Page 2 of Stolen Magic
I jumped, passing through the shimmering glass just as a new string of curses came from the guy. My arm snatched the handles of the backpack, and I twisted in the air, lodging my shoulder through it. With my other hand curled around the rope, I released the break and plummeted to the ground. “Thig thugam,” I called my magic back to me, solidifying the glass and releasing the alarm of the sigils, wind whistling loudly in my ears the whole time. The moment my feet touched the ground, I released the rope and sprinted to the nearest shadows.
With my heart in my throat, I leaned against the side of the building to calm my breath. Reluctantly, my eyes lowered to the small book I clutched in a white-knuckled grip. My unease doubled. I absently flicked my wrist while muttering a spell to disintegrate the rope still attached to the roof, not taking my gaze off the unassuming object. Magic thrummed from it, but it was too faint for me to examine it. Shaking off the feeling, I pulled the backpack to my chest, unzipped the top, and stashed it inside.
It was done, and I was being stupid.
What could a book do?
The sooner I delivered it, the sooner everything would be back to normal.
I was the White Kalla, after all. A ghost. What could possibly go wrong?
The wailing of sirens and blaring alarms brought the quiet night to life as I melted into the shadows.
Chapter Two
“Icome bearing gifts.” Char’s alto followed the chiming of the bell above the door as she swooped inside my store.
The sudden noise made me jerk from behind the counter. I barely missed the register as my head popped up so I could blink owlishly at my best friend. After the disaster from the night before, I couldn’t sleep, and my head had a gong going off at the softest of sounds. On top of that, the client was not answering his phone, which left me stuck with the object I couldn’t wait to get rid of. Something in my groan announced my pain loud and clear to the woman sashaying her way straight at me like she was on a mission.
A line puckered between her elegant eyebrows, and her chocolate brown eyes narrowed suspiciously at me while she wound her way through the glass displays and shelving. Dressed in her standard floor-length black dress that hugged her curvy body with a cloud of equally black curls falling around her shoulders, Char gripped a tray full of large paper cups in one of her hands and a humongous tote was swinging from the bent elbow of her free arm.
“Please tell me there is coffee in those cups.” Dragging my exhausted body up, I leaned on the counter and made grabby hands at her, keeping my gaze as wide and as innocent as I could make it.
Just as my fingers were about to close around one cup, the evil woman stepped back, taking it out of my reach with a scowl that twisted her pretty face, making her feature harsh enough to make a demon cry. Pursing her lips, she gave me a once over—well, whatever she could see of me from across the counter—and her foot started tapping the tiled floor.
Nothing ended well when Char tapped her foot.
“Did a coyote attack you on your way home last night?” One thin eyebrow arched.
“No.” My jaw clenched, the move making my headache pound even harder in my temples.
“Did you get mugged?” Her damn foot kept tapping, hammering even more nails into my brain.
“I couldn’t sleep, okay?” Huffing a deep breath all the way from my toes and sending a strand of fire red hair dancing in front of my eye, I stretched my arm toward the cup tray. “Gimme.”
“You look like shit.” Char smiled to soften the bite of her words, but she passed me the coffee she brought with her. “It’s from that new cafe around the corner. Columbian,” my best friend proudly informed me as I chugged down half of the first cup, blistering my tongue in the process.
“I was planning on giving them a try.” Taking a more measured sip and closing my eyes, I sighed happily. “Mmmm, I like it.”
Shiny black curls bounced around her face as she shook her head at me and rounded the counter, stuffing her tote under it. While Char went through her routine to prepare for the day, I did my final sweep around the store to make sure everything was good and flipped the sign next to the door from closed to open.
Crystal Palace was my happy place. Nestled between small stores that mostly attracted tourists visiting Santa Monica Pier, my pride-and-joy store carried a lot of methaphysical merchandise, from rare crystals, to tarot card decks, to exotic incense, to handmade, magicly-charged candles. While Char was in charge of keeping track of inventory and ordering it from all around the world, the candles were lovingly handmade by yours truly.
Magic wasn’t an odity, per se, at least not in the last twenty or so years. Since the mages decided it would benefit them more if they stopped hiding from humans and used their natural gifts in the open, every other supernatural faction followed suit, and through trial and error—plus a few international almost-wars—everyone learned how to coexist. While all of them did their best for appearance’s sake and played house, no one blinked an eye because creatures of fiction walked this earth, but they all agreed on one thing: witches didn’t have room in their carefully crafted world, and they didn’t deserve to live. History proved they were not wrong in their fears, but I had a thing or two to say about it.
Just to point out, I was a born witch.
While every other magical creature, apart from the Fae, could use one type of magic inherent through their bloodlines, each of them had an affinity to one of the elements, and they perfected their gifts to the best of their ability. The magic was literally in their blood. No blood, no power. Witches were a different story altogether. While magical beings had their gift of magic, witchesweremagic.
A vessel.
My kind were practically human unless we opened ourselves to our birthright. As an open vessel, we channeled it as a whole, which made us unpredictable, too powerful, and in more ways than one, unstoppable, if we succumbed to it. The origin of magic was so strong it could erode our minds and drive us insane. In which case we would turn psychotic and go on a killing spree. Not that I had any desire to go down that path.
I loved making candles.
The bell chimed merrily behind me when the first couple of costumers walked in, chatting loudly among themselves. I recognized one of the voices as a regular who came every day just to torment me with useless questions, but there was nowhere to hide. My feet shuffled faster over the tiles as I beelined toward Char and the safety the counter provided. The top of my shoulders tickled when my hair swayed, the ends of the mused waves grazing my bare skin.
“Oh look, it’s Alaska.” Jasmine, the restaurant manager from down the street, squealed at her friend. “I was hoping I’d catch you here. I wanted to ask about the black kyanite shards you had for sale last week,” she told my fast retreating back.
