Chapter 2 Chelsea
Chelsea
The gingerbread men are supposed to be perfect. But when I baked them, my magic went sideways—like it has been lately—and warped them into something else.
Instead of round heads and button noses, they have horns and tiny demon grins.
Which pretty much sums up my life.
Today’s agenda: Drop off demon cookies to my aunt. Lean in to her sweet tooth, and then, hopefully and against all odds, convince her to cancel the ball tomorrow night.
The one in my honor.
The one to marry me off.
The one she’s planned for two months—two very long months that have had my stomach in knots on and off every day.
“Good morning, Mrs. Buttercup!” I wave to the old woman crossing the street with her ten cats following.
Is it ten?
Might be twenty. “How are you and the kittens today?”
“I’m well, dear. How are you?”
Helena Buttercup has a scrunched-up face, a bit of a hump on her back from osteoporosis and the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen.
Though when she smiles, her eyes don't quite match—they stay sharp, watchful, like she's cataloging everything I do. But I'm probably imagining it. She's just a harmless old woman who loves cats.
Just looking at her warms my heart and almost makes me almost forget that my future hangs in the balance.
Almost.
She stops in front of me, her cats coming to a halt and sitting, tongues licking paws for a quick face wash.
“What have you got in that basket?” she asks.
“I’m not Little Red Riding Hood, if that’s what you’re asking,” I joke.
She chuckles kindly. “No, dear. Of course not. Just an old woman’s curiosity.”
I lift the lid off the container and present my gingerbread demons. “They may not look like much, but they taste delicious.”
“Oh?” She wiggles her fingers over the lot of them. “May I have one or two for me and the cats?”
“Of course. Take what you’d like.”
Her hand dips in once, twice, three times, until finally I stop counting. “Are you excited about tomorrow night? It’s been ages since we’ve had a Thornrose ball. I can’t wait to get all gussied up. Maybe I’ll meet the man of my dreams there.”
“Better you than me,” I mutter.
She doesn’t hear me and goes on, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“You know, dear, I heard the Nightmare King himself might attend. Wouldn't that be something? Letting the darkness into Castleview?” She leans closer. “Though I suppose some people go looking for it.” She pats my hand. “But don’t you worry, you’re safe from monsters. ”
My jaw tightens. “No monsters, thank you. But if I find someone I think you’d like, I’ll introduce you.”
She giggles. “I’ll feel like a schoolgirl again.”
At least one of us will.
“See you tomorrow night. Thank you for the cookies.”
She walks off, her guard of furry cats following. I look down at the basket and blink. There’s only one cookie left.
My shoulders slump. No! I needed all the bribery I could get to convince Ovie to cancel the ball.
Maybe I can stop at the bakery and grab a few cinnamon rolls. They’re not nearly as distracting as demon cookies, but my aunt loves them.
Decision made, I head down the street. Teenage werewolf boys lounging outside the coffee shop turn to watch me pass. They know better than to whistle. Word will get back to their dads, and all their hides will be red, even if they are old enough to drive.
Just as I pass them, I hear one of the boys say, “I heard the nightmares are leaking in.”
“Bull,” another teenager replies. “That magic can’t get in here. The barrier stops the nightmares.”
The first teen, with long, wolfish sideburns, replies, canines showing, “I don’t mean the magic. I mean the people.”
All the boys go silent. The second one replies, “They wouldn’t dare. Let ’em try. We’ll show them their kind isn’t welcome here.”
The first kid shrugs. “Just telling you what I heard.”
The Nightmare District. That's on the outskirts of town, separated from Castleview by a magical barrier that's stood for years. The barrier stops nightmare magic from seeping into our streets—keeps the dark dreams contained. But people can cross if they have permission or a summons.
Not that anyone wants to. I've never been there, never wanted to go, and from what I hear, visitors aren't exactly welcome.
And worse—supposedly there’s a nightmare king who’s cruel and ugly.
They say he's never been seen in daylight. That he rules from a palace made of shadows and broken dreams. That he can kill you with a thought.
A shiver whips down my spine, and I shake it off as I cross the road and head down a tree-lined street, one showcasing cozy Tudor-style homes. It’s a shortcut to the bakery. I pick up the pace, my red-sequined sneakers thudding against the pavement.
