Binding Magick: an Urban Fantasy Novel (The Witch Blood Chronicles Book 1) Page 2

  _____

  The soup kitchen was on the other side of the Leicester Square aerial tram station. But there was no need to ride public transport today. Urvashi had loaned me the bakery van—again—anything to stop me from wandering the streets of London. She was such a mother hen, but being her chick wasn’t all bad. I got the ride, right? Plus it would have been impossible to get the broth and bread here on the tram.

  Several soup kitchens were dotted about the city. An attempt to feed all the homeless created by the almost apocalypse five years ago. Too many residences had been demolished, too many landmark buildings brought to ground. The rebuild was slow, and in the meantime the council, made up of human, Yaksha, witches, vamps, and gods, did the best they could to provide for those affected by the crisis.

  I pulled up outside the gray brick building and killed the engine. The windows were barred, the door covered in colorful graffiti—courtesy of a very talented tag artist called Billy. This was my kitchen, one I’d help set up just over a year ago using my meager savings. Best thing I’d ever done. To see the joy on people’s faces when a cooked meal was placed before them; if only I could do more. If only the bloody council would hurry up and rebuild so these poor people could be re-housed.

  Discrimination was a no-no at the kitchen. All creatures allowed: human, vamp, yaksha, and any other being looking for a meal—as long as it was everyday food they wanted. Blood and humans were not on the menu. But we rarely got the vamps. Probably because most of them were in positions of power: actors, politicians, news anchors—that kind of thing. They got their supply from blood banks stocked up with compulsory donations, and then you had the black-market trade—humans selling their blood for cash on the underground. It was the transport method favored by the pale-faced blood suckers. Until four years ago the underground railway network had been sealed off. The official story had been a serious gas leak. The truth was something entirely different. It was open now, in some kind of working order, but only the truly desperate went down there.

  I jumped out of the van and opened up the back just as Victor came bounding out.

  “Hey. I didn’t know you were on shift tonight.” He cocked his head, watching me with a strange stillness I still wasn’t accustomed to.

  “Thursday night, Vic. I’m always here Thursday night.” I yanked open the van doors.

  “Let me get that.” Victor climbed up, his thick thighs bulging, and grabbed the huge tureen filled with broth. He carried it easily, though it had taken both me and Urvashi huffing and puffing to load it.

  But then Victor was a rakshasa—a creature of the shadows—who, for some reason decided to dedicate his life to running the kitchen. No idea what he did in his time off. No idea about his life outside of the kitchens. I’d learned not to pry. He was a good guy, as far as I knew. He’d turned up opening week and made himself indispensable. This place wouldn’t run without him.

  I grabbed the tray of fresh rolls and followed him inside.

  It was just after six in the evening, but the kitchens were already teaming with life. The freshly scrubbed faces and damp hair of several tea-slurping patrons told me they’d made use of the public showers we’d had fitted six months ago—an anonymous donation from a kind benefactor, who’d done her best to disguise her handwriting. Malina didn’t know I’d cottoned on to her charity. She’d gone to great lengths to donate anonymously, and so I kept my mouth shut and thanked her in pastries.

  “I ran the figures,” Victor said, as we strode into the kitchen.

  “And?”

  “Unless Brahma Corp decides they’re willing to cover it, there’s no way we can do it on donations alone. Those barely cover the utilities on this place, and now with the added water bill for the showers …”

  I sighed and placed the bread on the counter. Brahma Corp was the home of the gods. Indra and Varuna had been kind enough to fund several kitchens in the city, and when my savings had run out they’d covered mine. The showers were Malina’s contribution, but I really wanted to rent out the floor above and convert it into a shelter offering overnight accommodation to those in desperate need. We couldn’t save everyone, but we’d help as many as we could.

  “Carmella? You all right?” He was watching me intently.

  “No. I just. I really wanted to do this.”

  He pressed his lips together. “Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do. There is something else though … there’ve been a several incidences at the soup kitchens on the outskirts of Soho.”

