Beatriz beams, and I feel almost bad for her. I’m probably being overly optimistic, but for once I’m going to be an old romantic and believe love can conquer all.
A silence ripples through the crowd of guests, and in one fluid motion all the waiters turn in unison and face the stage. They stand there, stock still, like a line of magpies waiting to be fed.
My mother takes the stage, and a polite patter of applause breaks out. She laps it up, looking each guest in the eye and mouthing ‘thank you’ as if she’s accepting a fucking Oscar.
“Welcome, esteemed guests, and thank you for attending today’s luncheon. As you all know, the award ceremony is a new addition to the spring equinox celebrations and…”
Her voice drones on as I lean over a waiter’s shoulder and take a handful of churros off his plate. I pass them to Beatriz and go back for a mini pot of chocolate, the two of us stifling giggles.
The crowd starts clapping, and I watch as a Witch with gold knitting needles in her hair accepts a small golden cup shaped like a cauldron.
“...and the award of excellence, for her tireless charity work helping underprivileged girls in…”
I have no idea who the second winner is either, and neither do I care, as I’m on my fourth churro and Beatriz is refusing to answer my questions about feathery sex play. She bites her lips together, her cheeks turning red as I tell her about a seagull Shifter our receptionist, Joan, dated in New Jersey. Apparently, he squawked really loudly when he came.
“The last award of the night is a very special one,” my mother continues. My lack of sleep and overindulgence in the food and drink department today is beginning to catch up with me. I have to blink three times to stop the image of my mother on stage getting all swimmy.
“This award goes to my very own daughter, Saskia de la Cruz…”
What the fuck!? My back straightens with a jolt, and I’m suddenly wide-awake.
“...for her generous contribution to the MA treasury, as nominated by our very own treasurer, Salvador Duarte.”
Ping!
Beatriz looks at me, eyes wide, as I stare at her father. But the fleeting expression of confusion on Salvador’s face is quickly masked by one of genuine delight.
I want to run, I want to be sick, but I can’t do either as my mother is beckoning me over to the stage.
“Come and pick up your prize, darling,” she says, as everyone turns to look at me, clapping politely. “You have just been awarded an honorary lifetime membership to the MA.”
The room spins and the floor disappears beneath my feet.
Chapter Eighteen
“You can abscond,” Luisa says. “You can always say no.”
Rafi is shaking his head. “This is Spain. The paperwork would take months.”
We’re sitting on the cool sand of the beach, not far from where we ate dinner a few nights ago. I’ve recounted yesterday’s awards nightmare to them, but even a night of restless sleep hasn’t helped me figure out what I can do.
Hearing I was being forced into something against my will, Luisa was instantly sympathetic. Rafi less so.
I get it — he’s proud of his seat at the MA table, so it’s hard for him to understand I don’t want this. Especially when it’s being served up to me on a silver platter, and every other Mage has had to fight for their chance at the top. But I never wanted to be on any rung of the MA ladder.
“I’m trapped.”
Rafi waves his arms about. “There are worse places to be trapped.”
I take in the scenery — sunshine sparkling off the Mediterranean, restaurants and bars behind us, and tourists walking up and down the promenade.
“Anywhere can be a prison if you don’t want to be there,” Luisa spits out.
I’m taken aback by her outburst until I remember what Rafi said about her family, about how little control she had in her own life before joining the MA. I give her a grateful smile, and she smiles back, the dimples in her cheeks making my stomach twist.
OK, so maybe Rafi’s right. Maybe I could tough it out here for a bit. I’m sure Jackson would understand if I explained that my mother needs to officially become the First in order to get access to those who will be able to track down my sister. Maybe I can be an even better journalist if I’m heavily entrenched in the MA.
I still feel sick at the thought.
A group of Para locals has approached Rafi, and he’s giving them his sales spiel, telling them his weed is stronger and cheaper than that of any Vamp.
Whatever I do, I can’t leave Barcelona without getting any answers.
