Needs I’d denied for too long worked against me, and when his leg slid between mine, pressing his thigh against the dull ache that had started between my legs, I gasped. For a moment I was lost, drowning under a fresh wave of sensation.
He pressed his mouth to the side of my head, velvety lips caressing the shell of my ear. “Do you want me?”
That question probably worked for him all the time, leading to pleas of “Oh, Goddess, yes!” But we’d just been talking about his power, just been talking about how he twisted a person, made them want to give in. It was enough to give the alarm bells in my head a solid clang, giving me the moment of clarity I needed, a split second when I could think past the pleasure caressing my nerve endings.
If he wanted to force me, he could. He had more power than this, but was holding back because he didn’t think he’d need it. I had one shot, and I had to make it good. I prayed I’d opened the garage door earlier when I was getting ready to leave, then slid my hand down Flint’s body.
His breath caught in his throat as I curled my fingers around the bulge in his pants. There was a second when I almost lost my train of thought, almost gave in to the less intelligent urges demanding attention. I gritted my teeth and grabbed hold of my magic. I traced a pattern over the hot denim over his zipper and he grunted, pressing harder into my hands. I whispered the spell.
Frost erupted from my fingertips, coated the front of his jeans, and sank through to the swollen flesh beneath. The sound that came from Flint was a combination of pain and pure shock. He didn’t move, barely breathed, his eyes wide, mouth working soundlessly.
The anger would come later.
I needed to leave before that happened.
I bolted for the desk and grabbed the file. With panic riding me like a screeching demon, I ripped open the door, not bothering to close it behind me. My hands shook as I threw myself behind the wheel and locked the doors around me. My car had outside entry, so I’d gotten in the habit of leaving my keys in the car for convenience, and I was never more grateful for that than I was now. I started the car and peeled out of the garage.
The explosion took me by surprise.
Chapter 14
The explosion threw the front bumper of my car into the air. My heart seized and my knuckles turned white as I clung to the steering wheel, gaping as the world in front of me blurred, filling with fire and black smoke. Every nerve in my body spasmed. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but stare in horror as the crackling of burning wood scratched my ears. My car slammed back into the gravel driveway with a groan of metal, and I fought to breathe as I stared at the fire eating the edge of my garage roof.
Instinct took over. I waved my hand from my lawn toward the fire. “Extinguo!”
The remains of this morning’s melted frost coalesced above the ground, forming a sphere of water that shot toward the flames and exploded on the worst of the blaze. Hot wood hissed as the flames sputtered and died. A tiny voice screamed a reminder that the bomb had failed to kill me, but another threat remained inside the house. A very unhappy leannan sidhe.
I shot down the driveway, taking a fraction of the time I usually did to check there were no people or animals crossing my path. My car screeched in protest as I raced down the street with the carelessness I judged other people for, my mind a chaos of images that kept adrenaline pouring into my blood.
Fire and smoke, the top of my garage burning. A bomb. A. Bomb.
Someone tried to blow me up.
“Two. Both dead within twenty-four hours of taking the case.”
This could be a good thing. This could mean I'm on the right track.
But you're not on a track. Not one track. You're on three tracks. You can’t travel on three tracks and expect to get anywhere. It's not possible. You need to pick a track, one track. Or maybe two tracks will become one. Or start as one.
Hysteria peeled away rational thoughts faster than they formed. I floated on a cloud of panicked confusion until the sound of my erratic breathing and the warning of metallic clunks under the hood of my car brought me back to reality. In the wake of that hysteria, that blinding fear…came rage.
Magic roiled within me, churning in a red-hot fury that threatened to pour out my mouth in a flood of spells too dangerous to speak. I jerked the car around a corner, ignoring the squeal of rubber that drew the attention of a murder of crows. One of them tilted its head, following my car as I raced by.
Flint Valencia may have stolen Anton’s book.
He may have killed Tybor Aegis.
He tried to kidnap me.
