by D. G. Swank
From the look on Brandon’s face, I was guessing nobody had ever challenged one of the nicknames he’d bestowed.
“Okay, Phoebe,” he corrected, “this isn’t a dead end, because we’re going in, one way or another.”
As he put on a macho show of cracking his knuckles, swinging his shoulders back and forth, and then backing up, I rolled my eyes and held my hand out toward the door. I pressed my other hand against the necklace that rested at my collarbones, imagining the power that had flowed through my ancestor’s bones flowing through mine. I closed my eyes and spent a second sensing the barrels of the lock, then commanded them to spin and click open.
Brandon tilted his shoulder down and used all his momentum to run at the door. Just as he was about to slam himself against the heavy wood, the door swung open—thanks to me.
He fell through the open doorway as the door moved itself out of his path, then tumbled onto the hardwood floor inside, which didn’t even have a rug thrown over it to cushion his fall.
I winced, and mostly succeeded at stifling the sound of my amusement.
He sat up and caught the look on my face, putting two and two together instantly. “You could have warned me, you know,” he grumbled.
I walked up to him and reached down to help him up. “You could have considered that there might be another option for opening the door. I’m not useless. I thought I proved that at the bank.”
Now standing at his full height, he reached a hand up to my face. It was all I could do to keep my composure as he rested his fingertips against my neck, which betrayed my pounding pulse, and stroked my jaw lightly with his thumb. I knew I should shove his hand away, but I was curious to see how far he’d take this. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I almost believed it too.
“No, you’re definitely not that, little…Phoebe.” His plaintive tone was enough of an apology for me, and I responded with a soft smile.
I stepped out of his reach as we surveyed the dark space around us. Brandon had been right about the magical darkening—it was a simple enough charm for a middle schooler to master, but quite effective. Rowan had started using that particular charm beginning in tenth grade, whenever she wanted to make out with a boy in his car in our driveway but didn’t want our whole family spying. Mom had been prouder of her charm work than she was bothered by Rowan kissing a boy in front of our house.
“It’s almost completely empty,” Brandon observed. He took a whiff of the air, then pulled a face. “The smell of this spellwork is enough to fill up the space on its own.”
I breathed in, paying close attention. Just like in our house, the scent of an overcooked sweet treat filled the air.
“Anybody home?” his voice boomed out.
I pulled in a shuddering breath when his shout echoed against the empty walls. They were bare, painted white as far as I could see. The living room held two futon couches and a floor lamp. No coffee table, no rugs, no throw blankets lying around. Nothing to suggest this place was an actual home.
I followed Brandon into the kitchen, where the scent intensified. A search through the cabinets yielded little more than some powdered sloth brain and ground freshwater pearls—simple, legal ingredients for several medicinal potions and definitely not harmful on their own. Wintergreen, lemon rind, powdered snail shells, and other household ingredients filled in the gaps.
“From what I’ve read, it’s all pretty standard for kitchen work,” I mumbled.
“Never much trusted potion work,” Brandon said as he looked around. “You can stir something up and never be a hundred percent sure how it’ll affect you. Every witch’s biology and relationship to magic is different, which is why the Council is right to ban it.”
“That’s like saying people shouldn’t color their hair because they’ll each get different results depending on their natural color.”
He shot me a dark scowl. “That’s not the same thing at all.”
In a way he was right, but I couldn’t help but question his vehemence. I’d always presumed potion making was wrong because that was what I’d been taught, but after talking to Caroline, I had to wonder. It seemed unfair that witches and mages whose magic was based on powwow were cut off from it simply because there was the potential to do evil. This family had historically used them for just that, but that didn’t mean most would.
I could see I wasn’t going to change Brandon’s mind, and no purpose could be solved dwelling on it.
I left the kitchen, Brandon on my heels, venturing into what served as the dining room. It held an intricately carved table whose polish had been almost entirely worn off by use and age. A lone chair with a threadbare upholstered cushion sat at the end of it. The room was otherwise empty.
“This is bizarre,” I muttered. “Who lives like this?”
“To be fair, your house is the definition of ‘cluttered,’” Brandon said.
“It is not,” I said, moving down the one hallway in the house toward the back rooms. He never lost a step, still trailing close behind me. “It’s cozy. And how could you tell? It was ripped apart when you saw it.”
“By the amount of debris I had to walk around.”
Thinking about home brought with it an acute pain. Despite my complicated feelings about the place where I grew up, I already missed the smell of Rowan’s cooking, the sound of Celeste’s laughter, and the sensation of being surrounded by so many good memories. All my favorite sweatshirts, books, coffee mugs, and little idle craft projects were tucked into the corners of that house.
The bathroom here was pristine, and uncluttered, but the sink and other surfaces were coated with a fine layer of dust, just like the rest of the house. I flipped up the toilet lid.
“No running water,” Brandon observed.
“Looks like this guy was either using magic to flush, or doing it manually to stay off the grid. Or maybe he left and wasn’t planning on coming back anytime soon,” I said.
“Nice detective work, Agent Whelan,” Brandon teased. “But the smell says he hasn’t been gone that long. He was casting spells in this space less than a week ago. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Maybe, but this seems like it was always a temporary shelter, not a home.”
