Chapter 9
9
JOSEPHINE
“ M rs. Vonnert-Kippling told me how rude you were at the party. Completely unacceptable. And you were speaking with a Blackthorn, of all people. A Blackthorn. I don’t need to remind you of how tainted their magic is. Tenebris scum.” My mother glares at me over the top of her computer. I’m standing in her office on Monday morning, wishing I were anywhere else.
I should have stayed in bed today.
The Delvaux family owns the Serenity Spa, which specializes in healing massage. The healing part is all me. My mother runs the office and financial portion of the business. My sister Camille does something in the office that is nebulous and called customer relations. My father doesn’t deign to step foot in the shop.
There are other employees who work here. Most are part of the Lumen coven, and some have a fragment of healing magic. We do have one human masseuse who is amazingly oblivious to anything supernatural, but that’s how many humans are. If it’s outside their realm of belief, they figure out another reason why customers walk in ill and exit healthier and full of vitality.
After Saturday night, when Roman, among other things, touched me, I felt incredible. The glow has slowly been dimming since then. My trip with Pen to the hospital yesterday sapped me of energy, but my mother has nudged, poked, and brushed against me at every opportunity this morning. It’s left me depleted before the first customer has come in. It’s almost as if feeling better for that one night has made me realize how horrible I feel all the time. Now I’m even more exhausted.
“You look like you rolled out of a dumpster. Here.” My mother slides a cup of coffee in my direction. It’s the one kind thing she does for me every day: getting me my morning cup of coffee. Granted, it comes with a laundry list of all the things I’m doing wrong. Still, I haven’t been able to give up hope that there’s some small part of her that cares for me. She just doesn’t know how to voice it.
I take a sip of the bitter brew and hide my wince. It’s lukewarm. I funnel heat through my hands with my magic and warm it up. I’m not great with elemental magic, but I can do small bits and pieces with it.
“I have a meeting tonight, so I need you to go to Woodroot’s and get these supplies for me.” She tosses a piece of paper in my direction. It floats but doesn’t go far because it’s…well, paper. Moving much closer to my mother than I’d like, I lean across the desk and pick up the note. It’s a list of potion supplies. My mother has sent me out for similar items before, but she typically prefers to do the work herself.
I mentally sort through my schedule for the day. My mother should know better. She likes to book me back-to-back clients. She knows my tipping point into exhaustion so she can maximize how many massages I can do in a day without crumbling into a useless heap.
“I’m booked until six–”
“Then go after your last appointment.” My mother’s eyes are focused on her phone. Her lip curls in a snarl as she types furiously. Before she drags her attention away from whoever she’s texting, I agree and slip out of her office.
On the plus side, I’m so busy that I barely see my mother for the rest of the day. The negative? I’m exhausted by the time my last client leaves the spa. My mother took off in the early afternoon, and my sister never came to work today, which isn’t unusual. I’m left to lock up and close things down by myself.
As tired as I am, I’m tempted to take my car to Woodroot’s Apothecary. It’s only a few blocks away, though, and I can’t rationalize driving. The sun set nearly an hour ago, and the wind has picked up since this morning. I zip up my coat and sink my chin down into the collar as I head out on my assigned task.
It’s a short walk that should only take a few minutes, but the cold immediately saps any warmth from my aching body. It makes each step that much harder. I’m quickly shivering despite my thick coat.
Woodroot’s Apothecary sits on a small plot of land in the middle of the Briar Hollows River. Morty, the shop’s owner, calls it an island, but it’s so small I don’t know if it qualifies. Like Agatha Fitzsimons, Mortimor Woodroot is not affiliated with either of the town’s covens. The two of them are the only witches in Mystic Hollows that I know of who have managed to stay unaffiliated. For their part, the covens leave them both alone. I’ve always wondered if they have some blackmail that they hang over the heads of the councils. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Morty’s island is a neutral space, and witches from both factions are free to shop there. The only rule is that no violence can be perpetrated on the island, or you’ll be banned from the shop permanently.
