by Stacia Kane
About half an hour later Chess had found two small luck charms—ones she was pleased to note that she identified right away, even though they hadn’t covered all the permutations in class yet, ha!—some house-dedication supplies, and four protection spells, which seemed excessive, but what did she know. Behind them sat another bag, a small red velvet one. Shit. She knew what that probably was.
She glanced toward the bedroom, where Jillian was going through drawers. Jillian would come pick the thing up for her if she asked. And she could ask. She was only eighteen, only a student; she could ask.
Except that asking would make her look like a pussy. Asking would be the kind of thing Jillian might report back, with a sorrowful “I don’t think Cesaria is ready” sort of comment thrown in.
Asking would be like admitting that something was wrong with her. That she was terrified; that she had reason to be terrified. That she wasn’t normal.
So she didn’t ask. She gritted her teeth and reached for the thing. Maybe the gloves would help protect her, maybe they’d form some kind of barrier against—
Or maybe the gloves wouldn’t do a damn thing, or at least not enough. Energy crawled up her arm, greedy sex energy eager to find a home. Someone else’s sex energy, forcing itself upon her, insinuating itself across her skin and down into her belly, lower down, dancing a slow cruel path through her body and making her heart kick in her chest.
That wasn’t just the sex, either. That was panic, the bright painful cry of it in her soul, making her eyes sting. Shit, she couldn’t—couldn’t handle that, couldn’t do it, not in that strange claustrophobic room with its cloying too-warm air. It was too much, too much for her, hard hands on her skin, holding her down, her lungs fighting for oxygen, she had to—
She had to drop the fucking bag, was what she had to do. Her stiff fingers didn’t want to let go for a second; as always, her body betrayed her, wanting more even though it was wrong, wanting more even though it was bad. But finally they obeyed; the bag fell to the carpet with a soft thud, and Chess knelt there for a minute trying to catch her breath, swiping furiously at her damp, stinging eyes with the backs of her wrists. She’d have to touch the thing again to take it into the room and show Jillian, and the last thing she needed was for Jillian to see that anything was bothering her.
It was just a damn sex spell. Lots of people had them, big deal, right? She pressed her hand to her forehead, trying to flatten the furrows she knew were there, rubbing to ease the beginnings of what promised to be a killer headache. Just a stupid fucking sex spell. Nothing more. She was older now, she was a student at Church, in training to be a witch. She could handle a little magic. She could, and she would.
One long deep breath, then another, until they came smooth without catching in her throat. Okay. Fine. She clenched her jaw, got to her feet, and grabbed the bags.
From the closet doorway to the foot of the bed where Jillian had placed a few other items was only maybe fifteen feet. It felt like forever while Chess struggled to keep her expression calm, her chest from heaving. Jillian didn’t look up until Chess reached the pile and dropped the bags just beside it. She’d done it.
Yeah, she’d done it then. Once. What happened next time? Or the time after that? What kind of job was she going to find in the Church where she never had to deal with sex magic, ever?
She couldn’t really think of one unless she wanted to be a Liaiser, and the idea of letting spirits have control over her body, communing with them … the thought made her shudder.
Almost as much as that horrible spell bag had. She was going to have to distract herself somehow, because her heart still pounded and she still heard those distant voices telling her how bad she was, how dirty, how it was her fault, and she didn’t want to hear them. Didn’t want to see those faces in her mind.
Jillian peered at her. “You okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Sure. Of course.” Chess twisted her lips into what she hoped looked like a wry smile. “Sex magic. Kinda gross, is all.”
“Ooh, let’s see.” Jillian dropped to the floor and started digging in the bag. “Wow, they weren’t kidding with this, were they? I wonder who they hired to make it. This doesn’t feel like the normal homemade type of spell.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No, it’s too strong. Here, take off your glove.” Jillian picked up one of the luck charms and held it up, waiting until Chess had stripped off the thin latex to set it in her palm. “See how it feels kind of weak? Close your eyes and really feel it.”
