Brush With Death: A Sadie Salt Urban Fantasy (Sadie Salt Series)

by Ware Wilkins

  That’s why I’m in his office. The bitter, rebellious teen is now in the one room I’ve been forbidden to enter since he took me in. Uncle Oliver doesn’t have many rules.

  He won’t cook for me. He’ll buy food, but preparation is on me.

  He won’t make me go to school. If I don’t graduate and fail at life, that’s on me.

  Don’t come to him for advice. He’s made too many mistakes to be trusted for good direction.

  Don’t go in his office. Ever. A man needs a place that’s just his.

  Don’t look for the killer. That’s what police are for.

  I’ve obeyed all the rules for two whole years. I learned how to cook. I finished high school, and with decent grades to boot. I never asked for my uncle’s help on anything. I’d never been in his office and, while I’d entertained more fantasies than I could count, I’d never looked into my parent’s murder or the killer.

  Until today. If I’m going to move out, then Uncle Ollie’s rules don’t apply anymore. Actually opening the door to the office had been palm-sweating, knee-shaking, rush-of-adrenaline fun. But now that I’m in here, it’s basically boring. A big-ass pompous desk, the chair I’m spinning around in, and a ton of old smelly books lining the shelves.

  Disappointed, I decide to see what he’s reading. If he reads them at all. I bet he’s the kind of guy to buy leather bound books to look smart. They’re probably all old law ledgers or something.

  My fingertips trail over the edge of a bookshelf and come back clean of dust. Okay, so maybe he’s not reading them, but he keeps the office in good shape? There are some boring looking reference books, some classic literature, the normal stuff.

  But then I start seeing some weird symbols on some of the spines. Words that are in languages I don’t understand. The books’ spines are so old and worn that the leather is fraying. Some of the words are familiar, yet still foreign.

  A Treatise on the Necromantic Arts. Talismans and Tokens. Invocations for Binding.

  I pull some of the titles that are particularly strange off the shelves. As I am about to bring them to the desk, there is a small tug on my attention. Like a thread is tied to my sight, leading my eyes to a small, green-bound book wedged between the larger tomes.

  Summoning.

  Just one word, and far less interesting than, say, Black Magic: Uses and Warnings, but I can’t stop looking at it. Shrugging, I pull it off and add it to my stack.

  Hours pass as I flip through page after page after page. There are histories here, spells, warnings, and tips. Magic. I mean, I know he’s a warlock and obviously he had to learn it somewhere, but I feel dumb realizing that there are books about it. It isn’t something innate.

  It’s something that can be learned.

  Heat builds in my belly as my anger begins to simmer. Uncle Oliver said he couldn’t teach me magic. Couldn’t, like I wouldn’t be able to do it, he’d claimed. So I’d let it go, envious but understanding, not wanting to rock the boat.

  Freaking. Books.

  How dare he forbid me to look into my parents? In just a few hours, I’d found tracking spells and curses and the things that revenge, well deserved revenge, could use. Why hadn’t Oliver hunted down the murderers? Why had he kept me in the dark?

  The anger in me turns to rage, black and roiling. There’s something so cruel about knowing justice could have been had for my mother and father. And Uncle Oliver just... hadn’t.

  The Police will never solve it. It’s been two years and there’s nothing. A cold case. If Uncle Oliver isn’t interested in seeking justice, then I will. It’s one of those simple, empowering teenage thoughts. I can do anything, obviously. I’ve had the strength to keep myself going, even after seeing my whole life torn apart. I’m smart and capable.

  And now I have the tools.

  I know I can just keep sneaking back in here, reading and learning. So I place the books back on the shelves, reluctantly. My time is almost up and I know he could come home any minute. All the books are back, except one.

  Small and green, it fits perfectly into my back pocket.

  “Sadie, you okay in there?”

  “Yep. Just recovering from a mouthful of soap.” That green book was the start to my current woes. It was the shovel I used to dig a very deep hole. Uncle Oliver isn’t the gentlest. Like Doug, he prefers to use a tougher style of love. But he’d warned me, as seriously as he could, not to wish for things I couldn’t handle. Now I only wish I’d listened.

