Street Witch: Book One (The Street Witch Series 1)

by S. L. Prater

  “Yes?” She didn’t want to say anything that might accidentally reveal her mother’s guilt or the fact that she was hiding a horrid demon in her boot.

  His eyes lit up. “Fascinating, truly. I knew another who could ride natural magic—he was just an acquaintance, mind you, but the stories he told . . . just fascinating. And you can smell magic too. How useful!” Doyle clapped his hands and rubbed them together energetically. “Well, then, let’s get started. Marnie, would you assist me, please?”

  “That’s not appropriate,” Alec griped, ironically doing a great impression of Marnie’s mother. “You’re a priest of the Church of the Cloth.”

  “Yes, I am! Which is why I’m not the one casting the fire. Go on, Marnie. We’ll be here all day if we have to wait on me to pray up a flame.”

  Alec’s face darkened. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Pish-posh. We’re all eager to be out of here, I’d wager.” Brother Doyle pointed to his belly, which was soft and fleshy. “I’m unaccustomed to missing meals, and lunchtime was an hour ago. With her help, we’ll be done in a snap and the rite will work beautifully.”

  The priest took hold of Marnie’s elbow and stood her up beside him. “Don’t look at me like that, young man—Constable. With the witch’s help or not, we will know for certain after this rite if any of them are possessed by a demon.”

  The priest’s eyes turned severe, shifting between Marnie and Jack, then lingering on Annette. “I warn you all now. If you are sharing your skin with a demon, your ears and eyes will bleed. You will experience excruciating pain, worse than any you have ever felt. Even for you, madam, worse than childbirth. A pain, I’ve been told, that is like having your insides brought to hang along your outsides.”

  Marnie squeaked and tried to cover it with a cough. She was taller than the priest, enough so she could see the growing bald spot on the top of his head. He stuffed a pot of incense in her trembling arms and instructed her to light it. The pot was made of heavy iron and covered in spirit symbols.

  “Um.” Sparking a small fire was elementary. All she needed was a small pinch of the magic that favored her, but her mind went blank, stuck on pondering the state of her insides.

  Jack flicked his wrist, and a white flame appeared inside the pot. Pale fog began to roll out of its opening. The fragrance of incense mingled with his rosewater-scented magic, which in this instance smelled like burnt leaves. Marnie dropped the pot on the table when it became too hot to hold.

  The priest sprinkled Marnie’s mother and Jack with a peppery-scented, clear oil. He threw extra on Marnie, with a sidelong glance at the constable. Eyes closed, hands lifted, and palms exposed, he prayed loudly. He wafted the smoke around in a circle. It changed colors and spiraled into shapes, some of which Marnie recognized as spirit runes. A crown, a fox, a star . . . The knife squirmed in her boot.

  Doyle ended the prayer with a hymn of thanks to God. The watchmen joined in, singing low.

  “That was lovely,” Madam Becker said, yawning. “May I please go home now?”

  Chapter 6

  “There’s simply no doubt about it, Constable.” Doyle chuckled ruefully. “There’s no demon in Madam Becker, the magician, or her daughter, the magic-rider. A demon was needed to create the godawful curse, disgusting bit of magic that it was.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Marnie, and she couldn’t meet his gaze. “Clearly, the madam made confessions earlier in confusion. There’s still so much we do not understand about demonic magic.”

  The iron pot had cooled. Doyle dumped out the burnt incense into the metal trash bin by the door, and he stowed away his oils in an inside pocket on his stole. Then he winked at Marnie. “Meeting talented witches is always a pleasure, but I must be off.”

  The blade pulsed in Marnie’s boot. She ground her ankle against it as subtly as she could.

  “Well, it looks like the two of you have taken the egg,” Alec said calmly enough, but he stood with a bit more force than was necessary, knocking his thighs against the table.

  The other watchmen kindly thanked Brother Doyle for his time before filing out. They discussed meal plans loudly in the hall, Madam Becker already forgotten.

  Alec did not follow them.

