Bella didn’t reprimand him. In fact, I swear I saw her flinch.

“Go see Ramon,” Emilio said to his mother. “He was looking for his gym uniform.”

With that, Bella hurried off up the stairs. I felt that familiar chill down my spine as I looked back at Emilio.

“Lu—” Paige began, then stopped herself, just in case. “We really should hurry.”

As she spoke, she kept her gaze down, which seemed odd—Paige never avoids eye contact. Then I realized why she’d stepped away so quickly.

“Yes, right,” I said, then to Emilio, “I’m sorry. Please excuse—”

He jumped into our path so quickly it startled Paige, and she looked up. Their eyes met. His went wide in shock. Then his lip curled.

“A witch?” He turned to me. “You brought a witch into our house?”

“No, I brought my wife.” The words came out before I could help myself. I took Paige’s arm. “If you’ll excuse—”

“No, I don’t excuse you, and she is not welcome in my house.”

Under other circumstances, Paige wouldn’t have stood for that. But Emilio was young, and it was not the time to educate him on the follies of prejudice, so she laid her fingers on my arm and said, “I’ll be in the car.”

With a nod to the guards, who parted to give way, she started forward, then stumbled, feet flying out, hands going up to brace against a fall. As I scrambled to grab her, I saw Emilio’s fingers raised, and knew she hadn’t tripped.

“Walk faster, witch,” he sneered, and lifted his hand in another knockback spell.

I wheeled on him and caught his hands so quickly he yelped.

“Don’t,” I said.

“You—”

Emilio froze, caught in Paige’s binding spell.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll keep him.”

Her expression was annoyance mingled with regret—this was a step she’d rather not have taken.

I strode behind the butler, who seemed not at all perturbed by his young employer’s predicament…and perhaps somewhat amused to see the boy trapped by a witch’s spell.

One guard followed at my heels. The other, after a motion from me, stayed with Paige.

LUCAS 11

LUCAS

11

THE BUTLER PAUSED at the wooden door.

“I have to knock, sir.”

This was one routine he didn’t dare break, even at my father’s bidding.

The butler rapped. From within I could hear a rock ballad that predated my musical experience, from the seventies perhaps. When I frowned at the lack of response, the butler said, “He probably hears us. Mrs. Cortez was right, sir. He really doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“Then I’ll take responsibility for doing so.”

I tried the door. Locked but with nothing complicated. I removed a card from my wallet and, ignoring the butler’s fidgeting, swiped it through the crack.