“Why do they want me?” I wasn’t even remotely useful. Surely, I didn’t have money, or connections; it wasn’t like I was a big cheese in any way.
“I don’t know.” Étoile put her hand over mine and gave it a friendly squeeze. I wasn’t sure if she were trying to reassure me, or herself. “Don’t worry. They don’t tell me everything, but they will make sure you are okay.”
“Who are they?”
“Our family.” Étoile smiled. “Not biologically, of course, not all of them, but we are a family of sorts. We have our hierarchies and our factions and our jobs and, of course, we look out for our own kind.”
I nodded, then realised that Étoile had told me nothing. I pressed her again, “But, who are they?”
“The Witches’ Council. They are the ones who govern and monitor our kind.”
“Are there enough of us to need a council?”
“Oh yes. Lots and lots of us.” Étoile seemed visibly cheered at that.
“Then how come you are the first person I’ve ever met who’s like me?”
She thought for a moment then seemed to decide, “I’m probably not. We don’t take adverts out or announce ourselves. People fear us. Just look at what happened in Salem. Some of us are still smarting over that, and those poor people weren’t even witches.” Étoile paused to order us drinks from the stewardess’ cart. I mused over what she told me. Of course, it made sense that if there were others like me – I hesitated to use the word “witch” – they would not want to make themselves known. I’d once seen a documentary about Salem, a pretty New England coastal town, with historical re-enactments of the trials of the twenty-six accused and sentenced to death. They compared it to the town now and how that awful three-hundred-year-old legacy still affected the reputation of the town. The world wasn’t exactly known for tolerance of its own race, never mind something other.
I remembered the evening’s headlines. I grimaced and then it occurred to me. “Haven’t we just been outed?” I asked.
“The Brotherhood?” Étoile waited for me to nod. “For a while, people will just think they are psychopaths. The hysteria won’t start for some time yet. Who knows which way the public’s opinion will go? Maybe we will be blamed for the credit crunch or terrorism or the freaky weather and people will turn.” Étoile shrugged as if it wasn’t her concern. “Or maybe they’ll want us all to create love potions or put a hex on their neighbours. Frankly, who knows which is worse?”
I stared out of the window as the plane taxied across the runway and picked up speed before we rose with a sudden little lurch skywards. I wondered how many questions I would need to ask before I had even the basic grasp of the situation in which I found myself.
When firmly in the sky, I followed the instruction to unclip my belt and stretched my legs in the wide, plush seats. Air travel, so far, wasn’t as bad as I had expected, though my ears were making little pop, pop, pop sounds as we ascended.
“You should rest.” Étoile looked me squarely in the face, and I couldn’t turn away. Her voice was thick with suggestion as she enunciated carefully, “You are very tired and you need some rest.”
I felt my eyelids tugging. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I might be tired until Étoile told me that I was. I tried to stifle the yawn, and somewhere in the back of my mind I sensed that I was being sent to sleep, rather than encouraged. Perhaps Étoile just didn’t want to explain anymore. I clamped a hand in front of my open mouth and Étoile smiled again. She was awfully pretty, especially when she focused her attention directly at you. How nice to be so lovely was my final thought before I drifted solidly out of consciousness.
When I woke again, an airline blanket had been tucked up to my shoulders and the seat beat was clipped back on. Étoile was flicking through the pages of a magazine rather absently. When she noticed me shuffle, she tipped the megawatt smile back at me again. “Hey, sleepyhead. We’re landing in less than twenty minutes. You slept the whole flight!” She didn’t sound surprised.
“How convenient,” I muttered. I shuffled upright from my slump and wiggled my head from side to side, working the cricks out of my neck. The pain had gone from my hand and when I looked, the skin was pink and new without the trace of a burn. Interesting. “So, do we, uh, get to see some of New York? Sightsee or something?”
Étoile shook her head. “Sorry, this isn’t much of a vacation. Besides, you know, been there, done that.”
