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

on the worn leather of the taxi seat and let the afternoon sun wash away my hangover. A reggaetón song is playing on the car radio, the husky voice singing of full moons and full lips. I drift off to sleep, light flickering beneath my eyelids in time to the music.

“Want me to stop at the cathedral?” the driver barks.

I sit up too quickly, my head pounding as if the old guy has hit me with the sledgehammer.

“No. Just a minute….”

I scroll through Jackson’s email to the address of my rented apartment. No doubt The Chronicle secretary has outdone herself in booking the cheapest shittiest accommodation, but at least I’m not staying at the MA HQ. My mom would probably have a video feed leading straight into my bedroom. I give the driver the street name, frowning as we pull up to a dark, narrow street. There’s no room for cars, so I’m going to have to walk the rest of the way.

I tap my bank card against the payment machine, and the driver drops my luggage at my feet before squeezing himself back into the perpetual traffic.

All around me is gothic grey, the sun struggling to find me among the cool shadows of the ancient streets. Tiny wrought-iron balconies jut out above my head, dotted with red geraniums or colorful laundry suspended between one house and the next like Tibetan flags.

I take a moment to compose myself, blinking away the jet lag and gin. According to Google maps, I’m only a few minutes away from the heart of Europe’s Witch land. The Gothic Quarter is home to Barcelona’s second most famous cathedral and the MA headquarters. Which is where I’m meeting my mother.

My stomach clenches, but I breathe it away, reminding myself that she has no idea why I’m really here or who I work for. Although it doesn't help my nerves knowing the last time I saw her was nearly two years ago in LA, when she basically blamed me for Mikayla’s disappearance.

I follow the directions on my phone, the streets getting narrower, every wall covered in graffiti — but these aren’t the ancient-looking sigils Jackson told me about. I still don’t get it. Who has time to carve magical markings into walls...and why?

The keys to my apartment are in a box attached to the outside of a big ugly door. I punch in the number from my email, extract the keys, and drag my case up three flights of stairs. Luxury all the way.

After a long shower, a nap, and a change of clothes, my head has gone from pounding to a dull thud. I pop a couple of aspirin and look out of the window. My appointment with my mother is at 2pm.

I text Jackson.

I’ve arrived, into the den of lions I go…

Jackson’s reply is near immediate, despite the time difference.

Don’t forget the catnip!

I grin and type back. I bet you say that to all the girls.

The MA HQ looms on the other side of the street. The tourists know it as Palau Güell, an imposing palace commissioned by some industrial tycoon in the nineteenth century. Its giant oval gates are adorned with spindly privacy screens made of wrought iron. You can look from the inside out, but you can’t see the inside from the street. It’s all very MA.

We are always watching, but you will never see us in return.

The metal above the screens is twisted into elaborate vegetal shapes that curve without rhyme nor reason, like beached seaweed or veiny coral. I shudder as I remember the Merhives in LA. A metal bird statue squawks atop a thorned cage of gold and iron perched above the gate. It’s as if it’s warning people of the magic inside… or the horrors.

Down the street, I spot a guy leaning against the wall. He has short, cropped hair, and his lashes are casting shadows on his tanned cheeks. He must feel me watching him as he looks up and takes a slow drag of the joint pinched between his thumb and index finger. He smiles. A boyish grin, despite his broad shoulders and arms of corded muscle.

Dragging my gaze away, I take my place in line with the tourists. I decided to wear my skinny jeans this afternoon, along with a t-shirt sporting the logo of some obscure band I saw play in Queens one night, cut low enough to show off what the Witch goddess gave me. The idea of disappointing my mother with my too-casual outfit is giving me a secret buzz.

The revving of an engine startles me. I step back quickly as a scooter misses me by inches and comes to an abrupt stop next to the boy I was watching. He tips his head to one side, rubbing it at the back, as the figure on the scooter dismounts, pulls her helmet off, and strides towards him. I’m not close enough to see her face, but her hair is short and dark, and her petite body lean. The guy pushes himself off the wall and scoops the tiny girl into a passionate hug, lifting her off her feet. She laughs and wraps her legs around his waist as he twirls her. 

Must be nice.

Someone in the line hisses that it’s my turn and I step forward. I tell the ticket person I have an appointment in their upper offices, and she lets me into the chilly marbled hall.

Navigating thick grey columns, I marvel at the ornamented ceiling and decorative tiling. My legs burn as I climb the wide carpeted stairs, past red and yellow stained windows in the colors of the Catalan flag. The first time I was here was with my father. Hand in hand, he led me around the MA building, pointing out all the pretty details while telling me about the architect’s vision.

‘Dreamt up by a child, made by a master,’ he would say.

What no one knows is that the famous Catalan architect who designed this palace, and