My Favorite Witch

by Lisa Plumley

  “Imprisonment without parole.”

  She stared, openmouthed. “On the first offense?”

  “At the IAB, we don’t allow a second offense.” Garmin adjusted his necktie, then the lapels of his suit. All signs of fatigue were gone now. “That’s why the bureau is so successful.”

  The trolley bell clanged again. Had it only been seconds since she’d first heard it? Or had Garmin somehow magiked time into slowing while they talked? He was probably powerful enough to cast a time spell. With a sense of unreality that felt just as strong as before, Dayna stared as the trolley trundled toward the stop. The two tourists approached the curb expectantly.

  “I’ve really got to go. I don’t drive”—she didn’t trust herself to do it, given her inability to control things outside of herself—“and I have a lot of homework to do before class tonight. Can we continue this on the trolley?”

  “The trolley?” Garmin made a face. “No. I don’t do the trolley. Can’t you just magik yourself wherever you need to go?”

  Deadpan, Dayna looked at him. “Not legally.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Aha. You do have a sense of humor.”

  “Fine. Hold on to me.” Careful not to grab her arm again, Agent Garmin focused on Dayna. He bent his knees and then…whooshed them both to the trolley stop. “There.”

  “Wow. Invasive, yet effective.” Wobbling, Dayna righted herself. “Thanks. You IAB guys don’t mess around.”

  One of the tourists gawked at them.

  “After you,” Garmin told the man. As the tourist turned, the agent casually brushed his shoulder. At Dayna’s questioning look, Garmin leaned down. “Forgetfulness spell,” he confided.

  “Ah. Slick.” She remembered T.J. using the same spell on the docent, Francine, at Dynamic Research Libraries. Then it had seemed kind. In Garmin’s hands, that spell might feel different. Still…“After our talk, can I get one of those?”

  The agent gave her a lingering look. Then a smile unexpectedly quirked his mouth. “Maybe. If you’re very good.”

  “Define ‘good.’”

  “Cooperative.”

  “Yeah. Good luck with that. Especially if you want me to throw T.J. to the wolves. Not going to happen.”

  “Mmm.” Garmin gave a noncommittal sound. “We’ll see.”

  He and Dayna waited for both tourists to wheeze their way onto the trolley, shopping bags in tow. Garmin squinted at the HALLOW-E’EN FESTIVAL banner on the trolley’s side. Dayna wondered what more the IAB could possibly want from her. Then they both boarded the trolley and creaked down the street.

  That afternoon, T.J. sat in one of his magus’s ultramodern chairs, with autumn sunshine streaming through the earth ship’s rounded port windows. That warmth felt good. His magus’s wolfhound sat at his feet. His magus herself sat across from him, watching as he toyed with the spicy cookie on his plate.

  “This one is a molasses cookie with vanilla icing.” A familiar expectant gleam lit her eyes. “When the weather cools off, all I want are sugar and cinnamon and lots of ginger.”

  The fragrances of those spices assaulted him. Eyes watering with the fumes, T.J. blinked. Taking his first bite of cookie was an act of extreme bravery. He chewed. “Mmm. Effective.”

  His magus burst out laughing. “‘Effective’? You’re something else, T.J. Just when I think I have you figured out—”

  He swallowed heavily. “I found the vixen witch.”

  “Aha.” She sobered. “That explains your agitated mood.”

  Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. T.J. just hoped like hell that his magus couldn’t see his completed bond with Dayna. He hadn’t come to terms with that himself. He refused to now.

  Ignoring his magus’s too-perceptive remark, he continued his report. “She fits your prophesy and your spirit vision. She’s powerful, alone, and indecisive. She’s young. She’s beautiful. She’s part of a leading clique among the witches.”

  “In other words, she fits. That is good news.” Still eyeing his molasses cookie, his magus leaned back in her chair. With an effortless motion, she pulled over a shaft of sunshine, then noticed T.J. watching. She shrugged. “I’m old. I get cold.”

  He nodded, instantly rejecting the idea of his magus’s advancing age. The thought of losing her was unbearable. But like all Patayan—like all witchfolk—he knew his magus’s time here was finite. Just like his faith in anything or anyone except her was finite. He’d never seen a reason to change that.

