Magic Rising

by Camilla Chafer

  “What’s local?”

  “Just about everything. Menus are in the kitchen. Second drawer from the refrigerator. Take your pick.”

  “Okay.”

  We ate Chinese, and Etoile took a brief reprieve from her calls when Marc didn’t answer. Over dinner, we spoke to Kitty, who called in a panic at being summoned. Then Seren and her husband, David, both tried to console me, saying the whole thing was ridiculous and a waste of everyone’s time, which was nice, but it failed to reassure me. Later, Steven called to say he had the prosecution’s discovery paperwork and wanted to meet us for breakfast in the morning, but he wouldn’t elaborate on anything else. The only person who didn’t call, and the person I wanted to speak to most, was Evan.

  “You know it doesn’t matter if they call every last one of us on the stand,” I said in despair as I helped Etoile clear away our dishes. “The answer to ‘did Stella Mayweather kill Eleanor Bartholomew?’ will always be the same. Yes.”

  “That’s not the point,” argued Etoile. She took the cartons from my hands and dumped them in the trash, then stacked the dishwasher. “All we have to do is prove that you were acting in self-defence in an effort to save your life and ours. And we can do that. No problem. No problem at all,” she repeated to herself, but that didn’t erase the worried look I caught on her face as I turned away.

  FIVE

  I woke with a start and rolled my head towards the curtains, blinking at the sliver of light slicing through the little gap where they met in the middle. Something had awoken me. A little sound like a footstep or a whisper. I blinked again and yawned, not bothering to clap a hand over my mouth.

  A large, dark shape shifted at the end of my bed. In a flash, I had my hands in front of me ready to ward off any attack.

  “Don’t scream,” said a male voice, accompanied by a flash of sharp, white teeth. The words and teeth combined were enough to make the average person scream long and hard, except I sensed something familiar about my visitor. My magic, which should have bubbled to the surface by now, remained unactivated within me. It didn’t seem to feel threatened.

  I narrowed my eyes and peered into the dark. “Micah?” I asked, my voice as dry as my mouth.

  “The one and only,” said Micah, a full-blooded demon, smart ass and Evan’s assistant. He shifted on the bed and allowed the light to drift over him until he sat back in the early morning gloom of the bedroom. For the briefest of moments, I wondered what the hell he was doing in my bedroom. Then I remembered I was at Etoile‘s… and then I wondered what the hell he was doing in her apartment. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and picked up my watch. The hands showed six thirty a.m. I dropped it back on the nightstand and gave the covers a tug as I shuffled upright. They didn’t budge.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, giving them another tug. This time, Micah moved and I nearly thumped myself in the chin as the covers suddenly shot upwards.

  “Watching you sleep. You snore like a water buffalo.”

  “I do not!”

  “Prove it.”

  I threw a pillow at him. He didn’t make any move to avoid it, instead allowing it to bounce off the side of his head before hitting the floor. He didn’t even blink.

  “You might want to be a little more polite since I’m here to save your scrawny witch butt,” he told me.

  “It’s not scrawny!”

  “You prefer…” he hesitated. Then his teeth gleamed again as his lips curled with amusement, “Rotund?”

  “Shut up!” I hissed, taking a sideways peek. Not that I could see it clearly, but I didn’t think scrawny or rotund were good adjectives. We sat in silence, with me blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dark. “No offence, and I really mean it, but I kind of expected Evan.”

  “He kind of knows that, but he can’t be here. Lucky me, I get to be instead. It is almost like winning the lottery. Can you see how happy I am?” Micah’s face didn’t move a single muscle.

  “Yeah, you’re like a Botox party of one. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be,” I told him. “I know you. You’re not as bad as you make out.”

  “Which just goes to show, you don’t know me at all. Where is your good-looking witch friend?”

  “In her bedroom, I guess.”

  “Just my luck I ping into yours.” Micah sighed. A snap of his fingers caused a pale glow to hover around us. “I hear you’re in trouble. Care to share?”

