The Companion Witch, page 18
“I was in a desperate situation,” he said finally. “Alphonse helped me.”
“I’m sorry that he’s disappeared,” she said and then slowly added, “If he’s as strong and powerful as you say, I hope that we’ll find him again.”
He nodded. “I don’t worry for Alphonse’s safety.” He dragged his gaze from the fruit bowl up to her eyes. For the first time, he looked tired. He needed about ten years of good sleep. She felt an urge to brush a wayward hair from his face. In fact, her body did it without her realizing it until she was tucking his hair behind his ear. She pulled herself back. Residual thrall, she thought. Surely.
His pale pink lips turned upwards. “It’s funny. I’ve spent the last three centuries running away from my family, never considering how it could make them worry. Seymour would lecture. Rima would reinforce his lecture. Alphonse was rarely home to comment, but he agreed. You can feel that sort of thing. I never bothered to take them seriously. Even when the threats started…I never considered that they weren’t worried if I was dead or alive back then but simply worried.”
“Worried about what?”
His broad shoulders bounced up and down. “What I was doing. What trouble I was getting into. Worried I might need help. Worried, I suppose, like families do.” Her heart throbbed painfully. Quietly. “I don’t think they thought I would die on my adventures. I think they just cared.”
“Like you care about Alphonse?”
He laughed. It was a skin-tingling sound filled with rumbling shadowy promises. “Yes! Isn’t that mad?”
“Obsessions make us do mad things,” she said. Her half-eaten dinner sat in front of her. She could no longer think of eating it. Her stomach protested. Her mind, full of images of her mother, full of Arabella’s worried mutterings. Later, she would devour the leftovers. She’d promised herself that she would grow stronger and she would.
“They do. Don’t they?” His laser eyes homed in on her and he leaned on the table. His shirt fell down. She saw the faint scrape of his wound, a ghostly reminder. Her own wound was turning into an angry scar, her skin not so lucky to be immortal. “And your obsessions?”
“Money, when I first left home,” she replied without a beat. “My obsession certainly isn’t trying to reproduce for a stuffy coven.”
“Not even with a vamp?” he asked with a delectable swivel of his head.
She met his impish stare. “Can you even reproduce?”
“We could find out.” It was half-joking, half-filled with a touch of thrall. She leaned back in her chair and decisively crossed her arms. No matter how badly her hands wanted to dive into his gorgeous hair and wrench his lips onto hers.
“Tell me a story instead,” she said. “Tell me about one of your favorite adventures.” She knew how to make men talk. She knew how to divert their hungry gazes. She knew how to protect herself without breaking a sweat.
And what could he do, but obey a witch’s request?
Chapter 26
Magnus
Magnus flexed his claws in the moonlight. On the back porch of their stormy abode, he wondered when control started slipping between these fingers. How he hated his clawed hands at first. They were awkward when a vampire was born—clunky daggers shredding books by accident, sometimes dresses and trousers on purpose. He learned. He adapted. Now, his touch was calculated.
He remembered the smell of Lulu’s neck and the enchanting pulse of her neck. How his claws begged to touch her. Consume. He sucked in a lazy breath, exhausted by his worry. Angst wasn’t made for beasts like him. His eyes drifted up to the window of Lulu’s room. She was sleeping peacefully after their eventful night. The blue of his pendant, her blue, dimmed when she slept. He touched the stone around his neck, worrying it between his fingers, and remembered Seymour’s question.
“What would you have done if I had not appeared?”
In truth, Magnus didn’t know. His stomach clenched. He wanted the witch. He threw all of his thrall at her, not that she knew. I’m playing, that’s what he told himself. A dark reminder wrapped itself around him. You’re better than this. He swore and kicked an innocent rock into the overgrown grass.
His dalliances and romances with women had been half-hearted. No, three-quarters of a heart. The other quarter he kept because love and vampires rarely worked well. Mortals could have great lovers. Their lifespan limits insisted upon seizing the day. It was no wonder that few vampires took serious mates and when they did, they were usually of an immortal persuasion.
