Warrior Witch: Book Two Read online

  “And you’re intruding.” He dumped her onto the wooden floor, panting. Jack dug a spider out of his pockets. It turned to powder under his fingers from his spell. He flicked its remnants onto the floor, grabbed a barstool from the kitchen, and sat on it. “You’re going to tell me why, and then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

  She groaned at the ceiling and arched her back, stretching her leather jerkin against her breasts.

  Jack looked away. He took a slow breath through his nose, settling the tension out of his muscles, the tautness caused by a warring flutter of curiosity, frustration, and something akin to hunger. The witch was distractingly attractive. Jack doubted anyone could wrestle with such a lovely thing without being affected. And she was probably in trouble. In Loreley, witches rarely weren’t in trouble.

  Probably she was trouble.

  “Let’s start with your name—No, don’t spell me,” Jack snarled. “I’ve put your arms and legs to sleep, and I’ll do the same to your tongue if you push me. Then I’ll hand you over to the constable.”

  “Traitorous witch, you’d give me to watchmen?”

  Jack folded his arms. “Constable Alec is a fair man. I’m losing sleep because of you, and I was already in a foul mood. So explain yourself, or I’ll let him figure you out.”

  She stared stubbornly at the ceiling, her nostrils flaring.

  He tousled his hair and tried leveling his tone, but his words still came out coarse. “You snuck in here and used magic to do it, so you’re either a desperate witch in distress, or you’re the type that runs around making a bad name for us all. If you’re in trouble, I’m inclined to help you.” She met his eyes at that, and he added, “One witch to another, I’ll help you.”

  “What if you decide I’m the bad kind of witch?”

  “If you’re that kind, I’m going to get rid of you.” The invisible weight on his shoulders doubled at the thought.

  “You’d kill me?” She swallowed hard.

  “I don’t kill people, certainly not another witch, and I don’t hurt women . . . on purpose. I’d probably stick you on a ferry departing for some place far away from here. Let your troubles follow you wherever you land. Or maybe I’ll give you to the people of Magus District, let them sort you out by putting you to work.”

  “You have an honest face.” She squinted at him. “Your magic aura suggests you’re honest.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d like to punch you in your honest face.”

  “Understandable.”

  She thought for a moment, her tongue in her cheek. The newly awoken birds cawed and fretted outside in the grass. The smell of salt, sunlight, and trees mingled in the air, at odds with the glow of the moon. “I’m a witch in trouble.”

  “Was that so hard?” He leaned back on the stool. Mud from traveling barefoot everywhere had dried to his feet and ankles. His skin itched. “If I drop the spell, will you run?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll talk to you.”

  He rose off his perch, opened the door, and widened the window to allow the magic to escape. The earlier rain had thickened the humidity, slowing the spell from dissipating. Jack waved his enchantment off. The moment it wafted out on a moist breeze, the witch sprang to her feet and sprinted into the adjoining room. She knocked down an end table in her earnestness. Wood clattered as Jack’s feet pounded the floorboards. He bounded over the furniture and captured her wrist before she could make it to the window.

  “Damnit and damn you!” She grappled with him, shoving against his abdomen, pulling his hair, hollering in his ears. They toppled onto the floor in a heap. “Don’t you dare spell me—son of a bitch!” The ram symbol burned into the floorboard by her head. It faded away as quickly as it had arrived. “Stop smiling at me!”

  He pressed his lips together. “I can’t help it. You remind me of my friend. She also has a terrible mouth, though you’d give Marnie a run for her money. I thought she was the most temperamental witch I’d ever met.”

  “Marnie . . . ? Marnie Becker?”

  “Yes.”

  “The ‘hero witch’? The one in the papers?”

  “I’m her friend and one of her domestics, her house magician.”

  “Could you . . . ? First, get off me. You’re crushing my bones, you’re so heavy.”

  He had her pinned beneath his torso, enjoying the gentleness of her magics, forgetting himself. Reluctantly, he rolled off her and sat up.

  She filled her lungs. “Thank you. You’re right. I’m a witch in trouble. Can you please take me to her? To Marnie? I know it’s late, but I’d rather not wait.”

