by Mindy Klasky
Connor nodded. “But it’s not fair—”
“It’s not fair that I spent my lunch break locked inside the second circle of Hell,” David said, even managing a laugh to accompany the words. After digging in his jacket pocket, he passed a handkerchief to Connor, indicating he should staunch his lip. “Everything will be fine,” David said.
The words were automatic, a warder’s insistence on order. But he didn’t feel fine, not at all. He felt like a man who’d spent a lifetime on an ocean-tossed boat, suddenly trying to find his way on land. His body seemed disconnected from his mind; nothing was where he expected it to be—the sidewalk, the streetlamp, the stop sign at the end of the next block.
Without his Torch, he was literally and figuratively off-kilter.
But none of that mattered. He had to stand. He had to move forward. He had to get back to the office before even more time had passed. Because Torch or not, he had to keep Pitt from discovering anything was amiss.
14
By nightfall, he’d almost grown accustomed to the strangeness of losing his Torch. He’d stopped swallowing hard, trying to get his ears to clear. He’d given up blinking to bring the world into focus. He’d almost trained his fingers not to close on doorways and railings in an attempt to ground himself as he walked through a world that seemed just a bit…off.
He reminded himself that he was still a warder. He’d completed his Academy training, swearing his life to Hecate. The metal charm he’d forfeited was merely a symbol. Its loss didn’t change who he was.
Besides, he’d promised to take a witch to dinner. He’d even sent her a text during the day, suggesting when and where to meet—La Chaumiere, in the heart of Georgetown.
As a warder, he automatically sat with his back to the wall in the cozy French restaurant. He continually scanned the other diners, the waiters, and the hostess at the front of the room, examining everyone for any hint of trouble. They were all mundanes, though, not affiliated with the salamanders.
His survey was interrupted by Jane hurrying to the table. “I’m sorry I’m late!” she gasped.
He stood automatically, placing his hands on the back of her chair and edging it forward as she sat. He tried not to think of the wood beneath his palms catching fire, of the flames that had reflected off his Hecate’s Torch in Apolline’s lair.
Fighting the urge to shake his head, he told himself to focus on Jane. She wore a sleek black dress, something that looked like it was designed for cocktails at the White House. A green necklace caught the light in her eyes. She seemed nervous.
No matter how off-kilter he felt, it was his job to put her at ease. He shot his cuff and glanced at his watch, letting the routine gesture calm his own galloping heart. Forcing a smile, he said, “Actually, you’re right on time.”
Still, she fiddled with the stem of her water glass, startling like a rabbit as the waiter swept down on the table. “Would Madame like a cocktail?”
She looked to David for permission, her lips trembling with uncertainty.
They certainly weren’t working magic tonight. Not with him so distracted by the loss of his Torch. Not with Jane so nervous. He cleared his throat to get the waiter’s attention and said, “I’ll have a martini.”
“Vodka gimlet,” Jane countered immediately. She waited until the waiter was out of earshot before she said, “So, we’re not actually working tonight.”
“Not in the sense that you mean. We’re getting to know each other better. You’re learning to trust me. To trust yourself and what you can be.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. He thought about saying more but decided to wait until she was fortified with liquid courage. After the waiter brought their drinks, he raised his martini and said, “To new beginnings.”
She touched her glass to his and repeated the toast. He couldn’t help but watch as she swallowed. Her neck was long and graceful. He caught himself staring as the tip of her tongue touched her lips.
Mentally kicking himself, he took a second slug of his drink. This wasn’t a date. He wasn’t here to seduce Jane Madison. Or to be seduced.
But she could turn his life around. He could prove he was able to serve her, to support her to Hecate’s satisfaction come Samhain. Jane could be his ticket back to life as a true warder, to freedom from Pitt’s tyranny.
So he schooled himself to rigid diplomacy when the waiter came back to take their order. Then he kept his voice perfectly dispassionate as he passed Jane the bread basket, asking, “So? How was work yesterday?”
He hoped she’d realize he was asking about the grimoire she’d used, about whatever poor sap she’d targeted with her love spell.
And she did understand, because she leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper that tightened his chest. “It worked. The spell worked.”
He nodded silent encouragement, and that was all the permission she needed. She started telling him about the man who’d succumbed to the working—Harold Weems, a janitor at the library.
As much as he wanted to disapprove of the spell she’d managed, he had to admit her enthusiasm was contagious. She rattled on about other men she believed had been caught in the backdraft of her working—someone who’d ordered coffee from her, a professor, three other guys who’d hung around that afternoon.
Of course, David knew the true limits of her spell. His own attraction wasn’t based on magic. He was just off-balance without his Torch, intoxicated by the mere thought of serving as a warder again. And she couldn’t actually be strong enough to have ensorcelled all those men. No witch was.
But her face was flushed with success, and her eyes glinted happily in the restaurant’s dim light. There’d be time enough to explain her limitations later. For now he let the conversation meander as they ate their appetizers and moved on to their entrées.
She surprised him when she asked, “But what do you do when you’re not watching me? I mean, what did you do before I worked that first spell?”