Chess did, her face warming. Of course. Duh. They’d just started this in class a few weeks ago, energy identification. She should have realized … shit, what else might she be missing? She’d read about this, she’d even practiced it, so why hadn’t she tested herself on it as soon as she saw the charm bags? Why hadn’t she thought to check if the energy was the same, if she could identify it?
Because she was chickenshit, that’s why. Because she’d been so worried about that sex spell that she hadn’t even thought of it. Too selfish, too concerned about her little feelings or whatever.
She was never going to get anywhere if she didn’t think more, focus better.
The energy in the luck charm was like the energy lingering in the room, only a little stronger. And … “Is this female? It feels like a woman made it, maybe?”
To her relief, Jillian nodded. “Very good. Probably Mrs. Waring. They had a couple of books on basic spells in the living room, don’t know if you saw them.”
Chess nodded—she had—but again she hadn’t paid attention. Shit. She’d been training for what, three hours, and she was already missing stuff, already fucking up. She couldn’t even blame that on the sex spell, because she hadn’t known it was there or touched it yet when they first arrived. She just hadn’t noted the books, hadn’t thought to feel the energy of the luck charms to see if she could identify it, hadn’t thought of anything worthwhile.
Typical. Did she want to end up giving thirty-dollar blow jobs off the street corner? No. So she needed to get her shit together.
She set the luck charm down. Time for the—for the other one. While Jillian watched. Fuck.
Her hand shook as she picked the sex magic bag up again. Ugh. Yes, she was ready for it this time, braced for it. But she was also gloveless this time. She was opening herself up to it, flexing those energy muscles the Church had been teaching her about, training her to use.
The spell washed over her again, stronger now without the barrier, faster. It roared through her blood thick and dark, gloating as it invaded her body, found her weak spots—so many of them—and prodded them; it found her empty spots—even more of those—and filled them.
Someone else’s sexual energy forced on her, someone else’s arousal slithering over her skin like hands on her body, in her body, pinning her down, covering her mouth so she wouldn’t cry. Laughing at her fear. Laughing as she struggled and tried to make it stop—and she couldn’t, she couldn’t struggle or stop it, because Jillian was watching and Chess was supposed to be getting information from this, learning something. She needed to do it. Needed to show Jillian she could.
Sweat broke out on her forehead, under her arms, and where she wasn’t specifically sweaty she was still damp. Uncomfortable. And uncomfortably aware that Jillian was watching her, that no matter how she might struggle to hide it Jillian knew what was happening to her, what she was feeling.
Ignore it. Ignore Jillian, ignore all of it. Whose magic was this, who—a man, was it a man? It felt male, it felt rough and demanding. Angry, almost. It felt, deep down, frustrated.
Which was a weird thing for sex magic to feel like, wasn’t it, since the point was to end frustration, to satisfy?
Her palm burned where it touched the velvet bag; the rest of her body burned where it didn’t, wanting to be touched itself. It had been a while, so much studying … so much following the rules.
Shit, she did not want to be thinking of that, of any of it. Late
r she could do something about it, if she still wanted to. Now … She gritted her teeth against the dark whispers in her blood, the intrusive lure of what the bag promised, and focused harder. A man. It felt like a man. A man’s energy, a man’s magic. Strong, too. Not strong like one of the Elders, but stronger than the luck charm, certainly.
Her hand shook. She was shaking everywhere, she realized, and she opened her eyes and saw Jillian still watching her, watching her with something in her eyes that Chess didn’t like. The bag fell to the floor.
Instantly cool air swept over her. Well, no, the air wasn’t cooler, her body was cooler. The spell’s created lust—created heat—vanished, leaving her standing there trembling with her hair stuck to the back of her neck and her skin tingling. She swallowed hard against the bile threatening to rise; it felt like her heart had been hooked up to a fucking jumper cable. Her legs were too weak, threatening to give out beneath her. She needed to sit down. No, what she needed was to be alone. She needed cold water on her face, she needed to get out of that room because her breath wasn’t slowing the way it should and red spots exploded in her eyes and she was freaking out, she was losing it, she needed to—
“Having fun, ladies?”
