Sorcerous Flame (Harem of Sorcery Book 2)

by Lana Ames

  She gave me a fierce, agonized look. Again I felt the electricity from her, only this time it was less pleasant. But then she dropped her gaze, and the sensation stopped. She huffed out a sigh again. “You really don’t believe any of this, do you?”

  “Emma, I don’t know—I don’t know what to believe.”

  She was already rolling her eyes at herself. “I should have known. Maybe they were right. I just thought…” She broke off. “I’m sorry to throw all this at you like this. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “That’s all right.” I felt for her, even as I also felt that this was the weirdest thing that had ever happened to me…well, the weirdest thing that I could remember, anyway. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.” I got up and picked up my coffee mug.

  She got up as well with a sigh of resignation. “You’ve still got my card, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call me if you change your mind—no, call me if you have questions or anything.” She gave a rueful smile. “Or even if you want to have coffee again, and talk.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Not a tiny chance, I thought.

  We parted at the café door. I walked slowly back to the print shop, not turning around to see where she went. Trying not to think about it—any of it.

  I’d been sick, and I was clearly not entirely well yet. And I had a job to pay attention to.

  Chapter Two

  Back at the shop, Monique gave me an odd look. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I said. “Just…I guess I’m still a little tired.”

  “You want to head home early? You’ve still got plenty of sick leave saved up, and the flu is nothing to mess with this year, I hear.”

  I shook my head. “Nah, I’m tired of being at home. I think it’s good to push myself a little. I’ll take it easy tonight.”

  She studied me a moment. “Well, okay. But we don’t need those mats till Wednesday. If you change your mind, just say the word.”

  “Thanks.”

  I returned to the mat cutter, letting Monique take the front counter and the walk-in business, such as it was. The steady precision of the work soothed me. Measure, place the mat board; measure again, adjust if necessary; then cut, slowly but firmly. Remove, wipe away the dust and mat board shreds; repeat. Soon, the pile of cut mats had grown pleasingly high on the table beside me.

  Monique was headed to the front door to turn the “open” sign to “closed” at five-thirty when Mahlen O’Connor walked in. Mahlen was one of our regular clients, an artist who showed his paintings in local coffee shops and indie galleries. He’d never made it big like I thought he should. His work was great, but didn’t sell much, barely enough for him to scrape by. He just needed his one big break…and he deserved it.

  He was also just freakin’ adorable. Burly and redheaded, with a strong but sweet vibe. Green eyes, hair down to his shoulders in rumpled curls, and more often than not, flecks of paint on his earlobe or in his hair. Once I’d even seen a spot of paint on the tip of his nose.

  We’d had an ongoing gentle flirtation for over a year now, which had gone nowhere. I was too shy to just straight-up ask him out; I don’t know what the problem was with him. My attempts at casual conversation had eventually yielded up the information that he was single, and straight. And he did seem to like me.

  “Sorry to drop in on you guys last-minute like this!” he said now, giving both Monique and me a brilliant, apologetic smile and holding up a flash drive. “Can I get a large-format print of the dragon piece before you close up? I’ve already color balanced it and everything—we just need to run it off on the Debler.” He was already heading toward the back where we kept the computers and printers.

  “I’m sorry, Mahlen, not today,” Monique said. She turned the sign around and locked the door, then headed back to the counter. “I’ve got an appointment across town, and Grace has been sick. We can do it for you first thing tomorrow.”

  He turned and gave us both a look of desperation. “Oh jeez. I’ve got a collector wanting the piece tonight—and it might lead to something huge. He’s flying to Hollywood tomorrow morning.”

  “I can do it,” I said. “I don’t have to be anywhere.” I reached out to take the flash drive from Mahlen. Our hands touched…and there was that electricity again. I gasped in a breath, suddenly flushed and giddy.

  “Grace, no,” Monique said firmly. She rushed over to me and put a hand on my forehead. “You should be in bed—I should have sent you home hours ago.” She turned to Mahlen. “I’m really sorry.”

  I swallowed, took another breath, ready to comply like I always did in the face of strong authority, but… “No, I can do this,” I said. “I actually feel great. This is—” I waved a hand at myself, helpless to explain. And not wanting to, not to my boss, anyway. Or to Mahlen. Particularly not to him. “This isn’t a fever or anything. I feel stronger all the time.”

