Chapter 7: Fear and Fire
Brandon had texted me while I was at dinner with Cal, and I read it as I headed over to the Ash and Crowley building: The front desk had my name and would hand me an elevator key that I could use to access the tenth floor. Brandon would meet me there.
The Ash and Crowley building was a floor taller than the Prudential Center, making it the tallest building in Boston. As I approached, it was difficult not to be intimidated by the sheer size of the glass and iron edifice. I wondered if sorcerer Houses were actual, physical places. If so, was this Ash House. And who was Isis Crowley?
I followed Brandon's directions, getting the elevator key from security, entering the elevator, and pressing the button for the tenth floor. The ceiling was mirrored, and I couldn't help but look up at myself. I was dressed for work, in a pair of maroon slacks, black ankle boots and a cream-colored silk blouse, but with my hair pulled back, I looked younger than usual. And small, fragile. You aren't any less human than you were before.
I hoped, as the elevator dinged, and I walked out into a muted, carpeted hallway, that I looked more confident than I felt.
"Hey there," called a voice to my left. I pivoted, spotting Brandon hanging half out of a doorway. "This way," he said, motioning me forward.
At my apartment last night, Brandon had been dressed in jeans and hooded pullover. Today he looked corporate. He had on a pair of well-tailored black trousers, an attractive, checkered blue shirt, and a silver tie whose bright tones complemented the deep brown of his skin. He wore a pair of statement oxfords: peacock blue with silver tips.
"Nice shoes," I said.
Brandon ignored the comment and held the door open for me. I walked into what could only be described as a dojo: A long room with tinted windows and black rubber flooring. There were a series of expensive exercise machines in the corner: a water rower, a peloton bike, a boutique treadmill, and a bunch of weight machines and free weights. There were punching bags, a ballet bar set up near the window, and a small desk and chairs over near the far wall.
"What is this? The office gym?" I asked. The silence was making me nervous. Brandon smiled politely, all business, and headed over to the desk, where he held out a chair for me.
"Thanks," I said.
"No problem. How are you feeling after Saturday?"
"The truth? Overwhelmed."
Brandon nodded, but didn't respond. He turned to boot up the computer. We're going to get started on the computer?
"Okay," he said. "Before we get going, I need to get you into the system." His fingers flew across the keyboard, his other hand working the mouse, pulling up screens and inputting passwords. It was all so mundane. I'd have thought sorcerers had a more – I don't know – magical way of keeping records.
"Full name."
I opened my mouth to tell him, but then I snapped it shut. I crossed my arms over my chest. "Not yet." I wasn't about to sign onto what Cal had called "indentured servitude" without knowing more. "I have some questions. Who is Vehendi?"
Brandon stopped typing and looked over. For a moment I thought he was going to ignore my question. But then he said, "When he's not being possessed by a demon?"
I waited.
Brandon sighed and sat back. "We're actually not sure. He's Italian. He used to be a member of Ciccone House, one of the four Houses in Italy, but our sources tell us he left several years ago to freelance. Since then, nobody has heard from him."
A freelancing sorcerer? "Why is he here?"
"Because you're here?" Brandon made it sound like a question, but he smiled and then shrugged. "Without asking him we can only guess. As I said, he's a freelancer, so our suspicions are that he's been hired. By whom, well, we are still working that out. And the details would only bore you."
"I don't think they would," I argued. "I have a few more questions..."
"We'll get to your questions after you answer mine." Brandon cut me off smoothly and turned back to his computer. "Full name?"
No. That was not how this was going to work.
Brandon waited another minute and then sighed. Turning, he gripped the edge of the desk as if to steady himself.
"Okay, you want answers? This is not Ash House. Ash House is in New York City. This is Ash and Crowley Consulting, the largest subsidiary of Ash and Sons LTD, a Shell Company that administrates over a dozen smaller businesses. There are seven Houses of sorcerers and we are the third wealthiest House in the United States. The CEO of Ash and Crowley Consulting you've already met: Sinclair Sebastian Ash is also the scion of Ash House as well as Aedile of New England – though for how much longer is anyone's guess. That someone like you has existed within Ash House territory for even a moment without being discovered is a mystery we'd like to get to the bottom of. Since you are not a House member, that is all I am at liberty to tell you. I'm here because Sinclair has absolutely no patience, is a terrible teacher, and is an incredibly busy man. I on the other hand, am infinitely patient."
I pressed my lips together. "And you're – what? – His Gal Friday? Chewbacca to his Han Solo?"
"Not quite," Brandon drawled, "I'm more Darth Vader to the Emperor."
Whoa. That was a loaded metaphor I was unprepared to unpack. Cal's warnings about base magic rang in my ears.
"Now. I'm happy to answer more of your questions. But you need to answer mine. We don't know why Vehendi is here, but figuring out who you are might help. I need to find out where on earth you came from. And you're here to learn how to use your magic. I can't help you do that until I can discern exactly what kind of magic you have."
I frowned. "I thought you said I was a sorcerer?"
"You have a sorcerer's aura," said Brandon. "But not all sorcerers magic in the same way."
Did he just use magic as a verb?
"Depending on where your family comes from, how that power got distorted down the line of your DNA... We need to know these things. Think of it like voltage in a battery. I've got to know what type of converter you are before I plug you into a wall...get me?"
No. Not at all.
"Full name."
I sighed. "Eva Marie Mallory."
Brandon had a lot of questions. He wanted to know my age, my birthdate; he wanted to know about my parents, though I could only give him my father's full name (William Edward Kelley). I actually didn't know my mother's. I assumed her last name was Mallory (like mine), but I'd certainly never heard anyone use her first name. Granny had refused to mention her at all. Brandon had a lot of questions about Granny, and I told him what I could. Then he began asking about elementary school, middle school, high school. He was very surprised that my power hadn't manifested before now and had a few questions about that as well.
