Witches of Barcelona: A Dark, Funny & Sexy Urban Paranormal Romance Series (Blood Web Chronicles Book 2)

by Caedis Knight

  “That Vamp was going to kill us, Saskia.”

  I think back to my childhood with my mother, unable to stop my voice from breaking. “Don’t you think it terrifies people that you can make them feel whatever you want?”

  “I would never do that,” she hisses.

  We keep dancing, and I keep counting my steps. The warmth has fully returned to my body, and I’m acutely aware of her hand on my back as we twirl.

  “Yes, I’m a Touchmage, and I can make you feel a world of pain,” she says.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  She shrugs. “It’s the truth. I’m powerful too. I can flood your body with sadness, I can summon up water to your tear ducts and make you cry harder than you’ve ever cried in your life.”

  I shudder in her arms.

  “Or…” She spins me and leans forward as if she’s about to tell me a secret. “I can make you wet in other places.”

  Her dress has shifted again under my fingers, revealing, this time to a greater audience, that I find her about as attractive as I do terrifying.

  “But I would never, ever do that,” she adds, her expression somber. There’s no ping. She’s telling the truth.

  I catch my breath. “Why not?”

  “I’m not a monster, Saskia. I would never do anything without your consent.”

  Again, it’s the truth. I believe her now, and I’m flooded with even more guilt. The music slows and I get ready to take our last twirl.

  “I’m sorry I made assumptions.”

  “Good. Next time don’t judge a book by its cover,” she says, making me think of Angel’s words. “Especially if it’s a book you would like to see without its dust jacket.”

  She gives a pointed look down at her dress which has dipped even further. The embarrassment blossoming inside me makes the dress quickly form back into place.

  She smiles knowingly, and saunters off, leaving me alone on the dance floor.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’ve had two more flutes of champagne by the time Salvador approaches me. His hair is elegantly swept back in a velvet ribbon, his suit a sparkling black that shimmers like oil. He looks like a Spanish matador ready for the kill.

  Luisa melts into the crowd, but I can still feel her gaze on me.

  “Saskia,” he exclaims. “You look radiant.”

  I wait for the lie that doesn’t come. Salvador has always been kind — I don’t know what he’s doing with my mother. He could do so much better, unless his kink is being belittled over tapas.

  He takes my hand, and effortlessly spins me around the ballroom. I must admit, he can dance too.

  “You look great as well,” I reply.

  The oil in his suit shimmers and pulsates, reminding me of the nightmare painting I saw earlier.

  “I’ve forgotten what your powers are,” I say, nodding at his lapel. “Although I’m sure you have many.”

  Something crosses his features, something like surprise.

  “My talents are similar to those of Beatriz but nowhere near as strong.”

  He’s a Dreamchaser, of course. Vague memories of him helping a young Mikayla with her magic surface in my mind.

  “It’s been a long time since you’ve visited home,” he says.

  I want to argue with him. This isn’t home. I haven’t had anything that feels remotely like home for years. My moldy apartment in New York is more of a halfway house — a transition between losing Mikayla and finding her. I can’t imagine truly settling anywhere until I find out what happened to her.

  “It doesn’t feel like home without my sister here.”

  Salvador smiles. “Mikayla would be happy to see you in this room, among your own kind.”

  He might be a nice guy, but he’s still into the MA eugenics bullshit.

  “She would be shocked, more like.”

  His brows furrow. “Why did you come? You were never fond of Maribel.”

  So my mother hasn’t told him she summoned me? I contemplate telling him the truth. It floats up to my tongue along with the taste of champagne, but I decide against it.

  “It felt like the right time. It’s been two years since I saw Mom.”

  “She missed you,” he says. Again, I wait for the ping, but it doesn’t come. Clearly, she’s able to deceive her boyfriend.

  “Are we talking about the same Solina?”

  He laughs heartily as if I’ve made a wholesome joke.

  “I can’t believe my own mother is in line to become head of the MA,” I say quietly.

