admire the tiny matching moons on our wrists, a subtle reminder of our friendship.
“See? A Witch does not burn,” Luisa says softly.
And for the first time in my life, I hear those words for what they are and not for what the MA has made them. Those words are ancient. They speak of power, of rebirth, of the heart, and strength of Mages.
“For she is made of fire,” I answer.
The Mediterranean shimmers in shades of red, gold, and orange as the sun begins to set on my time here in Barcelona. Rafi puts his arm around me, and I rest my head against Luisa’s, her hand holding on to mine tightly. Suspended in this final quiet moment, I feel weightless, free, strangely calm. But this time I know, with all certainty, that the way I’m feeling right now has absolutely nothing to do with magic. It’s pure and real and sacred.
Rafi winks at me and holds out the lit joint pinched between his fingers. “Last one for the road, mi amor?”
I take the joint and inhale deeply.
The MA is not all Witches,
and all Witches are not the MA... or Warlocks, for that matter. I look at Rafi, then at Luisa, and smile. Mages are not one thing or another. They can be good, and pure and powerful and amazing.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m proud to be a Witch. I don’t have to be what my mother made me — I get to be the Witch I choose to be.
The strength of my ancestors runs through me, the Witches and Warlocks who didn’t burn. The ones who fought the system and resisted the archaic ways of the MA, and now the next generation will shape it into something better.
There’s freedom in that power.
My mother lost this battle, and for the first time, I see I’ve always been stronger than her. I will never lose hope that Mikayla is out there, waiting for me to find her.
I run a finger across my tiny, branded moon, hope seeping into the hollows once carved out by sadness.
I can be made of fire, but I don’t have to burn.
Epilogue
I hurry through the bustling streets of Chinatown past window displays of glazed chickens and tiny shops that are stocked to bursting like miniature warehouses. The June heat is causing everyone on the sidewalk to sparkle with sweat. Sidestepping a tourist expertly, I break into a run. Jackson hates it when I’m late, plus it’s dinnertime, and my empty stomach is crying out for dim sum.
I barge into the restaurant and stop to catch my breath. Oh my god, it smells heavenly. Scurrying past the simple tables and waiters carrying stacks of bamboo steam baskets, I throw myself into a chair opposite my boss.
“Well, hello, Editor-in-Chief.”
I can’t help but notice that Jackson’s perfectly cut white button-down is damp with sweat. Even at his most casual, he’s still semi-formal and polished. He looks so out of place in this little steamy Chinese joint. He’s looking at me with a mixed expression of resigned disappointment and curious amusement.
Jackson and I have gotten into this weird habit of having business dinners to discuss my articles and assignments. Mostly because the daytime is too hot, and also because I think he’s finding the office a bit lonely lately. I don’t mind because the bill goes on the company card.
Winner winner, dim sum dinner.
“Late, as usual,” he says.
“Or…” I peel the paper from my chopsticks like an eager beaver.
“Or?”
“I got nothing.”
“Really? No smart reply? No delightful puns about my nether regions?”
I think back to the Winter Prince and briefly consider telling Jackson about him, then think better of it. He still gives me a hard time about Lukka. Jackson and his feline protective instincts don't need to know that I owe some dangerous High Fae a favor.
“I don’t spend my time concocting delightful puns about your genitalia, Jackson.”
He looks down at his menu, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.
Things have been pretty peaceful the last two months since I got back from Barcelona. Jackson insisted I stay home a week to recover, but I told him I was fine, that unlike after Moscow, I wasn’t hurt, not on the surface anyway. He feels guilty for what happened with my mother and Salvador — that the brew wasn’t enough to protect me. A week after I returned, a courier delivered a year’s supply of protection brew copied from my last batch and a pink taser.
Jackson’s note read: “It’s not much, but I hope it makes you feel safer.”
My fear of Solina is forever present, lingering beneath the surface. But after all the drama she still got what she wanted. Solina de la Cruz is, as far as the Para world is concerned, the MA’s First. She’s not attempted to call or message me once since I left her hanging in a Witch’s death basement — maybe she never will. Regardless, the taser has earned a permanent spot next to my bed.
“You choose,” Jackson says, smiling at the faces I’m making.
He’s freaking me out a bit with his new gentle approach. Since I’ve returned, he’s refused to send me on any dangerous assignments… or even out of the city.
‘Close and safe’ means Pixie tax fraud investigations in Manhattan and a Vamp selling stolen blood on Craig’s List. But at least none of those jobs have resulted in death, violence, or getting home late in the evening. It’s all very PG and nine-to-five.
I order for both of us in Chinese because it’s quicker, plus I’m eager to show Jackson up. The waitress is surprised by my fluent Mandarin. I guess mediocre-looking brunettes who tout their Mandarin in dim sum restaurants usually get their pronunciation from Duolingo, not from magic.
“How’s it going at The Chronicle?” I ask, chopsticks already pinched between my fingers, ready to consume enough dumplings for a party of six.
