by Vicki Keire
“Wait for what?” he asked. I was so close. It would take only the slightest movement to carry me upwards into kissing distance. Instead, I kept my eyes on the hollow of his throat.
“You know,” I said, watching his pulse beat. “Until you’re… you get your balance back, I guess,” I finished lamely.
I felt his low rumble of laughter all across my chest. “You make my being human sound like a particularly bad bike wreck.” He touched his forehead to mine. “Believe it or not, I like this job. Funny, isn’t it? Immortal beings aren’t supposed to think about things like money and the electric bill and paying for dates. But I did. There I was, all-powerful, and I couldn’t even take you out to dinner. To me, this is one of the best parts of being human.” He replaced his forehead with a soft kiss. “Buying you things.”
“But I don’t want anything,” I protested.
“I know. You truly don’t.” He looked puzzled and pleased all at once. “Sometimes you run out of paint, but that’s not the same thing.” He suddenly seemed very smug. “It’s all right, though. I have my sources.”
“Ok,” I said uneasily. “But it’s still not worth hurting yourself over, not even for something you think I might want.”
“Actually, working at the bookstore is like taking a break from how hard everything else is. I’m not sure why.” He leaned back against the door, thinking, while I tried not to show how much his words stung. “It has something to do with how quiet it is. And not many people come in. So there’s no sensory overload to deal with, and no…” he paused as if searching for words, then shrugged it off. “Nevermind. It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, what?” I asked, intrigued. “If it helps you in some way, then I want to know, Ethan. Even if it doesn’t make sense.”
“Some people are more… confusing… than others. But in different ways. Some hurt my head when I’m around them. I’m clumsier around some people than others.” He gave out a short, humorless laugh. “Some make my senses go haywire, like I’ll feel thirsty around someone, or cold around someone else. Sometimes it’s emotional, like fear or even…” he shot me a quick sideways glance. “Jealousy.”
Uh-oh. I tried very hard not to think of Calla.
“And there’s no logic to it. It’s not always the same people, or even the same effect,” he continued, running his fingers through his hair, clearly frustrated.
“And that doesn’t happen here?” I pressed.
“Not nearly as much,” he admitted. “It’s just quieter. Unless a bunch of other people come in. Then I just disappear into the back, and Calla handles it.” He raised an eyebrow. “I think she thinks I’m pathologically shy.”
“What about me?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
His smile twisted something inside me. I realized for the hundredth time how much this man could break me if he wanted. “You do unbalance me,” he said, tugging on my fingertips. “From time to time.”
“Really,” I breathed. “What are we going to do?” His lips were inches from mine, my arms around his waist.
“What indeed?” he murmured, his lips on mine stopping time, breath and thought. Crushed juniper, warm cedar; something else that was uniquely human, male, and Ethan. I dug my fingers into his hips. This one. I ached with the force of this almost-prayer. Please, just this one.
I felt his eyes on me all the way to Mrs. Alice’s shop. By the time I got to the dark witch’s herb shop and looked back, he had disappeared.
Chapter Six:
The Trouble with Threes
A violent gust of cold enveloped me within feet of Mrs. Alice’s door. I looked up at the sky, confused because it was still clear and sunny. Did I have my own personal storm cloud following me around now? I wished I’d grabbed a hoodie when I left the apartment. Ethan’s jacket just wasn’t enough to chase away this bone-deep chill.
“Miss Chastain,” said a voice that made my insides as cold as the rest of me. “What a pleasant surprise.”
I knew without turning it was Dr. Christian. If I was dying in the wilderness and this man knew the way out, I still wouldn’t call his presence ‘pleasant.’
He stood between me and Mrs. Alice’s door. There was no way to avoid him.
