Things She's Seen Page 12

  “I’ll try,” Em said, though controlling a spirit was a lot easier said than done, especially with the addition of the unknown element like the tug-of-war.

  Chapter 15

  It’s summer. Ninety degrees in Jersey City.

  My aunt buys me cotton socks. White and thick.

  To go with my jeans and high-top sneakers.

  —Journal of Emily Adams

  Memory. Afterwards. 11 years old.

  Em went back to the teahouse with Gar and told everyone about the strong possibility of her aunt and mother showing up at the complex. Gar was right: telling them was not only fair, it was also a relief.

  “Seriously,” Em said. “I feel horrible about this. If they show up when I’m not around, don’t answer the door. They’re my problem, not anyone else’s.”

  Midas flourished his hand in the air, as if casting a spell with a wand. “A car accident. Brake failure. A gas leak. An explosion?”

  Gar cleared his throat. “I’m going to head into the house before someone says something this investigator shouldn’t hear.”

  “Wait a minute,” Devlin said to him. “We should all go in. I’ll order pizzas for dinner, if everyone’s good with that. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, and lots of things to finish up tonight.” He turned to Em. “I’m glad you told us. No more talk about your problems not being ours. We’re family—more than family.”

  “Thanks.” Em smiled, but in the back of her mind, her aunt’s voice echoed. Family is forever. Coven or not, this problem wasn’t going to go away, not ever.

  An hour later, empty pizza boxes and plates littered the living room. While everyone else started to discuss the journalist, Em and Gar went to the front entryway. It was already after seven. If they waited any longer, they’d be late for the A.A. meeting.

  But as Gar reached to open the door, Em snagged his sleeve, holding him back. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  He turned to face her. “Yeah?”

  She rubbed her arms, hesitating. “Um, I know you’re set on going to a meeting, but I don’t really want to. I’ve gone at least once a day for almost seven months. I deserve a night off. I’m really tired….”

  A knowing smile lifted a corner of his lips as she went on listing everything except her real reason for not wanting to go: her body had been on fire for him ever since he showed up at the park, and they might never have another night together.

  “You sure? You do realize this is a bad idea?” He lifted her chin, then bent down and kissed her on the lips, soft and unhurried. She closed her eyes, a melancholy feeling spreading in her belly as she lost herself in the pleasure. His lips left hers, moving on to kiss the sensitive skin behind her ear before he whispered, “I was afraid you wouldn’t ever get around to suggesting it.”

  She threw her arms around his neck, kissing him openmouthed. His hands slid down her back to her butt. Cradling it, he lifted her up. She locked her legs around his hips, squirming against him as he stumbled away from the front door to steady her back against the closest wall. The kiss deepened, his tongue caressing hers. Her body went liquid. His hips ground against her, rolling slowly in time with the caress of his lips and tongue.

  “Upstairs,” she murmured, nipping his bottom lip.

  “Not yet,” he growled. He leaned into her harder, pressing and rocking. One of his hands crept downward. It reached between her legs and massaged slowly. Waves of his magic penetrated the fabric of her jeans, exciting and tantalizing her. She arched and groaned, a spasm of joy tightening and readying to explode with each stroke of his hand.

  His lips left hers. “Too many clothes.”

  “Bedroom,” she gasped as he lowered her to the floor.

  He took her by the hand and they rushed out of the entryway and up the stairs. Em smothered a giggle. She felt like a teenager sneaking past her boyfriend’s parents and into his bedroom, or like how she imagined life might have been as a teen—if she was never Violet Grace and Gar had been her age. If her life had been normal.

  They barely got his bedroom door closed before she had her jeans off and his were halfway to his knees. She grabbed a condom, rolling it onto his erection. She groaned as he entered her quickly, her coil of tension bursting instantly into an orgasm. He drove her to another peak, holding his hand lightly over her mouth as she writhed and screamed in pleasure.

  “Shh,” he laughed, thrusting more slowly. “You really have a hair-trigger.”

