by Tara Quan
His gruff, masculine voice soon interrupted the brief, blissful silence. “Good morning, brats. Celebrating New Year’s Eve with some fireworks, I see.” No one had the right to sound this upbeat at a quarter past seven, not even him.
“Midnight. Oh, my gosh!” With a headache-intensifying squeal, Shelley leapt across the room to wrap her arms around her older half-brother. “What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t take time off work.”
Letting her head fall to the rubbery tile, Sweets stared at the disintegrating ceiling and contemplated turning back into a cat. The last thing she wanted right this second was a chat with the walking Armani advertisement. What was he doing in an open-collar white shirt and dark-blue suit at this time of day?
She could smell his spicy cologne from where she slumped, and his short beard was trimmed to ruler-straight lines alongside his mouth and under his dimpled chin. Of course he’d show up looking like a GQ cover model while she wore unflattering pajamas and reeked of burnt plastic.
After a tedious extrication from Shelley’s bear hug, he marched forward. “Need a boost, Dulcina?”
His continued use of that god-awful name baffled her. Even her parents and sister had switched to calling her Sweets, but this guy couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the preference. Of course, the three syllables somehow gained a hint of sexiness when he said it in that Southern drawl. The word rolled off his tongue with a lilting musicality that appealed to some traitorous part of her psyche, the unwelcome effect getting on her nerves in a big way.
On top of that, the weird physical reaction she had to his mere presence irritated her. Ever since she’d hit puberty, being within five feet of the boy she’d known all her life—one who’d since grown into a gorgeous twenty-five-year-old man—did weird shit to random body parts. Her cheeks burned, her breath quickened, her palms got sweaty, and her heart rate turned erratic. The smug grin he wore, along with the patronizing tone he’d used, earned her best friend’s half sibling a temporary place on Sweets’ list of least-favorite uninvited guests. “You’re blocking my view.”
He offered his hand. “Of what?”
“Water damage.” Before she could accept his assistance, the empty space between them distorted. Transparent, flickering waves created a blur, as if two realities had shifted out of sync. Frozen in place by the premonition’s onslaught, she watched a version of herself meet his palm with her own. Their fingers twined, and he hoisted her up too fast. When she crashed into his chest, his arms lowered to circle her waist.
He drew her closer. She tilted her head back and parted her lips. A storm brewed in the depths of his almost-black eyes, coloring them with swirls of white and gray. A light furrow formed between his brows, certainty and possession lending his face a dangerous edge.
Alarm bells ringing in her ears, she blinked away the vision and clenched her hands into fists. Keeping them at her sides, she did a full sit-up. Talk about a close call. “Thanks for taking care of the smoke. It even smells nice in here now.”
Lines bracketed the sides of his mouth. He scrutinized her through narrowed eyes, as if he somehow suspected she’d altered their course. “No problem. I haven’t used magic in weeks.”
Thanks to copious at-home ab exercises, she managed to curl onto her feet in a single lithe move. Pivoting to lean against the wall, she crossed her arms. She’d avoided a disaster by a split second; it seemed prudent to keep a wary distance from its source. “I don’t know what Enforcement’s manual says, but you can’t just show up at people’s homes.”
He stepped forward, crowding into her personal space. “Please tell me you don’t still think the Council is the source of all evil.” It could be her guilty conscience, but a different accusation leadened the air.
“You could’ve called ahead.” She had to concentrate to keep her voice from shaking.
Trotting over to stand next to her, Shelley patted his upper arm and dispelled the tension. “Don’t be silly.” With a frown of concentration, she continued in a horrible accent. “Mi casa es su casa,” which sounded closer to “Mee case-ahh isa sua case-ahh.” While she absorbed vocabulary with robot-like efficacy, her butchering of pronunciation would make any native speaker cringe.
“¡Como el infierno!” Sweets muttered under her breath.
Shelley turned to stare at her. “What does that mean? I’m on Rosetta Stone Spanish Level 3, and I still haven’t learned it.”
The woman’s brother coughed. “Pretty sure it’s not in the curriculum. En Inglés, por favor. I took French in high school, remember?” To her relief, his tone had lost its calculating edge.
Sweets directed her answer at Shelley. “Like hell is our house his house. I won’t have some Enforcement agent nosing around my things.” She turned and jabbed her finger into his chest. “You want to visit, you schedule ahead.” That way, she could find an excuse not to be home—starting right this instant.
A clueless giggle from Shelley’s direction interrupted her mental planning. “You’re being ridiculous. He’s family.”
Sweets looked down at the witch’s covered toes. Stomping on them with her bare foot would do too little damage. “I’ll believe it when you get a DNA test.”
Judging from appearances, few would believe these siblings shared a mother. Mikal’s skin was several shades darker than Shelley’s, his six-foot-tall broad-chested build dwarfing his sister’s diminutive height. Shelley had luscious curves with plenty of padding, while her brother’s lean body consisted of bone and rippling muscle. His military-cut hair was a dull, coarse slate, which contrasted with Shelley’s maple curls. The earth mage’s round cheeks and button nose ensured she looked nothing like her brother, who had high slanting cheekbones, a prominent nasal bridge, and a square jaw. Chocolate-brown eyes and thick, pouting lips numbered among the few commonalities these purported blood relations shared.
Mikal cleared his throat. “By the way, I did call. Both your phones are out of credit. They went straight to voicemail. It’s why Mom sent me over here after I dropped by her place.”
