Magic Flame (Enchanted Book 3)

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “He’s a really good security guard,” the boy told her.

  Donovan ruffled Payson’s hair. “You tell her. We men need to stick together. I’ll be back in a couple days. Take care of your mom and sister.”

  The kid nodded with a serious expression and then he ran off with his flying dinosaur.

  When Payson’s happy squeals had faded in the hallway of the women’s shelter, Donovan grabbed Allie, pulling her into his arms. “Hey you! I haven’t seen you for hours.” He dropped a kiss on her mouth.

  “I know. I worked through lunch, and I still ended up leaving late.” She snuggled up to his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Mmm. Missed you.”

  “You are the hardest working rich girl, I know.” He kissed the top of her head. Donovan couldn’t seem to get enough of her. He’d even got a matching tattoo to hers—only his said “Love Heals.” It had paid in sexual dividends. She’d called it “romantic.” Not bad for a war demigod. It was probably as close to romance as he’d ever get. That and he bought her lingerie. Those were typically more for him too, though. Luckily, Allie counted it.

  “Somebody’s got to pay for your expensive habits,” she said. He could feel the draw on his energy from her. Long days left her depleted, but being able to help her was like winning on the battlefield. She made him feel like a hero every day.

  “What habits would those be?”

  “Sleeping with rich women who like nice cars.”

  “I only did that once.”

  She snorted. “I guess this morning wasn’t as memorable as I’d hoped. When you include the very dirty shower…”

  He pinched her ass. “I mean with one woman. At least since I’m volunteering my days here, the anonymous benefactor who ponies up for your salary won’t have to pay me. I jokingly told Rob that I’d just collect my salary in bed from that benefactor and he looked horrified. I thought, uhh, it was common knowledge that it was you. Sorry.”

  She banged her head lightly against his shoulder. “No. And probably not the right thing to say to a guy who runs a shelter for women who’ve been victimized.”

  “Yes, well, he doesn’t think of you as a victim if that helps. Though you might. He’s planning on doing more outreach for Christmas, and he’s handing his list directly to his own personal Santa now.”

  Allie groaned. “See! This is why I have to work so hard. The men in my life think I should spend an equal amount on them as I do on purses.”

  “I noticed that new purse.”

  “Not a word, Blabby McBlabberson!”

  “I was going to say it’s really sexy… for a purse.”

  “Oh.” His sexy demigoddess sunk deeper into him and her energy became a content hum buzzing through his body. Mmm. Somedays, he really was good for her. Hard to believe, but true. She looked up at him. “I got an email today from the Slone boys.”

  Donovan scowled.

  Allie grinned. “Stop it. You can’t still hold it against them that they warned me about you.”

  “I can.” His life was pretty damn perfect right now. He had a nine-to-five job three days a week doing security, and he watched over the women’s center as a volunteer guard two days a week. Then, he went home to the perfect woman, with a fridge full of already prepared food—made by a grandmotherly woman who’d come to adore him and now left chocolate cake regularly. His brand-new wife had a luscious ass and could kick his while sparring. Donovan had even come to be okay with living in Portland. What more could a guy want?

  And, the Slone boys might have ruined it all for him. Of course, he’d nearly ruined it all for himself, but he chose to ignore that.

  “What if I told you their warning only furthered my resolve to have you because I’m contrary?”

  It didn’t sound so farfetched actually. That sounded like his wife. “Fine. We can send them a Christmas card.”

  “One of the Mrs. Slones is expecting.”

  “Death or Healing?”

  “Healing. Death is still trying to work up from tarantulas to humans. She’s had her tarantula Harry for four months now, but she’s still leery of killing it. I guess, once you’ve killed enough plants and small pets, moving up to a baby might take some time.”

  “She named her tarantula Harry?”

  “I know. It’s too on-the-nose, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I now have two or three dinosaurs named after me roaming the halls here so I probably can’t say.”

