Illicit Magic (Stella Mayweather Paranormal Series #1)

by Camilla Chafer

  “You, in part,” said Robert and I wondered if, perhaps, that should have been a little more obvious. I had had a strange and long day, I could be forgiven, I thought. “We will need to decide your future,” he finished.

  I considered the last twenty-four hours. My future looked very different now from what I had planned. Hell, I couldn’t even have planned the past day. “And I actually get a say in that?”

  Robert smiled companionably. “We can’t force you to do anything. You did after all come here willingly,” he reminded me, a small smile playing on his lips.

  “I didn’t have much of a choice. Not that I don’t appreciate Étoile turning up in the nick of time,” I added hastily, spreading my hands, the teacup wobbling precariously. “I do, but this all seems very much out of my hands.”

  “If you will do us the courtesy of meeting and listening with the council tonight, you will, of course, be at liberty to do whatever you choose. Naturally, we hope that you will take on board what we have to say and listen carefully to our recommendations before you decide anything,” said Robert, and his voice was at once authoritative and open. “It is our wish that you stay safe, above all else.”

  “Why am I so special?” God help me, I sounded whiny and ungrateful.

  Eleanor looked at her husband before answering me herself. “Because you are,” she replied, inflection on the last word, as if that answered everything. I wondered if Étoile had learned evasive lessons from her.

  I pondered Eleanor’s answer and wanted to ask more, but I had the feeling that neither Robert, nor his wife, were going to tell me much at this stage. This initial meeting seemed to be about pleasantries, a meet-and-greet and a glance-over, much as I might have gotten at any new temp job, but not a moment to impart knowledge of any great worth. Well, that could work both ways. Oh well. I had nowhere better to be, I reminded myself, I could wait and see what happened.

  Eleanor poured another cup and handed it to Robert. He took it with a nod as he moved towards the mantelpiece and seemed to be staring somewhere over my head as though lost in thought. He sipped and returned the cup to the saucer with a delicate chink. He was clearly in no great hurry either.

  “Witches have been a part of the world for centuries,” Robert said at last, choosing his words carefully. “I say witches, but, of course, we have been called all sorts of things. Spell-casters, wizards, magicians, warlocks, sorcerers and worse. Witch seems to have stuck in the lexicon. Of course, we have gone to ground for the past few hundred years ever since the ghastly witch hunts that destroyed so many of our kind and others that were accused of being one of us.

  “After a few generations, we were relegated to myth and legend, which suited us just fine as we were able to live peacefully once again and regroup. The short version of this sorry tale is this. We’re out. There are those out there who have always been aware of us and have taken advantage of the world’s turmoil to persecute us once again. We have taken steps to gather whomever we can, to draw them to us and protect them.” Robert was getting into his stride, his voice rumbling on and I listened with fascination as he unfolded a history of which I had barely been aware. “Stella, you have a rare gift, an inherited gift. We don’t think you can control it yet, and we want to help you and protect you. We want to keep you safe.”

  It was Robert’s last words that chilled me to the bone. “We don’t want to see you burn.”

  I shivered. The sight on the television – earlier today? Last night? I couldn’t be sure – seemed to have stuck to my eyeballs. If anyone wanted to protect me from that, well, great. I was hardly going to knock them back without another thought.

  “Did you save everyone?” I asked.

  Robert shook his head and sighed. “There simply wasn’t time or enough of us to reach everyone. A lot of the craft has simply gone dormant, or died out. There aren’t that many of us with real power, though occasionally some throwback talent crops up and we help where we can.

  “Some of the older, more skilled witches went to ground as soon as the attacks came to light in Europe. They will make their way to us, or band together, when they deem it safe. Others are barely aware of their powers and we decided it was safer to leave those who were unlikely to be attacked. Their magic can barely be identified. Some, like you, are on the cusp of realising real power and so it was you we decided to save. We were too late for some.”

  “Am I one of these throwback... talents?” I asked as Robert and Eleanor quickly eyed each other.

  Robert answered. “No, your magic is strong. It could only have come from your parents.”