  He shook his head. “You just missed her. She left on a ferry for the academy.”

  The witch’s eyes filled with tears, and Jack yanked his arms away like she’d turned venomous. “Why are you doing that?”

  “I need her help.” She sniffled, squirming on the floor, fighting against the spell.

  Jack pulled the sheet off the bed. He folded the corner and dabbed her wet cheeks.

  “Thanks,” she said flatly. “I know of Marnie. Every witch probably does by now. I thought she was the reason my magics brought me here, across the sea. They were guiding me to someone who could help me. They sent me to this lousy cottage instead.”

  He swiped away more of her tears with his thumb, deciding against preserving them for spell ingredients later. It seemed insensitive; Marnie would have scolded him for it. “You’re not making any sense.”

  She cast her eyes heavenward for a moment. His lips curled, amused. He wadded the sheets together and tossed them back on the mattress.

  “I’m a cartographer—not the mapmaking kind,” she said, “the magical kind.”

  “That’s not a real thing.” He cupped the air around her, testing the soft heat of her magic.

  “Well, you’re looking at one, and I’m fairly certain I’m real. I can converse with my magics. When I ask them to find me something or someone, they do. Every time without fail, no matter how obscure, they take me to what I seek. They’ve never failed me before.” She choked on her words. “Except this time.”

  “Your magics feel strange to me. There’s something more to them than what I’m accustomed to finding on other witches. I think you must be powerful, but cartography is a thing of fairy tales. Even divining spells have their limitations. It’s never as simple as asking a question.” His curiosity got away from him. He rose up on his knees and prodded the magics clinging to her arms and legs. “What do you sacrifice? What sort of ingredients do you gather to feed it?”

  Lifting her head off the floor, she glared at his nudging fingers. “Nothing. It’s not a spell. It’s who I am.” Then she stared at something hovering around his head, something he could not see. “You are as strange as I am, so I don’t know why it’s hard to believe. I’ve never seen someone cast spells so quickly. In a snap you had me. Your magical aura is extremely bright. Right now, it’s more of a faded yellow, but earlier while you were sleeping, it was like I was staring at the sun. I don’t usually smell magics, but yours has a slight scent to it, like rose water. That’s why I lingered here.”

  He shifted his weight, crouching down near her face. “Let’s pretend I trust what you’re saying.”

  Her eyebrows, as white as her hair, knitted. “Why would I lie to you?”

  “Why would you break into my cottage and watch me sleep?”

  Her lips shrank into a tight ball. She averted her gaze. “That’s a fair point.”

  “My name is Jack, by the way.”

  “You can call me Kye.”

  “Is that actually your name?”

  “You can call me Kye.” Mouth firm, she scowled at him.

  “Kye, your magics brought you to the island. And then to my cottage. Stands to reason they think I’m what you’re looking for. Unless of course, you’re in need of a fishing rod? A crab trap, perhaps?”

  Her laugh was contrite. “You can’t be it. You’re as poor as I am. I asked my magic to br
ing me to someone who could help me. Marnie Becker is a witch and an heiress. She could help me. Unless you’re just dressed that way for fun”—she eyed the patch on his knee—“you can’t help me.”

  “Prove it.”

  Her brow puckered.

  “Prove you’re a cartographer.” Curiosity burned within him, stirring his blood. He leaned down. “Prove it, and I’ll help you. Whatever it is, I don’t even care. I’ll do it, just show me what you can do, and how you do it.”

  She wriggled on the floor, glaring at him. “I can’t. A jackass spelled me.”

  A chuckle tumbled out of him, catching him completely off guard. Jack couldn’t remember the last time anything had made him laugh aloud. He was content enough, he thought, quick to smile, but he rarely laughed. It loosened something in his chest. His heart softened.

  “Tell you what,” he said, rising to his feet, “I’ll take the jinx off. If you run again, I won’t chase you. I’m not worried about you anymore. I don’t think you’re trying to cause the sort of trouble that tends to blow back on all witch-kind, and if you came in here as intrigued about my magics as I am now about yours, I think I can wrap my head around that. It’s in our witch nature to be captivated by such things. So, the choice is yours. Stay, show me your skills, and I’ll help you. Or go and figure your mess out on your own. Either way, I won’t force myself on you any further.”

