Magic Flame (Enchanted Book 3)

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “Hello, Bradley. Is Marchland coming?”

  I almost dropped the bowl as I hurried to close the door a bit, leaving only a small crack. “Not for breakfast. She will be by with your lunch though. Sorry, dude.”

  He shrugged. I again began to ease the door shut, when he spoke. “Are you okay, Bradley?” His voice actually sounded worried. I didn’t know if he could still feel emotion or not, but if he couldn’t then he was good at faking it.

  “Why would you ask me that?’

  “That man last night, the one with the beard, he seemed upset. He got in here, but he said the house wouldn’t let him open the door. I was scared he’d try to hurt Marchland. I was going to kill him, but he left before I could catch him. I would have chased him but Marchland wants me to stay put.” He shrugged.

  My hands began to tremble.

  “Bradley? You don’t look so well.” Chase stood and started toward me.

  I snapped back to myself and slammed the door. “I gotta go,” I yelled. I knew he couldn’t leave even if he wanted to, but I still didn’t like getting close to him.

  Chase’s words came muffled from other side of the door. “Okay, Bradley. Just keep a look out for that strange man. He was angry.”

  I didn’t stop shaking until I was sitting in the passenger seat of Blaine’s car. Being next to him, I didn’t feel okay, exactly, but I did feel braver. Blaine drove with one hand on the back of my neck, kneading the tension that had collected there and in my shoulders. I didn’t know what was happening with all of the touching lately, but surprisingly, I liked it. Which meant I was certifiably a sicko because how could I even be worried about that right now? How could I be sitting in a car, upset because I’d fed a man to gators, but loving the tingles that danced across the base of my neck when the man—who I’d always thought of as a best friend, except he’d helped get rid of a body and do “just friends” even do things like that?—massaged the tension away?

  But still… his fingers new exactly where to press and twist. And god, I knew he was loyal. Loyalty counted for a lot.

  I’d filled him in on what I’d seen, and the house’s early morning reaction. I didn’t tell him about Chase because even though he was willing to get rid of a body for me, I didn’t want to press my luck by telling him of the bespelled man obsessed with my sister who lived as our prisoner. I couldn’t find a scenario where me or my sisters would come away from that situation smelling too good.

  “It’s only your nerves. All of this will pass. Remember, you aren’t the bad guy. He was. You just fought back—you got rid of the bad guy.” The car rolled to a stop at a red light and he twisted in his seat to face me. “You are like Batman. Fighting the baddies.”

  “Yeah. Batman. Okay.” I trained my eyes out the window, annoyed. I did not feel like Batman.

  “I’m serious. How many women do you think he hurt? Because all of that—him getting you alone and the surety of his actions—it all came way too natural for that to have been his first time. You did a good thing, Brad, and I am glad to help you.” He leaned over and before I realized it, his lips pressed into mine. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of warmth that emanated from the touch. Why did it take killing a man for me to find what had been in front of me all along? Had Blaine ever before given me a signal? When I was with Jonathan, Blaine had always acted protective and more than once said he was no good for me… but other than that? Had he ever tried to clue me in?

  A horn blared behind us, and the moment was over. The light was green. Blaine drove the rest of the way to campus with his hands, unfortunately, to himself.

  Blaine unwrapped a piece of candy and popped it into his mouth, then led me to the geology room. It was full as usual, and when we entered, there were more than a few snickers and stares.

  They know. How do they know? Panic flooded me before I realized that they were staring because of the photos. I let out a breath and the tightness in my chest ebbed. After last night, the emails and pictures, while still a violation, seemed manageable. I felt Jonathan’s gaze the moment his eyes landed on me. He stared with narrowed eyes at Blaine’s arm tucked around my waist as I walked to my seat.

