Chapter Seventeen Taissa
Chapter Seventeen
Taissa
Three days later, with the arrival of the esteemed (and dislikable, in Taissa’s case) Magis Rowan Elder comes the departure of Taissa and Kion for the dreaded Wily Witch photoshoot.
Niamh accompanies them, nervously nibbling at a pink-painted nail as the cab takes them from the Foxchester train station to the Wily Witch headquarters.
“Talking about the curse…” prompts Niamh as she sits squashed between her and Kion.
“…is a ‘big no-no,’ ” Taissa dutifully replies as Kion mutters something under his breath and leans his forehead against the glass window of the cab.
“Kion,” prompts Niamh, looking frazzled.
The captain looks like he wants to start banging his head against the glass. “Niamh, I know. You’ve drilled this into us all bloody morning.”
The Stymphs are banned from letting the team’s curse become public knowledge.
It was Elder’s order—it could impede the CCB’s investigation with false leads, unwanted press, and other “unsavory obstacles,” as put by the magis.
Bill Dodds had been rather against this, wanting the world to know that no, the NCL Stymphs aren’t actually bloodcurdlingly terrible at carriwitchet; it’s the fault of the curse.
Besides, if the information regarding the investigation was made public, wouldn’t the caster want to undo it before the magistrates caught on to them?
Magis Elder had said, unhelpfully, with some disdain and no further explanation, that simply isn’t how it works.
Besides, the CCB is hell-bent on catching the team’s curser—so much so, they won’t allow them the slightest chance to undo the magic and erase their tracks.
This is, apparently, their first big case since the Curious Chicken Curse of 1999, when some Scottish warlock had hexed all English chickens to lay massive glass marbles instead of eggs.
(Taissa applauds this effort. Unfortunately, the warlock had been hunted down by a dullahan on behalf of King Puck and Queen Pike, who were very unamused at this frivolous use of the Dark Well’s power.)
But all Elder, supposedly the CCB’s star agent, has done so far is take one player at a time into his office in the Nexitory (an empty room filled with dust; Taissa gets the sense that in better days, it used to be for the sporting director, who has since been apparently laid off) and ask them inane questions such as, Are you aware of any recent exposure to dark magic?
and Do you have any ideas of who could be behind this?
No, they don’t.
That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?
As the cab continues to bump through Foxchester’s streets, Taissa turns back to her phone, where the texts from Estee wait expectantly for her on the glowing screen.
After the Dust Bite, the call she’d received from Estee had been frantic (her mum had been ready to move into the Nexitory with her, and equally as ready to cover Taissa’s entire body with a whole bucket of Level Five Protection glyphs).
With difficulty, she’d managed to calm her down, but it would be an understatement to call the texts she receives from Estee (now every hour) only concerned.
In fact, Estee’s panic over the Dust Bite is so immense that she has, apparently, forgotten all about Taissa and Kion’s supposed relationship.
As Estee’s too far away to ink an Untold glyph onto (she’s now in the Not-So Hidden City of New Sinsi, South Korea—it’s not really “hidden” anymore as the lackers have most certainly infiltrated it), Taissa would prefer not to confide in her chatter-prone mum.
As she reassures the chatter-prone mum in question that yes, she’s still quite alive, and no, she has not died in the wee hours, and no, Kion Locke has not murdered her, either, and vice versa, the cab parks on the curb before a looming tower scraping against the orange rays of the late sun.
This, Taissa realizes as Niamh pays the cab driver, this must be the headquarters of Wily Witch.
The most popular mag amongst gossip-loving witches and warlocks, Wily Witch has carved out a name for itself—a name that’s emblazoned on the receptionist’s polished obsidian desk, and apparent in the utter wealth overflowing in the HQ.
Taissa’s bunny baffies (she still hasn’t had the time to replace them, please don’t judge her) are as silent on the glossy black floor as Niamh’s heels are loud.
As she checks them in, Kion and Taissa commence the Bahoochie Formation.
“Ready for this, Locke?” she mutters as the receptionist goes wide-eyed at the sight of them and punches a number into the telephone before her.
Locke emits a faint growl that Taissa knows means he’d rather be anywhere but here. Back at the Nexitory, helping Magis Elder. Compulsively checking in on his stymph to ensure Cato hasn’t contracted the same strange curse sickness as the cockatrices.
Not much has emerged on that front. The DMC is still, as far as Taissa can tell, utterly puzzled. The Wingeds still haven’t woken; the affected team is out of the season. But at least they’re alive.