  She mulled this over, her tongue back in her cheek. “All right, jackass,” she said with a half-smile. “Take it off.”

  He strode carefully over her and opened the bedroom window. Jack waved the jinx away, and magic, gritty like sand, filtered out.

  Kye climbed slowly to her feet. There was an artistry to her form. She moved with predatorial grace and beauty, reminding Jack of a puma. She had skin like fresh milk, unblemished save for the bruise around her eye, like someone had thrown paint on a masterpiece. The mark flustered Jack, sparking and smoldering in his chest. Thinking about the pastor who hit her, his hands reflexively tightened into fists while she straightened her leathers and laid her hair over her shoulder. With deft fingers, she knotted the thick strands into a loose braid.

  He watched her with interest. “No one should have struck you,” he said, his tone wrought with more feeling than he meant to allow.

  She met his gaze, clearing her throat. “Thank you. For understanding and for letting me go.”

  Kye stared at him. No, not at him, at something around him that he could not see. Her mouth fell open slightly. Her pupils expanded with a sharp intake of breath. He tried to see, squinting, but observing magics was a natural skill he had never possessed.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

  Then Kye ran out the door, her slight form stirring up more angry birds as she disappeared into the shadows.

  He sighed.

  ***

  Jack woke at first light and ate braised whitefish for breakfast. He moved sluggishly, breathing in the smell of trees and warmth which reminded him instantly of the witch, Kye. She had left tracks in the mud around the cottage. He stepped beside one. The imprint of her foot was dainty in comparison to his bear-sized trotters. His lips curled in a grimace, thinking about her size compared to his—compared to any man’s. A fire blossomed beside his heart. Instead of walking the swamps, he detoured into the village, a new destination firmly set in his mind. His teeth ground together, loud in his ears.

  Out on the ocean, ferries carried workers to the coal and copper mines. Men in floppy hats, working long poles along the wharf, paused their fishing to stare at Jack. He stomped past an antique steam-powered automaton with rod-like arms and wheels for feet as it put out the gas lamps that lit the dirt road. Geckos scurried up Loreley’s sun-scorched walls, frightened by his approach. Airships floated overhead in a tropical sky that wouldn’t stay cloudless for long in the wet season.

  The pastor of Glint was not hard to spot at the heart of the village. He wore a long, layered brown stole around a scrawny neck that Jack wanted to wring. A wooden prosthetic limb hung at his side, reminding Jack of the dreadful demonic deal he’d tricked his own witch daughter into making for him. He chatted up the locals in front of a well as a rusted automaton dredged water into pails for the villagers, its wheeled feet caked in mud.

  The pastor had a thick stack of pamphlets tucked in his armpit. Jack recognized the naked tree symbol heading them, a ceiba tree with seven exposed roots and seven bared branches, the symbol that honored God and his greatest spirits. In large bold letters, the heading proclaimed: There is Only One God, and Spirits Are His Holy Helpers.

  Jack stormed toward him.

  The pastor’s dark eyes widened. “You?”

  Jack growled, as menacing and threatening as a bear. He was a heavily muscled witch, with a reputation equally as threatening—the man who had wrestled a demon. As Marnie’s fame had grown, so had that of the magician who always accompanied her.

  The pastor cowered back too late. Jack’s fist met his socket, sending him hard to the ground in a cloud of scattering pamphlets. The villagers stared, gasped, covered their mouths, whispered with their neighbors. The pastor rolled in the mud, holding his face, mewling. No one dared to intervene.

  Jack spat on him, and the pastor recoiled. “Hurt another witch, I take your other arm.”

  Then he marched for the capital’s gates, shaking out his fist. There would be fallout later.

  It was worth it.