The scent of wood smoke fills the air as chimneys puff. It’s late spring and warm, but that doesn’t stop most witches and wizards from lighting their fires.
Ambiance. You know?
I’m just about to round the corner and am literally ten seconds from the bakery when a tingle shoots down my spine.
Witchy sense.
Some witches cast spells. Some can tell the future.
Not me. I’ve got witchy sense, and that means I can feel magic.
And what I feel makes my chest lock down.
I spin as a wall of freezing cold terror races toward me. The air distorts, rippling as this foreign magic, like nothing I’ve ever experienced, approaches.
I lift my hand, hoping my frazzled power can stop it—
A man steps forward. He lifts his hands and the magic hits him—hard. He falls to the ground.
And groans.
For a second I just stare. Did he save me?
The gold bangles lining my arm clink as I reach for him. “Are you…are you okay?”
He groans louder. “No, I’m not.”
He slowly gets up, and when he stands, there are so many details I notice about him. First, he’s tall, like a good foot taller than me.
Next, he’s dressed in a suit that’s all black—even the vest and shirt. His hair is black, too. Inky.
But his eyes, they’re crystal blue—and piercing.
My throat closes as he rubs his head and frowns. “Why are you here?”
Is this a trick question? “I’m walking to the bakery. You see, I ran into Mrs. Buttercup. Do you know her? Well, she ate all my cookies, which didn’t look so much like cookies as they did demons. Still tasted great, though, and I’m trying to talk my aunt out of throwing this ball for me because…”
He’s staring at me as if I have two heads, and I realize I may have given him a bit more information than he wanted.
He curls a hand into a fist like he’s shaking off the magic.
The magic.
“Thank you for saving me.” Before I stop myself, I touch his arm and jump.
His clothes are cold—and not outside cold. It’s like he’s made of metal, and beneath that metal I feel the thrum of magic.
Powerful magic.
The kind that could terrorize a village.
I suck in a breath. “You were casting that spell. What were you trying to do?”
His brow furrows like there’s a war waging inside of him. My gaze lingers on the scruff of beard that dusts his face before I force myself to look away, searching for his target.
But there are only houses around me—houses he was going to darken with his power.
I back away as a lump grows inside my throat. “You were going to harm someone. You were going to spell them. Maybe kill them.”
He scowls, which makes him look devastatingly handsome. “And what if I was?”
His face is might be handsome, but his words are lethal. “You can’t do that here. You can’t just curse people. It’s illegal.”
He laughs bitterly. “And what do you know about curses?”
I scoff. The nerve of this guy. “Just everything. When you live with one, you know all about it.”
An emotion flickers across his face—pity, sadness, something between the two, or maybe it’s a mixture of both.
“Look, mister, I know enough about curses to know that you were about to cast one, which makes you a criminal.”
He laughs. “No one will charge me with anything, but…” His next words come out forced. “I’m curious.” He takes a step into my personal space, and I have to tip my head back as far as it will go to keep looking into those ice-blue eyes. “What sort of curse do you know about?”
He lifts his hand, offering his palm, and something opens inside me, something dark, dangerous, curious. My mind goes all soft, trance-like, and I raise my palm to his and feel that cold terror again, like it lives inside him, in his soul.
His magic wraps around mine and tightens.
The cold seeps into me, and my warm magic, on the fritz and frazzled, goes very still and calm like it hasn’t done in months—as it reaches for his power.
Our magics touch like two snakes winding around each other.
His power slides over my skin, up my arm—curious.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. My magic must sense my calm because it softens, giving his breathing room to explore.
His power pulses. It races straight to my toes, seizing my lungs and then—
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
I jump back as a row of black and golden roses shoot up from the ground beside us.
I stagger back, breaking whatever tether just snapped into place between us. For a brief moment my chest aches, like my magic recognized something in his and is sad that I let him go.
I take a long look at the man, memorizing the tilt of his lips as he smirks, the sharp jaw, the black clothes. “If you don’t leave, I’m calling the magic wardens.” And then I charge away, feeling his magic lingering on my skin, winding around me, and wondering what just happened.