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

by Caedis Knight

  “So, these erasing spells don’t affect Paras?” I ask, again thinking of the crow Shifter.

  Her eyes narrow on me. “Sometimes, not always. Why?”

  “No reason, just curious.”

  I look around at what must be a dozen or so waiters, all of who will be returning home with altered memories of this shift.

  “That’s insane.”

  “You are in constant mouth-gaping amazement,” my mother says irritably. “I’m surprised flies haven’t started a colony in a hole that big.”

  “I could say the same for your vagina,” I mutter under my breath.

  Fortunately, she doesn’t hear me as she calls out, “Jean-Antoine! I’d like you to meet my youngest daughter, Saskia.”

  My mother’s disappointment clings to my skin like syrup, but I manage a smile for the mustache-clad man shuffling towards us, accompanied by a thin, stern-looking woman with hair tightly tied back.

  My mother grabs my hand and squeezes it. I feel a buzz, realizing she has just tried to render me extra amiable. Does she never take a break?

  “Saskia, this is Jean-Antoine. He’s the head of our French MA Academy in Paris.”

  The man plucks my hand from my side and kisses it.

  “Enchanté,” I say to him and his companion. “I’ve heard the French academy is exceptionally beautiful.”

  I give my mother a pointed look to say, Yes, I’ve heard of it.

  “Oh, Saskia, you really should visit one day,” the woman trills. “The main office is housed in a beautiful building in the Montmartre district, but the central campus in Verneuil, an hour from the city. All those artists and old magic!”

  I give her a shaky smile, doing my best to play the part of Solina’s doting daughter.

  “Did you know your father taught for a semester at our school?” Jean-Antoine says to me. His voice is simpering, so eager to please the great Solina. “He was a real maverick, that one, taught an experimental class on Shifter sociology. He even spent time among bear Shifters in Russia!”

  The three of them laugh as if my father’s behavior was silly and indulgent, like Belle’s dad in Beauty and the Beast.

  “I’ve also spent time with a bear Shifter,” I say, cutting through their hilarity and stilling it.

  My mother shoots me a look, quickly steering me away from the French academics.

  “So wonderful to see you both again,” she says over her shoulder. “But we must go forth and mingle some more.”

  They smile and we smile. but inside I want to scream.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible as she grips the top of my arm. “Did you and Dad have any issues before he died?”

  I think back to the strange messages he was uttering at the séance, how he implied his death was not all it seemed.

  She gives me an irritable look. “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you and Dad love one another?”

  “I wanted to be with your father from the moment I met him.”

  That’s not an answer. I try a different tactic.

  “What does it mean when the wolf meets the bear?”

  She stares at me like I’m something she just found on the bottom of her Louboutins. “Are you drunk, Saskia? I thought I could smell brandy off you earlier!”

  I swallow down any other questions I had in mind and nod to the next group of elaborately dressed people.

  “So, who are they?”

  She smirks, happy to be back in comfortable territory. She leans into me, whispering conspiratorially.

  “Now, this is someone you need to know more about.”

  A woman smiles over at us. She’s dressed entirely in iridescent scales, a dark red coral choker adorning her pale neck like fingers grasping at her throat.

  My mother nods discreetly. “That’s Rachel the Good of House Hill.”

  “Her name’s a mouthful.”

  “She’s from an old English bloodline. A powerful high-society Witch.”

  Old money Witches are the worst of the lot. I bite back my reply. There’s no point in being nasty around Solina; it’s like playing a game of chess you can’t win.

  “Go talk to her,” my mother urges.

  “Why?”

  “Rumor has it she not only influences rich men to buy pieces for her collection, but she kills them and uses their blood in her paintings.”

  I shudder and avert my eyes from her.

  “What does that have to do with Maribel and Mikayla?”

  “Rachel collects Paranormal artifacts. Illegal ones. She’s clued in on all the goings-on of the Paranormal underworld. A veritable trendsetter.”

  With those words, she leaves me to hesitantly make my way over to the scaly woman.