Trent stood in the doorway, grinning like a gambler holding a full house while his gaze raked her up and down. Funny to be almost grateful to see him there, but she was; at least she could focus on how much she hated him even though they’d just met, and hold off the fucking full-scale panic attack threatening to take control of her body any second.
Hatred was better than panic. Hatred was strength, hatred was something she could use. She grabbed it like a drowning woman grabbing a life jacket, and let it burn in her eyes while she glared at him. Yeah, he could maybe report back to an Elder that she hadn’t been very nice to him, and later she’d probably think of that and worry, but at the moment she didn’t give a shit. Let him do it. Better he reported that than tell them she’d gone hysterical.
“Are you all done down there?” Jillian stood up. “I’m sure Gloria wants to go home.”
Trent gave Chess one last knowing look—how she itched to slap that right off his face—and nodded. “We tore up the carpet but the blood’s soaked through. We can’t clean that up, either. But that’s all there is for her to see.”
“Guess that’s the best we can do.” Jillian pulled a camera from her bag and handed it to Chess. “I’m going to go ask Gloria a couple more questions, see if she knows anything about her parents being involved in magic they shouldn’t be. You get some pictures of all this stuff, okay? The bags intact, and then take the ingredients out of each, photograph them, and put them back. Got it?”
Chess nodded.
“Good. Back in a few.”
Trent gave Chess one last smirk—oh, he’d definitely seen what had been happening to her, knew what kind of spell she’d been holding, the bastard—and swept out of the doorway, following Jillian, leaving her finally alone.
Chapter Four
The second Trent’s back disappeared from view Chess got up, stumbling over her own feet in her rush to get to the bathroom. Whether it was okay to use the toilet or anything in there she didn’t know, but it didn’t matter; she didn’t need it.
What she needed was a door she could close and lock behind her. What she needed was a corner to press herself into, a place to make herself small, where she could see into every space and under every counter, and know no one would come in. Shit, she hadn’t had to deal with anything like that since she’d entered the Church, she hadn’t expected it to be so bad.…
She huddled next to the cold porcelain bathtub with her arms wrapped around her knees, curling herself into the tightest ball she could. It was okay, she was okay. It was just magic. It was unpleasant but no one had actually touched her. It hadn’t hurt. She was safe; she was with the Squad and the Squad was Church and they were safe. She was okay. She was, she was okay, and she kept repeating it in her head, reminding herself with every shuddering breath she managed to take until finally the pain in her chest started to ease.
And a new one to take over. Fuck, what was wrong with her? She was okay, it was just some dumb magic, why the hell couldn’t she just deal with it? How was she going to get anywhere if she couldn’t handle a little sex magic?
Her bag sat right next to her, pressed up against her side. Her left hand rested on it, right near the zipper. She could … It wasn’t a good thing to do, no. It wasn’t the right thing to do. She was working, she was supposed to be working, and she’d already messed up by not testing the energy from those bags and comparing them. The Church had given her an opportunity and she was already wasting it.
But … her head hurt and her chest hurt and her mind raced, all those memories she didn’t want swirling around in a kaleidoscope of shit. If she could just make them go away—she needed to make them go away, and she needed to do it fast because Jillian could be back any second and no way was Chess going to let her see that anything was wrong. Not only could it mess things up as far as her work—her future—was concerned, but it was none of Jillian’s damn business, anyway. It was nobody’s business.
But she was working …
Right. Okay, then. She was fine, and she’d be fine on her own, she didn’t need—
Her hands were moving. Without her telling them to, they’d unzipped her bag. While she thought about how fine she was, they were digging around in it; while she thought how she didn’t need it, they’d found the flask she’d bought at a secondhand store on her eighteenth birthday and started unscrewing the top.
Before she could stop them, they raised the flask to her lips and tilted it up. And before she could stop it vodka poured down her throat.
