Occulta Apparentia

by KailorAurelius

Summary:

Chloe's done it. She's escaped and found her way to someone that can help: Beca, a witch that can ensure Chloe's ex never finds her again. She will finally be safe...
But all magic comes with a price.

Notes:

Happy Halloween, my loves! Someone said Pitch Perfect SpookFest and I couldn't pass that up!

I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.
-Charlotte Bronte

Also, a happy, happy birthday to Phoenix_Rising1029, a long-time reader and a sweetheart that gave me motivation to get this finished and posted.

Chapter 1: I Am No Bird

The door is there, as it always is. The only lit thing in this place of shadow. Chloe stands just outside the light, looking at it.

Dark mahogany with a silver doorknob. Thin cracks in the wood grain, the burls seeming to stretch the longer she stares. At first just chaotic swirls, then horrid, unnaturally wide mouths. Eyeless faces. Screaming silently, as if warning her to back away. To run.

Yet all she hears are whispers for her to come closer. A pulsing beat that draws her in, a wind tunnel all her own.

She squeezes her eyes shut. “No. Wake up, come on.” There’s no time for this. Tom will know she’s gone soon. She has to move.

The whispers grow louder as her eyes shut. They fill her ears slowly, always almost comprehensible but there are so many crawling over each other that she can’t pick out just one. Urgent, frenzied voices that buzz in her head. Too many. Too loud.

She opens her eyes and finds her hand lifted, held out toward the doorknob. That pulsing beat in her blood quickens.

“No,” she says again, desperately trying to wrench her arm back. Her body doesn’t move at all. “Please, I don’t–”

Light flickers through the crack beneath the door. A chill races through her frozen limbs, up her tensed spine. The whispers grow louder. She can’t move her head, but she can see the darkness in her periphery.

Shifting.

Reaching. 

For her.

The door creaks, stretching, bulging against its hinges. Something on the other side calls desperately for her.

“NO!”

 

Thunder crashes overhead and Chloe jolts awake in the backseat of the taxi.

“You’re alright, dear,” the driver says, chuckling a little. “It’s just thunder.” His slight Irish accent is soothing, much like the smile on his round face and the bits of white hair peeking from beneath his flat cap had been when she chose this taxi. He reminds her of her grandfather. “I was just about to wake you. We’re about there.”

The storm has grown stronger with every mile the taxi’s meter counted. Chloe rubs her eyes as she reads the red numbers from the backseat, quietly comparing it with the cash she has left. She’ll have enough. Barely, but still. There might even be enough for a night or two in a very cheap hotel, as well. If she’s lucky.

A lot of the last few days has hinged on luck for her and she has a horrible feeling it’s running out.

It doesn’t matter. She’ll deal with that once she’s gotten what she’s come for. After that, she can figure everything else out.

Lightning streaks outside the rain-sheeted window, illuminating the first few houses she’s seen in hours. A sign passes by, hard to make out through the downpour, but she squints and can just read, “Welcome to Barden, Maine”.

She’s made it. After days spent in the back of buses and taxis, here she is. Barden, Jessica had said as she scribbled directions on a napkin. That’s where to go.

“Have–um–have you been here before?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse with sleep and disuse, her throat a little raw. She’d gotten drenched trying to find someone willing to take her all this way in this weather and she can already feel congestion aching behind her eyes. She had barely spoken to this poor driver when she’d gotten into his taxi hours ago and he hadn’t seemed to mind. Hadn’t even asked for her name. He’d just given her a quick onceover and kindly asked if she needed to stop for food or anything, then quietly let her rest. But he perks up at the question now.

“Can’t say I have,” he says jovially over the roar of the rain. “Looks nice, though. If it weren’t in the middle of a monsoon!” He laughs at his own joke. “Don’t worry, I’ll getcha as close to your friend’s house as I can.”

“Thank you.” It comes out too quiet and she clears her throat and says it again louder.

“No worries.” He turns his head to give her a quick, warm smile.

She does her best to return it, thinking he is very wrong. She has many worries.

The town is small and it only takes a few turns before the taxi is pulling to a stop. “Here we are,” the driver says, leaning across the front seat to squint up at the house. Chloe leans against her window to do the same.

It doesn’t look like much in the dark of the storm and it takes another flash of lightning for her to really make out the place. It’s just a plain little house, sitting in the back corner of a perfectly normal cul-de-sac. Two stories of brick with only one lit window on the lower floor. The driveway has a gray pick-up parked outside of the closed garage door, rain splattering off of its roof and racing to join the heavy puddles on the sidewalk.

She hadn’t expected a wooden hovel in the woods–even witches have adjusted to modern times–but she had expected...something else. She’s not sure what. But Tom’s magic had brought him a fortune, everyone lining up to pay ridiculous amounts for every spell and potion. Maybe she had expected the same kind of looming mansion that Tom lives in. Instead, this house is rather...cute. More like the kind of place she’d once pictured for herself, in what feels like another lifetime.

