by Neha Yazmin
He takes a few moments to think it through.
Then he glances briefly at Simone before facing me once more.
“No,” he answers eventually, “nothing strange at all.”
I sigh, disappointed.
“Is there anything else you can think of that might…” I hesitate, unsure how to finish that question. “That might shed light on why Imogen hasn’t been home since Sunday?”
“I honestly can’t.”
I nod and drop my pen and notebook in my bag.
“Thanks for your time,” I mumble as I get to my feet.
Jax and Simone copy me.
Callum is last to rise and he says, “I wish I could help more.”
“Well, if you think of anything – anything at all – do let me know. And the police, of course.”
He nods in agreement.
There’s nothing left to do but to leave his flat.
My heart thumps painfully at that.
What I’d do to spend a few more moments with him…
I hate myself for feeling like this, because I don’t want more time with him to help my search for Imogen.
No.
I want more time with him because I…
I want him.
Shaking my head at myself, I follow the other witches as they make for the front door.
That’s when Callum says my name again.
I spin to face him, heart racing.
“How can I get in touch with you?” he asks in a casual tone.
It’s anything but casual to me!
He wants to be able to keep in touch with me?
To call or text?
Me?
Does he want me, too?
“If I think of something that might help find Imogen?”
“Oh.”
I bet I look just as deflated as I feel.
Lucky for me, Jax and Simone are standing behind me and can’t see how crestfallen I am, can’t see my face losing colour as soon as it probably found some…
“Sorry,” I mumble, “my number is 0798–”
“Hang on,” he interrupts before digging into his jeans pocket to retrieve his phone. “Go on…”
And I recite my number as he keys it into his phone.
Stupidly and humiliatingly, though out of habit, I tack on, “Call me if you ever need my help.”
I groan at myself.
Behind me, Jax or Simone, most likely Jax, makes an exasperated noise.
And Callum, surprisingly, chuckles.
What he’s thinking is loud and clear:
As if I’d ever need your help!
That’s fine, I find myself thinking as I leave his flat. Call me anyway.
Chapter 7
EXHAUSTED, I TURN MY KEY IN THE LOCK OF MY FRONT DOOR AT 11PM.
It’s been a long night and it’ll get even longer.
I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep tonight.
Neither will Simone or Jax.
Jax and I had to bid goodnight to Simone at around 8pm; her parents had called and insisted that she return home as soon as possible.
Of course, she wanted to continue searching the streets for her sister with us for as long as we could, but at the same time, she was wise enough to know that she shouldn’t worry her parents by staying out so late.
They had enough on their plates with one daughter missing.
Jax and I continued to doggedly walk down all the surrounding streets of the Hardy house and Imogen’s studio, moving further and further out, hoping that someone would say they’d seen the missing witch. Seen something.
Unfortunately, none of the pedestrians that we stopped on the street had seen the girl in the photo that we shoved in their faces.
Then there was Jax, insisting every 5 minutes that we’d be able to cover more ground faster if we split up.
She was right of course, but I didn’t feel comfortable letting a 16-year-old roam the streets of London on her own, even though it didn’t get dark until really late.
If there is something sinister behind Imogen’s disappearance then Jax and Simone need my protection when investigating it.
With a tired, heavy sigh, I plop down on my bed and drop my keys on my bedside drawer, absentmindedly flipping close the A-Z that’s lying on it. Half of the book of maps was folded all the way back, so only one page was facing up.
When had I taken that out of the drawer?
I shove the A-Z back in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet, where the last occupier of my rented apartment had left it.
As I stretch out on my bed, a wave of guilt and anguish breaks through me.
Should I still be out there, looking for Imogen?
Yes, it was my idea to call it a night – much to Jax’s protests and annoyance – and it’s true that searching random streets and bars and pubs is useless when we have no leads about Imogen’s whereabouts, but did I give up too soon? I walked home instead of using a transporter spell, eyes scanning my surroundings, just to prolong the searching time, but was it long enough?
My body answers: I find myself jumping to my feet, ready to get back out into the night.
I bend down to reach for my keys and jump again.
My phone.
It’s ringing from inside my bag, which I’d dropped on the floor by the front door.
Probably just Aiden checking in.
No one else would call this late.
Retrieving my phone, I swing my bag over my shoulder and reach for the front doorknob.
When I look at the screen of my phone, I pause, the door half open.
Unknown number.
Not Aiden, then…
“Hello,” I answer tentatively.
I close the door for now.
“Amber?”
My heart does a flip.
Callum…
“Hello, Amber?”
Swallowing, I just about manage a “I’m here” in a rough voice.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I copy.
My brain tells me I need to follow-up with something else, but it can’t think what.
Callum. Callum just called me!
After a short silence, he asks, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, no,” I assure him. “I was up.”