I told him about the excess energy and about how I released it through running, sex, and how I became restless in the nighttime and felt better after a walk outside. He frowned the entire way through this description but made no comment. He wrote down everything.
"Tell me," he said, staring at his notes. "Did your grandmother ever teach you meditation?"
I nodded.
"How did she teach you to meditate?"
I told him about the white room, about allowing thoughts of pure white to wash through my mind. Brandon's face was expressionless as he listened. When I finished he was nodding.
"There are," he said after a thoughtful moment, "A few things that can cut off a sorcerer from her power. White is one of them. White is reflective. It's reflective of all light, all energy; white absorbs nothing. The mind is what we use to control our magic. By meditating in white, what you did, effectively, is disable your capacity to access your own power." He shook his head looking mildly horrified. "Witches. No wonder your abilities never manifested."
I bit my lip. But they had manifested. They'd manifested when I was eight. I'd the freshly recovered memory to prove it: Granny's office in shambles. Her arm bent at a terrible angle. Monster.
I shuddered.
"It doesn't matter now," said Brandon. "But it probably explains the way you're feeling today. I'm sure you're not used to carrying all that power beneath your skin." He eyed the skin on my arms, where the small, dark hairs stood on end. "Now that it's there, let's teach you how to use it. Are you ready?"
Wind battered the walls, tearing books from the shelves, tearing pages from the books. "Eva! Stop!"
"I'm not sure."
Brandon waited patiently for me to explain my hesitation, but I didn't know what else to say. I suppose I could take comfort in the fact that I'd already thrown the worst I had to offer at him and he was still sitting before he, entirely unbroken. But my anxiety was spiking so badly that I almost reached for the white room to soothe myself. I had to force myself not to.
You can't play ostrich, Eva. Get it together. "Okay. Sure. What do I do?"
"First thing's first," Brandon planted his palms heavily against the smooth cherry wood of the desk. "We have to teach you how to keep your mind guarded. Vehendi has, on three separate occasions, managed to render you immobile by controlling your body. But let me tell you a trade secret: Controlling someone physically takes a lot of energy. You saw him, when he tried to hold me against the wall? Do your remember how much effort that took?"
I nodded.
"Though it may feel differently, Vehendi is not controlling your body. He's controlling your mind. It's easier. There's less magic expended, and your body will ultimately do what your mind tells it to. If we limit his ability to access your mind, you've got a better shot of escaping him."
"But do I have a better shot at defeating him?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Magic is complicated and you're not going to learn its nuances in one day. Here, take this," he handed me a large rose quartz cabochon. It was about the size of my palm and worn smooth.
"What's this for?" I asked, holding the quartz up to the light. It was opaque.
"A siphon," he said. "Stones are useful conduits and containers of energy. It has to do with their particular chemical makeup. We use them for all sorts of things. As siphons, we don't use them past the introductory lessons, but they're good teaching tools. They have unique energy signatures and they'll hold a good deal of power. If you ever want to store power, you can use a stone."
I stared at the quartz in my hand. It didn't feel special. It felt like a rock.
"Before you learn how to defend yourself, you have to consciously be able to hold and shape your power. And once a sorcerer learns to recognize his or her own power, it's easy enough to recognize the power in others," he said. "Our power is within us, in our capillaries, churning out energy like blood cells. I find it easy to think of your magic as flowing through you, like your blood. The first time a sorcerer accesses her power, we tell her to imagine herself standing in the midst of a night sky. Think about energy as if it's starlight: Brilliant, blazing all about you, but discernible in the dark. Now pull that starlight inward, think about it flowing through your veins, pumping through your heart..."
Brandon's tone took on a practiced, rhythmic cadence. He had a deep, soothing voice and I felt almost hypnotized by it. I closed my eyes, listening as he told me about starlight, took me through my limbic system, travelling through my valves, just below my skin, head to knee.
"Well?" he said, after a few minutes of speaking.
I blinked, and shook my head. "You made me sleepy," I accused, cracking a yawn. Brandon pursed his lips. "Okay. That didn't work. Try to find your power your own way. Close your eyes. Envision yourself amongst the stars."
I closed my eyes and tried to summon up an image of the night sky.
Iron shapes, twisting like letters of some strange alphabet. Clinking together. Glinting like stars in the sky.
I felt the energy sitting just below my skin fizzle up like bubbles from champagne.
Wind tore through the room in with tornado force. "Stop! If you love me, Eva!"
"What happened?" Brandon demanded.
I blinked a few times, trying to dislodge the image of Granny's frightened face and bring Brandon into focus.
He was looking at me, head cocked slightly to the side as if trying to figure me out. "You know," he said, "white isn't the only thing that stifles our ability to access our magic. Fear is just as effective."
He was waiting for me to respond, but I wasn't going to. He wasn't in my head. I knew he couldn't see what I'd done. So how had he guessed?
"Fear causes a series of interesting biological responses in the body," said Brandon, mildly, as though reading my mind. Could he do that? "Your body floods with cortisol and epinephrine and creates easily accessible energy for you to use. But your mind – your mind shuts down. And we can't work magic without our minds."
My mother seemed to whisper against the back of my ears: Why be afraid when you should be feared? But wasn't that just the problem?
If Brandon was right, Granny had dedicated her life to neutralizing me. And I knew my Granny loved me. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that my Granny had loved me. She might have hung wards in her home, she might have lectured, and lectured, and lectured - held exacting standards. But she'd bandaged every scrape with soothing words. She'd always, always listened. And she'd said so. Every night. I love you, Eva.