  Although his bonding with Dayna seemed to be forcing him to. Bit by bit, T.J. felt himself weakening. Wanting…

  His magus’s voice cut short his brooding. “Will she help us, this vixen witch? Will she join the Patayan?”

  T.J. nodded. “She hasn’t agreed yet. She will.”

  “I see. Did you seduce her, then?”

  “No!” Affronted, T.J. dropped his plate to the table with a clatter. The wolfhound lunged to its feet. The beast scarfed his forgotten cookie in a single bite. “I’m a warlock, not a whore.”

  His magus suppressed a grin. “And the difference is…?”

  “Minuscule,” T.J. admitted with a grin he could not hide. He stood and then paced, filled with emotions on a scale he’d never experienced. Agitated was accurate. Damn it. “But my legacy magic is tempered by my better-controlled Patayan side.”

  His magus laughed again. “If this is control, I’d hate to see your version of abandon. It must be near madness.”

  T.J. frowned. He’d come close to that kind of abandon—that kind of passion—this morning with his bonded witch. It had done something to him. Their coming together had changed him.

  “It feels like madness,” he muttered. “I don’t like it.”

  “Give it time.” Leaving off the topic of his lapse in control—which must be obvious in his aura—his magus nodded at him. “Did you notice that your birthright mark is changing?”

  Startled, T.J. glanced down at his arm. His golden Gila monster tattoo appeared more deeply etched now. It gleamed with a new richness that crept upward from the creature’s claws.

  “You’ve completed your bond,” his magus observed. “Your birthright mark is entering maturity, becoming fully realized.”

  T.J. scoffed. “It can’t be. I passed maturity long ago.”

  “You think you became a man when your parents died—when you were forced to care for yourself all those years ago.” A current of sadness swept from his magus to him. Usually T.J. could not sense his wisewoman’s emotions. He wondered why he could now. “But the true test of maturity is not caring for yourself,” she said. “Real maturity means caring for someone else—sacrificing for someone else. Giving to someone else.”

  “I give.” He fisted his hands. “I sacrifice.”

  “That’s true. You’ve gone beyond all measures of loyalty—for your people’s sake. Now it’s time to claim some happiness for yourself.” With a steady gaze that focused a few inches past his body, his magus examined him. She smiled. “It’s time for you to trust the bond you’ve made—to trust your bonded witch.”

  “Later. After this crisis is past.”

  “All we have is now. This moment. Take it.”

  “I’ve already taken more than I meant to.” Caught up in a memory of Dayna atop him, urging him to join with her, her face open and beautiful, T.J. smiled. He trailed his fingertips over his mouth, remembering how it had felt when she’d kissed him.

  Sweet. Hot. Necessary. Inevitable.

  “I feel more myself with her than with anyone. I feel…more.” Conflicted, he gazed at his magus. “Is this a trick of our bonding? Is this what it’s like for a human to be bewitched?”

  “I don’t know. Did you complete your bond willingly?”

  He thought about the heat between him and Dayna, the need and whispers and urgent touches. He grinned. “Ravenously.”

  “Then it’s not bewitchment you feel. It’s more than that.”

  “A desire spell?” He scoffed. “I’m a gro
wn warlock. I—”

  “No.” His magus’s smile brightened the room. It softened and reassured something inside him, too. “It’s love.”

  He swore. “I don’t know what that means.”

  Another perceptive look. “You’re afraid to know. Afraid that if you reach for it, it will disappear. But your body knows. It knows. It reaches. It needs. Your heart will follow.”

  “So I’m going to fuck my way into true love?”

  “Be as crude as you want.” With a serene expression, his magus conjured a clean plate. She gestured to the pile of spicy cookies beside her. Magically, she lifted one and transported it on the new plate past her hungry wolfhound to T.J. “We both know these are delaying tactics. We both know the truth.”

  “And that is?”

  “That your heart has already followed the rest of you.” His magus directed a canine biscuit at her dog. “Soon you’ll be able to trust it. Then you’ll shout your love from the rooftops.”