  I picked at a stray thread from the covers. My initial surprise at his presence was suddenly replaced by a heavy feeling in my stomach. “I’m being indicted for murder.”

  “Of what?” He picked up yesterday’s jeans from where I’d dropped them over the armchair beside the bed, and held them up. With a raised eyebrow, he inquired, “Fashion?”

  “No! A person. Eleanor Bartholomew.”

  “I feel like the name should ring a bell, but I struggle to bother. Please elucidate.”

  “She was the wife of the last Council leader and she was nuts,” I explained, with emphasis on the crazy part. “She killed a bunch of people and tried to kill Evan, so I…”

  “Offed her?” Micah helpfully supplied. “Good for you. What’s the problem?”

  “The indictment,” I reminded him. “The one where they’re going to excommunicate me and strip me of my powers if they find me guilty.”

  “You are guilty,” he pointed out, none too helpfully.

  “No, I’m not. Ugh! It’s not that simple, Micah.” I sat up, pulling my knees up under the covers so I could hug them to me as my conscience suggested otherwise, but… There was always a caveat for the situation. I killed her, but… She was hurting us so I… She was hurting us and… It went round and around in my head. I rested my chin on top of my knees and exhaled through my nose. I needed a hug. A big, squashy hug. “Where’s Evan?”

  “Indisposed.”

  “He couldn’t find a better pep talk coach?”

  “No, your witchiness, he couldn’t. I’m here to serve. Please don’t take that literally,” Micah added.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  He poked my knee. “I’m waiting,” he said as he drew back, somehow able to look both expectant and bored.

  I repeated the story for the umpteenth time. At the end of it, he yawned. “You are in a pickle,” he said, dryly. “I shall remain here throughout the trial.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Evan’s orders,” he said, just to prove it wasn’t his idea, and he wasn’t being nice.

  “Thanks anyway.” I waited for him to suggest something, some kind of clever counter measure, or even news that Evan was due to arrive imminently. I hoped he wasn’t disappointed and that my predicament hadn’t complicated his job. Again. “So… you aren’t going to do anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fat lot of good you are.”

  “What is it you would have me do?”

  “Rescue me? Give me some tips on how to get out of this? Find out who set me up? Tell Evan to get his daemon butt over here? All of the above?”

  “I’m a demon, not a miracle worker, and the daemon is unavailable. Will you settle for coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Micah moved faster than I could see. One moment, he was sitting on the edge of my bed, the next he was by the door, with his hand on the handle. “Do you still have the ring Evan gave you?” he asked unexpectedly.

  I held up my hand. “This one?”

  He nodded. “Keep it with you. Is Etoile alone?”

  “No,” I lied.

  For once, I got a reaction, but it was little more than a dark frown before his face evened out. “Who’s she with?”

  “The New York Yankees. All nine of them.”

  He laughed and left, closing the door behind him, but not before I yelled, “Etoile! Company.” They got on pretty well from what I could see. Micah might even have liked her; a thought that was mildly troubling because he was lethally dangerous and not averse to using his super sharp teeth as wel
l as other innate traits. It was only fair to warn her that a demon was in her apartment.

  I dressed quickly in my nicest clothing, granted the grave schedule for the day, and followed the scent of coffee to the kitchen. “The trial starts today,” I told him. Micah focused his eyes on the coffee pot and quadrupled the brewing speed. “Don’t mutilate the coffee. It might be my last chance for a decent cup with a demon,” I added, thinking of my own half-demon and wondering where he was. I checked my phone for texts, but there weren’t any, not even a little message to show he’d gotten mine. I had to suppose Micah was a fairly big reply, but it would have been nice if he’d returned the two calls I’d left him.

  “Keep it up. There won’t be a dry eye in the house.”

  “Are you going to take this seriously?”

  Micah pulled a thoughtful face and appeared to be trying to make up his mind. I rolled my eyes. His superior expression showed me precisely what he thought of the “pesky” witch business. “Forget I asked. Where is Evan, anyway? I tried calling him twice and all you said is that he’s ‘indisposed.’ What does that mean anyway?”