He didn’t want to tell her about the court, about Pitt. And there no way in hell he’d mention following a wolf-shifter into the salamanders’ lair. He settled for the least of all available evils and said, “I warded another witch until three years ago.”
“What happened three years ago?”
Of course she asked that. Any idiot would. And Jane Madison definitely wasn’t an idiot. He flattened his voice, hoping she’d realize he wanted to change the subject. “I was fired.”
That got her attention. She practically shouted, “What?”
“I was fired,” he repeated. And then he bit the proverbial bullet. “My witch decided I was too conservative for her taste. Too restrictive.”
“Imagine that,” she drawled.
Then he had no choice but to tell her about working for the court. He didn’t waste time wondering why he tried to make it sound like something he’d done a long time ago, before Jane had ever dreamed of entering the basement of her garden cottage.
Soon enough she was back to disturbing territory. “So, the witch who fired you. You were her teacher?”
She was so naive. “No. Most of you are educated in a magicarium.”
“Magicarium?”
“A school for witches. It’s a boarding school. Girls start when they first come into their powers, usually around eight years old. They practice the Rota, a series of basic spells, repeating each one dozens, maybe hundreds of times until they have them mastered.”
“Is that what we’re going to do?”
“Absolutely not.”
He wasn’t teaching her anything. He was her warder. At least he would be if Hecate deemed him worthy by Samhain.
But maybe the best way to protect her was teaching the basics of witchcraft. Pitt’s threat had been perfectly clear—the Washington Coven was coming after the Osgood hoard. Jane had to know a lot more than a love spell if she wanted to survive.
It wasn’t actually forbidden for a warder to teach a witch. It was just that no warder had ever thought to do it before.
He reached for his Torch automatically, seeking the reassurance of the familiar metal beneath his fingertips. A fresh wave of loss made him choose his words with care. “Most young witches don’t have the power to awaken a familiar. Or to broadcast their spells across all of DC. You don’t need to start at the beginning. And I don’t have the patience to repeat lessons forever.”
Mercifully, she headed off on a tangent. “So, who are these witches? Is it hereditary? Like your being a warder?”
“Usually, it is. Hereditary in the mother’s line. But it doesn’t always pass, not even from a strong witch to a first daughter.” He looked her directly in the eye. “Is your mother a witch?”
She hesitated. He hadn’t meant to ask a trick question; he just wanted a few more details about her life. But her discomfort was clear before she finally said, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was a year old. My grandmother raised me.”
He nodded. “And is she a witch?”
“Gran!” She laughed out loud. “Absolutely not. She’s a little old lady. She drinks Earl Grey tea. She sits on the board for the Concert Opera Guild. She’s my grandmother, for God’s sake.”
“Precisely.”
But the mere thought of a magic lineage clearly agitated her. Having launched the uncomfortable line of inquiry, he had to help her now, had to make it better.
Drawing on his years of Academy training, he settled his fingers against her wrist. Her power was sparking wildly, sending bursts of static through his fingers, up his arm, across his entire body.
At least he knew how to manage that. He’d mastered the technique as a third-year student, working with a nervous lab partner in Elemental Summoning 101. Without hesitation, he spun a net with his own steel-grey powers and cast it around her wrist. As the strands settled over the golden thrum of energy fluctuating there, he thought the command: Relax, forcing the order through every fiber of his web.
His steel absorbed the errant sparks from her powers. He let her energy jangle into his own bloodstream, kicking his heart into overdrive and squeezing air from his lungs. Then, with a warrior’s concentration, he calmed his own responses, permanently banishing her anxiety.
“She’s your grandmother,” he said reasonably, repeating his command: Relax. Again, he absorbed her unease before he elaborated, “And you came by your power from somewhere.”
She pulled her arm away.
He’d gone too far. He should have waited long enough to build a natural bond, for her to trust him without magical enhancements. When she finally spoke again, her voice was impossibly small. “Is there any other way?”
She clearly needed separation between the women in her family and the life she’d built for herself—not to mention the new life she was just coming to accept. He understood that. He’d insisted often enough that he was his own man, not just his father’s son.
“There is,” he said. “Sometimes, power skips generations. Every once in a while—in a very, very rare while—it appears spontaneously. But there hasn’t been a wild witch in the Eastern Empire since Salem, since 1692.”
A wild witch. Pitt had warned of that in the Peabridge gardens after Jane worked her love spell. A wild witch stood outside the boundaries of Hecate’s Court, separate and apart from all her sisters. Jane might wish to be declared wild so she could justify her powers, but the label of “wild witch” would set her on a lonely road. One where she wouldn’t need a warder. Wouldn’t need him.
“So it’s not likely,” she said.
“Not likely.” He returned to his neglected pork loin and tagliatelle. As he placed the last bite of pasta in his mouth, a drop of sauce fell on his lapel. His lips twisted into a wry smile as he mopped up the spill with his napkin.
The mistake seemed to put her at ease. If he’d known that was all it took, he would have spilled food earlier.
“So, the books,” she said, leaning forward. “How did they get to be in the Peabridge’s cottage? I mean, isn’t that a strange coincidence, that I just happen to be a witch and my employer just happens to have a secret stash of spellbooks?”
