Illicit Magic (9 page)

“I’ll come back in ten minutes. Will that be long enough for you to dress?” Étoile patted my leg through the covers and I felt a supreme sense of calm wash over me. “The council are assembling now.”

I nodded. It shouldn’t take me long to scramble into the dress and shoes. And as for makeup, well, thank goodness I’d been blessed with clear skin because I didn’t have much in my bag.

Étoile smiled, pleased, and sashayed out of the room. I don’t think Étoile walked that way for my benefit, I think she just was a true sashay-er.

I shoved back the bedding and swung my legs out, flexing my toes to bring life back into them. I stood, stretched my arms towards the ceiling, making my shoulders creak in protest, and went over to the closet to take out the dress. I laid it on the bed and put the shoes on the floor below. I rummaged through my duffle bag, pondering briefly if I was supposed to unpack.
Was this supposed to be my home now?
From the way the Bartholomews had spoken earlier about deciding my future, I guessed not. So, unpacking could wait. My hands, rooting around blindly, found the little bag of makeup I kept for special occasions, not that I had many of them, and I pulled it out. The last time I had gotten made up was on a date seven months ago and it hadn’t ended well. I sighed.
At least I could make myself presentable now
.

Leaning forward so I could see myself in the mirror, I slicked on some lip gloss and a single coat of mascara, then tugged the brush through my hair. It had dried while I slept and I needed to coax the knots out. I was clean and presentable, at least. I tried not to sigh at Étoile’s singular elegance, knowing that no matter how pretty and expensive the dress lying on the bed was, it was still a borrowed one and I could never achieve Étoile’s unselfconscious loveliness.

I reminded my reflection that jealousy was not a virtue and besides, Étoile could not help the way she looked any more than I could. I tried to think a nice thought about myself, something I had read in a magazine about boosting your self-esteem. I finally settled on the thought that I had really nice legs, not too muscular, just nicely defined.
That would do.
I smiled. That was another trick from the magazine. Just the act of smiling was enough to make you want to smile.
Great for diffusing tough situations,
like wishing you were a hot, skinny witch,
I thought while trying out a smile that didn’t seem quite as much like a smirk.

I pulled off my tee, laid it over the back of the chair and rifled through my bag for a black bra, snapped it on, then slipped into the dress. I could just about zip the back up, but I’d have to ask –
who? Étoile?
– to zip up the last inch. I smoothed the skirt over my hips and assessed my reflection in the mirror. It fit perfectly, skimming over my breasts and cinching in my waist before flaring slightly over my hips and finishing at my knees. It was understated but quite eye-catching. A smile spread over my face. It was good to see that I scrubbed up nicely. I had a pair of nude tights rolled in my bag. They were worn, used for the odd occasions I wore a skirt suit to work, but at least they weren’t snagged.

I sat down to roll them on then slid my feet into the shoes. I don’t wear heels much but I once had a foster mother who made all the girls practice that time-honoured tradition of marching up and down the hall in heels while balancing a book on their heads. For once, I was grateful for all those missed evenings of television watching. At least now I wouldn’t fall flat on my face in front of a room of people who had been gathered to scrutinise me. I rummaged through my jewellery, extracting a pair of plain silver ball studs and poked them through the little flesh holes in my lobes before giving myself a second appraisal in the mirror.

A knock on the door tore my attention away from my – admittedly, rather nice – reflection. I opened it to find Étoile with Marc standing a step behind her. He wore a black suit like a second skin with a white shirt and striped tie – quite the upscale preppy look. He was handsome and he knew it. I would bet the pair of them were as used to dressing up as I was not. Marc’s eyes swept me from head to toe and back again. He pursed his lips and gave me a low appraising whistle. I grinned, my cheeks reddening, not sure if I was grateful for his approval or a little embarrassed.

I stepped outside before I could think about changing my mind and pulled the door closed behind me. Hands brushed my back and I felt my cheeks flush again as the zip was given a little tug, then Marc slipped his arm through mine and, in our quiet trio, we followed the hallway back to the lobby.