The driver clicks on his ceiling light and hooks an elbow over the seat. “Need help with your bags, love?”

He’s being kind, she knows. She has nothing but one small backpack stuffed with the bare essentials. “Thank you, I’ve got it,” she glances at his framed ID on the dashboard, “Mr. Delaney.”

“Just Seamus.” He nods, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening as he smiles. “Alright. Then you be safe, yeah?”

Chloe gives him a tight smile back, but doesn’t make any promises she isn’t sure she can keep. “Will you be okay driving back to Boston tonight?”

Seamus waves a hand idly. “Of course. No storm scares a Delaney, my gran used to say!” He chuckles, whole body bouncing a little with his mirth.

Glancing at the meter, Chloe quickly digs into her bag for her money, counting out the bills. She passes them over and Seamus grunts. 

He reaches into the center console and pulls out a card. Taking one of the hundreds Chloe gave him, he wraps it around the card and holds it out. “You call if you ever need a ride again, love.”

Tears tighten Chloe’s throat. “I can’t–”

“You can.” There’s a warmth in his gray eyes that really reminds her of her grandfather. And something else that she thinks might be understanding. Some kind of recognition. He wiggles the card and money at her. “Get yourself inside now. It’s getting late.”

With a deep breath to keep herself from crying, she takes the offered items and holds his hand for a moment. “Thank you, Seamus.”

“An absolute pleasure, Miss.” He squeezes her fingers briefly.

She wants to stay longer. Repay him for his kindness by asking about his life, if he has a family waiting back in Boston. How he started taxi driving, if he enjoys it. All the small talk she probably should have given him during this long drive. But she can feel time running out now. Like a belt tightening slowly around her chest with every ticking of the clock. So she gives him one more smile, this one a little more real, and hurries out of the cab and through the flooded front yard. It’s little use to rush, it turns out. She’s soaked again before she gets halfway across.

An icy wind pushes a dripping red curl into her face and Chloe shivers. The top porch stair creaks under her weight and she sighs with relief as she steps under the covering. There’s a pair of worn boots sitting outside the screen door. She drops her wet bag beside them to wave back at Seamus. He lifts a hand and then pulls off, the light in his car going out.

She rubs her numb hands together, her breath fogging out over them. Maine is so different from California already. She lifts a hand to knock.

Her knuckles haven’t even fully curled in before the house door swings open, spilling light onto the porch.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it today,” the woman on the other side of the screen door says in an almost bored drawl. Magus Mitchell, Chloe assumes.

Like the house, she isn’t like what Chloe would have guessed. She’d expected someone...taller, maybe. But Magus Mitchell is a few inches shorter than her. Brown hair under a dark beanie, ears full of metal and one curling, dark fang. She’s wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt with matching jeans and standing in her socks–one deep purple and the other green and blue. She doesn’t look much like the witches Tom keeps around–fancy people with designer clothes and tastes–but more like a young woman still somewhat in her emo phase. Just a normal woman that she would pass on the street.

And just as Chloe realizes she’s staring, she also realizes she’s being stared at.

Awkwardly, she drops her hand. “You knew I would be here?” Even after years watching Tom work, magic still shocks her.

Magus Mitchell’s gaze flickers up from her dripping, far too thin jacket and a single dark eyebrow lifts. “Yeah. Jessica called me. You’re Chloe, right?”

Or maybe she’s just an idiot. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She ducks to grab her backpack, hoping her face isn’t as flushed as it feels. She can probably pass it off as the cold.

The screen door swings open, forcing Chloe back a step, and Magus Mitchell is suddenly there, bending past her to snatch the bag up. “I got it. Get in.”

Chloe allows her to take the bag, mostly because it’s water-heavy and she’s so tired. Her nap in the taxi had not been enough to make up for the last few nights of little to no rest. 

The last few years of it, really. 

But also, it is freezing outside, so she doesn’t argue, just ducks a little stiltedly past the magus to enter the house.

As soon as she crosses the threshold, the cold seeps away. It’s as if she’s just sunk into the warmest bath of her life. And that, she knows, is magic. It’s unmistakable, the way it sparks along her skin, like the lightest breeze in the world. It’s similar, in a way, to Tom’s magic, though his has always been heavier and usually chased by a cold dread.

This magic is all warmth.

She still tenses at the touch of it. 

A large part of her is screaming to run, back to Seamus and his taxi. To the now-empty house in Portland that had once welcomed her with shouts and laughter, after-school games with her grandfather, movie nights with her parents. To the closest airport that can take her as far away as she can go.

The other part of her knows she has to do this. Whatever her feelings on magic, she needs it now. Needs this particular witch, according to Jessica.

“Better?” Magus Mitchell shuts the door behind her and sets Chloe’s bag against the wall.

“Much,” Chloe lies. She rubs her reddened hands together, though the stinging pain is rapidly fading. She almost wishes it would stay. It’s at least a distraction from the unnatural warmth on her skin.

