“Please. I bought Cacaolat.”
Luisa makes a face at my offering of two bottles of chocolate milk. These nostalgic glass bottles were my favorite drink as a Spanish kid. I got excited this morning when I saw them in the nearby deli, since I haven’t been able to find this chocolatey goodness anywhere in New York.
“That’s the best you can do?” she says, eyebrows arched.
I awkwardly place one bottle under my arm and from my purse produce a bag of xuixas — Catalan’s deep-fried, custard filled, sugar-dusted answer to croissants.
“That’s more like it,” she says, opening the door wider.
You’ve got to love Spain and their idea of upgrading a pastry to a full-blown dessert.
“I’m sorry…” I start. But she raises a hand and stops me, opening up the paper bag, and getting sugar on her paint-stained fingers.
“Salut,” she says, smashing the bottle top off on the side of a table and taking a swig. It gives her a milky brown mustache, and it takes every ounce of my strength not to wipe it off. “About last night…”
Luisa tips her head to one side. She’s not going to make this easy for me.
I wait for her to finish eating and clear my throat. “Yesterday. I liked it.”
“Which part? The kissing?” she replies. “Or the part where you insulted me?”
I step closer, taking the bottle of chocolate milk from her and placing it on the table beside her. “Kissing.”
She doesn’t move closer. “Want a tour of the art studio?”
“Yes,” I say quickly, clearing my throat again.
I haven’t looked anywhere but at her since entering the room. I glance around, and yeah, it’s pretty impressive. The walls are lined with bright paintings and taped-up sketches, with large unfinished canvases propped up against the wall. The room is thick with the smell of oil paint and turpentine, jars of water and brushes dotting every surface.
“Did you paint all of these?” I ask, pointing at the three easels in one corner and another, which Luisa is standing beside.
She shakes her head. “I’m not the only Musemage at the MA. We share the space.”
I walk over to a framed painting of a black cat stretched out in a pool of sunlight. I stroke the canvas, and gasp as I feel the soft fur of the animal beneath my fingertips. It wakes, and in one sudden motion, scratches me with a hiss. I pull back, sucking on my bloody hand.
“What the fuck!”
Luisa laughs. “Not one of mine, but Kitty is very protective of the muses.”
“God, there’s a lot of talent here.” I study each creation, one by one. “I forgot to say, I loved the art you did for the ball exhibition.”
She rubs the back of her neck and looks down at the paint-speckled floor. “Rafi told me how it changed for you. Something about a champagne bottle?”
I shove her lightly. “Oh, shut up.”
She steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “I’m sorry if yesterday freaked you out. Maybe it was presumptuous of me to kiss you.”
“No. I was wrong for saying what I said.”
“There is a way you could make it up to me.”
“Yeah?”
She gestures at the podium. “Model for me.”
I throw my hair over my shoulder. “Are you going to paint me like one of your Catalan girls?”
“Yes.” She runs her finger along the side of my silky shirt. “But you can keep your clothes on.”
I mask my disappointment. Not that I was eager to strip, but I was eager to keep the flirting going. Her face has gone all business now.
“I’m working on a new sensory portrait,” she explains. “I need a volunteer because I’ve tried using a mirror and painting my own reflection, but mirrors and magic are a dangerous combination.”
I take off my jacket. “What do I have to do?”
She signals to a chair. “Just sit there and let me paint a picture of your pretty face.”
I do as I’m told.
“What’s magical about that?”
She smirks, her gaze locked onto mine. I’m not looking away this time, I’m going to sit here until she blinks first. It takes a while, and by the time she looks back at her canvas, her lips are curling in a knowing smile. If she can feel what I’m feeling right now, then this is only going to end one way.
“The magic, with permission of course, is that on your face you will feel the parts I’m painting on the canvas. It’s meant to be very relaxing, and at the end of it, you get a portrait of yourself.”
