“Enjoy,” Nix was saying. “And if you want another pair of toast like you usually—-”
“Err, no, this is fine,” I cut the younger girl off hastily before she could say more. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of how much I ate (nothing wrong with a healthy appetite, you know?), but I’d also rather not have my love for carbs be one of the first things Mr. Handsome knew about me.
Nix left with a cheerful wave after pouring coffee into my mug, and I did my best to ignore Mr. Handsome’s piercing stare as I took out my textbook. I wasn’t actually in the mood to study, but I needed something to look at while I struggled to regain my composure.
Placing the copiously bookmarked hardback on the counter, I absently started flipping through it while taking a bite of my toast. It had the words Level 1: Spells and Brews emblazoned in pretty big letters on its dust jacket, but I wasn’t worried about anyone catching a glimpse of it. All of my books from CSI were spell-protected, and unless they were on the agency’s to-see list, both supernaturals and immortals would see the same thing humans did: a dusty, obscure economics manual published the first year Adam Smith started talking about modern capitalism.
Thirty minutes later, and I found myself gaping at my empty plate in surprise. I had actually ended up so engrossed with this week’s reading material I had finished my breakfast without even realizing it. I had even forgotten all about Mr. Handsome of all things.
Struck by a sudden urge to have another look at him, I casually reached for my coffee, hoping to peek at him over the rim of my mug—-
Thunder like no other suddenly roared outside the diner, and I jerked involuntarily. My hand rattled, and coffee spilled on the opened pages of my textbook.
Brooms and sticks!
As I hurriedly pulled out a couple of tissue sheets from the holder, I missed the way Mr. Handsome frowned when he glanced at my book. By the time I turned around, Mr. Handsome had a charmingly polite smile on his face. “May I help?”
His voice was deep but gentle. It was my first time to hear him speak, and it had me stammering like a ninny. “It’s f-fine. I c-can—-” My voice trailed off as Mr. Handsome pried the sheet of tissue from my hands and mopped the stain on my page.
After, he ran his fingers on the wet, dark spot, and when he lifted his fingers the page was completely dry and stain-free.
I blinked. “Umm. Wow.” I was genuinely spellbound. I had seen other witches perform similar tricks, but never with the same ease and speed that Mr. Handsome had displayed.
“It’s a fairly simple spell,” Mr. Handsome murmured. “I could teach it to you if you like.”
Before I could even think of what I wanted to say, he had already reached for my hand, and the impact of his touch was, for lack of a better word, incredible.
A thousand sensations bombarded my body – shock, thrill, excitement, fear, anticipation – I simply felt too, too much, and I kept feeling more as Mr. Handsome slowly guided my hand into repeating the necessary strokes for the spell.
I did my best to memorize them, but it was impossible. Every second of having his fingers hold mine had secret parts of my body trembling in acute awareness; in the end, all I could do was focus on keeping myself from fainting.
“Easy, right?” He let go of my hand, and I didn’t know whether I felt relieved or sad that he was no longer touching me. It still seemed so surreal, and my senses had yet to recover from the fact that Mr. Handsome’s hand had held mine in the first place.
“With enough practice,” he told me, “it should be doable for a Level 1.”
I started to nod and thank him when I realized what he had just said. My gaze flew to his, but he only smiled at my obvious surprise.
“How did you know I’m a Level 1?” I questioned uncertainly.
“Because your book says so?”
My jaw dropped. I had suspected that might be it, but having him confirm my thoughts was still a different thing altogether. If he could get past an agency-executed spell, then did that mean he was also working for the government?
His lips suddenly twitched. “You didn’t think I could read it, did you?”
“I...I...” My shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “I have no idea what to think about you.” I hated how boring my answer was, but I was such a bad liar it was useless to even try.
“If it’s any consolation,” he murmured, “I also think you’re a bit of an enigma yourself.”
I was?
His smile turned faintly apologetic. “I didn’t expect you to be working for CSI. I’d never have imagined you the crime-fighting type.”
