Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
I stare at the datapad as I nibble my lip.
Huh, now that’s interesting. I trace my bottom lip with my tongue.
It’s not sore like it was last night. I frown.
When I went to sleep, it was a chapped mess.
I must have healed overnight. I rub my chest, puff out my cheeks, and ignore it for now.
It’s such a small thing when compared to all the magic stuff.
Now back to the tablet that knows my name. What the heck do I type? I huff and strum the desk. “I need to know everything,” I mumble.
‘You need to be a bit more exact.’
I almost drop the datapad with shock. Wide-eyed, I gently set it down. I can’t help the small, manic laugh that spills from my mouth. I poke and pull at my healed lip, squishing it between my thumb and finger. I don’t even have to type; the tome slash datapad is listening and has a sense of humour.
Good to know. Clinging to the reception desk, I shuffle stiffly sideways from the haunted tablet. The cursor on the datapad blinks a little faster.
I clear my throat. “Um, is someone here trying to hurt me?”
‘No,’ is the curt reply.
I clear my throat again. My mouth is so dry, the salty bacon from breakfast has made me thirsty. I have bacon tongue. The tell-tale clack of a cup and sudden heat next to my hand causes me to drop my eyes to the desk to see a fresh, steaming mug of tea.
Oh boy, they really do pop out of thin air.
“Thank you,” I say with a nervous squeak.
I shrug, pick up the tea, and take a big gulp.
Fun fact: I regularly thank inanimate objects.
Like cash machines. I’ve even been known to have entire conversations with a difficult mannequin at work.
Unless you’ve dressed one of those things, you have no idea how awkward the limbs are.
So, saying thanks to the magic—magic that works for me for the first time in my life—is the polite thing to do.
Oh! Am I a genie? Is this pocket world like a genie’s bottle?
If my magic can just make things appear, does that mean hotel guests get three wishes?
I huff out a strangled laugh. A genie isn’t a creature that exists in this world.
I rub my forehead a little too vigorously.
Now I know I’m overthinking things. If I am not careful, it won’t be long before I’m rocking in a corner and crying.
I clutch the mug and take another mouthful. The tea is delicious.
Oh crap, another thought hits me. I hope I’m talking to the magic, or what was once the book. I don’t think I could bear it if Larry, the manager guy from last night, is hidden in a secret room somewhere, watching me and laughing his arse off.
I lean both elbows on the desk. Staying here wouldn’t be too horrendous.
I’m an introvert at heart. A homebody. I like to be in my own space, doing my own thing.
But that still doesn’t help the worry in my chest. I have commitments.
I mean, what about work? I’ve been the company superstar since I started at sixteen.
I have the lofty accolade of being the youngest general manager in the company’s history.
Eight years. Eight bloody years. So much time and effort wasted if I walk away. I huff. I’ve never even taken a sick day. What are they going to think when I give them zero notice? Oh, this is just awful. Maybe I can somehow take the magic with me? I take another sip of tea.
Yeah, I like being at home but there is a big difference between choosing to stay at home, and not being allowed to leave.
“Am I trapped?”
‘No, you are not trapped.’
Okay. So, no one is saying I can’t leave, and it’s not like I’m stuck in a room on my own. The realm is beautiful. There is an entire world outside the hotel, miles and miles to explore. That’s kind of amazing.
Out of the corner of my eye, the damn datapad cursor blinks impatiently.
But… I hate change. I hate the unknown. I hate bloody magic. I hate this entire situation.
“If I leave, what will happen?”
‘The realm will go into stasis to wait for another host. Over time, it will slowly crumble until nothing remains.
You will live the life you had before as a mortal witch. The magic that you have inside you will be untouchable on the outside. If you stay, power beyond your wildest dreams, omnipotent magic, and immortality.’
Oh. I blink in time with the cursor. Isn’t that how supervillains are made? Great. Or superheroes…
‘If you leave, so does your new magic.’
If I leave, I return to being the dud witch. Well, that is not something I want to do. Does that make me a bad person? I also don’t want to be trapped in a pocket dimension forever. And immortality? That’s a scary can of worms.
Maybe I am in a coma, and this isn’t real. Maybe it’s some wacky, made up dream. I rub the reception desk with my index finger and finish the tea. It feels real.
It feels right.