Sure. She’d probably been everywhere. I meanwhile had barely stepped out of London, and for that matter, not exactly done a whole lot while I lived there. She was the town mouse to my city-living country mouse alright.
She smiled sympathetically and patted my knee. “Besides, we’ll want to stay out of sight. We don’t know who’s looking for you.”
“Won’t they just check my passport? See where I’ve gone?”
Étoile shrugged once more. “There will be no records. No one will ever know or remember that you came through Heathrow or JFK, even on this plane.”
“How did you do that?”
“Ve haf our vays,” she replied in cod German and winked.
“So I lay low?”
“That’s pretty much it. Until they decide where we are going next.” Étoile didn’t seem particularly perturbed by this. Actually, she seemed to be sending calm waves towards me and, though I could feel it, it didn’t bother me that I didn’t feel particularly bothered.
“Have you any idea at all?” I tried again.
Étoile pursed her lips and looked thoughtful as a little smile danced on her face. “I have hopes but I couldn’t say for certain,” she said fairly cheerfully. “I know where I’d want you to be, but it’s not for me to decide.”
“Don’t I get any say?” I pressed my ears to stop them popping as we descended further.
“Not really. Sorry.”
Étoile stayed right by my side as we disembarked, passed through customs without a hitch and walked past the baggage carousel. When she followed me to the bathroom, I found myself getting cross. “Some privacy, please?”
I wasn’t sure if she were being the perfect host or was concerned I might flit the moment her back was turned. She needn’t have worried. Without money, phone or, come to think of it, a clue, I had nowhere to go. I sighed as lightly as I could. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, especially as the alternative only a few hours ago was a crispy fried Stella with a side of regret.
“Oh, sure,” she said, leaning against the row of sinks and muttering something about following the rules. I used the toilet quickly, smoothed the wrinkles out of my tights and fastened the skirt I’d pulled on over twenty hours earlier for work. I was wondering when I would get chance to change into something a little less battered and gross. After I washed my hands at the sink, Étoile handed me a little bag with the airline logo on it. There was a flannel and a disposable toothbrush inside, so I took the hint and washed my face as well as brushed my teeth before following her back outside and towards the exit route. Fortunately, with our carry-on bags we didn’t have to wait at the packed carousel for baggage. Étoile seemed to know exactly where she was going so I followed her, barely noticing our surroundings.
As we exited the baggage claim, we approached a line of people waiting behind a cordon anchored by moveable weighted and polished pillars. A man in a black suit and sunglasses stepped forward and beckoned us with a little nod. Étoile motioned for me to come on and we followed him outside. Beyond that greeting, they didn’t speak, though he grunted something that sounded like a hello at me. Or he could have just swallowed a fly. It was hard to say.
As we reached the road, a huge, black Cadillac with tinted windows swooped down on us. As soon as it pulled up, the man opened the rear door and ushered us inside. He attempted to take my bag but I pushed it ahead of me so that it would sit on the floor at my feet and scowled at him. If I offended him, he didn’t show it. Étoile climbed in after me and the man slammed the door shut behind her, then climbed in the front pass
enger seat without speaking to the driver.
As I put my seatbelt on, Étoile pulled her phone from her pocket and switched it on. It trilled as it powered up and Étoile immediately speed-dialled. “We’re in the car and on our way,” she said, after which the conversation receded into umms, yes and no. Clearly, she had a lot to answer but didn’t want to say much in front of me. I wondered when someone would see fit to fill me in or if I was going to continue to be shunted wherever they felt like with barely an acknowledgment. I didn’t want a life like that, anymore than I was thrilled about the life I had been leading. Had been leading, I reminded myself. Who knew what my life was now? I just didn’t want to be a prisoner.
At that thought, Étoile leaned over and patted my knee as if she were comforting a pet and I felt that calm feeling pervade my veins. “They’re very excited to meet you,” she said to me at last with a small smile as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.
“Great?” I raised my eyebrows in question.
“Yes, it is. They’ve assembled quite the little welcoming committee.”