  I slid into my desk and Blaine took his seat next to me. Normally Professor Broussard would be here by now, sitting at his desk, his feet propped up while he thumbed through his notes. But he wouldn’t be coming today. I wondered what everyone would do. Would Jonathan teach? Would everyone get up and leave? How long would it be before anyone realized that something was wrong? Thoughts galloped through my mind like it was the effing Kentucky Derby while I tried to breathe deep and force my mind blank, like Marchland had taught me to help control my anxiety. Without thinking, I traced the tattoo on my wrist, the one she’d given me in high school to help me cope with, well, to help me cope with life.

  We had the kind of childhood you survived, and it had certainly left its mark on me. I hated how more often than not I felt nervous. How I couldn’t handle touch from most people and sometimes the thought of small talk made me break out in the sweats.

  Lord. How was I going to keep it together? I looked guilty even when I wasn’t, so now that I was, it would just be a matter of time before I was found out. Before the cops came and arrested me and Blaine and then questioned my sisters and found Chase and discovered that Cheyanne was bat-shit crazy, and—

  The classroom door open and slammed shut. Professor Broussard walked to the front of the room.

  “Ms. Murphey, perhaps I can trouble you for another meeting in my office after class?” His face twisted into a vicious grin.

  Chapter Seven

  Like hell.

  I barreled down the hall like a line-backer, shoving through students and professors alike, not even stopping when I heard Blaine call for me.

  How can Broussard be back? How?

  I thought of Cheyanne shoving the athame in his back, the blade disappearing to the bone-laden hilt. I thought of Blaine breaking the circle, making it possible for magic to escape. I thought of the divined candles being knocked over and their wax dripping from the tray to the ground as their smoke swirled and mixed. I thought of Broussard’s hands around my neck, squeezing, crushing.

  So much happened—I’d been so shaken I hadn’t realized how badly the spell had gone. You’d think I’d know by now how important every small peculiarity was to magic. How every mundane detail mattered. Granny had told us over and over again that even good magic was finicky at best.

  I thought of Chase and Cheyanne. Of how it could mean the difference between success or insanity.

  Now, Broussard was alive and I was never coming back.

  Blaine pushed through the sea of students and fell into step next to me.

  “Didn’t you hear me calling you?” He looked hurt.

  I shook my head. “Blaine. I can’t. I am leaving. I don’t know where I am going, yet, but I can’t…I can’t deal. Not with any of this.”

  “Bradley, hey.” He took my hands in his own. “You are shaking.” I let him gather me in his arms, and we stood in the middle of the hallway until I pulled away and wiped my eyes on the backs of my hands.

  “I gotta go.”

  “You really aren’t coming back?”

  “I can’t.” My voice was raspy with unshed tears. Tears of fear. Of anxiety. Of anger. I was tired of being the weak one. There was no doubt in my mind that Marchland could have handled the situation, or that Cheyanne (before her incident) could have twisted the whole damn thing to her favor, but I was sniffling and running. And I hated myself for it—but obviously not enough to change my plan.

  I turned to leave, and Blaine kept pace next to me. “You are looking at this the wrong way. He is back. He is alive. The spell must have worked. Now you don’t have to worry. Everything is better, Bradley.”

  My chest felt tight and I pressed my lips together. “No. No, something is wrong. Something happened with the magic. Did you see the way he looked at me? The way he spoke to me? He knows, Blaine. He freaki
ng knows I killed him.”

  “And? What is he going to do? Look, he can’t say anything because who will believe him? The truth is stranger than any story anyone could invent. Believe me—he ain’t going to talk.”

  “He wants to see me in his office.”

  “So? Don’t go. He can’t make you. And now he knows you aren’t going to take any shit.” He smiled and I didn’t know if he was joking or not.

  Blaine led me gently to the door and we walked out onto the sidewalk. “You really think I need to just… what? Continue on as if nothing happened? I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “Look, think about it. Go home and lie down. I will come over later. Is that okay?”

  I took a breath and closed my eyes. “Fine. Sure.” Home, tucked into the security of Granny’s house, sounded about as close to heaven as I could imagine.

  The house was empty when I got home. Cheyanne’s white, rich-bitch car wasn’t in its spot. House threw open the squeaky gate and I could feel his happiness as I walked the cracked path to the porch.