That was his opening to tell her about Hannah Osgood and the collection. He’d done his research that afternoon, just in case she asked. So he drew out the tale of the powerful Washington Coven Mother whose life was destroyed during the 1918 flu outbreak. She lost her husband first, then six of her daughters. Only the seventh survived, the youngest, who sadly lacked the awesome power of her mother.
“Magic reaches out to magic,” he concluded. “Like magnets, jumping across space to be joined together. Or quantum physics, with particles influenced by actions an entire universe away. The books sensed your powers and influenced the world around you. Your dormant powers sensed the books.”
He could see she wasn’t convinced. But she thought about what he was saying—at least until the chocolate soufflé arrived. The waiter put on quite a show, breaking through the dessert’s crust and pouring a steady stream of vanilla sauce into the resulting hollow. He served up generous bowls and disappeared into the kitchen.
Jane took her time savoring a spoonful. He couldn’t help but grin at the ecstatic expression on her face. “Good?” he asked.
“Heaven.”
And that marked the end of Jane Madison’s first lesson about witchcraft.
Together, they let the conversation drift to other things—the traditional Halloween parade that would take place through Georgetown at the end of October, the questionable quality of the first autumn apples at the Safeway up the street, whether the temperature would actually dip to freezing over the weekend.
As they talked, he found himself more and more attracted to the woman across the table. She was funny. She was self-deprecating. She observed the world around her closely, making note of the little things that mattered. And she had one hell of a sexy laugh.
By the time he eased her coat over her shoulders, he realized he’d made a decision. Screw tradition. He’d be Jane’s teacher. So he said, “We’re agreed, then? You’ll continue meeting with me to learn more about your powers?”
“Of course.” She sounded surprised, as if she’d assumed they would work together. It wasn’t until they were walking back to the Peabridge that she asked, “But what sorts of things are you going to teach me?” she asked. “I mean, what can you tell me that Neko can’t?”
She really was new to all this. “Neko is your familiar. He can magnify your powers. To some extent, he can even focus them. But he can’t raise them in the first place. There are many skills you can learn besides reading spells.”
“Such as?”
“Reading runes to predict the future. You’ll find some in the basement; Hannah owned antique sets of jade, wood, and clay. There’s herb magic too—using plants to enhance good traits or minimize bad ones. You’re the owner of a large collection of crystals now. Different stones enhance different powers, and you can learn all about those.”
She shivered, clearly overwhelmed by the possibilities. He wanted to tell her she’d be all right, that she wasn’t in this alone. He’d be there for her, no matter what happened.
But he didn’t trust himself to find the right words. Maybe if he’d had the ballast of his Torch. Maybe if the sidewalk didn’t feel as if it was slipping sideways with every step they took.
They reached the garden gate sooner than he’d anticipated. Jane turned to face him. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything. I had a lovely time tonight.”
His ears heard proper, polite words. But his warder’s senses were suddenly awash in night jasmine. He felt the power of this witch, amplified a thousand-fold by proximity to the collection that had awakened her. He was tipping, falling, even though his feet were planted on the flagstones. He wanted something, needed something; he longed for the swirling confusion to stop.
And so he kissed her.
He tangled his fingers in her hair. He tasted chocolate on her lips, and surprise and arcane force. He pulled her close, matching her bo
dy to his, and she sighed a little, opening her lips. He didn’t hesitate to press his advantage.
For the first time in hours, he felt sane again. The world stopped spinning. He had Jane. He didn’t need his Torch.
No.
That was wrong.
He was a warder. He was Jane’s warder, Hecate willing. Until the goddess said otherwise, he was Jane’s warder, and she was his witch, and he had absolutely no business kissing her.
He forced himself to pull away, his arms falling like dead weights to his sides. The temperature seemed to drop a hundred degrees.
He didn’t want to meet her eyes, to see her inevitable surprise. But he was a warder, so he forced himself to meet his witch’s gaze. “That was wrong,” he whispered. Her hazel eyes widened, and he cleared his throat, saying the last word again. “Wrong.”
“No! I mean— I wanted—” She fell silent, succumbing to yet another blush. And this time the color in her cheeks shamed him.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “I’m your warder.”
“So what does that mean?”
He could feel her trembling beside him, but he didn’t trust himself to offer a steadying hand. “I shouldn’t have blurred the boundaries. You’re my witch. I’m your warder. We’re going to work at being friends. It is too complicated for us to do anything more. Not while you’re still coming into your powers. Not while you’re still learning.”
Rebellion sparked across her face. But doubt was there, too. Uncertainty, which made her look toward the cottage, toward the Osgood collection.
Following her gaze, he caught a glimpse of Neko in the window. Wonderful. The last thing he needed was a smart-mouthed familiar ready to drag up this momentary indiscretion whenever the manipulative creature wanted the upper hand.
But there was nothing to be done. No way to make it right. Except…
He extended his hand. “Friends?” he asked.
“Friends,” she managed, with a single nod.
“Get some rest, then. We’ll continue with your training. And be kind to poor Harold Weems.”