And here I was, about to liberate everything she'd strived the last fifteen years to subdue.
"Take a deep breath," Brandon advised. "You're afraid of what you don't know. Contrary to your previous experiences, magic isn't going to burst out of you. You're in full control of your emotions right now. So try again. Think about the stone centering you. When you access your magic it will release into the stone, not the room. Try again."
I had to assume that, if Granny knew my life was at stake, she'd want me to protect myself. I inhaled several deep breaths. And it took me minutes of breathing deeply before I felt any semblance of calm. Then I closed my eyes. Magic. Where was my magic?
I felt the same sort of mental tingling I'd felt earlier. Images formed beneath the back of my lids...
I looked up, expecting to see shimmery ornaments my mother hung about the house. Nothing. The sky was black with clouds.
The sky?
I wasn't no longer in my childhood bedroom, no longer staring at the ornaments that had hung and sparkled there. I looked down, startled to find that I was staring out over a 360-degree view. The night was thick around me. No moonlight. No starlight. A breeze blew my hair steadily back from my face. The hills rolled blackly through the distance.
I knew, suddenly, where I was: Mount Monadnock, a mountain I climbed dozens of times when I was younger. I looked up again, hoping to see the stars through the clouds, but they weren't there.
The breeze thickened into a wind, but it moved slowly, like a river. And them, suddenly, I could see it - see the wind: Night colored wisps, glinting with starlight, swirled about me, curling around my fingers, around my ears. It smelled dark and electric, like a storm forming. I reached my fingers into its visible currents, felt the cool, charged thickness of the wind sweep into me: a cold, brusque draft that went straight through my heart.
My eyes snapped open. The rose quartz cabochon in my hand flared pink. I was so startled, I dropped the rock; the magic fizzled from my fingers as if it had never been.
Brandon grinned. "There you go! Can you do it again?"
I was so startled I was almost trembling. It was like diving into a pool for the first time: the water is cold, thick, foreign. But then your body suddenly understands its own ability, and your hands slice through the water as if they were always meant to...
I picked up the stone and didn't close my eyes. I didn't try to picture starlight, or the mountain; I just tried to remember how it had all felt: the wind, slicing through my veins, star-bright and rippling...
The cabochon blazed in my hand again.
"Keep a hold of your power, now. Don't let it go," said Brandon quickly.
I didn't let it go, and holding it was easy. Brandon was right, magic was mental. I had to concentrate on the feeling of the wind, draw it into the tips of my fingers, press the feeling outwards and into the stone. My hands burned with a sizzling, electric energy.
"That's it!" said Brandon, eagerly. "Amazing. Now, think of your power as something solid and keep pushing into the stone. Not through it. Into it."
The stone began to darken, filling with an energy turned solid, transforming from a rosy pink and into a strange blueish black hue that seemed to oscillate like smoke.
"Enough." Said Brandon. "Cut it off."
With a thought, I stopped, releasing the power with the same suddenness as I'd summoned it.
I gaped at the stone. It wasn't a rose quartz any longer. Instead, it looked like some off-color labdorite.
Brandon held his hand out, and I gave him the stone without thinking twice. He weighed it and then looked up at me. "How do you feel?" he asked.
How did I feel? I tried to assess. "Better," I said, surprised. I didn't feel as edgy. I felt more... grounded.
Brandon nodded. "There are a few things to know about sorcery," he said. "First of all: We produce our own magic, and if we don't release it, it builds up in us. From what you described earlier, it sounds to me as if you've dealt with that surplus by expending energy natural ways: athletics, sex, your artwork..."
Made sense.
"But there are easier ways to dispose of your energy. You can store it, for one. Most of us who've grown up in the ilicon world use magic every day. It comes to us as easily as breathing and so we never really run up a surplus of it. Like oxygen, there's a natural buildup and release of energy in our blood. If it helps, think about using magic like running a mile: if you take it slow and steady, you might feel winded, but there are no ill effects. If you run as fast as you can, if you use all your stores of energy, you're out of commission for a while; your body has expended itself. If you exceed your abilities, you're a mile runner and you run a marathon – there's the possibility you'll drop dead at the finish line."
I stared at him.
"You're right," he said at my silence, "We're probably not ready for that yet. Okay. Focusing back. Now that you know how to find your power, I can actually teach you something about using it. Go ahead, call it up."
Quicker than thought, my hands sparked with power.
"Impressive," muttered Brandon. Was it? Why? But as I stared at my hands, which seemed to burn blue with the force of my magic, I grew nervous. No wonder Granny had wanted me to surpress this. This was no gentle breeze. I could feel the force of the magic I was now holding. It felt restlessness, violence. Did all magic feel this way? And the more I held it, the more violent I felt. I could feel the urge to unleash, inevitable as the forming of a thundercloud...
Brandon was speaking again, and I had to force myself to listen. "Now that your power is at the surface. Can you see the evidence of mine? Can you see my aura?"
I could. Fuck. How cool! I suddenly understood Cal's description of my aura. Brandon's was deep violet and it crackled with black lightning, forking about his head and shoulders.
"The lesson I need you to learn today," said Brandon, "is to try and keep someone from gaining control of your mind. Okay. So this will be a bit like playing a game of cards. I'm going to show you my hand. Watch my aura."
I did, my eyes tracking the black in his aura as it drifted down to coat his palms. It twined around his fingers and then drifted from him in a slow, almost ethereal stream. Toward me. I reared back as it neared my face.
Here I am. Brandon's voice sounded in the back of my head, only it wasn't Brandon's voice. It was deeper, darker. It seemed. Older. What the hell? My hand rose of its own accord, slowly, and I grabbed my own ponytail, giving it a vicious yank.
