Magical Influence Book One

  Chapter 13

  By the time I reached the kitchen I was cold. Through and through. It wasn't just because the house was old and draughty and that persistent wind was pushing its way through the cracks in the floorboards. It was much more than that. It felt like every trace of warmth or everything that had ever remembered warmth had been removed from the place. The kitchen reminded me of the inside of a glacier. Instantly my breath turned white, and I clutched at my exposed hands.

  I knew a thing or two about magic. Like most forces, it generated heat. A really powerful love spell would be hot as hell, and of course a fireball wasn't exactly chilly.

  But what I was experiencing here was something different. When a room or a place or an object became cold, the kind of freezing temperature you associated with deep, deep space, it meant something was building. It meant the life and the magic and the sole had been sucked out of the area, in preparation for... something new.

  I cast my glance quickly out the French doors. I had lived here for so long that the view of that old oak tree had become a fixture in my life. The way it dappled the light in summer, the way the rays of the sun pushed through the naked branches in winter... it was a guttural, tactile memory.

  But now it was gone. And I felt that loss like you would a limb.

  Letting out another puff of air that turned to white and buffeted against my cheeks, I glanced towards the fridge. I had come in here for a reason; that reason had been to gather together all the potions I required for a sleeping spell. Not just any sleeping draught though, one that would knock out dear Agent Jacob Fairweather and erase from his memory the last 24 hours. It was the only way. Not only would it remove him from the house, but it would mean my grandmother's careless admissions would be forgotten.

  Ignoring the cold and the powerful sense that something was building, I half jogged over to the bench, pulled out a bowl, and went to open the fridge.

  And that would be when I felt it.

  Rushing up from underneath. It had no wind, the air did not buffet against my feet. It was just a sense. I couldn't see it, I couldn't hear it... but a part of me suddenly stood still from the fright of its approach.

  I didn't have the time to scream. Something latched onto my ankle.

  Cold and hard it wrapped around my flesh and it pulled. My body fell out from underneath me, and I slammed against the floorboards. The wind was knocked out of my chest, but before I could catch a breath, a hand latched around my throat.

  It had all happened so fast. If I had been the kind of capable, powerful witch ready to defend herself, I might have been able to squeeze off a spell. I wasn't, and to boot, all I knew was influence magic, and those kind of spells required time. The kind of time you didn't have when something latched onto you and tried to tug you through the floor.

  The crush of the bone-like hand against my windpipe filled my senses. Alarm rushed through my body. But I was pinned down; there was nothing I could do.

  Eyes growing wide, mouth spluttering as I tried to choke out a breath, my gaze turned black at the edges. I was seconds from unconsciousness, or possibly death.

  I struggled, brought a hand up, tried to tug off whatever was gripping my throat and ankle. As my own hand latched around that foreign wrist, I realized it really was nothing more than bone.

  I could hardly see. The blackness now encompassed me.

  Before I could slip through the floor and probably end up in hell, I heard a shout.

  Something was pulled off me, I was yanked to my feet, and the pressure on my throat finally subsided.

  It took seconds for my vision to return, and as it did I felt a comforting arm around my middle pulling me backwards. “You are alive, you are alive,” my grandmother's voice soothed my wild heart.

  “What's going on? What the hell is that?” I heard Jacob. Heard the exact note of fright in his voice.

  “Get back to the lounge room,” my grandmother commanded.

  Finally my vision returned in full. As it did I caught a glimpse of something. Something in my kitchen. Something perilously close to my dishwasher.

  That something was a skeleton.

  I only saw a flash of it; as my grandma hauled me through the kitchen door, it closed on its own. Then she passed a gnarled, old, sun-kissed hand over it and chains appeared from nowhere, locking it in place.

  But I'd seen it. A vision of that skeleton standing there, a sword in its hand, its eyeless face turned my way.

  I was no stranger to magic; I had seen some terrible things, but wholly hell, there was a skeleton holding a sword in my kitchen.