  She reached down, taking his cock in her hand and stroking it as his balls grew tense and hard, nearing his own peak. He thrust two more times, then shuddered and moaned as he came.

  He fell against her, heat and the moist smell of evergreens soaking into her skin. “We’re not very good at taking things slow, are we?”

  She wove a hand through his hair, pulling his mouth to hers for a kiss. “I don’t care. I’m more into quantity, myself.”

  He pushed up and swung off from on top of her. “How about a shower, then?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I know a lot about your magic specialties—I’d like to show you one of mine. I promise you’ll like it.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she didn’t care. Curiosity prickled in her abdomen, growing even more intense when he took her into the bathroom and opened the metal wallet where he kept his mysterious vials of oil, so many labeled with skulls and crossbones.

  “You’re not going to dart me, are you?” she teased, eyeing his sleeve gun. Her breath caught in her throat. She could hardly believe it. She’d just joked with him about needles instead of panicking at the mere thought of them—not to mention the added danger of vials, whose contents no doubt fell in the drug category.

  He picked out three bottles, one cobalt and two dark brown. “Every oil has more than one purpose. Almond, rose, jonquil, carnation…they can kill in some situations. Applied with a touch of magic, they can make pleasure even more pleasurable. Trust me?”

  “To my soul,” she murmured, and it was overwhelmingly true. Her faith in his good intentions when it came to her body, spirit, and sobriety was without question. She sensed it in his spirit, right now—just as it had been seven years ago in that cemetery, when he’d set the bottle of water and orange on the grass in front of her. When she’d gotten into his truck and let him take her to the river.

  She finished taking off her shirt and bra while he dribbled oils into a tiny ceramic bowl and whispered an incantation. Then she helped him undress, and they both climbed into the steaming shower.

  “Face me,” he said, coaxing her close until the entire length of her body pressed against his. “Rest your head on my chest. Relax. Close your eyes.”

  She quivered with anticipation as he lifted her hair and began to massage oil into the nape of her neck. The spicy scent of carnations filled the steam and a sense of serenity washed over her. His fingers stroked upward, threading oil through her hair, rubbing her scalp. Her shoulders relaxed. Her mind drifted and she leaned into the rhythm of his touch. A trickle of oil escaped, trailing tingles over her shoulder and down her torso, winding the length of her legs to her foot.

  Em stiffened. She glanced down. Water pooled around her feet. Her naked feet, toe to toe with his. Her socks long gone. Her tattoos unmissable. Family is forever.

  His hand returned to the back of her neck, strong fingers kneading the taut muscles. “Breathe deep. Don’t think. Relax.”

  She snuggled closer, resting her cheek against him and letting all thoughts of her feet and the past float away. He supported her with one arm. The scent of the steam transformed into almonds and roses. A warm rush spread across her skin, every cell awakening. A delicious pulse ached between her legs.

  “Hmmm.” Gar left off massaging her neck, his hands skimming down her back until they cradled her butt. “What do you say we reenact what we were doing a little while ago—downstairs? I liked that
a lot.”

  Em slid her hands up his chest, fastening them around his neck. “Mmmmm…me too.”

  He hoisted her up and she wrapped her legs around his hips. He pressed her against the shower wall. Warm water sprayed all over. Steam enclosed them. Fresh scents of spice and flowers ignited as she squirmed against him. His hips moved in time with hers, a slow, grinding waltz that she wished could last forever.

  Chapter 16

  Her grandfather might have insisted Athena be named after the goddess,

  a sort of in-joke based on his nickname being Zeus.

  But the name fit her. From the day I met her,

  Athena’s wisdom and fight were something I wanted to emulate.

  —Journal of Chandler Parrish

  Em woke up the next morning warm and rested, but she and Gar only took time for a quickie. With the Council meeting scheduled for noon and an almost five-hour drive to New Haven ahead of them, they couldn’t afford to linger in bed.

