Witch on a Roll

by Evelyn Snow

  “I have no illusions…” Mo seemed to lose an inner war she’d been fighting to maintain her composure. “Whatever game you’re playing, Evie, you’ve gone too far. Stop while you still can.”

  “No games.”

  “You need to go home and let the grownups clean up your most recent mess.”

  My head felt like it was about to explode. “A ton of dark magic at risk with two people dead and somehow it’s all my fault? In what universe?”

  I was done running from being a jinx. If she wanted to accuse me, she’d have to say it to my face. I suspected she was afraid to do that for fear I might live up to the myths and legends about my kind that insisted we were mayhem incarnate.

  Mo’s eyes narrowed. She ducked her chin while she passed her fingers over the touch pad on her laptop. Whatever worries I had about not following MBI procedure or operating on my own evaporated while I watched her.

  Her problems were so much worse. If anyone from the Wheel discovered a magical law firm was taking part in the transfer of lost souls in addition to trafficking in dark magic through the Pale into the Greater World, there would be hell—possibly Hades-style fire and brimstone—to pay. Fiona liked to rock it old school.

  Mo’s only way out now was to do as I asked. No matter how events played out, an investigation would follow. When that happened, Mo would have to pray Rhiannon’s Wheel overlooked her role. I had experience with Fiona. If things had been different, I might have offered Mo a few tips on dealing with the stormbringer.

  Yeah, no. I wasn’t that nice.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do,” I said in a level voice. “The bridge is still closed, so you will send a message to Sullivan Shield.” I’d considered sending a message to Devi also since she was the director of the MBI. Sullivan, however, ranked slightly higher since he reported directly to Rhiannon’s Wheel. My vote went to Sullivan because when this was over, I’d need all the clout I could beg, borrow, or conjure to justify my on-the-fly decisions.

  At my request, Mo’s gaze went left and down. “But I can’t—”

  “We’re way past the stage where you can pretend you don’t have a way to communicate with the other side.”

  “All right.” She made a face. “What do you expect Sullivan to do when and if he gets here?”

  “Dark magic, lost souls, and stopping illegal trafficking—that’s pretty much the MBI’s charter. You’re right that I’m new, but even I can guess Sullivan will have several options at his disposal. One of which will be to shut down Shade & Shade for trafficking.” Holden had hinted they’d threatened to do that with his business in the past, which hadn’t operated on a scale anywhere near that of the law firm.

  “I was unaware of a soul left behind,” Mo said. “Such a tragedy. Which one was it?”

  Funny how Dylan Maddox had asked the same thing. “Does it matter? It’s still a soul, not a television that fell off the back of a truck.”

  “It matters,” she said flatly.

  The mood in the room shifted again. I felt the momentum slip away from me. “Why?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the issue. Even if I were, I’ve wasted enough time already.” She moved her fingers over the track pad and clicked. “I’m going to print another agreement for you to sign. No need to wait for sundown and Zen. You can tell my agent where to pick up the goods you’re holding. You’re too new and inexperienced to know, Evie, but that’s what Sullivan will do when he gets here. Returning the property will be his only option. Delaying won’t change anything. A delay will, however, make you look incompetent. Is that how you want to start your new career? I don’t think so.”

  I had to give Mo credit. When it came to identifying weak spots and throwing verbal knives, her aim was excellent. What she didn’t realize: I had a lifetime of being ignored, discounted, and underestimated. The experience had made me stubborn.

  “You never answered my question.”

  Mo sighed. “Which one?”

  “About the Whitfield Clinic. Why are they laying claim to the magic?”

  “Because the magic belongs to them. Despite your wild claims and suppositions, the provenance is clear and not in dispute.”

  “Whitfield is a rehab hospital for drug and alcohol problems,” Holden said. “Since when is magic used in treatment or therapy?”

  “And if they are using magic,” I added, “how are they getting it?”

  Mo’s face shuttered. That question hit home.