With Étoile in front of us, I felt more like I was being guided than marched. Everything they were doing seemed to be measured just right so as to not frighten me off. From sending Étoile to save me, to having she and Marc escort me – two perfectly nice looking, well dressed people close to my own age, (which had to be the idea) – to the offer of assistance, protection and, last but not least, the dress. If they wanted me to feel comfortable, they hadn’t stepped out of line yet but I couldn’t help but feel uneasy. I wondered if they planned the whole series of events from two days ago to this evening and immediately felt guilty. After all, they had done nothing but help me and provide for me, while asking for nothing…
Yet,
said my nagging brain.

As we passed through the hall, the doors were all shut, including those that flanked the lobby. I couldn’t hear a thing, we could have been alone and I wondered just how vast the apartment was. Marc, unlinking his arm from mine, stepped ahead of Étoile to open the set of doors adjacent to the one where I had been received earlier.

If I expected that our already being in the apartment would make us one of the first to arrive at the party, I was wrong.

The room was another lesson in wealth and taste. Wider and broader than the previous room, it had floor to ceiling windows that looked out across the dusky New York skyline over what could only be the treetops of Central Park. The windows were closed to the large terrace beyond. I could only guess at the wealth that must have been accrued to afford a place like this.
Prime real estate
, a voice in my head whispered like an American TV host,
megabucks.

A large chandelier was suspended in the centre of the ceiling and tiny jewels sparkled against the electric light. Below, around two dozen people, dressed to the nines in suits and cocktail dresses, milled around the room in quiet chatter. In the centre of all of them were Robert and Eleanor, exuding silent power over their collective.

When all heads turned to me, I realised Étoile and Marc had already stepped into the room, leaving me framed in the doorway rather like a bride at the church doors. I felt myself being eyeballed from every angle and forced myself to stand tall, head up, shoulders and back straight. I thrust my chin forward a little and kept my hands very still at my sides. I would not wilt as I was scrutinised. I could attribute my poise to the stickler-for-etiquette foster mother and I sent a tacit thank you to her, wherever she was now.

Seconds passed before Robert emerged, extending his hand to me, upright and elegant in a suit that was just a shade under black. “Welcome again, Stella. Welcome to our gathering.” Though his face was the picture of welcome, it was all I could do not to shiver. Indeed, Robert was giving every indication that he was thoroughly delighted to see me and glad to have me in his home but I sensed an insincerity that I wasn’t about to dismiss.

Robert inclined his head and kissed me on the cheek with the barest sweep of his thin lips and turned to face the assembled crowd. With one hand on my elbow, he propelled us forward. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but there was something about Robert that made me feel... not frightened, but anxious. It wasn’t anything discernible like his demeanour, or his actions, but there was a current of caution in my veins and I wasn’t going to ignore it even if I did feel horribly ungrateful.

“Stella, dear.” Eleanor echoed her husband’s greeting with her own barely-there air kiss that landed in space, just a few millimetres from my cheek. She cast her eyes over me and nodded with appreciation. “You look lovely.” She was dressed in a dark green cocktail dress that finished under the knee. Her only jewellery was a gold necklace, the centre piece of which was a large red stone. I thought it might have been a ruby and marvelled again at their wealth.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bar ..., uh, Eleanor,” I stammered, unsure if there were some sort of protocol. Around us, conversation expired and I felt that the people were waiting, poised for instruction.

“We would like to introduce you to some of our people before the council convenes,” said Robert from my left side. He nodded at Eleanor before turning away, his hand still on my elbow as he manoeuvred me towards the people on his left, two women and a man who stood together. We shook hands and they introduced themselves as Mary, Bridget and Steven. The two women, both brunettes and somewhere in their middle forties, wore cocktail dresses too; the man, a little older, with hair fully grey at the temples and salt and pepper all over, was in a black suit with a black and gold striped tie. He was somewhat ample in girth and I thought he was just a step away from a bee’s colours. He appeared to be a good deal older than the others and I put him somewhere in his late sixties.

