LICENSE TO SPELL
An Undercover Witch Book One
Paige Howland
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
From the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Paige Howland
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Paige Howland
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art by: Natasha Snow
Proofread by: Red Adept Publishing, LLC
Formatted by: Author Empress Solutions
1
Two Weeks Ago …
Lisbon, Portugal
Connor
“Are you trying to distract me?” I asked.
The woman seated at the café table jerked her gaze from the window. “What?”
I set two mugs on the table, slid into the seat across from her, and raised an eyebrow at her dress.
She relaxed and reached for one of the mugs. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Not a damn thing. The dress was some complicated wrap thing, but it left her slender shoulders bare and hinted at soft curves I knew all too well. Curves I’d spent last night—and most of this morning—exploring, when I should have been reviewing our mission dossier. It was worth it. Just the memory of her smooth skin under my hands, those full lips, the look in her eyes as she’d plucked the dossier out of my hands and then …
I cleared my throat. “It’s … flattering.”
She paused, her mug halfway to her lips, and smiled at me over the rim. “Wait until you see me out of it.”
I grinned, and my comm device coughed static and the op tech’s groan into my ear.
“Can you two hold the dirty talk until after the mission? Please? Just this once?”
“Relax, Dahlia,” I murmured to the voice in my ear. “Just selling our cover.”
“Sure.”
Dahlia didn’t sound convinced, and I didn’t care. At that moment, I only cared about two things: completing the mission and then holing up in the CIA’s safe house to watch Sloane peel off that dress. Slowly.
That thought must have been scrawled across my face because Sloane’s grin widened and she winked one of those big, kohl-rimmed eyes at me.
I shook my head to clear it of thoughts of my partner naked and dragged my attention back to the reason we were here.
“Anything?” I said quietly.
Sloane’s gaze drifted over the café patrons. “Not yet.”
Then she closed her eyes. Anyone who cared to look would see a tall, lithe brunette sitting at a table next to the café window, squinting against a sudden headache. No one saw what I did: a skilled witch reaching out with her magic to sense our target.
Our mission objective was simple: identify and apprehend a lone witch before a dark mage known only as Merrick could kill her. The CIA wasn’t usually in the business of saving witches—or anyone, for that matter—from hits. I didn’t know why this witch was important, and I didn’t care. If that information was vital to the mission, we would have been briefed.
The intel we did have was light. We knew Merrick planned to make his move here, in the Baixa area of Lisbon, Portugal. We knew nothing of his target—not even her name—except that she was a witch.
That’s where Sloane came in. It was her job to identify the witch, and it was my job to protect her. Sloane was the magic, and I was the muscle. Not that Sloane couldn’t handle herself. She was an accomplished operative in her own right long before I came along.
Now she gripped the tabletop, strain evident on her face. I clenched my teeth against the urge to reach across the table, to make her stop before she hurt herself. I hated seeing her like this. Using magic always left her drained, and she’d seemed more tired than usual lately.
“There,” she said, her voice breathy and uneven. “Outside. Blue jacket, dark hair, Prada heels.”
I didn’t know what Prada heels looked like, but I followed her gaze to a short, thick woman in a navy jacket, laden down with shopping bags and leaving a clothing store across the street.
I didn’t move. “Any other targets?”
Witches were rare, but their magic was hereditary and they tended to stick close to family. The last thing I wanted was to save the wrong witch.
Sloane shook her head. “Just her.”
I nodded and stood.
And hesitated.
I never used to hesitate. Not until I met her.
The agency encouraged its operatives to keep their professional lives separate from their personal ones. My work was my life, so this had never been a problem for me.
That all changed six months ago when my old partner betrayed me and the country, and I was transferred to the Magical Protection Division of the CIA and partnered with Sloane. She was beautiful. Competent. Intoxicating. And from the moment I met her, I wanted more. The occasional hesitation, the nights spent holding her in my arms instead of reading mission briefings, they were all worth it.
“Go,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
Of course she would. She always was. But she looked so damn tired. So … vulnerable. The thought of leaving her like that twisted my gut.
“Connor, go,” she said again.
I nodded sharply and strode out of the café before I blew the whole damn mission acting like a lovesick teenager. My gaze swept the mosaic-tiled street and the weathered limestone hotels and shops until it landed on the witch.
“Target acquired,” I murmured to Dahlia. “Prepare for extraction.”
“Team’s in position,” she said.
Despite the heels and the shopping bags weighing her down, I had to jog to catch up to her before she blew right by the side street our van was parked on. If that happened, I’d have to improvise. I hate improvising.