I shrug. I can do that. With a nod of consent from me, she starts to mix the oil paints on her wooden palette. At first, I don’t feel a thing, I’m just mesmerized by how absorbed she is in her work. Her pixie cut shines dark mahogany in the light of the window, the section of hair that’s longer than the rest keeps falling in her eyes. Every time she pushes it back, my chest contracts. She dips her brush in blue and dabs at the top of the canvas. I feel a tickle on my forehead.
“Oh,” I say quietly, as her soft brush traces over one brow, then the other.
“How’s that?”
I nod, smiling. The invisible brush against my skin runs along my temple, and then the curve of my cheek. My eyes lock on Luisa’s as she glides its tip lightly over my lips.
“How does it feel?”
“Gentle,” I say, “Like the caress of a wing.”
She peeks over the canvas. “Too gentle?
“Maybe.”
She runs the brush across my mouth again, this time a little harder. My lips pucker to meet its feathery touch. I find myself imagining the brush is her finger, the paint her lips. She dips the brush lightly into my mouth, and I gaze up at her, lips closing around its invisible tip as she pulls the brush back out slowly.
A blush spreads across her freckled cheeks, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she resumes painting.
From my mouth, she traces longer, softer caresses down the side of my chin, then down my neck, stopping short of my clavicle. I feel a dull ache build between my thighs. I bite my lip. The seam of my jeans is a hard and welcome pressure. I adjust my position on the stool, squeezing my legs together tighter.
Luisa fills in the unpainted gaps on my face with a silky flicker across my eyelids, along my hairline, and my jaw. I imagine each stroke being made by her tongue. I blink the thought away.
Chill, Saskia. She’s only painting a portrait of you.
Slowly, she applies a few more wide strokes across my face, then follows the bridge of my nose, and stops. I didn’t realize how fast I was breathing.
“I’ve finished,” she says, so quietly I can hardly hear her.
I don’t want her to be finished. I want her to paint every inch of me. My jeans are still cutting into my core, and I push down against them, an idea forming in my mind.
“Is there any room left on the canvas?”
“Plenty.”
I tug at the top button of my shirt, my gaze trained on hers. “Then why stop?”
Her teeth catch on her bottom lip as I unbutton my top slowly, peel it off and toss it on the floor. “Keep going. Paint all of me.”
She may have a straight poker face, but I catch her eyes skimming my chest. My nipples are pert behind the lace of my bra — I wonder if she can tell. Her gaze drifts lower, and they harden in response. Now she’s noticed.
“Alright, then where would you like me to stop?”
“You can stop below the knee. Like one of those Greek statues.”
Luisa inhales deeply, then resumes painting. “Whatever my muse commands.”
A tingle starts over my exposed left arm. Her movements are slow, torturous even, as she paints from my shoulder to the tip of my middle finger. She fills in my collar bone with light teasing strokes, the feel of the brush at my throat making me swallow.
It’s hard to keep still, but the seam of my jeans has become an anchor, holding me tethered to my seat. It presses deliciously hard against my core each time I arch my back to meet
her strokes.
Luisa changes brush size, covering my stomach with broad upward strokes of invisible paint. I lean back, wanting her to travel higher, but it’s clear she’s leaving my breasts for last. I play with the strap of my bra, running my own finger over the lace edging. I’m willing her to look at me, to leave the easel, but she remains focused. The touch of my own hand on my skin along with hers is dizzying.
Carefully, she paints the bottom curve of my ribcage, making my breaths tug and pull. I don’t take my eyes off her as she changes brush size again, opting for a smaller, softer tip, and I feel her touch follow the contours of my breasts. Languid, at first, then small urgent strokes as she glides over each nipple. I take a sharp intake of breath, and that’s when she finally looks up, her eyes locking on mine.
We stare at one another, unblinking, as her caress intensifies. And even though she’s standing two meters away on the other side of the easel, she may as well be lying beneath me.
