Aunt Belinda sagged back into the couch, spent. Expending that much magic was exhausting. She’d perk up soon though. Food always helped.
The boys had climbed onto the couch and were now jumping up and down on the cushions. “Again! Again!”
“Auntie Belinda is tired, babies.” She glanced at me, a twinkle in her eye. “But I bet Aunt Ainsley has a trick or two up her sleeve.”
The boys turned their attention on me, eyes bright with excitement. “Trick! Trick! Trick!”
Why not? There wasn’t enough room in the living room for their favorite trampoline rune, but I cast a quick glance toward the kitchen, then drew a rune I’d been working on for the last several weeks. I pushed magic into it, and the air over the coffee table exploded in a miniature fireworks display. But not just any fireworks. These fireworks exploded into shapes: a dragon breathing fire, a unicorn frolicking in a field of green light, a puppy and a kitten playing with a ball of string.
Unfortunately I hadn’t worked out how to mute the sound yet, and over the sounds of tinny explosions and the boys’ screams of delight came the unmistakable clack of hurried heels down the hallway.
I quickly snuffed the rune and the fireworks vanished, leaving a cloud of smoke hovering over the coffee table as Mom and Beth rushed into the room.
Mom narrowed her eyes at us through the smoke. Aunt Belinda and I tried not to look guilty.
“They did it.” Aunt Belinda pointed at her great-nephews, who wore perpetual looks of guilt and mischief anyway.
Mom sighed. Beth looked disappointed she’d missed the show. That’s right, Beth knows about magic. Most humans don’t, and we try to keep it a secret as much as possible, but, well, it’s hard to keep magic a secret from family.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mom said. Then she wagged her finger at Aunt Belinda and me. “No shenanigans at the dinner table.”
Shenanigans. That’s what Mom calls magic. Which is fitting, I supposed, since Mom believes magic is nothing but trouble. The boys exchanged a look that said they realized they had been excluded from this ban and were already plotting how best to take advantage of the oversight.
While the boys jumped off the couch and ratted us out to Mom and Beth, yelling over each other about the superhero battle and unicorns and dragons made of light and explosions, I turned to Aunt Belinda and said quietly, “Have you ever met a human who knew what you were just by looking at you?”
The look Agent Smolder had given me this morning after I used that rune on Matt had been bothering me all day. It was like he just knew. But humans weren’t supposed to be able to see magic. The effects of it, yes. Like my nephews could see my fireworks display, but they couldn’t see the rune I’d drawn or the pulse of blue light I’d pushed into it.
“No, dear. Some people are more intuitive than others, but unless that person is a witch or a very gifted mage, no one can tell you’re a witch simply by looking at you.”
My shoulders sagged with relief. I knew that, but having Aunt Belinda confirm it made me feel better somehow. Even though it meant Agent Smolder just didn’t like me. Whatever.
I supposed I could have asked Mom these questions, seeing as how she’s a witch too. See, witchcraft is passed down through generations, but only to the girls. That doesn’t mean guys don’t have magic. Some of them do, but it’s a lot rarer and it’s not hereditary. Guys that do have magic are called mages and they tend to be more powerful, at least in their individual magic, than most witches. They also tend toward darker magic. While individually our magic may not be as strong as that of most mages, the magical strength of a full coven—thirteen witches—was way more impressive than any old mage.
Anyway, Mom doesn’t practice the craft. Like, at all. I’d asked her why—we’d argued about it a lot when I first came into my powers—but she never wanted to talk about it. Instead, she liked to pretend it just didn’t exist. Most of the runes I know I learned from Aunt Belinda and her coven friends, although most of them stuck to spells instead of runes.
“Thanks,” I said. “I—why are you looking at me like that?”
Aunt Belinda was staring at me. No, she was staring through me.
Oh, curse it.
In addition to being a powerful witch, Aunt Belinda is also the teensiest bit prescient. No one can see the future, but Aunt Belinda gets hints sometimes. A name, an image, a feeling that someone should do something specific, though she won’t know why.
