Dangerous Hexes

by A. L. Tyler

  She jotted it down on her pad. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nick raise a hand and shake his head. The server left.

  “You called?” I asked.

  Millie’s eyes wandered over me. Despite our mutual acquaintance, we’d never had the chance to work together. I supposed that having his girlfriend meet his secret crush might have ruined the fantasy for him.

  Her eyes stayed fixed on my hand, resting on the table. “I see Alex has a type.”

  I glanced down and saw my palm was starting to glow. I quickly moved my hand under the table, frowning.

  Millie’s lips spread into a charming grin as she shamelessly checked out Nick. “I see we have a type, too.”

  “We’re not together,” Nick said, returning her interested look.

  I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Nick was attractive, and he knew it, and he used it to his advantage whenever the opportunity presented. He’d used it against me when we’d first met.

  “Hmm,” Millie crossed her arms on the table, both gloved up to the elbow, as she leaned forward, lips parting slightly. “Lucky me.”

  “Why am I here?” I demanded.

  The spell broken, Millie sat up straight, giving me an acid glare. She slowly and deliberately removed her gloves. I tried not to stare.

  I knew about the scars from her file, but there weren’t any pictures. Millie had never been apprehended.

  The type of spell work that she used to pass through solid structures—like reaching into a bank deposit boxes—was difficult to learn. It required a lot of practice to perfect, and when one screwed up in the learning process, it yielded a painful reward.

  Both hands were scarred nearly beyond recognition. The skin and muscle were twisted, stretched, and broken. Deep gouges went all the way to the bone, the white a shocking contrast against the puckered purple tissue and red veins. Each monstrous finger had a carefully applied fake French nail.

  Doubtless she had perfected her method by experimenting on her hands because none of the rest of her was marred. Still, what she had done would never fully heal.

  “I need your help.” Millie’s voice was deadly cold and ruthless.

  I tried not to recoil from the horror of her mangled hands as she picked up her coffee again. I wondered how painful it was without the spells imbued in her gloves. “I can’t help with—”

  “Not you.” Her eyes flashed to Nick. “I need him. A Bleak handler.”

  “Him?”

  I glanced at Nick and saw the sexy spark in his eyes disappear. He shifted his weight.

  “Why would Millie Corm want the Bleak’s attention?” he asked.

  “All I want is for the Order to take a second look at what happened to Mabe. And, I’d like to report a crime.” She went for her bag and Nick reached for his gun. Millie flashed another fetching, slightly sarcastic smile before tossing the stolen necklace on the table. The gems, a large ruby oval surrounded by diamonds, glittered under the pendant lamp that hung between us. “This was my mother’s necklace. She left it to me, but I loaned it to Mabe shortly before she disappeared. She wouldn’t have left it behind. Funny enough, I recently found it in possession of George Roost, and I would like to report the theft. Also, I believe he was suspected at the time of my sister’s disappearance?”

  Chapter 8

  NICK STARED AT THE necklace. I stared at Nick. He cast a glance at me, and I shrugged. There wasn’t anything wrong with it—not except for the tracking spell that Millie had put on it, intended to pass to the next person to touch it. I picked it up and dismantled her spell in seconds.

  Millie looked slightly disappointed as I passed the necklace to Nick for inspection.

  “What about the fifty?” he asked.

  Millie’s eyes flashed. She pulled a few bills from her purse and slapped them on the table. “I was new in town and hadn’t hit an ATM yet. Old habits die hard, and fighting one’s nature is an uphill battle, so why fight it?” She winked, nodding at me. “I’m sure your partner can tell you.”

  “I am nothing like—”

  Nick held up a hand to stop me, and I tried to check my temper. My magic was pounding in my ears, and its fury wanted to get the better of me.

  Nick once again looked at the money and then at me. I slid the money across the table to him.

  He picked up the bills. “You’re swearing to me that this was all about Mabe’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you’re lying.”

  It was truly weird to be sitting on the same side of the table as Nick while he used interrogation techniques on Millie that he had once used against me.

  She pulled her gloves back on as the server approached with my food. “I’m probably lying. But you’ll reopen the case anyway, or I’ll make sure word gets out that Jette Driftwood has surfaced again, and she’s managed to become an even bigger traitor by tucking tail and running straight back to the Bleak. There are quite a few people looking for her right now.”

  We waited for the waitress to leave.

  “I’m aware.” Nick’s voice raised. “And you can go ahead. Word will get out soon enough, but if you want to ring the bell and bring them here, you’ll save us a lot of trouble hunting them down individually. I’d be more than happy to collect those bounties for less work than anticipated.”

  His phone buzzed and he glanced down. Only two words appeared on the screen: All clear.

  Nick looked back at Millie. “But as it happens, I’ve read your sister’s file. I agree something seems off. I’d be happy to ask George Roost a few more questions in relation to the possession of this stolen necklace.”

  Millie pressed her gloved fingers together, touching her lips as her elbows rested on the table. She slowly cocked her head to the side. “You’re Nicolas Warren. The daywalker.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it? You’re going to find Roost and you’re letting me go?”

