#WitchcraftWednesday | ✔

Chapter 14: Stockholm Syndrome (in Reverse)

Nobody ever told Jamie Carrera how boring damsel-in-distressing really is, and that's literally so rude.

She'd been home mere hours before, writing a script for what'll be her most dreaded video yet, and then they'd showed up at her door. Jamie hadn't been suspicious at all when she'd first heard the doorbell; she considers friends swinging by spontaneously both a normal and a welcome thing. But upon opening her door, she'd only seen the eyepatch guy from before and a woman resembling him, and they'd been armed. She'd had no choice but to accompany them.

Now look where that got her.

Anchored some six miles off the coast, the Mary Smith is a private superyacht the length of a whole damn football field. It's sophisticated, luxurious, and totally the kind of pretentious thing Jamie would be down for chartering when in a particularly indulgent mood. She's kept her eyes and ears open and discovered the ship belongs to some Cosa Nostra Godfather type old enough to collect a pension. Dude uses it as a personal gentleman's club for him and his buddies.

Derek McLaren is apparently part of that in-crowd. Jamie suspects he's a skilled bootlicker who wormed his way into the circle with manipulative tactics and a silver tongue. He digs this place, she can tell—must be why he decided to call in favours to be allowed to keep his hostage here. Well, that, and the location.

See, Jamie thought about escaping, she really did, but it's a little complicated. For starters, she's on a ship, which means there's an uncomfortable amount of Pacific Ocean all around. Secondly, nobody has shown much interest in harming her yet and she suspects she won't see that change until the grimoire is here. Why attempt a rash escape, then, risk suffering bad consequences? Sure, you can try to gaslight gatekeep girlboss your way out of sticky situations, but it can always backfire.

And besides, if Nathan brings the grimoire, they'll have magic at their disposal. Jamie likes those odds a lot better than the ones she has now.

That's assuming Nathan shows up, of course. She thinks he will, trusts he wouldn't have given her false hope, but still. If he doesn't come...

Meh. She'll burn that bridge when she gets to it.

It's not like she's scared. This isn't true terror. True terror is what you feel when you play Outlast on insane mode in your basement at 2 AM, or when you walk into a French murder castle with horrible vibes for the sake of a cool video, or when there's suddenly too much stress and pressure and an obligatory mental breakdown catches you unprepared. That kind of terror will set in for her once Derek has the book or the clock strikes midnight. But this, here, now... it warrants nervousness, yeah, but there's nothing to worry about.

Yet.

"Can you stop pacing already?" The woman called Eva Booker asks, glaring in annoyance from behind a magazine she's trying and failing to read. "I get agitated just looking at you."

Jamie doesn't recall asking for Eva's opinion. She stops, turns, glares right back. Eva doesn't want to be here in this stateroom with her. It's just that Derek decided he'd much rather wait for Nathan while lounging in a jacuzzi than spend his time babysitting abducted celebrities. Naturally, that's a job for lowly grunts.

And wow, if the Bookers aren't real pieces of work. Looking at Eva now, Jamie thinks there really is such a thing as too much mascara. Not that she habitually shames other women's makeup game, like, you do you, queen, slay. But... for real? Not even NikkieTutorials can save whatever this mess is.

Determined to be insufferable a little longer, Jamie starts pacing again. "I'm fucking bored," she complains, because if there's ever been a time for displaying prime diva behaviour, it's now. "You force me to come here, you rob me of all my vices... No coffee, no social media, nothing."