by Kate Moseman
Encouraged, Raya waved the shopkeeper over and pointed to what appeared to be an array of savory mini-quiches. She held up four fingers.
The shopkeeper raised a questioning eyebrow and held up four fingers in return.
Raya rubbed her stomach. “So hungry!”
The shopkeeper shrugged eloquently and loaded the quiches into the box, filling it to the very top.
Raya spotted eclairs. “One of those?” She pointed with a hopeful expression.
This time, the shopkeeper closed the box and retrieved the eclair with a small sheet of waxed paper. She mimed taking a bite, then handed the eclair to Raya.
“For now? That’s perfect. Thank you. Merci beaucoup.” Raya stopped herself from gobbling the pastry and instead attempted to take a dainty bite, leaving only a little bit of cream filling on her upper lip. She paid and waved goodbye with the eclair as she left.
As she walked toward the hotel, she heard the tell-tale flutter of wings behind her. “You can’t startle me now, Phoenix,” she called.
He emerged from the darkness to walk by her side. “What, and spill your dinner on the Paris sidewalk? Even I have some manners.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Hold on.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder to stop her forward movement.
“What?” She paused on the sidewalk, still chewing a bite of eclair.
“You have a mustache. Don’t go walking around Paris with a mustache.”
She glided her tongue over her upper lip. “Better?”
He blinked. “Good enough.”
They resumed walking side by side.
“Did you follow me all the way here?” Raya licked chocolate from her finger.
“I couldn’t let you get murdered on your first night in Paris.”
“But the second night would be okay?” She elbowed him lightly.
“Oh, I’d make sure it didn’t happen until at least a week in. Otherwise you’d miss all the best sightseeing.”
“Good to know you care.”
Phoenix was oddly quiet for a moment. “Do you have any plans yet?”
“Plans?”
“Yes, woman—plans. Those things sensible mortals make? Ever heard of them?”
“Who needs plans? I’m in Paris. I’m going to the world’s biggest witchcraft convention. Isn’t that enough?”
“Right,” said Phoenix. “I mean, I don’t have any plans either.”
They walked in silence.
“Unless you wanted to grab something to eat sometime?”
Raya laughed. “Are you asking me to dinner?”
Phoenix glowered. “Of course not. But I thought maybe I could prevent your imminent murder by showing you around the city a bit.”
“That’s weirdly thoughtful of you.” Raya pulled a macaron out of the box and bit into it.
“If I don’t murder you first, that is.”
“Likewise,” said Raya. “Here, stuff this in your mouth and stop talking.” She pressed a macaron to his full and somewhat pouty lips, giving him no choice but to seize it with his teeth.
While he dealt with the unexpected mouthful, she took the opportunity to steer the conversation. “I want to see something cool. I can see tourist stuff on my own time. Where’s the demon dive bar?”
Phoenix snorted. “Not that you’d be welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for a welcome. I asked for something cool. Impress me.” She tore off a hunk of chocolate croissant and popped it in her mouth.
“Yes, Your Witchiness. I live to serve.” Phoenix bowed mockingly.
“Knock it off. It’s not like that.” Raya felt heat flare over her face.
“Not anymore, anyway.”
“Who’s the greater power, here, anyway? Me? With my little wand and barely noticeable spells? Or you, with your wings and your invisibility and your dream walking and your—”
“Spectacular good looks?” Phoenix ran his hand through his hair.
Raya stopped. “Who said I didn’t have spectacular good looks?”
“I didn’t say that,” said Phoenix.
“You implied it.” Raya spotted the hotel ahead and marched on.
“I did nothing of the kind.”
Raya scoffed.
“Now, hang on a minute, witch.” He skidded in front of her. “You’re lacking a lot of things—tact, sense, and humility, for a start—but you’re not lacking in the looks department.”
“‘Not lacking’?”
“Fine, you ridiculous mortal, you’re a good-looking witch. Is that what you want? Happy now?”
Raya made a self-satisfied noise and continued walking. “You think I’m pretty!”
Phoenix rolled his eyes. “Now I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Phoenix and Raya, sitting in a tree—”
“Shut up, witch.”
“K-I-S-S—”
“Did I mention you also never know when to stop?”
“Then we have that in common as well,” said Raya. She made smooching sounds in his direction, then stopped when she realized they’d already reached the hotel. “This is where I leave you. Try not to pine.”
Their gazes locked.
Phoenix leaned toward her. “Try not to get murdered.”
3
The dawn of the next day delivered an avalanche of jet lag.
Raya headed out in search of coffee.
Paris sparkled in the morning light. Sun filtered through the regularly spaced trees and dappled the exteriors of the stone buildings. The breeze from the nearby Seine swirled down the street, kicking up leaves.
Raya wandered in the direction of the nearest Métro station and found a bustling cafe filled with Parisians. She stood on the sidewalk and stared, unsure whether to approach the bar or take a seat at one of the tables.
Jet lag didn’t help with clear thinking.
