by R. M. Webb
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Withers,” I manage and his face lights right back up again.
“As it is you.” He turns to Noah and it’s clear I’ve been dismissed. I hang up my coat and purse while he claps Noah on the back and asks him a few questions as if they were the best of friends.
Daya swoops in for a hug and I almost jump out of my skin. Daya’s many things, but she’s definitely not a hugger. “Shhh.” She whispers into my ear, holding me tight so I don’t pull away. “Stay calm. Treat him like a god. Answer truthfully, but make everything sound like it’s a good thing. You’ll be fine.” She releases me and, damn it, my legs go all gooey again.
“Come! Sit!” Barnabe indicates the sofa while he hops up to sit on the dinner table and waits for us to gather in the living room. “Now. Tell me all about everything. Don’t leave out one single detail.”
Somehow, out of all the ways I’d envisioned Barnabe Withers, the vibrant young man perched on my dinner table with his Cheshire cat grin is worse than all of them.
Chapter Four
Mr. Withers eyes me, his legs swinging below him like a child’s, and I know exactly why Noah and Luke look the way they do when they say his name.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” he asks Daya. “In a kind of accidental way.” He surveys me, his gaze traveling the planes of my face, lingering on my chest before he brings his eyes back to mine. I want to wrap my arms around myself, duck my chin, do my best to hide in plain sight. I don’t, though. Somehow Daya’s warning makes me think it’d be best to consider his attention a compliment. I lift my chin and smile broadly. “Oh, and proud, too, isn’t she? Did you have anything to do with her appearance? Pick the best looking parents?” He’s still addressing Daya.
“She was the first, Mr. Withers.” Daya’s eyes are downcast, her hands clasped in front of her, her voice almost muted. Hell, even her dress is only one color.
“Oh! The accident!” Barnabe laughs. “See, that’s funny. She is pretty in an accidental way.” His eyes twinkle with merriment and I swallow hard. I’m not finding him the least bit funny.
He lets his gaze slide over me again. I watch him take in the space between me and Noah, and then the same space between me and Luke. The fact that we’re not only not touching, but definitely doing our best to keep it that way. “You think there’s a chance of any accidents happening here?” he asks Daya. “I mean could you imagine the child that comes from a union in this household?” Both guys tense beside me. I’m surrounded by deep sighs and clenching jaws and tightened fists. Sharp as ever, Barnabe notices the reaction. “Oh that’s right. They’ve each had a taste of her already, didn’t they? Didn’t like it very much.”
My jaw drops. I force my mouth closed and swallow, getting ready to tell this guy just exactly where he can go. I don’t care if he is the witch king. Apparently, my distress is more evident than I’d like it to be. Noah puts his hand on my thigh and Luke touches my hand and their magic rolls into me, each of them trying to support me and calm me down.
The gesture isn’t lost on Mr. Withers. “Or maybe not,” he says with a lascivious grin. “Maybe there’ll be some accidents happening this very night.” He hops down off the table and prances over to Daya. “I said,” he says with a lift of his eyebrows, “maybe there’ll be some accidents happening this very night.” He enunciates the words precisely and leans in close to her.
Daya lifts her eyes from their post on the floor and laughs. It’s not her laugh, though. It’s forced and quiet and wrong. Barnabe Withers doesn’t notice. Or maybe he doesn’t know any better. He just laughs along with her and does a funny little dance that’s made all the more eerie by his graceful way of moving.
“Very funny, my lord,” says Daya, in all her newfound submissiveness. I almost choke. My lord? Really?
“Ahhhh yes,” he sighs. “It was, wasn’t it? They don’t look like they agree, though, do they? I forget how … touchy … the younger generations can be.” He saunters over to us and crouches down so he can look us each in the eyes. The world kind of stutters and shudders and all the colors in the room blaze brightly before they fade away. There’s a buzzing, but it’s not a sound, it’s … I don’t know … in my body? My head? And then I can feel my eyelids fluttering, but I can still see, except it’s not my living room I see, not Barnabe Withers crouching in front of me with Daya looking so uncharacteristically solemn. It’s the last couple of missions. All in fast forward. And somehow, all jumbled up together. The time we spent following our targets. The actual attacks. The deaths. The days following each assignment.
