Of course Cap knows about my former life as a designer of magical couture. Everyone on Isla Bruja knows everything about everyone else. El Capitán is technically the corporeal form of ancient elemental energies, but even he’s up on the latest gossip.
The boat hits a wave and rears. Cap flips his middle finger at the water and yells, “La concha de tu madre!”
“Language, Cap,” I chide playfully.
He shoots me a grin, and I’m grateful for the interruption. If I tell him that I ran off to New York because I got magical burnout, he’ll repeat it to all of his customers until some other juicy tidbit captures his attention.
As the boat cruises through the mists obscuring Isla Bruja from human view, the island takes shape before us, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I get a good look at my old home for the first time since my last visit nearly two years ago. Surprise surprise, the dock leading to my parents’ property has expanded into a two-level affair with what looks like a full bar in the center.
Cap guides the boat alongside the lower level of the dock. Ropes shoot out and secure themselves to the mooring posts.
“Here we are, mi sirenita. Home sweet home.”
Home, yes. Sweet is probably a stretch.
Before I can go inside, I must deliver the payment.
I close my eyes and touch my chest. It’s been so long since I used my magic, it takes a moment to come. Finally, my fingertips tingle, and light appears around them. I gather the amorphous little ball of energy and pull it from within myself, holding it carefully in my fingers as if it’s a sticky piece of cotton candy. I pass it to Cap, who takes it and pops it into his mouth. His eyes glow behind the sunglasses, and he nods.
“The trip is paid. Welcome back to Isla Bruja, Cat.”
“Gracias, Capitán.”
My bags lift into the air and bob merrily up the dock and toward the house’s back patio.
I move to leave the boat, but Cap’s arm shoots out lightning quick. A strong hand wraps around my wrist, and I stare at him in surprise.
He removes his shades and his eyes are the brightest blue-green, like tropical waters. His expression is serious, and he suddenly looks twenty years older. All traces of the flirty youth are gone. “Cuidado, Catalina Cartagena,” he warns, his voice deeper than it was.
I nod. “I will.”
It’s been a while, but I know how to handle my family.
He releases me and I step onto the dock. When I turn to say goodbye, he and the boat have already disappeared. I turn and head up the stairs.
Welcome to Isla Bruja, indeed.
You’d think after being away for two years, one of my many family members could be bothered to greet me, but no. The land between the house and the water is empty and quiet.
Growing up, our home was a modest little mansion. Still big enough for my four sisters and I to each have our own rooms, but Caro and I shared a bathroom back then. I can’t count how many times she passive-aggressively moved my blow dryer back over to my side of the sink whenever it dared to be more than a centimeter over her imaginary dividing line.
Now, Casa Cartagena is one of the grandest estates on the island. It’s probably grown since the last time I visited. It’s certainly bigger than it was when I started my enchanted fashion design business at the age of fifteen.
That business helped my family rise in power, and our house expanded of its own volition to match.
I stop and peer around. Is this even the right house? Sure, the dock is new, the pool is bigger, and there’s…is that a tennis court? Oh, for the love of Tierra. None of us even play tennis!
And in my opinion, the Greek columns adorning the back door are a bit much, but I certainly won’t be saying so within la Casita’s hearing.
Otherwise, the basic structure and design are close to how I remember it. Clean white lines, arching windows, and a red tile roof. All surrounded by an overabundance of palm trees, of course.
But I don’t see any signs of people, which is strange, considering there’s going to be a wedding here in just three days.
I don’t even hear music playing, or anyone yelling from inside.
There are wards around the house, but as a member of the Cartagena family, they can’t keep me out. Still, when I reach the ward line, I feel a slight pressure on my skin, like walking through an invisible membrane.
My luggage is waiting for me at the back door. I open it and go inside. The air is blessedly cool after the humidity outside. Not even witches can control Florida weather. My bags follow me in.