  House had been worried about me, I realized. Really worried.

  The inside glowed with pastel rainbows and the smell of cinnamon filled the air. Suddenly, the stress of the day landed on my shoulders and it was all I could do to make it to the couch before collapsing into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When I awoke, the sunlight that filtered through the curtains was gray and the beginnings of night time sounded outside.

  “Cheyanne?” I called. “You home yet?”

  No one answered. I stretched, and feeling better from my nap, decided I would start supper. None of us Murphey women were great cooks, having grown up on a steady diet of chef boy and kid cuisine T.V. dinners. The only time we got “real food” was the times we were dumped at Granny’s. In my darkest moments of childhood, I’d actually wished that something would happen to Mama so we could live with Granny, then I would feel so terrible for thinking it, that I would try to be extra good for Mama.

  Good thing you didn’t have to be a great cook to make spaghetti. I filled a pot with water and put it on to boil. I hummed to myself as I worked, doing my best to keep the ill feelings at bay. I had to keep moving forward. I pulled out Granny’s heavy-as-hell iron skillet and placed it on a burner with a little olive oil. I’d have to check and see what brand of sauce Marchland had bought. I hoped it wasn’t some gross organic crap from the store near her tattoo shop. I opened the cabinet door over the stove to grab the cooking salt.

  Be careful. Be careful. Be careful. I felt House as clear as if it were talking—the same way I’d “heard” it that morning.

  A shiver ran down my spine, the walls faded to a colorless gray and suddenly House was silent in a way that he never was.

  I spun on my heels. In the kitchen, on the other side of the island, was Professor Broussard. His slack grin was sallow and twisted and something evil glowed behind his beady eyes.

  “You were supposed to come and talk to me. I have some questions for you, Bradley.” His words were gravel and grit and stone.

  My gut twisted and I swallowed hard to keep nausea from taking over. “How. How did you get in here? You shouldn’t be able to come in here.”

  Broussard shrugged. “I don’t know. Whatever flows through this house, it flows through me. This place feels right. It feels like home.” His smile widened.

  “This ain’t your home. Go away. I killed you once, and I’ll do it again.” I hated how my voice trembled almost as much as my hands. I squeezed my fingers into fist and didn’t drop my eyes—not for a second.

  He stepped closer to me, slowly, the floor boards creaking under his feet. “I just want to talk, Bradley. That is all. I have questions.”

  “Stay away from me! You are dead! Stay. Away!” I screamed. I looked around the room for something—anything—I could use as a weapon.

  He took another step.

  Our street is quiet, and people mind their own business. On top of that, our yard and house are be-spelled to deflect attention. I could walk naked into my front yard while a marathon of junior high boys ran by and they wouldn’t stop and look twice. This meant that no one would hear me yelling at the dead man. This also meant that no one would hear me call for help if anything happened.

  I had to make sure nothing happened.

  Fear-charged adrenaline raged through my system.

  Still, closer Broussard came, never dropping his eyes, his gross smile never faltering.

  “I am warning you. Go away.” My eyes went to the pan that was now hissing with the table spoon of oil.

  Broussard paused. “Or what?” Without explaining, he charged. As his body hit mine, my fingers wrapped around the handle of the iron skillet. Searing pain burned instantly in my palm, but I didn’t release. I pulled it to the ground as I landed, the sizzling oil sloshing in the skillet and then dripping to the floor. As Broussard’s thick fingers found their way to my neck, I brought the skillet down on his head. His grip only tightened, strangling me. The pan continued to cook my palm, but I hit him again and again, until his grip loosened enough for me to twist and turn.

  I broke his hold and pushed away without standing until I’d managed to put a few feet between me and the monster. As he went to stand, House groaned louder than I’d ever heard, and with an echoing crack, the perfect cypress floor opened under Broussard’s weight, catching his feet and legs.

  “What the hell!” He pushed against the floor, struggling to free himself and come at me.

