Black Magic

Chapter Twenty-Four

It's nearly two in the morning by the time Sixten and I finally leave the apartment, throwing murmured goodbyes and holiday well-wishes behind us as we go. I'm drunk off the atmosphere, my cheeks aching from laughter, drifting into Sixten's space with each step. My chest feels like it might burst—it's a welcome change from the low undercurrent of anxiety I've grown accustomed to, and my smile lingers on my face all the way downstairs until we step out into the frigid winter air.

"Shit, it's cold," I murmur, digging through my purse to retrieve my gloves. My hand brushes against the edge of a flat wooden box, buried at the bottom of my huge purse. Apprehension and excitement spike in my blood—but not yet, it doesn't feel like the right time yet. I bypass the wooden box completely and grab my gloves instead, tugging them on over my stiff fingers. "I guess you don't really get that cold, huh."

Sixten wiggles his slender, bare fingers. "Certainly not at these temperatures. Perhaps below negative forty."

"Is that Celsius or Fahrenheit?"

His lips quirk in a smile. "Both, actually. They're the same temperature." He leads the way back down the street to where his motorcycle is parked. Wind billows through me, curling around my bones and freezing the ends of my nerves; Sixten, of course, seems fine even with his leather jacket only zipped up halfway. "One thing I'll never understand about Americans is your insistence on using Fahrenheit."

Crossing my arms, I narrow my eyes at him. "It makes more sense than Celsius."

Sixten just laughs, the sound vibrating up my spine, spreading brief warmth through my chest. "I assure you, it doesn't." While I'm trying to work up the energy to respond, he plucks my purse from my shoulder and swaps it with the helmet in the storage compartment. Again, he tucks the helmet down over my head; his fingertips brush against the soft skin of my neck as he's doing up the strap and a full, visceral shiver runs through my entire body from that single, delicate point of contact.

Sixten climbs astride the motorcycle with graceful ease. Once he's on he gestures for me to join him; I press my hands on his shoulders, warmth soaking through the layers as I climb on beside him. Pressed against his back, I feel cozy and comfortable. A part of me wishes the stupid helmet wasn't in the way, so I could smell his unique, metal-and-magic scent—a hot flush creeps over my chilled cheeks and I dismiss the thought as quickly as possible in the hopes that Sixten won't notice the spike in my heartrate.

My fingers curl tight in the front of Sixten's leather jacket. He pats my hand gently, turning his head slightly to say over his shoulder, "remember, hold on tight, and punch me if you want me to pull over."

"Got it," I mumble against his back, turning my head to the side so I can look out at the street without pulling away from his warmth. Sixten rests his hand over where mine are clasped for just a second—and even though my thick woolen gloves separate our skin, a soft, comforting current runs up the skin of my arm.

The bike rumbles to life, and then Sixten pulls out of the parking and onto the empty, snow-covered street. Golden streetlamps coat the street with a gentle, warm glow. Snowflakes drift lazily from a sky scattered with stars. This ride is less . . . intense, than the first. Instead of adrenaline, my blood is laced with a syrupy warmth reminiscent of late-night existential talks and sharing hot chocolate after an evening of skating. Christmas lights twinkle as we pass them, flashing bright and colourful from building trims, staining the snow around them like a painting.

I tighten my arms around Sixten's middle, tucking the face of the helmet against his back and letting my eyes drift shut. A fog of drowsiness spreads through my body. If I wasn't on the back of a moving motorcycle, I could almost fall asleep. A bone-deep sense of safety curls around the darkness in my chest; it rumbles like a cat purring, fluctuating with my heartbeat.