The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted

“This is just your summer home?” I asked between labored breathes as I clutched the ornate railing of the circular stairwell. Fran lent a hand on the other side. I took one step at a time because steps don’t pair well with fresh bullet wounds.

“I know, it’s too much house for just us,” she replied. “But it’s been in the family for generations. It was built by the Moors in the 1600’s and we acquired it after the Reconquista. Wait until you see the community. It’s like being transported into the past – well, with electricity and running water.” We stopped with a few steps left, and I looked up at a concerned-looking Fran. “Dear, are you alright? You look a little pale.”

I was too winded to explain that my peoples come from a foggy little island full of short, pale folk.

“How’s your stomach?” she continued. “The anesthesia can leave you a bit nauseous.”

“Now that you mention it,” I replied, “It’s not fantastic.”

“You can always go back to bed,” Fran added. “I could bring you some soup.”

I don’t want to be alone right now. Besides, something smells great and I’m betting it’s not soup.

“No, I’m ok,” I answered. I glanced up the stairs and winced, knowing that I’d have to climb that mountain eventually.

We conquered the last few stairs and followed the sound of subdued voices through a living room filled with black leather furniture and white marble-topped tables and into an open kitchen with pink granite countertops and steel appliances. The room smelled like onions and garlic and about a thousand different spices.

A large island countertop separated the kitchen from a small dining area, and we found Lucía and Jordan sitting on stools on either side of the most handsome boy I’d ever seen. And Jordan was leaning in real close. Our types tended to overlap more than a little. It was one of the many reasons we got along so well.

I have to meet that boy in this oversized t-shirt and pajama pants? I probably smell like sweat and blood and Ben’s backside.

I fought the urge to sniff my pits.

Behind them, a man I assumed was Mr. Fran sat at a round, glass and metal kitchen table reading a newspaper. He had a sturdy build that was just beginning to boarder on thick, a head full of wavy black hair with just a hint of grey at the temples, and the face that was the template for the handsome boy.

On the stove, clamshells, shrimp, chunks of chicken, tomatoes and thick slices of sausage simmered in a sea of golden rice in a cast iron pot. My stomach grumbled so loud I was afraid everyone would hear it.

“Everyone,” Fran announced, “Mackenzie is up.”

Marc looked up and caught me staring, and my cheeks blushed the second our eyes met.

I haven’t combed my hair or brushed my teeth since I got to this country. First impressions aren’t that important, right?

“Well, hello there señorita,” Mr. Castile said, peering over the top of his paper. His voice was a deep baritone.

I wanted to ask him if he’d ever heard of digital print, but with the bad breath and bed head, I figured that would really be pushing it. “Hi,” I replied instead.

“Kenzie!” Jordan yelled, and stools were scooting noisily on tile floors and suddenly I was in a Jordan bear hug with my arms pinned at my sides. It hurt a bit, but it also felt great. I laid my head on his chest and let him squeeze away.

“I was so scared I was going to lose you, Kenz,” Jordan said, in a voice choked with emotion. “There was so much blood. And your dad... Kenz I’m so sorry.” A knot starting up again in my throat, so I bit my tongue hard.

I’m not crying in front of a bunch of strangers. They’re probably all staring at us right now.

My ears followed my cheeks lead and began to redden.

“Ok, bro, we’re good,” I whispered, wiggling out of his grasp.

Jordan unwrapped himself from me and smiled. He knew I didn’t like the mushy stuff. I don’t think anyone else saw him wipe the tear from his eye.

Lucía moved in as soon as Jordan made space. She went for the hug when I stuck out a hand to shake. I relented and let her hug me. She’d saved my life after all.

Mr. Castile crossed the room and offered me his hand. “I’m Hugo Castíle.” I took his hand, and he gave mine a brisk, firm shake. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your father. I will do everything in my power to see that the people responsible are brought to justice.”

I didn’t know what else to say, so I just said, “Thanks.”

Mighty first words from your mystical queen. I wish there were a book I could read for this. Who am I kidding? A video then... but a funny one. Maybe with cats?

I realized he was looking at me like he was waiting for an answer.

“Sorry, what’s that?” I asked.

“Are you in much pain?” he asked, apparently for the second time. “From your wound.”

“I’m used to a little pain,” I answered. “I’m a Sacramento Kings fan.”

