I untucked my legs from the afghan and rose from the couch, glancing out the side windows as I crossed through the front sitting room. The fire had burned down to bright-orange embers in the white-painted brick fireplace, but the refurbished fir flooring was still toasty warm under my bare feet.
Out the window, I spotted Christopher in the middle of the garden. He’d been methodically digging in compost for the past few days, in between long stints of hovering over the three-week-old chicks in the barn. It was overcast but not raining. Yet. With his earbuds in, he would have missed the sound of the car pulling up. But if the visitor heralded some kind of magical assault, the clairvoyant would have picked it up before the car had even turned into the driveway.
I glanced out the front window.
An RCMP SUV cruiser rolled to a stop, parking before the front walk to the house. A dark-haired uniformed officer stepped out, her attention on the barn. I followed her gaze to the back end of my 1967 light-blue Mustang convertible. Christopher had left the double-wide barn doors open.
The officer smirked, telling me everything I didn’t already know about her with a single disdainful expression.
I crossed out of the front room and into the foyer, opening the front door and letting in a chilly breeze before she could step away from the cruiser.
She flinched, spinning on me and baring her teeth.
Shapeshifter.
She was in her midthirties. Dark brown hair pulled back in a messy bun. About five foot nine inches tall, slim and muscular, with naturally lightly tanned skin.
I’d expected a visit the previous November. The fact that it had taken the shifter — an officer of mundane law — over three months to drop by the home of new residents with as much magic as Christopher and I carried further informed my opinion of her. Even more so than her sneering at my vehicle, and the suggestion that she thought a convertible was a frivolous choice of vehicle given the amount of rainfall Lake Cowichan, British Columbia, Canada experienced.
It had taken us almost seven years, but Christopher and I had gone west — and were now about as far west as we could get without leaving the continent.
I leaned against the doorframe, mostly closing the door behind me so I didn’t let out all the warm air. As well as letting the shifter know that she wasn’t going to be entering my home.
“Officer.” I gave her a neutral smile, as was apparently expected of me in a small-town environment. Though the random drop-ins from the locals had lulled after the first two weeks of us moving in, even that had given me far too much practice at being pleasant but distant enough to not invite additional visits. Also, once our neighbors had gotten a good look at Paisley, they hadn’t been quite so eager to cross through the gate that I kept purposely closed at the top of the drive.
The RCMP officer skirted the cruiser, making her way to the front walk, then jogging up onto the front patio.
She didn’t offer her hand.
As expected.
Those of the magical persuasion rarely touched. And anyone with any magical sense didn’t volunteer to touch me. In the years since I’d been free of the Collective, any contact with me was usually requested — then granted via a legally and magically binding contract. If I was satisfied with the terms and remuneration.
I was rarely satisfied. And I was not at all interested in taking on any more contracts. As a result, I rarely touched anyone with any magic thrumming through their veins.
The shifter swept a light-brown-eyed gaze over me, coming up unimpressed. “Emma Johnson?”
“I am she.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Little cold for a sundress, isn’t it?”
“Not until you disturbed my perfectly pleasant afternoon.” I made a show of glancing at her name tag, though I’d already known everything I needed to know about her even before I bought the property. “Officer Raymond.” She wasn’t affiliated with any pack. And even more unusual was that she appeared to only run in the woods that bordered Lake Cowichan on all sides when she was forced to do so by the full moon. Most shapeshifters could transform at will no matter what the phase of the moon.
Tension ran through her jaw at my tone, but she couldn’t hold my gaze for more than a few seconds.
Not a werewolf, then.
I hadn’t been rude enough to actually spy on her while she was transforming — other than to make note of her routine and the tenor of her magic. And I’d been just as systematic with all the other main residents of the small town since we’d moved in three months before. Officer Raymond was the only Adept in Lake Cowichan proper. But even though she plainly wasn’t a werewolf — her inability to hold my gaze made that obvious — it was still my guess that she transformed into some sort of canine.
