Yesterday’s trip to the Warlock’s house calmed my nerves a little, I was even excited about getting Jackson his story, but the closer we get to Spain the more I doubt my strength. My mother is expecting me and knowing her I’ll be thrown into Witch high-society before I’ve even had a chance to unpack.
The flight attendant drops off my gin tonic, draped in a napkin, and a pack of sad pretzels that scream, ‘don’t get too drunk!’
I drain the plastic cup. Then, in a sneaky one-hand-in-my-purse maneuver, open the raspberry vodka and pour some in my empty cup.
Two tiny eyes watch me through the space between the seats. Is this kid judging my onboard refreshment situation? I put a finger to my lips.
Shhhhhh.
I hide the no-longer-sealed duty-free bag reading DO NOT OPEN by my feet. The kid is still staring at me.
Jezzuuuz.
What’s the matter, kid? You never seen someone with mommy issues take a flight home? I shake the pack of pretzels at him.
“Don’t you miss the times they used to have nuts onboard?”
He shakes his head at me.
“Right,” I mumble, opening the packet. “You weren’t born yet.”
“I’m avergic!” he declares through the slit.
Oh yeah, that’s why they stopped serving nuts.
Now I feel like an asshole. The boy loses interest and turns away.
My eyes search the cabin for a fourth stewardess that might fall for my gin tonic con. I’m justified in my fear; this turbulence is pretty bad. You’d think I’d be used to this with the amount of flying I do with my job.
After a few minutes, Prim Pan Am takes my empty cup away and gives me a slightly judgmental look. I swallow down my drunk desire to tell the stranger my deepest feelings. To justify myself and explain I’m not just a free booze enthusiast, I’m actually a very important investigative reporter sent on a very important mission.
This is my first time back to Spain in years. I haven’t been anywhere near the MA since a Mage event I went to with Mikayla years ago. The Association may be terrifying, but to be fair, they can throw a party to rival P. Diddy. I mean, Sean Combs may be able to make everyone wear white, but he can’t lace Crystal with magic.
I think back to the Moscow nightclub Lukka took me to. The enchanted music and the crazy assortment of Paras my mom would have hated, and I clench my eyes tightly. It’s too soon. Throwing myself into my mother’s world after all that happened in Russia is too much. There’s no way I’m going to be able to keep up the pretense of being a dutiful daughter while also looking into Maribel’s disappearance for Jackson.
I rifle through my purse and pop a stick of gum in my mouth, chewing furiously. I don’t even care about Maribel! I haven’t seen her for years, not since I left Spain behind for good. I chew at the gum so hard my jaw starts to ache.
Jackson told me all about the weird sigils that have been popping up around the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona, convinced they are somehow linked to Maribel vanishing. But how? I pull out my phone and scroll down the photos he sent me, the gum fast turning into a wad of tasteless cement in my mouth.
I zoom in. These aren’t your usual spray-painted graffiti marks you get all over the city, and they aren’t anarchic symbols or political slogans either. These are hardcore Bruixa shit — magical Witch symbols carved out of stone and wood. I didn’t do great in symbology class. OK, I didn’t do well in any of my little Witchling classes as a kid, but hopefully I’ll figure out what they mean once I get to speak to some MA members.
I sigh far too loudly, and the orange juice-drinking Judge Judy gives me a sharp look. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep, lulled by dreams of blood-soaked Russian nights.
I wake hours later with the overly-enthusiastic pilot announcing “Bienvenido a Barcelona!” far too loudly. In a couple of hours, I’m going to be facing my mother. Fuck.
My jaw automatically stiffens, and I roll my shoulders back. With a deep breath, I mentally brace myself. Thank god for Angel and his protection brew. Shame I didn’t also ask for a concoction to get rid of jet lag and a killer hangover.
Chapter Three
As soon as I step into the arrival hall of the airport, I can’t help but smile. It’s the smell. I’m not saying Spain smells good exactly, it just reminds me of home – fried garlic, cologne, and old cigarette smoke.
The sun is streaming in through the tall glass panes, and everyone is wrapped up in thick coats, even though it’s seventy degrees outside and spring has already started.
I see a man in a formal suit with a sign that reads de la Cruz. I duck and put my sunglasses on, rushing past him unnoticed. Of course, my mom would send a town car to pick me up and usher me to a location of her choosing.
No, thank you!
Solina’s favors always come with strings attached and my Pinocchio days are behind me. I’m getting in and out of this mission without her gilded gifts.
I push my way through the haphazard excuse for a taxi line, trying to block out the squawk of everyone talking at once. My hangover makes everything ten times louder – although in Spain everything is always ten times louder.
I breathe out a sigh of relief as I throw myself back into the taxi’s leather interior.
“Barri Gòtic,” I say in perfect Catalan, instructing the driver to take us to the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona.
His eyebrows raise a fraction, clearly not expecting me to speak the language of the locals. Barcelona may be in Spain, but they fought long and hard to continue speaking Catalan after the civil war. I’m not short on issues, but learning languages isn’t one of them.
I rest my head back
