by K.N. Lee
“I’ll give Special Agent Shannon a wallop for moping around all day, acting as if you were on your deathbed.”
“Sure. Thanks. But—”
“When were you released?”
“Released?”
“And how long are you on leave?”
“Leave?” Rowan felt a mile behind in the conversation and wondered if she’d ever catch up long enough to ask her question about her FBI branch having a magic practitioner on staff or contract.
“Don’t tell me Jovkovic’s put you back to work already.”
“I’m at home doing research.” She said it too fast, desperate to keep hold of the opening in the exchange. “But I need a…” A what? The book said the spell had been cast by a warlock, but they were outcasts from the Wiccan community — if, in fact, that was how things worked in this world, too. Rowan doubted one would be on staff. A witch, perhaps? Spellcaster? Fairytale creature? Most likely a psychiatrist and a padded room. “I need a consultation.” Sure, that sounded somewhat sane.
“Technical, psychological, or magical?” the woman on the other end asked as if she asked Rowan the question all the time.
“Magical. Someone familiar with warlock practices.” She fought to keep her voice even and not turn her answer into a question.
“Isn’t the warlock, Diego, available?”
“Diego? Of course. I forgot to check.” She tried to sound natural, but it still sounded like a lie to her.
“Well, you can’t think of everything. You were just shot. Hold on, I’ll see.”
With a click, the line went quiet. Rowan scrambled to her desk and yanked open the top drawer. If she knew this Diego person, he should be in her address book. But her book wasn’t where it should be.
She yanked open the bottom drawer.
Not there, either.
In her purse, maybe?
The phone clicked back to life. “He’s free at twelve-thirty.”
In about half an hour in the wee hours of the morning. Sooner rather than later worked great for her. “Where does he want to meet?”
“He’s at his shop.” The woman sounded confused.
Shit. Asking about this Diego’s location was a mistake. “I’m just a little distracted.” She grasped for an excuse that would get her Diego’s address.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Fine. You know how I get when I’m researching.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Researching distracted her, made her miss appointments or lose things under piles of books or papers. Perhaps that was why she was so organized about everything else. It was a defense mechanism against the disorganized obsession of trying to learn everything about a particular subject. “I also seem to have misplaced my address book.”
The voice turned dark, all the cheer gone, and she mumbled something about giving Jovkovic a piece of her mind. Then the brightness returned and she gave Rowan Diego’s address.
“Thanks.” She moved to hang up the phone, but the thought of this woman talking to Jovkovic about her late-night activities didn’t sit well. She didn’t know what she’d say to the tiny man if Diego couldn’t help her and she was stuck here.
“Don’t worry about Jovkovic. He didn’t say I should work tonight. I just thought… you know… get a jump on things.”
“He doesn’t know how good he’s got it.” The woman didn’t sound impressed, but at least she didn’t press the matter. “Just for you, Rowan Hill, I’ll even call your taxi.”
The line clicked and the woman was gone. Rowan hit the off button and placed the phone back on the cradle. The address she’d been given was nearby, which, she supposed, was good since her appointment was in twenty minutes. The taxi would be at her door soon and she needed to change out of her damp clothes.
What did a girl wear when visiting a warlock? Something Gothic? Leather and chains? Velvet? She didn’t own anything leather or velvet. The last time she’d even worn a pair of jeans must have been sometime early in her undergrad. She was more of a pant- or skirt-suit kind of girl and loved the way a tailored cut accentuated her long frame.
Of course, she wasn’t really home and who knew what awaited her in her closet. She didn’t have time for a lot of fussing, so she could only hope her closet wasn’t filled with strange things like her fridge was.
She headed into the bedroom and gripped the closet handle. The last time she’d been here, everything had been normal. Ben had been asleep in her bed. She yearned to go back to that moment, wake him, and tell him his earlier argument was right, and her job was too dangerous, and she wasn’t going to renege on their deal… Except she hadn’t really been planning to renege, just renegotiate a bit.
That didn’t make her feel any less guilty, and right then she suspected she’d tell him anything if it meant her life would be normal again.
Except that wasn’t really true, either. She couldn’t settle down and be someone’s quiet housewife. Although Ben argued about her choice of occupation, he hadn’t asked her to give up her work or studies. He was sticking to his part of the bargain. That was what made their relationship so strong. They understood each other and were willing to accept a give and take that satisfied both their dreams.
And right then the only way she could think of getting back to him was to see this warlock.
She sighed. This was ridiculous. She was wasting time.
She threw open the closet door and stared, stunned at what lay within. The closet wasn’t very big — six or seven feet deep and three or four feet wide. A bar hung the length of the right side, packed with clothes, the same as her real closet. But instead of a bar across the back wall, a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit was filled with weapons. A katana sat at eye level, both the grip and the sheath worn by use. Around it were five matching daggers, two rifles, a derringer, a pair of guns with worn grips, and four staves of various lengths. Next to the weapons rack hung two sets of Kevlar body armor: vests complete with collar, shoulder, and arm guards.