And then it all just stops and I’m jolted back into my living room, where I sit crammed between Noah and Luke. They’re holding my hands. And we’re all out of breath.
Barnabe’s across the room, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “You guys are quite the team.” He smiles and this time it seems genuine. “You’ve done well so far. I’m proud of you.”
Without uncrossing his arms, he flares his fingers. A slight movement. Hardly a movement at all. But holy shit. The amount of power that siphons into the room is monumental. And then, just like that, there’s something in my lap. I gasp and hear similar sounds of surprise coming from Noah and Luke as I look down to find a box made of gleaming wood, carved with ornate tigers and flowers. I can’t help but pick the thing up and study it closer. I turn it over and tears spring to my eyes when I find a small carving of a girl standing next to a wolf, her hand on its head.
Celine.
I rub my finger over the engraving and wait for the surge of emotion to die down before lifting my gaze back to Mr. Withers. For the first time since he showed up here, he looks calm and peaceful. Almost inviting.
“I bring gifts for my weapons.”
Well, then. So much for peaceful and inviting.
Noah and Luke have similar boxes in their hands, although from what I can see, the engravings are different. Mr. Withers tells us to open them, waves impatiently at us as we continue to stare at the complex artwork. The lid opens on a hinge and the inside is lined with rich red satin. At first glance, the box is empty. But then just like that, it’s not. I pull out three things — a large book, bound in leather covered in more intricate engravings, an ornate pen, sheathed in glass, and a pendant dangling from a leather cord.
They’re each so beautiful, I don’t know what to look at first. Just kind of juggle them in my hands, trying to take them all in at the same time. Finally, I hold the pen up closer, study the delicate traces of color in the glass. It’s slender and has a nice weight. Can’t help but wonder if it’s blue or black ink, but since I prefer blue and I’m going to assume Mr. Withers knows more about me than I might know about myself, I’m ninety-nine percent certain it’s going to be a rich blue. I pick up the box next, interested in the engravings.
“The things you put in those boxes will be safe.” Barnabe’s up and pacing in front of us now. But let me be clear. The word pacing denotes stress and there’s nothing stressful about the movement. He’s just moving. Studying our reaction to his gift. Needing to be as close to each of us as he can and this is just the best way. “They’re spelled, of course,” he continues. “Only you can open your box. You can be assured that the things you put in there will only be retrieved by you.”
I run my fingers over the engravings one more time before taking a moment to peek at Noah’s. Yes, he has tigers on his, but while mine are languishing in beds of flowers, his are snarling and baring teeth. While mine are at rest, his are at war, and oddly enough, from what I can tell, Celine isn’t on his box anywhere. I’d almost think we got the wrong gifts except I don't think Barnabe Withers would make that kind of mistake.
Something tells me I don’t want to peek at Luke’s, but I do anyway and almost instantly regret it. Luke’s box is engraved with dragons and people dying on stakes and that’s as much as I know because I can’t look at it any longer. How could I ever have thought I loved this guy? Well, for one, I didn’t kno
w the truth about him, and for two, he kept the darkest parts of himself hidden while we were together. Still, while those things are true, they don’t do much to pacify me. Still feels like I should have known. Somehow.
I pick up my book next and study the markings embossed in the leather. They’re gorgeous, at once random and purposeful and clearly very magical. A quick flip through the pages reveals that they’re blank.
Barnabe Withers is right in front of me, crouching down to eye level, the sweetest smile stretching across his face. “It’s a Memenderat. A memory catcher. I know your friend, Becca used one against you,” there’s a look of apology that kind of flashes across his face, “but you’d be surprised how well they work when you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“What do you mean?”