She swayed a little, made up her mind, and stepped up to the bar.
The bartender addressed her in French.
Raya pointed to the largest mug she could see and said the phrase she’d been practicing all morning: “Bonjour. Un café, s’il vous plaît.”
The drink arrived piping hot, steam curling from the top and tickling her nose as she leaned forward to inhale the scent.
Hallelujah. Rocket fuel at last.
She drank carefully at first, then faster and faster as it cooled. She tilted the cup at a precarious angle and knocked back the last few precious drops, then dropped the cup onto the bar with a satisfied clatter and turned to go.
As she turned, she caught sight of the man standing next to her at the bar.
In the front pocket of his tweed jacket, peeking out where a normal man might carry a pen, a crystal glittered and winked.
Raya gasped. Witches were so rare back home that it was shocking to just run into one here, as if witches were common.
The man glanced at her. The morning light glinted on his heavy-framed eyeglasses as his dark eyes assessed her. He didn’t smile.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to stare. I’m just not used to running into”—she tilted her head to show him the wand tucked into her hair—“one of us.”
He shifted his standing position to face her. His hands slid into the pockets of his jacket as he leaned one patch-covered elbow on the bar.
Watching his face was like watching the wheels turn in an intricate machine. She could almost hear the clicking whir of his thoughts.
“One of us?” His voice remained carefully neutral.
His cool response froze her friendly smile, but she soldiered on. “Are you here for the convention?”
Amusement flickered in his eyes, but no trace of it touched the rest of his smooth complexion. “What convention?” His words fell like flat stones.
> Impulsively, Raya stuck out her hand. “I’m Raya, by the way.”
He waited a beat before taking her hand. “Raya.”
Their auras of power intersected.
His imperturbable mask didn’t slip, but he must have reassessed her. “I’m Nathan.”
The caffeine had finally kicked in enough for her to notice the time. “I better run, Nathan. Don’t want to miss the opening presentation.”
He smirked. “Neither should I.”
Raya looked back just before exiting and saw him sipping his coffee and watching her with an expression that bordered on calculating. She could almost hear the gears turning in his mind. She shook off the strange impression and left, her quickened steps taking her to the station in record time.
The Paris Métro carried her swiftly to the convention center, a sprawling complex fronted with windows mounted at odd angles that flashed the sun’s reflection in myriad directions. Signs for the “Natural Health Expo”—the convention’s cover identity—decorated the entrance hall.
Raya hurried through the corridors to the main presentation room.
She’d never seen so many witches in her life. Hippie witches swept by wearing long skirts and yards of necklaces. City witches tucked sleek wands into structured bags as they clicked through the halls on stylish heels. Tattooed witches wore their designs proudly with skin-baring fashions. Wands, amulets, and charms galore adorned the attendees.
Raya planned to stock up. Just the thought of going shopping in the vendor hall filled her with avaricious delight.
A witch wearing a color-coded lanyard and carrying a palm-sized crystal stopped her just inside the entrance to the hall. “Wand, please,” he said.
Raya’s hand went automatically to her hair. “My wand?”
“Security check. We don’t want to let the general public in, do we? Hold it out and begin a spell.”
Raya pulled out her wand and concentrated, calling up the same spell she’d used on the airline representative at the baggage claim.
The other witch’s crystal flickered. “You’re all set.” He looked to the next witch.
Now to find a place to sit. “Excuse me.” Raya squeezed past a group of witches in jaunty coordinating “Support Your Local Coven” t-shirts and slid into an open seat.
The cavernous hall filled completely as the remaining attendees passed the security check.
Raya shifted in her seat and drummed her fingers on her knees before deciding to nibble on a leftover macaron from her bag while she waited.
The house lights dimmed and a musical fanfare rose in volume as the voice of an unseen announcer rippled over the crowd. “Please welcome to the stage: your master of ceremonies, the author of Witching Into the Dark, Nathan Lorde!”
A man in a tweed jacket walked onto the stage.
Raya choked on her macaron and coughed uncontrollably.
Nathan. Nathan from the coffee shop. She could have picked the brain of one of the top witches in the world, and instead she’d rushed off to catch a train.
Her dog-eared copy of Witching Into the Dark didn’t have an author photo.
Raya kicked the leg of the seat in front of her in frustration.
Luckily, its occupant was too enraptured to notice.
Nathan removed his wand from his pocket and held it up in the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes and held his other hand, fingers loosely spread, over the wand.
A susurration rippled through the crowd before the gathered witches fell completely silent.
Light traced around Nathan, crisscrossing with geometric precision, forming a delicate filigree outlining a figure with a pointed top and a four-legged base.
The Eiffel Tower, made of light.
Raya’s mouth fell open and a heady feeling of longing swept through her. The illusion demonstrated raw power as much as beauty.
He picked up the wand with his free hand like he was handling a very large bubble he didn’t want to pop. He eased the wand away from the illusion with a gentle flick, sending the glowing tower floating over the center aisle.