  “Hi,” I say shyly.

  Rachel looks at me, part curiosity, part exasperation.

  “I’m Solina de la Cruz’s daughter. Saskia.”

  She perks up. “I’m Rachel of House Hill,” she says as if I'm supposed to know what that means. I search for a lead in.

  “I love your dress.”

  “Oh, this old thing? It’s vintage Siren’s scales. From the seventies.”

  Siren skin? I do all I can not to screw my face up in disgust or surprise. I think back to LA Siren queen Cressida, and suddenly the idea doesn’t seem so bad. Actually, no, as much as I hate those fishy biatches, who the fuck wears someone's skin?

  “Gorgeous,” I coo adoringly, tilting my head forward as if we’re wrapped in delicious gossip. “I’ve heard you have quite the impressive collection of vintage delights.”

  “Your mother has a big mouth!” she says, flashing me a quick smile. “But yes, I do love my trinkets. So sad the world is changing. Unfortunately, Witches are no longer what they used to be. Not everyone respects old values, like you and your mother.”

  The world is becoming more tolerant, and I don’t like it, she means.

  “I agree, Witches have lost sight of what matters. Tell me, what’s the rarest item in your collection? Out of curiosity?”

  Her cheeks dimple, pleasure flashing across her face. “It’s hard to choose. Probably my ruby-encrusted fang earrings, and…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “There is no certification, but the art dealer was convinced he’d traced them back to Vlad the Impaler himself.”

  Dracula earrings. Hot damn.

  I’ve read all about Para poachers on the Blood Web — the most lawless in our Paranormal community who hunt and poach their own kind, selling the contraband items for a fortune. I avoid those disturbing threads like the plague, yet here I am talking to a buyer.

  At least now I understand why my mother wanted me to speak to her. This woman is literally creating a market for Para disappearances.

  Rage spreads through me, hot and boiling, but I don’t let it show.

  “I also have a white Werewolf skin rug. Fitting, don’t you think?” She giggles. “Witches walking on Werewolves.”

  My journalism instincts tell me I’ve made her comfortable, and this is the perfect moment to question her, but my other instincts are telling me to high kick her in the face. I steady myself.

  “Maribel must be opposed to such collections, though. How do you get away with it? They’re illegal, after all.”

  She stiffens, and stays silent.

  Crap. Too close to the bone.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I quickly add. “I agree it’s crazy that these items are frowned upon. I just meant, as the First, Maribel must have made it clear where she stood on trading. Surely.”

  “Publicly yes, but… and I can tell you this because you are Solina’s daughter…. Maribel loves my collection. I gave her a Fae stone for her fiftieth birthday a few years ago.” She throws a contemptuous side glance at the Fae delegation at the back of the room. “And you know how touchy the Fair Folk are about their relics.”

  She rolls her eyes, as if someone being touchy about their cultural artifacts is ludicrous. I wait, but there are no pings. This horrid wom
an is telling the truth about Maribel — about everything.

  “Do you think Maribel is coming back?” I ask.

  “I hope so,” she replies. “But as we all know, once you disappear in our world, you are unlikely to return.”

  Because of people like you, I want to say.

  “Like my sister, you mean?’

  My question startles her. “Oh no, darling. I’m sure Mikayla will return someday. Don’t you fret.”

  Ping. A filthy dirty lie.

  “Though I heard through the grapevine she left of her own accord,” she adds.

  I nod absently, hoping I was wrong about Mikayla being pregnant when she went missing. “You wouldn’t have happened to hear where she went. You know, along the grapevine?”

  “Goodness, no. If I knew anything, I would have told Solina.”

  This time it’s the truth. She doesn’t know where Mikayla is, or Maribel. My mother sent me on a wild goose chase. A rare poached wild fucking goose.

  “And do you know anything about bears and wolves? Living side by side? Or something about bears meeting wolves.” I’m aware my tone has turned desperate, but I need a clue. Anything.