The woman glanced at me in surprise, her expression wary.
I smiled and the wariness melted away. The Connor Effect, my partner Alec called it. Ex-partner. The memory set my teeth on edge—like all reminders of Alec did—and I shoved it away.
I nodded to her bags. “Those look heavy. Can I help you carry them?”
I spoke in English, but thanks to the linguistics spell Sloane had worked before we left the safe house, it came out in perfectly accented Portuguese.
But Sloane’s spell only worked one way, and while I spoke two languages fluently and another three brokenly, Portuguese wasn’t one of them.
I might not have understood her reply, but body language is universal. She smiled and held out her arms. I took her bags and led her down the street and around the corner. She objected as I turned down the designated side street, trying to get my attention to tell me I was going the wrong way.
“It’s a shortcut,” I told her, sweeping my g
aze over the street and the adjacent buildings, watching for signs of Merrick.
The agency’s van was just ahead, painted to look like a flower delivery service. I waited until we were even with it, then dropped the bags and spun the woman against my chest, taking care to trap her arms. Capturing witches could be tricky, but most of them needed their hands to work defensive magic.
Most being the operative word.
The witch parted her lips either to scream or to work a spell, and I clamped a hand over her mouth. Instantly her skin warmed, then became hot to the touch, and soon every part of my body that touched her exposed skin felt like it was melting.
It was a glamour. An illusion. My skin wasn’t really melting—I could see that much—but damn if it didn’t hurt like hell.
“A little help here,” I said through gritted teeth. The van door popped open and three agents spilled out.
The witch went rigid with fear.
“It’s okay,” I said, my voice stiff with pain. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
The look she threw me over her shoulder clearly said she didn’t believe me. That was fair because one of the agents, Tiago, took advantage of her distraction to jam a needle into her neck. Her eyes went wide before they fluttered closed and her body went slack in my arms. The searing heat faded quickly after that.
I handed her off to Tiago who loaded her into the van. She’d be taken to a local safe house where she’d be briefed on the threat to her life. The agency would keep her safe until it deemed the threat had passed.
“Target secure,” I said.
“Nice work,” Dahlia said in my ear. “Any sign of Merrick?”
“No.”
Which meant it was time to pick up Sloane and head back to DC. The local agents could handle things from here. I moved to climb into the van, but one of the agents was staring at something past my shoulder, his eyes wide.
“Um, Agent Ryerson?” he said. “Isn’t that him?”
I spun around. The distance and limited visibility from the busy shopping street which had made this street a good location to execute a field op, now made it difficult to see much else.
But then, Merrick wasn’t hiding.
He strode across the street from the direction of the café, an exact match for the grainy photo in our dossier packet. High forehead, curly black hair, tailored suit. He caught my eye and winked. Winked. Pretty sure of himself for a guy who was about to go down. Hard.
“One of you take the van and pick up Sloane. She’ll be waiting in the alley behind the café. The rest of you circle the block and head him off. Dahlia, get me another transport, now. We’ll rendezvous at the safe house. Go.”
I broke into a run, not waiting to see if they’d follow my orders. I hit the main street and spotted him immediately, two blocks ahead and moving fast. I started after him, and then stopped.
Something wasn’t right.
I didn’t have an ounce of magical ability, but what I lacked in magic I made up for in instinct. Four years as an Army Ranger and another five as a CIA field operative had taught me to trust my gut, and in nine years, my gut had been wrong only once. And right now, it was screaming at me.
Merrick had widened his lead to three blocks and my window to stop him was closing fast. I took another step, but it didn’t feel right. I stilled and worked through what was bothering me.
He was confident. Too confident. He clearly knew we were there for him, and he could easily have slipped through the crowds unnoticed. So why let us spot him? And why come from the direction of the café? Maybe he’d been careless. Maybe it meant nothing.
I glanced back at the café and an uneasy feeling settled in my gut.
“Sloane?” I said into the comm. “What’s your status?”
Her answer was immediate. “I’m inside the café. Why?”
That uneasy feeling spread as realization slammed into me. The witch we’d picked up wasn’t the only witch on this street. There was no way Merrick could know that—mages don’t have the power to sense witches—but what if he did know? What if … what if he was counting on it? What if he wasn’t here to kill the witch we’d just picked up, but any witch?
Ice flooded my veins. I took a shaky step toward the café, and then broke into a run. Merrick would get away, but suddenly I didn’t give a damn.
“Sloane,” I said into the comm, not bothering to hide the panic in my voice, “get out of there.”
“What?” she asked, confused.
“Connor, what’s going on?” Dahlia said in my ear.