  “I’m very good at spotting a lie,” the constable said to Marnie, stopping her and Jack before they could break for the door. “I know you told several here today. You both did. I’m accustomed to witches lying to me. There is no greater motivator for lies than fear, and regrettably the constabulary has given witches a great deal to fear in the past . . . I did not see any evidence either of you would dare put your loved ones at risk with demon magic. For that reason alone, I will leave you in peace. For now.”

  Jack shifted his weight, and his soggy shoe squelched. It felt loud in Marnie’s ears. Damning.

  Alec sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?” His eyes narrowed.

  “Nervous bladder,” Jack said, his face reddening. He hurried out the door, his foot squishing and sloshing in his boot with each step.

  Marnie had to hold her breath and concentrate hard to keep the anxious giggles at bay. She followed him out, tugging her mother after her. By the time they hit the exit, Marnie was faint. She gasped in the smell of the busy city streets—steam and dust and humidity—stepping into the sunlight.

  “Marnie!” Brother Doyle called to her, waving an arm over his head. A horse and cart waited for the priest at the intersection. The cart was a wooden antique. His horse was an old salt and pepper mare with a cropped white tail. She stomped her back hoof, eager to be off. “Care for a ride?”

  “Thank you, but with all the excitement, I think it’s best I stay with my mother.” And I have a demon in my shoe.

  “I understand. Another time, then. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sophia Becker.”

  Marnie blinked at him, mouth falling open. Sophia was a kind term for a young, single woman, reserved for a lady of high birth. Strangers on the street usually called Marnie a Mary, the common name for domestic servants. She struggled to wrestle the surprise off her face. It wasn’t a title anyone had ever bestowed on her before. She was a witch, after all, and half pot scrubber’s daughter. Even if someone knew her father was highborn, they didn’t dare call her Sophia and risk irritating the powerful Beckers, who saw to it she was treated like a bastard child.

  “Oh, yes—I mean, thank you,” Marnie added, screwing up her face into something that she hoped looked like gratitude. “Nice meeting you too, Brother Doyle.”

  A watchman helped the priest find firm footing on the front of the cart, and then he gave the mare a strong pat on the flank. She took off at a brisk walk, tossing her head. The cart rumbled against the cobblestones.

  Bran’s motorcar hummed in behind the retreating cart. Marnie recognized its driver, a staffer from her household. It slowed to a stop just before the watchmen’s offices, sputtering smog out its exhaust pipe as the engine quieted. She expected to see Bran when the passenger door swung open. Instead, a man dressed in a black tunic and tall leather boots found footing on the walkway. He watched Marnie unblinkingly and with a hardened expression. He could have been handsome if he wasn’t so intimidating.

  The sword on his hip, a thin-bladed piece nearly as long as his leg, told Marnie he was a member of the palace sword guard. The gold buttons down his front suggested he was vastly more important than herself. His hair was long and chestnut, streaked in silver, and probably shoulder-length when it wasn’t tied back. He was in his fifties with a russet complexion. More guardsmen exited the vehicle before Bran finally unfolded himself and joined her on the street. He looked tired.

  “Alastor,” Bran said to the unblinking guardsman with the gilded buttons. “See that Madam Becker gets home safely. Jack, you as well.”

  “Will you be coming with us, Your Majesty?” Alastor’s high status oozed through his drawling accent. His hand went to his sword as he looked Jack over, eyes lingering on his messy hair and the dark wetness of his boot.r />
  Bran shook his head and waved at another blade guard who moved to turn the start crank at the back of the motorcar. Jack helped the madam into the front seat beside the driver.

  “All seems well now, thanks to you,” Bran said to Marnie. “Please, come and meet Captain Alastor Bechtold. He is Loreley’s new high councilor. You will likely be speaking with him again in the near future.”

  “I will?” Marnie’s brow pinched. Alastor looked as surprised as she felt. He nodded to her politely. She curtsied in return, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks.

  Jack climbed into the motorcar’s backseat. Alastor sniffed the air, a confounded expression on his face, before he reluctantly followed.

