Authors: Fabio Bueno
“But then,” I say, “why would she try to kill me if she’s
not the Singularity? Couldn’t
she be trying to protect herself?”
“Think, Skye,”
Connor
whispers. “Yes, she probably went after you because you’re searching in her turf. But
it doesn’t mean
she’s it.
It
just
means
she wants to find the Singularity before we do.
Imagine if she can turn the Singularity into a Night Sister.
We have got to find the Singularity before Jane.
”
She comes back from
the
meeting with her ex. She’s soaking wet, but neither of us bother
s
with
the damage to
the Volvo’s upholstering. I hand her
one
of my towels
from
the gym bag.
She
take
s
her time.
“Jane wants to find the Singularity before we do,” she finally volunteers. I don’t know if the “we” means me and her,
or
her ex and her. Maybe it means all of us.
“That’s not all. Jane’s a Night
w
itch
,” she adds.
“
I’m assuming this is bad,” I say.
Skye uses a knowledgeable tone to describe, well, the idea I used to have about witches. “
Night m
agic deals with the
horrible stuff:
sacrifices, destructive spells, blood magic.
It’s banned by the established c
ovens. Their potions and spells are more powerful too.
If Night w
itches get
hold of the Singularity… If they get hold of
all her power, they’ll be tempted to use it against other Sisters,” she says. “And non-magical folks. They might not even
care about the Veil anymore, and
that would harm all of us.”
I’m
somewhat
glad she
’s
all business. All the catastrophic scenarios I ran in my head when she was alone with Mr. Darcy are washed away. She came back. To me.
God, she looks gorgeous.
The cold makes her
tremble
a bit,
spreading
goose bumps
over
her arms and neck. She
wipes her face with the towel; while she can’t see me, I can’t help but notice how her wet clothes cling to her body.
I
move her hand
and the towel away from her face. She looks at me, but says nothing.
My hand slides up her arm until it stops on her
shoulder.
I lean over slightly; her
eyes flicker to my mouth.
Our lips touch, hers cold and
tempting
. My hands will themselves to cradle her nec
k gently, my fingers entangled i
n her wet hair. I love the chilly, soft texture of her skin, her
faint jasmine
scent
. My passi
on grows, and she
responds. We search for each other in
an
intense
kiss.
Her arms embrace me, and we twist as a single entity, our upper bodies connect
ed
. I feel her wet clothes
against
mine, her breasts heaving slightly with her respiration. We meld. Our mouths
search for each other and our mind
s
travel to
another dimension.
***
W
e move away from each other simultaneously
in
a slow, unwilling withdrawal. It’s a bittersweet moment, coming back to reality.
Howev
er, these few seconds afterward
, when we stare
into each other’s eyes and
acknowledge our desire, are the sexiest of my life. By far.
She breaks the silence, and the magic is gone.
“Your body is so warm,” she says
,
the
hoarse quality
of her voice
taunting me.
“
Are you trying to say
I’m hot?”
She giggles
. It’s not a girly
giggle,
not
with her voice. Someh
ow, that’s even more enticing.
“You know, you could catch pneumonia. I don’t want to go to the hospital again. We probably should
get
you out of these wet clothes,” I say, grinning.
She raises an eyebrow, also grinning. “I’m glad you’re concerned about my health.”
“Well, you know me: always thoughtful.”
She touches her lips
absent-mindedly.
She’s killing me. As if that’s not enough, she says,
“You’re right, I n
eed to get rid of these clothes.
”
A long paus
e. “You can drop me off at home,
”
she adds, smiling coyly.
I shake my head, faking disappointment. I don’t need to fake much, actually. “You tease,” I say
.
She smiles a new smile. It lights up her face. Her eyes play with me.
She
’s
definitely changed.
No more Miss Nice Skye.
After I
enter
the
house, I realize I can’t st
op grinning. I lean on the closed door and sigh. Goddess, I’m swooning!
What’s wrong with me?
Noises come from the kitchen, and I find Gemma there, putting a lasagna in the oven. She looks at me inquisitively—I’m still drenched. I announce I’m going to take a shower.
I catch myself skipping all the way to the stairs. Skye, seriously?
The dresser’s mirror do
es
n’t lie. The smile on my face
is
plastered; my brain can’t dismiss it. I can’t help but check
my reflection
, seeing me as Drake saw me: my hair messed up and chunky, my face devoid of make
-
up, my slightly purple lips. How this wreck of a person had that effect on him
,
I’ll never know.
Thank Goddess for the Allure
.