  T.J. laughed. “The day I yell out loud like a warlock from a freaking musical-theater production is the day the earth stops spinning.” Still chuckling to himself, he picked up his cookie and finished it in two bites. He went to his magus, leaned down to envelop her in an arthritis-ointment-scented hug, then rose. He smiled at her. “I’ll report when I know more. Be well.”

  He headed for the door. His magus’s voice trailed him.

  “I’m already well,” she said in a contented tone. “You just initiated a hug all on your own. For the first time. This change in you is good, T.J. It’s very, very good.”

  Hell. He wanted to disagree. He wanted to prove that he was still strong, still a rock, still impenetrable. But he couldn’t. So T.J. only raised his hand in farewell, then slipped outside into the soul-warming sunshine, his birthright mark all but sizzling with enjoyment of the heat.

  This change was good. It was very, very good.

  And T.J. knew exactly how to get more of it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After a long night of cusping-witch class, Dayna trod up the sidewalk to Deuce’s apartment. Shrouded in shadows, she moved through the courtyard that centered the units in the complex, then edged along the border of bougainvillea and oleander. The plants’ branches rustled in the cold wind. In one of the nearby apartments, a TV screen glowed through the blinds; from another, the heady aroma of chile verde wafted into the night.

  Everyone was settling in for the evening—greeting their loved ones, sharing a meal, hugging hello. Those homey scenarios should have made her nostalgic for her life in Phoenix. They should have made her want to work harder to return there. Instead, they only exposed her “real” life for what it was—a hideout. In the human world, Dayna was a permanent expatriate. Even her closest friends didn’t know the truth about her.

  But what was the truth? That she was really a witch?

  Ha. Tonight had proven that “truth” wrong all over again.

  Although she’d experienced a few bursts of magical acumen during class, she’d endured twice as many moments of failure. Where the other cusping witches seemed to be experiencing surges in both magical ability and magical strength, Dayna was simply experiencing a series of surges—unpredictable, uncontrollable, and prone to embarrassing malfunctions…most of which had been caught and replayed on memory flickers during the breaks.

  It had been just like old times—the old times she’d escaped from once but couldn’t escape from now. Being in cusping-witch classes was like attending an involuntary three-week high school reunion. Everyone wanted to make a good impression. The former nerd wanted to wow everyone with her high-salaried high-tech job. The once chubby girl wanted to show off her newly svelte shape. The one-time band geek wanted everyone to hear about her Grammy nomination. Dayna hadn’t achieved spectacular success—at least not in a form that witchfolk would recognize—but she’d still hoped she’d changed enough that she would fit in. That she’d somehow make a triumphant return to town and everyone who’d excluded her would welcome her back. But her hopes had evaporated with her first step into Covenhaven Academy.

  With a bitter thrust of her temporary apartment key, she opened Deuce’s front door. It banged against the interior wall, rattling Deuce’s framed print on the other side—a piece of “artwork” that depicted a trio of bikini girls lathering up a replica of the Mustang he and T.J. had stolen her away from Phoenix in. The image didn’t quite fit with Deuce’s personality, but he seemed to like it. Besides, however heinous her roommate’s “art” was, it wasn’t up to her to destroy it.

  Lunging sideways, Dayna tried to catch the frame before it rattled off the wall. Instead, an instant before she touched it, the picture went completely still. Then it slid upright. It was just as though an invisible Martha Stewart had entered the room, found that print crooked, and expertly straightened it.

  Caught off guard, Dayna frowned. Then the truth hit her.

  Deuce. He must have beaten her home tonight.

  “Great. Even a turned human is better at magic than me.” She slung her backpack on the floor and groused her way into the living room area, ready for a nice, restorative bitch session with Deuce. “It just figures. After the night I’ve had—”

  She stopped, gawking, at the sight that greeted her.

  T.J. lounged on the sofa, naked from the waist up. From the waist down, he wore a pair of witchmade pants that reminded her of track pants…only softer and (she imagined) more inviting to touch. He was lit by the glow of Deuce’s big-screen TV, its images flickering across his features. His feet were bare, his hair was messy, and beard stubble darkened his jaw. His hand was poised halfway in the act of raising a beer to his lips.

  Instead, seeing Dayna, he smiled.

  Somehow, that smile had the power to make her heart skip a beat. I see you, it said. And I’m so glad you’re here.

