Page 53 of Practically Witches

He smiles and unfastens the tie but holds the swirled fabric—it reminds me of a curtain but in gold and a deep blue—at my shoulders so it doesn’t fall to the ground. And then he lowers his head and kisses me. His mouth brushes mine, then comes back for a second go-round. And this time, it isn’t a brush. It’s more a caress, hot and wet, and he’s holding me with his fists in the robe still pressed against my shoulders.

I tilt my head and the kiss deepens. It’s a once in a lifetime kind of rush and I savor it, soak it in. When he finally pulls back, I take an extra second before I open my eyes.

“I won’t care who else wants me.” I smile, proud I’m able to come up with words, glad I don’t have to lie.

He leans his forehead against mine and smiles. “Good.”

Being at the Institute—my parents have decided it’s the only place I’m safe—and not being in classes is odd. I spend all of my time in the training room. It isn’t really a trainingroom. It’s actually the physical education part of building four. With hoops on each end of the hardwood, it’s big enough to play basketball, too small for quidditch. Plus, we don’t have flying brooms. I didn’t spend a lot of time in this building prior to this week because I’m not what one might call athletic. I trip. I fall. I cause others to do the same. Since I was a child, I was the final pick for teams.

Today, though, I’m here, kissing Zane at the tipoff circle—just because I don’t spend much time here doesn’t mean I don’t know the lingo. I watch TV.

There is an entire obstacle course set up for me to use the scepter to practice. I’ve asked a hundred times if it’s dangerous, if the magic will become less because I’m wasting it to train, if putting so much said magic in the air isn’t a calling card for the syphoner to come find me, but my parents and several of the other parents who are working with me have assured me that the Institute is a safe space, the only place where the use of magic doesn’t send up a storm of mystical energy.

I don’t know if I believe them but I’m here working, unbothered by my syphoner auntie, so perhaps it’s true.

Zane holds my hands in his. “How many more nights do you have left of training?”

It’s a good question, but I have no idea. I’ve been doing this all week, learning, harnessing the power of the scepter. Doing everything I possibly can to ignore the call of the power.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. No one has really told me the plan. “Can I ask you a question?” I look up at him, hopeful. I’ve been scared to ask him or his friends or even Aimee, but I have to know. “Does knowing what I am change things?”

He stares. “Things?”

I nod.

“You mean you-and-me things?” He smiles at me and my skin heats because it’s exactly what I mean. “No.”

My breath whooshes out. “You’re not afraid I’ll drain your power?”

“No. You’re risking your own life to get mine back for me.” His voice is low, deep, intimate, the voice in my dreams when I dream of him. “And if you wanted my power, I would give it to you anyway.”

I sigh. If I had any Scarlett O’Hara in me, I would swoon.

He grins and lowers his head again. I like that he’s taller. I like looking up at him.

When Zane Bradbury kisses, he uses his entire body, wraps it around me—or that’s what if feels like. Sensual. Seductive. At least, I think so.

This kiss is every bit as enchanting as the last, but is cut short when my father clears his throat from the doorway. Zane smiles at me, gives Dad a wave, then backs away and exits out a door on the other side that leads to the walkway to building three.

Dad has what looks like hula hoops in his hand and he walks toward one of the archery targets that is set up near the door Zane just exited. He sets it in a stand about ten feet in front of the target then smiles at me as he sets another off to the left of the first and a few feet closer to the target. The third he puts on a pedestal stand that is closer to the target but three feet taller.

When he turns to look at me, he smiles and pulls the scepter out of a pocket that doesn’t look nearly big enough for a three-foot scepter to be in, so I assume he’s using something dimensional—a way to transport something that uses other dimensions to absorb weight and size. It’s a trick he only just taught me. My cloak is equipped with such a “pocket,” one that my mother calls a “portal.”

I stare at my father as he holds it out to me. They take it away from me after training, probably because they can sense how much I want it. Trust is one of their big themes. Some of them trust me, some don’t. They need me, but this isn’t their first go around with a syphoner, so I can’t really blame anyone for how they feel.

“RJ, I want you to loop your magic through the hoops then strike the target on the third blue ring.” He walks to each hoop and then touches the target where he wants me to strike. “Right here, okay?”

When I nod, he comes back to me and hands me the scepter. I have a moment—it’s a short one—where the magic surges through me, and I exhale slowly because the feeling is so…incredible. Almost erotic.

“Focus, RJ.” Nothing like my dad’s voice to snap me out of the moment.

I shake off the lust for power and envision myself guiding the magic in the scepter through the hoops to the target.

“Go,” I whisper and send the bolts of magic from the scepter out. I can see them in the air—three separate pieces—and I will them together into one and then weave them through the hoops to the target and it explodes in a poof of green foam and red, white, and blue melted plastic.

Dad claps, jumps, and does a fist pump. “Do you feel it, RJ? You’re ready.” He comes to where I’m standing, takes me by the shoulders, and pulls me into a hug. It’s the first time he’s touched me at all since he’s been back, and for a second, I’m a child. I want this hug.

But that fades and he’s just a stranger who needs something from me, hugging me as if he has the right. I push him off. “What are you doing?” My voice is pure venom, infusedwith the thousand questions I’ve been saving for him since he disappeared.

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