The inside of the house is rather beautiful. The living room is small, almost intimate, with a crackling fireplace, a couple red couches, and all dark woods in the coffee table and the two bookshelves flanking the large TV on the mantle. An archway to her right leads to the darkened kitchen and a hallway stretches back into the rest of the house. 

It’s been a moment too long, so Chloe pulls her eyes from the framed painting of a sea at night that hangs over the far couch and clears her aching throat. “Thank you, Magus.”

That makes the witch’s nose wrinkle heavily. “It’s Beca. The ‘Magus’ thing is weird.”

Beca. Chloe likes that better. It calms her nerves a little. “Thank you, Beca. For meeting me, I mean. Did Jessica tell you anything?”

“Enough.” Beca glances at Chloe’s jacket again. It’s only now, fully in the bright light of the living room and without the screen door between them, that Chloe can see her eyes are blue. A darker blue than she’s ever seen. “You’re trying to hide from your ex, right?”

It’s a bit more dramatic than that, but that’s basically correct. “Yes. He has magic, though. Jessica said you could help.”

“I can,” she says, a simple statement of fact. It sparks a quick flare of hope deep in Chloe’s gut. “You wanna clean up before we talk? Shower or whatever?”

“Oh.” Yes, absolutely. Chloe would love nothing more. She wants to soak in a hot bath, sleep in a warm bed, read a good book. Anything a normal woman her age should be doing on a night like this. She also feels horrible for the puddle that’s slowly growing around her feet on the hardwood floor. But that phantom belt around her chest is still squeezing tight. “I think… Maybe just a towel, if that’s not too much trouble.”

“You’re in a rush.” It was probably supposed to sound like a question, but it definitely doesn’t.

Chloe sighs, shoulders sagging. “Yes. I really don’t know how much time I have. I’ve already been gone for days. He’s going to be home soon.”

Her eyes fall yet again to Chloe’s clothes. “I can use magic then, if you want–”

“No.” The word is out of her mouth before she can even think about it. A flush of embarrassment burns through her, fear hot on its tail. It’s Tom’s least favorite word. She wraps her arms tight around her chest, shoving down the barely surfacing memories of how he’d taught her that fact. “I don’t like magic used on me,” she rushes to add, breathless. “I know you have to do some to help me, but otherwise, I just– I’m so sorry, your floor–”

“I don’t give a shit about the floor,” Beca says, voice unchanged. Just the exact same monotone drawl as before. She turns on her heel and grabs a blanket off the back of the nearest couch. Without even looking at Chloe, she passes it over, then rounds the coffee table to drop into the far couch. Beneath the painting of the sea. “Okay, come sit then. Let’s get this over with.”

Chloe hesitates, guilt twisting in her stomach as she notices the mud splattered up her legs. She moves to the opposite couch, trying not to think of the window behind her or how badly she's about to be ruining the fabric. Exhaustion presses in on her as soon as she sits and she knows leaning back to get comfortable will knock her right out, so she stays perched on the edge. The blanket is black and gray, thickly woven and heavy on her shoulders when she pulls it around her.

Beca sits forward too, elbows resting on her spread knees. She blinks placidly, then takes a quick breath and says, “I should warn you, I’m not good with people, so sorry if I come off blunt. But I’ll try to keep this as quick and simple as I can.” Her thumbs tap together. “How much do you know about magic?”

Chloe looks away from the chipped black paint on Beca’s nails. “Not much, honestly.” Two years and Chloe still only knows of a few random spells. Mostly the ones that kept her locked in Tom’s mansion. The ones he would use when she upset him. “I’ve seen T–my ex do a few smaller things. Levitating objects, sending messages to people. But I wasn’t…” Allowed. “I didn’t ever get to ask about magic, really. People came and paid him to do things, but I rarely knew what.”

Something flickers in Beca’s narrowed eyes, the first hint of any kind of emotion, but it’s gone before Chloe can categorize it. “Okay,” Beca says. “Well. There’s really only one thing you need to understand before we make any deals.”

Chloe takes a deep breath, steeling herself. She wishes Jessica were here with her.

“All magic comes with a price.” She catches Chloe’s gaze, holding it. “All magic. Every levitated pencil, every summoned sandwich. The tiniest spark. You pay for it all in some way. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” The tension in her stomach tightens a bit more. "I brought some money, but–”

“Not money.” Beca’s face doesn’t change, but there’s a very faint, but definite hint of anger in her tone now. Most people probably wouldn’t have even caught it, but Chloe is very good at spotting anger. “For the caster, it’s things like a brief burst of pain, occasionally. Luck, sometimes. Energy, most often. The stronger the spell, the more it takes, but the price of most magic is basically negligible.” She shuffles a bit in her seat, crossing her arms tight across her chest. “I’ve heard of your ex before and I can’t say I was a fan even before Jessica’s call.”

It’s ridiculous, but Chloe feels a heavy relief that Beca doesn’t say his name.

“He’s well-known as one of those asshole witches that demands ridiculous amounts of money for magic that has pretty much no cost to him. So I get you offering. But I don’t want or need your money, let’s make that very clear right now.”

