I laugh, although no part of what we’ve been through is funny.
“So… I see it’s officially official,” I say. “Congrats on becoming numero dos of the MA.”
That flicker of a smile returns. “We both know who the real number one is — but I’m happy for your mother to be the public figurehead. It gives me more time to get things done behind the curtains.”
“Do you have a list?”
She grins. “Of course. First order of business — the Nox don’t have to be confined to that shitty basement. Second on my list — make Rafi treasurer.”
I match her grin with one of my own. “And Luisa?”
“She doesn’t want a post. I did ask.”
She waves at a bouquet of wildflowers on the table. Amid the dozen opulent bouquets and ‘Get Well’ cards from MA officials sucking up to the new Second, is a mismatched bunch of rough and colorful field flowers. So very Luisa.
“About your father…”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Beatriz says. “Anyway, I hear you’re leaving?”
“Early tomorrow.” I squeeze her hand. “I’m so sorry about Xavi and what your... You two had so little time together.”
She blinks back tears, her lips pressed together. “I can make a real difference, now. I’m never letting anything like that happen again. As the real head of the MA I have a duty to more than just the Mage, I have a duty to the entire Paranormal community.”
“Tough road ahead.”
“Not really,” she says. “El bon camí, mai no és llarg de seguir.”
The right path never feels long.
I let out a whistle. “Finally learning some Catalan?”
“Xavi wanted me to,” she says with a sad smile. Then she waves at the table. “Plus, it was written in one of my cards.”
Luisa and Rafi were waiting for me outside the hospital, and we’re now sitting on the cool sand of the beach, Rafi skinning up a joint.
I finish a text on my phone. “I’m letting the Fae prince know Beatriz will be his new contact,” I tell them.
“I think you’re going to miss that icy bastard,” Luisa says with a smirk. I think back to that favor of mine he’s keeping in a little velvet box. Unfortunately, I’m sure to see him again.
“Does he even have a name?” Luisa asks me.
“Who knows? I assume he’s like Bono or Cher. Just ‘Winter Prince.’”
With a twist of a finger, Rafi creates a spire of sand and turns it into the silhouette of a man.
“Like the prince in Cinderella. Did you know ‘Prince Charming’ is literally his name? Talk about no backstory.”
He makes the sand silhouette crumble sadly, and we all laugh. I wish I could take them both back to New York with me.
I glance over at Luisa, but she’s already looking at me, her lips pressed together in a sad smile. She sighs and draws me to her, my head resting on her shoulder.
“It won’t be the same without you, meva bella Bruixa,” she says.
My beautiful Witch.
My chest aches as I gaze up into her hazel eyes. She kisses me, and I melt into her caress, savoring every second, knowing this is our last evening together.
“I wish I could stay.”
Luisa laughs. “No, you don’t. You don’t belong anywhere near the MA.”
“Well, at least it’s going to be a much better place with you guys running the show.”
“If only we could commemorate this occasion somehow,” Luisa says. “Everything we’ve been through. Everything that’s happened.”
Rafi has a wicked glint in his eye. “How about matching tattoos?”
“No time to get to a tattoo parlor,” I reply, glancing at the clock on my phone.
“Who said anything about a parlor?” He wriggles his brows. “Watch.”
Rafi takes hold of Luisa’s hand, and she smiles as he runs his palm over the inside of her wrist. With a light hiss, a tiny crescent moon made of fire fizzles out on her skin, scabbing over in an instant. A moment later, he does the same to himself while Luisa holds his hand.
“How did you do that?” I cry.
“It’s a fire tattoo. I scorched her, then sealed the burn with a thin film of water.”
“Nifty trick,” I say, holding out my own wrist. “Does it hurt?”
“Not with my help,” Luisa says with a grin, holding my other hand.
I feel the tickle of Rafi’s burn, and then Luisa’s magic floods me, stealing away the pain. My first fire tattoo. I admire the tiny matching moons on our wrists, a subtle reminder of our friendship.
“See? A Witch does not burn,” Luisa says softly.
And for the first time in my life, I hear those words for what they are and not for what the MA has made them. Those words are ancient. They speak of power, of rebirth, of the heart, and strength of Mages.
“For she is made of fire,” I answer.
The Mediterranean shimmers in shades of red, gold, and orange as the sun begins to set on my time here in Barcelona. Rafi puts his arm around me, and I rest my head against Luisa’s, her hand holding on to mine tightly. Suspended in this final quiet moment, I feel weightless, free, strangely calm. But this time I know, with all certainty, that the way I’m feeling right now has absolutely nothing to do with magic. It’s pure and real and sacred.
Rafi winks at me and holds out the lit joint pinched between his fingers. “Last one for the road, mi amor?”
I take the joint and inhale deeply.
The MA is not all Witches, and all Witches are not the MA... or Warlocks, for that matter. I look at Rafi, then at Luisa, and smile. Mages are not one thing or another. They can be good, and pure and powerful and amazing.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m proud to be a Witch. I don’t have to be what my mother made me — I get to be the Witch I choose to be.
The strength of my ancestors runs through me, the Witches and Warlocks who didn’t burn. The ones who fought the system and
