by Sierra Cross
The outside of Talisman Book was done in a traditional old English style. Pained windows with black high-gloss enamel paint edged in bright metallic gold showing the perfectly arranged displays of books. Inside, it was a treasure trove of second hand and new bestsellers. Something for everyone. And a huge magic section. A large antique case at the end of the aisle—updated to include locks and reinforced glass—held what looked like ancient tomes of magic, some in English, some in Latin. And some in what looked to be a match for the language in my book. I pulled the book from my mother out of the velvet sack and held it next to the case to compare. As my nose was pressed up to the glass, I heard a silky voice behind me.
“What do we have here? The prodigal witch perhaps?”
I turned to see him leaning effortlessly on a bookcase in his black skinny jeans and smudged eyeliner, all lean muscle and elegance. To say his gaze was penetrating was an understatement. He was staring a hole right through me, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. A black-gloved hand snaked out and snatched the book from my hands before I could register what was happening.
With a quiet anger in his voice, he said, “Don’t you know better than to walk around with this in the open?” He snapped it shut and a puff of dust rose in the golden shaft of sunlight. He took a hard look at me face. “No, you don’t know better.” Pausing, as if debating with himself, he finally came to a conclusion. “Follow me.” It was an order, not a request.
What was it with being commanded what to do today? I had to remind myself that I came here to talk to him, and followed as he led me through the stacks and up a flight of stairs. As we walked down a long dark hallway, he tugged his gloves off one finger at time and unlocked the door at the end with a wave of his hand.
The room was larger than I would have expected. One wall was all windows, the half-drawn shades filtering the meager winter light. The left side of the room was like a magical laboratory—tidy shelves chockful of herbs and beakers and parts of things, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what. Everything was at right angles suggesting a perfectly ordered system. A large butcher block table stood on the bare hardwood floors, its surface bare save for the errant charred marks.
The right side of the room was another story—cozy and personal. It was a proper Englishman’s study. Mahogany shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crowded with linen-bound books and dark figurines. Tufted burgundy leather armchairs flanked a velvet couch that faced the stone heart, where a crackling fire blazed. On the other side of the room, an ornate desk sat in front of a large double-hung window. A lush oriental rug tied the room together.
Asher marched to the desk and sat on the edge, pushing one of the chairs toward me with his foot. “Spill.”
“What?”
“Don’t play coy with me. Last time I saw you, you said you’d have nothing to do with magic. What’s changed? Tell me.”
This was not the same Asher that came in to my bar—okay, what used to be my bar. He was not the sweet geek that spouted useless trivia. This was a mirthless man on a mission. The dichotomy caught me so off guard, I was speechless.
“This book…” He slapped my book against his palm as he talked. The black ink tattoos on his hand had a rolling golden glow as he did, like they were illuminated from behind. It was freaky and beautiful—now I knew the reason for the gloves. “In the wrong hands, it could be the death of us all. Not to mention, waving it around like yesterday’s newspaper is a good way to get yourself killed. You witches have always been a reckless lot. But this…is unacceptable. The Council Suprema would have a field day with this.”
Being scolded and condemned for things I had no control over started the blood pounding in my ears. The familiar tingle began in my hands. I looked down and I could see thin strands of golden energy dancing between my fingers.
“And you have no control. Magic spilling out of everywhere. Witches don’t smear their magic all over their hands like that. Really, the lack of finesse—” he said with distaste and stopped himself, demeanor changing on a dime. “Oh my God, you’re one of them.” A look of wonder crossed his face. “One of the orphans. Of the Coven of Fire.”
“Yes. That’s what I am.” I tried to swallow but the lump in my throat wouldn’t let me. While it was true, it was the first time that anyone had called me that to my face. It conjured all the feelings of isolation and hopelessness the word could hold. And I was not just orphan by my parents, but my whole destiny. “I’m here for help revive the coven. I won’t stay on, of course, once it’s established—I don’t have much magic—”
“You keep saying that. And I’m beginning to think you really believe it.” All the fiery judgment had left Asher. He just looked perplexed. “Tell me how you came to that conclusion.”
