by Ashley McLeo
“Don’t get used to the view. No matter what the papers say, you won’t be enjoying it long,” a snide voice hissed from behind.
Selma let out a yip and whirled about.
There, in a chair on the opposite side of the enormous room, sat Vivienne. She looked as if she’d been up all night, her honey-colored hair a mess, and the bluish circles under her eyes undisguised by the makeup she usually wore.
Selma’s heartbeat kicked into high-gear and she backed into the glass as she took in the gun glinting in Vivienne’s hand. Her magic sprang to life, ready to defend her should she need it—which she really hoped she didn’t. A unassuming man was one thing, but contending with a homicidal woman was a feat completely foreign to Selma. That and something, a sensation she’d never experienced was niggling at her—speaking to her as if through fog—telling her magic wasn’t the way out this time. So, instead of letting her magic flow, she tightened her control on it, pushed it down a bit, determined to handle this another way.
“Yes. Please make my life easier and jump out the window,” Vivienne snarled. She stood up and drew closer, her hard eyes never leaving Selma.
“God, this room reeks of my husband. How much did he give you to buy yourself something?”
Selma’s mouth fell open, and a stutter that didn’t seem to belong to her emanated from it.
“Don’t tell me you thought he only did that for you? It’s Andrew’s signature to pay off his whores with shopping sprees.” Vivienne’s eyes snapped to the bags on the floor and a cold smile crept over her lips. “However, I will say he has never given a whore quite so much money, but then, I knew you were a threat—a real contender—from the moment I saw you.”
Selma shifted to the right, hoping to put something between her and the gun shaking in Vivienne’s hands; its trembling barrel the only indication that Vivienne was not completely in control of her emotions.
“Stop.” Vivienne lifted the gun and Selma paused, one foot hovering above the ground.
“Vivienne. You don’t want to do this. You—”
“We have kids . . . Brady and Ava.” She glanced at the ground and her cheeks flushed slightly, perhaps embarrassed she’d opened herself up to Selma in a way she did not condone. A second later, however, she resumed her stiff stance. “I kept them home from school today so they don’t hear daddy finally did it and left our family for a whore. Though, I’m sure they’ll find out soon enough. Perhaps I’m being naive protecting them from it. Andrew is not the first man to leave his family for a woman like you.” She snorted. “Hell, he’s not even the first man to leave his family for you. Are you aware three of my acquaintances husbands have also abandoned their families claiming they love you for some inexplicable reason?”
A mix of sympathy and guilt blossomed in Selma’s chest at the mention of children. Children of a broken home. Homes. A vision of Leonard rose in her mind. She cringed and without even realizing it, loosened her hold on her power. How many other men had left their families hoping to pursue her because she’d wanted to make Andrew jealous? To hurt him as he’d hurt her? And for what? All because she couldn’t control her power—and hence herself—when she was around him? Memories of the night before came rushing back, fear putting a different spin on them. Why had she stupidly given herself over to Andrew and forgotten everything he’d done to hurt her? Lust?
No, that can’t be. I’ve always been able to control my lust . . .
“What am I supposed to do when my husband leaves me?” Vivienne’s remark stopped Selma’s introspection short. “He’s no doubt already hired the best lawyers. He made me sign a prenup, you know? When we got together the proposed alimony seemed like so much money. Now, it’s practically nothing. I’ll never be able to live off it. Will I lose Brady and Ava? Only get to see them occasionally?” Vivienne gesticulated and the gun’s barrel pointed straight at Selma.
She jumped at the motion, the metallic scent of Vivienne’s gun wafting into her nostrils and solidifying the moment. “I’m sorry about your children, but as for your financial circumstance I suppose you could get a job?” She didn’t mean to sound trite, though of course it came off that way. She cursed herself. How else could it come off?
“Right, a job.” Vivienne sneered. “Because I’ll be welcomed back into my old law firm after having kids and taking a decade off to raise them. Andrew insisted he’d take care of everything so I could be with them. You know he wanted our children more than I did? I didn’t want to give up my career, but I wanted him, so here I am.” She waved a hand in front of her perfectly toned body. “A shelved trophy wife. All because some little señorita couldn’t stop making a spectacle of herself.”