“Rafi, remember what my dad said about Maribel and water? Do you…”
“I told you,” he says, counting bills. “I can’t search the entire Mediterranean Sea for a body.”
“Not even a few miles?”
“Leave him,” Luisa says with a grin. “Rafi wouldn’t be able to find a frog in a puddle.”
The buyers walk away as Rafi forms wave shapes out of the sand. Luisa runs off, squealing with laughter, but I struggle to smile. My dad’s cryptic message was the closest I have got to figuring out what happened to Maribel. If she’s dead, my mom can get her precious position as First, and I will have a greater possibility of finding my sister. If she’s alive, I have my story and I can finally get out of here.
“I have to talk to the Winter Prince,” I say to Luisa. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Yeah, I have a hunch,” she says, nodding her head at the port in the distance.
It’s easy to see what she’s pointing at because out of all the beautiful gleaming white sailing boats and yachts, only one is three floors high and sporting a giant silver flag.
“They’re staying on a boat?”
“More of a yacht, but yeah. The Fae delegation always stays near the water.” She makes a face. “But the Fae are dangerous, Saskia. What do you need the prince for?”
I look at Rafi, but he’s busy with a new client.
“Because either he knows where the body is,” I say. Which is the more dangerous option. “Or he can help us find it.”
We round the corner onto the narrow pier and gasp in unison at the Winter Prince’s impressive yacht. It looked grand from the beach, but up close it’s bigger than most buildings.
“Holy shit,” Luisa whistles, and I nod in agreement.
Not because the yacht is big enough to house every single Kardashian and their distant relatives, but because the water surrounding the pearlescent monster is entirely frozen.
And likely glamored so that humans wouldn’t notice.
I look up at the sound of the giant flag flapping above us. The sun glints off the silver, a large white snowflake in the center. Just like the emblems decorating the military uniforms of the two guards barring our entry.
“State your purpose,” one of them barks, his white-blond hair blowing in the sea breeze.
“We were sent by the MA to speak with the prince,” Luisa lies without skipping a beat.
Ping.
It’s enough for the guard who leads the way in. I’ve seen photos of yacht interiors in People and Entertainment Weekly articles, so I knew exactly what to expect. Except I was wrong. This is no human ship.
The inside is as spotlessly white as the outside. The furnishings look like freshly fallen snow, and even the glass tabletops and white mantels appear to be frosted with a thin film of ice. Which, considering I’m here to see the head of the Winter Court, is not surprising.
The many guards eye us warily as one of them disappears down a flight of stairs at the back of the room. Cabin. Whatever. It doesn’t feel like we’re standing in a yacht — it feels like an ice palace.
“Stay alert,” Luisa whispers in Catalan, knowing that the Fae are unlikely to understand us.
The guards dotted around the room stand unflinchingly to attention. Their navy-blue uniforms are all identical and pristine, each of them with icy lapels and silver snowflake buttons. They look like characters from Nutcrac
ker on Ice but a lot less fun. In fact, judging by the angles of their bodies, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had torsos carved from ice too.
The prince joins us and sits regally on the white couch in the center of the room, knees spread apart straining against the white of his army breeches. I fight the urge to make a man-spreading joke. Fae-spreading. Nailed it.
The regent of the Winter Court smiles at us in a friendly way, and I breathe out in relief. At least we are starting out on an amicable note.
“Welcome, ladies,” he says, gesturing to the couch opposite him. His voice is melodic, his Dutch accent subtle.
“Thank you, Prince,” I say, feeling weird. I’ve never addressed royalty before. Am I supposed to say ‘Your Highness’?
By some silent command staff appear out of nowhere and start setting the frost-edged table with all the fixings needed for an… ice cream sundae bar? Bowls of various ice cream, nuts, fruit, cream, and sauces are laid before us. There’s even a plate of Dutch stroopwafels.
Okaaaay.