I nodded at the two men in the front. The driver said nothing to me, his sidekick only fractionally more with the fly-eating grunt and silence thereafter as we sped on. “Perhaps they need to sit in on the welcoming committee seminar,” I said under my breath.
“Oh, don’t mind them.” Étoile dismissed them with a flick of her hand. “They aren’t here to be jolly.”
If the two men minded being passed over so matter-of-factly, they didn’t show it. So I just nodded and looked out the window as we sailed through the traffic in the monster car. I lost count of time as we weaved from the freeway into the city. Buildings crowded us from every angle but I could tell we were moving towards a pricier part of town as the buildings became increasingly nicer featuring glossy, mirror-like windows, awnings and large potted plants stationed like soldiers at the sides of doorways. Presently, we drew up in front of a building with wide glass doors and an actual liveried doorman with a top hat. I suppressed the urge to gawk like a tourist.
Sidekick (as I decided to call our nameless chaperone) hopped out and opened the door for us, offering me his hand as I climbed down which I thought a nice gesture. It was certainly better than letting me do a face plant from a great height. Well, my heart positively swelled. Sidekick grabbed my bag from the footwell before I had the chance to reach back for it and then, keeping it in his grip, paused to help Étoile down with his free hand. She glided gracefully to the pavement as if there had barely been a drop and sashayed into the building without a backward glance, nodding briefly to the doorman as the car pulled away. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as I trailed behind, Sidekick bringing up the rear as we crossed a foyer with a large potted tree and mirrors covering one entire wall. She punched a card into a slot by the lift doors and they glided open as if they had been waiting for us.
“Our private lift takes us straight to the penthouse,” she explained as the three of us stepped inside and I shuffled myself to the back. There were no buttons to press as the lift only had two stops. If you got in one floor, it was obvious you were aiming for the other.
I took a moment to glance over my shoulder at my reflection. The quick wash hadn’t done much good and the expensive jacket was still no match against Étoile’s exotic printed coat. Even Sidekick’s black suit looked like it had been made exclusively for him. I felt scruffy and insignificant as I nestled between them.
As if sensing my discomfort, Étoile twisted her head to smile magnificently at me with a row of perfectly white teeth, in a way that I was starting to find not wondrous, but a little disconcerting. I imagined she was rather used to dazzling people into comfort, happiness, acquiescence or whatever else she planned for them when she turned it on. So I scowled like a petulant teenager and she seemed amused as she turned back to the doors with a little shrug of her shoulders.
When the lift doors glided back, Sidekick stepped out first and sped off with my bag before I could protest. I exhaled irritably as Étoile gestured that I was to follow her in the other direction. There was another marble foyer to cross, but this one was somewhat smaller than the building’s entrance hall, although just as grand, if not more so. A circular table stood on a pedestal in the centre with a large arrangement of fresh flowers in reds and pinks in a patterned vase. Their perfume drifted towards me in the still air. Heavy gold-striped drapes framed a single window that reached almost to the ceiling and I could see skyscrapers beyond. I couldn’t even guess what the table alone must have cost.
I sidestepped to see the corridor that Sidekick had escaped via; it led off one way and I could see several doors before it turned a corner. It was all I could do not to stand and turn and stare like a tourist in a grand house opening. It was the most elegant lobby I had ever seen. It was bigger than the whole top floor of my flat, never mind my own studio. Two sets of double doors led off the lobby and Étoile knocked firmly at one set before opening a door and ushering me inside.
I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t the scene in front of me.
There were no black cats or cauldrons, or anything vaguely witchy. Instead, three large cream sofas were positioned around a long, low upholstered coffee table. Occasional tables, with vases of splendid roses in shades of pink and yellow, and pairs of slipper chairs were dotted about the room. It was a room made for coffee mornings, social committees and elegant soirees, not scruffy London orphans. I couldn’t feel more out of place.