She didn’t think she’d need the vest for her visit that night, or the weapons, so she turned to the rest of the closet. Half of the clothes were her familiar pant- and skirt-suits, the other half jeans, leather, satin, velvet, and silk in an even mix of dresses, tops, and pants. She couldn’t decide if it was a dream closet or a nightmare. Would she even have the courage to wear half of it?
She picked a black pantsuit and black blouse. It was as close to a Gothic look as she could muster. With her naturally pale complexion and copper hair, she figured she looked striking enough. Besides, she wasn’t going to woo this warlock, just ask him for help.
Before she left, she grabbed her black trench coat from the closet by the front door and shrugged into it, rushing down the hall to the elevator. But it wasn’t her trusty London Fog. It had a high mandarin collar and flared cuffs folded back and held with silver cuff links. The cut was lean, tailored — probably custom. It reached mid-calf, but the front only buttoned down to hip level, offering greater movement.
Nice. It felt as if she’d been wearing a coat like this all her life — or at least all her adult life. When she woke up — or got home, whichever was the case, she’d have to have the coat reproduced.
Which was ridiculous. When would she ever wear a coat like that again?
The taxi met her outside her apartment building and took her to Diego’s. Rain now fell in earnest. Heavy drops splattered the windshield and were swished away with quick wiper strokes. Light from the streetlights gleamed from the slick road and danced like miniature stars against the windowpanes, but did little to lift the oppressing darkness of the night or the storm.
She arrived at a seamless row of storefronts just off Young Street. The taxi pulled to the curb — no need to look for a spot since they were all empty at this hour. She paid the fare, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and stared at the wall of shop windows and doors. Before her, above a single door that didn’t appear to lead into any of the stores, hung a neon sign: Diego Designs Print Shop.
So warlocks had day
jobs.
Interesting.
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Perhaps something more like her grandmother’s place — a tourist trap where she read fortunes and created astrological charts.
Of course, Grandma Ro had always said a warlock couldn’t be trusted. They were oath breakers, outlaws from the community. In this case, Rowan could only hope that was a difference between this world and hers.
She tugged her collar tighter about her, trying to keep out the rain. If she’d been thinking, she would have brought an umbrella. But she wasn’t and she hadn’t noticed one in the closet. She’d probably forgotten it somewhere, as usual.
She clamped down on that train of thought, knowing it wasn’t true.
This wasn’t her real world. Perhaps here she didn’t believe in umbrellas. Like she didn’t buy fresh produce.
Which was why she shouldn’t be standing out in the rain.
She opened the door. A long, narrow staircase stretched before her, the only option if she didn’t want to turn back. Painted wainscoting, waist high, ran the length of the stairs. Above it, yellowing pink wallpaper with a large gold fleur-de-lis pattern curled at the seams, belying the cared-for sense the door had given her.
At the first landing hung a framed sign with Diego Designs Print Shop 3rd floor in neat black lettering and an arrow pointing up. The next set of stairs was just as narrow, but the shadows thicker. High above, one of the two lights, hanging on thick chains from the ceiling, had gone out, its heavy white glass shade a gray, ghostly shape above her.
A single door sat at the top with another framed sign indicating she’d reached her destination. She paused, uncertain whether she should just walk in or knock first. Her skin tingled with the exertion of climbing the steep staircases. It wasn’t enough to wind her, but enough to make her blood course. Her thoughts raced with questions, wondering what she’d do if the warlock couldn’t help her, if he even was a real warlock and if she could trust him.
Underneath ran her constant doubt that this was, in fact, an alternate world. She reiterated her earlier argument. Whether Seth told the truth or he was just a figment of her imagination, she couldn’t risk sitting back and waiting. She had to do something.
She raised her hand to knock.
“You don’t have to knock, Dr. Hill,” a voice from within said. “My door is always open to you.”
16
Rowan squared her shoulders and reached for the knob to enter Diego’s print shop. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if this was wise. Dream or no, she knew nothing about serious magic, and she certainly knew nothing about this man and warlock.
Smart girls — even those who could beat the crap out of the average Joe — didn’t venture alone, at night, into a stranger’s place. They made bad movies about things like that. Although why the time of day was specific was beyond her. Entering a stranger’s house alone at any time of day wasn’t particularly safe.
Her circumstances, however, were unusual — honestly — and if she didn’t want to be trapped by Seth’s whim — or her subconscious, for that matter — she needed to take things into her own hands. Really, they were more than capable hands.
And if she kept thinking that, maybe she’d believe it.
Besides, maybe a warlock here was like a witch in the real world. There was nothing evil or ominous about Grandma Ro. And the FBI had set up the appointment with Diego.
She turned the knob and opened the door. Its hinges groaned, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.
“And here I thought you were making plans with your associates before entering.”
The owner of the voice lounged on a beaten-up couch that might have been yellow and orange at one time. Now it was a faded brown and stained, but she didn’t want to get close enough to prove her theory of its original colors.