Jackson laughs. “It’s a little unusual when your employee asks you how things are going back at work.”
“I’ve been busy with the Central Park Shifter story all week!” I counter indignantly.
Apparently, a few pigeon Shifters are running a crime ring in Central Park, following elderly bird-loving Upper Eastsiders to their homes and balconies, then robbing the places blind.
The only reason I went to Barcelona was to guarantee my mom’s help with finding my possibly-pregnant missing sister. Instead, all I got was my dead dad’s vague one-liners and confirmation that my mother has already given up on finding Mikayla.
So in between petty assignments, I've been busy researching Werewolf and bear Shifter relations on the Blood Web. Fruitlessly, I might add. No Werewolf has been killed by a bear Shifter in years and vice versa, and there are no famous Bear-Were couples. But I keep searching, hoping that I will find an answer to my dad’s riddle.
Jackson snaps his chopsticks in half. “Your story about the MA was great. One of our biggest yet. Six million hits, actually… Pulitzer material.”
“Paras don’t get Pulitzers,” I counter.
“Fine,” Jackson says. “A Paratzer then.”
“Come on, you’re better than that.”
Jackson takes a sip of his soda and eyes me warily. “I might be going on an assignment soon. To Germany,” he says nonchalantly. He offers me a prawn cracker.
“Don’t tell me...” I pinch my eyes closed. “I’m seeing Vamps in lederhosen.”
“Not quite.”
Our order arrives, and my stomach grumbles in celebration. The waitress places two bamboo baskets of steaming dim sum on the table, and I’ve already whipped the lids off before she’s turned to get the rest of the dishes. As well as six different kinds of dumplings, I’ve also ordered roast pork buns, a bowl of fried rice, and plenty of beef noodle rolls.
“Are we expecting company?” Jackson says with a chuckle, watching plate after plate arrive at our table.
“Chī,” I say, telling him to eat in Chinese. Although my mouth is full, so it sounds more like a hum of appreciation.
We both dig in, and I hold back a smile at the way he uses his chopsticks, so precise and measured, each mouthful carefully considered.
Fuck me, the food here is the best. I can’t help rolling my eyes with pleasure and groaning with each bite, much to Jackson’s amusement. I notice him glance at the tattooed moon on my wrist, but he hasn’t mentioned it yet. I haven’t even had a chance to miss my Spanish friends, turns out they love WhatsApp as much as they love weed.
I swallow my fifth dumpling, and take a sip of jasmine tea. OK, I can think clearly now my hunger has been abated.
“Who are you investigating in Germany?”
Jackson’s head whips up.
“No, don’t even think about it, de la Cruz. You’ve done enough traveling this year. I’m taking this one myself.”
I shrug, like I don’t care, knowing the more eager I sound the less Jackson will tell me. I bite into a beef noodle roll, soy sauce drizzling down my chin. He passes me a napkin.
“Fine. Just tell me what your assignment’s about, then.”
His eyes light up and he leans closer. “In the last decade Germany has become a Mecca of sorts for Wolf packs. The
country is perfect for them — the climate is temperate, plenty of forests for Shifting, good health care, but still big and busy enough for them to hide in.”
“Wolves,” I repeat, my curiosity a tiny bit peaked.
“A lot of packs are involved with tech start-ups. AI, Blockchain, DeFi.” He lists a bunch of random words on his fingers, and my interest instantly fades. “Germany has become a Wolf Silicon Valley, of sorts.”
“What’s the crime?” I ask, eager to move away from the tech talk.
“There’s a synthesized Shifter Brew on the market now, in pill form, more sophisticated than the one you encountered in Los Angeles and far cheaper. It’s flooding the Blood Web and growing in popularity amongst Wolves who want to suppress shifts.”
Werewolf shifts are apparently very painful and highly inconvenient. Fair enough, I don’t blame them for wanting to suppress them.
Jackson’s face turns serious. “Three major shipments of the pills were poisoned, and pups have died.”
Shit. I don’t feel a kinship for Wolves, but no one should ever lose their young.
“Who poisoned them?”
“That’s what I’m investigating. No one knows; it’s too hard to track along the supply chain. The shipments were diverted many times before they arrived in Germany. One Wolf pack has developed a Blockchain on which you can track the medicine so Paras can make sure it comes from the original source. That it isn't tainted. They are trying to get the project off the ground now.”
“Blockchain?”
“Come on, Saskia, you work for me, at The Chronicle, on the Blood Web. You should know what Blockchain is by now. Do you hate all forms of innovation or are you being purposely obtuse?” He huffs in mock exasperation before continuing. “It’s a ledger in which information is stored in a way that cannot be altered.”
Boring! I yawn and stretch as the waitress deposits a couple of fortune cookies with a look that says, ‘clear the table for the next batch of customers or else.’
Witches of Barcelona: A Dark, Funny & Sexy Urban Paranormal Romance Series (Blood Web Chronicles Book 2) Page 23