  “Incidences?”

  He sighed through his nose. “A bunch of Yakhsa, no one knows which pack they belong to, have been raiding and feeding.”

  And we he said feeding it was clear he didn’t mean on soup kitchen meals. “Oh, god.”

  He held up a hand. “It’s all right. I’ve arranged for a couple of my friends to hang out here in the evenings for the next few weeks—just until the IEPEU catches them.” His craggy face split in a smile. “It’ll be okay. I just wanted you to know. Now get the food out there, we got hungry people to satisfy.”

  Yep, the scrape of chairs on linoleum and the rising hum of conversation told me it was time to make an appearance with the food.

  I slipped though into the main room and began setting out bowls, spoons, and tureens of soup and stew. Victor was an awesome cook, and the stew smelled delicious. He’d also whipped up some rice. Cheap but filling meals were the key here.

  Something black streaked across the room, low to the ground.

  Victor ran out of the kitchen, almost knocking the table over.

  His nostrils flared. “What was that?”

  “Just a cat. Chill.”

  He scanned the room, his expression fierce.

  “I think it’s gone now.” His reaction was a little over the top, but hey, who knew, maybe Rakshasa hated cats?

  He didn’t look convinced, and a shiver skittered up my spine. “You okay?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. I’ll grab some more plates.”

  Miranda, a lovely little old lady with the sweetest smile, hobbled up to the counter.

  I grabbed a plate. “What will it be tonight?”

  _____

  Showered and almost ready for bed, I curled up on my battered sofa and switched on the television. It was barely nine-thirty, and the night was officially still young. Urvashi and the girls were headed out to drinks, again, but I just wasn’t feeling it. These aching feet would not be coaxed into a pair of heels. All the standing about, first at the bakery and then at the soup kitchens, had done them in and my soft furry bunny slippers were bliss. Now to find something mind-numbing enough to drop off to.

  Seeing Mal Banner had brought back memories of the person I’d been, the person I was desperate to leave behind. Urgh, there it was, the reflective agitation I could seriously do without. The hum from the street below drifted in through my open window, and a gentle warm breeze brushed my bare shoulders. The fan whirred in the corner of the room moving stale hot air diligently around the small space. Damn this sticky heat and suffocating July atmosphere. Give me autumn or winter when you could snuggle under a duvet. Give me hot chocolate and marshmallows, long walks in the park crunching through golden leaves. Give me the buzz and excitement of Christmas—Dad’s Christmas-eve tradition of ice-cream under the stars wrapped in our warmest clothes. Man, I missed him so much. My eyes grew hot.

  No. No more tears. No more feeling sorry for myself. Never again.

  This was me now—this cozy open-plan apartment above the bakery, with its battered sofa-bed and dinky bathroom. This was my place, and a discount from Urvashi meant I could comfortably afford to rent it. Malina would have happily loaned me the money to buy a small flat, heck she’d even offered to buy me one, but living like this was my choice, something I needed to do myself. Find my feet, find my path, and stop coasting. I was pathetic, twenty-five years old and still searching for fulfillment, still desperate to make a difference in the world somehow. If only I’d b
een born a full witch, if only I’d had even a fraction of the power other witch-bloods had, but I may as well have been born human. Heck, I bet even a human would have been more successful at drawing power from the skein than me. That damn yarn of magick all witches drew power from seemed to be closed off to me.

  You don’t have to have powers to help people, Malina had said. I loved her for it, and I hated that it didn’t feel like it was enough. I hated the sneaky suspicion that whispered she didn’t believe I was good enough. If only I could be content with being average, but there was a burning need inside me—a desire to do so much more—a conviction I was destined for something greater. Bloody delusional more like.

  My phone buzzed, skittering across the coffee table. The caller ID had me hesitating. Should I let it go to voicemail?

  The buzzing stopped but started up a moment later.

  Fuck it. “Hello?”

  “Carmella. Hey. Just checking in. You okay?”