I tried to smile. “Dr. Christian. Um. Hello.” His blue eyes were just a little too bright, too Technicolor, to be called cerulean. With his wavy golden hair and perfect bone structure, every female at Andreas Academy thought he was the most gorgeous man alive. Combined with artistic genius, wealth, and the big city sophistication that came with being partial owner of one of New York’s more prestigious galleries, he walked through my little town like he owned the place. Maybe that was why I seemed to be the only person who didn’t swoon when he came into the room. If anything, he had the opposite effect on me. My feelings had morphed from indifference to outright distrust. I could trace it all back to one confusing afternoon when he’d called me out in front of the entire class and I’d awoken hours later, napping on a bench in the hall.
That had been the day of Logan’s accident, when so much of my life had changed forever. I hadn’t seen him since then. Just thinking about him made me feel vaguely panicked, which was silly, because I had so many other serious problems to worry about.
“How are your classes this semester?” he asked. He seemed genuinely interested, leaning in to hear me better. I had to stop myself from stepping away.
“Oh, they’ve just started. But they’re going well.”
“I was disappointed to see you absent from my upper level drawing seminar.”
My nervous laugh sounded fake even to me. “It didn’t fit my schedule.”
He frowned. “I hate to lose an artist with your obvious talents.” I froze. Something about him, about the way he spoke, alarmed me. I felt Shadows stirring. My palms tingled. Not here, not here, I thought, and rammed my hands into my jacket pockets. He stepped even closer to me. “I could arrange something private if you’d like. Independent study, for credit, of course.”
Was he coming onto me? No way. He could have any woman in the city. He smelled like cinnamon and ash. I struggled to speak around a sudden sourness that coated my tongue. “That’s not… I can’t. Busy schedule,” I coughed, my eyes watering for no apparent reason. I couldn’t wipe them because my hands still tingled with Shadows. “This semester. Really busy.”
He stepped away, but not before I saw a weird look of triumph in his unnaturally blue eyes. “That’s unfortunate. If you change your mind, come by my office anytime.” Yeah right, I thought. But I managed to nod. “Are you dropping off more of your exquisite Tarot cards, Miss Chastain? They’re quite popular. I know several buyers who’ve been waiting for you to finish a deck or two.”
Suddenly I was freezing again. “You know about my hand-painted decks?” I almost whispered. Someone buying all my decks at once had set off the chain of events leading to the present insanity I called a life.
He chuckled. “Of course. They’re quite popular.”
I made myself ask. “You don’t, um, have a set, do you?”
He laughed. “I have no need for such crude methods of divination, Miss Chastain. But please do drop by my office. Again, you are welcome anytime.”
I watched him walk across the square as I rested against the side of Mrs. Alice’s shop. I didn’t want to burst into her store trailing Shadows from my fingertips. As I forced myself to calm down, I thought over his words. Dr. Christian had only said he didn’t need ‘crude methods’ when I asked him about my cards. He’d never outright denied buying them.
***
“Don’t tell me you brought three,” Mrs. Alice said, sticking her head out from behind a bookcase. A sprig of dried lavender waggled behind her ear like a forgotten pencil. “Three would be a very bad omen, Caspia.”
“Uh,” I hedged. Three what? Buttons? Socks? Elastic hair bands? “What do you mean, exactly?”
Instead of answering, she crept out from behind the bookcase, looking nervously over her should
er. “I forget you aren’t one of us, dear. I wouldn’t have to explain myself to another witch.” She marched behind the counter and produced ingredients for tea. An odd moment of déjà vu rocked me: he isn’t one of us. The tattooed man from last night had said that about Ethan. Mrs. Alice rattled china, dragging me back to the present. “So how many did you bring, dear?”
I wondered if Mrs. Alice, longtime pillar of the community, had finally lost her mind. “Excuse me?” I said faintly.
“Your cards, dear. How many did you bring?” She perched beside me on her butter-colored leather sofa, the tea smelling faintly of bergamot and oranges. She peered at me intently, as if the fate of the world hung on my answer.
“Oh! Three decks. Sorry,” I admitted sheepishly.
“So it’s three after all. Goddess help us,” she murmured as she blew on her tea.
I looked at my cup suspiciously, not sure I trusted it. “Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Alice?”