A pedestrian bridge of questionable sturdiness connects the island to either side of the river. The wooden structure sways as I step onto it. I grip the railing and take my time crossing. I’m so tired that one strong swing and I’ll fall into the churning river below before my body can react.
The apothecary is lit up with a welcoming glow that makes the surrounding night that much darker. Weathered wood siding and severe sloping rooflines remind me of a medieval cottage in a fairytale. The front of the store has a massive window that offers a peek at all the oddities inside. Faint wisps of woodsmoke perfume the air. It doesn’t matter what time of year it is, Morty always has a fire going for one potion or another that he’s brewing.
A bell tinkles over the door as I push inside, sighing at the warmth. My cheeks sting from the frigid wind, and my fingers burn as they wake back up. The inside of Woodroot’s has every conceivable magical ingredient, and if he doesn’t have it on his shelves, Morty will procure it within days. The center of the shop is well-lit, but there are several dark corners that house potions and spells that lose their potency in the light.
Shelves overflow with baskets of dried flowers, animal bones, feathers from a variety of birds, river rocks, and teeth that there’s a good chance are human. Spools of thread, candles in every color, and stacks of books sit on tables scattered around the store. It’s chaos to look at, but Morty knows the location of every item in this place.
“Josephine Delvaux, did that witch of a mother send you in here to do her dirty work?” Mortimor Woodroot walks out of the back room and drums his fingers on the counter. Morty is an enigma. According to most people, he’s been around forever, but he doesn’t look much older than thirty-five. It could be a magical glamor. If anyone is capable of making one this perfect, it would be him.
His head cocks to the side, and his brow furrows when he gets a look at me. “Oh honey, did you get hit by a bus? You look dead on your feet.”
Morty and I are about the same height. His brown hair is always perfectly styled like a magazine cover model. He’s lean and wiry and wears the most outrageous suits I’ve ever seen. They match his personality. He has a slight southern accent, but I’ve never been able to connect it to a specific location. The man doesn’t have a filter and blurts out whatever comes to mind. Today he’s wearing a suit covered in purple, gold, and green sequins like he’s heading to Mardi Gras. It glints and sparkles under the golden light of the shop.
I approach the counter with a smile. Lack of verbal filter aside–or maybe because of it–I like Morty. He’s always been kind to me.
“I do have a list of things to get, yes.” I ignore his other question. I’m fully aware that my clothes are wrinkled, the bags under my eyes have started their own collection of bags, my cheeks are windburned, and my ponytail is drooping pathetically.
Morty plucks the list from my fingers without touching me. It’s customary for the families with curses to keep them unknown to the larger coven. I often wonder if my mother has told Selene, the head of our coven, but I don’t know for sure. We’re taught from early on to never speak of it to others. Of course, all my friends and I divulged those details to each other years ago. Morty shouldn’t know what my curse is, but I always get the feeling he does.
“Are you creating a potion?” The shop owner’s eyes flicker up from the list to scrutinize my face.
“You were right. It’s for my mom.”
Morty exhales on a hum, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t do much potion making, do you?”
I dip my chin back into my coat, feeling embarrassed that my magical knowledge is so limited. My mother wanted me to focus on healing, since that’s my primary magic. I haven’t spent much time learning about potions and elixirs.
“There are only so many hours in the day.” Morty shrugs. “I should have all of this. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll gather everything.”
Morty disappears into the back room again, where the more volatile ingredients are kept. I didn’t even look at the list. What is my mother concocting? The bell over the door chimes. I turn to see the newcomer, and my heart leaps into my throat.
Roman Blackthorn. What is happening right now? Is the universe throwing us together? He walks into the shop like he does everything, with confidence and the complete belief that he’s exactly where he should be.
The last time I saw him was Saturday night when he left the library with barely a backward glance. Right after I let him see my boobs and stick his head between my thighs. Maiden, help me. Panic chokes off my breath. I frantically search the shop for a place to hide, looking like I’m playing invisible dodgeball with my indecisiveness.