There’s a pause and Chloe gets the feeling Beca is waiting for confirmation. She nods shakily.

Beca continues. “You’re looking to be hidden from him for good, yeah?”

Another nod.

“And you’re a hundred percent sure that’s what you want?” Beca’s gaze hasn’t wavered or changed a single bit, but it somehow feels more intense as she says, “There are multiple spells I could use. Cloaking magic, illusions. But the kind of magic that would best help you–the one I’d recommend if you truly want this–is strong. Ancient. It would seal your existence from him entirely, so he or anyone he sends to find you would not see you. You would be a random person, they’d hear a different voice than yours when you spoke.” Her head tilts ever so slightly. “The price would be high, for both me and you. And I’m not in the habit of investing in a spell that someone will turn around and want dropped. Which means you can’t change your mind in a few days and go crawling back.”

Just the thought makes Chloe sick to her stomach. She has a brief flash of Tom, his hand lifted and clenched in the air as his magic’s bruising grip squeezes her arm. She wraps trembling fingers around the spot just beneath her elbow. “I won’t.”

“You don’t even know your price.”

“I don’t care what it is. I’ll pay it. I–” She sucks in a breath as her voice tries to break. Stop crying, you know I hate that, Tom’s voice echoes in her ears. “Please.”

Beca just watches her for another moment and Chloe suddenly wonders if she can read minds. She thinks she’s heard talk about magic like that before. 

How strange it would be, to just detect someone’s thoughts. To be able to reach in and pluck out every bit-back sentence or unvocalized worry. Every shameful secret, written out clear as day, inked words on a page.

“One year.”

Chloe blinks. “What?”

“A year of service,” Beca says. At the no doubt blank look on Chloe’s face, she continues. “Your price. You stay here and work for me for a year. You’ll be paid and have room and board. As soon as that time is up, the spell will be final and binding. Then I don’t care what you do. Our prices will be paid and your ex could sit next to you on a bus and he would have no idea.”

A year of service. A year stuck here. Away from Tom, but still kept in place. A bird moved to a different cage…

When Chloe was young, she found a bird. A light blue thing with darker wings, walking around by the merry-go-round at the park. She’d laid her tiny hands in the grass and the bird climbed right into them. Her parents hadn’t even protested, just stopped to buy a cage and some food on the way home. Chloe named him Skye. 

“He must have been someone’s pet before,” the vet told them later, pointing to the missing tips of Skye’s wings. “They’re starting to grow back. I can clip them again, if you like.”

“No,” her father said, kind but firm. “He should be able to fly.”

Skye would hop around the house, fluttering his clipped wings and chattering to Chloe as she told him all about her day. He liked to climb into the front pocket of her favorite overalls and sleep. It was all her parents could do to keep her from bringing him to school or the grocery store with her. “Bird check!” her father would playfully call as he glanced into Skye’s cage every time Chloe left the house. Her mother added “tucking Skye in” to Chloe’s nighttime routine just to be sure she wasn’t sneaking the bird into her bed to sleep.

Her grandfather was very unhelpful in this endeavor. Every time she visited, he would make her turn out her pockets and make a big show of asking why she didn’t bring his friend, Skye.

“Daddy, please,” her mother would say, always around a laugh. “You’re a bad influence.”

“I certainly hope so,” he’d say, slipping a couple Reese’s in Chloe’s pockets as she tucked them back in.

The last week of summer before Chloe started second grade, they tried to move Skye to a bigger cage. Her father had barely opened the little metal bars on the side before Skye was flying. Just like that, he’d soared straight out the open kitchen window and was gone.

“Oh, his wings must have grown back in,” her mother said. She’d looked both sad and happy and Chloe hadn’t understood then because she’d just been sad. She cried for weeks.

Her grandpa gave her extra Reese's that week.

Chloe takes a deep breath around the lump in her throat. It wasn’t the same but it was similar enough. God, how she wishes she didn’t understand that little bluebird so much now.

A different cage, yes, but a temporary one.  Jessica trusts this witch and Chloe trusts Jessica. She has to. If this will truly hide her from Tom, then she can stay caged a bit longer.

“Okay. I can do that.”

Beca, who hasn’t moved or spoken while Chloe sat in her memories, nods. “Okay.” She sits back and waves her fingers through the air in a gesture so familiar that it startles Chloe’s heart into a rapid pace. “Hey,” Beca says to the empty room, eyes trained on the far wall. “Need you over here. Got a client. Please be decent.” She waits another moment, obviously listening to some kind of response Chloe cannot hear. There’s a faint eye roll and then Beca is pushing to her feet. “Come on then.”

“Where– I, um–”

“You’re in a rush. So we’ll do this now.” Beca stops at the entry to the hallway. “Unless you want to have that shower first?”

Chloe flushes, torn between thrilled and terrified in equal measure and unsure how to process that into a more easily expressed emotion. It takes a few moments, but she decides on being grateful, letting out a breath she feels like she’s been holding for years. “Yes. I mean, to doing the spell. Thank you. I can’t even explain–”

“Then don’t.” Beca turns on her heel and just as Chloe moves to follow her into the hall, she calls back, “Bring your bag. Stacie will show you to your room after.”