  Standing on her tiptoes, Allie kissed his chin. “I’ll still take the original. Shall we go home?”

  “Will you drive under ninety on city streets?”

  “Oh, for you, princess, I’ll take it down to fifty.”

  “Because you’re not allowed to use your powers to charm your way out of a ticket.”

  “That hardly ever happens.”

  He pressed a kiss on her pouting mouth. “C’mon, Allie, let’s go home.”

  ABOUT WENDY SPARROW

  Writing is in Wendy’s blood as are equal parts of Mountain Dew and chocolate. Wendy has been telling tales since she was a child with varying amounts of success. Her parents clearly anticipated her forays into the paranormal because she heard “The Boy Who Cried Wolf’ over and over. After a childhood spent traveling the world that rolled into her teenage years, she put down roots in Washington State where she lives with a wonderful husband, two quirky kids, and a dog that tries to chew everything. Wendy is active in the OCD and Autism communities and posts on her blog and Twitter to promote awareness in both. In order to avoid cleaning, she usually hides on Twitter where she’ll talk to anyone who talks to her and occasionally just to herself.

  EM SHOTWELL

  THESE RESTING BONES

  “How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery!”

  - Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

  Chapter One

  The surface of the desk was cool against the scorching flesh of my cheek, and I imagined billowing tendrils of steam rising from the contact—like when you place a hot pan into a sink of dishwater. Squeezing my eyes closed, I thought invisible thoughts.

  The idea of fielding questions and rude comments from people who’d received the email with the pictures made my already queasy stomach lurch and churn. It was humiliating, slinking back into class with my head down like I’d done something wrong, when the only thing I’d done was trust the person I was sleeping with.

  Well, he’d sure screwed me.

  Even with my head bowed and eyes closed, I couldn’t escape judgment as the girl behind me snickered while her friend whispered what I imagined were crude, mean things. As if they were so much better. As if they had never taken a sexy pic for someone. God. I pulled my bulky jacket tight around myself even though the old air conditioner couldn’t keep up with the New Orleans heat wave, and beads of sweat collected across my forehead, dampening my bangs. I should have known better. My entire life I’d been reminded that Murphey women couldn’t trust men. It was part of the family curse. A curse that had ruined Mama’s life and shaken my older sisters to their core. But I hadn’t been looking for love. I’d been having a good time with someone I cared about, and who I thought cared about me.

  Coming back to class had been a mistake, I realized. I should’ve dropped—but I’d worked so hard, and my oldest sister Cheyanne had pulled a lot of strings to get me the scholarships that allowed me to come to college. My grades in high school had not exactly been brag worthy, I’d graduated by the skin of my teeth. I felt I owed it to Cheyanne to not drop out. I’d only taken twelve hours this semester, the minimum for the full-time status required for my scholarship, so if I dropped even one class I’d lose everything.

  Not that Cheyanne knew what happened, nor could I ever tell her. She would be furious and charge into battle, ripping off heads with her fierceness and slicing open hearts with her sharp words. Or at least that’s what she would’ve done before the accident. Now, I imagined she
’d giggle as she tried to literally rip off Jonathan’s head.

  My other sister, March, would support my feelings with her quiet strength and level head. Together they’d be there for me—but for some effed-up reason that I am sure probably has a diagnosable name in a psych textbook—this realization made me feel worse. So I suffered quietly and alone as I returned to school.

  Thankfully the Geology 101 classroom was one of the larger ones, not the huge auditorium, but big enough that I hadn’t had a real conversation with any of the other students except Blaine. Even though I knew it was impossible because the email had gone out to the entire freshman class, the room was large and anonymous enough that I could pretend I was invisible—just squeeze my eyes closed and imagine I blended in—that the darting eyes and whispers had nothing to do with me.

  If I was Cheyanne, I’d have walked in, head high, and made eye contact with each person who tried to shame me, telling them to go screw themselves, relishing the attention. If I was March, I’d have strode to the front of the room and confronted the man who’d hurt me, calling out his misogyny and rallying the women in my class to stick together against such a creep.