It made Jordan chuckle. Hugo just raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, well, you’ve met my beautiful wife and lovely daughter,” Hugo continued, “but not my son Marc.”

“Hola,” Marc replied, with a sort of bored nonchalance that I, as a veteran of passive-aggressive interactions with teachers, immediately recognized. Apparently, his dad did as well.

“Chico!” Hugo said sharply.

“Que?” Marc replied.

“Tus modales son atroces,” Hugo said to Marc, his voice deep and stern. “No es importante si crees en la profecía o no – ven aquí, ágora.”

Okay, so I did take Spanish, and I’m totally fluent with a number of phrases, including: “Hello, my name is Mackenzie,” and “Where is the library?” I’m sure I learned more than that in three years of classes, but nothing else presently comes to mind. Counting to ten doesn’t, well, count because I learned that from The Count on Sesame Street. So, I’m just guessing, but by tone and body language I think Hugo basically said, “Hey dummy, get over here and say hello!”

Marc sighed, but he did slip down off his stool and saunter over.

As he approached, Marc seemed to flip some internal switch and suddenly a charming smile materialized on his previously sullen lips. A bit of instant, artificial enthusiasm.

“Mi princesa,” Marc said, “it is my absolute pleasure to meet you.” He reached out his hand, and when I took it to shake, he brought my hand to his lips and lightly kissed my fingers.”

You expect me to buy this act?

“Uh, thanks?” I said.

“I apologize for my poor behavior,” he continued, “but I was sick with worry for my sister while she was away, and I haven’t slept well the last few nights.”

Hugo smiled in that proud, parental way.

Oh, this is for daddy’s benefit.

Fran was busy stirring the thick concoction on the stove, but Lucía caught the exchange and made a discreet gagging motion when she caught my eye. I glanced at Jordan, but his eyes, while directed towards Marc, weren’t exactly focused on Marc’s face – which was on brand for Jordan.

“Marc would have met you at the plane along with Lucía,” Fran said, looking over her shoulder while she stirred, “but he was on a very important mission.”

Marc frowned and shrugged, “Likely a futile mission, mamá,” he said.

“You’ll find it, hijo” Fran replied. “I have a good feeling about this one.”

Am I allowed to ask about secret missions? Immortal queens should have top secret clearance as far as I’m concerned.

“Paella’s ready,” Fran called out. “Mackenzie, are you hungry?”

That made me forget about secret missions. “I’m sooo hungry,” I replied.

“Oh, well that’s a good sign that the anesthesia is out of your system and your digestive system is waking up, my dear,” she replied. “Do you feel like you need to have a bowel movement? That’s when you know for sure that everything is back to normal.”

My mouth dropped open and I felt my face burn molten hot. Jordan snorted so loud it sounded like he was chocking. I didn’t dare look at anyone else, especially Marc.

“Mamácita!” Lucía exclaimed. Her eyes were wide and imploring. “That’s private talk. Not in front of the boys.”

Fran scrunched up her face and said, “This isn’t embarrassing for her-” Then she looked at my scarlet face and said, “Oh, well, I guess we can talk about this later then, right dear?”

“Do we have to?” I asked.

Fran looked like she wanted to argue that point, but Hugo of all people came to my rescue.

“Marc,” Hugo said, “why don’t you show Mackenzie to the table.”

“Lucía and Jordan, please help me with the food,” Fran added.

The dining room table was made out of a slab of wood with a glossy coating that still had the grains from the original tree. The centerpiece was a glass vase filled with a bouquet of pink daisies.

“If I count the rings, will it tell me how old this table is,” I asked.

Marc seemed to laugh in spite of himself and turned and looked at me and smiled.

“So, what’s your secret mission?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“You know,” I continued, “the reason you didn’t come to pick me up with your sister. The big quest. Did you get to fight ogres or wear a disguise and infiltrate... someplace?” I continued, but the moment was gone.

The smile that could have eclipsed the sun was replaced with compressed lips and a furrowed brow. “Oh that,” he replied with a shrug. “An old quest for an artifact that probably never existed.”

He pulled out a chair for me, which was fancy and all, but he looked more like a snooty waiter going through the motions than someone that was actually happy I was in his house. That last part was confirmed when I looked back to say thanks and realized I was sitting alone.