by Neha Yazmin
This would never work in the real world, no matter how powerful I am, because that’s not how transporter spells work.
But this is my dream and I am going to try and take control of it.
Take me to where the answers lie…
The air heats up, a sign of my powers working, magic wielding, bending to my will.
A cool breeze…
The scent of grass…
A murmur of voices in the distance…
I open my eyes.
A laugh escapes my lips, more surprise and elation that my spell worked rather than triumph at my success.
I’m at the foot of a steep hill, stone steps protruding out of it. My gaze starts climbing them, up, up, up.
The top of the hill seems to be just one standard flight of stairs up from the ground.
Its night time, but this place is haloed by the big white moon looming above my head.
At the peak of the hill, I see a stone wall, so tall and wide that I can’t see where it ends.
The wall reaches so high that the white clouds in the navy sky swallow its top edge; it’s so wide that I think it’s surrounding an entire country rather than a town or a village.
I lift my skirt and begin to climb up the steps.
Before I know it, I’m at the top of the stairs – convenient how time sometimes speeds up in dreams! – facing a huge black door built into the pale-grey wall.
The door is clearly metal and has intricate, gothic designs carved all over it.
Slowly, the doors begin to open, silent as a whisper.
And they open to a massive ballroom!
Cinderella made it to the ball!
The hall is bright as day, illuminated by the fire-lit torches attached to the walls.
The music is provided by an orchestra at the opposite end of the room – violinists, harpists, women playing the flute and men playing the trumpets.
I don’t recognise the music, but it’s classical and gothic and deep and has a touch of melancholy to it.
Well, that’s what it sounds like to me.
There are couples dancing in tune to the unfamiliar rhythm, the men in black tuxedos and the women all dressed in gowns similar to mine. They’re also donning those elegant gloves that reach their elbows.
I lift my hands to look at them and they’re gloved now, too. Made from suede material, the deep crimson gloves, the same colour as my dress, make my arms look bloody somehow.
Everyone’s having a wonderful time.
It seems I’ve crashed a party!
I scan the room as I slowly enter it, trying to locate a familiar face, but there’s no one I recognise.
Not a single soul is standing alone in some corner of the room, or by the tables laden with food – everyone here is part of a couple and dancing with their partners.
Of course, I’m the only one without a date!
I sigh inwardly. Even in my dreams, I’m single as hell.
Anyway.
I got out of the forest that never was and now I’m in some sort of castle. I bend my head back to appraise the ceiling; it’s cone-shaped, suggesting that this room has a turreted roof.
And the chandelier hanging from chains connected to the pointed ceiling…
Oh my, it’s not dotted with light-bulbs – of course not; this place doesn’t seem to have any electricity or modern technology – or little candles, but rather it’s a huge clay pot housing a fire.
A real fire.
Wow.
Shaking my head at the absurdity, I start lowering my gaze, and that’s when I see him.
The second floor of this building suddenly has a balcony overlooking the ballroom, complete with beautiful black-metal railings at the outer edge.
And leaning on the railings with both hands and looking directly at me is Callum Dent.
When our eyes meet, he gives me a little knowing smile.
I suck in a huge breath.
He looks amazing.
Callum isn’t in a tuxedo or even a suit. He’s wearing the same black trousers as all the other men here have donned tonight, and a white shirt. No bow-tie. No jacket. Even his shirt isn’t tucked in.
Scruffy-smart.
Slowly, he unclasps his hands from the railing and straightens up. Without taking his eyes off me – and therefore not letting my eyes wander away from his gaze – Callum walks around the balcony to the staircase lining the outer edge of this circular room.
As he nears the ground floor, the couples stop dancing, one-by-one, and hold their breaths as they watch his descent.
They seem to be afraid of him and also in awe.
Or maybe I’m just projecting my current emotions onto his guests…
Yes, it’s clear this place belongs to Callum and it’s a party that he has thrown.
Finally, he stops at the bottom of the staircase, eyes still on me.
As though he’s given them unspoken but clear, strict instructions, his guests lower their heads and start exiting the hall.
I’m not sure where they go.
I don’t spot any doors; the one I entered through is behind me, but the partygoers don’t pass me to use that exit.
I guess they just disappear into thin air.
This is, after all, a dream.
My dream.
So, I guess it wasn’t Callum that wordlessly asked everyone to leave us alone, but me.
Unconsciously, that is.
At last, he speaks.
“Amber,” he breathes, barely parting his full, full lips. “You made it to the ball, after all.”
A few long strides of his long legs and he’s standing right in front of me.
The torches along the wall fizzle out, leaving the chandelier – now somehow hovering directly above us, even though I didn’t move to the centre of the room – to illuminate the room.
It has the effect of soft candlelight, or dimmed lights.
Very romantic.
“Yes,” I say with a nod. “But I had no fairy godmother to help me.”
I do a mock-frown.
