PART I
RAYA
1
If witches really could fly on brooms, it would have saved a fortune in airfare.
Raya pulled herself out of the cramped seat the moment the plane shuddered to a halt on the tarmac. She stepped sideways into the aisle of the plane only to be knocked back into her seat in an ungainly sprawl.
The culprit didn’t even bother to murmur a perfunctory “Pardon, madame.”
Or would it be “Pardon, mademoiselle”?
Was she still considered a mademoiselle?
Raya shook her head and pulled herself up all over again. This time, she hip checked the offending passenger and took a place beneath the overhead bin. She seized the handle of her carry-on and hauled.
Too hard.
Her carry-on tumbled free, striking the seat below and bouncing off, knocking Raya full in the chest and sending her backward. She felt the impact as she hit the person behind her.
Of course, she’d knocked someone sprawling into their own seat.
It figured.
Raya turned to apologize. “I’m sorry, ma’am—”
Her victim let loose a torrent of French containing the words “stupide” and “Americaine.”
Raya didn’t need a French phrase book to translate that. She made soothing, apologetic noises as she settled her bag on her shoulder, then quick-marched down the aisle as fast as she could.
Discretion, after all, was the better part of valor.
Raya stumbled only a little as she picked up speed going down the ramp to the airport terminal. She emerged into a crowd of people, and, having no better plans, followed the flow past a large bank of windows looking out toward an adjacent building decorated with red, white, and blue neon.
A lock of hair broke loose from her bun. She pressed her free hand to the back of her head, ensuring that her beloved wand remained firmly in place tucked inside the thick twist of hair.
The innocuous stick of wood, topped with a rather undistinguished crystal, rode jauntily in its accustomed place.
Raya sighed and sped up again, approaching what appeared to be an endless moving walkway that angled down a corridor. She’d have to find something to eat, and soon. The leftover in-flight cookies she’d stuffed in her pockets weren’t going to cut it. She ripped open a packet anyway and tipped the crumby contents into her mouth as she continued down the walkway, managing to spill less than half of it down her front.
France was getting off to a great start.
She knocked off some of the crumbs and kept moving, glancing up at the oncoming signage, which was blessedly written in French and English. The signs led her to a second walkway, this one encased in clear plexiglass, allowing a view of the bustling, multi-level terminal with similar walkways stretching in all directions, punctuated by gleaming banks of windows.
At the baggage carousel, Raya peered hopefully at each oncoming suitcase.
Hope dwindled as the carousel emptied.
She had no choice but to seek out the airline’s customer service booth.
Raya dug around in her carry-on and pulled the pocket French phrasebook to the surface. Gripping it over her heart like a crucifix for warding off vampires, she approached the counter.
An impossibly chic woman stood behind the desk. “Bonjour, madame,” she said.
Raya remembered the baggage claim sign over the walkway. “Uh, yes, bonjour. My…bagage—”
“Mon bagage,” the woman corrected.
