Siren's Song: Shifting Magic Book Two

by Lysa Daley

  How had I not noticed this area when Mr. Morty gave me a tour? A sign read restricted section on the iron door. Powerful wards sizzled around the bars. A serious mage had cast a protective spell over the area. Inside stood three tall shelves half filled with ancient books.

  “Afraid not,” I said, moving next to Stryker.

  “You could learn to tame the very universe if you read all of those books,” he said, still gazing at the protected books.

  “What’s in there?”

  He shrugged. “They say there are powerful grimoires and ancient spell books. Plus, some think the most protected secrets for the Society of Shadows are there.”

  What I wouldn’t give to spend an afternoon paging through whatever was inside this restricted area. Instinctively, I reached my hand out to touch the bars, but before I made contact a white flash flew past my head.

  “Damn!” Stryker said, whirling around to see the flash. “I heard you had a ghost in here.”

  Headie sailed toward the front of the library on the exact same path that she’d taken earlier. I sighed. The library ghost was going to take some getting used to.

  When she disappeared, I said, “Let me get your books checked out.”

  At the circulation desk, I ran the digital scanner across the books’ barcodes. “There you go. All yours.”

  He looked up at me and nodded with a wry half grin. “You know you're going to die of boredom here.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I may not know you that well yet, Lacey McCray. Not sure what your background is, what kind of people you come from, but I know a hunter when I meet one. And you're as much of a natural-born tracker that I ever saw around here. Hunters need to hunt.”

  Before I could respond, a female voice in the doorway cooed, “Are you talking about me, darling? Natural-born trackers and such?”

  He and I both turned find a dark-haired woman practically draped over the doorway. With silky hair the color of black ink, this girl was about my age. But that's where the similarities between her and me ended.

  This girl was 100% badass. She was dressed almost identical to Stryker, except everything fit quite a bit tighter and more revealing.

  “Karolina! Have you met the new librarian?” Stryker asked.

  “Can't say I have,” she replied, not taking her eyes off him as she walked closer.

  “This is Lacey.” Stryker gestured to me. “She's going to be here working in the evening.”

  Her eyes briefly darted over to me, clearly unimpressed. “Good to meet you, Gracie.”

  Ah, the old pretending to get my name wrong shtick.

  So she was a game player. That didn't surprise me. Girls like her always were. Still, I couldn't help it, I felt intimidated. And a little jealous. Not exactly sure why I was jealous. This sort of slinky, sexy girl always makes me feel a bit dowdy.

  But two could play at her game.

  “Good to meet you, Serafina.”

  For a brief second, I thought her eyes flashed. Was she going to correct me? Inform me that in fact her name was in fact Karolina? Instead, she ignored me and the slight.

  “Stryker, are you working this missing necromancer case?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” he replied.

  “Why don’t we form a little merger?” she cooed, all flirty.

  Wow, I did not like this girl.

  Stryker gave her a predatory smile. But then the grin disappeared as quickly as it came. “You know me, honey. I prefer to work alone.”

  “I know.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “But I got a hot lead.”

  He hesitated, leaned closer. “Care to share?”

  “I really shouldn’t. Not if you won’t agree to pool your resources with mine.” She also leaned closer, only inches away. I felt super uncomfortable, like a third wheel. I thought about telling them to get a room, but instead I politely cleared my throat.

  Stryker at least showed a little decency and backed up. “How about you just give me a little hint.”

  “Only because I like you so much.” Karolina relented. “It turns out our wayward necromancer had a second cell phone.”

  “A burner phone?”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t a disposable burner phone. It was a working cell. A blackberry, not an iPhone. We didn’t know about it because his company paid for it. His wife said she totally forgot he had it.”

  “Totally forgot her missing husband has a second phone?”

  “She claims he never used it at home or on weekends. Just at work.”

  “Are we getting a signal from it?”

  “You bet. And like the last one, the signal is coming from near the beach.”

  Stryker nodded. “That makes the mermaid connection even more reasonable.”

  “That’s why I’m here in the library,” Karolina said, pronouncing the word “library” like it was the dullest place on Earth.

  She turned her bored eyes in my direction. “I want you to do some research on mermaids who have been sanctioned by the magistrate,” she said to me like I was the maid and she was telling me to mop the floor.

  Stryker intervened. “I already checked the records. As far as I can tell, there haven't been any cases of mermaids stealing husbands in California in over a hundred years.”

  “I’m not talking about California.” She winked. “I heard through the grapevine that there have been some merlady issues down in Baja.”

  “Mexico.” Stryker nodded. “Baja is out of this our magistrate’s jurisdiction. We wouldn’t have seen any of their infractions.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Nice work, Karolina,” he said. “Maybe we should team up and work on this case, after all.”

  “See, I knew you’d see it my way.” She linked arms with him and led Stryker out of the library. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on your search results.”

  It was my first night, and I was going to have to work late.

  I liked research. It was one of my strengths. So I was annoyed that I was feeling annoyed about having to do research for this Karolina chick. Of course, she probably couldn’t do her own research if she tried. She probably couldn’t spell “mermaid.”

