Page 15 of Bewitched By the Djinn (The Bewitching Hour #8)

Chapter

Eleven

I extend my hand to the vamp again, my mind racing. Intentions, shared intentions, what the fuck does it even mean?

Bennet puts his hand over mine, and then Edward reaches for us, fingers covering ours.

I drop my mental shields, despite the fear coursing through me of being that vulnerable. Like a turtle without a shell.

But then . . . nothing.

No spark, no jolt, no ancient well of power springing free. No choir of angels bursting out of the heavens. Just three idiots holding hands across a café table like we’re in a throuple.

I glance sideways at Bennet. “Is this doing anything for you?”

His brow creases. “It should be.” He shifts, angling his palm more fully over mine. “You must focus.”

“I am focusing.”

“Don’t force it. Just focus on what we need our magic to do and let go.”

“Let go of what, exactly?” The tenuous thread on my sanity? But I shut my eyes anyway. Let go. Let go.

Let go of fear. Of doubt. Of trying to control it.

A beat passes. Another.

Then there’s a pinch and a tug, a release, like a clogged drain suddenly breaking free. Magic flows into me, molten and hot, causing a cascade of warmth.

It’s hard to concentrate. And suddenly, Bennet is there, in my mind, like smoke rising through cracks, he’s all around me. His emotions swirl with mine, heat meeting with heat, until I can’t tell where his end and mine begin.

Wonder.

Surprise.

Confusion.

Fear.

Arousal.

A deep longing, raw and unshaped, slipping through my fingers before I can take hold of it.

My breath catches. What is happening?

Then, as suddenly as it came, it vanishes. The emotions bleed out, leaving me lightheaded. But clearheaded enough to slam my shields back into place.

But they’re still in place. Locked down tight.

What the fuck?

Was he getting all that? Or is it just me? Or... both?

I steal a glance at him. The weight of his stare is more than I can handle. His cheeks are flushed. Okay, apparently he had the same experience.

I’m sure it will all be fine.

I turn to Edward.

His mouth is slack, gaze unfocused. “Wow,” he breathes. Then his fingers tighten on my wrist. His eyes darken, hungry. “More.”

I smack him over the head.

He blinks, the hunger in his gaze dulling to hazy and unfocused.

“Pull yourself together. You’ve got your payment. Now spill.”

Edward slumps back into his seat, sighing, then picks up his fork and shovels food into his mouth with obscene satisfaction. “This tastes amazing.”

“Edward.” Goddammit. He’s high as fuck.

Bennet moves faster than I can track, snatching Edward’s plate away before he can stab another bite of chicken.

Edward frowns. “Hey.”

“Answer the lady, please.” Bennet’s voice is smooth, but edged with steel.

Wow. I didn’t know he had it in him.

Edward huffs, but finally mutters, “She went to the bayou.”

Not exactly helpful. Louisiana has over twenty-five hundred square miles of swamp and wetlands.

“Where in the bayou?”

“To the witches who see beyond the veil.”

Okaaay.

I try again. “How do we get to these witches?”

His eyelids droop. “There’s a portal.”

I groan. “I should have made him talk before we paid.” I flick his ear. Useless. Like a well-fed cat who overdid it on the catnip. “Who do we go see, Eddie?”

He swipes lazily at my hand and misses by a mile. “Lafayette Cemetery One,” he yawns. “Find the mausoleum marked with magic. Be there at dusk or dawn for it to work.”

“And you’re sure Helen is still there? With the swamp witches?”

He shrugs, eyes glassy. “She could be. I don’t sense her anymore. She went there and then—” He snaps his fingers. “Poof.” Then he giggles and slumps forward. A snore rumbles out of him.

“Great.” I shove back from the table. “We’re not getting anything else out of him. Let’s start walking back.”

We exit the courtyard, walking through the bar onto the main road.

The music follows us out, bluesy and rich, twining through the dimly lit street.

The Tuesday night crowd on Bourbon is light, but present nonetheless.

Tourists in windbreakers, twenty-somethings spilling from neon-lit bars, the occasional street performer crooning under a flickering lamppost.