“When I was young my aunt tried to teach me—really tried—and we discovered that I am magically deficient.” He looked at me like I was crazy. “It’s a fact.”
“No, it’s a misconception. But there is something off about your magic. I can’t put my finger on it. May I?” At my nod of assent, he took my hand in both of his and examined the golden light all around it, emanating from it. “It’s like it’s encapsulated below the surface. And the golden lightning encapsulating your hands, rather odd. Witches of your coven manifest fireball on their fingertips. Who told you that you were ‘magically deficient?’”
“No one. It was just obvious—” I stopped. I remembered overhearing the witch who helped my aunt say those words. I told Asher the story of how my aunt had tried to train me on the advice of the witch from the shop. Then of overhearing the witch from the shop telling my aunt I was magically deficient.
“What witch?”
“I don’t remember her name. Or what she looked like.” It was all completely fuzzy. “She was from a shop at the other end of Broadway—”
“Were you ever alone with her?”
“No, she sold magic implements to my aunt and explained what to do…” But as I recounted the story more parts of it came back to me, like puzzle pieces I didn’t even know were missing. “Wait. Right before we started the old witch asked me into her shop. I remember sitting in a back room, circle rimmed with salt holding a red candle. But it’s like a haze is over the memory.”
“Memory spell. Classic Marley.”
“That’s it. Her name was Marley.”
I thought it was a good thing I’d remembered, but he looked seriously miffed.
“Of all the old crones in the hood it would have to be that one. Unreasonable, delusional, cantankerous—”
“But what does it mean?”
“She put some sort of a spell on your magic.” He grabbed his gloves and stood. “And only she will be able to undo it.”
The magic shop had barely changed in ten years. Candles lined the shelves and dream catchers hung on the walls for tourist and dabblers. The real magic was behind the counter, upon request only. The shop was empty and the door chimes drew no one out from the back.
“Aren’t they afraid of getting ripped off?” I asked.
“Protection spells,” Asher pointed to either side of the door. “I bet the old bat is deaf as a stump.” He opened the door and rattled it, making the chimes jingle for an annoyingly long time.
“What on Earth could be—” A tall buxom young woman stood behind the counter. Hands on hips, her auburn hair looking like cascading fire against her porcelain skin. “We don’t serve your kind here,” she said to Asher, voice full of venom.
“You sell to warlocks all the time,” he stated.
“Warlocks yes, assholes no. Out.” She pointed to the door.
I knew a woman scorned when I saw one. Asher was full of surprises today. I wished I had popcorn to watch the rest of this.
“Charice, don’t be like that,” he cooed and took his life in his hands by walking closer to her. “After that night there was the insurgence. You remember how crazy it was? We battled for a week straight without sleep. But I thought of ‘not sleeping’ with you the whole time.”
His voice was low and smooth like it was coated in honey.
“And the two weeks after? Was it that blond Wont I saw you with that you’re ‘not sleeping’ with now?” She pointed to me. “Or is it this witch skank?”
I was so flattered that she called me a witch I didn’t even get pissed at the skank part. And hey, I’d been in her shoes. She had the right to get her mad on.
“She’s not my date, love. Came in begging to be my student, but it’s unlikely I’ll find the time to take her on.”
I wanted to argue that I hadn’t exactly “begged” but it seemed trivial next to how disappointed I felt by his saying he wasn’t going to teach me magic. What had I done wrong?
Charice however looked triumphant. “He voluntarily gave me a lesson in uses of ancient runes…guess he thought I had more promise than you do.”
“You probably have ten times the promise I do,” I muttered. Given my below-average skillset, ten times wasn’t much; I wasn’t trying to butter her up.