  “Perhaps we should start over.” Mo took a deep breath and said in a more conciliatory tone, “This has been a huge misunderstanding. I hope you will take my word that Whitfield’s right to the magic is lawful. The presence of a lost soul is a tragedy, to be sure, and unexpected. I’m glad it worked out that the two of you were available to manage the situation.” She hesitated before adding, “You were able to retrieve her, were you not?”

  Call me immature, but I couldn’t resist: “I’m not at liberty to discuss details.”

  Mo folded her hands and leaned forward. “This is really very simple. Nothing is being bought or sold. The agreement Zen offered last night was a concession we make to scavengers who prefer things in writing. As I’m sure Holden will tell you, they can be difficult. Here’s the reality of the situation: What was lost will be returned, and they will handle the soul with care and compassion.”

  “Well, you’ve known me a long time, Mo. When is a jinx reasonable?” I lifted a hand. “Don’t answer. Instead of bringing mayhem, though, I think I should lodge a complaint.”

  “With whom?”

  “Rhiannon’s Wheel, the MBI, ODiN—take your pick. Maybe I’ll file with all three to be thorough.” I pulled out my phone. “Will you look at that? I have Dylan Maddox’s number right here.”

  “What would you put in your complaint?” Mo tone had turned steely.

  “That an officer of the court is interfering in the lawful retrieval of contraband magic while aiding and abetting the trafficking of a lost soul.”

  “This is a misunderstanding.” A twitch flared under her left eye. “Including federal authorities would be a mistake. Trust me, if Fiona gets involved, the feds won’t like it. They’ll blame you.”

  I smiled. “Give me a good reason not to stand down, beyond the fact that a dead girl, a dead wizard, and dark magic are bad news, no matter how you try to spin it.”

  She had nothing.

  “We’re done here. You’ve got my cell. Let me know when you hear something from Sullivan, and we’ll talk.” I don’t know why I said what came next. Maybe it was a jinx thing. “Unless there’s anything you’d like to get off your chest?”

  Mo’s lips twisted into an ugly grimace. “Holden, would you mind giving us the room?”

  “I’m not leaving Evie alone with you.”

  “What are you worried I’m going to do?” Mo protested. “Throw her on the floor and pull her hair?”

  “No, but only because you pay others to do your dirty work.”

  “That’s a serious charge, Mr. Blackwood. I don’t appreciate it.”

  “It’s okay,” I said to Holden. “This shouldn’t take long. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  He scowled, but stalked from the office, closing the door behind him. The receptionist would be so happy to see him again.

  “You have your little badge now, so I guess that makes you almost an agent.” Mo added a flick of spite to her words. “That’s the only reason I’m going to do as you ask and send the message. No matter what you’re hoping, Sullivan won’t be able to help.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a situation on the other side. I don’t know all the details, but I’m told the bridge won’t reopen until it’s resolved.”

  Vague alarm flooded through me. “What’s going on?”

  She shrugged. “It’s far more serious than your problem, Evie. All you have to do is return what doesn’t belong to you. How hard is that?”

  Here was a lesson in the world according to Morr
igan Shade. When her best efforts at spin failed, she changed the subject and manufactured a new context. I’d seen Kerri do something similar a thousand times. Now I knew where she’d learned the technique.

  “It wouldn’t be hard—if I had a shred of confidence you were telling me the truth. Convince me.”

  “What I’m about to tell you is confidential,” Mo intoned. “If it leaves this room, I’ll know, and there will be consequences. Are we clear?”

  “My word as a jinx.”

  She lifted a hand. “Oh, don’t even start. I don’t care about that old nonsense. As far as I’m concerned, you’re entirely capable of causing trouble without resorting to tricks.”

  “Good to know you’re so … modern.”

  She pulled a file from a drawer, opened it on her desk, and referred to it as she spoke. “Two people died at the Mulberry Street house. One was a young woman known as Echo, which isn’t her birth name—not that it matters. The other was a wizard named Duncan Frost.”

