Chapter 8
eight
MERRICK
“You’re late, Miss Bonnivarde,” I call down the hill, tucking the book into my leather satchel as the witch trudges up the path, her fashionably heeled boots sticking in the mud. I’ve half a mind to send her back home for proper footwear, but that would only further delay our lesson.
“Sorry!” She jogs the last several yards, blonde hair rippling out behind her like ribbons of light.
When she reaches me, she’s panting, cheeks flushed, her green eyes a bright contrast. “I would’ve texted, but I figured demons don’t have phones.
Oh—can demons eat muffins?” She holds up a white bakery box, opening it to reveal a somewhat mangled assortment of baked goods.
“Sorry about the presentation. I might’ve sampled a few.
Chocolate cappuccino is my five-star rec, if you need to be influenced. ”
“This doesn’t absolve you, Miss Bonnivarde.” I reach for the one she’s nodding at, miraculously intact. “We agreed on half passed ten. I’ve been waiting.”
“It’s not even quarter till, and anyway, I had to stop at—wait.” Her eyes narrow. I’ve yet to taste the muffin, but I begin to worry I’ve dropped crumbs on my cravat, so accusatory is her glare. “Did you actually miss me?”
“What?”
“Oh my god. You totally missed me!” Her smile is relentless. An attack on all things good and decent.
Heat licks up my spine. “I was inconvenienced by you, not bereft of you.”
“Your ears turn red when you’re lying. You know that, right?”
“If my ears are red, it’s because I’ve been standing about on this chilly autumn morn awaiting a student who not eight hours ago professed her eagerness to begin her studies, yet somehow did not have the common decency to arrive at the agreed-upon meeting place at the agreed-upon time, which doesn’t bode well for—”
“I get it, Professor.” She’s still grinning, damn her. “I’m very miss-able.”
“Oh, for the… To miss something—an object, a person—requires some sort of social or emotional connection, Miss Bonnivarde. Intimate knowledge, of which I have so very little of you. Therefore, technically speaking, missing you would be an impossibility, unless I were under some sort of spell, the probability of which is nearly zero, considering you’ve only just discovered you’re a witch and have yet to cast your first spell, and are in fact continuing to delay that inevitability with your lateness and your inappropriate line of inquiry.
All of which is to say…” I take a breath, and the opportunity to sample the muffin, which is rather more delicious than I presumed.
Then, just in case it’s still unclear, because she’s still smirking at me as if she knows all my secrets, “I did not miss you.”
She helps herself to one of the remaining muffin halves. Banana walnut, if I had to guess. “Are you always so freaking literal?”
“I am precise. Witches above all else should appreciate the power of words. Spells can easily go awry with a single misplaced word. Best always to say what you mean, and—”
“Wait. Don’t tell me.” She presses one of her blue-painted fingertips to her temple, playing at telepathy. “Mean what you say?”
“Precisely.”
“Pre-cise-ly,” she mimics, not altogether butchering the accent. “I think that’s your favorite word. I have a favorite, too. Want to hear it?”
“Not really, no. All words have an equal purpose and place. Speaking of purpose, we should probably get on with ours.” I take the final delicious bites of my muffin, a thing that puts Hattie’s to shame, no nonconsensual fondling required, savoring every last morsel, thinking about going for another, the lemon poppyseed perhaps, and then—
“Orgasmic!” she blurts out, and I damn near choke. “Isn’t that the best? Orgaaaasmic. Just saying it out loud makes me want to have one, and sometimes I can do it too, just from thinking about it and visualizing a really hot guy going down on—”
“Miss Bonnivarde.” The heat returns with a vengeance, and I loosen my cravat, lest it further restrict the airflow I so suddenly, desperately need. “As much as I appreciate a student’s vivid imagination, this conversation is not only inappropriate, it’s not at all relevant to our studies.”
Orgasmic. Satan save me.
“It should be, though, is what I’m saying. It’s just another form of magic, Professor Sutherland.” She stuffs in the last of her muffin. Licks the crumbs from her delicate fingers. Then says, through a full mouth, “You can totally manifest orgasms.”
“Be that as it may—”
“As what I assume is a lifelong learner, you should be fascinated by this concept. Eager to explore it, even. I’m actually shocked at your lack of enthusiasm for the study of the mind-body connection via this highly intriguing form of mental magic.”