There was the other matter to consider.
He rubbed a burning spot in his chest, feeling his bony sternum. A star flashed through the sky. Like a child, he wished. Hard.
If he changed…
If the careful calculations began tumbling away…
He glared at the stars. He begged them to not let it happen. Don’t let him go down that path. The stone was warm on is cold skin. If Lulu needed to protect herself, he prayed that it was from this unknown enemy and not from Magnus himself.
The stars winked as he trotted back inside the house. He shut the screen door. The house was quiet, but his mind was full of loud buzzing thoughts that life was unfair. That one rarely chose the journey they were thrust upon.
“I’m in control,” he whispered to himself. It wasn’t a promise, but a desperate prayer.
There was more work to be done.
He refused to march down a path to his own demise.
Lulu
Lulu had never been to Paris. She had faint ideas of what Paris was from movies and books. Elegant witches started cosmetic companies there, sprinkling in bits of magic for luxurious brands and high prices. She dressed carefully for their trip. Teleportation didn’t allow for much baggage. Magnus took a small leather satchel and she packed a backpack full of two outfits, basic toiletries, and her magic kit. They stared at one another, matching necklaces hung around their necks, on the front porch.
“Try not to vomit this time,” he reminded her. She crossed her arms. “I like these shoes.”
“That’s the sixth time you’ve said that. Try to be gentle.”
His eyebrow quirked. “I’ll be gentle if you want me to be.”
“You know what I mean.”
His grin was mercilessly naughty. “I certainly hope I do.” He extended his arm towards her and she stepped towards him obediently. The feeling of his claws tightening around her waist, brushing against the thin sweater that she’d opted for. He promised that where they were going, it would be chilly even in the spring heat. “I think you have stronger core muscles than I do,” he muttered, impressed.
“Maybe exchange your reading for some crunches.”They couldn’t seem to stop their playful banter. He glanced down at her. She wondered how her skin felt this hot, pressed up against this immortal icicle.
“Are you ready?” he asked. She nodded and sucked in a deep breath before closing her eyes. This time, it wasn’t as bad. She’d hurled down a ginger tea concoction hurriedly before their departure. Instead of fighting his grip, she leaned into his cold touch. It made the transition smoother. When they landed in a dewy patch of grass, her stomach was upset, but stable. She sucked in a greedy breath of air and fell back from him. Her back hit a wrought-iron fence. She looked up to see a neon-sign advertising a hotel.
“Our home base,” he explained. She glanced around them. It was quiet courtyard outside of a small hotel. He took her by the hand, and they walked up. A bored looking Frenchman sat behind a counter with a book.
“Bonsoir,” he said in a bored tone. Magnus took over in fluent French and she felt drained listening to their exchange. She watched Magnus pass over crisp euro bills and the front deskman placed an old brass key on the counter.
“I got this place because they actually have air conditioning,” he explained as they climbed in the tiny elevator. Everything was old and smaller here, pages ripped from a storybook. She watched as the elevator climbed up to the fourth and final floor. For some reason, he explained, they numbered floors differently. A sting of embarrassment struck her chest. She wasn’t aware of different floor numbering systems, major cities not having air conditioning in their hotels, and she spoke one living language.
The key turned with a solid thunk. The door swung open to reveal a modestly sized room with one large bed, an antique letter-writing desk with a creaky-looking wooden swivel chair, a stuffy armchair next to a small glass table, and terrible floral curtains. She stared at the bed and then at him. He threw his hands up.
“I won’t be sleeping,” he reminded her. “I’ll be in the chair, working, when you sleep.” She said nothing and moved over to the bathroom door. From the main room, she heard his sneaky voice call out, “Unless you want me to be in the bed—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” she called over her shoulder. With a sigh, she set her bag of toiletries down in the small bathroom on a small shelf. There was a shower with a handle that she’d have to hold herself on the other side of the room. She sniffed the free shampoo and lotion offered by the hotel. Surprisingly nice. She washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face. The toilet handle, she noticed, was one of those chained contraptions.