  Somehow, I managed to keep my expression neutral when all I wanted was to lunge across the desk and rip that folder out of her hands to read what it contained. That would be the only way I’d learn anything more than Mo deemed necessary.

  What little I knew about Frost was that he’d made major mistakes in Wichita. Sullivan sent him south to keep him out of sight. Devi had been in the dark about Frost, too.

  “Duncan had been working as a security guard for the Whitfield Clinic,” Mo continued. “Rehab and healing for patients capable of wielding magic can be a difficult process. The staff needed a wizard’s expertise with patients who became unstable and posed a threat to themselves and others. Unfortunately, Duncan became emotionally involved with one of them—a young woman. His feelings clouded his judgment. She convinced him to help her escape.”

  “Echo wasn’t at Whitfield voluntarily?”

  “Her parents committed her when she was a minor. The medical doctors who examined her did not understand what they were dealing with. When Professor Ashmore was brought in to consult, he did everything in his power to help her. Sadly, her condition deteriorated.” Mo closed the folder. “No judge in the Greater World would have considered her competent. Professor Ashmore and the Whitfield staff took her care seriously. They still do. That’s why retrieving her soul is imperative. The deaths of Duncan and Echo were a tragic accident that should never have happened. I’m asking you to not compound the tragedy by standing in the way.”

  I was all for exploring the gray areas between life and death, but why did Mo refer to Echo in the present tense? Maybe she’d been hanging around too long with vampires. “Why did you sic Zen on us?”

  “I didn’t send him,” she countered. “As soon as the staff realized Duncan and Echo were missing, they dispatched Zen. If he’d located them, both might still be alive.”

  I frowned. “When were they reported missing?”

  She opened the folder again and ran a finger down the page. “Between 8:30 and 9:00 P.M. Why?”

  “Just curious. Why did Echo’s parents commit her to Whitfield?”

  “She has spectral disorder.”

  “The disease is rare in the Nightingale Lands. It’s odd that someone on this side of the Pale would be afflicted. Doesn’t it run in your family?”

  Mo nodded. “That’s why this case is personal for me. Hundreds of years ago, alchemists could do nothing for sufferers except make sure they hurt no one else. The professor is working with doctors at the clinic to change that. The Greater World is more open to innovation, and that’s a good thing.” She let out a long breath. “I understand you believe you’re doing the right thing, Evie, but all you are accomplishing is to stand in the way of a great man and true progress on a horrific disease. The professor believes we can wipe out spectral disorder in our lifetimes. Don’t you want to be on the right side of history? Please, think about it.”

  “What was Echo’s birth name?”

  Mo shot me a sour look. “I’ve overstepped already and said more than I should. I’ve done so because I need your cooperation, Evie. Returning the magic to the clinic is the right thing to do. It’s what’s best for Echo. When we hear from Sullivan, you’ll discover that he agrees with me.”

  The way she kept referring to Echo as if she was still alive bugged me. Patients with spectral disorder far outlived normal lifetimes. I’d never heard anything about them surviving actual death.

  “What exactly do you think is best for Echo?” I asked.

  “You have her soul?”

  “Everything I could retrieve from the Mulberry Street site has been documented and properly contained according to MBI procedures.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have my assistant bring the new contract in for you to sign.” She pressed a button on her desk.

  “I’d still like you to send the message. Even if Sullivan can’t come personally, he’ll respond. Then we’ll both be on a firmer footing. I’m too new and inexperienced to appreciate what’s at stake here.”

  She hit me with another of her big-teeth-no-feeling smiles, which was Mo being Mo. I should have felt reassured or vindicated or something in that general ballpark.

  My lower back tightened as I rose, sending a needle of pain shooting up to the back of my neck. Was someone tracking me?

  I checked my phone. Only minutes had passed since Holden left. He had no reason to worry for my safety.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Evangeline. It won’t be forgotten.”