  I screamed, but it was a crumpled, choked affair, and it did more damage to my throat than was worth it.

  “What's going on, what's going on?” Jacob kept on repeating.

  “Get to the lounge room,” my grandmother began.

  Then there was a bang. From the front door. I turned in my grandmother's arms to see the thing buffet inwards.

  We all paused for a moment. Maybe the house paused. Because it felt as if we were on a precipice. As if that which had been building was finally here. The tower was about to crumble.

  The door banged again, and the whole thing jerked in against its hinges. Yet it held.

  “Take her back to the lounge, do it now,” my grandma whirled around and pushed me at Jacob.

  I still couldn't stand; my ankle felt like it had been cut through with acid, and I could hardly breathe. Yet my darling nana had just chucked me towards Jacob, even though he was still holding his gun, and didn't look like he wanted to help us, let alone believe us any time soon.

  That being said, he caught me.

  My grandma turned and headed straight for the door. She did not reach out a hand and trace calming symbols on it. She did not lean towards the coat rack at the side, pull out her umbrella, and get ready to use it like a sword. Instead she walked straight through it.

  I felt Jacob shake behind me. An intense, full-bodied move, it was a surprise he managed to keep on his feet and not drop me.

  Yet that arm of his was still locked around my middle. Coughing, my chest shaking, I couldn't deny one uncomfortable fact; I felt safer pressed up against him then I would on my own two feet.

  Then my brain caught up to the situation. My grandmother had just walked through the door. Outside, to face them. Though our house no longer offered much protection, it still offered more than the wild storm outside. I just knew instinctively our yard would be crawling with creatures. The dark, the dead, the damned. They would all be after me. My grandmother had just walked out, unarmed, to face them.

  I began to struggle against Jacob, trying to get towards the door. I didn't know what I wanted to do, but the fear of my grandmother facing those creatures alone pounded through me.

  Jacob resisted. He did not let me go. He didn't take his arm back, push me forward, and tell me he was happy to be done with me and my crazy, crazy house.

  Instead he pulled me towards the lounge room. “Stop struggling, stop struggling.”

  I didn't have much struggle left in me, to be honest. The cold touch that skeleton’s hand had left against my throat and ankle seemed to haunt my mind. Every other sense was subdued in comparison to it. It was like the damned thing was still holding onto me.

  Jacob managed to haul me back, and soon we were in the lounge room.

  He didn't let me go until he closed the door. Then he headed over to the couch and pushed it in front of it.

  I crumpled. I could have stood, but I didn't want to. I let my knees buckle out from underneath me, and I landed on the carpet with a thump.

  Jacob took several steps back from the door, his gun still in his hand, his face directed away from me.

  Everything was going to hell, literally.

  Something that had been an academic fact this morning, was now inescapable.

  We were being attacked. And it was very, very unlikely we would make it through the day and into the night.

  Finally he turned back to m
e.

  I could barely raise my chin to glance his way.

  “You okay?”

  His question washed over me, and it took me too long to register and comprehend the words.

  I shook my head. Then I began to choke and splutter again, bringing my hand up to my throat, making a motion as if I was trying to pull something away from it. It still felt as if that skeleton’s hand was around me.

  Jacob took a shaking step my way, eyes darting over my face, down to my throat and then back again. “What...?” He trailed off.

  No doubt he had been about to ask what was going on here, what the hell was happening, who we were, etc. Repeating the litany of questions he had been bombarding us with for the past half-hour.

  But he just stopped.

  His cheeks twitched and then became slack and white. He looked back at my throat. “How do we get it off?”

  I looked up at him, startled. I didn't understand his question.

  He nodded at me again. “Do you have... anything in here we could use as a tool?” he turned around, surveying the bookshelves, old dressers, and general junk in the room.

  “What are you talking about?” I kept clutching my throat, trying to pry away the sense of the skeleton’s hand.

  He ignored me, walked over, and knelt by my side. Though he seemed reluctant at first, he set down his gun, then brought his hands up.