Chapter 2: Engrave It On Your Chest

Notes:

If you can't return, go straight through your mistakes and forget them all. Nevermind. It's not easy, but engrave it on your chest. If you feel like you're going to crash, then accelerate more.
-Suga, BTS

Happy almost Thanksgiving to those who celebrate!

Willingly entering a stranger’s basement is very high on the list of things Chloe thought she was too smart to do.

And yet, here she is, standing awkwardly at the base of the stairs and watching Beca work. The basement floor is exposed concrete and the walls are completely lined, ceiling to floor, with shelves full of bottles and basins neatly labeled in loopy script. Wytchwood, Phosphorous Moss, Powdered Silver, Dragon’s Blood… There’s a heavy desk on the far wall that’s littered with scrolls and papers, pens and bottles.

It’s so unlike Tom’s workshop. He, too, had a room filled with spell components and his “research projects”, but she was strictly forbidden from entering. She’d only ever gotten a quick glimpse inside. It looked much like a modern day chem lab, plastic goggles hanging near the door and a neat, white coat draped on a table next to beakers and tubes.

With the exception of the laptop on the desk and the red and black gaming chair shoved haphazardly aside, this basement looks more like a witch’s hut she’d see in a movie. And Beca moves around it with practiced ease, pulling things from the shelves and pouring small amounts of them into a large wooden bowl on the desk.

There’s a raised dais in the center of the room, the stone a darker gray and flecked with dark spots that Chloe tries not to focus on too much. She pulls the couch blanket tighter around her shoulders.

And jumps nearly out of her skin when Beca suddenly speaks after a silent few minutes.

“If you have questions, ask them.”

Chloe blinks, her answer sputtering a little. “I’m– Sorry, what?”

“You’ve opened and immediately closed your mouth four times now,” Beca says, not looking up from the box she’s digging through. In fact, Chloe isn’t sure Beca’s so much as glanced at her once since they descended the stairs. She wonders again if Beca can read minds. “If you have questions, this is the time for them.”

“I don’t… I’m not sure what I’m–” Chloe stops, rethinking. The word “allowed” sits, metallic and stinging, on the tip of her tongue. She swallows it and runs through the list of questions she has.

Are you sure this will work?

What do all these materials you’re pulling down do?

What does working for you entail?

What’s your price?

She settles on, “How do you know the price? Is there a…set price for each spell or something?” It sounds stupid as soon as it leaves her mouth and she flushes, regretting it.

But Beca pauses her digging and finally looks up. Her head tilts a little, as if she’s thinking about it, but her gaze holds Chloe’s. Unblinking. “I guess, in a way. Magic takes the world into account, so someone else may not pay the same thing you are for this spell, but they would pay something equivalent. So yes and no.” She shrugs and, when she continues, it sounds like she’s just been called on to read a passage from a textbook in class. “As for knowing the price, witches know the price as soon as they think of a spell. But it’s like walking up a set of stairs. You don’t have to think about the exact physical effort it takes to do it, you just go. If you were to think about it, you would know, but you don’t. It’s natural and generally takes very little effort. Like I said, the price is usually negligible.” She finally looks away, back to her box of things, and Chloe is a little grateful to be out of that intense stare. “In the same way, if you’re tired or injured, or if there are more stairs, it takes more effort. But you know that too. At that point, you brace for the pain and take it or don’t climb. Does that make sense?”

It’s not at all how Chloe had thought of magic. Tom’s never spoken of a price if it wasn’t monetary and being paid to him. When she’d met him, his magic had seemed...beautiful. So effortless and gentle. He would open doors for her with it, summon umbrellas when it started to rain. But then there was this other side of it that she never got to see. He told her all of these amazing things he did–saving companies, helping heal people, fueling charity efforts. Magic had seemed so incredible then. So egalitarian.

When she’d moved in with him, it had seemed more like a job. He’d be locked away in his lab for days, heading out to his office for meetings at all hours. He had coven members that reported to him about whatever projects they were running. Magic was his business. She didn’t see much of the charity or healing then, but she assumed it was happening behind all the closed doors.

It wasn’t until her parents died, until she was alone with nowhere to go, that she saw the reality of Tom’s magic: it wasn’t natural or beautiful, it was a tool. The thing he used to control people. To control her. His way of isolating her from the few friends she once had, disciplining her when she stepped out of the neat little box he’d built around her. She would say the wrong thing and his magic would paralyze her in place for hours or squeeze at her throat until she was certain that darkness creeping at the edge of her vision was going to take her.

It was when she started being disappointed it didn’t that she finally went to Jessica for help.

So, no, the way Beca speaks of magic isn’t at all how Chloe thinks of it. But her comparison makes sense, sure. “Yes,” she says quietly. She asks no more questions and Beca doesn’t look up again.

