Witches of Barcelona: A Dark, Funny & Sexy Urban Paranormal Romance Series (Blood Web Chronicles by Caedis Knight (hardest books to read .txt) 📗

boats bob and clank together in the light breeze, and as we head towards the beach the restaurants thin out into busy bars and clubs, then nothing but dark sand and inky black water. I shudder.

“You look worried,” Luisa says, slowing down and falling into step beside me.

“I don’t like the sea, remember?”

I already told them the full Siren story over dinner. Realization dawns behind her eyes, and she gives me a tight-lipped nod, before taking Rafi’s hand and swinging it back and forth, whispering in his ear.

I take off my shoes. Today has been warm but the sand is cold between my toes. It’s kind of soothing.

“This will do,” Rafi says, dropping to the sand. He pulls off his sneakers and t-shirt, the moonlight picking out the contours of his abs.

I look at the patch of sand. “This will do for what?”

He pulls something out of his pocket. A fat bag of weed.

“We get high, then go for a swim,” he says, taking a book of papers and expertly skinning up.

“Rafi, I just told you. Saskia doesn’t want to go in the water.”

“It will be fun, I promise.” Rafi’s eyes shine with mischief. “Don’t forget I’m an Elemental. Keep your clothes on and I can pull the water out of them after. You’ll be dry in seconds.”

“Per déu, she said no!” Luisa’s voice is loud, and her words clipped.

Without another word Rafi goes back to rolling his joint, lights it, then hands it to us. “Sorry. Here you go, chicas!”

I clear my throat and take a hit, thankful for the distraction. As soon as the smoke hits the back of my throat, I start coughing.

“Shit, this is strong stuff!”

“Only the best,” he says with a grin.

I pass the joint to Luisa, who takes a long drag, all the while looking at me slow and steady like she’s trying to figure something out. “Rafi grows this himself.”

That makes sense. Elementals are amazing gardeners; they can do more than make Coke fizzy.

Rafi looks really proud of himself. “Give me your phone,” he says, punching in his telephone number. “Call me, then I have your number. This way, you’ll never run out of weed.”

It’s not exactly a big concern of mine, but I smile at him indulgently.

“What do you call this wonder weed of yours, then?”

“MaryAire.”

“What?”

“Mar. Sea. Aire. Air.” He pauses, gesturing at the beach. “Sea and air – my two favorite things. Plus, it sounds like Marijuana, but…”

“But the initials are MA and that gives you a kick,” Luisa cuts in. “And it sounds like Maribel, and she hates you growing the stuff.”

I sit up quickly. Too quickly for the potent stuff we’re smoking.

“Maribel knows you grow this?”

Rafi blows a smoke ring; it floats up like a water bubble. “She had me perfect a few strains. The MA owns stock in a couple of local weed cafes, but she doesn’t know about my side hustle. What Luisa means is that she wouldn’t like me growing it for my own fun or profit. It’s a control thing.”

No surprise there.

“She wants you exactly where she has you,” says Luisa bitterly. “Someone like Maribel would never let someone like you rise in the ranks, that’s why she wants your power leashed.”

When it rains, it pours. I didn’t have to push after all. They are both unloading to me about Maribel like I’ve been part of their gang for years.

“Sounds like you’re not a fan of the First,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can.

“She’s OK,” Luisa says.

Ping.

“But sometimes she could be…I mean, can be, a bit…you know. Old fashioned. Archaic.”

No pings, but the change in tense doesn’t escape me.

“She’s racist and sexist. I think she regrets allowing me into the MA,” Rafi says with a shrug. “But I’m useful to her, so she has to bite her tongue.”

More truths, although nothing I couldn’t have already guessed. I grew up with that bitch in our house all the time. I know exactly how mean she could be.

“Well, you do grow the very best weed,” I say, taking another drag. “MaryAire. That’s clever branding.”

“Oh, I’m very clever,” Rafi says, running his finger over the sand and making it swirl in spirals. My stomach contracts as I’m taken back to my last vacation with my sister in Malibu, sitting on the beach talking like this, tiny sand mandalas forming in the air. Except Rafi isn’t doing anything small, the grains of sand are mounting and forming a large intricate pattern. A giant sigil. My stomach clenches tighter as I realize where I’ve seen this sign before.

“MaryAire. My brand,” he says. “You may have seen it advertised around the city.”

“That was you?” I exclaim.

The sigils I came here to investigate, the ones carved into stone walls all over the Gothic Quarter, were Rafi’s doing?

“Those symbols are drug territory tags?”

Rafi’s face falls, and so does his sand display. “They’re more than just tags,” he says. “They’re works of art.”

“OK, Maryjane-angello.” Luisa taps him on the back. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

They continue their banter, but I falter, staring dumbly at the sea. Day one, and already my story is a dead end. Jackson was wrong; the sigils have nothing to do with Maribel’s disappearance, and there’s nothing mysterious behind them except a weed-dealing Warlock.

Rafi stands up quickly as someone approaches us. He takes the guy’s money then hands him a small bag.

He waves the notes in my face. “Pays the bills,” he says, watching my reaction.

“Doesn’t the MA pay you?”

Luisa laughs. “A bit. Like part-time interns we get to practice our skills at MA events or the odd ceremonies, but we’re still studying. Most of us have to supplement ourselves.”

“Most Witches come from money, though,” Rafi adds, a little reproachfully.

“But not all Witches want the family that comes with it!” Luisa snaps.

They fall silent, and I note that I inadvertently hit a sore point.

“What do you call a Mage on the beach?” Rafi shouts out suddenly, signaling to the three of us sitting in a row, with me