  “Come with me, Marnie. I’ll explain.” Bran led the way down the street, weaving between shop signs and waving off solicitors. Marnie was very aware of the guardsmen behind them and in front of them and stalking along the sides of them. She spotted another. He had climbed the glassblowers’ building nearby and was walking the roof, watching them. Bran didn’t seem to notice, or he had already adapted to these new stealthy, armed followers.

  “Witches are not allowed to be in the emperor’s employ. Do you know why?” Bran watched her out of the corner of his eye.

  “Bigotry,” she sneered.

  “Many would say that witches like yourself, though gifted with useful magic, are too susceptible to the influences of demons, and the safety of Loreley is dependent on keeping magic users in their place. What do you think?”

  She winced when he said place. “I think you are goading me on purpose. I think you know what I think. I’m no more susceptible to temptation than anyone else. Including you.”

  “I agree completely, and now I’m counting on you to help me prove it. Take this. It is your key through the palace gates. Use it three days from now—ah, forgive me for giving you orders. It’s a habit . . . If you wish, please take this trinket.” Bran handed her a golden acorn. It was cool to the touch, about the size of her thumb, and surprisingly light. It was so obviously valuable, she felt certain she would lose it immediately. She had never held anything so precious.

  Marnie followed him down an empty alleyway, stumbling a little because she stared at the acorn instead of watching her steps and the alley was unpaved. The songs and chimes of the shops fell into the backdrop. Bran stopped so suddenly she bumped into him. The acorn tried to skitter out from between her fingers, but she clutched it tight.

  “There is an opening on the council presently. I wish to have people I trust, like-minded people, close to me.”

  “And . . .” She blinked at him, waiting for him to fill the silence. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “And you are going to apply for one of those openings.” He closed her gaping mouth with the tip of his finger on her chin. “I can’t just give this position to you, mind you. I’m quickly learning I had more freedoms before I was the acting emperor. So I’ll need you to try out for the position.”

  “You want me to be a councilor, a royal councilor?” A nineteen-year-old pot scrubber on the council with the emperor? A woman who hadn’t yet finished her studies. It was so ludicrous she was sure he was joking. But then why does he look so serious? “I was worried about your ribs after I pushed you off that balcony. Clearly, I should have been more worried about your brains.”

  “Try out. That’s all I’m asking of you. For now.”

  It was probably rude to laugh, but it tumbled out of her anyway. “To what end?”

  “Unless, of course, you no longer want to be in my employ? I suppose I could add a clause insisting your mother remain housekeeper after I name an heir to inherit it. When crowned, I will not be permitted to own property or hold other titles.”

  He cupped his hands behind his back and strolled onward thoughtfully. “Think of your mother, Marnie. Think how you could help her if you were better placed in society. She could be more than the Madam of LaFontaine Manor, and so could you. Your brilliant mother is trapped in service because of her status. I know that torments you. My own father noticed her intelligence. He once told me she would have made a fine physician, like him, had it not been for her position in life. My mother knew it too. She never hired a butler, just to keep Annette busy. She’d be bored otherwise, she’s so capable. I don’t want her fate to become yours.”

  Marnie trailed behind him. As a member of his staff, it was customary to do so, but Bran slowed so she would keep pace with him. He offered her his arm like he would if he were walking beside an actual Sophia. She reluctantly wove her hand into the crook of his elbow, ignoring the chagrin in the faces of the nearest guardsmen.

  Marnie could smell the natural magic that favored Bran, the scents of autumn mingling with his honey and tea. She remembered the night before, the taste of his mouth on hers. The way he had held her. His warm touch. She wondered how his stubble would feel if he leaned down and started it all up again. She wanted to push his hair out of his eyes. Her fingers twitched with the urge to do so. She gasped softly and hoped he didn’t notice.

  It was all too much for her. Marnie tried to release him, but he pressed her arm into his side, trapping her hand there, a knowing smile on his face. He paused then, eyebrows arched, inviting a debate. With a sigh, Marnie relented. They walked on, arm in arm.