  But I was neither confident like Cheyanne nor steadfast and sure like Marchland. I was only me, and I’d never felt smaller.

  Through all of the noise and rows of students in front of me, I still could tell the minute he looked my way. His eyes slid over my skin like oil, wet and slow and unwelcome. His stare clogged my pores and constricted my breath, and I felt as if a band were tightening around my lungs. I told myself not to look up, but as the tiny hairs on my neck began to dance, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I lifted my head. With slightly parted lips, and blameless eyes, he was peering right at me. Bastard. Jonathan Clarkson, TA.

  My ex.

  I narrowed my dark gaze, refusing to drop eye contact despite the way my heart pounded as rage and fear warred in my ribcage.

  Jonathan could say what he wanted. He could apologize but for as long as I lived, he’d never convince me that someone hacked his phone and sent my pics to the entirety of the freshmen class at Crescent City College. I mean, how convenient that it happened the day after our huge fight, when I told him it was over. Did he think I was stupid? Did he care? Lord.

  The corners of his thick lips turned upwards. Smug. Our romance had felt scandalous in the way secret things often do. It was exciting and had burned hot and fast, a blur of lips and hands and secret meetings until I found out there was a reason beyond the college’s anti-fraternization policy we only met in private. Several reasons—each of whom, like me, had been ignorant of the other.

  Only three weeks ago, the thought of Jon’s lips had sent shivers down the length of me, as I’d sat in this same classroom, daydreaming about the things I wanted them to do.

  Now I wanted to punch them. I wanted to pull those lips off his face or wrap them around his head like on the cartoons I’d watched as a child.

  “Shit!’ I yelped, almost jumping out of my skin when someone laid a hand on my shoulder. I’d been caught up in trying to stab Jon with eye daggers.

  “You okay?” The voice was deep, but flat.

  Blaine. If I could call anyone at school a friend, it would be him. His wide brown eyes drew together in concern under his floppy, pecan-colored bangs. A navy beanie hat was snug on his head, even though we wouldn’t need ski caps for months, if at all. Blaine never took it off, even when it was hot as balls outside—which was much of the year in South Louisiana. Our running joke was that he wore it to conceal a massive bald spot.

  I took a sharp breath. “What do you think? Do I seem okay to you?”

  “I told you he was no good.”

  “Shut up, please.” I did not need an I told you so even if it was the truth. What I needed was a time machine. Or to disappear. Or both.

  Blaine leaned over to slide his skateboard under the desk next to me and sat down. “Sorry. That came out wrong. Listen, my offer still stands. I’ll kick his ass.”

  I snorted. Blaine was maybe 130 pounds soaking wet, while Jon worshipped at the altar of CrossFit and would tell anyone who’d listen how he only consumed things eaten during the Paleolithic era. It was super annoying, but it gave him strong muscles and I knew if a fight broke out between him and Blaine, it wouldn’t really be a fight at all.

  Besides, I didn’t need Blaine to fight my battles for me.

  Blaine pulled a dum-dum from his pocket and unwrapped it. He popped it in his mouth, then began to say something—probably snarky—when the professor flipped on his laptop and a power point blinked onto the smart board. In a Pavlovian response, we all shut up. Board on, mouths closed, professor happy, tests easy. We were conditioned as well as any dog.

  Professor Broussard was short, stocky, and tenured. His reputation as an easy A ensured every desk of his one freshman class was always full. Everyone knew he gave the same power points each year, without fail. And everyone knew that as long as you listened and didn’t make trouble, the tests would remain ridiculously easy and multiple choice.

  The loathsome hate I felt for Jonathan boiled over and covered Professor Broussard by way of association. If his class hadn’t been known for being easy I wouldn’t have taken it, and wouldn’t have met Jon. Jon—who wouldn’t have sent naked pictures of me to every damned person in my year at the school and my life wouldn’t be over.

