Wicked Games

by M. J. Scott

  "I'm hardly even a witch. I know basically nothing about magic." I moved around the bed so the sun wasn't blinding me. "But I do know telepathy isn't part of the package." As far as I knew. Maybe a lifetime of avoidance of magic hadn't been such a good strategy. There was a vast gaping abyss where anything beyond a very basic knowledge of witches and what they could do should be in my brain.

  Damon rubbed his fingers over the back of his left hand. "You’re not going to like this."

  "I'm not exactly enjoying life right now anyway. You've been acting freaked since I told you what was going on. Just spit it out, Damon."

  "You're a witch," he said.

  "And?" I waited for the rest of the statement. Then, as the silence stretched between us, I realized there was no rest of that statement. It wasn't the lying he was mad about, it was the magic itself.

  My stomach clutched. I might not intend to use my power, but I couldn't change the fact that I had it. It wasn't something I could turn off like a faucet.

  Damon stayed silent, staring down at his feet.

  "You don't like magic?" I needed to understand, to see if there was anything I could work with, or whether I might lose him just when I'd accepted that I really didn't want to. Because of something I couldn't control.

  "No."

  "But there's magic in most of your games."

  He lifted his head. "That's not real. It's clean. There's no cost."

  Frankly, when you get blown apart by a lightning bolt cast by a mage in a game, it feels pretty costly. "I don't understand."

  "Magic in games is just that—a game. No one gets hurt."

  His voice was bitter, and I sank onto the chaise. I knew that tone. I'd heard it in the voices of Sara's most disgruntled customers.

  My mother was a witch. That much was true. She had power. But she didn't always bother expending it on clients when she thought she could blow them off with sugar water and a few vague made-up phrases. She was very clear up front with them that magic didn't always work. Which was absolutely true. And one hundred percent guaranteed not to work when she didn’t intend to actually waste any of her power on them. Of course, none of them believed it wouldn't work for them, so we'd had our share of angry people knocking on the door of whatever hole-in-the-wall apartment or trailer we were living in, demanding their money back. Which usually resulted in Sara promising they'd have it soon and us promptly doing a midnight flit out of town.

  Damon sounded like someone who'd been burned.

  "Did someone you know get mixed up with something magical?"

  His eyes bored into mine. "Not someone. Me."

  I wrapped my arms around myself as my gut turned cold. We had to play this out. Real life didn't come with a quick release. "What happened?"

  "I don't know why we're talking about this."

  "Because I'm a witch, like you said. If you don't like witches, then that doesn't leave us many places to go. Is that what you want? For this to be done? Do you want me to just leave?" I wasn't sure if I meant leave the house or quit or both.

  He made a noise halfway between frustration and confusion. "No."

  Okay. So he maybe wasn't going to fire me. But we still had to deal with the fact that we were sleeping together.

  I gripped my pendant, wondering if it could ward off emotional train wrecks. "Then we need to talk." I jerked my chin at the bed. "Sit. Unless you do want me out of here."

  He sat, rubbed his hands over his face. "That's just it. That's part of the problem."

  I was lost again. "Talking?"

  "No, me not wanting you to go. Hell, I've only known you what, a week? It's too fast. Too hard. I shouldn't feel like this."

  I could relate to that argument. I'd made it myself. "Sometimes people click," I said quietly. "Nothing we can do about that."

  "And sometimes they're helped," he snarled.

  My jaw dropped and a spike of anger followed my initial rush of disbelief. "You think I've done something to you? A working? Screw you, Damon. I didn't even know I had any power when we met." If he thought the only reason he could fall for me was magical influence, then we definitely had a problem.

  "You don't need power to buy a love potion."

  There was the bitterness again, and everything suddenly made horrible sense. "Someone used a potion on you." It wasn't a question. I knew I was right.

  His hands balled into fists, knuckles stark white. "And it worked. I was so messed up by her, I could hardly see straight. Could hardly think straight."