  “I knew someone who had a bear Shifter pelt,” she says distractedly. She wants to get away from me now, I can tell. She waves to someone across the room, her smile forced. “I must be going, darling. I can see the Italian MA ambassador, and he’s promised me a bewitched gargoyle.”

  I stare at her scaly form as it recedes into the crowd, wishing my anger would scorch a huge hole in the ass of her murder outfit.

  Well, that was fucking pointless. Although, if I ever meet a nasty Vamp looking for Witch skin, I’ll know exactly which fabric source to suggest.

  I’m hate-eating Serrano ham and triangles of dry manchego when Salvador finds me. He looks over at my leaning tower of Pisa of discarded canapé napkins and smiles at me indulgently.

  “You’ve always had a hearty appetite,” he says, but not in the critical way my mother would say it. What is it about Spaniards and their running commentary on what you eat? But he’s trying to be endearing, so I let it slide.

  “I’m stress-eating because my mother is making me mingle with all these peacocks.”

  He tips his head back and laughs. What’s so funny?

  As if summoned by FOMO magic, Solina joins us, trailed by a High Fae woman she’s clearly brought over to introduce me to.

  “Saskia, meet Commander General Galeia. She’s part of the Prince’s convoy.”

  I shake her hand, surreptitiously looking around for the charming prince, but he doesn’t seem to be here.

  “Pleased to meet you, Saskia,” she says.

  “Likewise.”

  “General Galeia has been named ambassador between the Fae courts and the MA.” My mother interjects. What is it with her? Why is she introducing me to everyone left, right, and center?

  “I’m sure I will be seeing a lot of you in the future,” the General says, looking at me.

  “Doubtful.” My eyes glaze as I stare at the crowd. “I’m not staying long.”

  A look I can't decipher passes between Salvador and my mother.

  “Either way,” the General says. “I’m pleased diplomatic relations between Paras are on their way to being restored.”

  The three of them clink glasses, but I’m busy looking at the crowd. Thinking.

  “Is it only the Fae that the MA have treaties with?” They both look at me, confused. “I mean, I don’t expect the MA to get along with Vamps, but what about Shifters or Werewolves?”

  My mother makes an apologetic face at the Fae ambassador.

  “You’ll have to excuse my daughter; she’s somewhat of a liberal radical. Thinks all Paranormals were created equal.”

  The woman laughs, a light tinkle that sounds like a thousand diamonds trickling to the ground.

  “My darling,” Galeia says to me. “Of course we were not all created equally because Witches and Fae were not created— we were born into our powers. The others, as you know, are the result of a dual curse placed upon them during the Enchantment War of 1666.”

  I have no idea what she’s ranting on about.

  “You’re familiar with the war, surely?”

  “Of course,” I lie. “I just thought, if the Fae were invited to the equinox celebration, it wouldn’t hurt to invite a few representatives of different…”

  “Nonsense. We can’t have their type here,” my mother says. She’s smiling a slick-red lipstick smile, but her grip on my arm is sharp. “When the Fae and the Witches fought the Shamans, we ensured their animal magic would become their downfall.”

  I think of Jackson and Xavi.

  “Shifters were once a type of Witch?” I say, catching on.

  My mother sneers. “In a way, but they were never part of our community, and now they live among humans, where they belong.”

  Galeia gives me a sly smile. “Have you never wondered why you young Witches always fall for Shifters? I’ve heard all about your sordid dating apps and fraternizing. I suppose you Witches can’t help yourselves. It’s the magic. You can sense your own kind.”

  My mother’s face stiffens. “They are not our kind, Galeia. Werewolves, Mermaids, and Vampires are cursed human abominations and Shifters, well, they may have once been a type of Mage, but they were stupid enough to cross their own.”

  Why is all this news to me? Did Mikayla know this was why the MA are so anti-Shifter? Does Beatriz know?

  “We take comfort in the fact Witches and Fae are aligned with one another when it comes to purity of magic,” Galeia continues. “And with Maribel out of the picture, I’m sure the MA will be working hard to keep the peace among our two worlds.”