  Shivering against a chill in the air, Em dashed for the hallway bathroom while Gar went into his own shower. Once she was done washing and had put on some makeup, she dressed in her best jeans and a dressy black cardigan that Brooklyn had loaned her. The sweater’s sleeves hung over her fingers, but turning the cuffs under fixed that. In fact, she was surprised how well the rest of it fit. Brooklyn definitely didn’t have a skin-and-bones figure like she did.

  Satisfied that she looked decent, Em went downstairs to feed the kittens. They started to cry the second she opened the door, hungry and eager to escape their box. They kneaded their claws into her and purred like lawnmowers as they each took their turn at the bottle. She was almost finished when a knock came at the door.

  “Hey, Em? Can I come in?” Chandler’s voice asked.

  “Sure.” Em set the last kitten down on the bath mat.

  Chandler opened the door and strolled in, carrying a paper grocery bag and looking indomitable in welder’s pants and a frayed sweatshirt with “Mama Dragon” written across it. A do-rag with flaming salamanders on its sides covered her short-cropped hair. Judging by the way she was dressed, Em figured Chandler was planning on tackling a big project, perhaps a new flying monkey to replace one of the sculptures that had been destroyed.

  Chandler shoved the bag at Em. “I thought you might be able to use this.”

  “Thanks. What is it?” Em took the heavy bag. Fancy orange tissue poked out from the top. It felt squishy, like it contained some kind of clothing.

  “I picked it up at the farmers market a while ago. I’ve been waiting for the perfect person to give it to.”

  Em sat down on the closed toilet lid and peeled aside the tissue. Chandler always gave off an artsy-but-tough big sister vibe, the sort of sister who would take out playground bullies for you in the morning and teach you how to bead friendship bracelets in the afternoon. The sort of sister Em would have liked to have.

  Chandler rested her hands on her hips, watching as Em pulled out a bundle of embroidered turquoise and lavender silk. “It’s from Tibet. Keshari’s family makes them.”

  The fabric was soft, the colors brilliant. Em unfolded it. “A jacket? It’s gorgeous. But it’s too expensive. I can’t take it.”

  “Don’t be silly. Try it on. I’m dying to see if it fits.”

  Em stood up and shrugged the jacket on. The sleeves went to her wrist bones. The hem landed perfectly above her hips. She twirled like a fashion model. “I don’t know what to say. It’s—wonderful.”

  “Look in the pocket. There’s something from Midas and Devlin.”

  She patted her side and found the hidden gift, something the size and shape of a ChapStick cylinder. It looked to be made of silver.

  “The cylinder is from Devlin,” Chandler explained. “It’s a coven heirloom, designed to keep its contents and itself undetectable. Devlin had three of them. Enough for you, Chloe, and himself. Look inside.”

  As Em unscrewed the cylinder’s lid, an electric tingle and a rhythmic pulse of magic sped up her wrist. The beat branched out, following her veins and chanting in her ears like the voice of a long-forgotten ancestor. She pushed past the sensation and shook the cylinder’s contents onto her palm. Five wooden toothpicks.

  “Midas calls them ‘pick-a-roos.’” Chandler lifted a hand to silence Em. “Before you say anything, I know it’s a silly name.”

  Em laughed. “I can’t believe Midas named something that. He’s always so serious.”

  “You should give him more of a chance. He can come off as pretentious. Underneath, he’s nothing more than a little boy playing mad scientist—and a damn good mad scientist, at that.”

  Em poked the pick-a-roos with her fingernail. No sensation of magic this time. Nothing except wood. “What are they for?”

  “I wish I could demonstrate. Unfortunately, there aren’t any to spare. Midas only had enough to give a few to you, Chloe, and Devlin—with none left for Gar. They’re for opening locks.” She agilely plucked a pick from Em’s palm. “You stick the pointed end into any lock mechanism, channel your magic into it, then give the command: ‘sesame.’”

  Em bit down on her bottom lip, resisting the urge to comment on Midas using yet another silly word. In truth, “sesame,” as in “open sesame,” from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, was simple to remember, which was probably the point.

