Page 19 of Lourdes & the Mafia
Magic is such a bitch. Sure, when you’re a normie—a human—magic seems like a really fun fucking concept. It always did in my family, anyway. I come from a long, long line of powerful witches and warlocks. Growing up, I watched my cousins and uncles toss magic around all willy nilly while us females were always side-lined.
Power is hereditary for witches. Again, that’s in my family. Shit’s passed down when granny kicks the bucket like it’s a fucking cast iron skillet. Whenever the conduit for the magic passes, the power also makes its way into a new vessel, choosing someone worthy of the gift.
I’d been human my whole life, positive I’d never inherit ni una mierda. But then my Abuela Lucia died and, lo and behold, I was chosen.
Fictional books really gave me unrealistic expectations for all this nonsense, and I’m kinda pissed. We don’t get a wand, a broom, and a cauldron when we inherit.
Nope.
We get pain.
The power of prophecy is a rare one, and most of the time it comes unbidden. I have no idea how to control the images that flash through my mind like a scratched image of a DVD when they hit.
Right now is no different.
I’m in the shower, letting warmth sluice over my naked body, touching myself to the brink of an orgasm, when the vision hits.
Ever been hit by a car?
That’s what having a vision fucking feels like. It rams into me out of nowhere, sending me flying backwards against the tile wall. My head cracks against it and my body slides down onto the floor as images assault me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The words come out of my mouth, hoarse and breathless. They don’t ground me to reality, though. My eyes are already rolling and I’m seeing colors swirl in the back of my mind. They mix together like running paint until they form figures of fire.
My skin heats as the fire consumes me. It closes around my body, aggressive, and I think I scream. I hate feeling the pain of the visions. It always varies in degrees depending on what I see. If I see water, it feels like I’m drowning. If I see lightning, it feels like my entire body is getting electrocuted. Today, it just so happens to be fire.
Great.
I try not to focus on the pain. That’s the key to the visions, according to my abuelita’s old ass journals with barely legible handwriting and maddening ramblings. The key is to not focus on the pain, but on something else. On what the power is trying to tell me.
It's hard when the agony is threatening to pull me under, grasping at me with feral hands until I feel like I’m being ripped apart from the inside out.
My vision blurs a few moments before I force myself to focus on the sight before me. From the hellfire, a figure emerges. It’s covered in shadows and I can just make out the body of a man. I try to focus, but his figure blurs the harder I try. But then the fire around us dims a mere fraction. He’s stepping closer. His gaze is fixated on me.
Strange.
That’s never happened before.
And when he bends, I feel like my body, mind, and soul are split between two different places. Reality, on the shower floor, and in the vision. And it feels like he’s there too.
The mystery man’s face sharpens, and he ceases to be a blur. I can make everything out. From the angular panes of his face, to the severe expression and cutting brows over eyes as black as night.
Once again, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
Because what the fuck?
I’ve never seen a man so pretty. There’s something rich and refined about him that has me entranced. I can smell the wealth pouring off him as easily as I smell the sulfur. He has rich, black skin and black curls that are cut short to his scalp and a dimple on his chin in a way that’s somehow endearing.
He smiles, and the breath catches in my throat. “I’ve found you.” His voice is far away and somehow close at the same time. But one thing is for fucking certain.
He’s talking to me.
“This has never happened before.” My chest rises and falls, and the words themselves are a struggle to get out. The presence of this man is entirely too… unexpected. And yet I am not afraid.
Usually, visions are a one-way street. A single one-sided window, if you will. No one on the other side can ever see me, because I’m looking at events that will come to pass. There is no interaction. It’s impossible.
Yet the man reaches a hand towards me. I don’t flinch except when he presses it between my legs. Right over the spot where I was pleasuring myself moments ago.
A whimper escapes my mouth. Not fear, butneed.
