Fated to the Warlock: An Arcane Affairs Agency Short

by Ava Glass

  Fated to the Warlock

  An Arcane Affairs Agency Short

  Ava Glass

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Get E-mail Alerts

  Arcane Affairs Agency Series

  Copyright © 2016 by Ava Glass

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  Yorkshire, England

  Everything on this street is red brick. Some of it is old. Some of it is new, but it’s all red. The Agency’s portal shimmers shut behind me. I turn to face where I just left. It’s another—drumroll—red brick wall, but this one looks really old, as if all those other buildings were built to match this one.

  I roll my luggage around to a sidewalk. The wall belongs to a pub: The Speckled Hen. Do the locals here in York consider it old, or is it “old” in the way a hundred years is old to Americans like me, while a hundred miles is “far” to the English?

  Speaking of long drives, where’s my ride? I scan the narrow street—another sign of the city’s age. The cars parked along it are suitably tiny. There’s not a single SUV to be seen. I locate the license plate I need. A man waits in the car. My warlock. Well, my warlock for this case.

  The passenger door (on the left, natch), is unlocked. The thirty-something man in the driver seat motions to the rear of the car. I shove my luggage into the trunk. I should be more careful with it, but I just want to get in and on my way.

  I slip into my seat. “Agent Brewer?” I extend a hand in greeting.

  The warlock doesn’t seem to notice my hand. Instead, he flips open a tablet computer. “Any updates from HQ?” he asks, scanning it, “I haven’t any here.”

  My greeting and I retreat into the seat. So much for niceties.

  Like me, Agent Gavin Brewer isn’t a local here in Yorkshire, but he’s more local than I am. According to his file, he’s from the southern part of England. That’s a lot closer than Oregon.

  Agent Brewer is also utterly familiar. Not to mention gorgeous. His dark hair juts at all sorts of angles, as if he likes to run his hands through it in deep thought. I like men who think.

  What the hell? Why am I thinking this? I’m on a case. How about I answer his question instead? The question about the case? “Just a list of the hauntings that supposedly inhabit Moorwolf Hall,” I say. “You should have the file now.”

  Brewer taps his screen a few times and eyes the list. “Alrighty,” he says. “There’s a boy who appears to other children. A maid who asks people if they want the fires lit and then vanishes. A woman plays the same piano notes over and over. That one’s probably just a residual haunting.” He sets the pad down between us. “I’d say unless the maid really doesn’t like the redecorating, these ghosts can’t be the source of the reported screams and hurling objects.”

  According to the owners, the activity started when they began renovating the English country house in preparations to open up as a bed-and-breakfast. Apparently, it’s so bad, they can’t finish and open for business.

  Brewer sighs. “The Cobbolds are of old English wolf shifter stock,” he says. “The shifters here tend to be very insular—they have to be. There haven’t been wolves in Britain for centuries. If they’re contacting The Agency, things must be bad. They tend to not like The Council.”

  I shrug. “If they’re opening the old ancestral home to the public, then times must be tough, or maybe just different.” Times do change. Still, I’ll probably not volunteer that my grandmother was a wolf shifter who ran off with a human psychic. It sounds like these owners might be “we must protect the bloodline” types who frown upon that sort of thing. I don’t feel like being frowned upon today. I just want to do my job.

  “Perhaps the renovations awakened a spirit they didn’t know they had.” Brewer says. “Perhaps they’ve acquired a demon. Oh, this might be interesting after all.” He grins at me. His eyes positively sparkle.

  I grin back. My head feels light, like I’ve had a couple of sips of champagne at a really fun party. Speaking of parties, “were you at the Solstice party at HQ back in June?” I ask. “I feel like I’ve met you before.” The words just tumble from me.

  His grin disappears. He stares at me for a few moments, taken aback. “I…I don’t go to HQ’s parties,” he says. He whips back around to his steering wheel. He grips it, blinking a few times before eventually starting the ignition. “We ought to get a move on.”

  Heat flushes through me. Why did I just ask that? It’s not like I haven’t been partnered with a good-looking person before. Where did my professionalism go?

  I avoid looking at him as we drive off. Moorwolf Hall is an hour northeast of York. I need to keep my mouth shut and my mind on the case until we get there.

  A few minutes into the journey, a notice a scent. It smells of man. It arouses something in me, something intense and primal. It’s Gavin’s—Agent Brewer’s—scent.

  Oh no. This isn’t one of those shifter things is it? My sense of smell is often sensitive, but this is something else.

  The scent doesn’t take long to overwhelm me. I feel heavy and moist in my underwear, like I could use some stimulation right now. This is intolerable. I fumble for the window control and push. The window lowers, ushering in fresh air. Will I have to spend this trip with my nose constantly out the window? This is going to be a long drive.

  “Could you turn that up? It’s a bit cold, don’t you think?”

  Gavin’s question yanks me from a swirling cloud of thoughts. Outside my window is endless green moorland and gray sky. My nose is pretty chilly, but the important thing is that it is free of the Gavin-scent.

  I don’t know how to answer. I can’t answer honestly. Instead, I grab my Agency-issued smartphone. Five minutes ETA. Oh thank the Gods.