Leaving all this behind is unfathomable. I tilt my head back and take in the beautiful lobby. I don’t need to gaze outside to know this place is perfect. I put myself—my soul—into the fabric of this realm. Even if I didn’t know what I was doing at the time.
This is where I’m meant to be. I can run away back to my flat, back to my not-so-perfect life, or I can be brave, explore this strange new magic, and find out who I am.
Grab a hold of my destiny.
I shiver. Wow, I’m not so much a sidekick anymore, am I?
“How does this work? How do we get guests?”
‘You help the people who are in search of sanctuary.’
“That simple, huh?” I gripe. “What about bad people? Can my magic handle creatures popping in all willy-nilly?” It could be millions of people. I’m twenty-four. I don’t think my retail management training covers running an entire world. Nervous sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades.
‘It’s your dimension, your rules,’ it types. The words run together in my mind. The whoosh and thud-thud of my heart overwhelm my senses. I feel sick. How the hell am I going to do this? A whole bloody world. This magic isn’t supposed to exist. I can’t do this. I hate magic.
The reality of everything hits me with the force of a double-decker bus. I ignore the magic tablet and push away from the desk.
“Fuck.” The swear word echoes around the lobby, and I slam a shaky hand across my lips. What the heck was that? Did I just swear out loud? Crikey, the anti-swear spell my mum had forced upon me must have broken.
My brain must have healed like my lip.
A painful hiccup jolts me. The spell is broken. “The spell that’s been the bane of my life is gone.” I flick my fingers. “Just like that.”
It’s not the only thing that’s broken.
A strangled half laugh, half sob bubbles up my throat along with another blasted hiccup that rattles my chest. “This is wank,” I whisper.
The naughty word feels alien on my tongue.
“Wankity, wank, wank, wank.” With each swear word, my voice gets a little louder, shriller, until the last word and I’m screaming.
“Wank!” I shove both hands over my mouth to hold the craziness in. Oh my, I’m going mad.
My legs are so wobbly, I can’t take a step. I can’t get away. Instead, for the second time today, like a sack of spuds, I sink to the floor. I slam my back against the desk and clutch my knees to my chest.
Why me?
I have learned to live with my lack of magic.
I came to terms with my mediocrity years ago.
I have finally got a handle on my life, and I am content with the person I am.
So what if I don’t have a talent? I’ve never been good at anything, but that’s okay.
I’m good at my job. I’m a wonderful manager. A nice person.
Now everything has changed again. The goalposts have moved to another bloody dimension.
Why? Everything was going okay. Why did I have to have a sneaky hidden power that comes out of nowhere to ruin my perfectly boring life? Why did I get hit with the weird shit? I will always be on the outside of the supernatural world. Always the freak.
I shake my head, and my hair rustles as it rubs against the wood at my back. Magic. It will always misbehave and cause me no end of frustration. There is no escape. There has never been an escape. I am doomed.
Most people presume I’m human. I still get the odd, “Oh, you’re a witch.
What type of magic do you do?” How do you answer that?
Say, “Yeah, I am the famous Larson witch who can’t do magic, so nothing.
” It embarrasses them, or worse, the opposite thing happens, and they use that knowledge to belittle me.
In the real world, magic is used for everything.
Technology, medicine, silly frivolous things like altering your hair, down to the fit of your clothes.
Even as a non-practising witch, my life revolves around it.
I cannot avoid it. I must use it in everyday life as it is integrated into the fabric of our society.
It’s an essential thing, like electricity.
I have learned to grin and bear it. But every time I use someone else’s bottled magic, I get this crawling sensation in my gut.
Disgust.
Every time, I hate myself a little bit more. ’Cause the obvious screams at me: I am not good enough. I never have been good enough.
It’s torture knowing if I had been born a little differently, I’d be capable of creating my own spells. Not buying them—and sure as hell not blowing them up.
I rock a little and rub my forehead on my knee.
I thought I’d escaped. I thought I could ignore it.
Embrace my beloved outcast role in life.
I had that false smile fixed to perfection.
“People can only hurt you if you let them” was my mantra.
I isolated myself from the witch community, my parents, and my super talented sisters.
I put myself in an emotional bubble. All safe.
“I was doing okay. Everything was finally going okay,” I whine into my knees. Well, until those damn Power Ranger mercenaries bashed in my front door.
Now here I am, buzzing with power.