“Hannah Stewart is … missing,” she said.
The abrupt segue momentarily threw me.
Hannah Stewart. Early twenties. Medium-length light-brown hair, medium-blue eyes, glasses. About five foot six. She ran the thrift store. I’d seen her two days before when I’d picked up the cashmere cardigan I’d left on the back of the couch in the sitting room. The fire had warmed the room too much to continue wearing it.
I frowned. “And you expected to find her here?”
“No … I …” The shifter cleared her throat, glancing away toward the garden that spread out from the east side of the main house.
I kept my gaze on her, watching her struggle with whatever concern or request had brought her to the doorstep of an unknown Adept.
She nodded to herself, then met my gaze resolutely.
“I know you … both of you … are some kind of witches.”
I didn’t answer.
She didn’t elaborate.
Silence stretched between us long enough that I started to feel chilly. Officer Raymond glanced away, looking toward the garden again, then shifting her booted feet on the patio and glancing to the other side, toward the Wilsons’ property. A stand of cedar bushes cultivated into unnatural shapes by the resident deer blocked the view of the neighbors’ house, but I could see their milk cows in the front adjacent field. They rotated the livestock every few weeks, though I was fairly certain that mid-February was still too early for the grass to grow.
“I know it’s rude,” the shifter said, speaking as if we hadn’t just been standing in chilly silence for far too long. Her tone hardened, becoming edged with some emotion I couldn’t place. “I know Adepts have rules. And that you’re obviously … not out. Maybe not practicing? Wanting to stay off the coven’s radar? I know there’s a coven in Vancouver. And another witch on Salt Spring Island.”
She glanced at me.
I didn’t react.
“I saw Tyler Grant hightailing it out of town last night in his junker. Hannah didn’t open the thrift shop this morning. I’ve tried her apartment and knocked on the Grants’ door about an hour ago …” She trailed off. “I’d like you to … cast a finding for her.”
Her hesitation before mentioning magic made it clear she was woefully ignorant. Not because she didn’t know the proper terminology, but because no one had taught her that there wasn’t any uniform system of magic.
And I wasn’t the mentoring type.
“What’s wrong with your nose, shifter?” I asked mildly.
She stiffened, then glared at my left shoulder instead of meeting my gaze.
I shook my head, pushing the door open behind me just enough to step back into the house. “We aren’t witches. Which I suppose answers my own question about your scenting abilities. We’ll keep to ourselves, and you’ll do the same.”
“And if I don’t?”
I swung the door shut, slowing it so it clicked closed gently between us rather than slamming. Officer Raymond — who still hadn’t properly identified herself — stared at me through the inset glass panel, clenching and unclenching her hands.
Then her gaze shifted just over my shoulder.
Christopher had slipped into the hall behind me. I could feel the steady h
um of his magic, but nothing that indicated he was in the middle of a vision, so I kept my gaze on the shifter on the patio.
The clairvoyant stepped up behind me. Officer Raymond’s gaze softened as she took him in — white-blond hair, gray eyes, golden skin, standing just shy of six feet tall. It was a subtle change in the shifter’s expression, but I caught it.
It was difficult to look at Christopher for more than a moment before realizing he was beautiful. Though I hadn’t been made aware of that myself until we’d spent some time in the real world — outside the imposed confines of the compound that had been our only home for more than twenty years. ‘Otherworldly,’ I’d heard people whisper after laying eyes on him.
But to me, the clairvoyant was and always would be my brother, though as far as we knew, we shared no DNA. The identical last names on our passports — chosen by Bee as if the telepath had known that we’d remain together after leaving the compound — could have indicated a sexual partnership. But even through the time that our magic had been drained enough to allow for the possibility of intimacy, that was a line we had never blurred.
Still, I understood why people stared or stuttered around Christopher. Even those who couldn’t pick up the tenor of his magic. And though our coloring was vastly different, I occasionally garnered the same reaction. Until I met the gaze of my admirer. Then the whispers or admiration abruptly stopped.