  Gavin taps the wheel. “No matter. We’re nearly there,” he says through clenched teeth.

  I turn up the window. Five minutes. I’ll endure this for five minutes.

  The scent hits me quicker than before. Little tendrils snake up my nose and into my brain. The world vanishes.

  Gorgeously warm water caresses my naked skin. This isn’t horrible as far as visions go. Too bad there isn’t much else I can discern about where I am. My mind’s eye tunnels around the silhouette of a man. He is seated in the water before me. The contours of his arms and chest reveal he is naked like me, at least from the waist up. For some reason, I really want to walk my fingers along the curve of his arms.

  Hello. I’m Gavin. His vision-voice echoes through my mind. I’m from Hampshire. My parents wanted me to join a respectable coven, but I joined The Agency instead. Water laps around us as the silhouette extends his hand in greeting.

  “Agent Lowe?” Gavin’s real voice shatters my vision. The water disappears. “We’ve arrived.” The car engine is off. We’re in a parking lot. Oh.

  He scrutinizes me, face a world of concern. “Hang on. Why didn’t you say you get car sick? I might have a crystal for that somewhere in the boot.” He points to the trunk.

  I wave him away. “No…no.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and escape the car. I gulp lungfuls of fresh, free-of-sexyman air. Pheromones can trigger a v
ision now? That’s new.

  Sexyman, I mean Gavin, I mean Agent Brewer climbs out and slams the door. He circles the car, regarding me with puzzlement. Now that he’s on his feet, I get a better look at him. According to my recent vision, there’s apparently a nice physique under the tailored lines of his overcoat.

  He makes his way to the trunk and hands me my suitcase. I take it, flashing a tense smile of thanks. He grabs his own before gathering a small wooden box. It probably has spell components for his car security ward. He recites a few words over it. He begins to put the box back when he freezes, aghast. He gapes at the thing as if it suddenly formed a mouth and insulted him.

  “Agent Brewer?” I lean over to peek at the box.

  He shivers—just once. “Sorry. Er…let’s get a move on.” Now it’s his turn to be evasive. He carefully places the box back in the trunk and locks the car.

  The parking lot is new, going by the asphalt. It’s probably for future bed-and-breakfast guests. We’re the only car in it now, however. I spot a path presumably leading to Moorwolf Hall.

  Gavin sets off on it without me. Suits me fine. Still, I wonder what happened with his car ward. Whatever it was seems to have affected him.

  I follow, keeping a distance to avoid his scent, although it’s really not necessary in the open space. I once saw a sci-fi show where an alien used a nasal agent to stand working with humans. I wish I had one of those now. Funny thing is I never needed one before.

  I don’t know how it’ll hit you, but you will know. My mother’s words flash through my mind like an old camera bulb.

  My breath catches. I halt, gripping the handle of my luggage like a vice.

  No. It can’t be that. This warlock I just met can’t be my fated mate.

  My breath returns in a gasp. My chest begins to heave. I hoped I wouldn’t have to deal with that shifter nonsense. I’m just a quarter-shifter. I can’t even shift. I just run faster, smell better—stuff like that. My heritage is mostly psychic.

  You’re less shifter and more psychic than me. I can’t tell you what will happen. I was eighteen when Mom sat me down for “the fated mate talk.” I laughed and went to college. Nothing happened for over a decade. I thought I was safe.

  But the false familiarity? The sensitivity to his pheromones? The vision?

  Gavin keeps walking, oblivious to my sudden stop.

  If it is the sense, how can I know it’s working right? What if a particular scent triggered a false alarm? This Gavin person didn’t shake my hand, and the most exciting thing he seemed to encounter today was the possibility of finding a demon. My sense must be off. It simply must be.

  I resume trailing Gavin. He still hasn’t noticed I’m not close behind. It’s as if he’s in his own world.

  I sigh. This is going to be a long case.

  Chapter 2

  Moorwolf Hall looms before me, a lonely specter in the surrounding moor. Its gray exterior makes the sky above look even drearier. It’s not huge like some of the castles and manors I’ve see pictures of, but I suppose it’s large enough for a bed-and-breakfast or a small hotel. It’s got little spires that scream “gothic revival.”

  I tingle. The temperature drops. It’s autumn, but suddenly it feels like winter.

  “Hello?” I ask the nearby spirit. I switch on the EVP recorder on my wrist.

  The image of a boy in a sailor suit flashes in and out my mind. “What’s your name?” I ask him. “I’m Renee.”

  I leave the usual silence for him to answer. If he’s not powerful enough for my mind to pick up his answers, then my EVP recorder might. That is, if he answers at all. I won’t know until I put the recording through my audio software.

  I continue. “Can I ask you something? Has anything new and scary happened here? I want to help.”

  I wait.

  The presence recedes. Darn.

  I catch up to Gavin. He is checking his phone. “The Cobbolds will meet us,” he says. He glances at me. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Just talking to a ghost.”

  “Hang on. You what?” He nearly drops his phone.