A door closes upstairs and Chloe flinches from the sound, fists clenching in her blanket shawl.

“–just saying. I’m always decent,” a woman’s voice says, just shy of indignant.

“Stacie, I don’t know why you’re telling me–of all people–these lies,” another woman responds with a sigh. Footsteps sound down the stairs a moment later and a tall, thin blonde carrying a duffel bag enters the basement. Her business casual cream sweater over a white collared shirt and white pants is a stark contrast to Beca’s outfit and the dim basement. Like a lawyer from a crime drama that’s just stepped onto the wrong set. “Oh, hello,” she says, nodding politely to Chloe. Her face is a mask of perfect, smiling professionalism, but her eyes are on Chloe’s still dripping clothes. “You must be the client.” 

Behind her is an even taller woman, this one brunette and grinning. She’s wearing a lacy, white shirt that is doing little to nothing to hide the black bra beneath. Added to the tight jeans and knee-high boots, the woman looks like she belongs in a fashion magazine.

Both women are completely dry, Chloe notes as her shoes squelch when she shifts her weight.

“Chloe, Aubrey and Stacie,” Beca mutters into the wooden bowl she’s grinding ingredients into. “Aubrey and Stacie, Chloe.”

“Ah, I see,” the blonde says carefully. There’s a recognition there and the polite smile slips a bit. She drops her bag by the wall to shake Chloe’s hand. “I’m Aubrey. Jessica spoke highly of you.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize–” Chloe cuts her own sentence short, feeling rude. “I’m sorry, Jessica didn’t mention…”

Aubrey waves her off. “That’s okay. She said there wasn’t much time to talk with you about everything. So, if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

The brunette, Stacie, also shakes her hand. “Heya, Chloe.” Where Beca had been almost boredly monotone and Aubrey had been borderline formal, Stacie is bubbly and bright. There’s almost a musical tint to her voice. “I apologize for Beca. I don’t know if she’s done anything rude so far, but just in case. An apology in general.” She laughs and Chloe glances over to find Beca reading through a leather-bound book, apparently not paying attention at all as her newly arrived company talks about her. Stacie touches the edge of the blanket Chloe’s wrapped in. “Would you like to clean up real quick? Or I can–”

“She doesn’t want magic used on her besides this spell,” Beca says, snapping the book closed. “And I’m sure she’d like to get this done, so let’s skip the pleasantries for a bit. I’m ready.”

Stacie clicks her tongue and leans in conspiratorially. “Consider my apology a blanket thing for the whole time you’re here.” She winks, then moves around the center dais to Beca’s side.

Aubrey takes her place, smiling a little more warmly than before. “Are you ready?”

“Very.” Chloe takes a deep breath and that tightness around her chest is nearly physically constricting now. She’d forgotten for a brief moment how terrified she is. How urgently she needs this to work.

There’s a pause and Chloe looks up to find Aubrey’s gaze searching her face. “You know,” she says. “You look set on this. I understand. But just remember you can always change your mind later. I’m sure Beca gave you her best ‘don’t do it unless you mean it’ speech, but you… It’s your choice. You can change your mind.”

I’m not in the habit of investing in a spell that someone will turn around and want dropped.

“I won’t.” Chloe sniffs. Her sinuses are starting to feel thick and a headache is building behind her eyes. She glances at the dark-speckled dais. “Thank you, but I… I won’t.”

“Okay.” It’s soft and sweet. Placating. “I’ll take the blanket and your jacket then. Stacie and Beca will tell you what to do, okay? And I’ll be sitting right there if you need anything.” She motions to the chair over by the desk.

Chloe nods, shedding the asked for layers quickly. It’s warm in the basement, just like the rest of the house she’s seen, but she shivers anyways. Aubrey bundles the jacket inside the blanket, places it beside the staircase, then grabs her bag and crosses the room to perch neatly in the chair.

“It’s time, then?” Stacie asks, and the friendly lilt to her voice is heavier and more serious now. She catches Beca’s eye and Chloe watches an entire conversation pass quickly between them. Something that leaves Beca’s face unchanged, but a furrow in Stacie’s brow. “Alright, Beca,” Stacie sighs, answering aloud whatever Beca has just said silently. “Let’s do this.”

Thunder crashes outside, deep and cavernous, as Beca steps up onto the small dais. Apparently unbothered by the three other women in the room, she reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it off. Chloe blinks.

Her bra is black, like the rest of her clothes, but there is color in her skin. Bright pink flowers are inked into her right shoulder, dark, thorned vines unfurling from beneath them to wrap around the edge of her collarbone. A deep green praying mantis on her right forearm. Purple headphones in the bend of her left wrist. And a faded red scribble on the left side of her chest, just above her heart.

It’s startling, how quickly Chloe’s mind maps all of those tattoos out.

Stacie takes the shirt and tosses it to Aubrey, who neatly folds it and places it on the desk.

Beca makes quick work of the leather bracelets on both wrists, passing them off to Stacie as well. “Chloe,” she says, that monotone drawl a heavy contrast to the screaming storm outside. She holds out a hand.