“Good,” he approves. “I mean, I’m glad I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all. So, err, how are you?”
I stifle a groan.
How are you? Really?
I only saw him a few hours ago!
And he’s been on my mind ever since.
Even as I worried about Imogen and frantically combed through the streets of London for any clue about her location, half of my thoughts were occupied by Callum Dent.
Everything green made me think of those startling green eyes.
“I’m not bad,” he murmurs. “I was hoping to talk to you, actually…”
About what? About what?
What I say is, “Okay…”
“Yes. It’s about Imogen.”
“Imogen,” I repeat for no reason.
Then my brain clears up and I grasp what he’s getting at. My questions come out in a rush:
“Has she been in touch? Did you remember something that might help find her? Do you know where she could be?”
“No,” he answers and my stomach feels hollow with disappointment and broken hope. “Nothing new. Something I should’ve told you earlier, but… I couldn’t mention this in front of Simone…”
“I see.”
Something sensitive perhaps?
Something that might hurt Simone to know about?
“Okay, go on,” I prompt when he remains quiet.
“Not over the phone,” he murmurs.
My thoughts spill out of my mouth in a hurry:
“What? Why? What is it?”
“Amber, can we meet?”
“Meet?” I squeak.
Ugh, why did I squeak?
I shake my head at myself.
“I’m in Soho right now,” he informs me. “Will that be too far for you?”
“You want to meet now?” I ask, bewildered.
“Don’t your parents let you out that late?”
“I don’t have parents,” I murmur, voice dropping.
Short pause.
Then he says, “I’m sorry, I–”
“Didn’t know. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I take a deep breath before asking, “This information about Imogen… you can’t tell me over the phone? How come?”
“I can, but–”
He stops abruptly.
“But what?” I demand.
Sure, I’m thrilled by the idea of seeing him, by the fact that he wants to see me, talk to me, but if it’s related to finding Imogen, it’s imperative that he tells me what he knows right away.
And the police.
“Did you speak to the police?” I ask in a strict voice.
“No, no,” he says quietly. “They wouldn’t… it’s not something they’d take particularly seriously.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated,” Callum tells me. “You see, Imogen wasn’t what she seemed. That’s all I can say over the phone.”
My heart thumps once.
He knows.
He knows Imogen’s a witch.
Does that mean he knows what I am?
Who I am?
No, he can’t.
Not who I really am.
“So, will you meet me, Amber? It’s important.”
“If it’s important, then the police–”
“The cops will just laugh at me, Amber,” he groans, impatient.
“What makes you so sure that I won’t laugh at you, too?” I ask with a challenge in my tone.
He hesitates for a few moments.
Eventually, he says, “I’m not hundred percent certain, but I have a feeling that you of all people will… understand.”
The way he said the last word makes me think he knows exactly what I am.
A witch.
Just like Imogen.
But what is he?
He seemed human enough…
Regardless, I have to meet him now, if only to confirm my hunch about him knowing about the supernatural.
To see if he is a part of the supernatural, after all.
“Okay,” I say with some urgency. “Where in Soho are you?”
*
I don’t have to hurry off to Soho straightaway. I’ll use a transporter spell, which will get me to the bar Callum mentioned in a jiffy.
If I get there too quick, it’ll be obvious that I didn’t use a vehicle for the trip.
So, I go and perch on the edge of my bed and decide to call Jax to tell her what’s going on.
I’m not surprised that I hear the sounds of cars and buses when the witch answers her phone.
I groan.
Of course, she went out to look for Imogen again!
I just hope she didn’t convince Simone to sneak out of her house to accompany her.
The other thing that doesn’t surprise me is Jax’s response to what I tell her about Callum’s call.
“I knew it!” she hisses. “He totally looks like the kinda guy that’ll make a dark witch’s pet-slash-minion.”
“If that’s what he is,” I mumble, “he’s showing his hand awfully early…”
“All part of the plan, no doubt,” Jax insists confidently.
And a little smug.
She’d suspected Callum from the start and his comments over the phone do seem to throw a suspicious light on him.
But I can’t tell her that I disagree.
I mean, maybe he’s just a guy that knows about magic and witches – maybe Imogen told him? It doesn’t make him a kidnapper or an accomplice to a crime.
Contrary to what Jax believes, I don’t think Callum looks like the type of guy that will work for a dark witch or wizard.
Can someone that looks like an angel do the devil’s bidding?
“So are you going to meet him?” Jax asks.
Yes. “I’m not sure,” I lie, because I can’t let her know how eager I am to see Callum again. “What do you think?”
I didn’t sound as uncertain as I’d intended.
But it’s fine because Jax reacts as though she hasn’t seen right through:
“Of course you should,” she insists. “And that’ll give me the chance to–”
She cuts off abruptly.