  Helpless to resist, Dayna returned that smile. Widely.

  T.J. made a simple gesture. His beer disappeared. The TV switched itself off. Maybe it was magic. Maybe just the remote. Either way, Dayna only had eyes for T.J.’s brawny chest, his exotic Patayan amulets, his muscles and smooth skin and aura of welcome. As though entranced by it, she moved toward him.

  “Didn’t Deuce tell you?” T.J. asked in a level tone. “Turned humans can’t practice magic.” He tsk-tsked. “That should really be part of your curriculum at cusping-witch school.”

  “He might have told me that. And it might be on the class curriculum, too.” Still smiling, Dayna reached him. She put her hands on her tracer’s shoulders and then straddled his lap, as comfortable in that position as a kitten in a patch of sunshine. Her knees framed his hips; her pelvis hovered just above his groin. Heat rushed between them, immediate and intense. “Suddenly I can’t remember a single thing I’ve learned since coming here.”

  “Shame on you.” Without the least bit of censure, T.J. reached for her. Fondly, he twined his fingers in her hair, then urged her closer. Their gazes met; their mouths hovered enticingly near, sharing the same breath. Warmth reached from him to her, along with a sense of joyfulness and desire. He searched her face, smiled once more, then tugged her down to meet him. “Maybe you need private lessons,” he told her.

  “That’s what I said!” she began…but then he kissed her, and every rational thought evaporated from her brain.

  Exhilarated, Dayna melted into his kiss. Her body leaned against his, her heart and mind easing their way into a union she knew would be good. Their mouths slid, angled, then reconnected; their hands sought and found sleek muscles and bare skin; appreciation rumbled from them both in matching moans.

  Being with T.J. felt like coming home. It felt like those lighted windows and hello hugs—except those, Dayna hadn’t been a part of. This, with T.J., was part of her. Even though she hadn’t known him for long, she felt as though she had. She felt as though she always would. With him, she felt whole.

  Contentedly, Dayna leaned back to study him. Mmmm. Her bonded tracer had a way with partial nudi
ty. It agreed with his six-pack abs and gilded skin. It made her want more of him.

  She trailed her fingertips over his shoulders, his arms, his chest. “Mmm. Are you volunteering for the job?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He groaned, restless and urgent. “God, yes.”

  Her smile blazed again. “To be my tutor, I mean.”

  “Anything you want.” T.J. traced his hands over her back. Magically, her corduroy jacket peeled away. It dropped to the floor. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

  “Hmmm. I think I’d like that.” Attempting a little magic of her own, Dayna wriggled atop him. He felt hard and full and perfect. She groaned with anticipation. “First you can teach me how to magik away my jeans. And your pants. And my shirt, and—”

  A rush of cool air washed over her. Agog with disbelief, Dayna looked down at herself—her suddenly naked self.

  “It’s trickier with human-made clothes,” T.J. said as he savored the view, “but I’m up for the challenge.” With a hoarse sound of masculine pleasure, he brought his mouth to her pointed nipple. He nuzzled her. “I’ll show you how to do it later.”

  Tipping her head back, Dayna nodded. “Yes. Yes, later.”

  Mindlessly, she grabbed T.J. and held him to her. Her thighs quivered. The whole world narrowed to the soft glide of his tongue, the faint rasp of his beard stubble, the pleasure that shot from her breasts to her middle, straight down to…

  … to the place where T.J.’s pants prevented her from doing what she really wanted to be doing. Groaning in frustration, Dayna reached down. Her fingers closed on witchmade fabric first, then on him beneath it. A hot rush of approval swept from him to her, coupled with a surprising jolt of tenderness.

  Leaning back, Dayna caught his gaze. “You’re all I could think about today,” she admitted. “I tried to study, but I kept remembering this.” She caressed him through that soft witchmade fabric, thrilled with the way he hardened even further against her palm. She exhaled shakily. “I tried to focus on class tonight, but I kept wondering how it would feel to do this.”

  Awash in longing, she sank to her knees. With an unconscious magic that worked exactly as she’d hoped it would, she lowered T.J.’s pants. He sprang free instantly, hot and hard and beautifully formed. Dayna licked her lips in expectation.