Selma gaped, but she couldn’t deny it. Vivienne’s accusations were true. Heat flushed her face and her eyes dropped to the ground, as her opponents words sank in. Not a second later, a gunshot rang through the room. Selma jumped back as the bullet ripped through the carpet, inches from her feet. Instinctively, her magic roared, but something—an intuition that spoke in her mamá’s voice—insisted she push it down, that they could handle this another way. The sensation was so overwhelming she complied, and hoped that whatever it was telling her not to use her magic, wasn’t wrong.
“Don’t you dare take your eyes off me,” Vivienne hissed. “You shamed me in front of everyone I know. Do you know how long a reputation takes to build in this city?” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, of course you don’t. You simply come in and take what someone else has already built. Now that you’ve taken everything I’ve worked for—my entire life—give me a reason I shouldn’t take yours? Or perhaps I should start by planting a bullet in that perfect skin of yours? I doubt anyone would find that beautiful.”
Selma’s mouth opened and shut soundlessly as she searched for a reason. A reason Vivienne would take as valid not to shoot her. A reason that would allow this to end without bloodshed or Selma manipulating Vivienne forcibly with magic. Her mind raced as fast as her heart and after several frantic beats, her stomach dropped. She couldn’t come up with a single reason she would accept if she were Vivienne, a woman whose pride matched her own.
“I can’t, but that doesn’t mean you have to—”
Vivienne’s hands shook as she pulled the trigger again. A bang sounded through the room and an acrid, metallic scent filled the air.
Selma screamed as a bullet ripped the soft flesh of her upper thigh. Her magic seared through her, unstoppable and bolstered by an adrenaline surge the likes of which Selma had never felt. Hot blood welled and spilled down her leg but did not gush violently as she’d seen in movies. The shot was superficial. “You shot me!”
“Of course I did! Just because Andrew is used to getting everything he wants doesn’t mean I have to roll over and take it. Especially not anymore. Unfortunately, I’m a poor shot. I was aiming for the part of you my husband loves most.” Vivienne aimed for Selma’s groin.
Selma shuffled to the side, ignoring the pain setting the nerves of her leg on fire. Knowing she’d been stupid to think this could be handled without her power; that Vivienne would do her best not to miss again. Despite the niggling in the back of her mind, telling her to hold back, Selma sprang into offense. Now, she commanded and her magic leapt off her skin faster than ever before. It was an unusual mix of hormones, a combination different from what her magic normally produced around women, potent and dangerous. Then again, she’d never had a homicidal woman to contend with.
Vivienne stood up straight and sniffed the air. Unlike most people, she seemed aware of the change in atmosphere when it was directed at her.
More, Selma commanded, ignoring the instinct telling her to stop while gripping her thigh tightly to staunch the flow of blood. Selma unleashed her magic, letting it do as it would to save her. Bucket loads of testosterone leapt off her. She stepped toward Vivienne, feeling the power over the woman who seconds ago had the upper hand.
Then, inexplicably, a shift—in being, in consciousness—stole her breath. She gasped.<
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A weightlessness, a sensation of flying and releasing all control wove through her mind and body. She was boundlessly free and desirous of power. Not only desirous, she deserved power. Deserved to be seen for what she was, a force of nature, someone to be reckoned with. Deserved to take what she wanted and show Vivienne all she could do. Deep within that hidden place where her power resided, a new type of magic rose, a variant she’d never experienced before. And there wasn’t room for both within her. More rapidly than her familiar magic had ever worked, this new power wound its way through her heart and mind, clouding them, trying to take over. Bliss exploded within her, and Selma opened her hands, ready to give in.
Suddenly, Vivienne groaned—a deep, guttural sound—and somehow, Selma registered the noise. She opened her eyes, which she hadn’t even realized she closed, and saw the magic visibly swirling all around her. How it crawled through the room like insidious smoke, taking over everyone in its wake.
