Fae Witch Chronicles Books 1 - 3, page 16
“Thanks.” That part is true. My place may be small, but my front window faces southwest, keeping my living room sunny most of the day.
Julia sticks her head into the kitchen. “Ooh, check out those counters. Are those real?”
I have to smile, since my mother reacted the same way. My shoebox sized kitchenette has faux-granite counters. “Nope. Totally fake.”
Julia shrugs. “Well, they're still nice. Mine are from like 1970 or something. Seriously, you have a dishwasher?”
I gesture at the plates scattered about, most of them used for toast or microwaving the baked items Maggie insists I take home. “I guess I should probably try using it sometime.”
Julia laughs. “Yeah, you might try breaking that thing in.”
She goes into the hall to peek into my bedroom. “Looks comfy,” she says, of the mess in there. She comes back into the living room. “Yeah, I like it. So, is anyone living here not a witch?”
I open my mouth to speak, but then laugh at having been caught off guard. “Well, that part is supposed to be secret.”
Julia laughs too. “You should probably tell that to the chick floating through the air.”
“I kind of wondered if you caught that. Sorry, I probably should have told you.”
Julia shrugs. “It’s cool. I get it. I gather you guys don't invite too many muggles over.”
I hesitate, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “Well, you're not really a muggle. Not with your powers.”
Julia grins. “Bingo, dude. Psychics should get honorary membership, don't you think?” She pauses, gazing up at the ceiling for a few moments before refocusing on me. “Wait, is there a ghost here too?”
I try not to get my hopes up. “Why? What are you getting?”
If Julia senses the same ghost I’ve seen, then this is definitely a first. Could it be more a matter of being a psychic than a witch?
Julia closes her eyes and breathes evenly for a few moments. “A woman, definitely. She was young, like our age, maybe a few years older. I get the feeling she didn’t die all that long ago. Ten years, slightly more maybe, but I’m not getting much else.”
“Is she here with us?” I’m almost afraid to turn around, for fear of seeing that woman’s imploring eyes.
“No. I... I can’t quite...” Julia shakes her head. “This is really weird. It’s almost like she’s here and not at the same time. I don’t know what it means.”
Well, that definitely makes two of us, but her words are strangely reminiscent of what Maggie said before. What’s the deal with this ghost?
Julia keeps her eyes closed. “This is about you somehow. Whatever’s going on is between the two of you.”
I was really hoping she wouldn’t say that, since I keep trying to convince myself that can’t be the case. “How’s that possible?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like she knows you, or knew you in another life. It feels more like she wants to tell you something, but she can’t. Something has her locked up tight.”
I think of seeing the ghost all those times, and the way she’s always gone suddenly mute and rigid. Something occurs to me that never has before. Maybe it’s not just a matter of dimensions. Maybe something else is at play. Is it possible for a ghost to be cursed? To the best of my knowledge, there’s no witch magic for that, but witch magic is far from the only kind.
CHAPTER 25
I drive Julia back to campus and arrive home again to find Grayson sitting on the front steps outside. As I get out of the car and walk toward him, he stares at his phone, seemingly oblivious to my approach. He wears faded jeans, brown boots and a suede jacket over a black v-neck sweater. One of his long legs is bent at the knee, the other stretched down the steps, his lustrous dark hair loosely framing his profile as he looks down. As I draw closer, I’m reminded that I’d never guess him to be older than thirty. If that. It’s hard to believe he might be pushing forty.
Grayson must hear my footsteps, because he looks up. Our eyes meet and he offers a smile. Damn, in that moment, I don’t care if he’s ninety. I’m sorry, but this guy is just stunning.
“Hope you don’t mind my dropping by,” he says. “I was at Grimoire and Maggie said you had the day off. Got any plans?”
He does have good timing, since I’d imagined spending the day pondering my communication-challenged ghost. I’m more than happy to pass on that one. “Not until later,” I say, remembering that I told Anna and Lissette I’d join them for a game of Cards Against Humanity. “What were you thinking?”