“How many countries have you been to?” she asked him when she emerged. He’d already set out his books and papers, hunched over them like a handsome gargoyle. His blonde lashes fluttered.
“Lost count,” he muttered as he flipped through his pages. He glanced at the ancient clock hanging above the desk. “We’ve got two hours to kill. Do you want to grab dinner downstairs? The restaurant is open.”
“Sure,” she said and unpacked her bag. It was a mixture of practical outfits. For fun, she’d packed one dress suitable for any fancier outings. She grabbed it and went to the bathroom. At her dancing job, she was used to expertly applying stage makeup. While she didn’t miss the feeling of false eyelashes, she missed the glamour. She applied her makeup quickly and expertly, packing only a minimal set of things to fit in her bag. Her favorite lipstick, the same mauve shade she’d worn meeting Seymour, was the last thing to be added. She emerged out of the bathroom.
“Ready,” she said and grabbed her black cardigan. He glanced at her flowy short dress, a gorgeous plum color, and gave a nod of approval.
He offered his arm towards her. “Ms. Witch?”
She took it. “Vamp.”
They made their way down to the dining room like that. She prayed he wouldn’t feel her pulse quickening as they walked. There were things she never imagined for herself after leaving the coven. The feeling in her chest was certainly one.
Chapter 27
Lulu
Fine gastronomy was never Lulu’s thing. She preferred meals that powered her actions and junk food for those nights when she needed it. Of course, the ladies at The Cat’s Meow liked to order sushi or Chinese or pizza some nights. Sometimes a client liked to order in food for them. When Magnus walked in, she watched a cog click into place. He spoke fluently, asked for the wine list, and complimented the selection. Maybe. It was all in French. She admired the ardent way that an undead being seemed taken by a menu.
He leaned over, his falling hair tickling her arm as he explained the various offerings. Her brief forays into a French workbook from the bookstore near their safehouse wasn’t going to cut it. She told him to order for her. Her mind was too busy considering enchantments and defensive strategies. There were only a few people in the restaurant besides them, a German couple from the sounds of it and a small gathering of older English tourists. She was watching them, still. You could never be too careful.
“Do you miss human food?” she asked, watching him flip through the menu. It was something she often wondered when she herself snuck out for the occasional French fry trip after a grocery store visit. Did he have nostalgic cravings? She did. They rarely got treats like that at the coven.
“Immensely, when it’s the right food,” he said. “I’m a bit bitter that I never got to fully appreciate French cuisine when I was a mortal. You can’t enjoy foie gras as a vamp.”
“I’ll eat for you,” she promised with a wink. Her stomach growled as a waiter passed by with a tray of food for the English tourists. “I might eat for three tonight.”
“I encourage you.” Magnus nursed wine for his first course. He couldn’t exactly ask for a heaping raw cut of beef, she imagined. She bit into her first course, a delectable offering of charcuterie along with a small salad on the side. The wine he’d selected was delicious. It slid down her throat with a delectable ease. She bit into the sliced bread that the waiter had brought them, and she relished the taste with an unconscious sound of pleasure. He smirked.
“They’ve got a reputation for food for a reason in this country.”
“No kidding,” she said and cleaned her plate. “So, where are we going tonight?” He glanced towards the other tables and she whispered something quickly under her breath. It was half-way between a whisper and a hoarse cough. “Sound barrier for non-magic mortals,” she told him and drank her wine.
“Our waiter could be magic,” he countered.
She glanced at the lanky young man, who was polishing glasses and glancing longingly at a rolled cigarette next to him. “I doubt that very much.”
Magnus leaned forward. “We’re going to break into a sealed tomb tonight.” She nearly spit out her wine. He was lucky that it was expensive. She wasn’t one to waste luxury.