I undress regretfully,
throwing
my clothes, my partners in crime, in
to
the
hamper
. Something makes me hesitate before I
go into
the hot shower
.
I realize it’s the idea of having Drake’s
scent
washed from my body.
I sigh, but enter the world of warmth anyway.
It’s a long shower, where daydreaming
is
the main activity.
***
My actions after
Jane’s
attack are surprising even me. From my control of the situation
at
the hospital to my teasing Drake, I
am
a different person. I hope it’s not a temporary thing. I like the new me.
I even confronted
Connor
. Granted, I haven’t called him out
yet
on
our most important issue, but the old Skye would never corner him, curse him, make him feel small. Serves him right.
While I brush my hair in front of the old
mirror, a plan comes to mind
. In order to find the Singularity, I must be more active.
I can’t just wait
for her magical energy to find me.
Even if she has some kind of magical shield, she can’t entirely suppress her energy. I wonder if she uses it for rituals or spells; maybe the places where she used it carry some traces of energy.
Even things belonging to her might carry
her energy, as they carry her
scent. I never knew magic worked this way, but old rules don’t seem to apply to the Singularity. I mean, hiding your magical signature? That’s unheard of.
Or, maybe if I get real
ly
close to people, I can sense it. Maybe if I touch her. Yes, I could try that. I could be like Priscilla, who’s unable to carry on a conversation without patting, hugging,
poking, leaning over, or touching whoever is chatting with her. Especially men.
That’s a good excuse to touch people indiscriminately.
I could be like that
.
Skye, the Personal Space Invader.
One thi
ng
is sure: I have to
get
Jane off my back.
Espe
cially if she’s indeed a Night w
itch.
Now
that
she knows she can attack me and I wo
n’t go to the police, she
is free
to try whatever her twisted mind can imagine. I have to show her I’m not afraid, and that I can be dangerous too.
The rain
doesn’t let
up
. When I
’m
almost home, I see Mona walking
alone
. She looks more drenched than Skye.
I approach her slowly, not giving the car any gas. When I get very close, I honk the horn. I was hoping to startle her, but the effect is bigger than that. She lets out a horrific scream and jumps to the side, hitting a fence with her hip. Her hands clutch her chest
,
and she has a terrified look on her face. She searches for the source of the noise; when she finds me, she
begins
to cry.
I leave the car, motor running and everything, and rush to her. “Sorry!” I plead. “Sorry, Mona!” She can’t control her crying. “Are you okay?”
She manages to answer me between sobs. “No, I’m not okay!
I’m very un
-
okay!
” she yells.
“It was just a joke, Mona. I’m sorry. For real,” I say. I really don’t know what to do.
Physical affection
is not huge in
the Hunter
family
. I just stand by her, shifting my weight
from
one leg to another, trying to figure out how I should behave.
Finally w
e have some contact. She punches
me in the guts. I don’t even register it, but it pains me in other ways. “Why are you so mean to me?
” she asks.
“
What have I done to you?” She balls up her fists and
throws
a barrage of weak punches on my chest.
I do what I haven’t done in years. I do the unthinkable. I hug my little sister.
She nests herself on my chest, sobbing quietly. I’m her shelter against the heavy rain.
“What’s going on?” I ask softly. “Are you in trouble?”
She doesn’t answer, but I sense
her
tensing up a bit.
“Can I help?” I say. She shakes her head, still buried on my chest.
The frustration bubbles up. I hate myself for not being able to help Mona. Out of nowhere, these words escape me: “I wish Mom were here.”
Mona immediately stops sobbing and pulls away from me. “Why? She
’s
nev
er done anything. She left us!”
“I don’t know. Maybe she could help. She’s a mother; that’s her job. Right?”
“I don’t even remember her, Drake.” Mona sounds tired.
“You’re lucky,” I reply.
“Because she was horrible?”
“No,” I say. “Because she was great.”
***
I don’t remember much
about our mother
. The pictures that helped me puzzle together my few memories were lost to the fire. In my mind, I have glimpses of her.
A short and strong woman of
extraordinary beauty
.
Hiding
my
face
i
n her curly light brown hair. Being carried away and cared for when I broke my toy car. And songs before we went to sleep.
I could never remember the words though.
She left us absolutely. Besides the pictures
lost to the fire
, there was nothing else of hers. No clothes, no jewelry, no mementos. Those pictures
—and Mona and I—were
the only evidence my mother had ever existed.
Dad never told us exactly what happened. In his oblique way, he let us know she didn’t love him anymore. He never elaborated on that and deflected our probing questions.
With time, we got frustrated
and stopped asking.