Grayson gets to his feet and grins invitingly. “How does a little teleportation sound?”
I try to play it cool. “Tempting.”
“There’s also lunch involved,” Grayson adds.
Honestly, he had me at teleportation. “Very tempting,” I say. “You buying?”
~~~
Within twenty minutes, we’re once again pulling up in front of the Shadow Order’s impressively warded headquarters. We go inside and make our way past Beatrice’s desk, where she sits gazing at her computer screen. She barely looks up as she says, “Hello, dear. Please sign the visitors’ log.”
“Just humor her,” Grayson whispers. “It gives her a sense of purpose.”
Beatrice looks away from her screen to arch an eyebrow at Grayson. “That and resetting door wards to determine who’s allowed in.”
“Just keep moving,” Grayson whispers.
“Good idea,” Beatrice says.
Instead of taking the elevator this time, we continue through several corridors and I peek into the rooms we pass. One holds bookshelves stocked to the ceiling, complete with a library ladder on runners. Another features displays of medieval weaponry, the walls lined with shields, swords and axes. One room appears to be completely empty except for floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and another shows gleaming metal counters, where figures in white coats sit on lab stools peering into microscopes.
Grayson glances over at me. “All very mysterious, I know. In point of fact, that lab is devoted entirely to determining whether artificial sweeteners are actually bad for you.”
“Try again,” I say.
“A formula for truly wrinkle-free clothes?”
I shake my head. “A physical impossibility, even for witches.”
Grayson shrugs. “Okay, well, maybe we are a little overly meticulous when creating potions.”
So far, I’ve tried my hand at a potion only once. An energy potion, one spilled drop of which left my sister’s cat, Louie, running mad circles around the kitchen for an hour, then humping the arm of a sofa for an entire afternoon. Needless to say, Louie has regarded me cautiously since.
“I guess you can never be too careful,” I say.
We reach the end of a hall, where Grayson opens a door. We enter a circular room that’s stark white and contains just a marble pedestal at its center. The pedestal holds a glass case lined with black velvet.
“Cool minimalism,” I say.
We approach the case, and I see that within it rests an array of stones. There look to be thirty, maybe forty. Each is smoothly rounded, flat and white. Each also glows from within with a softly pulsating luminescence.
“Strictly speaking,” Grayson says, as he lifts the lid. “I could get reprimanded for using these keys without registering first.”
I gaze at the glowing stones, a little mesmerized. “Keys,” I say. I don’t add that they look like stones. In the world of magic, what something looks like has nothing to do with what it actually is.
“Of a sort.” Grayson removes several from the case. “Damn, I forgot to check the weather.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.” He shrugs. “Well, hopefully it will work out. Anyplace in particular you’d like to see?”
I think about Grayson telling me he studied abroad, and how I pictured him in some stuffy old English school. Just to mess with him, I say, “I’ve always wanted to go to London.”
I expect Grayson to fire off a joke of his own, but he doesn’t. “Hmmm. Weather could be dodgy this time of year. Well, it’s not like we’ll freeze to death. Ready?”
“Wait? Are you—”
Grayson presses his thumb to one of the stones, there’s a flash of white light, and we stand on the front steps of a building facing a sidewalk where people scurry along carrying umbrellas. The sky overhead is gray, and darkening as evening sets in. I shake my head, both against the sound of blowing horns and the sheer impossibility of what I see. I’ve seen enough of those black London cabs in movies to leave little doubt, but the red double-decker bus trundling past ends my inner debate immediately.
A laugh bubbles up inside me. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
Grayson looks over. “Not bad, eh?” He gestures with his head to indicate what’s behind us. “Precision is everything when it comes to teleportation. You can’t be suddenly popping up in the middle of, well, most places. Sidewalk, street, you name it. It can get dicey. Hence, our keys are calibrated for safe landings.
I look behind me to see a set of heavy wooden doors.
“One of our buildings,” Grayson explains.
I gesture out at the people passing by. “What about them seeing us just suddenly appearing here?”