  Chandler set the pick-a-roo back on her palm. “Once you give the command, the pick will start burning. When you hear or sense the lock release, you need to open the door before the fire goes out. If you don’t, the spell will fail and the lock will reset.”

  That sounded straightforward enough. Em glanced at the picks in her palm, then farther down, at the kitten staring up at her from the floor with intense blue eyes. It was straightforward, but the way the picks had been divided felt wrong. “Shouldn’t we give Gar at least a couple?”

  “He’s not the one who has to worry about getting out of headquarters if the meeting goes sour. The three of you are another matter, especially Devlin and Chloe.”

  Fear tumbled through Em, coming to rest just below her stomach. If only there was another way out of this investigation mess. If Gar could get an extension for the coven without having to appear in person. If all of them could stay home. But none of those things were going to happen. In truth, they could lose, and Rhianna could get her way. She clearly had connections.

  A second emotion mingled with Em’s fear: guilt. No matter how many appalling things Rhianna had done, Em couldn’t forget the healing ritual Rhianna had performed on her. The sense of well-being she’d felt afterwards, not to mention the boost in her conviction to stay sober. Rhianna was evil. A murderess. A sociopathic seductress. But there was more to her than just those things. There was an ability to do good—if it served her purpose.

  Chandler’s voice brightened. “Hopefully everything will go smoothly at the meeting and none of you will have to use the picks.” She stooped and gathered up the kitten. Stroking it, she continued. “You don’t have to worry about these little devils. While Midas and Brooklyn are off interviewing the journalist, I’ll be here to watch over things.”

  Em did a double take. “I’d forgotten about the journalist. The Council’s probably going to give Gar crap for not finishing that.”

  “I suspect he’ll deal with it just fine. Either way, we need to find out if the journalist is still a threat to the coven.”

  “Sounds smart,” Em said.

  A devious twinkle sparked in Chandler’s eyes, like dragons springing to life. She gave the kitten another stroke, slowly, all the way down to his tail. “There’s another reason I volunteered to stay here. I know as much as Devlin about the coven’s workings. If the meeting goes badly, I can protect our interests until all of you get back. And if a certain someone—or someones—show up…”

  Em knew what Chandler meant. She looked down at her feet. “
I feel horrible about that. That last thing the coven needs is to deal with my problems right now.”

  “Don’t worry.” Chandler’s voice gentled. “All of us witch-sisters and -brothers have baggage. It’s hard not to when you’re born with magic.”

  Chapter 17

  Vine ripened. Hothouse grown. Big Girl. Early Girl.

  Valencia. Carmello. Green Cherry. Plump. Juicy. Breasts and blood.

  No BLT for me. Plain Jane. Bag of Bones.

  Crescent Moon. Night ripened. Alien thing. Ribs and wrong.

  —“Tomato” by E. A.

  Memory. My body. 15 years old.

  Em was grateful they made it to New Haven in time for Gar to drive around the historic downtown area to make sure they couldn’t sense anything dangerous or concerning before they went inside to the meeting. They’d all been to the city before, even her—though she barely remembered it and hadn’t known about the Eastern Coast Council headquarters being there.

  Certain they weren’t missing anything important, Gar drove into a parking garage adjacent to the ten-story building the Council called home. As he steered toward a private section on the garage’s first level, an orange striped barrier arm automatically lifted to let his truck pass.

  “This section is for Council employees and guests,” Gar said, backing into a parking space near the sidewall. “If we get separated for any reason, we’ll meet back here. I’ll leave the truck unlocked.”

  Devlin rested his hand on the front dash and shifted to face Gar. “What if something happens to you?”

  Gar produced a second set of truck keys and tossed them to him. “Don’t wait, just go. Also, we’re going to take the elevator up to the executive offices. But if you have to leave in a hurry, use the stairs. At best, you’ll have three minutes’ lead time before the place goes on lockdown. After that, all you can do is pray Midas’s picks work.”