  “I’m sure Maribel will be back soon enough,” my mother says quickly. Far too quickly.

  Ping.

  I note that Salvador hasn’t uttered a word yet. Galeia also stays silent. There was clearly no love lost between the Fae and Maribel.

  “I must return to my prince,” the General says. “And bring him news of the progress we made tonight.”

  “Why isn’t he here?”

  The ambassador’s eyes narrow on me predatorily. “The prince was otherwise occupied.”

  She gives a curt nod before walking away, and my mother raises her glass in parting. A moment later, Salvador excuses himself, drawn by someone in the crowd.

  “So the Fae had a treaty with Maribel? And she didn’t honor it?” I ask my mother.

  “Maribel thought we could do without the help of the Fae; she thought they were beneath us. Part of our agreement is that we report Para crime to one another, especially if it involves our own. A Fairy died in Barcelona a few years ago under mysterious circumstances. Maribel refused to investigate her death, and the Fae have never forgiven her.”

  “And now the treaty is being honored again?”

  “With Maribel gone, I invited a delegation from the most powerful Fae court to smooth things over.”

  “Won’t she be upset with you?”

  My gaze searches my mother’s. I answer my own question as realization dawns.

  “You don’t think she’ll be upset with you because you don’t think she’s ever coming back! Oh my God, that’s why you invited the Fae to negotiate treaties with. You’re garnering support before inevitably becoming the First.”

  My mother doesn't deny it.

  “Mom, I’m going to ask you this one time,” I say, dropping my voice low. “Did you kill Maribel?’

  She turns to me in almost slow motion. “No. I did not kill Maribel. Jesus, Saskia.”

  There’s no ping, and I watch my mother drift off without a goodbye, swallowed up by a sea of Witches eager to network with her. Well, at least there’s that. My mother didn’t murder her best friend. It’s a small comfort, but I’ll take it.

  I stare at the faces in the crowd, and the lilac-eyed staff. Maribel wasn’t very liked, that’s for sure. My gaze catches on the Fae ambassador standing by the buffet,
talking with a senior-looking Witch.

  Maybe my mother didn’t kill the First, but there is someone who has more reason to hate Maribel than most. As soon as I get the chance, I'm going to ask my primary suspect a few questions. Let’s see what the Fae prince of the Winter Court has to say for himself.

  “Come on,” I say, linking arms with Beatriz and grabbing another floating glass of champagne. After hours of supposed networking and truth-picking, I couldn't keep it up any longer, so I sought-out a bored-looking Beatriz and told her she wasn’t allowed to leave my side. There’s no point in me approaching anyone else; no one here knows any more about Maribel or Mikayla than I do.

  “The awards start soon,” Beatriz says. “Then I can finally crawl into bed.”

  “With Xavi?” I whisper, puckering my lips.

  She reddens. “Maybe. I can bring him home now that Luisa knows. I have you to thank for that.”

  Warm words from Beatriz are like rare sunbeams through the clouds, and I bask in her glow. Another preening woman saunters past, and I let out an involuntary sigh.

  “God, these people are awful, aren’t they?”

  Beatriz laughs and moves in closer to me as we huddle in the corner. This room couldn’t look any more like a Witch’s fantasy house. The wobbly walls and funny rounded doors are strange enough, but right now we’re standing next to an old-fashioned stove sunken into the wall in the shape of a mushroom. It’s like a never-ending LSD trip.

  “I’m thinking of introducing Xavi to my dad,” she says, apropos of nothing.

  I turn to her so quickly I pull a muscle in my neck. “Seriously?”

  “Is it a bad idea?”

  I think of the way Salvador looks at his daughter. He’d do anything for her. He’s not my mother and, unlike me, Beatriz isn’t the daughter of the acting First. Maybe if Salvador is open-minded it might rub off on my mom, and she’ll stop being a nasty bigot. Hah! Kidding. She’d sooner grow horns than become open-minded.

  “Do it,” I say. “Even your father will be able to see how much that boy adores you.”