  “I like it better when we have arguments out loud,” she grumbled.

  “And I prefer our silent battles. You never let me win when we use our words.”

  “Oh Bran, why me with this high council business? I’m sick just thinking about it. If you’re looking to test boundaries with a witch, Jack is—”

  “Not a master or the direct descendant of one, thus not permitted according to current laws. It is long past time witches were represented on the council, don’t you think?” He stopped and turned on her. Marnie felt the weight of his eyes and could not meet them. “It has to be you. Jack is gifted, but he does not have your . . . spark.”

  “Those are all very kind sentiments . . .”

  “Think of your mother. Say you will do it. There has always been something extra to you, Marnie. For the record, I believe this extra is inherited from your neglected-by-society, low-status half, and not the overrated highborn portion of your makeup. You will excel at this—I know it. I want to hear you say you will be there.”

  Pride swelled in her chest. It overshadowed the part of her which sensed he was using his political skills unfairly. She fought back a smile. Loving his approval and feeling lost in his compliments, she parroted, “I’ll be there. I’ll try out.”

  “Atta girl,” he cooed. Then he checked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. She had to lean in to hear him. “Tell me about the interrogation. Leave nothing out.”

  She glanced toward her boot concealing the demon knife, then at the nearby guardsmen.

  “Not now?” he said.

  “Not safe,” she said.

  “Later.”

  “Soon.”

  Bran insisted on escorting Marnie home. She made a few demands of her own along the way. She snagged a morning paper and waited for him to pay for it. She detoured into a bakery, selecting a thick chunk of sweet bread for him to purchase. The bread was drizzled in icing and full of nuts, one of his favorites.

  “When was the last time you ate a proper meal—don’t answer that. It’ll just make me angry.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You need to take better care of yourself. A man can’t survive on a pipe and tea alone. You’ll waste away.”

  Marnie refused to move until Bran finished the last bite. The guardsmen filling the bakery frowned at the tone she took with their liege, but none of them commented.

  While he ate, she turned her attention to the newspaper. The young new emperor had made headlines.

  “This is a terrible picture of you.” She snickered, waving the front page at him. The grainy, enlarged image captured a shot of Bran in a crowded group at some festive political gathering. Clearly, he was trying to avoid the camera in the crowd. Hi
s hand covered half of his face, and he wore an expression of debilitating boredom.

  Bran showed his palms, noncommittal. “The camera does not love me, it appears.”

  “This one certainly didn’t.” Marnie’s snark caught the disapproving eye of the pale, red-haired guardsman who pretended to be a statue in the corner of the bakery.

  Bran finished his bread. She read further, skimming the words with one finger, allowing him to guide her out of the bakery and toward the tunnel ramps.

  When she burst out laughing, he snatched the paper from her. His cheeks were pink. “What is it now? Another dreadful picture?” Thinking better of it, Bran rolled up the paper and pressed it back into her arms. “What am I doing? I know better than to torture myself with press garbage. I’ve steered away from such things since the day I entered politics.”

  “Your hair,” she said, cackling. “The writer demands that you cut your hair.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Apparently, your locks, ‘a gorgeous mantle of good breeding’,” Marnie read giddily, “also threaten the ‘fragile order of traditional values in Loreley.’ The writer calls for you to cut your hair in accordance with current fashion trends, like a ‘classic gentleman, so as not to encourage rebellion.’ And there’s a caricature!”

  She showed him the cartoon. His face puckered at the exaggerated animation of himself, black locks spilling to his knees. Bran grinned.

  Marnie clutched the newspaper to her heart as they found their seats on the yellow snub-nosed train. “I’m going to cherish this always. I can’t wait to show Jack.”

  “Is that all?” He blew his black wavy hair out of his eyes dramatically, making her smile. “I suppose it could have been worse.”

  “There was more editorializing than I like to see in a news piece,” she commented. “But it was mostly positive. Its primary focus was on praising your wishes to bring back nominations for political positions through the vote instead of by appointment. It mentioned several times they think you’re too young.”