Callum cocks his head to one side.
“Are you sure about that, Cinderella?” he asks.
Hmm. It feels like he’s referring to my magic. Like my magic was my fairy godmother that helped me get to the ball.
I shake my head to tell him that I don’t know what he’s getting at.
He shakes his head in a ‘never mind’ sort of way.
Then his eyes narrow.
“I must say,” he says as he takes a step closer to me, eyes roaming my dark hair, “I’m not a huge fan of your choice in hair colour. I think you must have looked much better with golden hair. Am I right?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Truth is, I never had golden blonde hair, like Aiden’s.
No, mine was much, much fairer, almost silver.
To be honest, I didn’t think it was the most flattering shade of blonde on me.
“In that case, let me be the judge of that, then.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, bewildered.
He’s talking as though he’s going to compare the new me to the old me.
But I don’t see how…
There’s no way I’m going to conjure up a photograph of me before I dyed my hair black.
The next second, Callum lifts his hand, palm facing me, so that it’s right in front of my face, and moves it from side to side as though he’s waving at me in slow motion.
It’s something you might do if the person you’re talking to seems miles away or deep in thought whilst saying, “Hello! Earth to Jane! Are you with us?”
“Now, that’s much better,” he says approvingly, dropping his hand.
“What is?” I ask, confused.
“See for yourself.”
And he takes a few steps back and looks down at the floor by our feet.
I follow his gaze and–
The marble floor is suddenly so shiny that we can see our reflections on it and–
&nb
sp; I’m blonde again.
But the shade is not the same as the natural hair colour I was born with.
It’s golden, and glossy, and it suits me better than my real hair did.
“What did I tell you?” Callum chuckles, sounding smug.
When I peek up at his face, he looks smug, too.
“You are truly a beautiful creature, Amber,” he half-whispers. Then, closing the distance between us, he asks, “Will you dance with me?”
His hands move to my waist and pull me towards him before sliding to the small of my back.
Automatically, my hands reach for his broad shoulders and we’re dancing the next second.
I’ve never danced like this in my whole life!
Our hands are suddenly where they should be, our feet stepping fluidly across the marble floor, and we move as though we’ve danced with each other our whole lives.
Our eyes remain fixed on each other’s the whole time.
Unlike when I was running in the dark, I tire of dancing rather quickly.
“Callum, I need a break,” I pant. “I’m tired.”
“Sure.”
We stop still, but we don’t let go of each other.
Don’t look away from each other.
“You okay?” he asks, dipping his head to my level.
I nod.
My heart is still pounding away, and I realise the tiredness I feel is from the racing of my heart. Racing because of how close Callum is.
He smiles a small smile before removing his hand from my waist and dropping my hand from his other hand. Then, he puts both his hands on the tops of my bare shoulders and I shudder.
Heat pools on my skin, just beneath where he’s touching me, and when he slides his hands down my arms – my gloves have suddenly disappeared – he leaves a trail of fire in his wake.
An actual trail of fire.
Real fire.
I can see the flames shoot up from my skin and race down my arms, following his hands.
What the hell?
Callum’s features mirror the alarm I feel as he stumbles back a few paces, stunned at what just happened.
He lit me on fire, literally.
The flames reach my fingertips and then extinguish, luckily, and all I feel is the heat they left behind.
My skin looks unharmed.
The fire – did I just imagine that?
“Well,” Callum says, gulping, “that’s never happened before…”
No, I didn’t imagine that.
“What exactly happened just now, Callum?” I ask, reining in my panic.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, stepping closer to me again, eyeing my arms. “I guess… you were so hot you were on fire.”
He smirks.
I scowl.
“Sorry,” he says with a crooked smile, “I couldn’t help it. The opening was there for that line…”
I frown.
“Amber, it’s okay,” he assures me. “You’re fine. You’re safe.”
“Am I?” I ask with a challenge in my tone. “Safe, that is?”
“From me? Yes.”
“How can I believe you? Imogen… Imogen’s dead.”
Callum lowers his head, eyes dropping to his feet, his wide shoulders sagging.
“I know,” he whispers. “I heard. I… I can’t believe it…”
“Callum, I need to know…” But I can’t continue.
I can’t ask him what I need to ask him, not even in my dreams.
“What?” he probes, lifting his head and meeting my anxious gaze. “What, Amber?”
“Imogen… Did you… Did you have anything to do with… her death?”
He fixes a fierce gaze on me. It’s not scary or angry, just intense.
“What do you think?” he asks me in a grave voice.
“I don’t want it to be you,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“But what do you think?” he presses.
“I don’t know what to think…” I mumble.
“Do you trust me?” Callum asks in a soft, hopeful voice.
“I want to…” Again, I couldn’t help but say that.
“Then do that,” he tells me in a passionate voice, grabbing the tops of my arms and looking deep in my eyes. His touch is pure heat; it sears my skin and ignites my blood. “Trust me.”