  The politically correct term was actually “merfolk” because the merpeople came in both male and female forms. And just like different varieties of fish, several distinct types of merfolk existed, differentiated by the ocean they lived in. The merfolk of Southern California would’ve been Pacific merfolk with several subspecies, including: Polynesian, Siberian, and Mid-Pacific. The Mid-Pacific merfolk were divided into even more subcategories, including: Baja, Santa Barbarian and Portlandios.

  Merfolk were rarely seen by land dwellers or the non-magical sort. But they once had a nasty reputation for luring sailors off their ships and into the sea. Several treaties had been signed between the water paranormals and the land paranormals that had strictly forbidden the luring of humans into the seas.

  Naturally, it went the other way as well. Merfolk had once been hunted for the scales and their fins, which were potent ingredients in several powerful love potions. You could still buy these potion on the black market. The sellers would insist that the mermaid scales had either been found on the ocean floor or had been freely given. The trouble was merfolk did not willingly hand over their scales to anyone, and they were nearly invisible on the ocean floor.

  As far as I could tell, there hadn’t been any recorded incidents of conflict between merfolk and humans in nearly 100 years. Of course, there were always rumors of husbands who had run away with beautiful mermaids. Or strong mermen who had charmed some pretty beach beauty into the waters with him.

  Maybe that’s where our necromancer had gone. But it seemed unlikely that a mermaid had helped a land-dweller, especially a vile necromancer. After scanning the local records and Internet message boards, I came up with a couple other viable options.

  I felt a tinge of excitement because I was pretty sure what I had was r
elated to Stryker’s case.

  Chapter Six

  I was still getting used to the drive to the Radagast’s house up the mountain in Laurel Canyon. They lived off a narrow, winding road called Lemongrass Way on the valley side. Despite being a scenic drive, it was always something of a harrowing journey because every single turn in the road was blind.

  The top of the driveway had an old rickety electric gate that groaned and creaked like it was about to fall apart and took forever to open. Once you finally got past the gate, then you curved gently downward to the grand house that sat alone at the bottom of the long driveway.

  By the time I got home from my first night at the library, only a single light burned in the kitchen window of the dark house. A side gate wound around the house, to the backyard, and over to the guesthouse. I closed my car door as quietly as possible and headed toward the side gate when a sliding glass door opened and Mr. R’s head appeared.

  “What kind of job keeps you there until 11:30pm?” Mr. R said, swirling the ice in his glass of bourbon. “Or did you have a date after work?”

  “Oh, Riker. Leave the poor girl alone,” Mrs. R’s voice called from inside.

  “Just stayed a bit late to do a little research of my own,” I replied. I had texted my kindly landlords about my new job so they wouldn’t be worried when I came home late.

  Mrs. R answered, “See. She’s obviously had a hard day.”

  “Hard day?” he repeated. “Oh dear. Then she must come in for a drink.”

  “Oh now, yes, that’s a lovely idea,” Mrs. R agreed from inside.

  “Would you like a nightcap, my dear? Or a cup of tea? We have some excellent herbal blends if you’re having trouble sleeping in a new place.”

  “That sounds nice, but I don’t want to keep you two up.”

  “Nonsense! We’re both a pair of night owls.”

  “Then I’d love to.” I changed course, heading toward the main house.

  Their house was even cozier at night than it was during the day. The dim lamps and the glow from the fireplace gave everything a homey, warm feeling. It felt like the house I always wanted to live in. I wanted to grow up in a place like this, where people sat by the fire and drank nightcaps while quietly talking about their day.

  That was not the way I grew up. My parents fought constantly when they were still married, but most of the time my father was away working. Back then, I thought that meant he was studying Siberian dragons or North American griffins. But now I wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe he’d been lying to us and he’d really been off working for the Society of Shadows and the Council of Light.

  For my entire life, he’d managed to keep his involvement with the Society a secret from me. And possibly my mother. I’d been meaning to take a little drive out to see her and ask her face-to-face what she did or didn’t know about my father’s background.

  Mrs. R met me and Mr. R as we entered the kitchen. “What can I get you my dear? Wine, a nip of brandy, a bit of tea?”

  Normally I would’ve loved a glass of wine. Especially because I suspected that the Radagasts had much better wine than I usually got to drink. Their wine probably came in bottles that had corks, unlike my screwtop chardonnay.

  But I was tired and wanted to get to sleep. “A cup of herbal tea would be lovely.”

  “I have just the thing.” She took a tin down from the top shelf of a baker’s rack. “My own personal bedtime dream blend. Guaranteed to help you sleep and bring you the sweetest of dreams.”

  For the next twenty minutes, we sat in the living room and chatted by the fire. They listened with interest as I told them about my first day on the job. I couldn’t exactly tell them who I was really working for. While they were both wizards, Mr. Stroud had informed me that the Society liked to keep a low profile even to the good people of the paranormal worlds.

  Instead, I said I was working for a research firm that had a corporate library and hired grad students to work the checkout desk part-time. Mrs. R asked a lot of questions, but after a while I noticed Mr. R nodding off, so I thanked her for the tea and said goodnight.