“Caspia, dear,” the stately witch said. “Threes are powerful. They are triggers.”
“You’re talking about numerology,” I said in the careful tones people use when addressing the insane.
“I wouldn’t even have to explain this to another witch,” Mrs. Alice snapped, irritated. I tried to look harmless, silently grateful I was not another witch. She sighed and took my hands between her aged but strong ones. “I’ve been having Foretellings. I will spare you the exact symbolism since you wouldn’t understand it anyway, but I will tell you this: I have Foreseen the same basic configuration for several nights now, and you,” she made a thick slash with her finger through the air, “have been at the center of it every single time.”
“I see,” I told her, although I didn’t.
“Do you think I enjoy dreaming about you and your tangled dramas every single night, young lady?” She poked me with an aged but steady finger. “Well, I don’t.”
Tangled dramas? Me? “Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Mrs. Alice? Is there someone you want me to call?”
She tapped her lilac colored fingernails against her china cup in time with the shop’s grandfather clock. I had the uncomfortable twin sensations of time running out and being scrutinized like something about to be dissected. “Foretellings are difficult,” Mrs. Alice said at last. “Not having them, mind you.” She looked at me sadly and tapped her forehead. “I have to decide which are safe to tell and which are not.”
I frowned. “That’s not fair. If you’re having visions about me, shouldn’t you tell me everything?”
She snorted. “Spoken like a modern young person. They are Foretellings, not visions.” I scowled. I didn’t care about the finer points. “Which makes them both more fluid and more volatile. Tell you too little, and I don’t give you the information you need. Tell you too much, and I influence the outcome.”
“I don’t understand,” I admitted, setting my tea down untouched. “Can you at least tell me what numerology has to with it, and what I’m in the middle of?”
Mrs. Alice had looked roughly the same age for as long as I could remember: over sixty but under ancient. For the first time, she looked tired. Worn out, even. “All of it,” she said heavily. “You are at the center of all of it.”
Well, that was massively unhelpful.
She smiled a little, as if sensing my frustration. “Your sleep has been disturbed.” It wasn’t a question. How had she known? “It will only get worse, I’m afraid.”
My throat was suddenly dry enough to tempt me into drinking cold tea. “I’m sleeping well enough. I’m getting enough rest. It’s just that I have these dreams.” Loose tea coagulated at the bottom of my cup. Was my future down there? Could Mrs. Alice tell me what it was? “Actually, it’s just this one dream,” I heard myself say. “There’s a boy. He’s like me. Of gifted blood, I mean. I was sick, really sick, in my dream.” She watched like I was her favorite soap opera. “I think I was dying, Mrs. Alice. I really do. He stopped it. Just like that.”
“It’s good he was there, then,” she said. “But now you’re worried. Who is this boy, and should you trust him? What would your brother or protector say?”
“Protector?” I repeated. “What does Asheroth have to do with it?”
Mrs. Alice looked at me like I was too stupid to draw breath. “I meant Ethan, dear. Don’t think that just because he gave up his powers he also gave up the post. In my Foretelling,” she continued smoothly, as if I had never spoken, “you are linked with two other souls. You are always caught between things. Worlds, forces, places.” She leaned forward, her voice Hollywood husky. “Young men.”
I spewed out my tea.
“Three is a volatile grouping, my dear. Never balanced.” She patted my tea-soaked knee. “Which is why you need my womanly guidance.”
My face flamed; I searched for an excuse, no matter how implausible, to escape the pit of humiliation I had so blithely skipped into. “I have to… go wash my cat… now.”
Mrs. Alice ignored me. “You have no sisters. Your mother and grandmother have long since passed from this world. Were you a witch, you would have an entire coven to enlighten you about the mysteries of womanhood. But don’t worry. You have me, my dear.”
Please, God, let me die, I begged as cold tea seeped into my jeans.
“I, uh, already know about…” I gagged. “Those things, Mrs. Alice. Really, I do.” I eyed the door. If I vaulted over the back of the sofa, I could probably make it. Then the lock turned by itself. Mrs. Alice smiled grimly. For the first time in my life, she really did look like a dark witch.