Every hard-earned instinct in her tells Chloe to run. To get away from these people and their magic. Any magic. To fly for the nearest open window, no matter how nice they’ve seemed.

But she doesn’t. She takes the offered hand, shivering as she finds Beca’s fingers cool to the touch.

Beca pulls her up onto the dais and lets go of her. “Kneel with me.” She crouches as she says it, tilting forward onto spread knees and settling her weight back. Chloe hurries to mirror her, pulling at the legs of her wet jeans to try and get comfortable. Their knees almost touch.

It’s a very brief moment, but the image of Beca kneeling before her–shirtless, long hair falling over her shoulder, hands resting on her thighs–is seared very quickly into her brain.

“Alright?” Beca asks and Chloe almost believes her voice is a little softer than before. She holds up a hand and Stacie is already there, placing the wooden bowl in it.

Chloe hesitates, unsure. Is she alright? Absolutely not. Her clothes are sticking uncomfortably to her skin, her jeans pulling at her thighs as they stretch around her knees. She’s hungry and exhausted. She misses her parents, her grandfather, the way they’d made the world make sense, no matter the circumstances. She’s angry. At Tom, at this price the magic has asked of her. Confused, frightened of this strange, ritualistic spell-casting. It’s not how she’s ever seen Tom or his friends do magic. It’s new, alien. She doesn’t want it and desperately needs it. She hates feeling like that.

But she closes her eyes, thinking of Jessica’s bright smile and the reassuring squeeze of her hands, and steels herself. “Yes. Alright.” She just about sounds like she means it.

Beca nods. “Last chance to back out before the casting. You can always change your mind later and drop the spell, but if you think you will, I’d prefer we don’t do it at all. Tell me now if you don’t want this.”

Stacie moves to stand behind Beca, a jar of reddish yellow dust in her hand. Powdered Heliodor, the script on the label reads.

Only minutes have passed since Chloe entered this house, twenty at most, but she’s been hyper aware of each one. They’ve stacked into her chest. The invisible belt has tightened and tightened. Slowly pushed those minutes up her throat, choking her even as she continues breathing. Tom will be home soon. There’s nowhere else to go and, even if there were, no time to get there. This truly is her last chance.

She clears her throat, blinking. A tear falls from her lashes, splattering on flecked stone between them. “What do I have to do?” she asks. It comes out a whisper, nearly drowned in the next roll of thunder.

There’s a flash of something in Beca’s face. Lightning on a still ocean, gone before Chloe can comprehend it. But the afterimage it leaves behind her eyelids is shaped horribly like pity.

Chloe looks away.

“You’ll need this.” The feather Stacie hands her is soft and long, the end of the spine sharpened to a point.

It’s sky blue. Beautiful.

There’s a soft pop as Stacie pulls the lid off the jar. She tilts it, scatters the powder around the dais in a slow circle. “Okay, Chloe,” she says, voice gentle. “This might not look like much to you. It’ll be pretty anticlimactic, honestly. You’ll both drink from that bowl, then I’m going to have you take some of this in a second and spread it on Beca’s chest.”

“Right here,” Beca says, pointing to a spot just above the red tattoo. Up close, it looks like a script of some kind, but not in a language Chloe knows.

“Then we’ll need a little blood,” Stacie continues. “Just a few drops. We’ll prick your finger. You’ll use it as ink and write your name onto that spot with the feather.”

“The fear,” Aubrey says.

“Right, sorry.” Stacie finishes her circle and flaps the jar’s lid in Aubrey’s direction. “After we prick your finger, Beca will ask you to name the fear. You’ll need to say the full name, as you know it, of the person you’re hiding from. Then you write your name.” She shrugs. “And we all sit here for a boring minute while the spell takes hold, then we get you a nice shower and some sleep, yeah?”

Chloe just nods. It’s simple enough.

“Alright. Beca, whenever you’re ready.” Stacie squeezes Beca’s shoulder, a warm, but brief gesture.

The overhead light goes out and, in the same breath, the powder around the dais flares a radiant golden. Chloe startles so hard she nearly crushes the feather in her hand.

Bright, pulsating light fills the room, dances in the glass bottles and jars, glows off Beca’s bare stomach and shoulders, shimmers over the concrete floor. Like a tide, it rushes along Chloe’s skin, withdraws, rushes again. Fills her ears with…music? There’s no actual sound, she knows it. But still, there is music. In the air, in her mind. Soft, haunting strings. A deep, far off baseline that grows and fades. A heartbeat. Maybe hers. Maybe Beca’s.

It’s nothing like Tom’s magic, which had long ago only become a gripping, cold thing. This is warm and gentle. It asks for her hand rather than taking it. Brushes against her mind but doesn’t enter it.

Calls to her, but doesn’t force her to answer.

“You can see it.” Beca’s voice brings her back, another of her non-questions. In the golden light, her eyes look different. No longer dark blue, but a deep indigo. The color of the ocean at the exact depth that sunlight begins to lose its reach.