The longer we were in there, the easier it was to pick up on the trace scents that Brandon seemed to be overwhelmed by—vanilla and smoke, in particular, seemed to have been absorbed into the walls.
He paced through the living room, then back through the kitchen. I followed him this time, idly using Grandma Corlew’s power to flick the drawers open and peer inside them one more time. My grasp on the power wasn’t as precise as I’d want it to be, however, and the last drawer in the row slid out with a nearly violent force. As it did, a small square of cardboard came flying out. I snatched it out of midair before it could land on the floor, and trotted up behind Brandon, who was now pacing down the hall, knocking on the walls.
Almost breathless with the force of the borrowed power, I said, “Look what I found.”
A matchbook advertising the Cauldron. Two straggling sulfur-tipped cardboard sticks clung to its interior, along with the handwritten inscription—Tuesday 10:00.
Oh, stars, that was today.
Brandon held his hand out as if waiting to receive a precious gem or a baby bird. I handed him the matchbook, and he stared at it for an intense second, then folded his fingers around it and grinned.
“Good job. You just found our next lead.” He grabbed my hand, tugging me to the front door.
He held my hand all the way to the car, and I had to wonder what game he was playing. Then, in the next breath, I asked myself the same question.
“The Cauldron only serves magical clientele,” Brandon explained as we careened down the driveway, kicking up dust in our wake. “It’s been around since before the Declaration of Independence, passed down from one magical family to another.”
“Witches?” I asked, loving the idea of generations of women
running a bar, of all things.
“Let me take the lead on this one,” Brandon said. “This place tends to get a little rough, and I don’t plan to announce I’m with the Protective Force. In fact, maybe you should wait outside.”
“Not a chance.”
He pushed out a long sigh. “Then will you promise to be careful?”
I answered him with a grin. The only thing I would promise was that I would do anything to find my sister.
Chapter Eleven
After a short ride through two-lane streets lined with vibrant autumn foliage, we approached a roadside clearing preceded by a large gravel rectangle. As we drove onto the rough pavement, I stared at our car’s exterior as it shifted and shimmered under the glamouring spell that must have been placed over the entire property. Birds flitted through the sky, bees buzzed between blooms, and a gentle breeze made everything sway gracefully along with it. What had appeared to be an empty lot grown over with weeds actually held a ramshackle house.
“That’s some nice spellwork,” I breathed.
Rowan could glamour smaller objects with insanely intricate detail—she could turn a bike into a sports car, for example, or blend an entire person into the side of a building. On occasion, she could manage a large mirage, but this, masking acres of land, was on a much bigger scale and must have taken more than one witch to accomplish.
“It’s an old property,” Brandon said. “Guarded by more than one type of magic too. In fact, I bet we could do something like this to your house once we—”
“Nope,” I said, cutting him off. “It’s not like we’re entertainers of the year, but people would eventually start asking questions about where the hell our house went. I love my house, but I really like my job at the library too. Not to mention interacting with people other than my sisters.”
There it was again. That wave of sickness rolling through my gut at the thought of my sisters. Would we ever be together again? It already felt so wrong not being able to connect with Celeste. On instinct, I tapped into my connection with Rowan. Not enough to startle her—it could be jarring to have someone suddenly in your head—but enough to do a bit of a long-distance aura check. She was calm, her energy low and her thoughts flitting lazily from one topic to the next. She must be asleep. Even though Rowan rarely napped, it had been a very difficult couple of days. It brought me a measure of relief to know that at least one of us was getting some rest.
As we walked inside the Cauldron, I tried to remind myself to be positive. We might not be able to connect with Celeste, but our bond was strong—Rowan and I would know if she were dead.
While standing in the shadows of the vestibule, I looked around, relieved to see several mages sitting at the bar, and only a handful of witches. This meant I had a reasonable chance at holding my own in the questioning department, although some of the men looked pretty rough. A group of them sat around one of the tables, shooting hungry looks in my direction, most likely because they didn’t see Brandon, who stood deeper in the shadows.
“I don’t like the looks of them,” Brandon said.
“I’m going to take that last empty seat at the bar,” I announced, hoping my makeup was still okay from when I’d applied it hours ago. I was lucky enough to have naturally dark brows and lashes, and reasonably defined cheekbones, so I didn’t always use the stuff.
“You’re not doing that,” Brandon said, darting his hand out to grab my wrist. Instantly, I stiffened and whirled back around to face him.
“What did you say?” I asked, feeling outrage fill every cell of my body. We’d just had this conversation, dammit.
“Any one of those guys could strike you down dead where you stand,” Brandon said. “I know it’s not my place to tell you what to do, but please, don’t make me stand by and watch you get hurt by one of these idiots.” Anxiety wrapped around his every word.
This was one instance where I wished I had a nearby relative who’d been blessed with aura magic. Was he being sincere? But all I could do was judge on what I heard and saw, and something in his eyes convinced me that he was at least a little bit worried, enough to make me soften a little. “I appreciate your concern. Truly. But would you talk to a woman if she had a big, muscly man standing in her wake?”