Not a lot. No, definitely not a lot; she did manage to do that, to stop it after she’d swallowed half a mouthful or so. Not even a real shot. It hardly mattered because it wasn’t even a full shot, it was barely more than a sip. Right?
She told herself that was right. She knew it wasn’t.
Fuck! What was the—what was wrong with her, damn it? Even as warmth spread in her stomach and drifted out through her bloodstream, even as her eyes half closed in relief and her head sank back to rest against the wall behind her, she felt it, the shame, the sickness festering deep inside her, the fear of what it meant. Her first day outside of class, her first real work for the Church, and she couldn’t even make it four hours before she was at the flask.
Never again. Okay, she’d done it, but she’d never do it again. Yeah, it was her first day, but it was a grisly ghost murder, and really, most people would be freaked out by that, right? Most people were freaked out just hearing about such things; sure, it had been seventeen years, but people still remembered. They’d always remember. And even if they tried to forget, the Festival still happened every year, the dead still walked the surface for six nights, reminding humanity that they were still there and the Church was still in charge.
So it was perfectly natural that, being faced with two corpses chopped to bits by ghosts, she’d need something to calm her down a bit. Doctors even prescribed a little nip to people who’d had a shock, right?
Right. It was totally understandable. It was totally natural. She’d just never do it again, was all.
Never again. She promised.
With her head somewhat cleared, her body calmed, she glanced around the bathroom. She couldn’t stay in there—she had to get pictures of those spells for Jillian—but she could sit just a few more seconds. And grab some cinnamon candies from her bag, too, because she’d need them. Vodka might not have a specific smell but it certainly smelled of alcohol, and she couldn’t have that.
As she stood up and popped the candy into her mouth her gaze fell on something beside the sink. Another spell, it looked like; well, sure, lots of people kept magic somewhere they’d be likely to see it often and come in contact with it, since most spells relied on physical closeness to work. People kept sleep-safes under their bed or behind the headboard, th
at sort of thing, which—Actually, yeah. Why had the luck charms been in the closet? Why had the sex spell been in the closet?
Chess braced herself and reached out to touch the bag, feeling brave because her mind was still calm enough from the—well, the thing she shouldn’t have done.
A protection charm. Right, because people shaved in bathrooms, maybe? Either way, she felt the difference. If that was Mr. Waring’s energy, which she thought it was, it was definitely not the same as the energy of the person—the man—who’d made the sex spell. No aggression colored this magic, no anger. And hardly any power, either; the man who’d made this might as well have just thrown some cotton balls into the bag, for all the strength it had.
Well, Jillian had said someone else must have been hired to make the sex spell, so no big surprise there, right?
That still didn’t explain why they’d kept the sex spell so far away, though, or why it had felt so angry.
Whatever. Maybe the spell had been too strong for them. Maybe they’d felt the anger somehow, too, and just hadn’t gotten around to tossing the thing. Maybe they liked to fuck in the closet. Probably didn’t matter as far as the case went; probably none of her business.
She rinsed her hands and popped another candy into her mouth, giving herself one last glance in the mirror. Did she look okay? Sober, calm, collected? Yeah, basically, at least she thought she did, so good.
Time to take her pictures and get the hell out of there. The place was starting to make her itch.
J. F. Sebastian’s was one of those chain restaurants that tried to pretend it was fun and high-end, rather than just a yuppie meat market with overpriced drinks and mediocre food. The walls were covered with fifties-style posters and ads; those were actually fun to look at, but aside from them the place basically sucked.
A gang of men in ties stood together near the bar, their eyes following Jillian and Chess as the two women sat down in a booth outside the bar area. The men looked loathsome, like the kind of people Chess would want to slap after ten minutes of hearing about their cars or their expensive belongings or who designed their fucking suits. But they also looked like men, and she wanted to get some stuff out of her head, and the best way to do that—aside from the booze—was to let a man distract her. Maybe … no, she was with Jillian, and Jillian was reporting on her behavior, so it wasn’t the time.