  As he was speaking, a thought had been creeping up on me and it was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “You knew where I was?”

  Robert inclined his head in a brief nod.

  “You’ve known where I was for... how long?” Had they known where I was throughout my long, lonely childhood when I so desperately needed people? Solid, dependable people who didn’t think I was a freak? I clenched my jaw.

  Robert and Eleanor exchanged another glance and it wasn’t reassuring. They had known then. Perhaps they had known where I was for a long time, not just in the few days or weeks that led up to the witch hunt. At least they had the grace to look embarrassed, or I thought they did.

  It was Eleanor who answered in her clipped Manhattan accent. “No, we had no idea for quite some time. Not until the last year or so. We couldn’t just pluck you out of England on a whim,” she said. “You wouldn’t have come. Besides, we didn’t know what would become of you for certain.”

  “You managed to get a passport for me when it suited you.” I was trying to keep my voice as even and inoffensive as possible. It was tough going.

  “That passport is yours. Your name, and your nationality.” I was puzzled. Hadn’t Étoile handed me an American passport, when I was English? As I tried to make up my mind whether it was some kind of fraud, Eleanor took pity on me and solved the puzzle. “Your father is American, as you know. You have every right to be here, though he spent many years in England with your mother.”

  It was strange to hear these strangers speak about my parents. When I was younger, I often asked many questions about them, but no one seemed to know the answers beyond their names and dates of birth. Letters and numbers on a piece of paper that meant so little and so much. One day they were there, the next they were gone and I was alone. I thought I might have been around five when I last saw them. Too young to form lengthy memories and too young to grasp the answers to my own questions.

  “We knew your father well, your mother less so,” said Eleanor, quite smoothly. I noticed that her bobbed hair barely moved and its golden colour was subtly highlighted. “Tonight, when the council convenes, you may have the opportunity to ask more questions, if time permits. Some of the other council members were friends with your parents.”

  Robert was ready to take back centre stage as he deposited his cup on the tray with a light clink. “As Eleanor said, you will have the opportunity to meet some of the council members tonight. We have already decided what may be an appropriate route for you... but we will need to be quite sure that we are doing the right thing for you. As I said though, the final decision is yours but do rest assured that we are trying to do our best for you.” I almost missed the look Eleanor flashed at him but Robert didn’t and he shook his head at her, with the barest fraction of movement. He paused then added, “To atone, perhaps, for not finding you sooner.”

  I nodded, agreeing somewhat. Too right they could atone if they had known I was on my own! Even if they said they didn’t know where I was my whole life. I wasn’t sure what to believe. They were pleasant enough though, I thought, careful to keep my temper in check. But I couldn’t help wondering if what was right for me would travel along the same road that was right for them. It seemed at odds to pick a route, as they seemed to be calling it, that would not somehow be simultaneously profitable for their cause. After all, they’d only just picked me up now when they could ha
ve done so years ago apparently.

  If I had real power, as Robert said, and others wanted to crush it, it stood to reason that they might want it too. I made a snap decision that it might be best if I kept those thoughts to myself until I had the measure of them. It would do to keep my wits about me and not be seduced by the obvious wealth and implied sincerity, both seemingly designed to put me at ease.

  Robert tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, smiled and seemed to have finished his speech. He told me nothing that I didn’t already know, other than that my parents were known to them and I wondered if I was about to be hit with a bombshell of information that evening. I rather hoped so.

  “Will Étoile be there later?” I asked the room. I still hadn’t spoken directly to Marc, and it would be rude to lean across him and whisper to Étoile, but I knew I would feel more comfortable if Étoile was with me. My feelings towards her were based on only a few hours, but I felt I could trust her, given that, I wasn’t, well, deep fried.

  Robert pondered the idea and after a moment, nodded. “Yes, Étoile is not a member of the council but she will be a friendly face for you.”

  I looked over my shoulder. Étoile had stopped playing with her phone and sat with her ankles crossed and hands in her lap. She smiled at me and I thought there was a real hint of warmness there. I smiled back and meant it.