“Ice cream sundaes?” I reach for a frosty bowl, eager to load it with chocolate, raspberries and sprinkles of every kind. I haven’t had breakfast yet, but hey… this is basically a frosty yogurt granola bowl. Kind of.
Luisa pulls my hand back.
Oh, right, that’s what she meant by ‘stay alert.’
You’re not supposed to accept food from the Fair Folk. There was even a children’s nursery rhyme about it growing up.
Good job I’m not here alone — being with Luisa always feels a million times safer. The prince furrows his brow, clearly annoyed we’re not accepting his hospitality, but as soon as I feel the tips of Luisa’s fingers brush mine, I know I won’t be tempted by any bad decisions today. Well, not regarding the Fae at least.
She shivers beside me, and I feel it too— the drop in temperature. It was the same at the ball when the prince pressed against me while we danced. He’s like one giant walking AC system.
“How nice of you to visit me,” he says. “And to bring such a lovely companion.”
“Thank you for meeting with us, Your Highness.” Luisa bows her head slightly, clearly more educated in ways of dealing with the High Fae than I am.
“My pleasure,” he counters. “To meet with such powerful Witches.”
I feel myself get hot beneath the intensity of his icy stare, but Luisa seems immune to his compliments. She looks at me, and I instantly feel calmer. The prince is looking intently at her, then at me, finally, realization flickers across his perfect feature.
“Delightful indeed,” he says with a slight smirk.
Is he insinuating there’s something between us? My cheeks glow warmer. What the fuck is this? One is making me feel hot, the other cold. I shiver and the prince waves his hand. Instantly two servants materialize with white cashmere blankets, handing one to me and the other to Luisa.
“How can I be of assistance?” the prince asks, taking a swig of his icy drink.
I clear my throat, pulling the cashmere tighter over my exposed shoulders.
“Someone told us you may be able to help us look for Maribel. We believe she’s dead.”
The prince raises one eyebrow, but the rest of his face remains unsettlingly still. “Dead? Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Luisa says, saving me the trouble of stumbling over my own words.
“Yet I’m curious,” he drawls.
“A source.”
“Who?”
He won’t give up, yet I really don’t need a Fae prince to know we got a tip-off at a séance with my dead dad.
“Can’t you just… let it go?” I say.
Luisa snort-laughs, earning her a curious look from the prince. I don’t think he’s familiar with Disney’s back catalog. At least Rafi would have appreciated my joke.
“And what is it you expect from me?”
“Well…” I shift in my seat. All of a sudden, the question I came here to ask seems ridiculous. “Can you, like, feel things on the seafloor?”
“Depends. Maybe. The floor of most oceans is very cold. I can channel low temperatures, tune into it and feel disturbances, yes. But my magic won’t reach far. Only neighboring waters.”
“Like magical radar?” asks Luisa, giving me a look that says, ‘I told you so.’
“Your kind has a knack for simplifying the most complex and ancient of magics. But yes… like magical radar.”
“Would your magic pick up a disturbance in the water, like, say, a body?” I ask.
“You think Maribel’s dead body is in the sea?”
Luisa nods fast then stops suddenly, as if she knows what’s coming next.
“In exchange for any kind of retrieval, I would require a favor from you first,” says the prince.
He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at Luisa.
She sighs. “Why is nothing ever free with the Fae?”
“The powers of a Touchmage are rare to come by. The MA keeps you all very close,” he explains slowly, his icy finger tracing the lip of a crystal glass of gin.
I feel Luisa stiffen by my side. Perhaps she didn’t expect that the favor would be her magic.
“What do you need from me?” she asks.
“I would like to soothe a particular feeling. I believe you’re able to isolate and mute a sensation, are you not?”
“Here? Right now?”
He nods.
It’s like they’re speaking their own separate language. The language of Touchmage, a language I have always found so terrifying. Hers is the only magic that sends me on a one-way train back to my childhood.
“Whatever I mute for you, Your Highness, it won’t last,” Luisa explains, “Touchmage magic fades, unless I were to perform it repeatedly.”