  “Absolutely not.” Nick folded the fifty dollars that Millie had repaid and tucked it under the edge of an untouched plate of food. “Millie Corm, you’re wanted for crimes against the Bleak, including more than fifty instances of burglary and theft. The sentence for these crimes is life imprisonment. But first, we’ll see about George Roost.”

  Millie raised an eyebrow. “Why not just take me in now?”

  “Because I don’t like putting people away with unfinished business,” he said, standing up. “And I’m guessing you know that, because you picked me.”

  Millie’s lips twitched as she stood. She asked Nick’s help getting into her jacket and leaned against him as she slid her arms into the sleeves. Nick cleared his throat, looking away before he stepped back.

  He offered me a hand to help me up. I didn’t take it. I didn’t want to burn him.

  IT WAS AN AWKWARD RIDE to Nick’s apartment with Millie in the back sharing the intimate details of her life with Alex Mordley and trying to get me to compare.

  His laundry habits. His sleeping habits. His compulsive need to brag about being smarter than everyone else. His love of abusing the occasional human just within the bounds of the law. How he’d frequently talked about “getting rid” of certain people. He never actually did—not until after I left him, anyway. I’d stayed awake too many nights after his first confirmed murder wondering if I had been the angel on his shoulder, staying his hand, until my betrayal finally pushed him over the edge.

  Even when I was manipulating him, I’d hoped he would straighten out his life. He was a very intelligent man, but ultimately, and unfortunately, he was also a sociopath. And that wasn’t my fault.

  She talked about the way he kissed, and things even more intimate.

  I didn’t engage her. Alex and I had kissed exactly three times and that was it. Once to bait him through indulgence and twice because I didn’t evade fast enough.

  Our experiences were strikingly similar, even down to the fact that she had been at the Bleak’s academy when he recruited her. He gave us similar gifts. I didn
’t care to relive the experiences, and everything he’d ever touched was long gone from my life—everything except for me, and the mere memories made me want to take a shower.

  The situation didn’t improve when we arrived.

  “You should go home and get some sleep,” Nick said as we got out of the car. “I’ll watch her.”

  Millie gave me a lascivious wink.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I don’t need to work tomorrow. She can walk through walls. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  Nick smirked. “I have wards for that. Go home, Jette.”

  Millie strutted past me, her heels clicking on the pavement as she followed Nick. I tried to swallow my hatred for her, but I couldn’t. Seething, I got into my car.

  I pulled out my cell phone and started composing a long text about watching Millie, and things she’d reputedly done in the past, and how she was a compulsive liar.

  Then I deleted it. Nick knew, and I didn’t know why I suddenly felt I had to warn him.

  My fingers moved like lightning on the keypad. Am I still being watched?

  Nick responded promptly. I called them off, I don’t think Alex is involved in this. Do you?

  No. I absolutely didn’t. Not anymore, and Nick’s handler friends doubtless had better places to be than babysitting me.

  No.

  I drove past the front of his building slowly, casting a glance up at his windows. He was standing there, looking at the view of the mountains. The silhouette of Millie came up behind him, laying a hand on his chest. He moved away.

  I turned on the radio and drove home.

  THE GROCERY STORE, the gas station, the all-night burrito place, and home. The place felt empty, and I couldn’t sleep, so I opened my laptop. I logged back in to the Bleak’s database.

  I pulled up the case files for every handler I remembered at Joe and Farrow’s wake. Robert had said that everyone knew Samson Grift, and I was hoping that was true.

  Leah Westing had been staking out my apartment the night that everything had gone down with Bailey Gosling. She looked like a college co-ed, but her file said she had fae blood. Her service record went back far enough.

  Alan Tack might have been old enough, but his service record only had one or two years’ overlap with the time that I thought Grift would have been active. Kent Whilst was also there, but his usual range was on the west coast. Nick had been patrolling the mid-west in those days, so he was likely a dead end.

  I drew up my list of likely suspects and flicked on the television, snacking down half a box of donuts from the store to calm my nerves. I searched for a VoIP service to hide where I was calling from, and then I remembered that it was after midnight and my calls would ring suspicious no matter where I called from—the Order didn’t place calls outside of business hours unless it was critical. Questions about some guy who may have existed years ago were not mission critical.

  So I sat there stuffed with carbs and watching late night infomercials, sorting through boxes of Farrow’s stuff and wondering what I was supposed to do with all of his old framed pictures. Bury them, maybe?

  The television had nearly convinced me that I needed to buy a combination blender and cheese grater when I pulled over a shoebox stuffed with old mailers and candy bar wrappers. I almost decided to toss the whole thing, but I dug to the bottom just to be sure.

  And that was where I found it.

  An old print, heavily faded, but the two faces I could see drew my attention. One was Robert, looking twenty years younger and a hell of a lot sharper than the last time I’d seen him. The other guy was Nick, looking the same as today, but sporting an outdated hairdo and a blazer instead of his usual trench coat. There was another guy, turned almost fully away from the camera and facing the bartender, but the picture was so badly faded on that end that I could hardly see him.

  I turned the picture over. In bleeding ink, someone had written the date and names on the back.