  “We will let you retire. I’m sure you are exhausted,” said Eleanor, every bit the hostess and clearly dismissing us. “Marc, would you take our guests to their rooms?”

  Marc was up and at my side in an instant and I stood. I was sandwiched between him and Étoile as we left the room, and she took care to close the heavy doors behind her. We moved across the hallway and Marc guided us down the hall and around a bend. “Mom has given you rooms across from each other. I’m right down the hall so just call if you need anything.” He pointed several closed doors further down. They were all identical so I wasn’t sure which one he meant. I would just have to find Étoile if I needed anything. He opened a door to his right and ushered me in first. Étoile leant against the doorframe as I took in the room.

  It was a small room, dominated by a big mahogany bed with a cover the colour of bitter chocolate, trimmed in brilliant white ribbons and stacked with pillows. A dressing table sat against the wall at the foot of the bed, near the door. On the other wall there was a closet and a door that was open a fraction so that I could see it led to a small bathroom. Opposite that, the window, framed in matching dark brown curtains with thick tassels, looked out over the city. The curtains alone probably cost more than a month’s temping. It had the appearance of a very smart hotel room and the bed looked particularly inviting, even though I slept for several bone-aching hours on the plane. Marc seemed to be waiting for a reaction so I tipped the corners of my mouth into a smile and thanked him.

  “Mom likes things to be quite formal,” Marc was saying and it took me a moment to realise that he wasn’t talking about the bedroom decor, but was instead referring to their council. He probably took the grandeur as standard, I assumed. “She prefers we dress up so she left a dress for you, assuming you mightn’t have brought anything formal.”

  Of course I hadn’t, I thought, looking around for my bag.

  “Your bag is in the closet,” said Marc, following my eyes and guessing what I was looking for. He indicated with his hand, “The dress is in there too. She guessed your size so I hope it fits. Can you be ready for eight?”

  I had no idea what time it was – my watch was obviously on the wrong time zone – but there was a clock on the dresser so I nodded and Marc seemed satisfied. He ran a hand through his thick blonde hair and grinned again. “Hopefully it won’t be too boring tonight. Signal me if you need rescuing.”

  I frowned, not sure if he was serious or being funny. I decided to play along either way. “What sort of signal should I give you?”

  “Um, nothing too obvious ... maybe ... brush something off your shoulder,” suggested Marc, making the same sweeping gesture to show me exactly what he meant. “It won’t look out of place and I will get you out of there. The council can be a bit overbearing at the best of times. They’re particularly excited about tonight.”

  I nodded as if I knew exactly what he meant and looked over to Étoile who stood in the doorway, leaning slightly against the doorframe. “I will watch out for any frantic shoulder-brushing,” she winked and backed out of the room.

  Marc followed her and swept a hand towards the doorway across the hall, but she’d already brushed past and opened the door. She seemed very familiar with the apartment. I wondered how many times she had stayed here. Maybe she and Marc were a thing? I couldn’t be sure. With a wide smile, Marc turned to shut the door behind him, leaving me alone at last.

  Inside the room, I took a moment to glance at my reflection in the mirror. I looked tired, and ever so slightly grimy. Great. There was nothing like a good first impression, as my manager at the temp agency had been so fond of telling me. I guessed I’d blown that first impression already and even if I tried to shrug it off, a little piece of my mind nagged at me for not being at least a bit better presented. It didn’t help one iota that Étoile looked like she had just stepped out of the salon, even though she had been on the same rough twenty-four-hour ride as I. I sighed. Crossing over to the closet, I opened it and found my bag inside. I knelt down and checked it was still zipped but I couldn’t be certain it hadn’t been rifled through, seeing as I hadn’t exactly packed neatly.