“That’s because I’m not,” I answered somewhat guiltily. ‘Crime fighting’ sounded so violent, and I had always been more of a pacifist, the kind that insisted on seeing half-full glasses even if there was only less than an ounce left. “When I got recruited, I only signed up for Local Misdemeanors.”
“Missing cauldrons, vandal spells, things like that?”
I nodded. “I know most people find it boring...”
“But you enjoy it,” he concluded. “Don’t you?”
“I’ve lived 26 years of my life without magic, so everything still feels so new and exciting. I know it’s silly,” I confessed, “but I’m always looking forward to every case assigned to me.”
“No matter how minor?”
“No matter how minor,” I affirmed firmly. “There’s actually a running joke in HQ. They say I’m the only agent who’d cry at being given a day off—-” I stopped speaking. Oh, cast it. I just realized I had allowed my mouth to run away from me.
Mr. Handsome, however, didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, and he reclaimed the reins of our conversation with the enviable ease of a practiced charmer. He asked me about my Level 1 lessons and whether I found it easy or difficult. I had the most shameful urge to lie, but in the end, I simply opened my book to a random page and let him see the humiliating truth with his own eyes.
The page I had opened to was heavily underscored with neon highlighters, and the margins on both pages filled with my scribbles. “Be honest, please – does this say passionate about work or desperate to pass Level 1 exams so I won’t be the only neophyte witch in the agency?”
Mr. Handsome grinned. “It’s that bad?”
“Well...considering how my instructor asked me to start saving money so I could afford an expensive offering to Athena, what do you think?”
“Extremely bad,” he answered right away with a grin. I grinned back of course, all the while thinking that I couldn’t remember feeling any happier. Oh, be still, my bewitched heart.
It suddenly occurred to me that we had been talking for some time without having even exchanged names, and I took a deep breath, wondering if I could find the courage to ask for his first. I opened my mouth, but before I could say another word, lightning flashed outside the diner, followed by the power going out. Another second passed, and my phone started playing the theme song of Mission Impossible.
Oh, dear.
This was not good.
Chapter Two
Although CSI in the non-human world functioned as a crime scene investigation unit as well, the letters actually stood for Circe Security Initiative. While history mostly remembered Circe for her failed attempt in seducing Odysseus to become her lover, there was little mention of the kind of life the world’s first self-taught witch led afterwards. This was unfortunate since Circe’s accomplishments following her doomed romance were as great as any other Greek hero.
Sick and tired of being painted as the villainous almost-adulteress, Circe had devoted herself to aiding Thebe in her quest for justice, and her subsequent acts of valor were such that the Titan goddess later on granted Circe immense fortune and a taste of ambrosia. Circe could have been a happily retired immortal after that, but instead she had chosen to spend her extended lease on life training special humans to become self-taught witches like her. Through it Circe had eventually found her renewed purpose, and thus CSI was born.
>
The agency’s recruitment process varied from case to case, and with mine it had started with an email and a hologram of Circe popping up in my living room. It had taken a while, but the self-made goddess had patiently waited for me to finish freaking out before launching into her be-a-crime-solving-witch pitch.
‘Only one percent of the human population has the ability to be a self-taught witch,’ Circe had explained among other things, and this mainly boils down to how much faith the person has in magic rather than mere skills. She had beamed at me then, saying, ‘It’s how you’ve made the cut.’
Naturally, she had also included a caveat, warning me that if I were to accept her job offer at CSI I would have to leave my life in California and move to Silver Mist. In return, however, I would have my own home, above-average wages with the possibility of earning performance bonuses, and – best of all – I would have magic in my life.
When Circe had finished with her spiel, I had looked at her while thinking about the choice she was asking me to make: my present life, which was the definition of purpose-less mediocrity, and the other life she offered, which was full of the most exciting and magical possibilities.
What do you say then, Blair?
I had only one answer to that. Can I start packing now?
