Page 19 of Inked & Bloodbound
Cassini balances on the edge of a seat, his broad, tall body barely fitting in the meager space. “This is where we’re meeting Paloma. She’s a bruja.”
I blink at him, not sure I’ve heard correctly. “A what?”
“A witch.”
The words hit me like a slap, and I stand up so fast the seat rocks backward. He has got to be kidding me.
“Nope. Not going to happen. Sorry, but I shouldn’t have come here. Thanks for the ride and the suggestion, but I’m going to call myself an Uber and?—”
He grabs my hand, and the shock of his cold skin against mine stops me dead in my tracks. We lock eyes, and where I expect to see anger, I find something far gentler. He’s almost pleading with me tostay. I look down at his icy hand for answers, but he drops it quickly and takes a step back.
“What the hell? Your hand. It’s?—”
Before I can warn him of the dangers of poor circulation, the door swings open, and a beautiful woman emerges. She’s probably in her mid to late forties, with wild, jet-black curls that cascade past her shoulders and spill onto her warm brown skin. Her lips are painted coral-red and pursed like she’s tasting each word before deciding whether to speak it.
When he said we were meeting a witch, I expected an old lady in a kaftan, but she’s well dressed in tight black jeans and an off-the-shoulder top that shows a tapestry of intricate tattoos running down both arms.
But it’s her eyes that stop me—they’re this incredible amber color, and when she turns her gaze to me, I feel her burning straight through my flesh and through to my soul.
My intuition, which has been oscillating between anxiety and acceptance for the last twenty-four hours, suddenly goes quiet. Not silent—just…calm. Like when you’re standing in the scorching sun and a cool ocean breeze hits your face.
“I’m Paloma,” she says, extending a hand. “And you must be Lily.”
Before I can change my mind, I reach out to her and take it, noting how firm and reassuring her touch is. Her nails are immaculate. Long, black, and glossy, filed into a coffin shape with blood-red tips.
“Cassini, you’ll wait out here,” she says, holding my gaze. “This is women’s work.”
She steps aside and gestures for me to enter the room behind her. It’s dark beyond the door, but I’m not afraid. When I cross the threshold, it takes my breath away.
It’s like stepping into another world—or maybe another reality. The smell hits me first, sweet, floral, and heavy with incense. On the ruby-painted walls sit rows of crooked shelves holding mismatched jars of herbs. Between them, a gang of carved wooden saints—some I recognize from my childhood and others that are completely foreignto me. Half-burned candles flicker everywhere, casting dancing shadows across altars laden with fresh fruit, flowers, and framed pictures.
On her table, light emanates from a crystal ball nestled in an intricate iron cradle. I lean in to get a closer look at the translucent white smoke inside that gently twists and curls around itself, creating ethereal patterns.
“What’s that?” I say, prodding at it.
“It’s a kind of alarm,” she says shifting it just out of reach like she’s moving a cookie jar away from an over curious toddler.
I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and inhale the heady smell of palo santo. It’s soothing here, and I’m shocked at how quickly I relax. Everything is bathed in blush-pink light that makes the tiny room hazy at the edges.
“Sit,” Paloma says, gesturing to a small chair across from her cloth-covered desk. “Please. You can be comfortable here.”
I melt into the weathered leather armchair as Paloma strikes a long match and passes the flame over two black tapered candles nestled between us. When I raise an eyebrow, she tells me it’s for protection, and even the most cynical part of me believes her. She has that kind of energy.
“So,” she says, blowing out the match and fixing me with an inquisitive look. “Why are you here?”
“Shouldn’t you already know the answer?” I say with a laugh. “Aren’t you some kind of fortune teller?”
She doesn’t laugh back, just watches me curiously.
My smile drops, and I shake my head. “I don’t know, really. I guess I’m just looking for answers.”
She leans in, her hands folded on the table. “I see. Then maybe you should begin by asking me a question.”
My phone has just enough battery left to get me through the next few minutes, so I take it out and swipe to the picture of the tattoo. The one that stopped me in my tracks just a day ago. I hesitate for a moment before handing it over to her.
“Have you ever seen this symbol before?” I ask.
She studies the image and furrows her brow. “Where did you see this mark?”