Chapter 11
Rayna awoke to the smell of caramelized onions and garlic and thought, Huh. Either I’m dead, and Summerland is my Brooklyn kitchen, or my man-pets are making brunch again.
She shuffled in barefoot, wrapped in a hoodie that may or may not have once belonged to Daniel.
It had suspiciously roomy sleeves and a faint whiff of bergamot.
The kitchen was already a warm haven with sunlight pouring through the windows, jazz humming in the background, and two men who looked way too coherent for this early on a Saturday.
Michael stood at the stove, plating what looked like a frittata so perfectly fluffy it could have levitated. Daniel poured her coffee just the way she liked it. Black, no sugar, and in the mug that said Witch, please…
“Good morning, Highness,” Daniel said, handing her the cup with a little bow. “We hope you survived your high-stakes dinner with the man formerly known as Major Buzzkill.”
Michael slid a plate in front of her with a flourish. “Your frittata with bonus roasted veggies and sautéed greens, because we love you and also you stress-eat.”
Rayna took a sip of coffee and sighed. “If I ever betray you two, just smother me with a rosemary focaccia.”
“We’ve already discussed it,” Michael said, sitting down beside her. “Daniel gets to hold the bread.”
Rayna laughed, tucked one foot beneath her, and took a bite of frittata. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
Both men perked up like cats hearing a can opener.
She gave them a look. “Not everything. But enough.”
They leaned in with twin expressions of gleeful anticipation.
“So,” she began, “he didn’t kidnap me, threaten me, or show up in combat boots. We had dinner at a ridiculously charming bistro. He wore linen. There were tablecloths and a string quartet.”
Michael blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘linen’? As in business casual civies?”
“I know,” Rayna said, stabbing a piece of roasted sweet potato. “I’m still emotionally processing it.”
Daniel sipped his coffee, a serious expression on his face. “So, was this dinner-dinner or spy-dinner?”
“Dinner-dinner,” she said. “With wine. And jokes. And talking. Real talking.”
Michael squinted at her. “Did he replace the real Major Payne with a decoy? Are we sure he’s not a clone?”
“Pretty sure,” Rayna said. “He smiled more than once. He even laughed.”
Daniel clutched his chest. “My god. He feels things now.”
Rayna rolled her eyes, but her smile was giving her away. “He walked me home. We kissed on the stoop. It was… Ugh, don’t make me say it.”
Michael and Daniel leaned in like birds of prey.
“…Nice,” she finished.
Daniel flung a dish towel over his shoulder. “Our little witch is growing up. Kissing trained assassins under gas lights.” He dabbed at fake tears with the dish towel.
Michael raised his coffee in salute. “Just promise, if you get married, you’ll let me pick the playlist for the reception. I have a folder titled Songs to Slow-Dance with a Serial Killer To.”
“Ugh. There are so many things wrong with that sentence.” Rayna stood and collected their empty plates, then grabbed the dish towel and swatted them both as she passed. “If I ever get married, you two are officiating. And wearing matching velvet suits.”
Daniel grinned. “I look amazing in jewel tones.”
Michael added, “And I’ve been waiting my whole life to say, ‘By the power vested in me by a New York Wiccan and this haunted microphone…’”
That morning at the L.A.W. mansion, Katie stood in the middle of what looked like a yoga studio designed by a secret government agency with mirrored walls, glowing runes, and a weapons rack in the corner that wasn’t for decorative purposes.
“So,” she said, arms crossed. “Is this where you teach me to throw fireballs, or…?”
Joell gave her an approving nod. “Maybe eventually. First, we’ll see what’s already cooking under the hood.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we need to know if you’re a magical time bomb or just magically adjacent.”
Katie blinked. “Cool. So comforting.”
Joell handed her what looked like a fist-sized crystal ball. “Hold this. Breathe. Think about the weirdest thing that’s happened to you in the last seventy-two hours.”
Katie barked a laugh, then took the orb and immediately regretted every decision that had led to this moment. “Weirdest? Uh, that’d be the faceless demon that tried to mind-fuck me, and the magical advice to ‘RUN’ written on my whiteboard when I came out of hiding in the bathroom.”
The orb pulsed softly in her hand. Pale light. Slight hum.
Joell tilted her head. “That’s not nothing.”
“So, what does it mean?” Katie asked.
“It means you’ve got some juice. Dormant, but reactive. That gray thing targeted you for a reason. The Gray doesn't just attack random baristas. Even the cute ones.”
“I’m not cute,” Katie muttered. “I’m too tall to be cute.”
Joell raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what the orb says.”
Before Katie could formulate a sarcastic comeback, the door opened, and Lioness walked in, drinking green juice as if she liked it.
“Did she spark yet?” Lioness asked.