  Chapter 2 (Marnie)

  The Acheus Academy of Magic Users was housed in a drafty stone monastery surrounded by rich farmland on the Achean plains. Full of old legends and nearly lost to time, it had been rescued by a collection of academic witches several generations ago. They had banded together to reclaim it for educating magical minds, updating it with plumbing, boilers and gaslights, repairing floors, salvaging a rotting foundation with Ammnon magics, and remodeling chambers into dormitories. Marnie could smell the magics, like grease paint, in every corner and crevice.

  Fall arrived on the plains, stealing the fruit off the trees in the northern orchards. The scent always made her think of Bran, which instantly made her homesick. Leaves turned a vibrant red and gold that took her breath away. The meadows lost their flowers, so she forewent her afternoon walks in favor of committing herself more fully to practicing alchemy in the student laboratories.

  She dove into her studies, determined to finish her semester as early as possible. Marnie kept reclusive habits, avoided distracting gatherings, took most meals alone in the library, studied late into the night, and rose early to begin it all again. If she could keep it up, she could test for her license in six months, instead of nine.

  She resisted worrying about Jack and her mother. Thoughts of Bran—daydreams—were a distraction she fought against regularly. The orchards were not helping, their scent so similar to his. She wrote them letters every other day. Theirs came just as often. The desire to be licensed and back home kept her motivated.

  Three weeks after arriving at the academy, a biting chill followed the sun’s dip. Born and raised on a tropical island, Marnie was unaccustomed to cool weather. The dormitory windows were drafty, so she sat on the floor before the hearth in her bedroom, under a blanket in her flannel button-up, wool stockings on her feet. She chewed on the back of a fountain pen, leaning against an embroidered armchair, notes from the day’s lectures piled around her. She squinted at the book in her lap: Zerba’s Guide to Alchemical Probability. The font on the page was so small it hurt her eyes.

  A faint knock rapped against the door.

  She took her pen out of her mouth. “Come in.”

  It was an odd time for maid service. They had already replaced her towels and the water for her washstand after supper. She glanced out her window to see the sun begin its descent behind the tree line as the door creaked open.

  “I think I have everything I need,” she said. “If you want to retire, please do so.”

  “Oh, I’d love to,” Bran said, and Marnie gasped, “but
everyone tells me twenty-two is far too young for the emperor to retire . . .”

  She leapt to her feet, scattering her notes. Her gaze widened at his tall frame, his warm brown eyes, the familiar smile bursting with mischief. The stitching on his embroidered jacket matched his emerald green stole. She had a sudden urge to remove them both from his person.

  Immediately.

  To pluck at his buttons. To loosen his trousers. To strip him bare and have him on the floor by the fire—a reoccurring daydream of hers.

  “How are you here right now?” Marnie’s heart thumped in her chest, almost painfully.

  Firelight danced across his olive skin. “Airship. There are a few perks to being a ruler. The palace mans several dirigibles.” He held a suede gambler’s hat at his side, tapping the brim eagerly against his thigh.

  She dropped her pen and hurried to greet him. His arms opened and she paused. “I’m glad to see you, of course. Thrilled even. Please don’t think I’m not, but . . .” She bit her lip. “Why are you here?”

  The lines of his eyes crinkled. “You know me too well . . .” Toying with the brim of his hat, he put his back to her. He meandered around her room, glancing over the alchemical equipment on the bookshelf. Absently, he hooked his hat on her bedpost.

  “Bran,” she scolded, “tell me why you’re here.” The mechanical brace on her hand hummed, responding to her body’s tension. The automated fingers flexed open and shuddered. “Is everyone all right?”

  “Everyone is fine.” Bran thumbed through the open potion book on her nightstand. “Your mother is in good health. Jack is well. My heart hurts a little, but that’s a fairly common malady when we’re apart.”

  She crossed to him in quick strides and took his hand in hers. The magic that favored his skin smelled like the crisp cool fall air outside, and like cider and fresh rain.

  “Mine does that too.” She placed his palm over her heart. It thumped spiritedly.

  His sad eyes, usually brown, burned gold in the glow from the fire. “I came to beg you for your help again, and now that I’m here . . . If you agree, I know I’m taking something away from you, and I hate that. It’s lovely here, and there are so many of your kind inside this old monastery. I imagine that must be satisfying.”