  Easing to my feet, I saw that a black garment bag was the only thing hanging on the rail, I reached forward and unzipped it. A dress, as expected, was inside. I pushed off the garment bag and held it up in my arms. It had a neat plain bodice with a square neckline and no sleeves plus a skirt that puffed out slightly at the waist. The skirt was a damask sort of fabric, with raised swirls of black that looked like it would rest just above the knee. It was elegant and probably, I realised, the most expensive thing I ever touched. Even more than Étoile’s gift of the jacket which I realised I hadn’t even taken off. A pair of black pumps with a low heel sat on the closet floor. I wriggled out of my shoes and inserted a foot. Of course, they fit. Eleanor was the type of woman who could size you up at a glance and probably left nothing to chance anyway. I put the dress back on the rail and shut the closet door, feeling a little ashamed that I was even thinking about its cost; but then, I reminded myself, I was surrounded by the most enormous wealth while I was used to so little.

  A low rumble emanated from my stomach and I patted it, trying to remember when I had last eaten. The only meal I could recall had been before the plane and my stomach was working its way up to reminding me of that with a series of no uncertain grumbles. I would have to wash first then look for a kitchen. It occurred to me Eleanor might not want me poking around in her home and she didn’t look like the home cooking type either. I would have to swallow my pride and just find someone to ask instead, or go hungry. I hoped they weren’t into fancy hors d’oeuvre with miniscule portions instead of real food.

  I shrugged off my new jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. Smoothing the coat’s shoulders, I was reminded again that I was still wearing the same clothes I’d worn to work and then on the plane. Yuck. I hoped I didn’t smell but I wasn’t going to have a sniff to find out. At least no one had wrinkled their nose at me.

  I shrugged off my top, feeling grimier by the minute and unzipped my skirt, shaking it to the floor so I could step out if it. I pulled my bag out of the closet, leaving my clothes in a little pile inside. I rummaged through the bag and pulled out clean jeans, another top and a fresh set of underwear and socks, thankful that I’d been to the laundry recently and that they hadn’t been near the smoke long enough to be tainted.

  After setting my clean clothes out on the bed, I went into the bathroom. Although it was small, it was well stocked with anything a guest might need. There were bottles of shampoo, conditioner and shower gel in the shower cubicle. An unused toothbrush and
toothpaste set sat on glass shelf above the basin. Soft towels hung on a heated rail.

  I turned on the shower and wriggled out of my underthings, dropping them in a little heap on the tiled floor, before I dived under the hot water, holding my head under until my hair was soaking wet and trailing down my back. I scrubbed my hair and shampooed until my head was full of suds; then worked on my body to remove every last bit of grime. I took the time to revel in the luxury of it as I compared it to my usual dribble of a shower and, for those few minutes, lost myself in thoroughly enjoying the water pounding on my skin. I was almost reluctant to get out and towel myself dry but I forced myself anyway. I wrapped one thick towel around me, tucking the ends in at the front and wrapped a smaller towel around my head to keep my hair from leaking down my back, then brushed my teeth thoroughly and gargled.

  Though I could have only been in the bathroom a few minutes, someone had been in my room while I showered. A tray sat on the dressing table, with an actual silver cover over the plate. Still towelled up, I lifted the lid and my stomach grumbled again. It had been hours since I had last eaten. Maybe even more than a day, I thought as I gave up trying to calculate how long I’d been here and how long the flight had taken. With the time difference, I wasn’t even sure I had worked out which day it was.

  The tray held a salad and grilled chicken with a creamy dressing, and a warm bread roll with a little pat of butter in its own miniature dish. Then there was a chocolate soufflé, slightly bubbling, in a white, fluted ramekin and a tall glass of orange juice crammed with ice cubes. I didn’t bother to dress. I had barely pulled out the velvet-buttoned stool from under the table and sat down before I fell on the food with an appetite that would have embarrassed me, had I been in public. I was just too hungry to care.

  Fifteen minutes later and I let the last of the chocolate soufflé melt in my mouth, my eyes half closed in the simple pleasure of it. Delicious. I had read in a magazine, on a work break a few weeks earlier, that fear could make the next meal taste like nothing else on earth. Apparently there was a “shock and eat” trend that was the latest thing in London – people actually paid to be frightened to pieces then fed a slap-up meal. I reckoned this meal would be delicious any day of the week, even without any tomfoolery beforehand.