March 21, late night
I suck at magic.
Had no idea what I was doing.
Which was probably why I found myself looking at a six-foot purple flame burning an astral hole in my mom's living room. Earlier I'd pulled the rug back to reveal the huge pentagram painted on the wood floor beneath. The big Book of Everything lay open on the papasan chair, turned to a page I evidently had no business reading, and I was pretty much trapped between the flame and the fireplace.
Screaming seemed the appropriate thing to do—so I did.
Only—no one could hear me.
My name's Zoë. Martinique. And in the span of two weeks, I had lost my mother's soul, banished my best friend from my life, scared the crap out of my cop boyfriend, experienced crazy erotic dreams about another cop in whom I spent some recoup time (hey—clean thoughts here!), learned I was being stalked by two secret societies, as well as possibly damned my soul for all eternity.
Oh—and the cherry—my great-uncle was responsible for it all.
Period.
All of these things combined have proven one thing to me—I am the winner in the world's most-dysfunctional-family contest.
Top that! Ha!
Oh, and I'm mute. Not deaf. Though some people tended to think those two were synonymous, so when they discovered I couldn't talk, they started shouting at me really slow.
Idiots.
Though that word pretty much applied to me at that moment, as I attempted again to get around the flame. But if I tried to move to the right and jump on the couch, the damned thing moved with me. If I tried to fake it and jump to the left, it matched me again. And forget going through it. I'd already tried that and had one hell of a burn working along my right shoulder where the flame touched me. My jacket was still smoking. I had to face it— the flame was stalking me. Literally pushing me up against the fireplace.
Just as I was about to see if a human could climb up a chimney, I heard the bell over the front door chime, as well as felt the vibration on the hardwood floor. Seeing past the flame was getting difficult—I could make out the arch between the botanica where I was pinned, and the tea shop where the front door was. A beaded curtain usually separated the two stores—but I'd taken the damned thing down. Got tired of seeing it move with a breeze and thinking someone was in the house. Don't ask me where that breeze was coming from—I had no idea. I'd been jumpy—and with good reason. Knowing complete strangers were watching me was worse than not knowing. As I pressed myself against the mantel of the fireplace, I heard someone call my name, and I screamed out—both with my silent vocal cords as well as my thoughts. What the hell are you doing? came the voice in my mind. It was a male voice— but it wasn't Joe's. Whoever it was could hear my thoughts. So—I must have overshadowed (slipped inside of their body— kinda like possession but not really— at least not to me) them at some point. Unless it was a ghost?
Speaking of ghosts—where were Tim and Steve? Wasn't there something they could do? Oh—Tim and Steve were the resident ghosts of Mom's combo of house and shop (half botanica and half tea shop)—a couple who died in the basement. Pretty gruesome. Now's not the time to elaborate.
Zoë? You there?
Well, whoever it was knew me, and I could hear them.
Hang on!
I was hanging on. To the mantel. Two more inches and this thing was going to roast me alive!
A light brighter than the fire nearly blinded me, and I squinted, then looked away with my hand up in front of me. I was expecting to get singed any second—and let's not even talk about how bad my shoulder was hurting where the fire had touched it before.
And then the light against my eyelids dimmed to nothing, leaving me extremely cold.
A warm hand touched my cheek, and I jumped— I would have squeaked if I could— and there was the familiar voice again. I was blinking as fast as I could, but it was like looking too long into the center of a lightbulb, then looking away— I couldn't make out what was in front of me.
Not immediately.
". . . Zoë? Hey . . . look at me. You okay? Did the Portal Fire touch you?"
I blinked again. I could make out an outline. Definitely male. Close to my height. Short, tousled hair, and warm hands.
J-Joe?
There was a soft laugh. "No. Not hardly. You didn't look into the flame, did you?"
I paused.
There was a sigh. "Zoë . . ." It was more of a drawn-out whine than my name. Though I'd never noticed how well my name translated into a whine till that moment.
I shrugged. He put his hands on my wrist, then my shoulder, and guided me away from the fireplace and into the brighter light of the tea shop. Once there, I blinked even faster as I bumped into the table closest to the arch.
"Christ— you got singed! That shoulder looks bad. Sit down over here. I'll make you a calming tea and then get to work on the damage, okay?"
I could see the table and the chair easily enough, and I sat down. I hadn't realized I was shaking. Not just from nerves—mainly because I'd just nearly barbecued my ass— but because I was actually chilled. I could see the guy moving around in the kitchen, behind the cake-and-pie display. I could even see the display case pretty good.
Why can't I see this person? Why isn't his voice registering with me? Did that flame burn out brain cells?
Hey— no comments.
My shoulder started throbbing— each heartbeat feeding the stinging pain— so I reached around with my left hand and pulled my right arm closer to my chest. Ow, ow, ow. I felt a vibration on the floor and knew someone was at the back door before the lock turned and the hinges squeaked. From the sound of the shuffle, I knew it was the neighbor and Mom's friend, Jemmy Shultz.
"Hey, Jemmy!" the stranger called out.
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