“A grave,” she repeated. “Again? Why do you think a grave is going to lead us to this creep?”
“He won’t be buried,” he said. “That’s the thing. He won’t be there at all.”
“Kind of destroys the point of a grave, right?” she asked and stared at her wine glass. “If he’s not there, so what? It just proves he’s a vampire.”
He dropped his voice. “Every grave of a suspected Root, I found a death threat. Someone had made it there before me. I was being watched. The graves were already disturbed. There has to be something in these graves that they don’t want us to find.”
“So, Mr. Creep kills off his alter-ego Frenchman persona and what? Does he leave behind his secret evil vampire diary confessing that he’s gone on to take a new identity along with a forwarding address? If the Roots try to live in society and take on new identities every few hundred years, they must be leaving behind dozens of graves.”
He frowned. “There’s a weakness to the Roots. There has to be. I believe they’re hiding it in tombs.”
“What could that weakness be? And why their graves?”
He swirled his wine. “I don’t know, and I wish I did. At the last grave, I found a skeleton of a young woman…She had a rosary around her neck. It was still charged.”
She sat up straighter. “How do you know it was a woman?”
“The dress. In tatters, but still there. The hair still clinging to her skull. She must’ve had some of magic within her. Non-magic mortals decompose much faster, even in tombs, and fabric usually much faster.”
“A rosary? Still charged?” She shivered and took a sip of water, thankful that they didn’t fill it with ice here. The room seemed to take on a chilled air. A faint image of Margaret Jones’ gravestone swam into her mind. “Magnus.” A hard lump settled in her throat. “Do you think that woman, the one in that grave, could’ve been a witch?”
His brows knitted together. “She was wearing a rosary. I assumed she was a nun or some kind of holy woman.”
“Witches can be holy,” she explained.
“Don’t you pledge your allegiance to the magic of the Earth and Heavens? To goddess energy?”
“You could practice witchcraft much easier under the guise of a Christian faith back in those days,” she explained. “You can call the deities or powers that be whatever you want, but most witches get their energy from life. How they choose to channel that, whether it’s through a rosary and prayer or through herbs and moonlight, it doesn’t matter.”
“Witches get their energy from life,” he repeated. “And in a way, a vampire is a parasite that feeds on life.”
She shrugged. “Your words, not mine.”
His fingers dug into his hair as he frowned. “My brain is yelling something, but I can’t understand it yet.” She pushed the carafe of water towards him.
“Don’t get Mad Library Magnus on me now,” she told him. “I need you tonight.” The waiter’s approach silenced a certainly naughty remark from Magnus. The waiter cleared their plates and brought new cutlery for them.
When he went back behind the bar, he switched the music to something jazzier. Her unused stage costumes sitting in her dresser came to mind. What were her coworkers doing now? She imagined Jinx flitting about like a firework about to go off and Gertrude sassing a dancer for getting a client too drunk. Oliver probably hired extra security. She wished that she could be there with them.
“You miss dancing?” he asked her, bringing her out of her dreamy reprieve. She looked up at him. The soft radiance of the candle from their table gave him an awfully beautiful glow. If she reached out, she felt that his angelic face would melt beneath her fingertips. But, she knew, he would be cold to the touch like a statue in a crypt. She wondered if she would mind that coldness.
“I do,” she said. Her mind fought desperately not to think back to that delicious night in the living room. A night heavy with magic-induced tipsy bravery and thrall. “I miss the dancing, my coworkers, the conversations.”
“You always ask me to tell stories about my adventures and yet, you never tell me stories about yourself.”
She couldn’t stop the wicked smirk that came to her lips and reached for her wine glass. “Fine. You get until the end of dinner. No tomb talk for a while.”
“An hour and a half left? That hardly seems fair. I should’ve taken you to a seven-course meal.” His eyes flickered playfully.