  Was that how he felt about me? It would explain his freaking out. Hard to feel like master of the universe when your hormones are spinning out of control and you only want one thing. "Potions don't last long." That much I did know from Sara. Even a real love potion couldn't work forever. And real magic cost a fortune. "Maybe it was real."

  "They last long enough."

  "How long exactly?" I held my breath, praying it had just been some bad teen crush gone wrong.

  "Until shortly after our first wedding anniversary. Long enough for her to take half my assets when she left."

  Wedding? Wife? My heart ached. "You were married?"

  "Not really." He stood and stalked back to the window, staring out.

  "You were married," I repeated. "When?" My research hadn't brought up anything about a wife. The records must've been buried deep.

  "I was twenty when we met, almost twenty-one when we married."

  "Just a baby." But old enough to learn never to trust magic again. The ache in my chest doubled. I had no idea how to fight that sort of lesson. I'd learned it too well myself.

  "Old enough to know better."

  Oh, I knew this dance. Knew the taste of the bitterness in his voice.

  I got up and crossed the room, stopping just beyond his reach. I wanted to touch him, to help, but if he thought I'd spelled him, I doubted my touch would be very comforting. "How could you possibly know?" I said gently. "Who does that?"

  He turned. "A witch, obviously." Bitterness edged with rage this time.

  I swallowed, fought to hold my ground. "You really think I would do that to you? Force you?"

  "I don't know. That's the problem. But you're a witch."

  "Your wife wasn't," I pointed out.

  "A witch sold her the potion. A witch didn't care that she was taking away my free will. She just made a potion, no questions asked. She got paid and didn't care that my life was destroyed."

  I swallowed hard. I knew all about witches who didn't care about morality. After all, one had given birth to me. And once again my lack of magical knowledge was screwing me. I didn't know anything about love potions, but for one to last a year, surely there had to be some real emotion involved. Otherwise it wouldn't have hurt him so much.

  I didn't want to point that out. It might just make things worse. "Your life isn't exactly a disaster. You're one of the richest men on the planet."

  His mouth thinned. "I worked damned hard to get here."

  "I know. You moved on. And to get where you are, you've had to trust your instincts. Those instincts told you to hire me. What makes you think I would do anything to hurt you?"

  "I—I just don't trust magic."

  "I'm not that fond of it myself," I snapped. "Think about it. Apparently I spent sixteen years bound against my will to a demon. A demon that wants me back. I’m scared to death. I want to run away. I want to punch something.” Or someone. But Sara was dead. Safe beyond any retribution I might want her to suffer for doing this to me. “You think I'd do anything to anyone else to make them feel the same way I feel?"

  Damon looked away. I might as well have been talking to a brick wall.

  "Because if that's what you believe, then I was right in the first place. I should just go."

  He took a deep breath and looked back at me. The last of the sun glowed around him, a golden aura spotlighting everything I stood to lose.

  "I need time to think," he said.

  I choked back a pained laugh. Shoe was on th
e other foot now. "What happened to having to turn to people? Having to let them in? Isn't that what you said to me?"

  His gaze didn't falter.

  Fair was fair. I had to give him what I'd asked for. No other choice if I wanted to give us a chance. But it hurt. Grief flared in my chest as I tried to convince myself that it would be okay if he just had time to think. That he'd change his mind.

  Apparently my intuition didn't believe me.

  "You're right. This has been fast, but trust me, there's nothing magical involved."

  My voice cracked and I swallowed. Hard. I wasn't going to cry. Wouldn't make a scene.

  I stepped closer, put my hand on his cheek. The beginnings of stubble scraped my palm as my skin warmed, and I had to blink as tears prickled my eyes. Even though he'd just told me to go, I couldn't pull my hand away.

  "Feel that? Nothing magic at all. Just good old-fashioned chemistry. Whether that chemistry is something you want to fight for is up to you."

  He leaned into the caress, just for a second. "You don't understand."

  I wanted to stay. To wrap myself around him so tightly that he'd see what we could have. But he had to be able to see it. If he couldn't, walking away now was the only way to survive.