“You don’t have to do this at all. It’s my job.”
“It’s my sister and the book is my responsibility, which makes it my job too.”
He shuffled from foot to foot for a couple seconds, looking like he wanted to come up with an argument but couldn’t. Smart man. He must have realized the only way I was leaving was if he carried me out, which would create a fuss. He scanned the bodies sitting at the bar one more time and, with a clenched jaw, said, “I don’t like this.”
“Well,” I said, squaring my body to his, “I don’t like not knowing where the hell my sister and the Book of Sindal are, so deal with it.”
Especially my sister.
Tension pulled my shoulders back in tight bands. I was willing to bet he didn’t understand my ancestral talent very well, and I hadn’t explained the role of my jewelry in the powers I was able to access. I could fend for myself, but I suspected I’d do well to keep the details to myself.
I walked away without another word and slid between two men at the bar. The man to my right was dressed in a collared shirt and tie and wore a hairstyle that screamed professional. The man on my left looked blue-collar. Both of them seemed nicer and more approachable than the guys at the table, who were still watching me.
Every cell in my body wanted to say something to one of the men, to cut to the chase, but I knew it wouldn’t be smart. People in a place like this didn’t take kindly to questions.
I snuck a look at Brandon. He’d waited a good ten seconds before entering the bar, taking a seat at a table near the rough-looking group. I could see he was trying to ignore me, but he snuck a long, worried look in my direction.
Well, here went nothing. I blew out a long breath, softly enough that I hoped the men sitting beside me wouldn’t notice. After what seemed like hours, the bartender, a middle-aged woman with apple cheeks, a rat’s nest of blond hair piled on her head, and doughy curves walked over to my seat.
“What’ll it be, hon?”
“Flaming Slap on the rocks.” I managed to keep please from coming out of my mouth, thinking a lack of manners would make me seem tougher. It was damn lucky I had a favorite magical drink, even if the name didn’t exactly roll off my tongue. The mixture of Cinna-Stun whiskey and cola was the first drink Rowan had ever made for me, something she’d tried on a trip to Cleveland. I hadn’t felt like myself that night, and the disconcerting experience of losing my inhibitions had put me off alcohol ever since.
The woman nodded, and with a flourish, spun the bottle of Stun twice before pouring two generous shots into a glass.
“Nine bucks even,” she said, setting it down in front of me without even the slightest slosh.
“Oh,” I stammered. “Let me—”
I’d left my purse and wallet in the car, and I was fairly certain I didn’t have any cash in my pockets. Still, I stuck my fingers in each of them in turn, hoping a ten-dollar bill would somehow materialize.
“On me,” the mage to my left said. His voice was a tenor, calm and soft, and something about it instantly made me feel serene and warm all over.
“Thank you,” I said, using this as an excuse to sneak a look at him. He was young, probably twenty-one at the oldest, wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and steel-toe boots. The entire ensemble had a grayish-brown tinge to it, like he’d been working outside all day and only half-dusted himself off before coming in here.
He considered me for a moment, then nodded his head once. “Haven’t seen you in here, ever.”
“Just passing through,” I said. “I’m meeting someone, a mage.” I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “He dabbles in magic and botany…”
“Oh.” He squinted at me. “Hope it’s not Mark Bieler.”
Hearing his name took m
e aback, and not only because I couldn’t believe my luck.
His eyebrows shot up when he saw my reaction. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’ll be waiting awhile. The lily-livered coward split town.”
It took me a moment to regain my wits. Lily-livered coward? Had I walked into an eighteenth-century pirates’ tavern? I couldn’t afford to smart-ass my way out of answers, though.
“He did?” I squeaked, trying to sound disappointed. Brandon caught my eye and frowned, but the slightest shake of my head kept him in his seat. “Damn.”
“Couldn’t handle the heat, so he got out of the kitchen—took that old-world broad with him and scrammed.”
“He ran off with a woman?” I translated, mostly for myself. Seven hells. What if he was talking about Celeste?
The mage’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d suddenly smelled something off about my reaction.
Took him long enough.
“Seems strange he wouldn’t have let a client know he was leaving town. Even if he did leave in a hurry.”
“Well, it’s kind of… confidential,” I improvised.
His knuckles went white clutching his beer glass as he eyed me up and down. “What kind of confidential?”
More nervous than I’d ever been in my life, I said, “If I told you, it wouldn’t be very confidential, would it?”
He looked slightly amused, but then he leaned in close and took a long sniff of my hair.
I tried to lean back. “Excuse me?”
“I knew it,” he ground out.
“Knew what?” I asked, my heart pounding wildly.
“I’ve told them time and time again they should be more careful about letting rats in here,” the man muttered, glaring at the unsuspecting bartender. He took a long pull of his beer, leaving only a thin layer of foam at the bottom of the glass, then slammed it down.
“Martha?” he bellowed. The bartender walked up to us and smiled at him like a mother would one of her teenage sons.
“Yeah, Klaus, honey?”
“Do me a favor and let me know when the Council scum leave the area.” He got up and strode out, not looking back.