“Hannah Stewart is missing,” Christopher said.
I glanced at him. He’d never met Hannah. He hadn’t left the property since we’d moved in, which had been the primary point of purchasing a house situated on just over two hectares in a remote location in the first place. Five acres, the neighbors still called it, with their seemingly arbitrary tendency to switch between metric and imperial measurements.
“You saw or you overheard?” I asked.
“Overheard.”
“Hannah’s boyfriend left town.” I settled back into my staring contest with the shifter on the front patio. “Officer Raymond is jumping to conclusions.”
“Officer Raymond has magically honed instincts.”
I snorted. “She’s not that kind of shapeshifter.”
“Because she thought we were witches?”
I didn’t answer.
“Come on, Socks. That’s a narrow view. What are the chances she’s ever scented a … Adepts like us?”
He had hesitated before naming our main classifications — amplifier and clairvoyant. Even if her nose sucked, chances were that Officer Raymond could hear our conversation through the single-paned glass door.
“You mean us to stay,” he said. “You want us to stay, yes?”
I did. He already knew that.
Christopher padded forward, moving like a highly skilled martial artist who’d cloaked himself in dirty jeans and an old T-shirt. He’d rolled up the legs of the jeans, exposing his ankles. His feet were bare but scrubbed clean. He refused to wear the gumboots I’d ordered for him for gardening.
The clairvoyant opened the door, allowing another cold gust of wind into the foyer. “Officer,” he said. Then he glanced back at me.
I was about to be completely undermined. I turned away, crossing into the front sitting room to retrieve my cardigan.
“I’m Christopher Johnson, Emma’s brother.”
“Oh …” The shifter’s attitude melted under the onslaught of everything that Christopher leaked. Beauty, charisma, magic. Or maybe she was just reacting to the indication that he and I were siblings, not lovers. “I’m … Jenni …” She paused, gathering herself. “Constable Jennifer Raymond.”
If she touched him, if he allowed her to touch him, he might be inundated with visions for days. Though it was apparent her magic wasn’t particularly strong, so I could hope I was wrong about that.
And it was none of my business who Christopher chose to interact with. I wasn’t his jailer. Just his … custodian.
I pulled on my sweater, focusing on the soft brush of the worn cashmere over the skin of my arms and across the blood tattoos simmering with magic on my spine, hidden under my hair.
“Please come in,” Christopher said in the foyer. “Emma will put on tea.”
I glanced at the wooden clock on the mantel in annoyance — a relic of the former owners that I’d excavated from the attic. It was two hours away from afternoon tea. We’d eaten lunch only an hour before.
“I … I just need to grab something from the car,” Officer Raymond said. She was still a little breathless, especially for a supposedly well-trained RCMP officer who was about to enter the house of powerful Adepts.
Of course, she thought we were nonpracticing witches without a coven.
The front door clicked shut. Then Christopher stepped back, leaning in the open archway between the foyer and the sitting room. He crossed his arms and settled his gaze on me.
I checked his eyes for signs of magic, seeing none.
“You know that you’re going to have to meet more people, beyond the real estate agent and the grocery delivery guy. If we’re staying.”
I jutted out my chin. “I already said I’d start going to the diner for lunch once a week.”
“But you haven’t. And Hannah Stewart is on the very short list of people you know in town. You bought that sweater from her two days ago.”
“Cardigan.”
Christopher laughed softly.
Buttoning the top three buttons of the aforementioned article of clothing, I turned away, crossing back through the house into the kitchen. Christopher followed me.
Paisley was sprawled across the three-foot-by-four-foot gray-speckled white quartz counter of the kitchen island — and practically covering all its available space. The blue-gray demon dog was resting her chin on an overturned roasting pan. The roasting pan that had been in the fridge. The pan that had formerly held yesterday’s leftover roast chicken. Catching my gaze with her dark-red eyes, Paisley snapped her double row of sharply pointed teeth playfully, then struck the roasting pan hard with a clawed paw the size of a small plate.
