A Flicker to a Flame (Mosley Coven)

Six

SIX

CATO

Keep the fire burning

T here ain’t nothing new under the Sun, not even magic. Malachi passed on his Voice to Billie, and a mama’s mama, Grandma Pearl, is probably where Fredi got her healing Touch, but some suns take a long time coming back around.

The last Mosley who could peek into the future was Fiba — the Matriarch — but I think she could do more than peek. The way they talk about it, Fiba’s magic was so strong that when it mattered, she was able to look all the way forward to see…well, me. As a child, I was in awe of that, and scared — because if Fiba had seen me, then Fiba had seen everything. Fiba saw the sweet I stole from the dish next to Grandma Sarah’s bed or that time my sisters and I tried to walk through The Night Gate even after mama told us not to. I was damn near an adult before I realized that however strong she may or may not have been, Fiba had bigger things on her mind than little ole me. Still, the specter of her watchful gaze across centuries had usually been enough to stop me from misbehaving too bad. Until I met David, that is, but by then, I’d released myself from the ingrained fear we all have of our ancestors, especially the ones that were larger than life.

It’s a terrible weight, sometimes, to see what I can, even more terrible because I can’t control it — and neither could Fiba. Wherever our magic comes from, the Sight isn’t mine to hold, it’s a gift — imperfect and flawed — to show me only what the Ancestors want me to see when they want me to see it. Sometimes it’s a brief flash of Billie gone gray at her temples, crying in my old room in the dead of night. Sometimes it’s Fredi standing in a field of flowers in full bloom in the dead of winter, a big round belly telling me most of what I need to know. Sometimes it’s my own reflection in a mirror on the day I die.

Not the full picture by any means.

But I’ve never tested my powers with someone who wasn’t like us until Xavier. What I see in him is shadowed and blurry, like looking in a smudged mirror. Like a teasing reminder that some of my magic isn’t really mine in the end.

The night I knew David and I would not last was weeks before he threw me over for Natalie Grace. After months of seeing dark nights in lush forests every time we touched, one night he kissed me and I saw nothing. And the next week I saw nothing again. And again until finally, I saw him jumping the broom with her.

I turn toward the bar and gulp down the rest of my drink, running away from that bitter memory.

“Lemme get another,” I call, raising my hand to bring the bartender back. But before I can raise my hand fully in the air, Xavier’s warm grip wraps around my knuckles and pulls it back down to the bar. His hand settles over mine, heavy.

And the thing I feel in my gut isn’t magic, but it comes damn close.

* * *

XAVIER

I like the way his skin feels, preternaturally soft and hot. Not warm. Hot.

Or maybe that’s just my own warmth bouncing back on me. Either way, it feels good, and after the day I’ve had — the life I’ve lived — I need something that feels like love. Or as close as I can get.

I’m too afraid to look in his direction now. I can’t bear the idea that I’ve read him wrong, that I’ll look in his eyes and see frantic fear or hate. I’ve been there before, but I’m too fragile to survive rejection tonight.

So I watch my own reflection in the mirror behind the bar instead. I see my own wide eyes and lick my dry lips. I stare at myself until Cato moves closer, entering my line of sight — forcing me to see him. Our reflection is the calm before the storm. Twin shadows moving closer together in the dark until the light dims and I have a hard time telling where I stop and Cato begins. This moment is an unfulfilled dream I’ve lived with for most of my life and I never want to let it go.

I rub my thumb over his skin and lick my lips. “You ever think about how much your life can change in a day?” I ask softly. I can still hear the last vestiges of tears yet to be shed, but there’s something else in my voice. Something that makes Cato inch closer.

“No,” he admits in a quiet tone. He shifts his left hand to my thigh. He doesn’t caress or arouse me, but he moves close enough so I can feel his presence. As if he can see all the nights I’ve cried myself to sleep, alone in a cold bed. “I’ve lived a very sheltered life,” he says. “Before tonight, there wasn’t much to look forward to besides death.”

I swallow a pit of emotion surrounded by a cry I can’t let loose.

He moves closer. I can feel his breath kissing my right cheek again as he speaks. “But maybe this is the night that changes me.”

His words move me like a strong current. He doesn’t yell over the music but speaks slow and clear in a deep tone. He inches close and invites me to do the same.

“Look at me,” he whispers, and I swear his mouth brushes my skin.

I blink at our reflection, torn. “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” I whisper under my breath.

“I agree,” Cato says, squeezing my leg. He flicks his fingers, batting my drink out of reach.

“Look at me,” he whispers again, and I comply. No hesitation this time.

“Let’s get some air.” It’s not a request or a demand, but my response would be the same. I nod once, waiting for him to move.

When I turn back to the once-sleepy bar, I see that it’s full-blown chaos now, the good kind — dim lights, bodies crushed together, slow, rocking music — looking like a club I can almost remember. But it doesn’t matter. All I can see or hear is Cato.

We stand from the bar and he grasps my hand in his without a moment of hesitation. His touch is like a jolt of electricity jumping from his skin to mine. I let him lead me into the crowd, but I swear my feet never hit the floor. These moments in Cato’s presence make me feel like I’m floating.

For long, heated seconds, I almost feel free.