Suddenly Sorceress (6 page)

After shutting Karma in the guest room—just in case—I went downstairs to check on the enormous snake one more time before heading out. Still coiled up under the clothes basket, Matt flicked his tongue at me. I piled a few more heavy books on the top of the basket. I didn’t want to come home to find him slithering around the house.

With a flip of my wrist, I checked my watch as I walked out the door: already after nine. I needed to hurry if I was going to make the show before meeting Jackson Blake—the one person who might be able to help me work my faulty magic.

Seven

A
fter examining the address scrawled
on the back of my hand and the display on the GPS, I shifted my attention to the building. The nondescript structure could have housed any number of businesses at one time or another, although—judging by the outside—it didn’t appear to have been in use in a long time. While searching for any sort of sign out front, I noticed random bits of graffiti—museum-quality spray paint art depicting phallic-looking snakes, among other things—but no illumination and no apparent entrance. The edges disappeared into the long-fingered shadows.

So of course, I pulled into the parking lot to get a closer look. Why not? What could be scarier than the day I’d had? The building may have looked abandoned, but the parking lot teemed with what appeared to be escapees from DragonCon, queuing to enter through a side door.

Jackpot.

Once I’d parked the BMW under the only working streetlight, I eased out of the car and pressed the remote to set the alarm.

Before that day, Vlad’s Castle was the absolute last place I would’ve
ever
gone on purpose. Especially alone. I had an urge, bordering on a need, to confide in Chloe—and beg her to ignore the speed limit all the way there.
But too late for that.

I approached the leather-clad bouncer—black pants, black vest, black hair, no shirt—aware I was ridiculously overdressed. His muscles bulged under his Edgar Allen Poe-inspired tattoos. A raven spread its impressive wings across his chest. A thick coat of pale makeup hid his natural skin tone, and the bottomless pits of his dark eyes, fenced off by heavy kohl liner, roved over my new curves. I had once thought my pale skin and dark hair made me look Goth. I was sadly mistaken. That guy…
that place
… was Goth.

“Jackson Blake left a ticket for me?” I fidgeted, scavenging my purse for money. “Ivie McKie?” I pulled out a few bills and held them tightly.

“Thirty dollars,” he droned. He took my two twenties and moved to the person behind me.

I stayed put, tapping my toes on the pavement, and he turned to stare at me, his face a stone mask.

“We don’t give out change.” His black-painted lips pressed into a hard line.

I planted my hands on my hips. “You’re joking.”

“We don’t give out change,” he repeated in a monotone. “Flaunting your hot little body won’t make a difference.”

“Of course.” I forced my lips together to keep from saying something that could get me in trouble and zipped my purse shut, tucking it tightly under my arm. Coach did
not
belong in that place. Not even when it was just a clever knockoff.

“And just a bit of advice? If you’re gonna go with the Wiccan look, you need to commit to it. Don’t half-ass it.” As if he’d suffered a spontaneous flash of chivalry, he held back the dark tarp that doubled as the door. Then it fell behind me, bathing me in darkness.

I shoved through the faux-undead crowd until I made it all the way inside. The show had already started, and the sole source of light came from a single spotlight focused on the man on stage. My feet froze, and I stared at the magician as if I’d been fitted for a pair of concrete boots.

Barely visible under his elaborate costume, he still caused my insides to clench. Only his lips were exposed beneath his white, featureless mask, and I fixated on their slightly parted fullness as he drew in a quick breath.
Those lips would feel so good against mine.

Whoa, wait, what? I shook my head to clear the illicit thoughts, squinted into the darkness, and stumbled around in search of a seat. The same song that had played as Jackson Blake’s ringback filled the room, setting an ominous tone. Finding a spot with a decent view of the stage proved difficult, and I chanted
excuse me
like a mantra. I settled into a seat near the front, closer than I would have liked, but it afforded me the best view of the man I came to see.

He wore all black except for his crisp white button-down shirt and the red satin lining of his cape. I watched as he shifted his lanky frame from side to side. He reached toward the audience while turning a deck of cards over and over in his hands. His long fingers shuffled the cards before singling out the ace of spades. With a loud clap, his hands came together then he held them open, revealing…
nothing
. The card had disappeared. He bent forward and pulled it from behind the ear of a woman in the front row. With a stupid smile, I clapped like a demented seal along with the rest of the crowd.