Every movement she makes is hypnotic. The twist of her delicate wrist, the way her eyes flicker to mine, and back to the canvas again and again, while each brushstroke makes every part of me hum. I arch my back and tip my head back as she continues to paint me, circling motions around my peaked breasts, then sweeping down to my waist, past my navel, and lower until…
She arches a brow, and I bite back a smile, tipping up my chin as if to dare her to continue.
And she does.
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I feel the tip of her brush move up my parted thighs before she starts to stroke me. I tilt forward, barely on my stool now, as the brush makes tiny, rhythmic movements, up and down along the seam of my jeans and over my aching core. I swallow, silently urging her to keep going. Not to stop.
“Done.”
Already?!
My vision comes into focus, and I take my time rising. I stretch with a groan, all too aware of her eyes on my bra strap that’s slipped down my shoulder. I hook it back over, adjusting the waistband of my jeans.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, peering over her shoulder at the multi-colored abstract rendering of me.
As I speak, my breath caresses the back of her neck, making tiny goosebumps appear on her skin. I smile. This portrait may have been my way of making it up to her, but Luisa has had more than enough power for today.
My turn.
I close the space between us, position myself flush against her, my chest brushing against her shoulder blades. She doesn’t say a word, but I can hear her breaths quicken.
“You like it?” she asks.
“Love it.”
I stroke my lips against the back of her neck, kissing the delicious dip beneath her hair, and working my way up until I’m lightly biting her earlobe. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t move. My hands have drifted to her hips, tracing the jut of her hip bones, stroking their contours. She moans, making me press the full length of my body against hers.
I pick up her hand and place it on the wet painting of me.
“What happens if you touch the canvas,” I whisper, moving her palm across the paint and onto the image of my right breast. I don’t need to hear the answer to my question because I can feel it, the sensation of her paint-stained thumb running across the canvas and transferring to my own pert nipple.
I groan into her neck, running my teeth lightly along her shoulder.
“More.”
I place her other hand on the canvas too. Lower this time, closing my eyes as I feel her touch between my legs. I slide my own hand beneath her t-shirt and cup her breast, mimicking the movements she’s making on her painting. She strokes my portrait, and I stroke her stomach, the line of her hip bone, lingering at the lace of her underwear, before finally dipping fully into her pants. She tilts her head to the side, savoring my kisses on her neck, my fingers warm and damp between her legs as her own grow slick with paint.
She moves her hand over the painting faster now, blurring the oil paint with her fingers, each stroke sending me into spasms of pleasure. The harder she presses against the artwork, the faster my breaths and my touch on her.
“No paris,” she breathes, telling me not to stop in Catalan.
I can't take it anymore.
I spin Luisa around and grab the back of her head. Our lips collide, her paint-stained hands in my hair. She moans into my mouth, our tongues searching one another, my bruised lips desperate to taste every part of her.
As if I could ever stop.
I’m tugging at the waistband of her jeans when the sound of the door slamming against the wall makes us both look up with a start.
“Que cony fas?!” Luisa cries as Rafi barges into the studio.
We jump apart. His eyes widen, staring from Luisa to me and back again.
“Dios mio,” he cries. “Fuck. Shit. Sorry to interrupt your painting.” He takes in the colorful handprints covering our bras and the front of our jeans. A smile twitches at his lips. “Or should I say finger painting?”
“What do you want, torracollons?” Luisa shouts.
Rafi rubs his face, sighs, and looks up. He’s no longer smiling.
“They found a body,” he says. “Maribel is dead.”
Chapter Twenty
“Found washed ashore, as if Poseidon spat her out overnight…Drowned in the sea, not a mark on her… I didn’t even know she was depressed…She did like a drink.”
I wander around Maribel’s home where her wake is taking place, trailed by the hum of faceless gossip. A few pings are scattered among the statements. People like to embellish, yet when it comes to the dead many outright lie. The nasty tittering is incessant, so I make my way to the balcony.
My father was right, Maribel was in the sea. The Winter Prince delivered on his promise and washed her body ashore yesterday morning. I’ve not had contact with him since.