  I actually twitched back. I didn't know what he was doing. Then I caught his eyes, settled into his glance, and realized there was no anger there. Just a strange, confused, pressured concern.

  “You can't see it?”

  “See what?” I could hardly push my words out. I still felt like I was choking. My throat was coarse, rough, narrow.

  He brought his hands up. I saw the skin, the knuckles, the fingers. He latched them, not around my throat, but around something I could not see.

  Expression crumpling, he tugged at it.

  It took a moment, where he clutched his teeth in frustration, but a second later he pulled something off.

  He let it go immediately, and it fell to the ground.

  In a snap, it was visible.

  A skeleton hand. Locked in a gripping motion.

  It had been around my throat. Yet I had not been able to see it. The presence of that had filled my mind, but the fact of it had eluded my senses.

  I immediately fell back, scuttling away from it, choking again.

  Jacob however did not share my fear. He did grab up his gun, and seconds later poked the bony hand with the toe of his boot.

  “I have to get outside to help her,” I pushed myself to my feet. Now that the skeleton’s hand was no longer around my throat, I could breathe. And with every lungful of air the grim reality of the situation pressed in on me.

  She was out there, alone, and though she was powerful, no one could take on that amount of concentrated evil and live to tell the tale.

  “Don't be crazy; you can't go out there,” Jacob stood up, walked over to the door, and stood firmly in front of it.

  Coughing, I tried to move around him. “Get out of my way. You don't understand what is happening here.”

  He spluttered through a laugh. “You're damn straight I don't understand what is going on here. I'm still convinced I am hallucinating. But I just pulled a skeleton’s hand off your throat....”

  He didn't appear to be capable of finishing his sentence. Fair enough; he wouldn't have much experience uttering sentences like that.

  I didn't know what to do. I knew what I wanted to do; rush outside, try to find my grandmother, and try to help her. But I also knew that would be certain suicide. The only reason she had gone out there would have been to protect me. By rushing out to find her, I would just make a liability of myself.

  “I....” Apparently I couldn’t finish my sentences either, as whatever I had wanted to say got stuck somewhere around my croaky, damaged throat. I patted a hand to my neck, turned, and stared at one of the massive velvet curtains.

  “We safe in here?” Jacob walked up slowly behind me.

  Of course we weren't. For now, maybe, but it sounded as if the storm was only just getting started.

  I simply shook my head.

  “What do we... do? Is there someone we can call?”

  I turned to face him. He was taking this... better than I would have expected. The first time I had clapped eyes on Jacob Fairweather, I’d assumed he was a by-the-book kind of man. What was happening right now, would be unlike any book he had ever read. He would have no grounding for this, no understanding, no rules for how to behave.

  I shook my head. “We’re on our own.”

  He spluttered; a bit of that frustration and anger was back. “And who exactly are you?”

  I rolled my eyes. Despite the situation, that tone of his was so damn grating. Plus, he'd already been told this several times. I couldn't spend the rest of the night reminding him my grandmother and I were witches; presumably I would have to fight for my life, and that would no doubt take up a lot of time and energy. “I'm a witch,” I snapped.

  “I need a real answer,” he began.

  I turned around and pointed at the skeleton hand on the ground. He stopped.

  It should have been a moment of mild victory for me. Here was Jacob Fairweather, out of his depth, the same Jacob Fairweather that had deliberately tried to make my life hell for the past several days. Shouldn’t I be enjoying taking him down a notch or two?

  Yet here I was, staring glumly at my hands, over to the curtains, and then back at him.

  If I wanted any chance of getting out of this, I had to... well, think. More than that, I had to do as my grandmother had been suggesting all day long. I, Esme Sinclair, had to start acting like a powerful witch. The kind of witch that thought ahead, that knew what to do when there was a skeleton with a sword in her kitchen, that wouldn’t blink twice at turning to the Agent, explaining the situation, and asking for his help.