  “He is unable to answer, hence moi.” Micah bowed with a flourish.

  “Clearly, he can get in touch with you. Or were you with him?”

  “Trust issues?” he asked, dodging my question.

  “No!”

  “Stella, he is aware of your troubles and asked that I take care of you. Do not worry.” He turned away as the coffee pot beeped.

  “Oh, God,” Etoile groaned from the doorway and Micah whipped around, a pleased expression warming his face. “Does that mean you’re staying?” she asked him as she tightened the belt of her robe. It was blue silk and hung to her knees. She even dressed up for bed.

  He smiled brightly. “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  He looked past her to the couch. “Do I have to sleep on that?”

  “Yes.” She raised her eyebrows in an invitation to argue.

  Micah took the bait. “It doesn’t look comfortable. Do you have any spare beds?”

  “Stella’s in my spare bed.”

  He looked at me and pulled a face, purely for my benefit. I was fairly certain we shared the same opinion on sharing a bed. “No, thanks. How comfortable is yours?”

  “Incredibly.” Etoile sidled up to him and stood on tiptoes, her lips an inch from his ear. “Not that you’ll ever know.”

  “This is the last time I come to a witch’s aid,” Micah told us as he began to bang through the cupboards in search of mugs. Finding them, he set three on the counter. “You are so unaccommodating.”

  “I like your suit,” said Etoile, ignoring him. “It matches your pretty eyes.” Behind his back, she winked at me.

  “I do not have pretty eyes,” Micah huffed, but he didn’t sound offended. “They are dark and dangerous.” He winked at Etoile and she smiled.

  “Evan sent him,” I clarified before they could start making digs at each other or, even worse, affectionate repartee. Etoile had taken a shine to him when they first met and apparently, it was reciprocated. Really, they couldn’t have made a stranger pair. She, a tall and glamorous witch, he a full-blooded demon with a flair for impeccable dressing. Actually, now I thought of it, despite the differences in their races, they were a lot alike. “Apparently, he’s indisposed,” I finished with a shrug that was far too casual. Did indisposed mean he couldn’t help? Or couldn’t come? And how did that fit into not even being able to make a phone call to me? Even though he’d obviously been able to reach Micah long enough to persuade him to help me.

  “And what is it you plan on doing to help?” Etoile paused, waiting. “You are planning on helping?” she asked, giving Micah a prod in the ribs. He took her in from head to toe, but didn’t say anything as he turned back to the coffee.

  We looked at him expectantly, the silence growing until it felt like the elephant in the room.

  “He told me he wasn’t going to do anything,” I told Etoile, taking the mug from Micah. I sipped it, found it too hot and cooled it instantly with a simple pulse of magic.

  “I can’t interfere with the trial if there is one,” Micah said finally, passing the second mug to Etoile. He looked at me, “But I will ensure your safety during. Think of me as a bodyguard, but without a romantic back story or singing.”

  “Why would I need a bodyguard?” I took another sip. It needed sweetening. I held my hand out, ready for the bottle of vanilla syrup that flew out of the cabinet, and straight into my waiting palm. I added a small measure, then thought, why not? And added a liberal dose. Etoile held her mug towards me and I poured. “Micah?” I offered the syrup to him.

  “Do I look sweet?” he scowled.

  “Don’t answer, Etoile. He’ll throw a tantrum,” I teased, trying to bring a little levity to our situation as Etoile opened her mouth, a reply ready for him. She shut it and smiled. “So? Why do I need a bodyguard?” I pressed. “I’ve been indicted, not attacked.”

  “In case someone intends to murder you, of course,” he said, like it was something we should have thought of already.

  “Oh great.” I took a long sip of the warm, sweet, coffee, hoping it would wash away the bitterness in my throat. I hoped Evan hadn’t phrased it exactly like that when he issued his instructions to Micah. “Today is looking up already.” I moved away just as it occurred to Etoile to ask how he broke through her apartment’s wards.