"Ow!" I yelled, more startled than hurt. I glared at him. Brandon only smiled. "I'm in your mind." He said. "Get me out." I yanked my hair again, harder this time.
"Get yourself out! Fuck you, you fucking asshole!" I snapped at Brandon, the violence in my gut manifesting on my lips. "You bas..." Brandon clucked his tongue and then tilted his head. My voice cut off midstream. "Cursing won't help, Eva. I'm in your mind. I'm controlling you. Don't look at me, here. Look for me there. Get me out." Yank.
Anger boiled up, and I had to work to tamp it down. My magic still burned across my fingers, waiting for me to unleash it. Chaos beckoned. I'd never felt anything so strong. It was though a hurricane was gathering in my blood. No Eva. Don't lose control. Focus. I crunched my eyes closed and tried to force Brandon out of my head. Yank.
"Don't wish me out," he barked, "Use your magic!" Yank.
Fine. I couldn't raise my unoccupied hand, but it was pointed in Brandon's direction anyway. I tried to let some of the hurricane free. My magic flared forward in an electric arc straight toward his chest. Brandon swore, and I felt my hand fall away from my hair. I saw the black in his aura slam in front of him, like a shield; my power fizzled as it hit.
Brandon glared at me and shook his head. "That's one way of doing it," he muttered. And then, quicker than I could blink, I was immobile. Not just my hand, or my lips. My whole body, frozen.
Panic rose. I struggled to move my arm, to draw a breath, to blink. But I was not in control, it was as if Vehendi himself was in my mind.
"Stop panicking, Eva, listen!" Brandon's barked command forced me to focus my attention on him. "Look inward," he said. "Find me in the back of your cortex, where I've wrapped myself like a vine."
I tried to still the beating of my heart. I was growing lightheaded. I tried to look inward. I couldn't see him. But I could feel him there. Yes! There. There he was. Foreign, subtle as mist.
"Dislodge me. Get me out."
How? Oh god, I couldn't breathe. I pushed, and pulled, but the mist was surprisingly strong, surprisingly solid. Oh fuck. Air. I needed air. How do you get a vine off of a house? Cut it! I tried. My magic was scissors, an ax – but it couldn't break the vines of Brandon's power.
"A sorcerer's magic is electric, Eva. Have you ever seen an electrical fire? Burn it."
Burn it. I reached for a mental image of fire.
I'm on fire. I can smell my hair burning. The heat is unbearable. I have to stop it, I have to put it out! Mama! Mama help me!
"Eva! Eva!"
Brandon's hands gripped my shoulders, and he shook me hard. "Eva. What happened?"
I hauled in air, sucking it in like a fire - starved for the life it would give me. My heart was racing, my scalp burning as if it really were on fire. And my head ached. Fiercely.
"I don't..."
"It was a memory," said Brandon, looking concerned. "I was in your mind. I saw it. You were on fire. What was it you remembered?"
I shook my head. I don't know. I didn't know where the memory came from. I reached up and touched my hair, but it was there. Long, now crackling with static, but all there.
Brandon waited another moment, but when it was clear I wasn't going to talk about what had just happened his mouth firmed with resolve. "Okay," he said. "Come on. Regroup. We've got to try again."
We were at it two hours. Brandon was adamant that the best way to get a sorcerer to release his hold on your mind was to use fire. "Yes, it will hurt," he insisted, "It will hurt me to be burned, and it will hurt you, too. But it won't do any damage. You get used to pain - real power hurts."
But I couldn't get myself to do it. We tried three times and each time a fear, so irrational it was paralyzing, took hold of me, forcing Brandon to relinquish his power over my body so that I could get myself under control.
After two hours Brandon decided that, if I couldn't get anyone out of my mind, then I'd have to learn to keep him from gaining access to it in the first place. He taught me how to shield myself mentally from an attack, and how to use magic to physically block another sorcerer's onslaught.
By the end of the lesson it was late, and I was beginning to feel that magical hangover Brandon had mentioned on Saturday. I was nauseous. My head ached.
Brandon, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy.
"How is it you're not showing any signs of fatigue?" I demanded, pinching the bridge of my nose and trying to will the headache away. It wasn't working.
Brandon grinned, winked, and dug into his pocket, pulling out the rose quartz cabochon, which was now almost completely pink again. "I had some help."
I gaped. Had he been using my own power against me!? I should have guessed. About halfway through our lessons, I had noticed that the color of Brandon's magic had changed slightly. But I hadn't paid much attention to it. "That's cheating!"
"Welcome to the world of sorcerers," he replied. "Rule number one: siphoning another sorcerer's power is illegal. If you use someone else's magic, they have to give it to you."
And I'd given him the quartz. "You tricked me."
"It's an important lesson. Don't let another sorcerer get his hands on what is yours. I have a feeling we've only begun to see the true extent of your power, Eva." He glanced back to his computer, as if looking at my file, and frowned. "It's considerable. And there are many sorcerers who would give their left arms for a chance to access it. Don't let any of them have it. Especially not Vehendi."
I shrugged. IF my lesson with Brandon had taught me anything, it was that there wasn't much I could do to stop Vehendi. I might have accessed my power quickly, but I wasn't all that quick about learning to use it. I was upset at myself for failing to get Brandon out of my mind.
Still, there was nothing I could do about it, now. We were done with the lesson for the day. I'd have to come to terms with this newfound fear of fire and try again tomorrow. I stood up to go, my whole body feeling as though it had gone through a spin cycle on high.
"Eva..."
I paused, my arm halfway through the sleeve of my coat.
"Don't trust the witches, either."
I didn't say anything. I certainly wasn't going to tell him that I was about to go back to my place and see Cal.
"Our world is a complicated place. It's also a small one. I know you're associated with Alice Goode's boy. Be careful."