And I let him in my home. He mind-rolled me in my home. He ambushed me in my home.
My home. My territory.
“Should have set him on fire. Burned his bits to ashes.”
His voice whispered in my mind, an echo that made my skin buzz with the memory until I felt the heat of his body pulsing against me. I smacked the steering wheel hard enough to send a bolt of pain down my arm. I’d known who he was, what he was. I’d known he wanted to manipulate me.
And I’d still let him distract me, blather on about inconsequential information, all the while circling like any other predator. I’d let my potion lull me into a false sense of security, forgotten he was fast, forgotten that, with a little charm, he could cloud my mind, blink here to there.
“Never again.”
And then there was the bomb.
Someone had planted a bomb at my home, in my driveway. A bomb that, had I been going my normal speed out of the garage, would have gone off underneath me. Would have killed me.
I swerved down the dirt road that led to clearing where I could always access my mentor’s cottage, stomping on the brake just before the car would have careened onto her front porch, nearly putting my foot through the floor. Strange noises came from under the hood, and the car jerked as I slowed down, like a cat getting ready to vomit the world’s largest hairball. Great. This car would never make it back to Cleveland. I shoved the gearshift into park and threw the door open with enough force to make it screech in protest before hurling it shut with a satisfying slam. Fury carried me over the porch, and I grabbed the doorknob like I’d strangle it.
As always, there was a period of adjustment after entering my mentor’s house. Herbs and enchanted objects took up every inch of space, every breeze filled my nose with the scent of tea, old feathers, and the eye-itching burn of raw magic. I adjusted quickly to the familiar mess, weaving through the clutter to the back of the cottage where the Door to All Places waited.
Mother Hazel was home. She didn’t look up when I stomped past her, didn’t make a sound. Just stood there stirring her cauldron, her old, lined face cast in an eerie orange glow from the flames. I kept my chin up, my hands fisted at my sides. I’d been ready for a fight, but apparently, I wouldn’t get one. Pity. I was in precisely the mood for it.
The gargoyle perched above the Door to All Places opened its eyes, revealing milky orbs with no pupils. Small, pointed wings framed its stout, rounded body, and gray lips revealed a toothy grin, its obsidian claws digging into the frame as it leaned forward in greeting.
“The Cauldron,” I said, fighting to keep my voice polite, if not pleasant. “Please,” I added in the same tone.
The gargoyle didn’t speak, but a second later, I opened the door and the unmistakable scent of a magic shop greeted me. Silver, iron, and gold fought to be the dominant metallic odor, with copper outshining them all thanks to the blood-bound artifacts in the more expensive section. The earthy odors of herbs and feathers tickled my nose, which made me sneeze. I nodded my thanks to the gargoyle and plunged through.
“We’re out of Post-its!”
The announcement was wailed in the sort of cry usually followed by the ringing of an alarm bell. I blinked, momentarily distracted from my rage as I searched for the speaker among the towering shelves laden with ancient artifacts, arcane knickknacks, and glittering charms. A brownie scuttled across the floor, her stocky
body nearly bowling me over as she fired herself from one end of the shop to the other like a possessed pinball.
“We are not out of Post-its. Calm yourself, Muriel. Your husband is unloading them in the back now, a brand-new shipment.”
“Different sizes?” Muriel demanded. “I need different sizes. The new inventory includes items from the wee ones, and they will not hold a full-sized Post-it.” She crossed her arms over her bosom, tilting her flat face up at Dominique, the owner of the shop. “If you want me to get this place organized, I need different sizes.”
“Different sizes and multiple colors,” Dominique said, her eyes never leaving the amulet on the counter before her. The enchantress frowned and tapped one long red fingernail on the multifaceted face of the emerald.
The brownie’s eyes glazed over and she hurtled herself to the back of the shop, disappearing behind the inventory. There’d been a time that witnessing the office supply panic would have amused me.
Now was not that time.