As the receptionist hurries to rise, gesturing for the trio to follow her through the posh office, Taissa does her best to look like she’s infatuated with Kion Locke in all his grumpy glory (he has, she thinks, had a hard time admitting that she was right about the curse).
She also does her best not to clench her buttocks, as she is discovering is one of her nervous habits. And Taissa is, indeed, very nervous.
In the moment, agreeing to some raunchy photographs and an interview—well, that was easy, with the amount of money involved. Now, though? Now, she’d very much like to run away.
The receptionist leads them down another corridor, this one with glittery pink doors labeled Studio One, Studio Two, and, bizarrely, one reading: Terrible Danger—Absolutely Do Not Enter in looping, cheerful cursive.
“You’re in Studio Four,” says the receptionist, eyeing Kion like she wants to gobble him up.
“They’re expecting you—you can head right in. ”
As Niamh thanks her, Taissa glares, not at all liking the way the other witch has been eyeing Locke. To her satisfaction, the woman reddens under her stare and hurries off.
“Well?” says Niamh, smiling although she looks frazzled and somewhat frightened (she doesn’t trust Taissa and Kion not to brawl in front of the cameras, apparently).
“Let’s get this thing going!” Her faux-excitement only grates on Taissa already-fraying nerves as Niamh marches down the hall and twists open the sparkling doorknob of Studio Four.
“Oh, dear fuck,” says Taissa as she steps inside and takes in the scene.
Photographers mill about the studio, getting their equipment ready, while others pat down a giant, king-sized bed.
A bed where, she is certain, she and Locke will be…posing.
(Is it too late to turn on her heel and flee? Probably. But she has half a mind to try.)
As a grinning stylist hurries over to them, Taissa takes in the light-lined mirrors of hair and makeup—and the racks of lingerie. Lacy, hot-pink lingerie.
Well. That certainly isn’t for Kion.
“Miss Cho? My name’s Vetta; I’ll take you over here.
Mr. Locke, Claude will see to you over there.
” She points across the studio to a stylish-looking warlock, currently twirling a makeup brush between his fingers as deftly as a qyl.
Before either of them has a chance to protest, Vetta is impatiently tugging Taissa by her hand over to a makeup table, then plops her down in a seat.
“We’re going for a flushed, just-fucked look today,” says Vetta cheerfully, bustling around the drawers of cosmetics. “Bee-stung lips, high color, messy hair—that sort of thing.”
“Yay,” says Taissa, wanting rather badly to die.
Fucked, by Locke. That’s the name of this look. And she doesn’t like the way her heart’s begun to stumble around in her chest like a drunkard leaving the bar for the night.
As Vetta primps and preens her, Taissa tries to calm herself, envisioning that big, juicy paycheck. (And not envisioning Locke’s face when he sees the outfit—or lack thereof—that Vetta has chosen for her.)
Makeup finished, and hair sufficiently messed, Taissa changes in the dressing room, trying not to tremble as she finally eyes herself in the mirror.
Well. It’s a far cry from band tees and bunny baffies.
The hot-pink bra, made entirely of rather itchy lace, cups her breasts before the lace runs down the rest of her torso in a skinny line toward her, well, fanny (as Grandmum Morag would say).
Her back is entirely exposed, and the thong shows basically the entirety of her arse.
Combined with her flushed cheeks, bee-stung lips, and gloriously messy hair, Taissa certainly does look well and thoroughly fucked.
(By Locke.)
Bizarrely enough, the outfit doesn’t end there.
On her feet are the chunkiest, largest pair of fuchsia trainers with white laces.
They raise her height by nearly an entire inch, and have the famous feather symbol of Shu—one of the premier athletic shoe brands in the UKHC, and a rival to Neit—etched on their sides.
In short, she looks absolutely ridiculous. (Who has sex wearing massive, stomp-worthy trainers? Is this seriously what the world thinks athletes do? Shag in boots? Really, she only keeps the things on out of pure spite for Neit dropping her as their ambassador after The Scandal.)
Tearing her gaze away from the mirror, she slips into a silk robe and ties the sash firmly around her waist. Keep the heid.
Discounting the ridiculous trainers, she looks properly fit.
She won’t let Kion, the numpty (who will surely do something to make her feel like an ugly toad), tell her any differently.
As she exits the dressing room and makes her way over to the bed, blinking in the bright studio light, Taissa can’t help but feel a flutter of…something…in her stomach as she catches sight of Locke.
Unfortunately, he isn’t in a pink, lacy thong like her.