I frowned. "Be careful of what?"
Brandon shrugged. "Listen," he said. "I don't know the guy. Sin mentioned in passing that you and Goode were friends. Friendships between witches and sorcerers are unusual in the extreme. This wouldn't be the first time a witch has tried to use a sorcerer."
"How does a witch use a sorcerer?" Cal had told me how a sorcerer might make use of a witch's magic...
"Base magic is base magic. Sorcerers have very strict rules about its use. And, don't get me wrong, we break them all the time – but at least the rules are in place, dictating what is right and wrong. But the witches have odd definitions of right and wrong. Sin can tell you more about Goode's history with base magic than I can. Or you can ask Goode yourself."
Brandon watched me, waiting for my reaction. I wasn't going to give him anything. I'd asked Cal about base magic and he'd said never used any.
"Whatever you do," said Brandon, "just be careful. Goode is more powerful than he lets on. He plays a convincing 'nice guy,' but I've heard rumors that suggest he's not as nice as he appears."
Rumors? I waited, but apparently that was all the information Brandon was going to give me.
I finished putting my coat on and buttoning it up before I trusted myself to speak. "I've known Cal for three months." I said. "And I know that's not long, but I've only met you twice. Why should I believe anything you tell me?" Wasn't he was the one who'd spent the last three hours holding me immobile. Wasn't he the was the one who'd tricked me into giving him my power.
Brandon contemplated me a moment, and then smiled. "You shouldn't," he said. "Not yet at least. But as a gesture of good faith..." He reached beneath his shirt and took off a silver chain that I hadn't noticed him wearing. The chain was slender but looked sturdy and, at the end, hung a sapphire pendant about the size of my thumbnail.
"Precious gemstones store much more power than semi-precious crystals. This is one of the ones that I use to store my own excess energy. It's empty. Take it. If you end up with a surplus of energy, push it into the sapphire. Wear it always, and don't give it to anyone else. Got it?"
I almost didn't want to take the necklace from him, but I found myself reaching for it automatically. "Got it," I muttered. "Thanks."
"There's a car waiting for you downstairs," said Brandon, standing to walk me out. "One of our House sorcerers will drive you to your apartment. And if you hear from Vehendi, call us."
I nodded, absently drawing the necklace over my head and letting it settle beneath my shirt.
As I walked out of the Lobby of the Ash and Crowley building, a black Mercedes purred at the curb, and an incredibly stout, middle-aged woman with a bob of thick medium brown hair and a black pea coat waited with the passenger door open.
"You must be Eva," she said to me, offering me a smile. Her accent was old-Boston, so thick that she made my name sound like "Eever."
I gave her a faint smile. Where Sin and Brandon were younger, handsome, and formidable-seeming, this woman was unassuming. But she was definitely a sorcerer. I had only to dip my hands into the stream of my power to view her aura: was a deep, translucent orange – and black magic crackled through it.
"I'm Jean," she said, closing the door behind me and waddling around the car to slide in the driver's side.
"You know where we're going, Jean?" I asked as she put the car into drive and slid into the slow flow of Boston city traffic.
"I will once you give me the address," said the woman acerbically, fingers hovering over the Mercedes' onboard GPS. I reached out and put it in for her and Jean made a few deft maneuvers to turn us around, heading west and then north towards Cambridge.
"So you're a House Sorcerer?" I asked, when the silence became uncomfortable.
"You betcha," Jean agreed. With the bob and the accent, she reminded me of my friend April's mother. She had small hazel eyes and a snub nose, and thick, naturally tanned skin with a tiny spider's vein in one cheek.
"What does it mean to belong to a House?"
If Jean thought my question was unusual she didn't comment on it, though she paused a moment before answering. "I'm not sure I understand your question, Eever."
"What sort of work do you do for the, ah, House," I clarified. "To whom do you report?"
Jean's smile was small. "What do I do? I drive for them evenings, if they need me. I'm on call every five weeks. I got a full time job teaching tech over at Madison Park. And I report to whoever the boss on duty is. I take it you haven't signed yet? I don't speak with Mr. Ash personally. He has about five associates I might report to, based on the day of the week."
Interesting. "So belonging to a house means working for them occasionally? Do you get paid?"
"Really?" Jean looked comically incredulous. "Girly, has no one explained this to you, yet?"
I shrugged, feeling self conscious.
"Fuck's sake. Where'd you come from, kid? Never mind," she waved a hand at a passing car and put her turn signal on. "You can belong to a house without working for them. I drive for some side money - Ash House pays better than ride share rates. However, if I'm a practicing sorcerer, and I live anywhere North of Philadelphia or East of Rochester, I'm living in Ash House territory. If I don't join onto Ash House, then I'm a rogue sorcerer, or a freelancer, and it's open season on my generous behind. No thank you. I've lived here all my life, I chose to sign onto the House when I was eighteen, and it was Hugo Morris acting as Aedile then. You sign onto a House for protection. If you're an Ash House sorcerer, no one can mess with you - at least not without expecting the vengeance of the House."
"So it's like the mafia?"
"The mafia? I guess. But, you know, the business is legal. Sort of."
"And what does Ash House get in return for offering you protection?"
Jean's grin was grim in the rearview mirror. "Control."
"Control of what?"
She shook her head, smiling in a self-derisive way. "Control of what I can and can't tell you."
Fine. I understood. I wasn't part of the House. So I wasn't privy to its information.
Jean pulled up to my apartment about ten minutes later, and my heart beat just a bit harder when I spotted Cal's dark blue HRV parked across the street. Brandon's warning had been eating at me. Try as I might to see Cal as anything other than a thoughtful, slightly nerdy, and subtly sexy high school history teacher, I just couldn't.