“This one is attuned to you. Memenderats are designed to look into the mind of the person using them, to pick out the details they can’t articulate, to see the thoughts they can’t even bring themselves to write down. The book records those details along with, well, all the other details. The time. The weather. Emotion. Age. Fatigue. Chemicals in the bloodstream.” He waggles his eyebrows. “When you go back through and read what you’ve written, you’ll have access to all of that. What better way to help unravel a problem than to study all the things you might be hiding from yourself? As you go, you’ll record spells and ideas for spells. It’ll become your grimoire, a book of magic and power that only you can truly access.”
I remember the day Becca and Noah and Luke were leaning over my journal on the table all those many weeks ago. The day they triggered my transition. The day the book whispered to me in so many languages. That Memenderat seemed to allow access to at least three people. Maybe the spell was crafted in such a way that more than one person could read its contents or maybe Barnabe Withers is full of shit. He gives me a twisty little smile and somehow, despite myself, I smile back.
He’s off to explain one of Noah’s gifts while I pick up the amulet. I can’t help but sigh in appreciation as I hold it close. It’s almost like a shell, a spiral, but it’s smooth and almost the exact same color as my eyes. The leather is soft and pliable.
Mr. Withers is back. “It’s protection. It’s strength.” He says this and I can’t help but think about the two guys sitting on either side of me. Protection and strength. Isn’t that why they’re here? “You never know when you’re gonna need more than you’ve got,” Mr. Withers says and I kind of get the feeling that he’s answering the thought I just had in my head.
Ugh.
It’s such a pain in the ass dealing with supernatural creatures.
“Wear it. It’ll help you when you least expect to need help.” Withers nods, his eyes full of unspoken communication that I just can’t unravel, and heads over to Luke. I slip the thing on and am taken aback by the rush of power that rolls through me.
Woah.
Let’s just say that Barnabe Withers is exactly what he says he is and doesn’t have any hidden agendas. Let’s really pretend for a moment. Then I could take these gifts at face value and feel protected and looked after and maybe even a little bit safe. I could use my new Memenderat to start growing and understanding my power. I could use my amulet to keep me safe when Noah and Luke can’t. And that’s assuming that I even need Noah and Luke. I’m pretty capable of taking care of myself all by my lonesome, thank you very much.
But when, in all the time I’ve dealt with witches, when exactly have they been on the up and up with me?
Becca was a witch. She hid my true nature from me and kept me shackled in silence.
Daya’s a witch. She’s the whole reason I was in Becca’s care in the first place.
Luke’s a warlock. He totally used my feelings against me. Lied to me.
Noah? Even he kept the truth from me at first. But I really can’t hold that against him.
So why, given all that, should I believe that Barnabe Wither’s gave me these super powerful gifts with the sole intent of pleasing me and helping me? Last I checked, he’s a warlock. King of the witches. Why in God’s name would he be the first supernatural creature I’ve met who didn’t have some kind of ulterior motive for being nice to me?
My fingers find the engraving of the girl and the wolf on my box and I can’t help but smile.
OK. Not the first. Celine was the first. That girl wanted nothing more than to make my time at the ranch a little less awful.
Fact of the matter is, I have no reason to trust anything Barnabe Withers says to me. I could put that amulet on and it could be another tracking spell. Or a listening device. Or mind control. I could write in my Memenderat and instead of it being attuned to me, it’s attuned to Barnabe and all my most intimate thoughts go straight to him. I could go to use my pen and it’s got a poisoned tip and I prick my finger and fall asleep for hundreds of years until a prince finds me and wakes me with a kiss.
Wait. That’s Sleeping Beauty.
But, when your life looks this much like a fairy tale, it’s hard to know which way is up sometimes.
I lower the amulet back into the box and place the pen beside it. Daya — still quiet and eyes downcast and muted — is gathering her things and following Mr. Withers towards the door. He gives us a little salute, as if he’s taking off a hat and tipping it towards us, and unleashes another ten-thousand-watt smile our way, eyes twinkling merrily. He says his goodbye and closes the door behind him.
I rifle through the blank pages of my Memenderat feeling a little wistful because it’s a gorgeous journal and I know I’ll never use it. Plus, it could be really useful if it truly is attuned to me and would become my own grimoire. I just can’t trust that it is what he says it is.