  I didn’t give him the chance. I dropped the pan. The tender flesh of the meaty part of my hand was red and white and outlined in an angry pink circle. I sucked in a deep breath and held it as I jerked open the knife drawer with so much force it slung free from the track, sending steak, pairing, and chopping blades clattering to the floor.

  Broussard managed to scoot from the hole and was working his foot free. I didn’t know how long House could hold him. He was crazed in a way that I knew was a result from a spell gone bad. Real bad.

  I bent and grabbed the biggest carving knife I could find.

  “Hold him! Please House, just hold him!” the words tumbled free from my lips, loud and clear.

  I crossed the floor and Broussard stopped working on his ankle to grab for me. His fingers dug into my thighs, and before I could think too hard about what I was going to do, with everything left in me I shoved the blade into his chest. The dead man slumped forward. There was no delay. No rasping breaths or gurgling blood. In fact there was no blood at all. He was moving and talking one minute, and the next he wasn’t. I didn’t understand why stabbing him worked when hitting him with a pan didn’t, but at that moment I didn’t care.

  “Dammit,” I whispered. I stumbled, falling to my butt. I scrambled, pushing myself backwards until I hit the bank of cabinets. I picked up another knife and sat, watching the corpse as terrified tears hit the ground in front of me in fat wet circles.

  I was still there an hour later when Cheyanne found me.

  Chapter Eight

  We buried the body in the woods.

  I felt I was losing my mind, so it was a decision I was happy to let Marchland make. My only protest had been that he shouldn’t be buried on our property—since he could obviously withstand the keep-away charms and was immune to House’s magic.

  I shivered. He’d said the same magic ran through him.

  Cheyanne and Blaine had bound his hands and feet with silver duct tape, and wrapped him in a bed sheet. Then the four of us had hauled the corpse into the back of March’s VW Beetle. We’d had to fold the corpse in two and slam the lid—but we made him fit.

  When we were kids, we lived briefly in a trailer park in a rural area out in East Feliciana Parish. There hadn’t been much around except for a few tiny towns that would barely register on a map, a couple of schools, a couple of gas stations, and a prison.

  The trailer park had been rough, even by Mama’s standards, but there were large woods nearby where we’d spent our day
s running wild.

  We’d lived there for, at the most, three months, and none of us had been back to visit. Why would we?

  “It’s the perfect place,” March insisted. “Secluded enough to go unnoticed, especially once we work the binding spell. If by some small chance someday someone stumbles across the body, there is no way it could ever be tied to us. If anything, they will think it is a meth deal gone south.”

  What she didn’t say, but I heard loud and clear was, that if Broussard was alive come morning, he’d be far, far away. I knew in my heart that didn’t matter. I’d watched him sink to the bottom of a bayou. I’d watched red eyes wink and glide through the black water.

  “Besides,” Cheyanne chimed in, “even if he wakes, the binding spell will keep him in the ground. He may be awake, but he won’t be getting up.” She grinned fiercely. I tried not to think about what that meant.

  As we got closer to our destination, the space between towns grew greater, until twenty minutes had gone by, and the only buildings we passed were ranch style homes set far off the road. Nothing had changed much in the fifteen years since we’d left. We finally passed the old trailer park, and if anything it was worse—a ramshackle cluster of portable meth labs. I scowled. My mama’s natural habitat.

  I was beginning to wonder exactly where March was taking us, when we turned off the highway onto a random backroad and continued a lonely stretch until we reached a carved out path used by either pup-wood trucks, or deer hunters and their pickups. Marchland cut her lights as we bumped down the path.

  We were able to move the body quickly, carrying it as far as we could until our arms gave out. Luckily it had recently rained and we buried Broussard in a soft patch of earth. We burned the candles. We spread the circle and placed the rocks.

  My voice wavered as I repeated my sister’s instructed verse. The process was less ceremonial than when we’d tried to resuscitate Broussard on the night everything went horribly wrong. In fact, our rushed, by-the-book actions, felt almost clinical. There was no blood or begging the Mother. We were in and out and on our way home within two hours (the majority of the time suck was digging the grave).