  Because I would need his help, wouldn't I? He had already proven that he could see things I couldn't. How, I didn’t know. And I was more than sure it was a fact that would come to annoy me in the future. But right now I had to use it to get out of here.

  I turned to him slowly. It was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. “I know this is hard for you to understand.”

  “I'm hallucinating, I have to be hallucinating,” he pressed his fingers into his brow, and the move looked hard and pointed.

  “You aren't hallucinating,” I used my softest, most gentle voice. “This is real. If you honestly believe you are hallucinating, then why did you pull that skeleton hand off my throat? Why did you take me in here when my grandmother asked you to? If you really think this is a hallucination, why don’t you dive out that window, and see what’s waiting out there? Or find a way to get back in the kitchen and see if the skeleton has conveniently disappeared?”

  It was a risk. If Jacob Fairweather honestly thought he was hallucinating, then there was nothing to stop him from doing as I’d suggested.

  He wavered. He looked at me, over to the window, then back at me. “That proves... nothing.”

  “Listen to yourself, you're trying to rationalize with me. If this were a hallucination, why would you bother? Jacob,” I began.

  “Agent Fairweather,” he chided automatically.

  I glared at him. “Agent Fairweather, the window is right over there. I won't stop you.”

  He looked back at the window slowly.

  For that short moment it seemed as if every emotion played across his face in full view. The confusion, the anger, the frustration, and yes, the concern.

  He finally turned back to face me. “Fine, if this isn't a hallucination, what is it?”

  I brought my hands up wide, and I shrugged my shoulders. “Like I have already told you. We are witches. Magic exists. Is that so hard to believe?”

  He snorted.

  Apparently that meant a yes.

  “Look, I don't think we have time for this. And I k
now this is really hard to believe, but dark forces, demons, lost souls of the night – they're all trying to get in the house. Technically they're coming after me, but knowing them, they will think nothing of taking you with me. I know we only just met, and I know you really, really don't like me—”

  “I never said I don't like you,” he interrupted as he crossed his arms, “I just don't trust you. You are a drug dealer, you kidnapped me, and you...”

  “Have a skeleton with a sword in my kitchen and a grandmother who can walk through doors,” I challenged.

  “Right,” he held my gaze.

  “Look, you can do whatever you want to do when this situation is over. You can take me down to the police station, you can clap me in irons, honestly – I won’t stop you. But right now, we need to get through this, and I kind of need your help.”

  He crossed his arms tighter, and maybe just a little bit of the indecision dried up. Perhaps he had a bit of a hero complex, and by appealing to it, I was doing the best possible thing I could do to get Jacob Fairweather onside.

  “I can't say I've appreciated your attention over the past several days, but Agent Fairweather, I can appreciate that you obviously know how to handle yourself. And you obviously...” I looked down at the skeleton hand, “have a talent for magic. We really need to work together if we want to get out of here.”

  With those arms still crossed tightly in front of his chest he stared down at me.

  An awkward, exceedingly uncomfortable silence spread between us. I stared up at him, desperate to find out whether he was going to flop a hand my way, laugh at my ridiculous explanation, and proceed to haul himself out the window only to get eaten by demons.

  He didn't. After a very long time he finally relaxed his shoulders. “I don't believe a word of this, but,” he hazarded.

  I looked up at him sharply.

  “I'll stay.”

  I smiled. Despite the situation, the fact that everything was going to hell and that I would probably end up dead by the end of the night, if not married to a man I barely knew, I actually smiled.

  And I swore that the corner of his lip twitched up as I did.

  “Thank you,” I clasped my hands together, “now....” Now I had to come up with a plan. Somehow I’d managed to convince the standoffish Fairweather to come to my aid, but the night, and even the day, were not over yet. What was I meant to do? Tell Jacob to pick up his gun, follow me, and start clearing the house of magical bad guys and lost souls?

  I brought a hand up and uncomfortably scratched my neck. Jacob watched the move keenly. He nodded down to me. “You have no idea what to do, do you?” There was a hardened, accusatory note to his voice.

  I looked up sharply, shifting uncomfortably on my feet. “I...”