With a sigh, I finish letting the pages flip past my thumb and hold the cover open, looking at the first blank page. Which suddenly isn’t so blank anymore.
There’s a flare of light and then words scroll across the page lilting and twisting in handwriting that somehow feels archaic.
“I’m not so bad, really.” I read the words and envision a Cheshire cat grin settling below twinkling eyes. “I just like to pretend to be scary so I can watch Daya pretend to be subservient. It’s a beautiful thing.”
I watch the words flow across the page and then, just in case I needed proof as to where they come from, the name Barnabe Withers scrolls across the page in an elegant script.
Chapter Five
The next couple of days are almost like living a normal life. I mean, as normal as you can get when one of your roommates has a dragon that he likes to let fly around the house and singe the cobwebs out of the corners. And the other roommate likes to clean up the place using magic. Oh, and then there’s me. I’m busy trying to practice working spells using both kinds of magic and keep making fires that burn my fingers only for me to heal myself up again. I mean, discounting all that, things are just as normal as you could possibly get.
I go to work at the coffee shop, come home, hide out in my room. Rinse and repeat. Easy peezy. Life is good.
I did let my resolve crumble regarding the Memenderat. I’m totally writing in it. At first, I tried to write a few very generic entries, to get a feel for what the thing could do. It took those generic entries and read all the depth of what I was feeling, all the nuance of what I was thinking and couldn’t figure out how to express and bam! It’s all there, on the page. After a few days of that, I decided I didn’t care who else the thing was attuned to. Daya knows more about me than I do, I assume Barnabe does as well. I figure it’s worth the risk of letting them even further into my head if it means I can get a deeper understanding of myself.
He was right. The thing is a powerful tool.
Noah’s even been talking to me more. Ugh. When I say it like that, it makes me feel like some silly little lap dog, just waiting around for him to show me some attention and wagging my tail like a maniac when he does. It’s not like that. Not completely. I vowed, when he was so mad at me, that I’d prove myself to be worth his time. I was
n’t going to seek out his attention. I was only going to be me and let him see me being me. I wasn’t going to force the issue or beg him to forgive me. This whole thing has to be on his terms.
So, of course I get a little excited when it looks like he’s thawing towards me. I hate to admit it, but I almost feel like I took a risk, thinking that just letting him see my most basic nature would be enough to make him forgive me. Kind of presumptuous of me, you know? Like, I really put a lot of stock in what kind of a person I am. On the other hand, if he’s going to want to be around me, it’s gonna have to be because of who I am and not because of who I pretend to be. So maybe it’s good that I haven’t tried to go all out and win him back.
Who knows?
Clearly, not me.
All I do know is that he’s been walking with me to work when our shifts overlap and waiting for me to be done so he can walk me home. He’s not done anything overt, like hold my hand or try to kiss me, but he has looked me in the eyes and smiled and laughed. The right kind of laugh. The kind of laugh that feels like home.
I write about it at night, in my Memenderat, and I’ve come to realize just how much I have my heart set on a happily ever after with him. And — assuming he forgives me — if I’m ever going to have a chance of a happily ever after with him, I’m going to have to get Lucy out of the way. Daya will never let us alone as long as Lucy lives. We will always be her weapon. Always. We are gonna have to stop this war, win this war, in order to ever have the chance for a moment of peace.
Every day that goes by without an order from Daya makes me more and more antsy. Why? Why hasn’t she discovered the next target? Why haven’t we been deployed? As nice as it is to pretend to be normal, the fact of the matter is that we’re not normal. We have a job to do and it makes me itchy not to be doing it.
“Where’d ya go?” Noah’s voice interrupts my thoughts and he leans forward a little to catch my eyes as we walk home from work. It’s dark and it’s cold and it’s snowing again, tiny flakes that catch in the streetlights like glitter. Our booted feet leave prints on the sidewalk and my nose is cold. I should have made us a cup of something warm to drink on our way home.