I cringe, remembering my mother’s treatments.
“I’m aware,” says the prince, eyes filling with a cold sadness. “A moment’s reprieve is better than none.”
“Fine.”
Luisa gets up and stands behind him, then places a delicate finger on either side of the prince’s temples. Frost climbs up her fingernails and coats her fingers as she presses down and whispers.
“Close your eyes, princeling.”
We’re positively giddy with success by the time we leave the Winter Prince’s yacht. I’m clutching a wild berry gelato, Luisa’s apology for not letting me have any of the prince’s ice cream sundae.
“What did he want from you? From your power?” I ask.
“He wanted me to ease the pain of the memories he has of a certain woman. I don’t know who she is.”
“I’m surprised he feels any pain. He’s like a giant icicle.”
Luisa’s hazel eyes hold my gaze for a moment. “Not when it comes to her.”
Oh. A rush of empathy for the Winter Prince trickles over me, thawing the cold from his yacht that I’m still struggling to shake off. Someone hurt him. Someone he would like to forget.
I can relate to that.
“You know, most people keep their true feelings really well hidden,” Luisa continues. “But not everyone is good at lying.”
She’s not wrong, I know that more than most. As I lick my bright red ice cream, I wonder what other things the Winter Prince is hiding, losing myself in a daydream of distant Dutch Fae courts and imagining what the Summer, Spring, and Autumn Courts look like.
I jump as I feel something on my cheek. Luisa is wiping away some errand gelato from my face with her thumb. The rest of her fingers brush against my chin, and I shiver.
I can’t help myself. It’s the way she’s looking at me, her light eyes as soft and round as that of a doe. I lean into her touch and before I know it, I’m edging closer. Luisa’s face is now inches from mine. Having wiped the ice cream away, she slowly puts her thumb in her mouth and licks it off. My stomach twists. What was it she said about being unable to hide your true feelings?
We stare at one another, neither of us breathing, until a small smile makes the dimple on her ch
eek deepen. Dear god, that dimple.
I lean closer, Luisa meeting me halfway, and with a soft sigh, her lips are on mine. Sticky wild berry and caramel lip gloss. Gently she parts my lips with her tongue, moving it over mine and deepening our kiss. Our mouths are the only things touching, yet every part of me feels alive. I close my eyes, and all I see is color and light exploding behind my lids.
She bites gently on my lower lip as I pull away.
“That… that was amazing.”
“Why, thank you,” Luisa laughs. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
I don’t pause to think before the next question slips from my lips.
“Did you use your magic on me?”
Luisa’s expression goes from sweet to furious, and I instantly regret it. Fuck! But it’s too late to take it back.
“How can you ask me that?”
“I meant the kiss was great, that’s all.”
“It was great because you like me, not because I forced you to feel any kind of joy. You can be a real asshole, Saskia. You know that?”
And with that, Luisa storms off, leaving me with a gut full of remorse and my hand covered in melted ice cream.
Chapter Nineteen
My father used to say there was nothing worse than a dull mind with a sharp tongue. That about sums my interaction with Luisa. I didn’t think, and I said something deeply hurtful as a result. And now I have to make up for it.
As I climb the stairs to the pharmacy, I recount Rafi’s words from La Boqueria, ‘Every time Luisa’s sad about something the first place she goes is her studio.’
I silently pray that he’s right.
At the top of the stairs, I roll my shoulders and brace myself. The glass bottles in my hand have gone warm, and I’m so nervous it’s a miracle they haven’t slipped right out of my sweaty grasp. They clink together as I knock. After a while, I can hear music being turned down inside the studio.
The door opens. It’s her.
“Ves a la merda,” she says, telling me to fuck off, and shutting the door in my face.
I stop it with my foot.
Witches of Barcelona: A Dark, Funny & Sexy Urban Paranormal Romance Series (Blood Web Chronicles Book 2) Page 15
