Chapter 7: You're a Real Whisk Taker.

Sebastian POV. 

"There was no problem removing the victim," Chief Tompkins clears his throat, "from the, ah, statue." 

I press the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. 

"I am aware of the naked, dancing men on my doorstep, Chief."

"If you want access to police resources, Mr. King, we're more than happy to help." 

Police resources meant B witches, and I know none of them can undo what Beatrice Hathaway has done. 

"We're handling it." 

"It's just, have you seen the news?" Tompkins presses on. "One of the chaps has a little girl and she gave an interview."

"I'm aware."

"It's not a good look, sir. As Guardian, people rely on you to feel safe. If a witch can do that and you have no recourse to–,”

"What about the murder you're here to update me on?" I cut him off. "I don't think a dead woman in the center of Central Park is any less disconcerting than a few men who've been hexed." 

"A dead witch." 

"Excuse me?" 

"She's a dead witch. Not woman." 

I fix a hard stare at this man with whom I'm supposed to be working. I wish Beatrice were here just to see how her magic would react to what Tompkins just said. 

But she isn’t, and I don’t understand. 

I thought there had been…something between us. An understanding. An attraction even. At the very least, the power to affect change and a shared desire to see that change through. 

I stand and turn my back to Tompkins. I stare out the window overlooking Manhattan and in the distance, Central Park.

"What is her name?" 

"Sally, mighty cute little thing too,” Tompkins grins.

“Not the little girl on the news," I snap. "The victim." 

There's a rustling of paper and a grunt as Tompkins has to search his notes for the poor woman's name. 

"Clara. Clara Shadowmoon.” 

“Clara of the Shadowmoon,” I correct. 

“I can’t keep up with what they call themselves.” 

“They take the coven name of their mother until their first cauldron. Once her magic manifests, each young woman joins the coven most appropriate to anchoring her power. Her surname name changes to reflect that,” I look over my shoulder at Tompkins. “It shouldn’t be hard keep up. Would you like a chart?” 

The man scowls, “Why can’t they just take their husband’s name? Or keep the fathers. Like normal?” 

I sigh. 

Because witches don’t marry and they don’t care about the paternity of their daughters. Still, generations later, some humans can’t fathom living that way. As someone defined by a family name, and identity, handed to me there is something appealing about being called by the power unique to me. That who I am without the titles or inheritance is enough. 

“Have the Sisters of the Shadowmoon been contacted?” 

"That's coven business. Our liaison has reached out to Trinity Circle, but hasn't heard back." 

The Trinity Circle is my counterpart on the witch side. They are the ruling coven in New York. Together, we are supposed to be administering the laws in this city for the sake of all her citizens. I can't get them to return a phone call, and my chief of police doesn't even consider Clara of Shadowmoon human. 

What a f#cking mess. 

And for the hundredth time since she walked out of my office last night, I think of Beatrice and how together we might actually manage to change something in this place for the better. 

If only I could get her to say yes. 

"Have your investigators made any headway on a suspect?" 

"Nope."

He pops the P on the end of the word. I wait for Tompkins to elaborate, but he says nothing. He's staring daggers at me. 

"Nope?"

"Nope."

"There have been 10 murders in 6 months. All women, witch or not. All drained of their blood. All involving magic. All left at important historical witch landmarks, and all you have to report is… nope?" 

"Yep." 

He pops that P again and I want to pop him in the face. 

I inhale. Tompkins sinks back in his chair as if he's won.  

“Now about those poor hexed men. I have some ideas on how to get them down…” 

I don't have magic, but like Beatrice, I know the power of a spectacle. 

"Myra," I shout. My ever-loyal assistant appears in the doorway with an arched eyebrow. She's trained me better than to shout. I'd apologize later. 

“Which news channels are downstairs?”

"That's all of them, Mr. King." 

"Wonderful," I clap my hands and grin at Tompkins, "The chief of police and I are going down there for an interview." 

***

“Did you have to do the interview there?” Silas bellows a few hours later. 

"Nope," I let the P pop just like Tompkins had. 

My uncle sinks down into the chair Tompkins had occupied hours earlier. A vein pulses visibly in his forehead. My interview plays on repeat on the screen over his shoulder. 

Behind me, on the footage, the three men dance the Macarena in perfect unison. They’d picked up their pace when I appeared. The music had too as if Beatrice’s magic could sense an ally. The tattooed KingsCharm ink blinked the B*tches coven logo bright to the beat, and I’d had to shout into the microphones as the noise around me increased. It’d been almost…festive, and it’d been worth it. 

GUARDIAN KING REQUESTS COVEN AID, ADMITS POLICE USELESS is the scrolling headline below my interview. Behind me, Tompkins grows purple faced as I explain that the city’s chief of police had no leads. 

“10 dead and we are truly no closer to catching them?” A reporter had pressed.

“I asked the very same question, and Chief Tompkins what was your answer to me?” 

I grin now, rewatching Tompkins mumble ‘nope’ and the reporter asking him to repeat himself. Twice. Silas watches too and swears. 

“There’s a line to walk between being the Guardian of the city and being the CEO of KingsGuard, Sebastian.” Silas smooths invisible wrinkles from his tie. “Your father was an expert at walking that line. You need to become one as well.” 

Before I can utter my retort, there’s a commotion outside my office doors. I hear Myra yelling, and then Lucas’ voice booms. 

“She’s with me.” 

“Mr. King is not to be disturbed,” Myra shouts. “He needs peace and quiet after a demanding day.”

“He started this drama,” Lucas shoulders his way into my office. “To hell with his peace and quiet.” 

He stops short when he and Silas lock eyes. Neither like the other. 

Silas snaps, “Boy, this is a place of business -,”

Then, Beatrice Hathaway pushes her way forward. My eyes lock on hers. 

They are blue, I think dumbly. 

Blue like my mother’s fingers used to be every Saturday when she made Gigi and me blueberry pancakes. Indigo blue like the ink Myra insists I use to sign all contracts. Blue as the sky when the sun begins to set. Blue like my favorite tie. Blue as sapphires and a gas flame when first sparked. Blue as stone and fire. 

Her eyes are blue, and they are trained solely on me. 

“What did you do?” She hisses.