“Just a low glow,” Joell replied. “But I think we’re dealing with some latent potential.”
Katie sighed. “Can someone please define latent potential without making me feel like a Hogwarts dropout?”
Lioness plopped onto a meditation cushion. “It means you’re a magical wildcard. Something about you is attracting the Gray, and if it couldn’t mimic the witches, it might’ve picked you as a next-best prototype. Easier to crack.”
“Wait,” Katie said, heart rate kicking up. “You’re saying I’m like a lab rat for aliens?”
“A valuable one,” Joell said brightly. “Which is why we’re going to teach you to resist alien interference.”
“Right,” Katie said. “Because that’s something you can just learn, like salsa dancing.”
“You joke,” Lioness said, “but magical shielding is basically rhythmic movement, mental focus, and spite.”
“Oh, well. I’m full of spite,” Katie said. “Let’s do this.”
Joell smiled. “Good. Because next we test how well you can handle a magical attack.”
Katie froze. “You mean a fake magical attack, right?”
“Define fake,” Joell said.
Lioness grinned. “Let the training montage begin.”
30 Minutes Later…
Katie was sweating. Not the sensual, social media workout kind of sweat, but the “help, my armpits are raining” kind. She stood in a loose fighting stance. Feet too wide, arms too floppy, facing what appeared to be a magical Roomba.
It hovered six feet away, glowing menacingly.
“That’s the attack?” Katie asked. “I think I liked it better when you were coming at me with plastic lightsabers.”
Lioness pressed something on a tablet. The Roomba whirred, clicked, and promptly launched a stun spell directly at Katie’s face.
Katie yelped and ducked. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?”
Joell called from the sidelines, clipboard in hand. “Rule one: Don’t wait for your magic to show up. Act like it’s already there.”
“What does that mean?” Katie yelled, diving behind a pillar as the Roomba zipped after her, blasting battle music.
“It means believe you’re dangerous,” Lioness shouted. “You need the Gray to believe it, so you have to.”
“Great, love that for me,” Katie muttered, crawling across the floor like a lizard who’d just done hot yoga. “Also, did anyone consider I might just be normal? Like, regular with trauma?”
The Roomba rounded the pillar.
Katie threw up her hands by instinct, and the orb in her pocket flared to life, sending a pulse of raw, uncoordinated energy from her hands. The Roomba shuddered, sparked, and spun in a confused little circle before ejecting glitter and collapsing.
There was a long pause.
“Did I just Tinkerbell a death drone?” Katie asked.
Joell checked her readings. “You disrupted its enchantment field. That’s not bad for a first timer.”
Lioness walked over, impressed. “You didn’t aim it, you didn’t shape it, but girl, you shoved.”
Katie slumped against the wall. “That’s because I thought it was going to shatter my face.”
“Fear is an excellent training motivator,” Lioness said, casually sipping her green sludge. “Ask anyone who’s ever dated a Scorpio. Or ask me! I’m a tiny little thing, and I love nothing more than striking fear in the eyes of my enemies. Mwuahahaha…”
Katie let her head thump back. “So now what? You train me to shoot lasers from my eyeballs and speak Latin backwards?”
Joell knelt beside her. “Now we help you own it. The Gray’s not done with you. It picked you for a reason. Maybe you’re easier to imitate, or maybe you’re the crack in the wall it’s trying to widen. Either way…”
“You need to stop being a soft target,” Lioness finished. “Because if that thing figures out how to be you before you figure out how to protect yourself, we’re all screwed.”
Katie swallowed. “No pressure.”
Joell offered her a hand. “You don’t have to be perfect. Not right away. You just have to keep showing up.”
“And so will we,” Lioness added.
Katie took Joell’s hand and hauled herself up, shaky but upright. “Okay. Fine. But I’m only doing this if someone brings me iced coffee after every session.”
“Done,” Joell said. “But it may come with a side-eye and unsolicited advice.”
“I can live with that,” Katie said. “What now?”
“Now we brainstorm with the team. We need to know more.”
Katie sat at the long table, feeling deeply underdressed in her yoga pants and sweat-stained T-shirt while around her a gallery of high-functioning weirdos gathered: Joell at the head of the table, Lioness, with her wild mane of wheat-colored hair, to her left, Crystal, a blue-eyed blonde with a British accent, to her right, Rayna, a fellow red-head, with a mug the size of her face, and Brianna practicing sketching protective runes in the corner of her notepad like it was casual doodling.
On the giant wall monitors: Victoria, in Montreal, looking like a stylist dressed her this morning; Magda, in Australia, a brunette this time, casually reclining on a couch; and Sahara in Egypt, covered in dirt, or maybe her hair was dirty blond, looking like she was calling in from the middle of an archeological dig, because she was.
And then there was Major Payne.