GoddessI hate the taste of bad news. It’s like the storm clouds outside; the longer it sits on my lips gathering strength, the more devastating it’ll be when it finally lets loose.
I have to tell her. There’s no way around it.
Closing the book, I take a deep breath and make my confession. “I fucked up today, Jess. Bad.”
She slides the case closed and wipes her hands on the towel draped over her shoulder. When she meets my eyes again, the anger is all but gone from hers. “Define bad.”
“I sort of… accidentally… used magick on someone. A lot of it.”
Jessa’s eyes go as round as tea saucers. “Where? How? Who?”
“Up on the Grande. I got caught in the storm with Luke and—”
“Scorpion King Luke? I thought he was in California?”
“He was. I’m not even sure he knows how he got here.” I close my eyes, trying to make sense of the jumble of images in my head. “A dark mage got to him—it’s the only explanation. He wanted me to do magick. Like, he kept pushing and pushing… Then he got a hold of my knife. He stabbed me, Jess.”
“Stevie! Holy shit, we need to call the cops!”
“And tell them what?” I lift my shirt, showing her my unmarred skin, smooth and pale but for a splotch of dried blood. “It’s already healed. Besides, Luke—realLuke—would never do that. I’m telling you, it wasn’t him.”
The rest of the story spills out of me—everything but the part about my mother’s last words, which I can’t bring myself to repeat.
The whole thing sounds so wild and impossible, I hardly believe my own tale.
But Jessa believes me. She always does.
Concern draws her eyebrows together. “What if this mage guy—posing as Luke—calls the cops onyoufor magickal assault?”
“Then I’m pretty much fucked, and I hope youreallylike baking, because you’re inheriting Kettle Black.” I try to laugh, but it gets stuck in my throat.
Possessed or not, Luke is human. And unlike mine, his injuries won’t spontaneously heal. His mother is also a prominent member of the community—an artist, a patron, a volunteer, you name it—Rita’s got her hands in it. So if her son shows up at the police station with a busted nose and a story about the mean old witch who broke his face?
No way would the cops take my word over his.
“Protect and serve” doesn’t apply to the magickal among us.
Jessa’s not laughing at my stupid joke, either. She taps her fingers on the counter nervously, her eyes darting outside, then back to me. “Do you want to close up shop and head back to the estate?”
The estate is what we call the double-wide we share—an old but perfectly serviceable mobile home situated at the edge of the San Clarita. And while I’d love nothing more than to camp out on our thrift store couch binging Netflix, it’s not going to help.
“I’d only be crawling the walls there,” I reply. “No, I need to work. Looks like we’ll be pretty slow the rest of the day, anyway.”
Jessa watches me a beat longer, then glances out the front window again. Sheets of rain blur the view, the street gutters already flooding. No one’s crazy enough to be outside on a day like this.
“Alright,loca. Go make yourself presentable,” she finally says, grabbing a Kettle Black T-shirt from the tourist stash and handing it over. “I’ll make some tea. Then we’ll figure out what to do about this dark mage situation.”
* * *
Locked in the bathroom, I strip off my climbing gear, trash my ruined shirt, and do my best to wash up in the sink. I can’t do anything about my shorts, but at least the Kettle Black shirt is clean and new.
Jessa’s makeup bag is stashed in the cabinet over the sink, and I rummage through it for some eyeliner and lipgloss. There’s not much hope for my hair in this humidity; a messy bun it is.
I check my reflection in the mirror. I won’t be entering the Miss Arizona competition today, but I’m no longer a walking health code violation.
No longer magickal, either. The glow is totally gone from my hands.
My shoulders slump. I know I should be relieved, but a twinge of sadness tightens my chest.