And I couldn't think of a single interaction that we'd had that seemed shady. I had sought him out in the bar that night. He let me do most of the leading in our relationship. I certainly didn't feel like I was being manipulated – but didn't Cal say that witches could mess with emotions?
Ugh. I couldn't figure out whom I could trust. My mother had left me, my father had never been around, my grandmother had spent my entire life lying to, stifling, and protecting herself against me. The Sorcerers had saved my life but, according to Cal (and my mother), they were a dangerous, untrustworthy bunch. Cal had seemed open and honest with me, but he'd hid the whole witch thing and, according to Brandon, wasn't the nice guy he seemed.
"Thanks for the ride," I said to Jean, opening the door before she could get out and do for me.
"See you around, I'm sure," she said, but she wasn't looking at me as she put the car in drive.
Staring at my apartment, I sighed. There was nothing to do but try and learn things for myself and trust my gut.
I stopped on the walkway, looking up at the house. Mentally dipping my fingers into the thick wind of my power, I could suddenly see the subtle glint of Brandon's "fortifications." There was no color to the magic, but the building pulsed with energy, and I felt the magic snap at my skin as I entered the front door.
And nearly smacked into Wynn.
"Oh! Hey Girl! Cal's here. I have to run!" She was dressed in a relatively sedate, knee length black skirt, red cropped sweater, and had done a full smoky eye.
"Where are you going?" I ask, nodding to Cal as he leaned out of the kitchen.
"Police dinner. I'm Robin's date. And I'm late." She pressed a kiss to my cheek, wafting Coco Chanel on her way out the door. It slammed behind her.
"Hey," said Cal, smile fading softly as he took me in. "Wow. You look..."
"Tired?" I supplied.
"Wrecked."
I felt a strange, irrational irritation rise up – no doubt spurred on my the terrible headache I'd had since leaving downtown. "What are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to text me?"
Cal eyes widened at the accusation in my tone and he pointed to the kitchen counter, where his phone was charging by an outlet. "My battery died," he said. "So I figured I'd try to come by early on the off chance that your roommate was home. But Wynn and I got to talking... It's why she's running late... I'm sorry." He sounded perplexed, as if he couldn't figure out why I'd be angry.
I shouldn't have been angry. I wouldn't have been angry if Brandon hadn't made me suspicious. "It's fine," I said, moving past him and into the kitchen. I needed a drink.
"It sounds like it might not be," said Cal, trailing after me. "Do you want me to leave?"
I almost said yes, but I stopped myself. No, I didn't want him to leave. I felt so incredibly lost, and I didn't want to be alone at that moment. I poured myself about four fingers of Makers Mark and turned to face him. I shook my head. All I had was honestly, so I figured I'd just let the chips fall. "At the end of our meeting, Brandon told me not to trust you."
Cal's tilted his head and crossed his arms over his chest. But he didn't seem surprised. "Not to trust me? Why? What have I done?"
"He says you're not as nice as you let on."
Cal snorted and leaned against the doorjamb. He taken off his tie and glasses, but was still in his work clothes. His shirt was unbuttoned and the smooth skin of his throat was visible. "Well that's good to hear," said Cal, grinning and winking at me. "Nice guys are boring, so I've been told."
"Cal, I'm serious. Why does he think I shouldn't trust you?"
Cal rolled his eyes. "Because he's a sorcerer, and I'm a witch."
"No. There's more."
Cal uncrossed his arms and considered me a long moment. Then he took a seat at the small kitchen table. I took a large swallow of the bourbon, and it burned going down. I took another one.
"Do you want to tell me what he told you?" asked Cal, patiently.
"No. I want you to tell me what you think he told me."
Silence stretched in the kitchen. Cal frowned at the table, his finger tracing the whorls in the wood. "This feels like a test, Eva. I wish you'd let me know what they've accused me of. I'm not sure what the sorcerers think they know about me."
I waited stubbornly.
"Honestly," said Cal, spreading his hands, looking up, brown eyes wide and annoyed. "I've never had anything to do with them. I wasn't lying when I said I knew Ash from bartending at The Longwharf. It's an ilisine yacht club, neutral ground, and he's a member. I haven't had many interactions with him other than that. My mother's had a few..." he trailed off, shrugging.
"Brandon suggested that your position on the periphery of your coven might be because you dabble in base magic."
"Ah," said Cal, sitting back. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, but he still looked annoyed. "You want in on a trade secret, Eva? The Order might forbid it, but everyone dabbles in base magic. And Lamont really shouldn't cast stones. It's rumored he can speak the language of the demons. No one's ever caught him at it, of course..."
The language of the demons? I could see Brandon, in my mind's eye, pinned against the wall, snarling at the demon sorcerer and spitting that terrible, corrosive language back at him. The word Brandon had used had been enough to break the demon's hold on him...
"... black and white, good an evil, such unadulterated dichotomies are unrealistic. Everything exists in shades of grey. I don't base magic – not on my own, at least. The coven has condoned it once or twice in the past, when it was necessary. Brandon's suspicions about me probably come from Ash. We might not know each other well, but we got into one night. He'd had a few drinks at the club, was arguing with some other sorcerer. Power was crackling so hard I though the ilisine might notice. I was worried Ash might lose control, and I tried to, ah, influence the situation. He figured out what I was doing. He threatened me, and told me, to my face, that he thinks I'm more powerful than I let on."
"Are you?"
Cal looked up, lips pressed thin as if he were disappointed in my question. Then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to answer that," he said. "I don't really want to. In our world, Eva, having a lot of power can be a good thing – but it's usually not. Either you use it to rise to the top of a House or a Coven or a Parliament, or people try to use you. And power is damn corruptive. I can't think of a single ilicon in a position of power who isn't riddled with corruption."