I know what she was going to say, anyway.
What she’s going to do.
What I can’t stop her from doing, now that she knows Callum isn’t home.
In all fairness, I shouldn’t have called and told her about this meeting, because I knew she’d want to sneak into Callum’s flat while he’s out.
Yet, I felt an urge to tell someone that I was going to meet him, like someone has to know where I’m headed.
Although I don’t think Callum is a threat to me, nor do I think he put Imogen in danger, a part of me needed to ensure that at least one person knew what I was up to tonight.
For my own safety.
I’d have called Aiden, but my brother is out of the city right now, and wouldn’t really be able to help me should I find myself in a pickle.
“Just be careful, Jax,” I tell her. “And carry plenty of protection charms.”
“Duh! And keep him busy till I text you to let you know I’m out of his flat.”
“But–”
“And please don’t drool over him this time,” she says in an irritated tone before hanging up on me.
Still, I say, “I didn’t drool!”
Chapter 8
I MUST NOT THINK OF THIS AS A DATE. It’s not a date. Not a date. No, of course not.
But it is me and Callum meeting up alone in a trendy bar in Soho…
Yet, as soon as I enter the crowded venue, I wish I wasn’t alone.
I’m just so nervous.
My throat is suddenly desert-dry, my heart pumping like mad, and I swear my palms are sweating for the first time in my life.
I haven’t even seen him yet!
And this place doesn’t quite look like an establishment one chooses to disclose sensitive information relating to their missing girlfriend.
I mean, it’s packed to the brim!
Should it be so crammed on a Wednesday night?
Crammed like it’s a weekend?
I guess the improving weather has everyone in a mood to stay out late and make the most of the heat while it lasts.
Because, in London, hot weather does not last.
Or is it just feeling hot to me because my body temperature has risen in anticipation of being alone with Callum Dent?
If I could only find him in the crowd…
Where is he?
As if he’s heard me, I feel him behind me.
Well, I feel a presence behind me.
Then a warm breeze stirring my hair.
His breath…
I just know it’s him.
When he says my name in greeting, every hair on my body stands to welcome his arrival, a shiver rippling my entire frame like I’m freezing cold.
I hope it looks like he just frightened me.
As I slowly begin to turn on the spot to face him, he puts one hand on my back and says, “This way.”
I’m wearing the same summery dress from earlier – I thought it’d look a little desperate if I were to change before I met him again – but I’ve pulled on my black leather jacket on top of it as I expected it to be cooler in the night, and yet it feels like he’s touching my skin as he guides me through the mass of people to a sectioned-off area towards the rear of the bar.
Booths.
Private booths.
Seating for just couples line the walls here, and only three of the booths are occupied at the moment.
Callum stops at the booth right in the back corner and slides into the padded leather seat, gesturing for me to take the place opposite him.
&
nbsp; It’s as I sit down and stare ahead that I finally look at his face.
And it’s like seeing him for the first time.
His beauty and sheer presence hit me anew.
Those green eyes smoulder and sparkle in the dim lighting.
The loud music from the bar sounds softer here, like playing a CD at home at a volume that allows conversation to flow perfectly while providing great atmosphere.
Melodic background noise.
I wish I could say it’s calming my pounding heart!
“Thanks for coming, Amber,” says Callum, clasping his hands together on top of the small square table between us.
“Sure,” I mumble, looking down at my own hands clasped together on the table, too.
“Did you find the place okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
He takes a sip of his drink from a tumbler – I think its whiskey.
He’s a bit too young to be into a drink that I associate with older men, isn’t he?
I swallow to moisten my throat. It’s still too dry for fluid conversation.
I’m not a fan of alcohol – it messes with my control over my magic – but my mouth is so dry, my tongue continually sticking to the roof of my mouth, that I contemplate taking a big drag of his whiskey when he’s not looking.
Seemingly noticing my dilemma, Callum says, “Sorry, Amber. I’d have ordered you something, but I don’t know what your poison is…”
You, says my head. You’re my poison.
And my cure.
Melodramatic, I know.
To my outward silence, he assures me that a waitress will be around soon to take my order.
“Cool,” I mumble, swallowing.
“Are you okay, Amber?”
Apologies, but I’m going to be melodramatic again and contemplate just how much I love the sound of my name on his lips.
It sounds so good.
I know he said it at the end of almost every sentence when we spoke on the phone – just to get a reaction out of me, no doubt – but in person, it does the strangest things to me…
I grip my hands tighter together to halt the shivers in their tracks.
But I can’t help a shudder roll through my body as I find myself thinking that maybe he likes saying my name just as much as I adore hearing it in his voice.
“Amber?” he says and it sounds like he’s waiting for me to reply to a question he’s asked.