“Steven is our Second,” Robert told me, emphasising the number with pride in his voice.

“I’m not sure what that means,” I replied, realising it must be some kind of title.

“It means, Steven is our...,” Robert paused to think of the right word, “I suppose you could say, he is our vice chairman. My second-in-command, if you will.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. We’ve been waiting for you for some time,” said Steven, his voice smooth as silk and his hand warmly grasping mine. I wondered just how long they had been waiting. I didn’t think they were referring to the short time in between them arriving this evening and my appearance now.

“I’m honoured to be here,” I said in my very best telephone voice, guessing it would be a good thing to say. Apparently, it was the right thing because all four beamed at me like I had just told them they were shortlisted for Time magazine’s most powerful coven.

“I hope we’ll get to talk to you more later,” said one of the women, Bridget, I think and I nodded before Robert spun me away. For the next fifteen minutes, Robert made a point of introducing me to everyone in the room. I had two dozen eyes in close quarters wash over me in. My head was swimming with names, positions of authority, or not, pleasant welcomes and genial sound bites and my palms began to itch with perspiration.

I craned my head over one guest’s shoulder as she droned on about nothing in particular and was grateful to catch Marc’s eye. He was standing alone by the windows. I remembered that he’d jokingly given me an escape route. I scrambled through my brain to remember what it was, then, slowly, and very deliberately, I brushed some imaginary lint from my shoulder. Marc was at my side in seconds, his arm around my waist, politely wheeling me away under the ruse of getting drinks.

“Not having the most amazing time ever?” he asked, with the faintest hit of a sarcastic smile.

“I’m starting to have a hard time remembering who’s who,” I admitted. Marc had taken me over to a sideboard set up as a little bar. I had seen something like it on a rerun of the Antiques Roadshow being appraised for a huge sum. A row of glasses stood on a tray with carafes of wine behind them.

Marc reached forward and hesitated. “Red or white?”

“White, thank you.” Marc poured the wine and passed me a glass. He took one for himself too and we turned back to the crowd.

“So your dad is head honcho?”

“Yes.” Marc nodded, his face passive. “Has been for a couple of years.”

“And your, uh, mother? Your mom?” I remembered the American vernacular and tentatively tried it out.

“Not so much into the clout, which is almost funny.” He raised his glass to his mother across the room and she gave him a tight, little smile.

I didn’t have chance to ask him what he meant as Étoile sidled up to my other side, a half-empty glass in her hand. The rim had the faintest trace of her lipstick. “They’re about to begin,” she murmured, nodding towards Robert and laying a hand on my arm. I felt much easier having the two of them flank me.

I looked over to Robert and, sure enough, he was clapping for attention, his hands raised to his head, and drawing the small crowd to him. He waited patiently until all eyes were on him. “We’re here tonight to welcome Stella to our family, our country and our council.” Eyes flickered briefly towards me and back again. “While Stella’s arrival is tinged with sadness for many of our brethren, we are, of course, delighted to host the last of the English witches.”

I raised my eyebrows and whispered, “The last?”

Étoile looked embarrassed and nibbled her bottom lip while she worked out what to say. After a moment, she whispered back, “You were the only one we could rescue. The Brotherhood got most.”

“Got?” I asked, then spat out the most unpalatable question. “As in dead?”

“Uh-huh. There are more, but the ones that were magic to the bone were more obvious and easier to locate, like you. The ones who acquired their magic founnd hiding preferable and they’ve gone to ground.” Étoile was careful with her emphasis so that I could understand there were two different types of witch, like it wasn’t hard enough to get to grips with one type.

“So, I’m not really the last then?” I hardly dared sound hopeful, but I wanted to be. The last of anything sounded pretty rotten. I bet the last dodo and dinosaur once thought that too.

“Oh no, you’re the last.” Étoile almost sounded blasé about it. “The ones who acquire magic don’t always c...” She trailed off after a harsh look from Marc. I had been sure she was about to finish with “count” but couldn’t fathom what she meant.
Magic was magic, surely?
Maybe I was being naive.
Who knew what rules these people lived by.