As he pulled a large box from just offstage, his mouth tipped up slightly before pressing into a tight line again. My stomach spun like a front-load dryer.

Placing the box at his feet, he addressed the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would be so kind, please remain very still. What I am about to do is highly dangerous.” He thrust his hand into the velvety box and pulled out a white dove. Struggling against the flapping wings, he presented the bird to the audience, sweeping it from one side of the stage to the other. “For this next part, I need complete silence.” He laid a dark scarf over the bird then waved his hand above it and recited words I couldn’t comprehend. With a grand flourish, he propelled the bird over his head, releasing it into the air. A bright flash of white light momentarily blinded me as the little dove appeared to explode into an enormous black snake.

Recoiling, I screamed, drawing unwanted attention from the audience. That was no parlor trick. That was serious magic—something I knew a little bit about. Very little, but still. My heart skipped a few beats then skittered at a new pace as I gaped at the python twining around his shoulders. I’d just witnessed almost the same thing that had happened in my kitchen, right down to the flash of light and the snake. I wanted to jump up on the stage and hug him. He wasn’t kidding when he advertised his magic as being “not for the faint of heart.” Mine was beating out of my chest.

The toe of my boot tapped out his theme song as I waited for Jackson Blake to exit the stage through a curtain in the back. Once he disappeared, the lights brightened, and I got my first chance to examine my surroundings. The club resembled a drafty medieval dungeon, complete with torture devices. What had I wandered into? Princess Leia in her gold bikini lay draped over an antique-looking banquet table with another large snake coiled around her. I’d almost convinced myself the reptile was fake when it lifted its head and rippled its tongue in my direction. Her snake didn’t scare me. I had my
own
snake to worry about.

I navigated through the crowd of tattooed and pierced bodies, forced to brush against their sweaty flesh as I passed. In my last life—the time before I found out I was a witch—I would have been too paralyzed by fear to move through the room. My newfound knowledge bolstered my confidence just enough to propel me forward. Even though I had no idea how to use my powers, I definitely had them.

The overwhelming stench of patchouli and pyrotechnics made my nose tingle, but all things considered, I still preferred it to the skunk. Thanks to the nods and prodding of several people, I found my way behind the stage and knocked on the door marked with a red pentagram.

The man who greeted me looked as if he was made of Silly Putty and had rolled in the Sunday comics. Colorful ink covered his shoulders and chest. Black flames swirled over his bald head like hair from hell. A combination of images and words were scrawled across his cheekbones and chin. Inked black chain link and barbed wire arched above his eyes. He had multiple piercings through his eyebrows, lips, and even both cheeks. Steel dimples. He towered over me—at least seven feet tall—and hovered closer than would be considered polite in my usual circles.

He glared and spoke in a deep, resonating tone, not unlike Lurch from
The Addams Family
. “Can I help you?”

I opened my mouth but barely a squeak emerged. “Jackson Blake?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Me?” I cleared my throat and managed to create more sound. “I mean, Ivie McKie?”

“Well, Ivie McKie, are you here for the after-show entertainment?” He flashed a toothy grin as he studied my new attributes.

I felt my cheeks flame. “Um… no. I called earlier with a bit of a
situation
I needed help with.”

“How can I help you?”

“
You
aren’t Jackson Blake.” I crossed my arms. No way would I mistake
his
voice for the panty-melting voice I’d heard on the phone.

“A good magician can be whoever he wants.” He smacked his lips.

“I’ve got it covered, Alex.” I recognized that honeyed voice.

“Whatever you say, boss.” The tattooed man lifted his bare shoulders in a slight shrug and slipped back inside the door, leaving it ajar.

“You can come in,” Jackson Blake said.

I pushed the door open with a weak shove and stepped into an old-fashioned dressing room. Along the back wall, rows of dim, round light bulbs framed a wide mirror that reflected my image back at me. My newly red-streaked hair lay tucked behind my ears, and I wore minimal makeup—just mascara and a bit of berry lip gloss. I looked out of place even dressed all in black. Like a kindergarten teacher in a Goth club.