  Rob, Warren & Sam

  Sam. I turned the picture back over, staring hard at the ghostly figure turned toward the bar. Samson Grift?

  There was no way of knowing, and no amount of digital enhancement was going to recover the image. But as I desperately searched the picture, I saw the name of the bar written on the bartender’s shirt: Felony Red’s. A quick search showed me that Red’s was still open, and it was only an hour away.

  I got in my car and drove.

  Chapter 9

  FELONY RED’S HAD SEEN a few renovations since the picture I held in my hands, but the facade behind the bar was still the same red brick. Low-back post-modern barstools surrounded high tables beneath bright red and white lights. The floors were dark black with a high-gloss finish that gave the startling illusion of walking on ice.

  Even though there was heavy bass music playing, it couldn’t hide the oceanic clash of so many magic signatures in the place. I ducked into the hall by the bathrooms to get my bearings and pretended to study a bulletin board that was wallpapered five layers deep with various advertisements and fliers.

  A political circular was posted in the middle of the mess. I raised an eyebrow; printed materials that detailed the goings on within the Order of the Bleak were illegal. They liked their anonymity where humans were concerned, and public paper trails were a nightmare waiting to happen.

  It would have been simple enough to require that anything of such a nature be constructed with a time-limited enchantment that caused the document to irreparably disintegrate. In fact, most—like the one in front of me—were already made that way to protect their makers.

  But the Bleak like controlling the public through fear. Being the sole proprietors and distributors of any and all information suited them.

  I sidled up and read the circular. Winston Pierce had been removed from his position as a senior aid to the Order. The circular claimed he’d been framed and imprisoned. The last I’d heard of Pierce, he was headed toward an early retirement due to a complex medical issue. The Order wished him well and thanked him for his service.

  And yet, reading a single-page printout next to the toilets, posted between ads for prostitutes, lost dogs, local bands, and questionable male enhancements, I was inclined to believe the flier.

  That was politics in my world, though. Same now as always.

  The bartender eyed me nervously as I turned back toward the main room. He was a big guy. Too big to be human, and even though I knew the Bleak claimed control of this area, the plain circle pendant hung around his neck told me I might have fallen afoul of some local territories.

  “Do you have a reference?” he demanded, walking over to corner me. He stopped an arm’s length in front of me, clasping his hands.

  “A reference?” I asked.

  “Who told you to come here?” His voice was calm, deep baritone, but he didn’t need to threaten me. His whole person was a threat. He was bigger than a pro wrestler, and the suit he wore only made him more intimidating.

  His size, and the pendant of the Packs, told me he was a shifter. As he didn’t appear to be working for the Bleak, his presence meant he wasn’t afraid of breaking a few laws.

  I pulled the photograph from my bag, staring down at the bartender in the picture. No way that stick figure was this guy.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”

  I turned to go, but a hand the size of a baseball mitt landed on my shoulder. “You’re not a handler.”

  Well. Technically. “No.”

  “Why’d you come here?”

  I took a deep breath. For a giant, his touch was surprisingly subtle. “I was looking for whoever took this photograph.”

  I turned back to face him as his dark eyes settled on the print in my hands. He jerked his head back toward the bar.

  “Come on. Sit.”

  I sat. He uncapped a beer for me and hunched over the bar as he studied the photograph. His eyes assessed me as the red lights highlighted the grease in his combed-back hair.

&nbs
p; “You knew Robbie?”

  “I met him once.”

  He thrust one beefy finger at the picture. “Friend of Nick?”

  I wasn’t sure what the right answer to that was. “It’s complicated.” I pointed at the man on the end before turning the picture over. “I’m looking for someone who knew Sam.”

  He turned the picture back over before pulling another beer from beneath the bar. He uncapped it with a flick of his thumb, grinning.

  “You knew Sam?” I asked.

  “Everybody over a certain age knew Sam around here.” He took a drink, eyes glistening. “Sam was a real asshole. Wild card. He saved as many people as he screwed over around here.”

  I frowned. “Where is he now?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  I didn’t want to leave my name. My name drew enough attention and trouble on its own, let alone the possibility that anyone reported my actions to someone who might care.

  Like Nick.

  Or the Bleak.

  “Okay.” He set his beer down before offering his hand. “My name’s Jason Wolff. I’m fucked six ways to Sunday if you tell them I’m here. Who the hell are you?”

  I hesitated. He was right; the name “Wolff” was an honorary title in the Packs. I was speaking with a political enemy of the Bleak, and my actions in this moment could be construed as treason all over again.

  But he knew something I needed. I let him close his fist around my hand. “Jette Driftwood.”

  He looked impressed. Then his eyes narrowed. “Ms. Driftwood. There’s a pretty price on your head.”

  “Jealous that mine’s bigger than yours?” Turning in a Wolff meant big money, but they ran in packs, and there was only one Jette Driftwood. It would take ten Wolffs to match my former bounty. “Not anymore, though. I’ve been absolved. Where is Grift?”

  Jason’s eyes fell. “Prison, last I heard. The Bleak got him.”

  “But you knew him?”