“Entirely possible,” Grayson says. “Especially if I didn’t register first to arrange for someone at this end to create an obfuscation charm. Naturally, something like that can’t be activated without warning.”
“Well, naturally.” I nudge him with my elbow. “What could be more obvious?”
Grayson smiles, and I can see in his eyes that he gets it. He’s teetering close to the edge of pompous again.
“Okay, well, it looks like rain,” he says. “Also, it’s almost six here, so breakfast is out.”
I stare at him like he’s insane. “Who cares? We’re in London.”
“We might get wet.”
“We’ll deal.”
Grayson laughs and grabs hold of my hand. “Okay, I know a place not too far off. Come on.”
We weave our way along bustling sidewalks, cutting through the crowd as best we can while I gawk at everything I see. Everything from the people, to the cars and buses, to the buildings, streetlights, storefronts, advertisements and red phone booths, seems so familiar and yet so excitingly different. I mean, I’ve seen London a million times—in movies, shows and photographs—but I’ve never actually seen London. I know we’re here, but part of me just can’t believe it. God, I love magic.
We walk for maybe a mile before crossing a pedestrian bridge spanning a canal. When I expect Grayson to soon lead me through the doors of some posh restaurant, our destination turns out to be an outdoor market. The place is packed with people lining up to buy food from a vast array of vendors, and I scan the scene to see that the booths offer an eclectic spectrum from all sorts of different cultures.
“So, what's the deal? Is there fish and chips here somewhere?”
Grayson looks baffled at the question. “To be honest, I'm not sure. I suppose there must be.”
I look around and then at him again. “Oh, I just thought—”
He grins this time, raising an eyebrow. “That we were going to sample some typical British fare?” He gestures to our surroundings. “Take your pick. I think I might go for the curry. Some of the best I've had, actually, but the souvlaki is fantastic too. Oh, the Philly cheesesteaks are amazing here. Damn, I forgot how difficult it is to decide.”
Once I get past my cliché expectations, I realize Grayson is showing me how real Londoners eat, rather than what I've imagined over the years. He’s also right about it being nearly impossible to decide. Especially since the dizzying blend of aromas rising from a multitude of sizzling grills has ratcheted my hunger up to the ravenous level. Somehow, we manage to restrain ourselves to purchasing food from just the Indian, Greek and Vietnamese stalls, along with an order of fish and chips. Grayson pays for all of this with British pounds, so he must either possess magic for exchanging currency or a clairvoyant sense of planning. Somehow, neither would surprise me. We also get cups of bubble tea, mango for him and strawberry for me, before sliding ourselves in next to others sharing a community table.
Grayson raises his plastic cup and we touch rims. “Cheers,” he says. “I say we dig in. This looks amazing.”
The food soon proves to also taste amazing, and while I scarf more than my share of fish and chips, I soon learn that Grayson wasn’t kidding about the souvlaki and curry. Holy wow. When I finally finish stuffing myself, I’m a combination of happy, sleepy and chilly from a breeze that suddenly blows in from the locks. Grayson notices as I wrap my jacket around myself.
“Well, this has been nice,” he says, “but I say we find ourselves a little sunshine.”
It’s fully dark now as we go back out onto the street and start walking briskly. I'm not sure what the rush is until Grayson explains.
“Another technique for going unnoticed while teleporting is to keep moving through a crowd,” he says. “Because, with this many people all blending together, no one will likely notice if”—he holds up a stone and presses his thumb against it—“two of them seem to suddenly vanish.”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden blast of light. Within seconds, my skin starts to warm. I open my eyes again to gaze out at a dazzling expanse of rolling surf, as seagulls swoop in low across the sand.
“Whoa, nice,” I say. “Um, South of France?”
“Better.” Grayson shields his own eyes against the glare. “California coast. Carmel. Feel like taking a walk?”
“I suppose I could be talked into it.”
