Bishop smiles, then lets his shades slide back down onto his nose.
We’ve been walking for only minutes, me doing routine shoulder checks for the Priory, when I become aware of the sweat beading my brow, the hot sun tingling my bare shoulders. I’m at least appropriately dressed for the heat, having donned a pair of cute canvas shorts and a loose ballet top this morning, whereas Bishop sports his usual trim black pants, motorcycle boots, and a V-neck band T-shirt. He left his leather jacket in the car, but I still don’t know how he can stand all the superfluous clothing.
I squint at the huge sand dunes rolling across the horizon, set against a sky so blue it looks like it’s been Photoshopped.
“This far enough?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Bit farther. Then we’ll fly farther in.”
I groan.
It doesn’t take long for the hard sand under my shoes to turn doughy as the dunes begin to rise in small undulations. Soon, my legs sink ankle-deep into the sand, and I have to lift them higher and higher to travel across the soft soil. It’s so much work that I almost forget to be worried about the Priory attacking. As if reading my mind, Bishop stops abruptly and scans the area around us.
“Ready?” he asks, taking off his shades and slipping them into the neck of his T-shirt.
I exhale. “So ready.”
And then there’s this awkward pause that never existed between us before.
“Should I … ?” I hold my arms out to the side.
Bishop jerks into action. “Yeah, sure, good idea.” He places one arm under my knees and another around my back, cradling me like a baby. His face is just inches, maybe centimeters from mine, but I don’t dare look at him. Not when he swallows, and it’s so loud it would be comical if I were in the mood to make fun of him. Not when he asks if I’m ready, and the way his breath—minty and woody, like he’s been chewing on a toothpick—rushes against my ear and makes goose bumps rise over my arms. Not when his fingers touch the bare skin on my back, and that touch makes my heart pound against my rib cage so violently I’m sure he must feel it. And so when he lifts up off the ground, I pretend to be riveted by the sand dunes rippling twenty feet beneath us, like giant waves in an angry sea, the sand twinkling in the bright sun.
Something’s got to be wrong with me, I decide. Mom’s death must be taking my emotions on a wild roller-coaster ride—amplifying everything, not just the hurt. This makes me feel a bit better about myself.
After a few minutes of flying, Bishop lowers us to the ground. When he places me on my feet, I teeter a bit, like I’ve just had a few drinks.
“Little tip,” I say. “Might want to pick another remote location next time. Mount Lukens, maybe? It’s boiling out here.” I fan out the shirt that clings to my sweaty skin.
Bishop gives a pointed look down at my chest. “No, I think I made the right choice.”
I could kick myself for nearly smiling. “If you don’t cut it out I’ll be forced to rate your performance as Very Poor on the Magic One-oh-one feedback questionnaire.”
Bishop gasps. “Scoring poorly on a test! You wouldn’t threaten me with something so vile.”
“Very funny. Can we get started, please? It’s getting late.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Bishop holds out a hand, and a broomstick materializes in it. Not a common kitchen broom or even a janitor’s push broom. Nope, this is a broomstick that TV and movie witches would be proud to ride: a bundle of yellow straw tied to a long brown handle.
I look from the broom to Bishop. “You can’t be serious.”
“More serious than I’ll ever be.” He pushes the broom into the space between us.
I push it back. “You don’t use a broomstick to fly.”
He pushes it back toward me. “And I also don’t say my incantations aloud, but then I’ve been a warlock for two years and you’re only just learning. Take the broom.”
I sigh and snatch it from him.
“Great,” he says. “Now that you’ve learned to harness your magic, flying should be easy.”
I roll my eyes, because he had said harnessing my magic would be easy, but he ignores me and continues.
“Harnessing your magic was about learning to manipulate the energy in your body, which you used to move the desk yesterday. Flying applies the same principle, but to manipulate energy outside your body. Instead of pulling all your heat into your core and out through your fingertips, you push the heat down and out of your body to manipulate the air currents instead of objects, and voilà—that’s flying.”
“Sounds simple.”
“I’m glad you agree.” Bishop points at the broomstick, which I’m holding away from me like a used tissue. “Straddle it.”
I glare at him.
He raises his hands. “What else do you call it?”
I reluctantly do as he says. “You better not be screwing with me about this broom or I’ll be pissed.”