Including her.
Fear sliced through Selma and she shook her head, clearing it slightly, and regaining only a tenuous string of control.
The truth—that she could fall into oblivion at her magic’s behest—dawned on her. What was worse, the sensations she was experiencing weren’t new. Stronger than ever before, yes, but not new. Previously, they’d been mere jitters, easily mistaken for drinking excessive coffee or nerves. Now the jitters had grown and adrenaline and hormones raced through her, pushing her toward a euphoria most would embrace. Euphoria she’d almost embraced. She’d been losing control for months and not known, not cared to acknowledge it. She’d been a siren falling down the rabbit hole of madness. Fear struck her heart and her mamá’s warning, long brushed off as superstitious nonsense came rushing back.
“If a siren puts too many men in her thrall it is inevitable she becomes unreasonable, power hungry, and perhaps even mad. If that happens there is rarely a return to normalcy.”
As if in confirmation of this truth, a siren song leaked through her lips, louder and stronger than Selma had ever produced. One that she was, in fact, not producing, at least not consciously. Her magic was wrestling for full control now. A control she sensed she’d never get back. This was it, the moment she slipped or remained sane.
Dios mio, I must control it.
In response to her thought, like a rebellious child the song rose, ethereal, commanding. Climbing higher and higher it flew from her lips, like a choir of angels from the center of Selma’s being. She wrestled with it, coaxing it to calm, to pull it back ever so slightly. Sweat dripped from her temples and between notes Selma gulped for breath and prayed she could hold on.
“What is that? What are you?” Vivienne asked her eyes wide, severely clouded over, and body shaking violently. She turned as if to make an exit but Selma’s magic, sensing its prey’s retreat surged forth. Vivienne made it only two steps before her mouth went slack and she fell to the ground, unconscious.
Tears streamed down Selma’s cheeks as her power unspooled and she attempted to yank it back deep inside her, to fight for her sanity. Still, the song climbed, unstoppable. Selma’s vision blurred, and she knew her eyes were growing hazy, like the many she’d enchanted over the past months, each a stepping stone to this moment. Clenching her fists Selma battled the rapturous sensation of giving herself over to her magic, the freedom, the sheer joy.
No one had ever said madness would feel so good.
Each breath was forced, agony and ecstasy combined. Selma was climbing toward a magnificent climax she never wanted to reach. She tugged her magic back, coughing and sputtering mid-note and her magic surged forward again, progressing the song, less ethereal now, even stuttering, but still marching strongly on. She was nearly there, at the crescendo of her magic’s range, a single note from being completely gone when Selma, with nothing short of a gargantuan effort, wrenched her magic back, deep into that unknown place and clenched her entire body, closing off everything she could, stifling the song.
A second passed, soundless. Then two, three, and ten more.
Her lungs grew hot and burned but the fear of what would escape when she opened her mouth was stronger. Selma kept her mouth shut until she couldn’t any longer. Finally, she opened her mouth, and gasped.
Nothing. She blinked and her vision cleared, pulling back from the brink of full on madness.
Vivienne twitched.
A single, weak heartbeat, and Selma fell to the ground next to her.
Walk of Shame
She bandaged her leg as best she could, but no matter how many swathes of cloth padded the bullet wound, it wouldn’t hide her limp. As Selma crept into the lobby she felt many eyes latch onto her: hotel employees sneering at her disarrayed state; wealthy travelers wondering how she got in The Plaza at all; a wedding party in the middle of photos. They all stared and Selma could understand why. She hadn’t bothered cleaning herself up when she’d left Vivienne on the floor of her room, knocked out, sleeping off the effect of Selma’s magic. She’d simply bandaged her leg and thrown on a dark pair of loose pants to hide the poorly wrapped bandage and blood as best she could. The rest could wait. She’d needed to get out of there. The revelation that she’d gone too far had sparked an immediate desire for help.