Then I go up in flames.
Chapter 16
I WAKE IN A PANIC, PATTING MYSELF WITH MY HANDS FRANTICALLY, TRYING TO PUT OUT THE FIRE. The fire that Callum set on me.
When I realise I’m not burning to ashes, and my breathing calms, I start panicking again when I don’t recognise where I am.
My head whips around the room, taking in my surroundings.
A small, boring room.
One table and four chairs, three of them empty.
And a recording device on the–
Oh! I remember now.
I’m at the police station!
Last night’s drama comes flooding back in rapid and sharp flashbacks and sadness wells in my heart.
Imogen is dead.
I couldn’t find her before she died. Couldn’t save her.
And I seem to be the prime suspect in what is looking like a murder case to the police.
I wonder if Carver and his colleague returned to this interview room for more questioning and left me in peace when they saw I was asleep.
As if!
They wouldn’t let a suspect get any kind of rest.
Chances are they got entangled in some urgent business to do with the case.
They need to identify the body and then let the victim’s family know.
They need to contact Callum and question him.
They need to get in touch with Jax to see if she will corroborate my story.
And they also need to get a post-mortem done, to ascertain the cause of death.
It’s probably midday now, or later.
I feel like I’ve slept for hours and hours.
I’ve had a very long dream, that’s for sure!
Yet, I don’t feel rested.
I feel restless.
My thoughts keep flickering back and forth between what I’d dreamt last night and what had actually happened.
Searching the streets of London for the missing witch…
Running in the shadowy darkness.
Drinks with Callum and gaining very little information about how to find Imogen from what he said…
The monsters – demons – creeping out of the blackness and chasing me with bloodlust in their red eyes.
The A-Z hinting at Imogen’s location…
The castle on top of a hill, the ballroom with the silent dancing couples.
Finding Imogen’s body, but none of her blood, in a burnt down bar…
Dancing with Callum Dent after he changed my hair colour to the shade of blonde he wanted to see me in.
Getting questioned over and over by DI Carver about how I became tangled up in this case…
Callum setting my entire body on fire, real fire.
Did all of that really happen during one night?
The absurdity of it all exhausts me and I fold my arms over the table top and lay my head down.
Before I know it, I’m once again fast asleep.
This time, however, I don’t dream at all.
*
I think its late afternoon when DI Carver’s gruff throat-clear wakes me up from a restless sleep.
I didn’t sleep deeply at all, that’s why he woke me so easily.
Groggily, I straighten up in my seat, my body in knots, aching in a way that reminds me of how it aches when I do battle training.
I rub my hands over my face, rub my eyes with the heel of my hand and face Carver and his young colleague.
Exhausted and disoriented, it takes me a while to recognise the expressions on their faces and determine the emotions triggering them.
Shock.
Bewilderment.
Suspicion.
“What?”
I blurt out at their staring, slightly open-mouthed faces.
Shaking his head, Carver says, “I swear you had dark hair. Black hair.” He turns to his companion to ask, “Didn’t she have black hair?”
“Yes, she did…”
“And now… you’re blonde,” Carver says to me, uncertainty in his voice.
Blonde?
I’m blonde now?
What the hell?
As inconspicuously as possible, I conjure up a small mirror that floats behind the officers’ heads.
I stifle a gasp.
They’re right!
I have blonde hair now.
Golden, glossy, just like it was in my dream…
How on earth did that happen? It was just a dream…
Never mind how it happened, snaps a voice in my head, you need to find a way of explaining it to the cops before you!
Think, Amber, think!
First, though, I should get rid of the floating mirror.
“Miss Adams?” Carver says before clearing his throat.
The mirror fades away as I say, “Yes, I did have black hair, last night.”
He shakes his head, confused. “Did…?”
“I was wearing a wig.”
I didn’t sound as nonchalant as I’d hoped.
The cops exchange nervous, perplexed glances, before their eyes start roaming the room, searching for a wig.
“I don’t see no wig,” the young officer murmurs, still looking around the little room.
I reach behind me, saying, “Oh it’s here,” and conjure up a black wig in my hands. “I was using it as a cushion,” I add as I bring the wig around to show them.
I drop it on the table.
Carver’s eyebrows almost reach his hairline. “A cushion?”
I shrug. “This chair wasn’t exactly made for sleeping in…”
Carver and his colleague shake their heads but don’t seem to be able to find anything to say.
I relax in my seat. They have no choice but to believe me – I have a wig right in front of me!
But I could’ve done without the cushion comment. That was silly.
Carver clears his throat and fixes his gaze on me.
“You know, Miss Adams,” he says in a breathy voice. “You are by far the strangest… girl I’ve ever interviewed.”
He wanted to say the strangest murder suspect, I bet.
“You were at a potential crime scene without wearing any shoes,” he continues. “And you use a wig as a cushion.”