  I lifted my hand. "I do. You trusted someone. They betrayed that trust. Believe me, I know more about that than almost anyone you're likely to meet. But I'd like to trust you. Trust you to see beyond the past. Trust you to trust me."

  "Maggie." His voice was raw with the same pain tearing through me.

  "Don't talk. We're done talking." I bent and pressed my lips to his, breathed in the taste of him for a long moment and tried not to think about what I'd do if he never wanted me back.

  Because I knew I was ensnared as thoroughly as if he'd brewed a potion himself.

  "I have to go. You know how to find me."

  I turned and headed for the door before he could see the tears threatening to spill over. If he didn't trust me—couldn't trust me—then he didn't get to see me cry.

  My resolve lasted until I'd climbed into a cab and given the driver my address. Then I buried my face in my hands and choked back sobs, waving away the cabbie's concerned questions.

  We were halfway home when my datapad beeped into life. For a wild moment I thought it might be Damon asking me to come back, but it wasn't his number on the screen.

  I swallowed hard, trying to get control over my voice. "Hello?"

  "Maggie, it's Cassandra. I've spoken to a friend of mine, someone better than me at scrying. She's agreed to look for Nat."

  It was good news, and it should've made me happy, but instead I just felt numb. I didn't want to keep looking for Nat. I wanted her to be here now. I needed my best friend. Needed her to tell me it was all going to be okay and then feed me wine and chocolate and help me forget Damon Riley once and for all.

  But she couldn't. My best friend was missing.

  "That's great," I managed, digging my fingers into the cracking vinyl seat as I fought for control. No time for a meltdown. There was no one around to pick up the pieces. I had to stay strong.

  "They want to do it tonight, and you need to be there. Can you meet me at the store?"

  "Of course." I hung up, allowed myself one shuddering breath, and then leaned forward in my seat to give the driver my new destination.

  Cassandra opened the door and jumped in as soon as the cab pulled up at the curb, giving the driver a Pacific Heights address as she buckled in.

  As the taxi moved back onto the road, Cassandra turned to me and pursed her lips. "You've been crying. What's wrong?" She fished in her battered leather purse for a Kleenex.

  I wiped my eyes. "Nothing important. It's just all getting to me."

  She shook her head. "You're not a great liar, are you? Does this have something to do with your young man?" She leaned forward and hit the button to activate the privacy shield. The static hum buzzed in my ears as the view into the front of the cab blurred.

  I sighed. "He's not my young man. He doesn't like witches."

  "As in 'death to all witches'? I didn't get that vibe from him."

  "No, as in 'someone used a potion on me to get me to marry them and witches can't be trusted.'"

  Cassandra frowned. "A love potion? I guess that's not surprising. A guy as rich as that, he'd be a tempting target."

  She was right. And I had to wonder if he hadn't told me everything. Damon had told me about one spell, but had there been others? "This was when he was younger."

  She looked surprised. "Someone must’ve wanted him badly if the potion really worked. Such things don't come cheap."

  I knew that well enough. Sara had gouged people even for her fake spells. "I don't think he’d take the cost as a compliment." Quite the opposite in fact.

  "One day maybe we'll be able to stop people being hurt. Not much you can do about it now though. Give him some time. He'll come to his senses. And if he doesn't, then he isn't the right one for you."

  Easy for her to say. She had her Mr. Claus. Or so I assumed.

  "Worry about it later, dear," she advised with a pat on my knee. "Right now there's something else I have to tell you." She frowned toward the driver, as though testing the audio shield was working. The man's head didn't move an inch as far as I could tell, his gaze fixed on the traffic ahead.

  "Something else?" My pulse was bumping up into what was rapidly becoming unpleasantly familiar territory.

  "Where we’re going, it's not just a friend. More like a group."

  Ah, the mysterious “they.” My attention sharpened. "What sort of a group?"

  "People call us the Cestis."

  That didn't ring any bells with me. "And?"