Selma blinked back the memories. A wound she could handle, it would heal and disappear, but those aquamarine eyes would haunt her forever. Just like Vivienne’s accusations. Her stomach spasmed at the thought of ruining so many people’s lives, but that was nothing to her stubbornly oblivious actions. It shamed Selma to think she hadn’t even noticed the madness creeping in, its subtle influence on how she reacted and saw the world. She’d thought she was in control, deftly outmaneuvering it when it acted up, not feeding it exactly what it wanted but doling it out at times that suited her best. What a fool she’d been. Her magic had always been there, lying in wait for her weaker moments and quietly capitalizing on them, until she very nearly slipped into its cocoon of madness.
“Hey, Selma. Can I give you a hand?” A man’s voice rang out like a bell.
Selma glanced up from the floor. Richard was feet away, his eyes running over her with concern. “I’m fine,” she said, hobbling away, not wanting him to see her as she was, to put distance between them. As if scheming against her, a second later her body betrayed her, and her knees gave out.
“Uh, no. You’re not. Here, put your arm around me.” Rich smoothly sidled up next to her and maneuvered her arm around his broad shoulders for support.
“Mind if I ask what happened? You weren’t limping when I saw you a half hour ago.” He glanced down at the bulge of makeshift bandages on her thigh. “Did you cut your thigh? I could take a look, you know. I’m ex-military, I’ve seen a few wounds.”
“No!” Selma cried, then pulling herself together slightly and taking control of the waver in her voice added, “I’ll be fine to wait until a doctor sees to it.”
Richard shot her a curious glance. “OK. No problem, let’s get you a cab to the hospital.”
Selma nodded, though in reality she had no intention of going to a hospital. Hospitals asked questions and the wound was clearly inflicted by a gunshot. She wanted this over—all of it—no questions asked.
Richard assisted her to the cab line, lowered her on a bench, and called the cab up. When one was close enough, he picked her up and placed her in the cab. “Please, call the hotel bar when you get there. I won’t be able to concentrate until I know you’re OK.” Rich handed her a card and shut the door, waving a small wave before turning to head back to the bar.
“Where you heading, Miss?” the cabbie asked.
“Brooklyn.” Selma shoved her hand into her purse, the only item she’d brought with her. “Let me get the address for you.”
“A real step down from The Plaza, eh?” The cabbie snorted when they arrived.
There was no doubt about it—the rare single family home before them was a disaster. Selma hoped it was under a strong enchantment. Or even that she was in the wrong
spot, because the boarded up windows, peeling paint, and leaning front porch did not instill confidence that anyone inside would be capable of healing her leg, let alone help her regain true control of her magic. She paid the cab driver, who peeled out as if he couldn’t wait to leave the neighborhood. Selma limped through the iron gates and up the cracked stone walkway overgrown with moss. The steps creaked beneath her and Selma winced as she put weight on her injured leg. The front door bore an ominous sign warning intruders of an attack dog. She knocked. Footsteps—light and hurried—sounded inside the house, and the door creaked open.
Selma tilted her head. No one was there.
“Down here, girl. You must be the siren. We’ve been waiting for you.” A creature no more than three feet tall with a long, needle-like nose protruding from a heavy skull waved up at her.
“Thank you?” Selma’s voice rose into a question rather than a statement, and she stepped inside trying her best to examine the creature covertly.
“I’m Griselda, half elf, half leprechaun. Don’t worry, no one can ever place me. You’ll be seeing me around if you stay. I’m a member of The Sisters of Salem but I don’t get out of the house much. Unlike you, I don’t blend in well.”
“Selma. Is Mary still here?”
Griselda nodded and her pointed ears flopped with the motion. “Extended her trip a couple days. She was hoping you’d want to stop by.” Griselda raised two bushy eyebrows. “Let me show you the way.”
Inside the home differed greatly from the outside. Polished wood, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and gold framed portraits of various supernatural creatures lined the hallway. The scent of roasting meat hung in the air and Selma realized the coven must be having an early dinner.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt the coven meal. If you’d like to finish, I can wait out here” Selma’s face burned. Mamá would have killed her if she knew Selma was walking in on what equated to a family meal unannounced.