DIVISION OFFICES OF all supernatural crime agencies in the area were housed in one of Silver Mist’s historic buildings, a three-story all-white structure with elegant Palladian windows, quoins, and a quietly impressive portico.
Prior to the Civil War, it had served as the town’s post office. Today, it was listed as headquarters of the privately funded Silver Mist Heritage Society, and as far as humans were concerned, SMHS was the company paying for my wages. That much was true, I suppose, but as for my official job position as ‘field researcher’?
Yes, well, I suppose that could be true, too, as long as no one asked too many questions about the nature of my, err, research.
The downpour of rain lashing the streets of Silver Mist had erupted into a full-blown thunderstorm when I finally made it past SMHS’ double doors. By this time, I also looked like I had gone into the shower fully clothed, with my umbrella having given up on me halfway.
“Good morning, Blair.” Mary Lou, the pretty, dark-haired tree nymph working behind the reception counter, gave me a sympathetic smile as I struggled to shove my umbrella into the garbage bin, its canopy turned inside out thanks to all of the huffing and puffing the wind gods had done under Zeus’ command.
“It’s crazy out there,” I said between chattering teeth as I turned to face her, having finally emerged the victor in my fight against my retired umbrella. I was about to ask Mary Lou if the electricity was back on or CSI was running on back-up power when the doors behind me opened again—-
Swoosh.
And I found myself flying across the lobby.
“Oops.” The sickly sweet voice was unfortunately familiar, and by the time I picked myself, I wasn’t at all surprised to find Roseanne’s lovely face sporting a false look of regret. “I am so sorry, Blair,” the silver-eyed witch gushed. “I didn’t see you at all.”
Yeah sure, I thought gloomily. I’d believe that when harpies crawl.
Roseanne dela Cruz had it for me since day one, and I had no idea why. Someone like her shouldn’t even have noticed someone like me.
Unlike everyone at CSI, she was a natural-born witch, a direct descendant of Hecate herself. Moreover, she held a high-level position at the CIA (that’s Council of Illusory Arts, and yes it was also the supernatural world’s version of the Central Intelligence Agency). Her attention should have been taken up by all-important issues like security on Mt. Olympus or the growing threat of demons escaping from the Underworld, and definitely with no time left to think of me as a rival in either a personal or professional capacity—-
“Gosh, I still can’t get over how tiny you are.”
And yet for some reason, it’s exactly how Roseanne seemed to think of me.
“I really do wonder what could Circe have seen in you,” the CIA agent said with a sigh.
You know how body shaming’s a huge thing in the human world? Well, in this world, it was all about one’s height. Tall was the new normal, and like how all prejudices went, I found it completely unfair. It was not my fault that immortals and supernaturals were all born five-seven and up. So really, it was their height that was unnatural, not mine.
Right?
Roseanne clucked her tongue. “You’re making quite a mess, too.” She looked meaningfully at the puddle around my feet, an unfortunate result when I had shrugged out of my blazer earlier and squeezed the water out of it.
I was still trying to think of a safe, smartass reply to Roseanne’s words when Dike, my superior in CSI, went on the PA, and her cuttingly clear voice blasted out of the speakers like a stream of ice. “Everyone has five minutes to get to their assigned meeting rooms. Anyone who doesn’t make it – find another job.”
Gaea bewitched!
It said a lot about Dike that Roseanne and I didn’t even look at each other as we raced up to the second floor and made a mad dash to our meeting rooms, Roseanne taking a right turn to get to CIA while I swerved to the left for CSI.
Dike was one of the Horae, the collective term used for Daughters of Justice (which they literally were, being offspring of Thebe), and if rumors were true, she was the most powerful among her sisters as well. Considering Dike’s bloodlines and skills in the battlefield, her appointment as head of CSI’s New England division – rather than the Mid-Atlantic or the Pacific – didn’t make any sense even to a neophyte witch like me. Silver Mist might be unique for nonhumans making up a whopping sixty-eight percent of its local population, but surely that couldn’t be it alone?