Against my better judgement, I sniffed, then thinking better of it, and remembering I did have manners, I tipped my chin up a bit and tried not to look like a fish out of water. I’d just have to bluster through, the same as I did when I got a temping assignment that was way beyond my expertise. Only this time I was in the company of witches and couldn’t just hide behind a stack of filing. The hell if I would I let my nerves show, though.
A man and woman sat on the furthest sofa. The pair were both elegant and well dressed, though not flashy; she in a cream skirt suit, court shoes and a tidy golden bob; he in a charcoal grey three-piece suit with a striped shirt and tie. They looked like they were in their fifties, but a very well-preserved version of that age.
Another man sat on the adjacent sofa, closer to me. Not only was he much younger but dressed considerably more casual in a white t-shirt with a button-down placket, jeans (albeit expensive ones) and leather boots. With his shaggy blonde hair and big blue eyes, he was straight from an advert for healthy living. Though he was younger, there were physical similarities to the older pair. The square jaw was like the older man’s and I wondered if perhaps he was their son. He had a playful smile on his face and looked mildly curious, but welcoming. He caught my eye and winked at me. I dipped my eyes and a pink blush crept onto my cheeks. Embarrassing, much!
The older man rose to his feet and approached me, his hand outstretched to shake mine in a double-handed clasp and I caught the glimpse of a Rolex. I’d bet good money he hadn’t bought it from a street vendor. He had a slightly receding hairline with closely cropped, iron grey hair and a smooth accent as he said, “We’re so glad Ms. Winterstorm found you. We were so worried that she was too late.” It sounded like an admonishment dressed up in a welcome and I was a little cross for Étoile’s sake. She sank gracefully onto the sofa next to the young man and was playing on her phone again, her thumbs busily texting. If she noticed the slight, she didn’t give a hint, though her back was ramrod straight, like she wasn’t completely at home.
“She had perfect timing,” I replied, suddenly feeling a little protective of the woman who had zapped me, quite literally, out of the firing – fire – line.
“So she did,” the older man agreed smoothly. His voice had the clipped New York edge that I was familiar with from too much film watching. “My name is Robert Bartholomew and this is my wife, Eleanor. Our son, Marc.” Robert nodded towards the younger blonde man who was lounging on the sofa, one leg slung across the other. I thought he would have look
ed more at home at the beach rather than in this bastion of New York wealth. I nodded at him briefly and he smiled back warmly, melting me just a little. “You, of course, are Stella.” I nodded and Robert waved a hand, indicating that I should sit next to their son. So, with a brief glance at him, I did.
Eleanor poured tea into delicate china teacups with a trio of gold bands around the edge, from a set that sat on a tray on the low table. “Tetley,” she said, adding hesitantly, as if she weren’t sure she got it right, “Just like home?”
“I’ve barely been away. I don’t think I’m quite ready to be homesick,” I said, then held my tongue when I realised how rude that must have sounded. Eleanor stiffened a fraction before continuing to fill the cup. I added quickly, “Thank you. I appreciate you thinking of me. That was kind of you.” She relaxed and I gave myself a mental kick as I leant forward to accept the teacup and scooped in two heaped sugars. She poured another cup for Étoile and moved to set it on a low table near her before settling back in her space, ankles crossed neatly. She struck me as delicate but very assured, even if she had assumed the “I’ll be mother” role.
“Are you the, uh, council?” I asked the air, not entirely sure whom I should be addressing. I balanced the cup and saucer awkwardly in my hand, unsure whether I should put it down. What if I spilled on the upholstery, or left a ring mark on the tray?
“Eleanor and I are members, though this is not the whole council,” replied Robert as Eleanor gave a small smile. “We have called a meeting and the council will be here later. As Étoile no doubt told you, they are very much looking forward to meeting you and you will have the opportunity to talk to them.”
“What will we be talking about?” I questioned, wondering what kind of chat went on at committee meetings. Maybe we’d talk about the best breed of black cat, or potions or ... well, I couldn’t think what witches talked about.
Illicit Magic (Stella Mayweather Paranormal Series #1) Page 5