“Hello?” I said to the empty room. Even the tattooed giant had disappeared. A chill ran up my back, and I wondered if it was due to the damp air or a frisson of fear. I twisted the gold circle on my left hand then stopped as I realized I still wore my engagement ring. “Shit.” I tugged on the ring, but it wouldn’t pass my knuckle. Plunging my finger into my mouth, I bit down and pulled until the ring slid into my mouth.

“I hope you’re planning to share with the
whole
class.” He stepped from the shadows, a lopsided grin lighting up his face.

I turned so my back was to him as I spat the ring into my hand. I slipped it carefully into my pocket before facing him. Younger than I expected and unmistakably handsome—like a male model ripped from a Halloween costume ad—the man in front of me was obviously Jackson Blake. He had artfully tousled chestnut hair and light stubble framing his jaw. Not a single tattoo marked his perfect face, and his clear blue eyes sparkled. He still wore the black trousers and white shirt under the black velvet cape, and topped it off with a stovepipe hat and a cane.

“You must be Ivie.” He extended his hand, and I hesitated before taking it.

“Jackson Blake?”

“Jack.” His touch sent a ribbon of heat up my arm. “You’ll have to excuse the theatrics. It’s all part of the act.” His lips quirked up at the corners. “Don’t let Alex scare you. He’s a pussycat.”

I resisted the urge to say,
I might be able to arrange that.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

He shrugged. “Oh, sure. I’m always willing to help another member of the magical community.” He motioned to a red velvet settee and waited until I sat before joining me. “You said it was a matter of urgency. What could be so important on a Friday night?”

With a deep breath, I launched into an abbreviated version of the past twenty-four hours. To his credit, he didn’t flinch once. Nor did he laugh or roll his eyes. He did crack the easiest smile as I recounted chasing the cat with my fiancé in his mouth. But when I finished with the large reticulated snake, his face took on a serious expression.

“I see,” he said once I’d skidded to a halt. “Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

I let out a nervous laugh. “No. Most people would call me crazy.”

He nodded.

“How long have you been doing magic?”

He threw his arm over the back of the settee and I shivered at his proximity. “Since I was six or seven. My family is quite magically inclined.”

“Oh!” I didn’t know what to think about that comment. What did
magically inclined
mean? Did they sit around a cauldron whispering incantations at night? Pull coins out of one another’s ears for lunch money?

“Did you see the show?”

“Yes, I got here right before it ended.” Tilting my head, I took in his appearance. “Do you have a second show this evening?”

He laughed. “I didn’t want to disappoint you by wearing my regular clothes.” He grabbed the brim of the hat in both hands and spun it end over end with a dramatic flourish before tossing it into a trunk in the corner.

“So do you think you can help me?” I perched on the edge of the seat.

“I think I might be able to help you, yes.”

The tension drained from my shoulders, and I sank back into the smooth red velvet.

He counted something on his fingers then smiled. “I think I can work you into my schedule sometime next week.”

“Next week?” I blurted. “I can’t wait until next week! It has to be now.
Tonight
.”

“Tonight, huh?” He flashed a quick smile then stood and clapped. “I’m starving. Let’s go get a midnight snack and a cup of coffee, and we’ll talk about your predicament.”

As a rule, I stayed away from the Great American House of Waffles—known in my circle as the Awful Waffle. It wasn’t that I had anything against waffles. In fact, I loved waffles. I just tended to shy away from creepy people, and the Awful Waffle’s major claim to fame was its assortment of creepy people after midnight—like the guy cooking my food. His previous jobs might have included biting the heads off chickens in a traveling carnival, barker for the circus big top, and rock-breaking in a chain gang.

The magician didn’t look at all creepy. In fact, he was completely delicious—way better than the waffles, if I was any judge. He’d shed his costume before we set out to get food. His street clothes, as he’d called them, drew more attention than his elaborate getup. Matt always wore khakis or a suit, never denim. Jackson Blake should never wear anything but.

The way he wore a pair of jeans should’ve been illegal. They weren’t nice, really—the knees were ripped out, they were worn across the seat, and they probably needed to be washed—but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the way they clung to his body. He’d paired them with a wrinkled, off-white, long-sleeved Henley, all the buttons undone. He hadn’t shaved in at least a day, maybe two, and his messy brown hair hadn’t seen a comb in just as long.