She hesitated, but held out her hands, palms up.
“You’re a channel,” he said. “A conduit for the energy, the power.” He held out his own hands, palms down, over hers, a little space between them.
For a second, there was nothing but the sounds of the city. Traffic. Conversation down the street. The thud of a hip-hop bass line. The drip of water from the tracks above us.
“Wait for it,” Jeff whispered. “Watch their hands.”
It happened simultaneously, the roar of the train overhead and the glow that began to gather in the space between their outstretched fingers.
Mallory’s eyes widened; then Catcher mouthed something and her eyes lifted. They gazed at each other, Catcher telling her things I couldn’t hear over the grate and rumble of the El.
The glow built, grew into a sphere, a golden orb of light between them.
The train completed its pass, the sudden silence a vacuum of sound.
“I can feel it,” Mallory said, gaze dropping to her hands and the light between them.
“What do you feel?” Catcher asked.
She looked up at him, their faces illuminated by the glow.
Chemistry, I thought, my lips tilting into a smile at the mix of joy and surprise on her face.
“Magic,” Jeff whispered beside me.
“Everything,” Mallory answered.
“Close your eyes,” Catcher told her. “Breathe it in.”
She gave a hesitant nod. Her lids fell, and then she smiled. The orb grew, engulfed their hands, arms, torsos until it was a yellow bubble of light encasing them both. The air electrified, the breeze of magic fluttering my bangs and Jeff’s floppy hair.
And then with a pop, it was gone, a plane of yellow mist dissipating into the air around them.
Mallory and Catcher, arms still outstretched, stared at each other.
He lifted his gaze. “Not bad at all.”
“As if you’ve had better, Bell.”
I grinned. That was my girl, magic funnel or not. She’d be okay, I decided.
They dropped their arms and rejoined us.
“So, what the hell was that, exactly?”
Catcher looked my way. “Need-to-know basis, vamp. And you do not need to know right now.”
The magic demonstration concluded, we headed back to the block on which we’d left our cars, my chunky Volvo, Catcher’s hipster sedan, and Jeff’s old hatchback.
“Plans?” Catcher asked.
Jeff grinned. “It’s a Friday night, I’m off work early, and I’m gonna chat with this cute kid from Buffalo. She’s blond and curvy in all the right places, so I need to get home and get online.” He elbowed Catcher. “Right, C.B.?”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“It’s, you know, so we have a thing, the two of us. You know.”
Catcher gazed at Jeff. “I don’t know, Jeff. I really, really don’t.” But when Jeff began to explain, Catcher held up a hand. “Nor am I interested.” He looked at Mallory and me. “Plans?”
We shook our heads.
“There’s a club in River North that looks cool.” Catcher pulled a flyer from his pocket. It was similar to the one that had been left beneath my wipers when my car was parked outside Cadogan, advertising Red. “It’s not too far from the gym.”
I pointed at it. “I got one of those, too. They must be papering the city.”
Catcher shrugged, refolded the paper, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Anyone wanna dance?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Mallory muttered.
“Dance?” I asked. “I could dance. I need to change, but I can dance.” I could always dance. My hips didn’t lie.
Mallory tucked her tongue into her cheek, then gave Catcher a look of mock irritation. “Nice going, Gandalf. You’ll rile her up, and I’ll never get her tucked in. You wanna give her candy and caffeine while you’re at it?”
Catcher smiled at her, and even though the smile wasn’t for me, it was hot enough to curl my toes. “Sorcerer, not wizard. Yes?”
After a beat, she nodded, a flush high on her cheeks.
I’d have nodded, too, if I was her. Probably even thrown in an eyelash batting for good measure.
“I’ll let you two deal with him,” Jeff said, and unlocked the doors of his hatchback. “Have fun dancing. And if you get bored later”—he winged up his eyebrows—“you give me a call.” He winked, then climbed into the car and drove away.
“One of these days, I’m going to kiss him just for the principle of the thing,” I told Mallory as we walked toward the Volvo.
“You should have done it just then. You’d have made his weekend.”
I walked around and unlocked the door. “But his cute blonde would have missed out. Can’t have that.”
Mallory nodded solemnly. “True. You’re so munificent.”
I slid into the car, unlocked the passenger door, and waited while Mallory and Catcher argued over something. Issue apparently decided, Mallory slid inside, blushing furiously. I nearly asked what they’d argued about, but the subconscious way she touched her fingers to her lips answered the question. I stifled a laugh, pulled the car out of the parking lot, and headed home.
Catcher, who’d followed us to Wicker Park, camped on the couch in front of the television while Mallory and I switched outfits. We both came downstairs in trendy jeans and heels and cute, club-worthy tops. Mine was black with tiny white dots and cap sleeves—a bargain vintage find. Mallory wore a sleeveless, high-collared top with a long tie at the neck that glinted silver in the light.
“Great shirt,” she told me, fingering a sleeve as we strode down the stairs. “It’s like you’ve blossomed style overnight.”
I was taking serious hits on my fashion choices this week, probably not surprising for a girl whose dressing decision was usually between colors of layered T-shirts. I wasn’t a shopper, much to my mother’s (and Mallory’s . . . and Ethan’s) chagrin.