The café was just ahead. Everything looked fine. “Sloane, listen to me. Get everyone out. Get the hell out—”
The café exploded.
The explosion rocked the street, and the force of the blast knocked me off my feet. My head smacked the pavement and everything went black.
I don’t know how much time passed—seconds, hours—before my eyes fluttered open and pain washed over me. Everything hurt. Grit and smoke stung my eyes. My head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, and I could barely hear the screams over the ringing in my ears.
Sloane.
Fear and panic crashed into me. I tried to push myself up, but agony exploded inside my head and something was weighing down my legs. I closed my eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness, until a shadow passed over me and a low, familiar voice said, “Fuck, Connor.”
I hadn’t heard that voice in six months. It was the voice of a traitor. A rogue agent. My ex-partner.
Alec.
Alec was here. In Portugal.
I needed to arrest him. Or kill him. My head was pounding so hard it was impossible to focus. To think. I tried to get up again, but the pain and the weight on my legs dropped me back to the pavement with a groan.
“Hold still,” Alec said. “There’s a piece of building trapping your legs. Just give me a minute.”
A piece of … I forced my eyes open and squinted through the smoke and haze. Sure enough, a piece of concrete four feet wide lay across my legs. It was buttressed on one side by more rubble, which is the only reason my legs weren’t crushed right now. That slab must weigh four hundred pounds, easy. There was no way—
Alec grabbed the concrete and picked it up. He was straining, but he shouldn’t have been able to lift it at all. How the hell …
He dropped it a few feet away and grinned down at me, but his eyes were tight. “Don’t ever say I never did anything for you.”
I’d dreamt of this moment. Of finding Alec and arresting him for what he’d done. Or killing him. Slowly. I doubted the CIA would care which. But now that the moment was here, my thoughts were consumed with only one thing.
“S-Sloane,” I said, and his smile fell away.
“If she was in the café …” He shook his head, and the world dropped out from under me. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. Not the fact that I’d lost Merrick. Not the fact that my ex-partner, a man at the top of the CIA’s most-wanted list, was standing over me. Nothing.
No. No. Oh God, she couldn’t be dead.
I lurched to my feet, swaying, and took an unsteady step towards the café. But the café was gone, a black, burned-out hull in its place. No one could have survived that. I took another step, and then I was running. Maybe she’d gotten out. Maybe she was still in there and I could save her. I just needed to find her.
“Damn it, Ryerson,” Alec called. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
The thought that I could somehow still save her drove me inside the building. Alec was right behind me. The building groaned, pieces of ceiling and wall crumbling as I climbed over the rubble.
A piece of ceiling crashed to the ground next to us, and Alec cursed. “This place is coming down. We need to get out of here,” he said as sirens screamed in the distance.
“No.”
“Connor, she’s gone—”
I shook my head and pushed on. I’d find her. I’d … Something smashed into the side of my head and I dropped like a st
one.
“Sorry, man,” Alec said, holding half a brick and eyeing the ceiling, or what was left of it. “But we got to go.”
And with that, the darkness found me.
2
Langley, Virginia
(Two Weeks Later)
Ainsley
“I ordered skim milk, no whip,” said the guy standing across the counter from me.
That’s not what he’d ordered. Like, at all.
I plastered on a fake smile and said in my brightest customer-service voice, “Of course. Sorry about that. I’ll make you a new one. It will be just a moment.”
I tossed his perfectly good latte into the trash and made him a new one—skim milk, no whip—and handed it across the counter.
He took a sip and grimaced. “This isn’t skim.”
My smile wavered. “Yes, it is.”
“I want a new one.”
My smile slipped and heat gathered in my fingertips. I stretched out my fingers, silently urging the warm, tingling sensation to dissipate. Using my magic to turn him into a newt might be fun, but there were two problems with that. First, most people didn’t know that magic existed, and we witches preferred to keep it that way. Second, I didn’t even know what a newt looked like, much less how to turn someone into one. It probably wasn’t possible. I made a mental note to ask Aunt Belinda.
The magic slipped from my fingers and I made him a fresh latte.
Zoe came into the café while I was tracing a rune in his foam with a stir stick and muttering the words to invoke it.
“Oh my God, Ainsley,” she said, and I froze. “You’ll never guess who I just s—” She stopped and frowned. “Are you drawing pictures in the foam again? You know we put lids on them, right?”
There was no way Zoe could know I was casting a spell to ban Mr. This Isn’t Skim from this particular Java Hut for life—or at least until the coffee was out of his system—but I knew I looked guilty. I’m a terrible liar.
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