Usually this resulted in weird suggestions, like when she’d announced at the last family dinner that we should order a pizza, and twenty minutes later the power went out before the chicken had finished cooking. Or the time last week when she’d called me at work to suggest I take another route home, and then a tree had fallen across the main road and traffic had backed up for miles.
She hardly ever saw anything more serious than traffic congestion or power surges though, so I was shocked when she looked me square in the eye and said, “Have you heard anything about Alec lately?”
Stunned silence fell over the room.
Mom was the first to recover. “Bell!” she spluttered. “Why on earth would you bring that up? Beth has been through enough …”
Beth held up her hand. “It’s okay, Mel,” she said, but her expression was pained and, even worse, hopeful. She looked at Aunt Belinda. “Was that a—”
“A premonition? No, dear. I was just curious. Since she works inside the CIA, I just figured she might have heard something is all.”
Now it was my turn to stare at her. Alec Marcusi, Beth’s brother and my brother’s best friend since childhood, had died nearly seven months ago. We had all thought he worked for the State Department. He’d travel a lot, sometimes being out of contact for weeks at a time. But then Beth got the phone call that changed everything. Alec didn’t work for the State Department. He worked for the CIA, and he’d been killed in the line of duty.
That’s it. That’s all they would tell us.
There had been a wake and a service, although the CIA refused to return his body so there was nothing to bury.
“No,” I said slowly, not believing for a second that Aunt Belinda hadn’t had a premonition. “Why would you think I’d heard anything?”
Aunt Belinda smiled brightly. “Just making conversation, dear.”
Mom looked murderous. Beth recovered quickly. “Okay, boys,” she said, her voice only a little strained. “Time to wash up for dinner.”
“But we want to meet Uncle Alec!” they pouted, but Beth was back in control.
“You two are a mess. Come on.” She led them to the washroom.
Mom glared at Aunt Belinda, then turned on her heel and stormed toward the kitchen. Belinda sighed and followed her.
I buried the ache that had started in my stomach at the mention of Alec and pushed up from the couch, when a wave of dizziness threatened to drop me back onto it. Stupid magic blowback.
My pocket buzzed again. I took my phone out and frowned at it. Another missed call from a restricted number. Then Mom snapped from the kitchen, “Ainsley, go tell your father and brother it’s time for dinner, please.”
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and headed for Dad’s study, thoughts of Alec still swirling in my head. I found Dad and my brother Josh holed up in Dad’s study, arguing about baseball. I stuck my head in the doorway.
“Dinnertime.”
Josh practically leapt up and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as he breezed by me toward the food.
Dad pushed out of his chair and rounded his desk. He was dressed in his usual uniform of loafers, brown slacks, and a wrinkled Oxford. His glasses perched on the end of a slightly bulbous nose, and tufts of his graying hair stuck up at odd angles. Mom had given up trying to smooth it down ages ago.
“How was class today?” I asked.
His whole face brightened. “Excellent. We discussed elementary particles today. Say, why is electricity an ideal citizen?”
I grinned. Dad was a physics professor at Howard U
niversity. I’d heard this one a hundred times. “I don’t know, why?”
“Because it conducts itself so well.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Say, sweetie, do you have a minute to talk?”
I eyed him suspiciously. Dad and I talk, but we don’t talk. Especially if that talking made us late for dinner. “Sure. What’s up?”
“I just wondered how your plans to open the coffee shop are coming along,” he said casually. Too casually.
“I’m working on it,” I lied.
Dad sighed. “Your mother and I are worried about you is all. You had all these plans to open your own shop. You were even looking at properties and applying for business loans, and then after Alec’s death …” he paused, and that deep ache opened in my stomach again, “… you drop everything and transfer to the Java Hut inside CIA headquarters. You’re not dating. I may be old and miss some tricks, but that doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”
“You’re not old, Daddy.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled, but then he turned serious again. “You know you’re not going to find out what happened to him by working there, right?”