  Gratitude from Morrigan Shade—it was a thing, apparently—which did nothing to explain why the back of my neck continued to ache. I should feel good. All Holden and I had to do now was hang loose until we heard from Sullivan. I was confident he’d respond with a timetable for the bridge reopening and a plan to transport the car and the contents to safety on the other side of the Pale. That was why the Pale had been created—to protect magic and place it beyond the reach of those who would use it for evil.

  Things were coming to a natural conclusion. Logic and good sense would prevail.

  So, why was I worried and who was tracking me?

  Chapter 27

  I pushed through the revolving glass door of the office building and onto the sidewalk. Holden was where I expected to find him, in the next block where we’d parked the car. He stood on the sidewalk talking to Dylan Maddox.

  Crap.

  I headed for him at a fast walk, fighting the urge to run that was all but screaming at me from every muscle in my body. No matter how I tried to ignore it, the feeling that everything was about to slide off the rails wouldn’t go away.

  “Evie girl! There you are.”

  Gunny. Now what?

  He was seated on a bus stop bench with the duffle at his feet. He’d shoved his aviators on top of his head. For a change, his wintry eyes were bright with excitement. “Want to see how I do my map trick? I’m ready to show you.”

  “Not right now.” I glanced down the block. Holden and Maddox were still talking. How did they even know each other?

  “I need to show you, Evie.” Gunny used a serious tone that made the ache in the back of my neck pound even worse. “It’s time.”

  “I’m kind of busy right now.”

  His shoulders slumped, and then his sad puppy look appeared. I was a goner.

  One last check on Holden suggested he and Maddox were okay for now. They were just talking. What could go wrong on the sidewalk in the middle of the day? Besides, once Gunny latched onto something, he never let go. It was always easier to listen than to try to put him off.

  “Sure,” I said, sitting next to him on the bench. “Show me.”

  He opened a paper-bound book of maps. I didn’t catch the title, but it looked like one of the more popular tourist collections. After flipping through a few pages, he settled on one, dragging two fingers from the top of the page to the bottom. As his fingers passed over the paper, handwriting appeared.

  “How did you do that?” I asked. “Doesn’t disappearing ink need
to be treated with lemon juice or vinegar or something to make it show up?”

  Gunny grinned. “I don’t use disappearing ink.”

  “What did you use?”

  He tapped two fingers against his graying temple. “That which is within.”

  “Well, thanks. That was cool. I think.” I started to rise.

  He stopped me with a hand. “Don’t you want to see my trick?”

  “That wasn’t it?”

  “No,” he scoffed. “Looky here.” He pressed the flat of his hand over the page, pressing hard against the spine.

  “What am I supposed to see?”

  “Look close.”

  I reached for the book. “Can I hold it?” When it was in my hands, I studied the page. It displayed the conventional California coastline from San Francisco to Montemar. “So?”

  “Where’s the bridge?” he asked.

  “The bridge is closed. Everyone knows it only appears on maps when it’s open. Cal Guard learned that lesson the hard way.”

  Gunny snorted. “That’s what they think. Watch and learn.” He reached inside his jacket and brought out a pen and proceeded to draw a stick bridge on the map at the approximate location of the actual bridge. “Now, where’s the bridge?”

  Was he serious? Maybe he’d had a stroke. Or had he always been like this, and I’d never noticed? He’d always struck me as sharper and more with it than the other perpetual travelers along the coast.

  I was considering calling social services when he prompted me again, tapping two gnarled brown fingers against the blue of the map. “Where’s the bridge?”

  “It’s right there!” While I was pointing the spot on the map with one finger, I made the mistake of looking at him.

  “You sure about that?” No mistake, there was a cool and shrewd intelligence behind that gaze.

  I looked down. His drawing had disappeared. “I don’t understand.”

  “Make the bridge appear.” He leaned back and folded his arms.

  “Fine. How about this?” I drew a few lines to make a pathetic doodle of the bridge along with a blob shape about where Neverwood Island was located off the coast and added the names of both in block letters. “Satisfied?”