It was such an intriguing mystery that over the centuries it had become an urban legend of sorts, with theories ranging from scandalous to downright crazy. Of course, one could have simply gone up and ask Dike why as well, but since that was likely to involve dying with one’s neck being squeezed by the goddess’ bare hands, no one had ever been foolish enough to make the attempt.
Where a powerful justice-seeking goddess was concerned, some questions in this world were just better left unanswered, and it was also why everyone at the conference room shot up in their seats, backs ramrod straight, the moment Dike strode inside.
Tall, olive-skinned, broad-shouldered and with hair trimmed in a no-nonsense bob, Dike carried herself like the immortal warrior she was, her aura of strength making her all-too-normal pantsuit and leather clogs feel as intimidating as a suit of armor welded by Hephaestus himself.
“Good morning, agents. I trust you’ve all received our text alert?”
All twenty of us simply nodded, trained by Dike herself not to bother with the usual yes, ma’am / no, ma’am, which the goddess considered a mere waste of time.
And as for the text alert, it had been as to the point as you’d expect it to be, considering Dike’s preference for brevity. Zeus out of control; everyone required to report for duty A.S.A.P.
It had me leaving Panda’s in a hurry, knowing that our director wasn’t the type to use A.S.A.P. lightly. I hadn’t even any time to explain myself to Mr. Handsome, managing only a quick, profuse apology before dashing out of the diner and straight into the storm.
Tension in the air heightened up a notch as the black-haired goddess spared us the briefest of glances. “All of you seemed to have made it. Good.” That was high praise already, considering it was Dike, and the tension eased, just enough for us to slightly relax against the backs of our seats.
“At present, we have a Category 3 Hurricane in our hands. INTERPOL’s confirmed that today’s inclement weather is a direct result of Zeus’ actions.”
I drew my breath sharply at Dike’s words, and the look on other agents’ faces told me that I wasn’t the only one worried about Dike’s revelation. As divine head of the Olympian pantheon, Zeus held dominion over the skies, and him being ‘out of control�
�� could mean anything from a repeat of Hurricane Katrina or, even worse, a tsunami devastating even landlocked towns that could’ve served as temporary refuge for evacuees.
“The Anemoi is doing their best to mitigate the damage, but the backlash is expectedly severe.”
The Anemoi referred to the four most powerful wind gods: Boreas who commanded the North Wind, Notus from the South, Zephyrus from the West, and the youngest of them, Eurus, who commanded the East Wind.
The four winged immortals had sworn by the river of Styx to obey all of Zeus’ orders, and such vows were double-edged swords. Their own bodies had to absorb the damage every time they disobeyed one of the thunder god’s directives.
“All attempts to interrogate Zeus have been unsuccessful so far. He’s locked himself in his battle tower, and all the information INTERPOL has been able to glean is in your dossier.” Dike snapped her fingers, and case folders appeared in front of each of us.
“Right now, the CIA has all its agents out on the field, and their priority is to rescue humans and protect them in the event this matter escalates. INTERPOL, on the other hand, has focused their efforts in lending assistance to the Anemoi in whatever way they can.”
Dike’s glance swept over the room. “That leaves us, the CSI, to investigate behind the scenes. We need to get to the bottom of this. We need to find out what’s making Zeus act out of character.” She rose to her feet and gestured towards the doors of the conference room, saying, “Now that you all know what to do—-” She made a little wave of her hand, and the doors flew open. “Dismissed.”
A moment later, the goddess vanished from view, and noise burst inside the room as everyone started talking. I headed over to my friends, Tristan and Maria, who had been dating each other since their rookie year. “Has this ever happened before?”
“Not in the five years we’ve been working for the agency, no,” Tristan answered grimly.
Maria pointed to my clothes, which were still dripping wet. “Want me to fix that?”
A Season of Gods and Witches Page 2