“Yes,” Chloe says, breathless before this vision.

Beca grunts, eyes flickering around Chloe’s face for a moment, then lifts the bowl to her lips. She takes a long sip, then passes it over. “Sorry if it tastes weird.”

The liquid inside is faintly purple, green leaves floating in it and something silver, almost mercurial-looking, swirling across the surface. Chloe wishes she’d paid more attention to what Beca had been putting in the bowl, but it’s too late for that. She takes a large sip, screwing her eyes closed.

It doesn’t taste weird. It tastes sweet, almost like the old root beers her grandfather loved to drink. There are only a couple of sips, but Chloe finds herself a little sad when they’re all gone.

Beca takes the bowl and passes it off to Stacie, who offers the jar to Chloe.

“Just a handful?” Chloe asks as she reaches in, feeling like, as simple as this is, she’s probably doing it wrong.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Enough to cover the area,” Stacie says.

The powder feels softer than she expected, less like the sand it looks like and more like cool silk as it flows through her fingers. Stacie backs away.

Beca’s gaze is steady on her face and Chloe avoids meeting it as she reaches out. The powder smears easily, leaving perfect reddish yellow trails of Chloe’s fingers over the curve of Beca’s collarbone and dyeing the flat of her chest.

As soon as she withdraws her touch, her palm begins to tingle, as if it’s just fallen asleep. She looks down to find her hand glowing with that same golden light. Beca takes a deep, deliberate breath as her chest does the same.

Chloe wonders how it feels for her.

Beca holds out her hand, palm up. 

The glow intensifies when they touch. Chloe’s both stunned and a little flustered when Beca pulls their joined hands to her lips.

“This won’t hurt,” she says. Then she opens her mouth and doesn’t so much bite the tip of Chloe’s finger as drag it across one of her canines. There’s the slightest bit of pressure and then Chloe is bleeding. A drop wells to the surface of her skin as she takes her hand back and Beca was right. Her stomach clenches and flutters, but there is no pain.

Both of Beca’s hands move to rest on her thighs again. Her eyes–the indigo light inside them brighter and deeper now–lock onto Chloe’s. “Name the fear,” she says and her voice echoes. Like she’s just spoken into the depths of a mighty crystalline cave. Thunder crackles outside, as if summoned.

It sends shivers coursing through Chloe’s veins and she has to suck in a shaky breath before she can respond. “Thomas Allan Stewart.” Her voice echoes too, rumbling up from deep in her chest.

The golden light ignites, brighter, and changes to a vibrant, effervescent blue. Tendrils of arcane flame begin to rise from the circle, ethereal and beautiful. Beca turns her head away from the handprint on her chest, obviously waiting.

Trembling, Chloe dips the tip of the feather’s spine into the blood sluggishly crawling down her finger and leans in.

A muscle in Beca’s jaw jumps the moment the feather touches her skin and Chloe freezes, afraid she’s done something wrong. When Beca doesn’t say anything, she continues carefully. It takes a few more drops of blood, but she writes her whole name in careful letters just above the tattoo.

Chloe Marie Beale.

When she pulls her hand back the final time, the blue light around them flares up again. So bright that she has to squint against it. The music grows louder, the heartbeat quickening. Sourceless wind whips around them, ripping her hair from its messy bun and spilling it around her shoulders. Beca sways and Chloe automatically grabs her shoulder.

As she does, the light and wind begin to fade and Chloe watches, amazed, as the powder burns away from Beca’s chest. The bloody signature dries, leaving red and scrawling script, no longer in a language Chloe knows.

A new tattoo that perfectly matches the one beneath it.

The overhead light flickers back on, so dim, compared to the gold and blue that had been painting the walls. Chloe has to blink a few times to adjust.

Her vision clears and she finds Beca slumped in place–still on her knees with her hands on her thighs, but her chin dropped to her chest and her body held up by Aubrey’s arm around her waist.

Stacie’s warm touch lands on Chloe’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I’m–” She does a quick mental check. Her hand is still tingling and her knees ache from the stone, but yes. “I’m okay. Is she–”

“She’ll be fine,” Aubrey says. She shifts a bit and Beca’s head lolls sideways. Aubrey’s hand comes up to brace her neck. “She just needs to rest. Stacie, get Chloe settled in, will you?”

Stacie hesitates just a moment, eyes on Beca. “Yeah,” she says, pulling Chloe’s arm and attention. “Come on. Let Aubrey work.”

Reluctantly, Chloe lets herself be pulled to her feet and led up the steps. Her legs are trembling, her whole body filled with goosebumps. Faint sparks are still rushing along her skin. But, most importantly, that invisible belt around her chest has fallen away. Despite her stuffy nose, she feels like she can breathe better than she has in years.

Stacie glances back at the last second and Chloe follows her gaze.

It’s only then, in the final moment before the basement ceiling blocks them from view, that she realizes Aubrey isn’t bracing Beca’s neck.

She’s checking for a pulse.