Page 16 of Fated Protector

He lays his great palm over mine, leaving a few inches of air between our skin. "Alright. "Remember that breeze, that force that filled the room when we locked the last ward in place? That's the magical current. It exists everywhere, but you have to be attuned to it to pull its power. Focus on finding that first."

I close my eyes, searching the room for the strange breeze. At first, I feel nothing, overwhelmed by the exotic scents from the shelves and the thick silence. Then, a tiny tickle flutters a loose tendril of my hair. "There it is!" I exclaim, and in that instant, I lose the breeze again. "Or, there it was." I try to concentrate again and find the current faster this time. "I have it."

"Now picture a flame. Nothing big. Just something the size of a match head."

I imagine the kitchen match Jean-Pierre used to light the sage. I concentrate with all my focus, but nothing happens, not even a bit of smoke.

"What are you picturing?" he asks.

"The match you lit earlier," I say. He shakes his head, his wispy blond hair fluttering with the movement.

"That's not a flame. That's an object that can produce a flame. You have to think of fire itself."

“Fire itself. Okay, let me try.” I try to erase the match from my mind, but it's like the trick with the purple elephant. If someone asks you not to think of one, you automatically do. I let out several growls of frustration before I am finally able to focus on just an image of a flame. It takes a few more minutes, but heat starts to tickle the inside of my palm like a feather. Soon, it grows bigger, crawling across my skin, and when I open my eyes, I have a tiny flame flickering in my hand.

"I did it!” I say in wonder, the air from my breath causing the flame to wave. "I really did it."

"You did," Jean-Pierre’s eyes twinkle like a proud parent. "Now, just stay –"

Before he can finish his sentence, I wave my hand in the air to see what would happen. A flame shoots from the center of my hand, bouncing off the nearest wall and ricocheting back and forth across the store like a rubber ball. It zings and whizzes by our heads, and Jean-Pierre leaps to his feet, holding out his big hands like baseball mitts.

"I'm sorry!" I yell, ducking before the fireball crashes into a book and bounces back. The book is quickly devoured by the flames.

Jean-Pierre tries to snatch the ball from the air, but it wiggles away and heads straight for the floor-length curtains. With a final burst of energy, it smashes into the fabric, and the entire curtain goes up in flames.

I sprint to the flaming fabric, ripping the ruined curtain from the rail. The loose rail comes too, crashing down and missing me by inches, leaving gaping holes in the wall. I stomp on the fabric, and the flame extinguishes, but not before leaving ash and loose plaster all over the wooden planks. I gaze back at Jean-Pierre, my hands shaking. His eyes are wide, and soot stains his cheeks.

"I should have told you not to move," he says slowly.

The magical current around me suddenly flexes as if someone is pushing into it. I glance at the door where Jack is standing; jaw dropped as he gazes around the room.

"Two hours," he says, picking up the remains of the incinerated book. "I left you alone for two hours, and you destroyed the bookstore."

"Only part of it," I say indignantly.

He raises an insouciant eyebrow at me. "Jean-Pierre looks traumatized."

"Jean-Pierre looks pleased to have spent such quality time with me,” I retort, hands on my hips.

"Jean-Pierre," says the man himself, "would like to go home and wash this ash off his skin."

I relent, shoulders slumping. "Of course. Thank you for all your help. I hope to see you again soon."

Jean-Pierre nods a weak goodbye to me and heads towards the door, stopping only to pat Jack on the shoulder. Jack stumbles from the force of his mighty thump.

"All right,cher," he says, looking at the ruined remains of the curtains. "Looks like we've got some cleanup to do before we can actually get any work done."

CHAPTER10

"Where were you?" I ask as Jack, and I straighten up the bookstore.

"Meeting with an informant," he says, using a broom to sweep burnt paper and ashes into a dustbin.

"An informant?" I say with an audible scoff. "What is this, the magical Mafia?"

He squints one eye at me. "No. That doesn't exist. I have someone in the city who keeps an eye on things for me. He reports back what he hears, what he sees, anything that might be of interest."

"And what constitutes a thing of interest?"

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