  “Mr. Brewer? Ms. Lowe?” a voice interrupts from behind.

  We spin. There’s a fair-haired muscular guy in his late forties wearing a button-up shirt and slacks. He looks like the shifters back home, but without the flannel and facial hair. “I’m James Cobbold. Will you come with me?”

  We follow James to a room filled with portraits. This family goes way back. They probably used their once large property to shift unseen when wolves were hunted to extinction. What do they do now? Their property can’t be what it used to be, especially if they’re opening at least part of their house to the public.

  A tall woman approaches. “Ah. The Agents. Welcome. I’m Audrey. You’ve already met my husband James,” she gestures to English Shifter Dude. I put several feet between me and Gavin, and get down to business. “We understand you’re dealing with a difficult haunting.”

  Audrey lets out a breath. “Yes, we’ve had to seal off our drawing room in the middle of repainting it. You see, our ghosts aren’t normally like this. They’re your garden variety sort you find on a ‘most haunted’ program. We had hoped to land a segment on one and drum up business.”

  The Council would not like that. “Ma’am, I advise against advertising on a television show that attracts people looking for paranormal activity.”

  The Cobbolds bristle. James takes a step toward me. “With all due respect, Agent,” he says, “The Council doesn’t rule us. Right now, we have a common goal, but don’t tell us how to conduct our business.”

  “With all due, respect, Mr. Cobbold,” I say, “The Arcane Affairs Agency’s mission is to serve the paranormal community and keep it from prying eyes.”

  “James.” Audrey waves her arms placatingly, “Ms. Lowe might not know our ways. Agent, we only shift on holiday. Canada or the continent, mostly. Any would-be ghost hunters will not find any ‘werewolves’ here. Only some run-of-the-mill ghosts. That is, if we can solve this recent problem.”

  “Screams.” The three of us turn to the sound of Gavin’s voice. He is examining a vase on the other side of the room. He straightens. “Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold, you told The Agency that you heard screams when you began renovating. What sort of screams? Human?” he asks, crossing the room. “Inhuman?” There’s a distinct air of hopefulness to that last word. Jeez.

  Audrey and James look at one another. Their expressions are, well, haunted.

  “Human,” James finally says.

  “Oh.” Gavin’s hope deflates. “Well, if it’s human, this should be relatively simple. I’ll cast a circle and try to reason with it. Agent Lowe will tell me if I’ve been successful.”

  Audrey and James look relieved, but probably not as relieved as I am. I need this to be simple.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to recharge outside.” Gavin brushes past me. I shiver at the contact. I don’t dare breathe him in.

  When he’s safely past, I exhale.

  Recharge? His energies should have been charged before he left for York. Also, The Agency assigned me a powerful warlock. He’s supposed to be one of their best. He should have vast reserves.

  Why does a feeling of embarrassment sweep over me? The feeling is detached, like it’s not mine.

  It hits me. The embarrassment isn’t mine. It’s Gavin’s. I’m not empathic. I shouldn’t be able to sense this. Unless—.

  My hands clench. Fuck.

  Chapter 3

  I open my laptop and send a status report to The Agency. The bedroom James and Audrey set me up in is colorful and cheery in contrast to the house’s exterior, as if it is overcompensating. This is one of the few rooms that is finished renovating. I can tell it used to be much larger, but a section was walled off to create an en suite bathroom.

  They had given me a brief tour of the place, avoiding the haunting’s epicenter. They hope to become a full hotel one day, and not just a bed-and-breakfast. Audrey even mentioned
building a wedding barn and glamping cabins on the grounds. These people have plans. They probably need to in order to afford the upkeep of a house like Moorwolf in this day and age. If this ghost doesn’t leave, the Cobbolds could lose their investment and go bankrupt. There goes the family home, the seat of their clan.

  I glance at my phone. I consider calling Gavin to check in. He’s been reenergizing outside for a while. It’ll be dark soon. How much of a top-up does he need? He took his suitcase with him, probably because it has crystals or whatever he needs to draw on the moor around him.

  I decide against it and instead open my audio program. I sync it with my wrist recorder. I should burn some sage and purify the room before I get to work. Just a safety precaution. I would have preferred my warlock to protect this room, but here I am. It’s probably for the best. Would I be able to get any work done with him around?

  I take out my Agency-issue smudge stick and light it. I let the bundle of herbs burn a little, careful to not set off the smoke detector.

  A wind gusts. The stick snuffs out.

  Bolts of ice shoot down my spine. I leap to my feet, switching on my recorder. I reach for my pot of salt.

  WITCH!

  The word echoes through the room and my mind. This is a powerful spirit, if my mind and my ears can hear it.

  “I’m not a witch,” I reply. “I just know how to burn herbs. You have something against witches?” Is this a ghost of a shifter? Shifters and witches have historically not gotten along, although times are thankfully changing.

  WANT WITCH. I hope my EVP recorder is picking up more words than this.

  “Hey, I said I’m not a—.”

  Candlelight reflects against a window. My hands press pianoforte keys. A light song springs from the instrument, from me. It’s the only thing keeping my gut-wrenching anxiety from tearing me apart.