  Drake’s voice was all honeyed concern, and the irritating thing was, he was sincere. The only ex I couldn’t hate, Drake, was a full witch and the Mayfair Coven High Witch’s grandson to boot. We’d had a thing for a while, about a year, but then it had just fizzled out … okay, it hadn’t fizzled out, Drake had realized he was in love with someone else—another full witch. So yeah, that had hurt. But I was over it. Right?

  “Carmella you there?”

  “I’m fine. Seriously. You don’t need to check in with me every other day.”

  Drake sighed.

  “I know Malina asked you to, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  “Just … call me if you need anything okay?”

  What I needed was for him not to have broken my heart. What I needed was to be treated like and adult and not a child who’d been left home alone while her parents went on vacation.

  Malina was in Nagalok visiting family. My part-naga friend was an expert at hopping between realities, but I preferred to stick to one. Heck, at least I accepted the multi-verse theory, some people still insisted it was a hoax. You’d think after the shit that happened five years ago they’d have wised up, but no … way too many ostriches burying their heads in the sand.

  “Carmella? You still there? How are things? The bakery?”

  “Good, good. But I gotta go. I’ll call you … sometime.” Urgh. I hung up quickly, not wanting to get sucked into his life.

  Longer conversations meant asking what was up with the other person and pretending like you cared, or faking you were happy for them when all you wanted to do was scream.

  Longer conversations sucked. Despite the storm in my heart, I couldn’t help but hope tomorrow would be a better day. There was the huge order of goodies to prepare for the Coven’s Annual Meet—a big deal for such a small bakery. Thank goodness Banner had a soft spot for our baked goods. Urvashi was ecstatic, and yours truly was in charge of pulling it all off.

  Yeah, maybe being a baker wouldn’t be such a bad life.

  Maybe I could be a kick ass baker.

  2

  T oday was going to suck.

  “Oh, god, Brenda. Please, please don’t say it.” I pleaded into the phone.

  “I’m sick.”

  “Fuck!”

  “I’m so sorry, Carmella. Can you tell Urvashi I’m sorry?”

  Sure I would if she was here. She’d called in sick too. Then the other two staff members had left because they felt crappy. The cynical part of my brain screamed hangover. They’d all gone out last night after all. It didn’t matter though, this was a bakery, couldn’t have sick-looking staff. And now I was on my own. Three batches of cakes and pastries left to make, and eight hours till delivery. I was so screwed

  Brenda coughed and gagged.

  “I’ll tell her. Just get some rest.”

  Ending the call I stared at the bell above the door. Desperate situations called for desperate measures. The order had to be fulfilled, but no way was that possible with the shop open for business as usual. Not alone. Flipping the sign to closed, I locked the door just as a little girl pushed against it from outside.

  “Gemma.”

  One of our regulars, probably twelve years old and a total sweetheart, popped in every lunch time for the same three items. I unlocked the door and let her in.

  She stared up at me with huge green eyes. “You’re closing early?”

  “Yeah, but I can get you your usual.”

  She grinned. “You’re the best.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just drop the blinds so no one else tries to get inside.” Two brownies and a supersized jammy dodger went into a paper bag. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, Carmella. Mum loves your brownies.”

  “You should tell her to pop in some time.”

  A shadow fell across her face. “She’s not too well at the moment, but as soon as she is on her feet we will.”

  “Great.” I let her out and locked up behind her.

  I’d been up since five a.m. baking bread and rolls. It was now almost midday. I was the last woman standing.

  I couldn’t let Urvashi down.

  _____

  My feet throbbed, my head ached, and I was pretty sure I was coming down with whatever the rest of the staff had caught, but the order was complete. Now to drop it off, come home, and put my feet up.

  Van all loaded, I navigated the late Saturday afternoon Piccadilly traffic to get onto Coven Promenade. The street, lined with mansions housing the Piccadilly coven witches, was eerily silent, as if a ward of serenity had been cast over it. It probably had, I wouldn’t put it past the covens. The building I was looking for was set at the end of the cul-de-sac, through a double gate, and past a winding driveway already lined with stately cars and limos. It looked like the revelry had begun early, not that I’d know anything about that. This was an event for full-blooded witches. The only witch-bloods who’d be found on the premises were hired hands to cater the event of the year.