  “How do we defend this room? Is there somewhere else that’s safer? How many enemies do you expect, and what direction will they come from? What abilities will they have? What do we have to defend ourselves with? Will my gun work?”

  I actually blinked at his barrage of questions. They were so quick and fast that I couldn't follow them. I shook my head like a confused dog. “Hold on, I can't keep up.”

  “Then I suggest you try harder. If this situation is as serious as it seems, there’s no time to be pathetic.”

  Pathetic? That single word managed to punch through my confusion. I wasn’t being pathetic! I had just had a very trying day. From skeletons in the kitchen to monster trucks in the morning, of course it was reasonable to assume that I would be skittish.

  “If you don't take charge, I will.”

  I spluttered. “You don't know the first thing about magical creatures,” I pointed out as I waved my hands at him emphatically.

  “I seem to know more than you. You couldn't see that hand, could you?” He walked past the skeleton hand and kicked it with his shoe. “And what did you see out the window? Just a shadow?”

  I didn't need to be questioned by a small-time Federal Agent. I stiffened my back a little, drawing my lips down into a thin frown as I tried to give him a steely gaze. “I am the witch here.”

  “Well start acting like one. Draw up some kind of magical defense. Make a hex or something, or grab your wand and start producing fireballs. Do something. Your grandmother is outside, and though she looks more competent than you, she also looks like she is about 90 years old.”

  At the mention of my grandmother, I swallowed uncomfortably, blood drawing thick and fast into my cheeks. Patting a hand over my hot and sweaty brow, I gave a small shake.

  Jacob saw it, because the edge to his frown disappeared in that moment. “Is this the safest room in the house?” he asked again, voice quieter this time.

  “I... doubt it. Maybe the attic might be? We have stacks of old magical books up there, and a lot of family history.... That might do.”

  Jacob nodded quickly. “Right, then let's head there. Do you have any weapons?”

  Not exactly.

  “Can you produce... fireballs, lightning? Anything useful?”

  I sucked on my lips, turning my eyes up until I looked at the ceiling. “Well... no.”

  “I thought you said you were a witch? Your grandmother walked through a door, can you do that?”

  I shook my head.

  “You said you lived here to look after your grandmother, it's the other way round, isn't it?” He looked right at me as he headed past for the door, shifting the couch out of the way.

  I blushed. Uncontrollably. “Now hold on a minute. She is usually very demented, I will have you know. I come home almost every day to find the place completely trashed. And the other morning, when she ordered that kilo of bloody cocaine, that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with her insanity. She is only... with it at the moment because the situation demands it.”

  “Dementia is not like a switch; you don't turn it on and off.” He snapped.

  “She is a witch,” I rallied.

  “And apparently so are you, so do some freaking magic.”

  “I'm not really that kind of witch... I use influence magic,” I admitted uncomfortably.

  “That sounds useless.”

  If I were blushing before, my cheeks were now burning. “I’ll have you know it’s one of the most powerful kinds of magic.”

  “Then click your fingers and save us all.”

  “It doesn't work like that,” now I crossed my own arms.

  “How convenient. If you can't do anything, stay behind me, keep close, and let me deal with... whatever is out there.”

  What an ass. I’d been willing to hold out my hand to him, explain the situation as kindly as I could, and protect him as best as my magic would enable me. Yet now Jacob Fairweather was taking charge in the most arrogant of ways.

  “Look, your options are to stand there glaring at me, or you can come with me and we can head to the attic. You said yourself, this situation is perilous. If you want to stay here blushing with embarrassment, fine, but I'm not going to.” With that he headed to the door, placed a hand on the handle, took in a heavy breath, and pulled it open.

  Smarting from his insult, but aware of what he was about to do, I finally pushed myself into action. I half jogged, possibly in a truly pathetic way, up to his side, and got ready for what would be out there.

  And what would be out there?

  Trouble. Trouble of the likes I had never imagined and Jacob Fairweather had never thought possible.