Asher was. “Yes, yes, love, you are the most promising young witch of your time. The next Marley, for sure.” He put his hand on her shoulder and rolled his eyes at me over her head. “But now it’s imperative that we speak to the real Marley. Could you scoot along and please ask the old crone to come out?”
“So that’s the only reason you came in here.” Charice folded her slim arms. Damn it, Asher was creating potholes as fast as he was smoothing them over. He just couldn’t seem to help himself. But it was incredibly entertaining to watch his quick wit in action.
“No, of course not. I came to see you, love. But I do need a quick word—”
“Well, too bad. Marley sold the shop to me. Six months ago.”
Oh crap.
“Surely she left a forwarding address?” he dared to ask.
Charice laughed. “Never in a million years will I tell you how to get in touch with her. And with her stockpile of wards, don’t even bother scrying.” She tossed a cloud of something at Asher that made him bolt for the door.
Outside, he brushed the residue off his sleeves. “That didn’t go as smoothly as I’d hoped. Why would Marley, a witch at the peak of a fine career, bug out now?”
I had no answer for that. I was too busy reeling with the implications that some powerful witch had put a spell on me when I was a kid—right before declaring me “magically deficient.” Suddenly that diagnosis seemed a hell of a lot less authoritative.
We were halfway back to my end of the street when I saw a large, powerful figure stalking my way. And that is the only way I can describe it. Matt had my scent and was hunting me down.
“Alexandra.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “You were gone a long time. And not at the bookstore.” He said it to me but didn’t take his eyes off Asher.
“Alix, do introduce me to your…friend?” Asher’s tone was condescending. Then he sniffed the air like he was smelling a wet dog. “Ah, correction, your guardian. Explains the lack of manners.”
Whoa, suddenly I was overwhelmed by a cloud of testosterone. Weird because Matt wouldn’t date me and Asher had never tried. “Matt, Asher. Asher, Matt.” They didn’t shake hands.
Matt stared at Asher’s gloves, then said tightly to me, “We should go.”
“Certainly, can’t let her leash be too long, can we?” Asher said blithely. Then to me, “I’ll see you every weekday at 7:00 p.m. for your lessons. Don’t be tardy. We’ll be working out of my office.” The last sentence came out suggestive as he gave a long look with his grey eyes and headed the other direction. “Use the bookstore’s back entrance.”
“What? You’re willing to teach me?”
“Consider it my civic duty,” he called over his shoulder.
“He’s your great idea? I don’t think so.” Matt said it like it was decided.
“Yes, he’s my great idea. He knows a lot and can help.”
He snorted. “He’s into some seriously ancient magic, Alexandra. You have no idea who you’re getting involved with.”
“How do you know he’s into ancient magic?”
“The gloves. To hide the chimerian tattoos. Find somebody else.”
“There is nobody else. And he’s not evil—”
“I didn’t say he was. Just…unusual.”
That was a good way to describe Asher. “Callie and I will have each other’s backs. And I’m pretty certain after feeling that dark magic on prick-boy at the bar, I’d know it if I came across it again.” I made a mental note to text Asher and let him know I was bringing Callie.
“Callie will be with you? All right.”
“I’m not asking for your permission.” If this was what it felt like to have a guardian, I’d be happy to be rid of him. I was on my way to furious but his eyes weren’t full of menace and male ego, they were full of concern.
“Sorry. I know I’m wound tight.” He let out a long breath. “It’s just after losing the coven…”
And just like that, remembering all he’d been through, all that he’d been tasked with and lost, my anger melted. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.” I’d be overprotective too.
My stomach growled; it was dinnertime and I’d never gotten lunch. Worse, tomorrow was my first day of work and I hadn’t spent ten seconds preparing. Can’t let this thing take over your life, Alix, I chided myself. But deep down I knew it was already too late.
Chapter Ten
I hopped off the corporate shuttle bus a hundred yards from Millennium’s front door. The stark white glass-and-chrome architecture, slicing into the low grey sky, sent waves of first-day jitters through my stomach.