“Yes, well… that’s quite… well and good. Very good.” Why am I suddenly so fixated on her mouth? Those rose-colored lips. The shape of them as she smiles at me, taunting me.
Hellfire. She’s not just a witch, but a dark sorceress bent on my annihilation. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover Matthias has sent me here under false pretenses. A punishment for past transgressions. Maybe even future ones, at this rate.
“It is good,” she replies, with a casual toss of her hair that has me wondering what it would feel like to run my fingers through it. The way it catches the light… beautiful. “You should give it a whirl.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” I mutter, not entirely for her ears, though she picks it up anyway. Imaginative and observant—a dangerous combination. I’ll need to be more careful.
“It’s easy. Just close your eyes, picture getting naked and slipping into a hot, steamy jacuzzi, and then—”
“Have you spoken with your sisters?” I blurt out, perhaps a bit too abruptly, though it’s an important question. Matthias wants no loose ends left behind, which means training—and then promptly manipulating—all three of them. “Will they be joining us for the lesson?”
The grin vanishes. The hair stops glimmering. The temperature in the air plummets rather significantly, warmth draining from her eyes in a blink.
Fuck.
“Pro tip, Professor,” she quips. “When a girl is talking about manifesting orgasms and getting naked and slipping into a jacuzzi? Don’t mention her sisters. Because much like a dude with an unfortunate case of whisky dick, you are totally killing the vibe.”
“Just so you’re aware, I only understand about forty percent of the words evacuating your mouth at any given moment. And that’s being generous.” Done with this highly inappropriate conversation, I open the cemetery gate and head for the center at a brusque pace.
The little witch is right on my heels.
“My so-called sisters,” she nearly hisses, “are too busy joining in on their favorite pastime, a.k.a. let’s make Lizzy feel like the biggest loser ever.
It’s not fair, Dr. Sutherland. And I’m tired.
So freaking tired of trying to prove myself to them.
Like, I didn’t ask for this! For any of it!
I wanted to explain about the portal and the magic, and I went in there with such a good attitude.
I even brought muffins! But right away, Rachel’s all, ‘Are you drunk Lizzy? It’s not even noon, Lizzy.
Do you need an intervention, Lizzy?’ She’s in total denial about witchcraft, and Kate’s basically a jellyfish, and I didn’t even get into the whole dead ancestor, crazed serial-killer-slash-witch-hunter cult thing because that would’ve sent Rachel right over the edge, and my sister over the edge is like…
God! Just put me in the bathtub with a live toaster.
Anyway…” She heaves a great sigh. “I don’t want to talk about it. ”
“Excellent, that makes two of us.” I set my satchel on the ground and gesture for her to do the same with her belongings, which she does, and I’m ready to weep with relief that we can finally get on with it. “Now, for our first official lesson, I’d like to assess—”
“It’s just that I was really hoping they’d be on board, you know?
” She glances up at me, the crease between her brows deepening.
“Now it’s hitting me that I’m stuck dealing with all this magical mayhem on my own, and I had to lie to even get time away.
I hate lying! But what choice do I have?
They would lose their shit if they knew I was meeting with a demon.
Am I completely missing something here? I know I’ve made some mistakes in the past, but seriously.
How can they just dismiss me all the time?
Like, I don’t even get a say in any of this?
Probably the only reason they even allowed me to nope out of plant-store duty so easily is to get me out of their hair.
It’s so obvious! I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re plotting to cut me out of the inheritance altogether.
Find all the good stuff while I’m not paying attention.
Then they’ll just sell it behind my back, keep the cash, and pretend like nothing happened.
Because poor, drunk Lizzy won’t know any better, right?
No wonder they went along with my plan so easily! Don’t you think?”
I think I have a headache.
I think this is going to be a long day and an even longer assignment.
I think I’m going to murder Warren and Oliver after all, just to take the edge off, then run away to find the three-breasted sorceress myself and live a life in exile.
“Is this your idea of not talking about it?” I ask.
“Because if you’d like to sideline your lessons in favor of regurgitating your family drama, one that I’m quite sure has played out many times on the Bonnivarde family stage, we can certainly do that.
But I must warn you, my area of expertise has very little in common with the sort of professional therapeutic intervention that your family would most directly benefit from. ”
“They don’t even listen to me, Dr. Sutherland. Ever! I swear, it’s like talking to the wind!”