  Salvador nods, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the corner. “She deserves it.”

  “What does that make you, then? First lady?”

  He doesn’t balk at my joke but instead smiles, although terser this time.

  “You mean because we’re lovers?”

  Ew! Vom. The champagne in my belly threatens to make a reappearance.

  “Yeah, sure. That.”

  “I will remain MA treasurer.” Of course, he’s had that position since I was a kid. It’s as if with Mikayla’s disappearance, all the MA Snapple facts got wiped clean. Like my brain only has space for grief and nothing else.

  “My mother shouldn’t be First,” I say bluntly. “She shouldn’t be given that much power.”

  “Careful, Saskia.” His tone is still kind but rigid now. “Such words could be taken as a challenge in these circles.”

  “Well, it’s the truth,” I say petulantly. “You know as well as I do, she always puts magic before the Mage. Before anyone around her.”

  Salvador falls silent, and I stare over his shoulder. Beatriz, his daughter, is hovering behind the buffet table but isn’t eating. She’s craning her neck, watching which way her father is looking. He spins me around, and as soon as he turns his back, she briskly walks away, as if she’s been waiting for him to be distracted all evening.

  Interesting.

  “Sometimes, the truth is just as dangerous as the lie,” Salvador says.

  I blink. What?

  My head is spinning, the combination of champagne and twirling taking its toll. His words have not properly registered as I watch Beatriz dart past one arch, then another, throwing furtive glances around her. With one last panicked look, she disappears through a doorway at the back of the ballroom.

  “Thank you,” I say to Salvador the second the music stills. “Please, excuse me.”

  I pick up my train, and push through the other couples on the dancefloor, heading in the direction Beatriz went. I may not have been back at the MA for a while, but even I recognize the sight of a Bruixa up to no good.

  Chapter Twelve

  The straps of my infernal high heels have already caused welts on my skin, and it hurts to walk. Clearly, magical shoes that look nice and are comfortable is too much to ask for.

  I followed Beatriz through the same doorway a few minutes back, but I seem to have lost her somewhere in the staff area of the grand hall.

  Where the fuck is she?

  Pushing open door after door along the wide corridor, I’m met with nothing but empty rooms. Most of them are offices full of dark wooden bookshelves and tired meeting rooms where I imagine art curators meet to discuss the latest exhibit. Or whatever gallery staff do.

  I open another door and duck as a broom falls at me, landing with a clunk at my feet.

  “Thank you, but I already ordered an Uber,” I say, and snort-laugh at my own joke.

  I shake my head. I’ve not drunk enough champagne yet to be quipping with cleaning equipment!

  I keep going, searching each room one by one. Beatriz may be a powerful Witch, but even she can’t disappear into thin air! There are no stairs or elevators on this side of the building, so she has to be on this floor somewhere. I hear the clatter of the kitchens I passed earlier, and a waiter hurries towards me, holding a tray of wine destined for the ball. Why is Beatriz hanging around back here?

  I turn a full one-eighty, when something tickles my toes through my torturous
shoes. A black feather.

  With the feather in my hand, I look up to the ceiling as if a nest of crows has somehow found a home in the alcove. Impossible. There are no windows in the corridor.

  Someone is giggling. I’m certain I’ve checked every single door on this landing, yet clearly someone is here. I follow the tinkling sound of a young woman’s laugh. Retracing my steps, I pass one room, then another, until I turn a corner and, according to the sign on the door, find myself outside a research library. There are people inside, murmuring. As quietly as I can, I push open the door and walk in, squinting in the half-light at the rows of books.

  The giggling I heard turns to heavy breathing. A flurry of movement catches my eye, and I peer behind a bookshelf, swallowing the gasp forming in my throat.

  A man has Beatriz up against the wall. Her bare legs are wrapped around his waist, tanned against his white shirt, and his black pants are by his ankles as he thrusts against her. Her eyes are closed, fingers clasping the back of his damp head as she moans into his neck.