  "You haven't heard of us?"

  "Nope."

  She sighed. "I thought Sara might’ve mentioned us."

  "Why would she do that?" Cassandra should've figured out by now that my mother told me as little as possible when it came to witchcraft and magic.

  "The Cestis polices magic in this country."

  Definitely a reason for Sara never to mention them. To anyone. "So you're magical cops?"

  "Not exactly."

  Oh good, we were back to the vague and mysterious part of the magical world. Just what I needed. "What does Cestis mean, anyway?" It sounded Greek, or maybe Latin.

  "It means a girdle, because our power encircles the country. In theory."

  "And in practice?"

  She grinned. "In practice I always say it's because we hold things together underneath and keep things looking smooth on top."

  I laughed. I had to. "That sounds like magical cops to me. Just in the US?"

  "Yes. Though there's a Cestis in each country."

  "But no group oversees all of the others? No one magical Spanx to rule them all?"

  Cassandra narrowed her eyes. "One country is quite enough trouble, thank you very much."

  I wasn't sure I believed her, but before I could ask any more questions, Cassandra passed me more Kleenex.

  "Fix your face. You look like a hung over panda."

  By the time I'd succeeded in removing my smudged mascara with spit and Kleenex, we'd reached our destination: a very expensive condo complex, complete with security shield, doorman, robo-concierge, and palm scan–activated elevators.

  "How many of you are there?" I asked nervously as our elevator slid smoothly skyward.

  "Five," Cassandra said.

  "Always?"

  She shook her head. "The number is flexible. Always an odd number though."

  "Why?"

  "No tied votes that way."

  My pulse bumped again. "What exactly are you voting on?"

  "How to act in a particular case, that sort of thing."

  Were they going to vote on me? What to do with me? Whether to help me? Not that I had any idea how they might help, or what else they might decide to do. Were they magical cops, or maybe more than that? As in maybe judge, jury, and, executioner in one?

  I rubbed m
y hands on my jeans as the elevator slowed to a halt. A low male voice with a British accent informed us we had reached our destination and wished us a pleasant day as the doors slid open.

  We stepped out into a hallway as lushly appointed as the rest of the building. "Nice," I said, more to break the silence than anything else.

  "Don't get the wrong idea. Ian just happens to be able to afford a place like this. The Cestis itself couldn't." She tilted her head to the right. "This way."

  I followed her down the hallway. Ian. I committed the name to memory. Which meant I knew two of the mysterious five. "Who are the others?"

  "You'll find out soon enough." Cassandra paused in front of an ornate wooden door and put her palm against the scanner pad. The door swung soundlessly inward.

  Inside, a young man in a slick navy suit took our coats and asked if we wanted drinks. Cassandra waved him away while I tried not to gape as I looked around. Damon's place was huge, yes, and full of sleekly expensive things, but this place had nothing sleek about it. It looked like someone had raided an ancient French palace, taken a side trip to knock off Aladdin's cave, and then topped off their plunder with enough art to fill a museum.

  Every corner and surface sparkled with gilt and mirrors, making it hard to tell exactly how big the room was. The floorboards were overlaid with oriental rugs and spindly furniture upholstered in ornate fabrics. Huge flower arrangements overwhelmed delicate tables, and candles flickered in hanging lanterns and chandeliers, supplementing the light from stained glass-shaded lamps and discreet LEDs in the ceiling. The place smelled like a flower shop crossed with a spice den.

  "Ian is a little ostentatious," Cassandra said with an indulgent smile as I raised my eyebrows.

  "I heard that." A deep male voice with a hint of something other than good old USA in his accent came from our right, where a carved wooden screen inlaid with an intricate pattern of pearly flowers hid who knew what.

  The man who stepped out from behind the screen was younger than I'd expected from the voice. Mid-forties, maybe. He wore dark trousers, a black shirt, and a blazing red and gold velvet . . . well, a robe was what I wanted to call it. It swept to his knees and flared around his wrists.