He wasn't looking at me as he spoke. He was staring out my kitchen window. Usually easy going, Cal's brows were now pulled low. He was full-on brooding.
"I'll tell you the truth," he said after a moment of silence. "I'm powerful enough to challenge my mother for leadership of the coven. And win. Easily. Which is why I left Salem for Lynn and why she let me leave. That I live on the periphery of my coven and have since I was eighteen – it's not because I practice base magic. It's because I love my mother, but she'll never give up control of her coven. And there are witches in Salem that would try to wrest power from her and give it to me. Neither my mother nor I wish to be used against one another. She asked me, about four years ago, to resign my membership, and I did."
"But when I saw you in Salem, you seemed very close with..."
"Close with the coven? Of course I am. I grew up there. They're still my family. I just don't practice with them. And honestly, I'm glad Ash and all his toadies are wary of me. It means they leave me alone. They're right to be suspicious. It's unusual for a witch to live as I do. But it's not insidious," he looked up at me, brown eyes liquid with earnestness. "I promise."
I crossed my arms, stubbornly. He might have given me a lot of information, but he hadn't answered my question. "Cal," I said, slowly. "How powerful are you?"
Cal stood up with an exaggerated groan. "Powerful enough to put another round of fortifications on this place," he said. "Would you let me?" He met my gaze. His was open, and I could see his heart in his eyes. He was serious. He wanted to help me.
I relaxed. There was nothing more to Cal than what he showed me: A guy I was growing to really, really like. I'd basically accused him of being a liar, and his response was "let me help you with your demon-sorcerer problem."
I nodded. "Will your, ah, spells remove the ones that are already here?"
"Not at all. In fact, I'll set mine up inside the house, so on the off chance your Sorcerer Demon breaks through the Ash House wards, he'll encounter mine next."
"Why can't I see your aura?" I asked suddenly.
"Oh." Cal reached beneath his shirt collar and pulled out a small gold chain with a small black pendant hanging from it. "It's an easy spell," he said. "Boston isn't exactly witch territory and this allows me to travel through the city with relative anonymity. With this on, other ilicon don't look twice at me. A lot of our kind wear spells like these." He pulled it off and over his head and his aura flickered into view. I blinked. It swirled around him like an autumn forest: Deep green with shots of brown and an unfamiliar, golden swirl weaving in and out of it.
I blinked and let the image of his aura disappear. He slid his pendant back over his neck.
"What's the gold stuff?" I asked.
"My ability," he said. "It's how you can tell I'm a witch, just how the black in your aura is how I can tell you're a sorcerer."
"This is all so bizarre."
"You'll get used to it," said Cal, easily. "So, do you want me to set up those spells?"
"Only if you tell me what you're doing."
Cal grinned. "It's a deal."
He stood up from the kitchen table and headed into the living room where he'd left his school satchel, and a large paper bag.
He'd gone to a natural's store in Porter Square, he told me. It was run by an ilisine woman but stocked well enough to suit his purposes. He explained that a witch's magic was a bit more complex than a sorcerer's.
"Magic thrives in ritual," he said, as he went around the apartment turning off lights and unplugging electronics ("they interfere with the energy I'm using to cement the spells"). "Our world is comprised of a series of macro and microcosmic patterns. The moon cycles, so does the Earth, so do the plants, so do women and men.Understand, our world is a world of chaos."
He pulled a plastic bag of yellow powder out of his pocket. He told me the name: a root I couldn't pronounce. "But the chaos is held together by order, by ritual. Magic is what keeps the world ordered. It runs across the planet in grids, in whorls, pulling the weather, coaxing the seasons."
He undressed as he prepared. His shoes and socks came off one by one. He took his shirt off, too, and his belt. His khakis now sat at the natural dip in his hipbone. The undershirt fit close to his body, stretching across his naturally broad shoulders and gently defined triceps.
"Sorcerer magic, witch magic, magician magic, thrives on order. Demons thrive on chaos, and seek to strip organized order from the world, in any way they can. Since I want to cast against a demon, I keep that in mind. I use the magic found in nature to cast and cement my spells. If I'm looking to cast against a demon, I'm going to use herbs that grow in a more organized manner. I'm not a math guy, but Fibonacci had the right of it when it comes to nature: to cast against a demon, I'm using plants that contain the golden ratio. Ragwort. Larkspur. Sunflower..."
As he spoke he spilled the powders across the ground in circular, spiraled designs. His voice became rhythmic and, half way through his speech, he switched languages, speaking something that might have been Latin.
He'd removed his pendant so that I could see his magic at work. The gold that ran through his aura throbbed, pulsed off of hands and glowed amidst the shapes he'd drawn on my floor. I could feel a subtle power gathering as he chanted, as he drew patterns.
The magic I'd learned with Brandon today had been electricity and force. This was something different. But it wasn't only the magic that captivated me. Cal had dipped his finger in something that looked like charcoal dust, and drawn small symbols through the light gold hair across his chest. As he paced my apartment in only his khakis, competently casting magic, chanting in an unfamiliar tongue, a slow burn of desire wound its way through my gut.
Then, finally, he stopped. He crouched down to the ground, his chanting becoming a low whisper, and I watched as the gold in his aura spread outward, seeping into the floorboards. He held out his palms, turning them upwards as if in supplication. Suddenly as thought, golden fire blazed across his hands. If I'd blinked, I would have missed how every single design he'd dusted across my floor flashed like gunpowder and then disappeared – as if consumed by the fire.
Cal sat on his heels, closing his eyes, rubbing at his temples for a moment, and then dusting the charcoal from his chest.
He turned and looked at me, smirking.
"Can all witches do that?" I asked him.