  His naked ass is a stark contrast against his waiting apron, but that’s not what has me rooted to the spot. His right hand is cupped to her behind, pulling her into him, but the other arm isn’t an arm at all. His giant wing curls around the other side of her, enveloping her in a shimmering blanket of onyx feathers. Beatriz nuzzles his neck and moans again.

  What in the feathery fuck is this?!

  I step back behind the bookshelf. Dogging isn’t my thing, or maybe birding in this case, but I need to know who she’s with. It was obvious Beatriz was seeing some guy, but this? My mother would throw her out of the MA in a split second if she knew she was having a relationship with a Shifter. Let alone in the same building as the fucking MA ball!

  Beatriz’s tanned legs pretzel tighter around the guy’s behind, the Shifter’s thrusts growing stronger, harder, matching the rhythm of their pleasure-fueled groans.

  “Corre, mi brujita,” he murmurs, telling his ‘little Witch’ to come.

  It’s enough to tip Beatriz over the edge. She throws her head back in answer and lets out a low moan. His pace quickens in response, making her cry out even louder.

  OK, this is my cue. It’s one thing to watch people fuck, entirely another to stay until after they’ve come. I’m not completely uncouth.

  As I edge away, my heel accidentally scrapes the polished floor and lets out a high squeak. Shit!

  Beatriz’s eyes snap open and lock on mine, terror flooding through them.

  I look away as the couple breaks apart, and the guy struggles to pull up his pants with only one human hand. He’s younger than I thought, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. His dark floppy hair is in his face, partially covering his large chocolate eyes that are now looking between us both in fear and confusion.

  “Saskia! We were just...” Beatriz begins, then thinks better of it.

  I turn to leave. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “Wait!”

  I pause at the door as Beatriz straightens her dress before giving the waiter a dismissive glance.

  “Get back to work!” she snaps.

  Hurt flickers across his handsome face as the feathers on his arms retract into his skin, and his white shirt sleeve reappears.

  He dips into a sardonic curtsy, pain still clear on his chiseled features. “Si, señorita,” he says through gritted teeth. “Pero esta noche soñaré contigo, como siempre.”

  But tonight, I will dream of you as always. Wow.

  Then, without a backward glance, he walks out of the room, tightening his apron. Beatriz and I are left alone, a flurry of black feathers swirling at our feet.

  She clears her throat. “He’s just some waiter I was talking to earlier. I’m drunk, it was nothing but a quick fuck. I barely know him.”

  I bunch up my face as the four pings hit me like notes on a xylophone.

  “I just needed to blow off some steam. It meant nothing,” she continues.

  Ping. Ping.

  I stay silent and wait. Realization dawns on her glowing face as she slowly remembers I’m a Verity Witch and her lies are pointless.

  “You won’t tell, will you?” I never imagined Beatriz could look this scared.

  “That he showed you his Alfred Hitchcock?”

  I’m trying to diffuse the situation with humor, but Beatriz’s face is twisted in confusion.

  “Oh,” she says finally. “He directed The Birds. I get it.”

  “And he has ‘cock’ in his name, so it was a double joke. Come to think of it, his entire name is very phallic...” I’m rambling, but Beatriz interrupts me.

  “Please don’t tell anyone. You know mating with a Shifter is the ultimate mark of shame in the MA. I could lose everything.”

  “Hey,” I rub the top of her arm. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” I think back to the young guy’s face, his adoring gaze, and how quickly it crumbled to hurt as soon as she dismissed him. “But maybe try not to be so mean to him in the future.”

  Her face drops, and she blinks back tears.

  “I owe you one,” she says reluctantly. Beatriz doesn’t seem the type to owe people favors. “How about a dream?”

  “A dream? Why?”

  She shrugs. “I can literally make your dreams come true. Well, for one night. Think of me like your own private box office.”