Dominique glanced up at me as if my temper heated the air in front of me, warning her of my approach before I stepped on a loose floorboard that creaked an announcement of my presence. Dominique Laveau II was a descendant of a powerful voodoo priestess, and an incredibly powerful enchantress in her own right.
I marched up to the counter and gripped the edge with both hands, wishing it was Flint’s neck I held. His neck was so thick that I’d never get my hands all the way around it, but by the gods, I would love to try. My fingers dug in tighter, going white as I fought to calm myself enough to speak.
“I am dealing with a leannan sidhe, a sorceress, a wizard, and a vampire. I need protection from seduction charms, something against spying, something against force attacks, and something against trances.” I paused after that last sentence, a flicker of concern pricking my consciousness. Anton had tranced me, or tried to. What if he’d made me forget something? Something important?
“And I need something that will let me remember something a vampire forced me to forget. Money is no object.”
Dominique’s expression didn’t change. “Trying to get at information a vampire has tranced you to forget is a challenge with more risk than reward. Unless the information is worth losing the entirety of your mental faculties, I suggest you let it go.”
I swore, using a few words I hadn’t spoken since leaving the Old Kingdom the first time. Dominique didn’t flinch.
“Are you similarly unable to help me with the other objects?” I demanded.
I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. The enchantress’ gaze bored into mine, and green eyes as hard as the emerald in her grasp pinned me in place. She didn’t raise her power, but she didn’t need to. I knew who she was, what she was capable of. And her anger burned the air between us.
“Well,” she said, drawing the word out. “Let me see. You said you are dealing with a leannan sidhe, a sorceress, a wizard, and a vampire, and you need protection from seduction charms, spying, force attacks, and trances. Is that right?”
I clenched my teeth and nodded.
“If you need an object from my shop to deal with these people, then perhaps you were not ready to join their company?”
My lips parted. “Excuse me?”
She slid the emerald to the side and laid her hands on the desk, palms flat. “If you have no spells of your own, no power of your own to keep yourself safe, then I suggest you avoid these people. Objects can break, they can fail, they can be taken from your, or lost. Some can be used only once. Having the money to spend it carelessly in my shop will not prepare you for what you’re dealing with.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to lash out, to throw power around the way some foolish humans brandished guns to prove how invulnerable they were. But it would be pointless. I had power. Dominique would feel that. But she would also know power meant nothing without control. Did I have the power to kill them all? Yes. Yes, I did. Did I have the control to kill just them? No innocents, no collateral damage? No. No, I didn’t.
The fact that I was here, begging to throw huge amounts of money at magic objects to protect me from all the bad guys I’d let into my life… Well, even if the woman before me wasn’t Dominique, they would have guessed I was in over my head.
The anger churned more violently inside me, poisoned by my own doubts, the shopkeeper’s admonition. I swallowed the stream of obscenities that rose in my throat, forcing myself to breathe before I said something unfortunate to a woman who could end my existence with a sneeze.
“I want an interrogation scorpion.”
Dominique didn’t gasp, or anything theatrical like that. But the lines around her mouth tightened, and for her, that was as good as a jaw drop. “That is an evil spell.”
“But you have one, don’t you?” I didn’t search the shop. If she had one, it wouldn’t be in plain sight. She was right. It was an evil spell.
An interrogation scorpion looked like a dried-out scorpion husk. But when put on someone’s chest and activated with magic, the essence of the scorpion rose from the dead shell like a ghost, glittering to life as a spectral form of the arachnid. It grew larger and larger, wrapping sharp, segmented legs around the victim’s chest, and brought its tail down to press the stinger against their forehead. It would hold them like that, helpless and terrified, while the one who’d sparked the magic asked questions. A refusal to answer, or a lie, would make the scorpion press its stinger against the person’s forehead a little harder. A stubborn person, or a liar, would die a very slow, very unpleasant death.