Heads turned to follow the movement.
Raya hastily tugged her wand free and quietly aimed it at the illusion, determined to make up for the lost opportunity at the coffee shop. There were so many ways to do this wrong, and only one chance to get it right.
Gently, delicately, she asserted her concentration on attracting the light. She felt the spell catch, and immediately had to tamp down the impulse to pull harder.
Softer, Raya, softer.
The tower drifted closer.
She didn’t dare look away to see if Nathan was watching. She brought it to herself, letting it float above her, knowing full well that its light would illuminate her where she sat.
Nathan’s voice broke the silence. “I knew we were coming to the Eiffel Tower. I never guessed one of us would make the Eiffel Tower come to them,” he deadpanned. He banished the light with a wave of the hand.
The audience broke into applause.
Had he seen her? Did he approve? Raya shook with adrenalin as butterflies did barrel rolls in her stomach.
4
Raya flung herself backward onto the bed, sending pillows flying. She stared up at the ceiling as her thoughts whirled. What a day!
She rolled over and reached for her bag, pulling out pages upon pages of notes she’d taken during the presentations. Little freebies from the vendor hall spilled out and rolled across the covers. Raya corralled the miniature bottles, crystals, and swatches into a pile.
A knock at the door interrupted her efforts.
“Hang on.” Raya pushed up from the bed and padded over to the door. “Who is it?”
“Ton pire cauchemar.” Phoenix’s unmistakable English accent came through even in French.
Raya unlocked the door and opened it partway. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Haven’t you learned any French yet?”
“Can’t you just fade through the door?”
“Did you want me to? Should that become our regular thing? Me popping into your hotel room unannounced?” Phoenix leaned into the doorway.
Raya rolled her eyes. “Get in here and stop making a spectacle of yourself.”
“Oh, if I were going to make a spectacle of myself, you’d know it.” He strolled to the bed. “What’s all this?” He scooped up a handful of the convention swag.
“Put that down!”
Phoenix dropped the items. “Calm down. I’m not stealing your trinkets. I was just curious.” He managed to look simultaneously hurt and haughty.
“Don’t pout.” Raya faced the mirror and fluffed her hair. “I was all set to be shown a good time.”
“In those clothes?”
“Why should I change when all you ever wear is a heap of black topped with a leather jacket?”
“Touché.” He loomed over her in the reflection. “Maybe I should get you one to match.”
Goodness, he was tall. And annoying. She was going to call his stupid bluff. “Maybe you should.” She turned around and shoved his chest, but he didn’t budge. She changed tactics and pointed her finger at him. “Go ahead. Get me a leather jacket.”
“Get you a leather jacket?”
“You suggested it.”
An odd look passed over Phoenix’s face. “I was only kidding.”
Raya snickered. “Too bad. Maybe you should think before you speak, demon.”
“Right. Well.” Phoenix looked uncharacteristically lost.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
“You want me to find you a leather jacket in Paris in July? Don’t you want to go sightseeing or eating or whatever it is that lunatic mortals like yourself do in Paris?”
Raya sat down on the edge of the bed and regarded Phoenix. “Oh, Ph
oenix. How will you ever learn that you should never, ever, try to bluff me?” She tilted her head and smiled. “Unless you want to suffer the immediate consequences. Now let’s go shopping.”
She hopped up and swept out of the room without looking back to see if he would follow.
He followed—probably just to make sure she wouldn’t have the last word. “Obviously you know where you’re going.”
“Obviously.” For once, she actually did know where she was going, since she’d passed their destination on her morning walk to the train station.
They emerged from the hotel lobby into the late summer twilight. A short walk down the sidewalk, past the cafe, and across the Rue de Babylone brought them to the doors of the famous Parisian department store, Le Bon Marché.
“Voilà!” said Raya.
“Oh, very clever,” said Phoenix. He pulled open the door and allowed her to precede him.
Raya breezed past. “Such a gentleman. Or should I say gentledemon?”
“Don’t push it.”
Raya laughed and ran ahead to a massive display of grapes piled in wicker baskets. “Look at these!” She reached out with both hands.
Phoenix darted after her and grabbed her hands. “You’re not supposed to touch them unless you plan to buy them.”
“So it’s forbidden fruit?” His hands felt very warm wrapped around hers. She wriggled away and pretended not to be affected. “I didn’t want to buy it. I just wanted to see your reaction. Where do they hide the jackets, anyway?”
“In July? Probably in the basement. Only you would want something so out of season.”
Raya walked further into the store. “Oh, I don’t know. Nathan Lorde was wearing a tweed jacket today.”
“Nathan who? Never mind. He’s probably some boring witch. Forget I asked.”
“Nathan is the author of my very favorite witchcraft book and I met him at a cafe this morning—”
“How fascinating,” Phoenix said in a tone that indicated the exact opposite.
“—and he made this Eiffel Tower made of light and I pulled it over so he would notice me and then he talked about the theory of magic—”