"It would take a few of them," said Cal, no false modesty present. He got slowly to his feet and wandered over to me. "But your demon-sorcerer will have a hard time working against these wards. This is now the safest place for you in greater Boston."
He smelled like earth and sunlight, and though he looked exhausted, I could see that I wasn't the only one experiencing strong surges of lust. Cal's dark gold lashes were low over his eyes as they swept me, lingering on my cheek, on my collarbone where it peeked out of my shirt. He drew close and held out a hand, lifting me to my feet.
"You okay?" he asked me, half amusement, half hesitation. My hands were smoothing themselves across his chest, brushing at the remnants of charcoal still smeared there. My fatigue seemed to be draining away. Instead, I felt electricity sparking in my blood, hot enough to hurt. I leaned into him, and one of his hands snaked around me, finding the small of my back and pulling me until we were pressed against one another. Cal's eyes were half-lidded. His hand came up under my chin and he tilted it up. His lips hovered like butterfly wings against mine, and then descended. Hard at first, and then soft, pulling. The kiss went on and on.
I met his lips, and used my teeth urging him to relinquish the control and get a bit wild. Cal obliged, his arms hardening about me until I was caged against him, his kiss exploding sparks through my blood stream. "Fuck me." I whispered raggedly against his lips, standing on tip toes and thrusting my hips at his. "Hard."
I needed this. I needed to push everything aside. I needed to feel Cal inside me, needed to suck down everything he offered freely. It was life giving, life affirming, primal.
Cal reached a hand ruthlessly into my bra, pinching my nipples with deft finger. I whimpered against his lips, hit the wall and moaned as his lips left mine and his teeth scored across my sensitive neck, his free hand working the buttons on my trousers.
"Fuck, Eva" said Cal, against my neck. "I want you."
"Take me," I begged. His hands dipped into my pants, fingers skimming the edge of my underwear. I reached down and grabbed his wrist, directing him forcefully, knees buckling as he sucked the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
Cal slid a finger inside me, stirring the flames that already threatened to overwhelm me.
A second finger, oh fuck.
"You." I chanted, tearing my neck away from his lips, ripping at his pants until the button gave way.
Cal laughed, and pulled away from me, kicking his pants off, his boxer briefs joining them so that he stood completely naked before me. Tall, strong, gloriously golden, erect as an ancient fertility god. My mouth watered, and I tore at my own clothes, melting into pure need as Cal batted my hands away, tore my blouse over my head and knelt before me, sucking a nipple as he worked my pants down my thighs.
Heat lightening tore through me, setting already fatigued muscles trembling. Cal slid my underwear off, hooking one leg over his shoulder so I had to rely on him and the wall for balance. Then he feasted.
His tongue hit my clit first, before swiping low between my lips. I almost came. I was flame and need, a plastic bag untethered in a storm. "Cal," I begged.
He sucked harder, two fingers sliding in deep. "Cal! Fuck me please!" I begged, trembling with need. I tugged at his hair, and he laughed, releasing me and surging upward so fast that I knocked into wall, barely realizing that my legs were now wrapped around his waist, that his thick cock was poised at my entrance. "Eva," he said, taking my lips against, tongue thrusting into my mouth as he thrust inside me.
"Fuck!" he cried, hands grabbing my hips with bruising force, holding me still as he he withdrew and surged upward in a stroke so sensuous, I felt my senses slip away from me completely. I was pure feeling, pure sensation, completely at his mercy.
And he was merciless. He began to move in earnest, slowly at first, torturing me, each thrust stoking flames into a bonfire of sensation. Until I couldn't take it anymore. Until I bit ear, hard, beyond words, and bucked against him like a horse unbroken.
Then he started moving. Thrusting with urgency, grinding upward with each stroke until I thought I was going to pass out from the intensity. I could feel the hurricane winds spinning into a cyclone of flames, sucking up everything he would give me. More, ah fuck! More.
I came in a cataclysm of sensation, a meteor colliding with a star, pleasure, life bursting through me. Somewhere far away I could hear Cal roar as he climaxed. We fell to the floor.
"Do you want to hear the story about Tula Macleod, who thought she could summon the wind?"
"I'm sick of stories. I want to know the truth."
My mother is reclining on my bed, her eyes dancing along the starlit iron that hangs from my ceiling. At my denial, her gaze flicks back to me. Her eyes grow sharp. "Look at the little cygnet," she said. "All grown up! But less a swan now than a praying mantis. Look at you, plump and proud, full of your beloved's blood. You look ready to swallow the world, Terrible One."
What was she going on about? "Tell me the truth. What happened to you?"
My mother's smile is small. I have her mouth: full lips, teeth that never needed braces. "I always tell you the truth."
"What happened to you?"
She ignores me. "I could tell you the story of Maz the Redcap. He ate his way across the whole of Scotland, but never liked the fingers or the toes... It was his undoing. Tula wouldn't have cared either way, but then Maz ate the Wind's daughter. And the wind made a bargain with Tula. Kill Maz, and in return, he would grant her the power of the wind..."
"Enough!" I demand. I want to reach out and shake my mother, but my hands are child's hands, and my mother covers them with hers, my hands imprisoned.
"He left the fingers and the toes, like Hansel dropping breadcrumbs. And Tula followed those bloody little crumbs until she found Maz..."
"No more stories."
My mother stops speaking, and she looks at me, thoughtfully. "As you wish."
I opened my eyes. Beside me, Cal mumbled, flipping onto his back and, still almost entirely asleep, opened up an arm in invitation. But something wasn't right. I could feel something, at the edge of my awareness, a flicker in an electric current, like a mosquito shocked from thin air by a bug-zapper. And then nothing. I moved closer to Cal, closing my eyes as his arm closed around me.