“Suit yourself.” She smiles. “Speaking of suits!”
Rafi walks in and my mouth gapes open for the third time since I set foot in this bewitched workshop. Rafi looks… He looks nothing like the boy I first saw smoking a joint outside the MA building. He looks like the prince of darkness himself.
“Nice, eh?”
“Nice?!” Estrella huffs. “It’s exquisite, boy.”
“How about you, Saskia? Pleased with your dress?” Rafi asks.
Estrella watches me closely, her gaze piercing. My stomach aches in response. If I stick around any longer, they will force me to try on the dress and it will be my childhood all over again — a crowd of people staring at me with undisguised disappointment.
“I better go,” I say, clutching my garment bag to my chest. “All I’ve eaten today is that weird cake, and I need to unpack and....”
Luisa stands in my way and I stop abruptly.
“Your mother told Bea we were to welcome you. You’re coming to eat at the port with us.”
Rafi grins. “She’s right. We want to welcome you to Barcelona the best way we know how, which means feeding you until you can longer walk and introducing you to the finest crema Catalana.”
I might be stubborn, but I’m no fool. Only a fool turns down crema Catalana.
Chapter Six
“I’m not going to make it to dinner,” Beatriz says with great importance as we leave the workshop. When no one asks her why she glances at her expensive phone, then consults her far more expensive watch.
“I have an important meeting in Montjuic in half an hour. Here,” she hands me the MA credit card we used at Estrella’s. “Solina said to give it to you for expenses.”
“Montjuic is pretty close to the port,” Luisa says. “Join us after.”
“No, I won’t have time.”
“Wait. Who has an important meeting at this time of night?” Rafi’s thick eyebrows dance with mischief, making Luisa laugh.
“Yeah. What happened to Witches before bitches?” Luisa cries.
“Or Warlocks before cocks?!” Rafi singsongs. The pair break into a fit of giggles like school children.
Beatriz flips them off.
“Go on, take care of your business,” Luisa snickers. “God knows you need it.”
Beatriz doesn’t bother saying goodbye as she marches away, her heels clicking against the sidewalk. I follow Luisa and Rafi, heading in the opposite direction.
“So, I guess she’s not going to a meeting then?”
“She’s going on a date. Or to fuck someone,” says Luisa. There’s no judgment in her voice, just amusement. “But perfect Princess Beatriz would never admit that she needs to get a little action, like the rest of us.”
I try to reconcile the Beatriz I remember from my childhood with this version. Even as kids, she liked to ensure Mikayla and I knew she was far too important to join in with anything silly, like spying through keyholes.
Luisa and Rafi gossip as they weave their way down Las Ramblas towards the sea, dodging crowds of people watching other people pretending to be statues. I remember loving this place when I was younger, having my portrait painted with Mikayla, and looking at all the animals in cages. Good to see it’s mainly flowers they sell now, along with overpriced paella that’s straight out of the freezer.
It’s nearly nine o’clock and the restaurants are only just opening for the tourists lining the streets, their cameras slung around their necks while pointing out the statue of Columbus. We cross the road to a wide sidewalk dotted with palms, the sea before us full of expensive yachts. The sun has already set but it’s not fully dark yet. I feel the hot air kiss my skin and finally relax a little into the walk, allowing Rafi and Luisa’s MA gossip to wash over me.
“Are we eating over there?” I ask, pointing at the busy port lined with bars and restaurants.
Rafi laughs. “Only if you want to pay a fortune for shit tourist food.”
We turn down a side road and head for what looks more like a dingy bar than a restaurant. I can’t help but smile. Any good Spaniard knows the crappier the restaurant looks, the better the food will be. Rafi holds up three fingers at a waiter who waves back eagerly.
“For you, the best seat in the house,” the waiter says, heading over to us. He’s gazing at Rafi all doe-eyed and simpering. “Follow me.”
Luisa leans into me and whispers, “Rafi has friends in all the right places.”
We settle in a corner of the busy restaurant. None of the chairs match, and the tables are all different shapes. They’re covered in thin paper tablecloths and aren’t even the same height. Ours wobbles as we take a seat.
“Did you hear about the MTI breakout among the Stovemages?” Luisa says, glancing at the waiter as he fusses with cutlery and wine glasses. “Apparently, they spread it to the Brew Witches.”
Rafi snorts, folding a paper coaster into a square and wedging it under the table leg. “What? Some Brew Witch woke up, suddenly able to make ganache?”
They both burst out laughing, but I don’t join in.
“What are MTI’s?”
“Magically Transmitted Infections,” Rafi says.
“You’re messing with me. That’s not a thing.”
“Tell that to my friend, Lydia, who got a nasty one from a rather sexy Andalusian Touchmage,” Luisa says.
“Yeah, well, Touchmages are dangerous,” I reply, almost instinctively.
A look passes between Luisa and Rafi, but they don’t comment.
“Explain it to me, then. Tell me how these infections are transmitted.”
I’ve dated plenty of Paras but never a Mage. But still, how have I never heard of this?
“Magical sex can be messy,” Rafi explains. “Energy can linger and cause a kind of magical infection, dulling the power of the carrier. Or, in rare cases, one Mage may pass some of their power to their partner. Depending on the magic, it can sometimes be a positive thing, and sometimes a nightmare.”
I’m curious now. “How could it be bad or good?
He leans over and drops his voice into a fake whisper. “For example, I shared a night with a