“Go kick ass,” were Matt’s marching orders, as he’d handed me a to-go cup of coffee just before I dashed out the door, dressed in my interview blazer paired with a burgundy pencil skirt. I’d promised to do my best, but was I capable of playing the corporate game? After last weekend revived my childhood dreams, doing Wontish work inside a monolithic building all day sounded like torture.
But so much was riding on this. I needed a paycheck. I couldn’t imagine disappointing my aunt. And if I was honest with myself, I wanted to prove I could hack this job.
That I could kick ass, and not just in a literal sense.
Thirty minutes later, I sat in a conference room with six other new hires. All of us sporting brand new photo ID security badges attached to lanyards. Addison, my tour guide from my interview, had just put on a video: How to Recognize Sexual Harassment. I fiddled with my new lanyard, which felt a little awkward around my neck.
Suddenly I realized everyone else was taking notes. I tried to focus on the narrator’s even monotone. But—in a horrible flashback to college lectures—the longer the video droned on, the icier my hands felt. Soon my fingers were too stiff with cold to grip one of the Millennium Dynamics gel pens in my new-hire swag bag. So, instead I clutched Matt’s coffee cup. Downing the last sips of warmth as if they were a lifeline to him.
Why did he have to look so hot first thing in the morning when he handed me the cup? Buzzed brown hair still wet from the shower. Muscles bulging out of his T-shirt. It was tight across his chest and biceps but blousey around his waist—they just didn’t design clothes for guardians. He’d nodded his head solemnly as I headed out the door, almost a salute. Like I was walking into battle.
Maybe it was the thought of Matt, but I felt my magic kick up suddenly. A dark tickle of sensation, twisting down my spine. I squirmed. Where had I felt that feeling before?
Interview day. Before I’d exercised my magic muscles, my ability to sense another’s magic. I’d written it off as nerves, but it was so much stronger now. So, where the hell was it coming from?
“Alix?”
Addison?
Crap, Addison was calling on me!
“Uh?” That sounded real intelligent-like.
“I was asking if you understood what to do if you experienced sexual harassment?”
“Talk directly to my manager?” I took a stab, more like a question than an answ
er.
Addison gave me look of disappointment. So much for our same-boots sisterhood. “That would be step two. Anyone else, step one?”
Six other hands shot up.
Way to make an impression, Alix, I scolded myself. Get your head right. Stop imagining magic’s everywhere. You need to take this corporate stuff seriously.
Even as I was berating myself, though, I felt that wave of inky magic enter my consciousness again. Nausea washed over me. No way was I imagining that.
The door to the training room opened and Eric Starr entered, wickedly handsome as ever. Though he was dressed down in couture jeans and a grey polo that matched his sexy greying temples, I had no doubt the cost of his shoes plus haircut exceeded my biweekly starting salary.
“Mr. Starr…?!” Addison’s voice pitched up half an octave. Clearly his presence at her orientation was unexpected.
He flashed Addison a magnetic smile, and she looked even more flustered.
“May I interrupt a moment.” It wasn’t a question, and Eric Starr didn’t wait for her to answer, but strode to the front of the room. “Welcome to the family,” he addressed the group, as if we were buddies having a chat, instead of him being one of the most powerful men in America. “I use that word ‘family’ deliberately. You didn’t just take a job. You’ve entered a tight-knit community where we pledge to continually make one another better.” He might have looked like a movie star but he spoke simply, sincerely. Channeled through his thousand-watt charisma, that sincerity was a powerful brew, and I could see the other new team members leaning in expectantly. Even Addison was looking at him like he walked on water. Yet the more Eric talked, the more nauseous I felt. “We have vetted you all—more than most companies do. So rest assured, if we’ve hired you, you deserve the job. And we’re counting on you to forego new job jitters and hit the ground running.”