  ~

  Last night, when I went to bed, I’d fallen asleep with the innocent hope that Steven would find out that the whole idea of putting me on trial was a farce; or, failing that, a miraculous loophole would set me free. If Micah’s portentous admission of being sent to guard me wasn’t enough, one look at Steven’s face as he arrived for breakfast slammed my hopes into another universe.

  “I wish I had better news,” Steven told us, after carefully looking over Micah, but not commenting on the demon’s presence. If Steven were curious, he didn’t show it. “It seems this is all perfectly legal.”

  “I thought the Council dealt with this a year ago,” said Etoile. The blue silk robe was exchanged for a sombre, black skirt suit and a cream shell top making her look every bit as efficient and prepared as Steven. “They interviewed us. They knew then there was no case to bring. Why bring a suit against Stella now?”

  “Quite, my dear. It seems a complaint was made and upheld. I have to say, I knew nothing about this at all,” Steven added as I placed a coffee mug in front of him. “The whole thing has been very hush-hush.”

  “Who would make a complaint?” I asked. I took the chair opposite him at Etoile‘s dining table. Etoile took the middle chair, placing herself between us. Micah looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, although he did pick up a chair, and move it two feet backwards before stretching out leisurely, like a cat.

  “Marc Bartholomew is still a possibility,” replied Steven. He picked up his notepad and flipped through a few pages, pausing on one. “Other young people died that day.”

  “Because of Eleanor, not me!” I pushed back the chair I was seated on not two minutes ago and paced by the window, utterly frustrated.

  Steven nodded. “We are in agreement there, too. Had Eleanor survived, she would be on trial for six murders and the attempts of several more.” I silently thanked him for not bringing up my parents by name at this time. Knowing was enough.

  I frowned. The numbers didn’t add up. “Seven,” I said, counting the deaths on my fingers, including my parents in the numbers. “She killed seven.”

  Steven consulted his notes again. “I have listed Robert Bartholomew, Jared, and the sisters…” He searched for their names, “Christy and Clara… I have their surname somewhere here.”

  “She means Meg, the owner of the house,” said Etoile, who knew her far better than I.

  I nodded. “Meg makes seven.”

  “Meg was a vampire. That crime wouldn’t be brought to our court,” Steven replied, somewhat dismissively.

  “W
hy not? She was a nice old lady.” An incredibly old lady as I knew now. She was the antithesis of every vampire tale I’d ever heard, every movie ever made. She didn’t deserve to go the way she did, in a plume of smoke and ash.

  “Witches keep their own counsel. As do the vampires. I’m sure had Eleanor lived, the vampires would have indicted her if they wished,” Steven explained patiently.

  Etoile had taken it upon herself to try and explain the hierarchy of races and how they interacted with each other — or more often, of late did not — along with more histories on the witches, from the diverse houses to particular families of note. She also clarified how the Council worked. It was a lot of information to keep straight. I should have known automatically that the Council wouldn’t give a damn about Meg, never mind that I did. I never lost sight that caring about another living being was the right thing, especially since she never did me any harm.

  “If she weren’t dead, I’d think Eleanor was behind this.” I faced the window. The street below was just as busy as the few other times I glanced out, with people going about their daily lives, completely unaware of the events currently unfolding in Etoile‘s apartment. It seemed bizarre that we lived communally — humans, witches, and others — yet at times like this, so separately. A couple of years ago, I’d been one of the humans. Though I sensed I was different, I could never have fathomed the depth and complexity of the supernatural world that coexisted, not altogether neatly, alongside the human world. I wondered if I could ever go back to it. The idea that I could be released into the world, fully aware of my magic, but powerless to use it, seemed unfathomable. Yes, I was guilty of Eleanor’s death, but it wasn’t intentional and I wasn’t a murderer. I had to keep reminding myself of that.

  More than anything, I didn’t want to be stripped of my magic, exiled from everything and everyone that was dear to me. Finally, I had my life. I had a home, a man I loved, friends, a job, college. Why would someone want to take that away from me by accusing me of murder now? It seemed very, very personal.

  “Did you find out who accused me?” I asked, interrupting the quiet conversation at the table that continued while I mooned about my lot.