A dark alcove lined with potions looks promising. I dart into the corner, facing away from Roman. Maybe he won’t notice me. Or if he does, he won’t realize that it’s me. Would he care anyway? Maybe he often grabs women at parties and goes down on them in their family’s library. How would I know? I know next to nothing about this man except that he’s a dark witch and part of the Tenebris coven. That alone should tell me to steer clear.
I chew on my nail and then yank my hand away with a cringe. I’m really trying to kick this nervous habit and failing horribly. I can handle this. Morty will be out here any minute with my supplies. Or I can come back for them later. The only question is, can I sneak out without Roman seeing me?
A squeak is startled out of me when I peek over my shoulder and find Roman barely a foot away.
“Holy crap.” Clapping my hand to my chest, my heart beats so hard I feel it under my fingers. I jerk my head back around to face forward, needing to avoid the sharp gray eyes assessing me.
“Am I interrupting your shopping?” Roman leans down until his head is almost on my shoulder. He’s not touching me, which is probably a good thing. I don’t know what happened at the founders party, but the fact that he could touch me was probably a fluke. There’s no way I’m lucky enough to find a workaround for my curse.
Roman hums. “I admit, this is not what I was expecting.”
I follow Roman’s gaze to the bottles on the shelf. Oh hell. There are hundreds of spells in front of me for enhanced sexual pleasure, prolonging sex, erection aids, and extending orgasms. Really? Out of all the sections in the store, this is the one that I end up in.
“Having troubles?” Roman’s deep voice is laced with humor. It sends shivers down my spine.
I spin around and snap, “I’m doing just fine. Thank you.”
The only problem is that now Roman’s face is a mere inch away from mine. Stormy gray eyes peer down at me. I don’t know Roman well enough to interpret the look. One dark brow is lifted, making me feel like he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. But his eyes are searching, and his mouth and jaw are relaxed.
His eyes flick to the bottles behind me and his body goes taut.
“Is this where you got the potion that you used on Saturday night?” The humor is gone and there’s a flash of anger on Roman’s face before he regains his composure.
I shuffle back a small step, afraid I’ll run into the bottles of potion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes from his.
Roman follows, his powerful body caging me into the small alcove. “I think you do. How did you do it? Which one of these allowed me to feel?”
I blink up at him in confusion. He’s so close. His intoxicating smell surrounds me until I can’t sort through my thoughts. Why does he have to smell so good? His breath washes against my cheek and I shiver. What if Saturday wasn’t an anomaly? What if I could touch him and not feel pain.
Wait, what did he just say?
“Are you accusing me of drugging you?” I’m not whispering anymore. My question comes out in a shrill octave much higher than normal. I jerk my head back and the bottles behind me clink together.
“Are you denying it?” I didn’t think it was possible for men to growl, but that’s exactly how his words come out.
“Listen, Blackthorn, I’m sure you’re used to everyone bowing to you, but I’m not some underling that you can blame whatever damage you have on.” I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth. Who am I right now? Why does this man unleash this brazen part of me?
Roman steps forward again, but I have nowhere to go. If I move back, bottles will rain down on the floor. A gasp slips out when I realize Roman’s body is flush with mine.
And there’s no pain.
Roman’s brow furrows when his hand bumps against mine. Instinctively, I pull away, but there’s no need. It doesn’t hurt. How is this possible?
“How?” Roman asks exactly what I’m thinking. Does he know what my curse is? Even if he does, how does he know his touch doesn’t pain me?
“I’m not doing anything,” I murmur, the words ending on a choked breath as Roman’s hand slowly slides up my arm. His fingers wrap around my throat, and for a second, I think he’s going to squeeze. He’ll crush my windpipe, and I’ll die in a dark corner of Woodroot’s Apothecary.
Except he doesn’t choke me. His thumb presses against my jaw, angling my head back until I’m looking up at him. Staring into confused and stormy eyes.
“How are you doing this?”