  OK, this could be interesting. “Anything?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “I would like to dream of Idris Elba,'' I begin. I look around at the dusty shelves of old textbooks. “And he’s helping me organize my glamorous book launch, in London, which happens to be at Timothée Chalamet’s house. I’m a huge bestseller and at the end of the launch Elba and I do it on a massive pile of books. My books.”

  “In front of Chalamet?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  I grin, and she rolls her eyes at me as she heads for the door. “Consider it done.”

  She’s nearly out of the door when something like regret pools in my stomach.

  “Actually,” I call out after her.

  She whips around, her smoky ballgown gathering around her like clouds of coal dust.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  She crosses her dainty arms. “What? Chalamet no longer watches? Want one at each end?”

  “No... I...” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “I’d like to dream of Mikayla. My sister.”

  Her exasperated expression softens. “OK. What do you want to happen?”

  “Not much. I just want to hold her hand on the beach, like we did as kids. I need to talk to her.”

  It’s Beatriz’s turn to rub my arm, giving it a friendly squeeze.

  “I can do that. And thank you, again, for not ratting on me and Xavi.” She says his name softly, like it’s a secret.

  “Wait…” I’m so stupid. “So, all that stuff on the roof, about writing to your mom. That was all bullshit to cover up for Xavi?”

  Beatriz’s eyes swim with tears again. “I can’t lie to you, remember?”

  “Fine, but there are still ways to evade and embellish.” Ways to lie without lying. “And I don’t appreciate being fed a sob story about your sick mom to cover up for sex.”

  She gives a weary sigh. “Xavi keeps me company. When I send my mother messages.”

  I can tell it took a lot for her to admit that, proving this Xavi boy is far more than a casual fuck.

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone that either,” I say.

  With something as close to gratitude as Beatriz can manage, she links arms through mine, and we head back to the party.

  “He seems nice. Hopefully, I can meet him properly next time,” I say.

  “If there’s a next time.” She throws a regretful look in the direction of the kitchen. “Hey, how about a nightcap at mine and Luisa’s after the ball?”

  “But Luisa hates me,” I mumble.

  “Why?”

  “I acted like an asshole last night.”

  Beatriz doe
sn’t reply but is still laughing when we step back into the crowded ballroom. She nods over at Luisa, who is leaning against a wall chatting to Rafi. My stomach clenches at the sight of her. Her dress is currently long and gothic, sleeves trailing over her slender fingers. As soon as she looks over at us, her gown tightens, a long slit appearing from the floor to the top of her thigh.

  “I wouldn’t worry about Luisa,” Beatriz whispers into my ear. “Something tells me she’s willing to forgive.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sand between my toes feels like a trickle of memories. It wavers beneath me, unsteady. I’m sinking as I make my way forward, reaching out to a form near the sea.

  To her. Always her.

  “Took you long enough.”

  Mikayla beams up at me. It’s the same thing she said in the last dream, and the one before that. It’s what she used to say to me when we were kids and I was always last to the beach, making her wait. But no matter how long I took, she always sat on the sand patiently until we could take the first dip together.

  I give her the same reply I used to give her back then.

  “Last one to the waves will never get a boyfriend!”

  In a flash, she’s on her feet, racing me, sand ricocheting off my calves. I reach for her, and her fingers grasp mine, then she yanks them away as she sprints onward laughing. Her touch is real. She’s warm and whole and right here beside me. My sister and I are together again.

  Then she’s gone.

  Mild panic has my chest aflutter until I spot her in the water. Waiting for me. Always waiting for me. I rush forward but stop shy of the watermark in the sand.

  The sea. I can’t get near it.

  “Get out,” I scream. “It’s not safe!”

  The sand scratches my knees as I sink onto them, my fists pounding the beach.

  “Mikayla!” I cry out. She’s going to get hurt. She’s going to go missing. “Mikayla, get out of the water.”

  Please.

  My sister looks right through me as if she’s seeing something else. Somewhere else. A different person, or perhaps a different time.

  A light splintering sound pierces the air, a crack slowly traveling across Mikayla’s face.