Shelley hit her forehand with the heel of her hand. “I knew I’d forgotten something.”
It didn’t matter, since they couldn’t afford to refill their accounts. Glancing at the shrapnel-decorated floor, Sweets rounded up the hundred-or-so pieces of metal with a wave of her hand and sent them into the trash can. With Mikal around, her telekinesis got supercharged. “As you can see, we’re doing fine. Can you go away now?”
He stepped closer and chucked his knuckles under her chin. “Why so grumps, kitty cat? Haven’t had your morning coffee?”
Come to think of it, lack of caffeine might have a great deal to do with her sour mood. “No. And I guess I’m not having any for a while.” The thought of surviving the mornings without her usual boost almost gave her a panic attack.
He glanced at his sister. “I saw the stack of stuff by the door, which, by the way, you guys didn’t lock….”
Seeing her friend’s eyes narrow, Sweets grinned. Because he’d lived in New York for the past four years, Shelley at times forgot how annoying and overbearing the man could be. Distance had made his sister’s heart grow fonder, but it wouldn’t take long before his meddlesome ways wore on her nerves. When they did, the witch would evict him from the house without needing a single prompt. “We don’t even share a dad, so you’d better not start acting like one again,” Shelley warned.
The muscle on his jaw ticked. The siblings had fought like cats and dogs growing up. Before a series of unfortunate premonitions had prompted Sweets to limit their in-person interactions, she’d played the peacemaker between him and her best friend, which she still did quite often on the phone and over e-mail.
To her surprise, Shelley’s overprotective arch nemesis lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s a neutral observation, little sis. Lock the door, don’t lock the door. Hell, leave it open so snow and ice can blow in—it’s your house.”
On the verge of giving him a hi
gh five of respect, Sweets winced when he continued, “About the bills—I can give you two a few bucks to get you through the year.”
“We don’t need your money.” A chunk of the ceiling fell and hit the counter, dimming the effect of Shelley’s feigned confidence by a significant margin. Nonetheless, the witch squared her shoulders. “We’ve got everything under control.”
Sweets turned to glare at her business partner for the non-royal use of the word we. No one should stand between her and a working phone and morning coffee. Turning her hand palm up, she cleared her throat. “If she won’t take it, I will.” She’d deal with the consequences of owing him a favor later. She’d be stupid to turn down an opportunity to get them enough liquidity to survive the week. Besides, he’d be giving her a loan, not a handout.
Shelley bumped Sweets’ shoulder. “Stay out of this.”
“You stay out of it. This is between me and the Enforcement loan shark.”
The witch’s sharp elbow dug into her stomach. “You don’t even like him. Why are you taking his side?”
Sweets batted her eyelashes. “Survival.”
“What happened to being independent and self-sufficient?” Shelley forced out a fake smile. “We’re in this together. It’s been our joint New Year’s resolution for four years. It’s bad enough you got Cat to do our taxes for free.”
How could the witch still not be over that after eight whole months? Sweets had indulged almost all of her friend’s pigheaded warped ethics, but she’d drawn the line at paying for TurboTax when her sister was a certified public accountant.
Before the argument could go down a well-traveled tangent, Shelley’s much saner sibling had the decency to step in. “Come on, ladies. Don’t fight. As the one dude here, it makes me uncomfortable. What if I charge interest?”
Her lower lip sticking out, Shelley shook her head. “Thank you, but no. I’m a grownup. You should start treating me like one.”
Easy for her to say. The woman lived off the fruits and vegetables she grew, brewed tea comprised of dried mint leaves, and hadn’t left the house in a year. Though they didn’t need to pay rent, the soon-to-be condemned cottage Shelley had inherited from her grandmother happened to be smack dab in a preppy neighborhood in Northern Virginia, with property taxes so high they ate up the lion’s share of last year’s profits. While Sweets also drank the financial-independence Kool-Aid, having a working microwave topped her list of priorities. No way would she let pride get in the way of Lean Cuisine.
She beamed a smile at one of the three people in the world from whom she didn’t mind requesting aid. “Can you spare a hundred bucks? I’ll pay you back in a week. We sold a ton of stuff over Christmas, but PayPal’s got server issues, and the money’s stuck. We’d have been fine if the microwave hadn’t blown, but— Ouch!”
Sweets rubbed her lower back, where a bruise was likely forming. “Seriously, chica, stop acting like a baby.”
The woman’s brother also seemed to have had enough. He took possession of Sweets’ upper arm and propelled them out of the kitchen, across the tiny living room, and through the front door in five wind-assisted leaps. Hot on their heels, Shelley skidded to a stop at the entryway, where he shut the thick wood barrier in her face.
“Whoa, that’s plain mean.” Slipping her feet into the snow boots she’d discarded by the door, Sweets rubbed her bare arms to stave off the biting cold. “You know she can’t leave the house.” Shelley’s power had gotten stronger with age, but the magical equivalent of agoraphobia had accompanied the increase. It’d gotten bad enough during the past year she couldn’t go out and about.
He shrugged. “You’ve always been the less-crazy one. I need to hit the ATM. Why don’t you warm up in the car and let me buy you a cup of coffee?”
With that offer dangling in front of her face, what self-respecting caffeine-addicted witch could say no?
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Fireworks at Midnight by Tara Quan