  The tooth in my palm feels like it has a life of its own. In a way, I suppose it does. I wonder what its owner is doing now. Does he (or she, maybe) regret getting in the bar fight? Who will they go see to replace the teeth knocked out in the fight? What had the fight been about?

  Some part of their essence is buzzing in my hand, begging for... what? Release?

  To be used, dummy.

  Like before, the words I’ve never read but, somehow are in my brain, begin to trickle from my lips. They sound guttural and foreign to my ears and there’s something scary about their primal call. But then the magic begins to surge through me and all my concerns are washed away. It feels so damned good. The exhaustion that’s been weighing down my limbs like cement dissipates, leaving me feeling light and airy. My mind, previously foggy and refusing to focus, is shocked clean. It’s the world’s best cocaine (I assume—never touched the stuff). My eyes, which had been so itchy and dry from lack of sleep, now feel fresh and new, watching the tooth disappear into the air, into me, as I use its essence to beef myself up.

  When it’s gone and I glance in the mirror, I look like a different person. My hair, which had been knotted and dull, is now shining and silky. The purple circles from under my eyes are gone. Instead, I look alert and almost dewy. My cheeks are rosy and my skin doesn’t have anymore of the yellow tint of poor health.

  I stretch my arms around and up over my head. The joints are practically singing. I could lift two hundred pounds. I could run fifty miles. The way I’m feeling right now, I feel like I could do anything. The regret sets in almost immediately after the exultation, though.

  Two spells in less than two days? What is wrong with me?

  It’s too late to undo, but I make a mental promise not to do any more bone magic. There’s too much at risk. I’ve just been so stressed and tired, I wasn’t thinking straight. While I know all bone magic is bad, surely these two spells aren’t horrible. Right?

  “What’re you doing in there?” Dr. Wilson calls through the door. I’m feeling like myself. More so, really, because of the lingering tingles of magic and pep in me after my spell.

  “That’s just rude, Dr. Wilson. A girl deserves a little privacy,” I shoot back with a smile. “Don’t become weird in your old age.”

  I’m pretty sure I hear him murmur something along the lines of “I’ll show you old age,” in a menacing, put-out tone. Laughing, I know he doesn’t mean it.

  I shrug my shoulders and stretch my neck. Damn, that magic is good. It isn’t merely that I feel like I just got fifteen hours of blissful sleep and then drank a large cup of coffee. There was the mental weight that had me down. Fear because my apartment was broken into. Terror that a client—a poor, sweet kid—was murdered in my home. And guilt, deep and rich, wondering if Nash’s murder is my fault. These things are gone now, too. Suppressed, at least. I prefer to believe that.

  Suppression is good. It’ll allow me to just get through the day and then I’ll convince Dr. Wilson that I really do need a day off. I’ll buy ice cream and cry and call my uncle to decide what to do about the security of my apartment.

  Feeling much better than I have in as long as I can remember, I exit the bathroom. Humming, I go about cleaning the chair and station, setting out new and sterilized tools, and making sure everything is in order before the next client. When Dr. Wilson comes back in, two cups of coffee in his hands, he stops and stares at me.

  “Sadie, I told you to wash your mouth out and you’re humming.”

  Hal
ting mid-step, I think quickly. “Don’t judge... I had a caffeine pill and took it. No more dozing for me, at least at work.”

  He scowls. “That stuff’s terrible for you.”

  “I’m sorry I mouthed off at you, Doc. I really am tired and stressed, but those things aren’t your fault.”

  His eyes narrow. “Are you sure it was a caffeine pill and not some drugs? Whatever drugs the kids are taking these days?”

  I laugh. “I’m sure. No drugs for me, at least beyond good, legal caffeine. Speaking of which—” I nod at his hands.

  “Oh, yeah. Brought you a cup. Thought it might help take the taste of soap out.”

  “If you made the pot, it’ll take away the taste and also burn holes in my esophagus and stomach, so thanks.”

  He mutters under his breath but hands me the mug. I can tell by the blacker-than-black color of the coffee and the way it sort of sticks to the side of the mug when I swirl it that I’m not exaggerating that much. Even the smell burns a bit.