And there it was. The reason my parents had decided I’d lost my mind. The thing is, they weren’t wrong. Sometimes I thought I was crazy too.
See, I’d been in love with Alec Marcusi since I was ten years old. Not just any love either. Like, doodling “Mrs. Ainsley Marcusi” in puff paint over all my notebooks, mushy love song, forget what day it is, borderline stalker love.
Anyway, it wasn’t like I’d ever told him that. How could I? Alec was always the smooth, confident, gorgeous guy that only had to crook his finger and girls flocked to him. It was really no wonder he wound up a spy. I, on the other hand, was four years younger, awkward, and even worse, his best friend’s little sister.
So I’d loved him from a distance, even though that distance was usually the next couch over. Then I’d gone away to college and Alec was always traveling for work, and I hardly ever saw him, even after my brother married his sister.
In fact, the last time I’d seen him was at the hospital, the day the twins were born. Mom and Dad had gone to the gift shop, and I’d been alone in the waiting room. Alec had walked in and sat in the chair next to mine. I refused to look at him. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, it was that I was afraid all the progress I’d made getting over him would fly right out the window.
“Dove,” he’d said. He always called me that, but he never told me why. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around.”
I’d shrugged and studied the magazine open in my lap, not reading a word of it.
“I have to go away again,” he’d said. “Hell, I should have left an hour ago, but I wanted to be here. Look, I just … I need you to tell Beth and Josh for me, okay? Tell them I’ll be gone awhile this time, but I’ll be back.”
Like hex, I’d thought. I was about to tell him that when he reached down and tugged the leather shoelace out of his boot. Then he took my hand and tied it loosely around my wrist. I’d looked up into his blue eyes then. He grinned, and I was lost. “I mean it. I’m coming back for that, okay?”
I’d nodded, and then he was gone.
That was the last time I saw Alec Marcusi. And slowly, finally, I started to move on. To date more. To make plans. I decided to open my own coffee shop, and thoughts of paint colors and roasting beans and business plans slowly edged out thoughts of Alec.
Then he’d died and left us with a million questions, and all my progress went with him.
I don’t know why I transferred to the Java Hut inside CIA headquarters after he died. It was crazy. Impulsive. Stupid. Dad was right; it wasn’t like I was going to learn what happened to him simply by being inside the CIA building five days a week. But after he’d died and I’d gotten an email from corporate that there was an opening at the Langley shop, it just felt like a sign. Sometimes I felt closer to him there. Other times I just felt crazy. But most of the time I just felt sad.
“Your mother and I just don’t want to see you putting your life on hold, sweetie.”
I pulled in a deep breath and pasted on a bright smile. “I’m fine, Dad. Trust me.”
He looked like he wanted to believe me but couldn’t quite get there. “Of course you are.” Then, thankfully, he changed the subject. “Your Aunt Belinda in the dining room?”
Dad hated Aunt Belinda. The feeling was mutual. Far as I could tell, it had something to do with Aunt Belinda deciding he wasn’t good enough for her little sister when they first started dating, and casting a love curse on him to get him to fall for another girl. I don’t know exactly what happened—no one liked to talk about it much—but obviously it wore off or something. Even so, Dad had never forgiven her, and Belinda didn’t much care.
He sighed, and then the promise of food won out and he threw his arm over my shoulder. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
“You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He gave me a long look. “Sure, pumpkin.” And he left.
I pulled in a deep, shaky breath and rubbed the worn leather shoelace I’d braided into a bracelet around my wrist. Feeling calmer, I joined the rest of the family for dinner.
By the time I reached my apartment door, I was feeling moody. Talk of Alec’s death and Belinda’s vague premonition was eclipsed by Josh and Beth’s announcement of baby number four. I was happy for them, but at the same time, what was I doing with my life? Why couldn’t I move on? Maybe my parents were right. Maybe I should dust off those business plans. Or even give Mom’s blind date a shot.