I weave through a clump of drunk college kids, Bennet a silent presence at my back.

We reach a quieter street, and he turns to me. “How did you set your intention, exactly? What did you wish for?”

“I wanted us to be able to access our magic whenever we need to, to remove the block. It seems like it worked. Maybe now we can use our magic to find Helen ourselves.” But I’m also a little freaked about how it basically erased any block between us as well.

At least, while the vamp was drawing from us.

Maybe it was just a one-off. Freak occurrence.

“We could test it?” Bennet steps around a random pipe sticking up out of the sidewalk.

“Later. When we get home.” I’m not quite ready for another emotional tornado. “Let’s focus on Helen. So, either she’s still in the bayou, or she asked the witches to block her or something so she couldn’t be tracked.”

Bennet’s eyes are troubled. “She may have concealed her presence herself. Clearly she doesn’t want to be dragged back to Aetheria. I have no doubt Uncle Hugh has sent someone after us since I haven’t returned. He is probably worried sick.”

“How would they find you? Can they track you the way you could track Helen?”

“No. Not many have that ability. And Helen and I—it’s different.

We have more magic than most. When we were kids, our connection was so strong we could find each other anywhere.

Almost read each other’s thoughts. We aren’t as close as we once were.

” He steps off the curb to avoid a pothole, then falls back into stride beside me.

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Being able to read her thoughts would sure come in handy right about now. There is no way to bring that back to life?”

He shakes his head. “When I first tracked her even with my magic on this side of the veil, it was difficult. The channel between us is muddled with misuse, like a well-worn path that’s been overrun with weeds and fallen logs. Things have not been the same between us since our parents died.”

“Why did your relationship with Helen change?”

We stop to let a car pass.

He turns to me as we cross the street. “She had obligations to the throne. She was often sequestered away with Uncle Hugh, learning how to rule, while I had tutors. Sometimes I was sent away to foster with Uncle’s councilors in their steadings, to learn about the more distant parts of the kingdom, so I might more capably assist my sister at court once she ascended.

After our parents passed, we were thrust into our respective roles, no longer free to be children. ”

“How old were you?”

“I was nine. Helen was twelve.”

My heart hurts for him, for both of them. To lose your parents so young—and then be separated from each other to attend to “duties.” I can’t imagine it. There’s no way in hell I would have sent either Jackie or Kevin away after our parents went missing.

I would rather send myself away. After three years of playing mom, getting a night off from parenting duties? That might be actual heaven.

“What happened to your parents?”

His hand lifts to the ring hidden behind his shirt. “They were attacked by ifrit on the way home from a neighboring kingdom. My uncle was with them. He barely survived.”

I wince. His story just keeps getting worse. “I’m sorry. The ring you wear, did it belong to one of them?”

His shoulders stiffen. “Yes. My mother.”

Ah. I’m not sure how to react to that. I know firsthand what it’s like to lose your parents. Words don’t fix or help anything. Nothing I say is going to bring them back or fix the ache of loss.

Shit. Way to ruin a perfectly comfortable conversation with an insensitive question.

We walk in silence for a block.

Grief is personal. Death is awkward.

I open my mouth to backtrack, but he suddenly stops.

I halt beside him. “Look, I’m sorry?—”

He lifts a hand, pointing past me.

I turn. “What is it?”

His head tilts slightly, eyes flicking behind us.

I listen. The night is quiet, save for the distant thrum of music and the occasional car rolling past the next intersection. The street we’re on is empty, just pools of shadow and the occasional glow of light spilling from a high window.

Bennet murmurs, “Strange.”

A flicker of unease curls in my gut.

The shadow against the nearest wall moves.

I freeze.

It peels away, detaching from the brick like liquid darkness, shifting, twisting, morphing.

A dim streetlight glints off something in its hand.

Is that a knife? It’s shiny but glowing, prickling like lightning. Shock locks my body in place. How the hell is a shadow holding a bolt of lightning? Let alone moving.

My limbs are ice.

Can’t breathe.

The figure lunges, a flash of light arcing my way.