From what I’m hearing, most Mages believe Maribel’s death was from suicide. I may have located her, but I’m even further away from getting my story. If she was killed, then who did it? And if she killed herself, then why?
Dead MA First, Found in the Sea is a strong enough headline to bring back to The Chronicle, but something doesn’t feel right. My spidey sense is tingling — and not just because we are about to bury the world’s most powerful Witch in what looks like a gingerbread house made from nightmare dough.
Maribel’s home is one of four in Parque Güell. Humans are aware of three houses here, most of which are open to the public as part of the famed Catalan designer Gaudí’s park. But the fourth, a grander and more intricate house, is further up on the hill and protected from the public by a concealment charm.
The exterior is purple mosaic, rendered in Gaudí’s favorite style of biomimicry, the lilac and amethyst tiles layered to represent a Siren’s tail.
At least he wasn’t a bigot, like the rest of them, I think, stepping out onto the large balcony.
With a start, I remember my mother will soon be moving in here as the new First. She will be living in this grand mauve MA equivalent to the White House. This fact does little to relax me, although the warm air eases my breathing — the suffocating stench of death and gossip slowly evaporating from my skin.
“You’d think humans would believe in Witches once they visit a park like this one,” Luisa says, waving her hand over the magical landscape as she sidles up to me.
“You’d think.”
“You OK, Saskia?” She’s noticed my heavy breathing. “May I?”
I nod and she places her hand on my shoulder, the tension fading immediately. I’ve come to enjoy Luisa’s soothing touch, which could easily rival any Xanax.
“Thanks.”
I want to pull her closer, get lost in her embrace, but instead I step away a little. My mother is somewhere in this house, and even though she wouldn’t give a shit if I was with a man or a woman, I don’t want her near Luisa. Solina having an insight into my happiness is giving her too much power over me. It’s about as dangerous as telling someone on the Blood Web where
you live. What I have with Luisa is one thing I’m not letting my mother ruin before it even starts.
I squeeze Luisa’s fingers gently. “How are you?”
She gives me a forced smile. “It’s a shock to us all. I mean, we suspected Maribel was dead, but suspicion and a corpse are two different things. What about you?” she adds. “You knew her longer than I did.”
Maribel hasn’t been on my radar for years. I don’t feel much about her death. I shrug.
“But it means your mother will be the new First. That must be strange for you.”
“I’m getting used to ‘strange’. Do you know what happens next? As in… after the wake?”
“There will be an Ascension ceremony by the next full moon, and that’s when the new First announces her Second. It’s usually someone high up, or close to the First. Do you know who it will be?”
I’m guessing Salvador, which is probably for the best. Maybe he’ll keep my power-hungry mother in check. I swallow down the acrid bile in my throat at the very thought of my mom having so much control over everyone.
“I don’t care who she chooses,” I say. “As long as she keeps me out of her politics. MA power trip drama is exhausting.”
Luisa smiles and squeezes my hand. “I have to go,” she says, kissing me quickly. “In an MA burial Touchmages are expected to heal the guests. You know, alleviate their grief.”
I hide my distaste and return to the main hall, immediately wishing I hadn’t. Maribel’s corpse has been laid out on a marble altar at the front of the room for all to see. She’s dressed in purple silk and wearing make-up, her cheeks tinted with an unnaturally rosy dew. She looks like she’s sleeping. Fuck, it’s only just occurred to me — her drowned body must have been drained of water and magically restored to its natural form. Humans would never display a drowning victim in an open casket like this.
A quick glance around the room confirms my theory. Rafi, and two other Elementals I’m not familiar with, are holding their palms up to the body and channeling in tandem. Maribel is dry, so I don’t understand what they are doing until I spot a green shoot snake its way over her shoulder. Foliage starts to sprout slowly around Maribel’s body then turns into magical blooms, until she is completely shrouded in bright lilac and white flowers.
Witches of Barcelona: A Dark, Funny & Sexy Urban Paranormal Romance Series (Blood Web Chronicles Book 2) Page 16