My mood didn’t improve when I let myself inside and flipped the light switch and … nothing happened. I flipped the switch next to it which controlled the room’s one lamp, but the room stayed dark.
Great.
Too tired to schlep into the creepy, spider-infested basement for the breaker box, I traced a light rune and let it hang in the air, glowing softly, as I said the incantation. As the last word left my lips, the half dozen candles scattered around my living room burst to life.
I tossed my keys on the coffee table and turned around.
And screamed.
My living room had room for a couch, a coffee table, and an armchair, all of which I’d picked up from garage sales. The armchair was wedged into the corner by the door, and there was a man sitting in it. He was dressed in jeans, black boots, and a dark shirt, and his face was hidden by thick shadows that the tiny candle flames couldn’t penetrate.
For a split second, Aunt Belinda’s question came back to me and I thought maybe it was him. Alec. Which was crazy. Alec was dead. Then the man shifted and I caught the curve of his jaw and knew immediately that it wasn’t him. I scrambled back until my hips hit the opposite wall. My heart pounded in my chest.
“We need to talk,” the intruder said, and I recognized the deep rumble of his voice. After all, I’d heard it just that morning.
Agent Smolder.
Crap in a cauldron. Agent Smolder was in my living room. And he’d seen me do magic.
I swallowed hard. “What you just saw—”
He leaned forward, and the candlelight flickered over his face. He raised an eyebrow. “We’re the CIA. You think we don’t know you’re a witch?”
4
There was so much wrong with what he just said that I simply stared at him, trying to decide where to start.
The CIA knows about magic? About me? And more importantly…
“What the hex are you doing in my apartment?”
His eyebrows rose. “Did you just say ‘hex’?”
I don’t like to curse, not that it was any of his business. Besides, I wasn’t the one who needed to explain myself right now.
I reached into my purse. “I’m calling the police.”
He shrugged and waited.
I yanked my cell phone free and dialed the numbers with shaking fingers and … nothing happened. There wasn’t even a dial tone.
“What did you do to my phone?”
&n
bsp; “Jammed the signal. We need to talk. The—”
I dropped my phone and purse and traced a rune in the air.
His eyes narrowed and he pushed out of the chair with a wince. Apparently he was hurt worse than just the scrapes and bruises along his face. What happened to him?
I shoved the thought away. No feeling sorry for my … burglar? Killer? Kidnapper?
His dark eyes were trained on me, his body tense.
“I wouldn’t,” he said softly.
I murmured the invocation, all but the last word. It was a confundium spell, designed to release a cloud of confusion. If I invoked the rune while it hung in the air, it would spread through the room and affect everyone in it, especially those closest to it. In this case, me. Okay, okay, so it wasn’t the deadliest spell in the grimoire, but I didn’t know many offensive charms. I never thought I’d need them. But if I could distract him for even a few seconds, maybe I could slip by him and out the door.
I flicked the rune at him, and he moved.
I’d never seen someone move that fast. He twisted and my rune sailed past him and stuck to the wall, harmless as a magnet on a refrigerator. Then he was behind me, arms like corded steel locking me against the hard wall of his chest.
He was breathing hard and I wondered what those moves had cost him. Something painful, I hoped as panic spread through me and I tried to scream, but he covered my mouth with his hand. I struggled, but his grip only tightened. Fighting him was like yanking on one of those Chinese finger trap toys Mr. Cho, who owned the Chinese restaurant below my apartment, gave to the kids who misbehaved in his restaurant: the harder you struggle, the tighter it traps you.
It was getting hard to breathe.
I stopped fighting and focused everything I had on urging magic to my fingertips, but this time, it didn’t come. My magic is temperamental like that. It’s all too eager to “help” when I’m angry, but if I’m nervous or scared it curls itself into an obstinate little ball of “nope, nope, nope” and refuses to come out.
It was just as well; I couldn’t invoke the magic with his hand over my mouth anyway. But even as I thought it, a whiff of magic whispered over me.
License to Spell_An Urban Fantasy Novel Page 3