The pan spun toward me.
I caught it. It was licked clean.
Christopher laughed.
I gave the demon dog on the counter a look. “We have company.”
Paisley, currently the size of a large mastiff and bearing a mane of tentacles, stretched as magic writhed across her blue-furred skin. She leaped off the counter, hitting the tiled floor front paws first while transforming into her blue-nosed pit bull aspect — without the red eyes and tentacles that marked her as a half-demon. She flashed her double row of teeth at me, then gently took the roasting pan in her mouth and carried it over to the sink.
The front door opened.
Ignoring the disconcerting feeling of shifter magic entering the house, I plucked the stainless steel kettle off the stove and crossed to the sink to fill it. Then I squirted dish soap into the roasting pan and let it fill with hot water.
Hands in the front pockets of his jeans, Christopher wandered past the kitchen table over to the double French doors, gazing out at the backyard and garden. Paisley joined him.
I set the kettle down on the stove, turning the gas burner to high then stepping back to turn off the water.
Officer Raymond stepped into the kitchen from the hall. Her gaze flicked around, obviously impressed.
I’d had the fir floors throughout the three-storey house sanded and varnished before we’d moved in, then had the entire house painted white — inside and out, including the attics. But as far as renovations went, the kitchen was the only room that had been gutted and modernized.
For Christopher.
I didn’t cook. I occasionally liked to bake. But the thirty-year-old oven we’d pulled out would have been fine for that.
Likewise, replacing the old moss-covered roof with red metal had been a perfectly practical decision on my part, and had nothing to do with any silly notion about living in a picturesque farmhouse.
Most of the furniture in the house had been
left by the previous owners after they’d died, but had been picked over enough by various relatives that a few of the rooms remained empty. That included three of the upstairs bedrooms, the dining room, and what I thought might have once been a study, given the built-in bookshelves. Accumulating belongings was a foreign and uncomfortable experience that I preferred to ignore, beyond the little we needed to be functional. It had taken three years to find a property where Christopher could roam freely without a constant influx of energy from random people.
Such as the shapeshifter currently invading my home.
Ignoring the RCMP officer as she crossed to the island and set a plastic-wrapped item on one of the stools, I retrieved a plate for cookies, three matching earthenware mugs, and the teapot. We only had a set of four of the mugs, purchased from a local potter.
I had baked an entire batch of ginger snaps by Christopher’s request earlier that morning, instead of rolling and freezing the batter as I usually would have. I threw the back of the clairvoyant’s head a peeved look. Apparently, he’d known we’d be having a visitor. A bit of a heads-up would have been ideal, though I never pushed Christopher to divulge if it wasn’t necessary. Because the deliberate application of his magic often triggered an onslaught of clairvoyant power.
It had taken over a year after the complete annihilation of the compound for my magic to seep back. Christopher had gone almost a year and a half without a glimpse of the future. Unfortunately for the clairvoyant, his magic had come back punishingly powerful, even more so than before, making entire swaths of his life dysfunctional. He’d be fine for weeks, months even, able to hold down a kitchen job in a restaurant, go grocery shopping, take Paisley for walks. Then I’d come back to whatever city apartment we were renting to find him hiding in a closet, completely overwhelmed by the future echoes of the life of an Adept he’d inadvertently come into contact with.
And of course, my amplification magic was far from a calming influence.
The presence of the other three of the Five we had once been — and of Fish’s nullifying power especially — might have helped balance Christopher. It might have spread the visions and glimpses of the future equally among us, tied through our blood tattoos. But even anchored by Bee’s telepathy or Zans’s telekinesis, I wasn’t certain that controlling Christopher’s power was even possible anymore, given how strong his magic had grown while it had been slumbering in his veins, playing possum.
The Amplifier Protocol (Amplifier 0) Page 14