“Really?” I deadpan. “That must be so hard for you. I can’t even imagine.”
“They treat me like I’m still some stupid, dreamy kid inventing fantasies to escape our depressing life.
Don’t get me wrong—my life is still depressing.
The difference is that when I want to escape now, I skip the daydreams and go straight for the drugs, like a fucking adult.
You know what that’s called? Personal growth!
You’d think they could at least acknowledge that much. ”
“Miss Bonnivarde.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh, long-suffering as I am, knowing I’m going to regret this but unable to stop myself from asking anyway.
“Why do you feel your life is depressing? You’re a witch.
You’re young, eager, capable…” Distractingly beautiful.
“Hardly the makings of a miserable existence.”
“Are you kidding me?” She gestures at herself. “Look at this mess. I’m—oh, god! I’ve got chocolate on my boob. You didn’t even tell me!”
I say nothing. Look nowhere. This is most certainly a trap.
“Anyway, they’re not coming,” she says, scraping the chocolate stain with her thumbnail.
“Which I’m glad about, honestly. Let them fuss over the shop lease and the legal bullshit and the mountains of paperwork that come along when an estranged parent suddenly drops dead.
Me? I’m going to learn magic, just like we talked about.
I’m going to master the fuck out of my spells, become the most sparkly, magical, badass witch the Bonnivarde line has ever seen, and figure out exactly how to…
” She waves a frantic hand in the air, her eyes wide.
“…to abracadabra the portal thingy. And then? Then I’m taking my inheritance and my sparkly, magical ass straight back to California, and I’m gonna make the world my oyster.
Do you know why? I’ll tell you why. Because I’m tired of being the family screwup.
I’m tired of my sisters and everyone else treating me like a doormat.
From now on, I’m the goddamn boots. I’m the goddamn mud.
And when I walk by and ground my heel on some unsuspecting schlep who dared to mock me, everyone will tremble.
And I’ll be like, that’s right, bitches.
I’m Lizzy fucking Bonnivarde, get the fuck out of my way! ”
The breeze rustles through the trees, through her hair, and her green eyes blaze in the dim sunlight, hands raised up to the sky as if she’s just made manifest the storm roiling inside her.
I want to cheer for her. To fall to my knees and praise her as a goddess of old reincarnate, beautiful and terrible, as powerful as creation, but all I can muster up is, “Now you’ve got chocolate in your eyebrow.”
The breeze dies away. The little witch drops her arms. Glares. Does not laugh, as I’d ridiculously hoped she would. “What?”
I trace the affected area on my own brow.
“Are you even listening to me?” Angrily she rubs her fingertip over the spot, making a right mess of it. “God! I’m cursed.”
“You’re not cursed. Hold still.” Without thought, I reach for her, my palm curving around her delicate face, thumb erasing the offending smudge, lingering.
Her lips part on a gasp, and I freeze.
I’m touching her. The silken warmth of her skin, the softness of her breath, the brush of my thumb against the brow, a thousand tiny jolts of electricity sparking at every point of connection, and I feel it in my chest, in my bones, in my cells, a tumble of sensations I haven’t felt in so long I’ve forgotten the words to describe them, and…
What am I doing?
I snatch my hand back, shove it into my pocket. Turn away. Wish upon the dead to show me mercy, that one of the old graves should open up and swallow me whole.
Everywhere my skin touched hers, I feel scorched. Exposed. Ripped open to the very bone.
“Dr. Sutherland?” she asks, tender, almost wounded. “Is everything—”
“You’ll be fine,” I say shortly. “Wherever you land after our training, it will surely be on your feet. But first, we must accomplish our task.” I locate my field journal in the satchel.
Focus on the feel of the leather, soft and worn with age.
The thickness of the pages, the scent of the parchment, the sound it makes when I run a finger down the cover, like a whisper. My hand tightens on the binding.
Still, the feel of her skin lingers. Haunts. Torments.
“Close your eyes and ground yourself,” I announce, rising to my feet and steadying my breath. It won’t do to let her see how unmoored I’ve become. “Clear your mind and prepare for the lesson.”
“But—”
“We’re losing the light, Miss Bonnivarde, not to mention my patience. You were late as it is, and we’ve already diverted too much time to pointless digressions. If you can’t follow simple instructions, we’re not going to get very far in this endeavor.”
Because if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll have no choice but to kiss you… and ruin us both.