Dominique didn’t answer. She stared at me. She had a very good stare. So much like Mother Hazel. It was a stare that a mother gave her child when they’d done something horrible, or were thinking about doing something horrible. An expression that said, “I know you’re better than this. You know you’re better than this. You will be better than this.”
Rage isn’t just anger. It’s fear, too. Real rage, the kind that drives you mad, is always knotted with fear. That’s what keeps the person from thinking too hard on it, keeps them from clearing their head. No one wants to face that kind of fear. But Dominique’s stare bored into me. And before I could stop it, my fear poured out, like honey tapped from a hive.
“I have a job to do.” I pried my hands off the counter and folded them on top of it, not bothering to hide their shaking. “A job I want to do. I finally found the courage to live the life I want for myself. I can’t let the first person—the first people—I meet on my path scare me away.”
The enchantress studied me, not unsympathetically. “Any path can fork. And sometimes, you won’t realize your path forked until you’ve followed the wrong one for too long.” She held my eyes, and it was as though she’d grabbed me and hauled me to stand up straight. “Come back tomorrow. If you still want the scorpion, I will sell it to you. But I will not sell it to you one second less than twenty-four hours from now.”
I opened my mouth before I knew what I’d say, before I knew if it would be anger, fear, or something else that poured out. Dominique silenced me with a look.
“Are you alone?”
Her tone imbued “alone” with more significance than it needed, but there was no judgment. She wasn’t asking if there was anyone here in the shop with me. I started to say yes, I was alone, but then stopped. “No. I have a pixie.”
Dominique’s eye twitched. “A pixie.”
I nodded, thinking of Bryan now. “And…perhaps a human.” Andy. “Two humans.” Mother Hazel’s firm countenance roared to the center of my mind’s eye. “And a witch.”
“All right, then. Go home, or someplace safe. Let the temper pass, let the people you trust help you. I will see you in twenty-four hours. Or not.”
Thinking of my allies drained some of the anger away, but not all of it. Part of me still wanted that scorpion now, wanted to press it against Flint’s body and watch him suffer as I stood over him, holding all the power and getting the answers I needed—the real answers.
“Twenty-four hours,” Dominique repeated.
I whirled around, not trusting myself to linger, to consider a different purchase. There were a hundred, a thousand objects in this store, and I could afford any, probably even most of them, but I couldn’t stand in front of that woman any longer. Not when it felt like she’d reached a hand inside me, ripped out my guts, and was studying them at her leisure while I stood bleeding before her.
I ran out the door, shrugging off the sensation of magic as the gargoyle brought me back to Mother Hazel’s. My momentum carried me down the short hallway and dumped me to stand before the fireplace and the cauldron hanging within it. My mentor was still stirring, filling the air with something that smelled like potato soup.
“There’s bread on the table,” she said without turning.
I clenched my jaw, marched to the long, thick wooden table, and half threw myself onto the bench. My eyes burned with tears, and it only made me angrier. I wanted to smash everything in this house. I wanted to scream. I wanted to reach inside me for the swirling pool of power and just hurl it out at the world.
A bowl of potato soup slid in front of me. A second later, she poured the contents of a small cup into it and stirred it a few times. Clams. She’d turned it into clam chowder for me. My favorite.
The tears slid down my face. Mother Hazel sat opposite me with her own bowl of soup, still not saying a word. She ate her lunch and let me cry. I felt like a child. A child who had insisted they’d do it only to find out they’d overestimated themselves. I was hurt, I was frustrated, and dammit, I was angry.
I grabbed a hunk of crusty bread from the bowl on the table and dipped it into my clam chowder. My taste buds sang with the familiar flavors, buttery broth, thick cuts of potato, and succulent pieces of clam. It was comfort food, had always been a comfort food. The warmth of the soup, the satisfying crunch and spongy softness of the bread. It healed my soul, warming me from the inside out. My shoulders relaxed, the tension easing into a gentle hum instead of the skin-searing bite it had been.
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