She still wasn’t done with me when the lock turned again. Mrs. Alice’s great-granddaughter Cassandra burst into the store. She took one look at my wide, panicked eyes and her heart-shaped face contorted with fury. “Grand’Mere, tell me you didn’t.”
“The child has no female relatives,” my torturer said defensively.
Cassandra turned several interesting shades of scarlet. “The child? Caspia is nearly my age, Grand’Mere!”
“Exactly my point,” Mrs. Alice sniffed.
“Caspia.” Cassandra slipped up beside me, wrapping her hand protectively around my forearm. “Tell me she didn’t have the ‘mysteries of womanhood’ conversation with you.”
“She did,” I whispered. “It was terrible.”
“Oh, sweet Goddess,” Cassandra moaned.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Mrs. Alice snapped. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“You underestimate the force of your personality, Grand’Mere,” Cassandra looked at me sympathetically. “I was coming in to start my shift early. But now I’m going to have to exercise some damage control.”
“So you won’t be working today?” Mrs. Alice asked, less surprised than I would have expected.
“Like you didn’t know already.” Her great-granddaughter rolled her eyes. “She’s got more than a touch of the Sight, you know,” Cassandra stage-whispered. “Probably planned this whole thing right down to the rescue.”
“Sss…sso she really can see the future?” I asked, terrified all over again, remembering Mrs. Alice’s Foretelling.
“You’ve scared her into stuttering.” Cassandra shot Mrs. Alice a dirty look before marching me out of the store.
I had never really liked Cassandra Blackwood. With her billowy skirts, waist-length blond hair, and profoundly New Age ideals, she always struck me as a privileged neo-hippie. That was before I’d discovered she was a member of the most powerful family of witches in Whitfield. Now that she’d rescued me from her great-grandmother and proceeded to pour strong red wine down my throat, I was ready to erect a shrine in her honor.
I hadn’t known there were different kinds of witches, either. We talked about the different kinds as Abigail sniffed her suspiciously. Cassandra called herself an Elemental with an affinity for earth. “That explains the patchouli,” I said, after one and a half bottles of wine. “And the dolphin music.” The words were already out before I realized I might have offen
ded her. We stared at each other for a loaded minute before exploding into drunken giggles.
“I guess it does,” Cassandra sighed. “Grand’Mere thinks a lot of you, Caspia. She meant well. But at a hundred and ten, she’s a little out of touch sometimes. I’m sorry.” She crooked her index finger at a gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream. It flew three feet across the floor to rest right in front of us. She’d kept it in her backpack along with the wine, and it hadn’t melted all day. “We need more wine.”
“Yes we do,” I seconded. “Because I thought you said one hundred and ten. Mrs. Alice is eighty. That means I’ve had too much to drink, or not enough.”
Cassandra snorted. “Eighty. Hah. She wishes.” I watched as her backpack unzipped itself and a fresh bottle rolled out. A gold foil box of chocolates followed. Abigail, hiding under the couch, decided to attack it. “So. Did she talk to you about what happens when mortals and immortals…”
“Please, Cassandra,” I slurred. “No more. Not after that bizarre ‘Foretelling’ of your great-grandmother’s.” I sketched phantom quote marks in the air. “I can’t handle it.”
The bottle froze between us, hanging suspended in the air. “Grand’Mere had a Foretelling?” For someone on her second bottle of wine, she sounded remarkably alert.
“Mmm-hmm. Something about linked souls, and intimacy, and…” I could actually feel myself blushing. “It doesn’t matter because it made no sense and it’s not going to come true anyway.”
“If you say so,” Cassandra said doubtfully. Sighing, she pushed the bottle my way. “You need some more wine.”
“Definitely,” I agreed, sure my face was tomato red. We pushed the bottle through the air between us. I giggled to see it floating through space. Poor Abigail inched out from under the sofa to bat at it longingly.