The man, presumably Diego, was lanky. Heroin-addict chic might be more apt. His blond hair, cut to shoulder length, hung in limp strands around a gaunt face, and shadows filled the hollows in his cheeks, accentuating the purple bags under his eyes.
She took a quick appraisal of the rest of the room.
No one else around.
Good.
One man was much easier to handle than two — or more.
The room wasn’t what she was expecting. She wasn’t quite sure what that was, but if this was a dream, it wasn’t a play on stereotypical images. The area was long and narrow with small windows at either end and uninsulated rafters above. The heating bill for the place had to be outrageous in the winter.
There was nothing sexy or dangerous about the place, and she was grateful she had foregone the leather and silk. In fact, she felt overdressed in her pantsuit. The apartment reminded her of a friend’s bachelor pad when they’d been studying for their undergraduate degrees, with furniture that was cracked, or stained, or losing its stuffing, or all of the above, and papers and books, knick-knacks, and old take-out boxes finishing off the décor.
She would have expected an altar in the very least — given that this man was supposed to be a Wiccan practitioner — and the only evidence that this was a print shop was a humming computer and a large multifunctional printer in the corner. Although she supposed anyone with a computer, a printer, and a stapler could call themselves a printer these days.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of a private visit?” Diego sat forward and narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t decided to take me up on my offer?”
She opened her mouth to deny him but stopped. It would suck if she rejected the very thing she was after before she even knew what he was talking about.
Wise up. If it was a dream, her subconscious could play all manner of tricks on her.
“And what was your offer again?” she asked.
Diego smiled and she felt slimy just by that look alone.
“Well, don’t just stand there in the door.” He patted the cushion beside him.
She closed the door, leaned against the doorframe, and crossed her arms. She might not know exactly what was going on, but she wasn’t a complete fool.
“Rowan, dear.” He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. The strands didn’t seem so limp anymore. His face had taken on a chiseled look, a little like Seth’s, and the bags under his eyes were gone.
She blinked.
His appearance didn’t change back.
Maybe her initial impression had been wrong. Perhaps her eyes had become used to the low light in the room and now she saw things clearly. And maybe it was just more proof that this was a dream.
“I’m looking for information.” She forced the words out before the dream took control and swept her away from her purpose.
“All business and no fun. Even when you’re without your half-troll. You must be a bore at parties.”
“Yeah, real tiresome.” And if she hadn’t seen that demon that afternoon, she’d say the man was crazy, talking about trolls. Of course, she was hoping he really was a warlock and could cast spells.
“I think you need to have more fun in your life.” He rose and slid across the room toward her, reminding her with each step more and more of Seth.
She shook her head. She needed to remain in control. Seth was the last person she should be thinking about. If anyone, it should be Ben.
She pushed away from the doorframe and uncrossed her arms, ready — but not obviously so — for a fight. “I’m not here to have fun. I’m here for information.”
“I would disagree,” Diego said, stepping close. “I don’t think you’re yourself right now. You need to lighten up.”
He drew a fast breath, his hand swept up, and he blew a powder in her face. With a gleeful sneer, he hopped back, all similarities to Seth gone. The powder hung in the air, catching the light with iridescent pinpricks.
Rowan sneezed. The room twisted and swayed. She stumbled back against the door.
Diego eased to her side and caressed her shoulder. Even through her coat, it felt creepy. She shrugged his hand away, but it didn
’t move. She tried again and realized it was her shoulder that hadn’t moved, not his hand.
“Not so tough now, are you.” He pressed the length of his body against her. His appearance had returned to the original heroin-chic, and from this close, his teeth carried the theme, broken and stained.
She strained to move but couldn’t even shake her head to clear it. Whatever the powder was, it had immobilized her. But she couldn’t figure out how, since she was still standing.
“I knew one day you’d get cocky, and then…”
“And then what?” She forced the words out. Her lips felt swollen and her jaw ached from the effort, but it was worth it. Diego jerked back, no longer seeming so certain about his control over her.
“And then what? You’ll monolog at me all night?” she asked, using bravado to keep her rising panic at bay.
He backhanded her across the face.
She saw it coming. She even had time to plan a number of different defenses and couldn’t make her body do any of them.
The blow knocked her to her knees and made her eyes water. Her cheek stung, and she could feel a welt forming under her right eye.
Well, that would bruise.
“You have something I want.” He seized her by the hair and hauled her to her feet, her body somehow responding, obeying his will to move.
Her mind shrieked: fight, run, anything but follow complacently, one staggered step after another. He led her to the back of the room, where a floor-to-ceiling curtain covered the wall.
“And since you’re not using it, I thought I’d just take it.” He pushed back the curtain, revealing a granite altar built into the brick wall. A black candle and a small cauldron sat in the center. Diego hissed a guttural word and snapped his fingers, and a flame burst to life on the candle’s wick.
If something else hadn’t controlled her, her knees would have gone weak. This had to be a dream. It had to be. Losing control of her body, a flame suddenly appearing. There was no other explanation. Except panic screamed through her that this was real.
17