  Professor Broussard rambled on and I listened with closed eyes as he continued to preach about the glories of silt and clay and the Louisiana wetlands. I zoned in and out of the lecture until the sound of shuffling desk and rustling bags told me it was time to leave. I snatched my bag from near my feet and stood, ready to escape into a bathroom stall for a few minutes of judgement-free peace.

  “Ms. Murphey,” Professor Broussard’s voice stopped me in my tracks as whispered laughter and a chorus of smirks and holier-than-thou eyes washed over me. I spun on my heels to face him. “I need to see you in my office today. I have an open hour at five.”

  He held his wire-rimmed glasses in one hand a stack of papers in the other. His expression was even—no smile or frown. Nothing to give away why he wanted to see me… even though he never wanted to meet with any student.

  He saw the pictures. I could feel the hot blush as it colored my cheeks. Doing my best to ignore my classmates, I opened my mouth to speak, but at the last minute only nodded, before pushing through the crowd and bolting from the room.

  “Wait up Brad!” Blaine’s voice cut through the sea of bodies, but I pretended not to hear.

  When he caught up to me, I was steps from the women’s restroom where I planned to lock myself in a stall and sob. But I wasn’t sure the woman’s bathroom would have kept Blaine from following me, anyway, considering he spent his nights in that same bathroom with a mop and toilet brush. Even though his parents had a little sugar cane money, he worked as a janitor to pay for school. He’d probably have barged right on in to make sure I was okay. He was a good friend.

  “He must have seen the pictures,” I whispered, unable to look him in his face. I’d done nothing wrong, so why did I feel so much shame? Tears stung my eyes, and I knew that if I showed any emotion, they’d slip down my cheeks, right there in the hallway, so I kept my eyes straight ahead and my voice even.

  Blaine slung an arm over my shoulders. We were almost the same height, which was average for me, but on the shorter side for him. “Maybe. Or he could just want to talk to you about your absences. You did miss a lot of classwork.”

  With any other teacher, I’d probably have agreed. But Broussard didn’t give a shit. If we came, we passed. If we didn’t, we failed. “I don’t know, Blaine.”

  “Look, I’ll go with you. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Um, he could have seen the email and call me a whore and kick me out of his class. I could go from full time to part time and lose my financial aid. I could have to drop out because of said financial aid and have to sit out a year. I could let down my si
sters.”

  “Or,” Blaine squeezed me as he spoke, “you could tell him your side and get Jonathan kicked out of the classroom. You shouldn’t have to see him every day after what he did to you.”

  I shook my head. Of course I’d considered telling—I would love to get Jonathan fired—but when I’d called him and confronted him, he’d pretended to be apologetic. He said that he was hacked and was so, so sorry.

  And I wasn’t stupid. I knew how things worked. If he said it was an accident—that it wasn’t his fault—then he would get off scot-free. He knew the faculty and I was just a freshman. At best, I would get a lecture on being smart about what I shared through text and that maybe next time I should use good sense. At worst I’d be labeled a tramp who couldn’t keep her clothes on. Either way, it would be my fault. I hadn’t even wanted to send the stupid pics. He’d begged me for two weeks.

  “You don’t get it, Blaine. It won’t matter what I say. It will only make it worse.”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t at least have a chance to tell your side—AKA the right side—of the story. I’ll go with you and stand right there beside you.” He squeezed me again. “But I bet it’s the absence thing. I don’t see Broussard caring one way or another about nudey-pics.”

  I raised my head and looked into his face. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Blaine smiled, the right side of his mouth raising higher than the left in a grin that made him look nine instead of twenty. The stick from a sucker stuck out from between his lips, adding to the illusion. “Of course I’m right. I’ll meet you outside of Broussard’s office. You can do this.”

  “You’ll really go with me?”

  “I always have your back, Bradley. I have to work tonight, so I’ll still be here anyway.” He smiled. “You are stronger than you realize.”

  I wasn’t so sure he was right.