  The rest of our clients come and go. I’m chipper, I clean up quickly, and my assisting is spot-on. So much so that Dr. Wilson yells at me about drugs again, along with sharing some “anecdotes” from people he “knows”, but whom I suspect he read about in a book or saw on T.V. It doesn’t matter. What matters is I managed to make it through work without thinking about, or being brought down by, the monumental amount of shit that’s happening in my life outside of work.

  Dr. Wilson leaves me to finish tidying and lock up. He wouldn’t give me the next day off, but he did say I could leave at lunch if I was on time in the morning and I stayed away from illegal substances. With a longish period of rest in my foreseeable future, I’m feeling as optimistic as I can, considering the circumstances.

  Actually, I’m just straight optimistic. Is this another effect of the bone magic? Because if so, I’ll be honest... I’m beginning to wonder what the big deal is. I’ve only used teeth that were shed either voluntarily or through outside means, which means technically I’m not hurting anyone. Not only that, but shouldn’t bad magic feel, well, bad?

  In fact, I feel so good that I stay later than needed, working through a backlog of paperwork. It feels like it goes quickly, but when I look at the clock, it’s after seven thirty.

  It’s mostly dark when I close the front door to the office and lock it. There’s a brush of purples and oranges as the last bit of daylight clings to the sky, but the moon is full and bright and the stars numerous. The hairs on my neck prickle and I whirl around and squeak. It is meant to be a scream, my lungs bursting with air to expel, but the fear squeezes my throat, cutting it off. Benji is there, eyebrows raised in amusement.

  “Hey, Sadie.” I don’t miss that his nostrils flare and his smile falters for a half a second.

  My body is still coming down from the fright and, mixed with the emotional high from the teeth, I am off-kilter. “Benji, hey. What are you doing here?”

  “I assume you haven’t had a chance to contact Oliver yet, it’s dark, and someone was murdered in your apartment last night. So I came to ride home with you and make sure you stay safe.”

  “Oh.” My nose wrinkles. Through the good-feel buzzing under my skin, the dots connect and man, I should be more concerned than I am. It’s just a hint, but there’s a sliver inside of me that is positive Nash’s murder was a message to me. Maybe another bone witch saying ‘hello’ in the world’s most awful way. Or... maybe my parents’ murderer. Back.

  Desperately, I try to grab onto that thought. Pull the emotions to me. The rage, the terror, anything. But I’m still just feeling peaceful. Energized.

  Okay, so maybe there is a downside to this magic. I don’t like being stupid with happiness. “Thanks. My car is over here.” I point, and he comes with me. He hides his laughter well, but I know my rust bucket isn’t impressive. “Hard times, Benji. Can’t afford much with the debts I already have.”

  “No,” he says as he slides into the passenger seat. “I don’t suppose you can.”

  Once I’m buckled in (he skips it and I’m not going to try to make a vampire do anything), I turn the key. It takes a few tries, but the engine catches and my car lives to see another night. I don’t push it, though, taking side roads so I can stick to lower speeds.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say, thankful I have to keep my eyes on the road. In the dark, Benji’s fine features become bolder and kind of beautiful. Like his pale skin looks more like marble and his dark hair shines like a raven’s wings. It’s a good thing he’s not into chicks, or I might consider becoming a groupie.

  “The pack is following you.”

  “What?”

  He nods to the woods on the side of the road and I feel a flash of surprise. Alec’s never hidden that he’s not a fan of me, so setting guards to protect me is strange. “It’s only two wolves.”

  “Also making sure I’m safe? That’s nice. I didn’t consider you paranormals to be so, um, considerate.”

  “I don’t think they’re guards. They’re trying to decide if you’re the one who killed Nash.”

  Oh. That makes more sense. Beneath the feel-good haze, there’s a twinge. It’s regret and grief and offense, warring with the magic to be felt. It’s hard for me to accept that they think I’d hurt any of them, but I can see where Alec is coming from.

  This probably means no more pack clients. That takes a giant bite out of my business. Heh. Heh heh. Bite out of the business... because I’m a dentist—

  “What could you possibly be laughing about?” Benji’s cold tone cuts through the bubbly sensations that had been keeping me from focusing.