  The sun was beginning to set, and slowly, as if by magick, lights winked on in the majestic trees lining the driveway, lighting up the place like Christmas in July. Was it getting hotter in here? I held my hand over the AC to feel the blast of cool air. What the heck? Why was I so hot? Oh, yeah, I was coming down with the lurgy.

  The front of the stately home came into view, and I swung the vehicle round the side of the house to the delivery entrance. The doors were open and staff rushed in and out. A slender man spotted me and ran over.

  “Oh, thank god you’re here. We should have been set up a half-hour ago,” he said.

  “I was told six p.m.”

  “You were?” His brow crinkled. “Okay, not your fault. You just need to hustle. Bring the order through.” He turned back to the mansion.

  “Whoa, wait a second. There are over five hundred baked goods in here.”

  He huffed. “Fine. I’ll send someone out to help.”

  Ten minutes later, I was ready to bury myself in the arctic. My blouse was stuck to my chest, my hair plastered to my scalp with perspiration, and no one had come out to help.

  Fuck this.

  Climbing out of the van I crunched across the gravel to the back doors, flung them open and began to unload.

  “You all right?”

  That voice … Bollocks! I looked up into Mal Banners perfect face. “Not really. I was supposed to have some help getting these in but—”

  “You look terrible.”

  “Wow, thanks.”

  He took a concerned step toward me, studying me from beneath low brows. “You don’t look well.”

  Crap. Handling food while sick was not acceptable. He could have Urvashi’s license. Even though I hadn’t felt ill until I’d completed the order.

  I gave him my most dazzling smile. “I’m fine. Just really hot.”

  “Yes, you are,” he muttered.

  Had I heard him right? “Huh?”

  He relieved me of the tray I was holding, his cool fingers brushing my warm ones

  Hi
s frown deepened. “There’s a washroom just down the corridor, third door on the left. You can cool off there. I’ll make sure the van is unloaded.”

  Okay, do not fall flat on your face. I made it into the building into the blissfully cool interior and sagged against the wall. This was bad. Cold water on my face was what I needed.

  The washroom was a huge marble affair with soft fluffy towels and the water helped to sooth my fevered skin. My vision swam with black dots. Pull it together Carmella, you can do this. Gathering my long, silver-blonde hair into a knot at the top of my head, I splashed cold water on the nape of my neck.

  Better. Now to get the heck out of here. I opened the washroom door to urgent lowered voices.

  “ … find out what he’s up to.”

  “We need to tread carefully. We don’t know anything for sure.”

  The voices moved off, and I was out of there. Coven politics weren’t my problem. They’d been feuding for years, and it had only gotten worse five years ago, after the Void had almost unraveled the multi-verse. If not for the intervention of my friends and the gods, none of this would exist any longer. The catastrophic event had left its mark on our world in so many little ways. There was the poverty of course, and the number of homeless had increased. The number of supernaturals breaking the law had shot up. The more reasonable blood suckers and the wolf people had integrated themselves into everyday society, digging in their claws and accepting that to survive we needed to work together. The fight against a bigger threat had been enough to remind many of them what was at stake, and that we needed each other in order to survive. But there were always those who just didn’t give a fuck. And the covens? Well, they’d risen in power, with the Mayfair Coven claiming the lion’s share of the skein. It was frightening how much influence the covens actually wielded: over the council, the enforcement agencies, and over the gods, who were still recovering from their fight against the demon hoard and the Void.

  Outside, night had fallen. Banner was gone, and the van waited to transport me home. The air was humid and thick, making each breath a chore. A business card was tucked under the wiper, Banner’s card for the Moon and Star Club, his mobile number scrawled on the back with a note asking me to call if I changed my mind about a date.