We take off our shoes and wander the beach as we continue to chat and occasionally stop to study shells, sea glass and driftwood. It feels dreamlike to have just materialized here from halfway across the world. When we finally reach the end of the beach, we sit for a while beside each other gazing out at the ocean. I’ve completely lost track of time. In fact, time seems suddenly meaningless, so it surprises me when Grayson checks his watch and says, “It's nearly three back home, and you said you had plans later.”
I can't help but sigh, since I can't imagine Cards Against Humanity stacking up next to global teleporting with Grayson. “I think we can squeeze in another little trip. What’s left in your magic stone collection?”
Grayson pulls them from his pocket. “I have to admit, my choices were somewhat random. We still have the Roppongi District of Tokyo. Top notch nightlife, by the way. We could visit a few galleries in Reykjavik. Or, if you'd rather keep things closer to home, there's always the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
He says it like we're choosing between shops in a mall rather than global destinations, reminding me of the level of magic he’s mastered. Unbelievable. Still, while I'd love to check out some Tokyo nightlife, or the Icelandic art scene, staying closer to home seems to make the most sense. I realize it's all relative, and that apparently Grayson can whisk me home again by simply touching one of his keys, but I can't imagine coming back for my card game if I opt for one of the other locations.
“I guess I'll have to take a raincheck on the more exotic locales.”
Grayson shrugs and smiles. “Look at it this way. If you're from Tokyo, the Blue Ridge Mountains are an exotic locale.”
He no sooner finishes his sentence when the view dramatically shifts again, the sudden change in altitude shaking a few butterflies loose in my stomach. I actually wobble and Grayson takes hold of my shoulder to steady me, reminding me of how we met. I really need to stop wobbling around this guy.
“Sorry,” he says. “I should have warned you. This mode of travel can be a little disorienting.”
A soft breeze blows through my hair, as I look out at the panoramic mountain view of the mountain range and the valley below. “I’m fine,” I say. “Couldn’t be better.”
We start walking along a trail, both of us quiet for a few minutes as we enjoy the scenery. Although, before long, I have to wonder if my wobbling also reminded Grayson of the night we met. He turns to me and asks, “Have you given any thought to what we talked about?”
Of course I have, although other recent conundrums have kept me from delving into it too deeply. Although, I guess now is as good a time as any to ask some of the questions I’ve been mulling over. “What would working with the Shadow Order involve, exactly? Servitude for a thousand years past my own death? Hooded robes and chanting? A vow of chastity? Come on, what's in the fine print, buddy?”
Grayson laughs. “A certain level of commitment, yes, but definitely not servitude. Casual attire isn't entirely encouraged, but it is allowed. And I would certainly hope not.”
The last response is delivered with a level of conviction that definitely catches my attention. I'm about to pursue that line of questioning, just to see if Grayson blushes easily, when I notice something in my peripheral vision. Beside the trail, a man sits on a log. He’s scruffy and bearded, with greasy long hair. He wears a filthy, suede coat and leather leggings. Beside him, there’s a pile of pelts that look to be rabbit furs. Somehow, it’s also snowing where he sits not ten feet away.
“Wait, is that a—” I check to be sure I’m not hallucinating. “It can’t be. I mean, I’d—”
I don’t finish either sentence as I step closer to the man. He doesn’t so much as glance my way as he stares off into space. But what I was going to say is that, if he’s the ghost of some long dead trapper—and, come on, he has to be—I’d feel the same tingling sensation I always do when I encounter one.
“Yo, dude.” I wave my hands in the air a few times, but the trapper remains oblivious to our presence. I turn to Grayson. “Okay, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
For some reason, Grayon’s expression suddenly shifts from one of mild alarm—as if something about this scene disturbs him—to something more neutral. Almost masked. I totally can’t read him.
“Yes, I see him too,” he says. “Have you never encountered this phenomenon before?”
“You mean a ghost who brings his own weather? No, this is definitely a new one. And I figured I had the ghost thing pretty much covered.” As soon as I say it, I think of the ghost I’ve seen at the Cauldron. No, she doesn’t bring her own weather, but she does appear to exist within some alternate version of the same space. On the other hand, she sees me. At least, I think she does. “What’s the deal?”