  “Shit,” I hiss instead of answering him. This is an inconvenient side effect of the bone magic. Maybe even a deadly one, if I can’t get it under control. Which is hard, because I’m still thinking about the joke that’s not even funny, especially not in my current situation. But fighting the giggles makes it feel even funnier and Jesus, I am a mess.

  “You’re hiding something.”

  “No,” I say, automatically. “Not really. I’m just delirious. It’s been a long time since I slept well, and it’s making me loopy.”

  We sit in silence as I drive and it should be welcome. After all, I don’t want him prying anymore. But instead, Benji’s statue-like stillness unnerves me until I’m punching the gas enough that my engine whines in protest.

  “Drive past your apartment,” Benji commands while turning on the radio. He finds this loud, obnoxious talk radio show and turns it up. “Head toward your uncle’s home.” The abrasive disc jockey voice grates on my buzz and if this is the crap that Benji listens to, I’m going to have to reevaluate our friendship. Just kidding, I don’t judge people’s tastes that much. Especially when they’re helping keep me alive. But it’s pretty awful to listen to, and at a volume that’s borderline uncomfortable.

  My uncle lives thirty minutes from me, up the mountain and just outside of Grimloch’s quaint downtown area. “O-okay.” I’m not sure my car is going to be able to make it, but when a vampire tells me to drive, I’m gonna do it.

  “The wolves won’t be able to decipher all the voices if the radio is on. Not in their wolf form, at least.”

  “They can hear into my car?” It’s one thing to know that the paranormals have enhanced senses. It’s another to know that walls and doors and moving freaking cars don’t hinder them.

  “Maybe, but I’d rather not take any chances.” Benji leans close to me and the coolness of his body only barely offsets the way my heart begins to race from his nearness. I swerve before I regain control. “I’m close so we can chat,” he says, smiling. It makes sense, but it’s also the closest I’ve been to a man in a while and, gay or not, Benji’s a looker.

  I yank my eyes back to the road, but my palms are feeling slick with sweat on the wheel. “What are we chatting about?”

  “You smell like the magic again, Sadie. Strongly, too.”

  I don’t reply because honestly, what reply is there?

 
; His fingers catch a lock of my hair and he brings it to his nose. I can hear him sniffing it, he’s so close. The intimacy of the gesture gives me butterflies in my stomach. “Does your uncle know?” It’s clear what he’s asking now. The urge to lie is large, but if we were to crash, I’m pretty sure Benji would be fine. So my driving isn’t much of a threat to him, and he has all the power in the car. Lying will get me nowhere but maybe dead a little faster than the truth will.

  The flirtatious nature of his body, his fingers toying with my hair, are at odds with the predatory gleam in his eye. I’m not sure he sees me as a friend anymore, and that’s downright terrifying.

  “Yes, he knows.” I sit and wait for a death blow, but it never comes.

  “Interesting.” Benji sits back and looks out the window. The close encounter with him is the first thing that’s managed to harsh my mellow from before. I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes or anything, but it’s like I can sense that Death’s scythe just narrowly missed me. The magic begins to evaporate out of me, and in its wake I’m left with cramping in my gut and borderline crippling emotions and exhaustion. When I swerve a second time, my reflexes fail to correct it, and Benji is forced to reach over and grab the wheel to keep us from careening off the road.

  “Get out. I’ll drive.” I’m too tired to argue. I miss the magic. That jolt that not only made it possible to keep going, but helped numb all the acrid emotions building in me like plaque. My fingers flex, remembering the feel of the teeth. I still have one more. I could just use it to give myself another boost...

  Shame burns the idea out of me. Because mixed into the weighted feelings forcing themselves into my mind is the final, actual realization of what happened to Nash. He was killed. Brutally. There’s enough distance between the event and now that I’m not focused on my mortality above all other things. Buckling myself into the passenger seat, I sink into the old upholstery and shut my eyes. Immediately I’m in a semi-lucid dream state, recalling the blood. His body, still thin and awkward like a teenage boy’s, but with the chest cracked open like a box. I’d never even stepped close enough to make sure his eyes were shut. I’d been too scared.