  She let me out through the back kitchen door and I made my way across the parklike backyard with its carefully designed landscape lighting. Walking along the flagstone path, I felt warm and sleepy—probably the effects of Mrs. R’s tea kicking in. I was ready to do nothing more than put on my pajamas and fall into bed. But when I unlocked my door, my apartment was a mess.

  Had someone broken in and ransacked the place?

  Someone had thrown all the pillows and blankets on the floor. My dirty laundry had been flung in every direction. Socks hung from light fixtures and underwear dangled from a doorknob. A pair of my jeans was partially sticking out of the freezer.

  Apparently, my house brownie was unhappy with me.

  “C’mon, Fred,” I said hoping he could hear me. “Didn’t you see the muffin I left for you?”

  I walked over to the coffee table where I’d put out a chocolate chip muffin from Mrs. R’s kitchen. I’d had one earlier, and it was delicious. Obviously, Fred didn’t agree. The remnants of the muffin had been smeared into the nearby white wall. Next to it, I’d left a glass of apple juice, which had been knocked over creating a puddle.

  I sighed loudly and carried the dirty dishes to the kitchen. I would clean off the wall tomorrow.

  What did this brownie want?

  After I set the dishes in the sink, I pulled my computer from my bag, cleared some scattered clothes from a space on the couch, and took a seat. I opened my laptop and a link to the Society of Shadow’s reference website. Their private search engine was massive and powerful. It contained so much information, along with links to hundreds of other search engines. It was mind boggling in the best possible way.

  I typed in “house brownie,” hoping to find some additional information about how to deal with Fred. After scrolling through the information, it became clear that my mistake was not that the treats I was leaving weren’t delicious. It was that they weren’t personal to me. I would have to leave Fred something that I truly loved or Fred wasn’t going to be happy.

  What exactly did that mean — more personal?

  How did I make a treat personal? Did that mean I was going to have to personally make it? But I wasn’t a baker or a cook.

  As I sat there thinking, my eyelids grew heavy. I decided to go to bed and sleep on it.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke up the next morning starving. It took me a moment to remember that I’d been so preoccupied with my interview and new job that I hadn’t had time for a real dinner last night. Just half a Snickers Bar and a sparkling water from the vending machine at work.

  I was craving something specific, something from my childhood. I wanted my mom’s cinnamon rolls. I almost dismissed the idea and instead got up to toast a bagel in my small kitchen, when it occurred to me that this might’ve been exactly the sort of personal food thing that could appease Fred.

  I pulled on my jeans and a sweatshirt, and slipped on my running shoes. Breezing through my small living room, I saw that nothing else had been reorganized during the night. I grabbed my car keys and messenger bag from the table by the front door and headed outside.

  One of the reasons that I wasn’t a baker was because my mother never baked, and thus, no one ever taught me. In my family, she was known as the queen of takeout and pizza delivery.

  But there was one thing she would make on special occasions that I loved. She’d buy a tube of cinnamon rolls from the refrigerated section at the grocery store. They were the kind that you pulled apart, slapped in the pan, and baked. When they came out of the oven, she always let me slather on the icing from the plastic container that came at the bottom of the tube.

  They may not have been exactly homemade, but they were still delicious.

  I drove down the hill to the bottom of Laurel Canyon, where there was the grocery store just north of the main thoroughfare Ventura Blvd. It was early, just past 7am, so other than the
odd truck making early morning deliveries, not many shoppers were around.

  Outside the store, I passed a homeless woman sleeping on the sidewalk, bundled in her sleeping bag with a little brown dog curled up next to her.

  I was a sucker for the dog.

  I had a couple loose dollars in my pocket so I slipped them into the oversized plastic 7-11 cup she had sitting next to the dog.

  Inside the store, I bought the cinnamon rolls and a few other things, including a small bag of dog treats for the homeless dog. After slipping the little bag of treats next to the 7-11 cup, I headed back to my car. Then I decided to make a quick detour to the Starbucks across the way.

  I liked this neighborhood with its little boutiques and cafes. The Starbucks was large and quiet—the perfect place to do a little studying. Five minutes later, I came out with my mocha latte, along with my two bags of groceries, and headed back toward my car.

  Digging in my messenger bag for my car keys, a hand grabbed me from behind, sharp fingers digging into my shoulder. Startled, I dropped my coffee. Piping hot mocha latte puddled on the ground and splattered all over my new running shoes.

  “Hey!” I whipped around to see the homeless woman with her little dog, who was baring his fangs and growling at me.

  “Where is it?” she asked with crazy eyes.

  “It’s you again.” I recognized her. I’d already run into this particular homeless woman twice before. Once across the street from the Ironwood Building, where she’d warned me not to go in, and then in Hollywood down the block from Mr. Mackelmore’s Magical clock/weapon store. “Ouch, you’re hurting me.”

  “Where is it?” she again demanded.

  “Where is what?” I asked, brushing her hand away and taking a step back.

  “Don't lie to me, girl,” she said as her little dog yipped at me. “I know you have it.”

  The woman was small. Her weathered face and scraggly gray hair made it hard to tell her age. At first, I would have estimated her to be in her sixties. But looking at her close up, I saw that she was much younger.