  She looked at me closely; I silently pleaded with her, wishing I was magic and could somehow communicate telepathically. We had never talked about it, but I suspected she knew how I felt about Mahlen. You’d have to be pretty dense not to…and Monique was sharp as a tack.

  At last, she gave an exasperated sigh. “All right. I’ve got to go—I’m late already. You make that one print and then go straight home and rest.” She turned to Mahlen. “And if she’s sicker tomorrow, I’ll not only personally wring your neck, but I’ll hunt down this collector and tell him you stomp on puppies in your spare time, that you pick your nose and eat what you find there, and that all your work is actually stolen from Russian orphans.”

  He grinned, trying to look all humble and abashed or whatever, but the relief and excitement in his eyes was winning out. “Thank you thank you, Monique! I owe you big time.”

  “Yes. You do.” Her stern tone was belied by the sparkle in her eyes. Mahlen was, indeed, adorable as can be. “See you tomorrow, Grace,” she said, then gathered up her purse and jacket and left, locking the door again behind her.

  I turned to Mahlen. “So. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  He followed me to the computer where I popped in the flash drive and started up the software. It took a minute to load; Mahlen pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “It’s the same piece we printed last month, but I made some changes to the background, lightening the sky a bit. And I tweaked the dragon some too.”

  “Sounds good…” I muttered as the picture filled the screen. “Ooh, yes, that does look better.” It had looked amazing before; now it was spectacular. This man really needed to get discovered.

  “I need a thirty-six by forty-eight inch giclée print.”

  I stopped and gaped at him. “Seriously? How’s the guy going to take that on an airplane? Do you not want it matted?” He wasn’t going to let it get rolled up, was he? That would totally damage the print.

  Mahlen grinned. “He’s got a private plane. Plenty of room.”

  “Ahh.”

  “So you see how important it is to get this to him without any drama or delay…”

  “I do, yes.”

  He leaned in, watching as I made a few adjustments onscreen, getting the file set for the printer we used for the largest pieces. His proximity was…distracting. I had been attracted to him for a year, but I’d never been this close to him. He smelled delicious. Was that just his soap? Or his shampoo? He didn’t even have flecks of paint on him, for once.

  I cleared my throat. “Um. Can you give me a little room here?”

  “Oh! Sorry.” Mahlen got up and stood back a few inches, as though he thought he was just jogging my elbow or something. In his defense, the printer area was crowded with, well, printers, and he couldn’t go very far and still be in the same room.

  “Thanks.” I tried to ignore his presence and concentrate on my work. It was a challenge. I sent the file to the printer, then remembered to get up and actually turn the printer on. Which of course messed with the settings, so I had to cancel the print and start over again.


  Finally, the big printer started rolling. I went and stood over it, watching to make sure the print heads were clean and the paper wasn’t in all wonky. It looked good.

  Mahlen came up behind me, looking over my shoulder. And there was that scent again…

  “Okay, there we go!” I said, a few minutes later when the print was done. This was one of our older printers without so many automatic bells and whistles, so I pulled the bar down on the huge paper-cutter attachment, scissoring it neatly, then lifted it off and set it on the drying table. “Just a few minutes for it to set. Want to talk matting?”

  He scrutinized the print carefully, nodding in satisfaction. “Yeah,” he said after a minute. “I’m thinking just the light grey we did last time, with the charcoal behind it?”

  “Perfect.” I had to squeeze past him to get to the stacks of mat board in their vertical shelves. As I brushed by, I felt that shock of electricity again…even stronger this time.

  Mahlen cleared his throat.

  I was obviously still a bit under the weather…it took me forever to find the right sheets of mat board. It was like I had no brain at all. It couldn’t have been that I was reacting to being so close to this man. Sure, I had a crush on him, but we’d been in this crowded room together before. He probably had things printed at least once a month.

  I’d never been alone in a closed-up shop with him, though…after hours…

  “Okay!” I said, when I finally found the right sheets. “Now just to get these cut…”

  He again stood nearby as I measured. “Um, I’m sorry, but…doesn’t that one want to be the larger?”

  “Oh!” I stammered, entirely flustered. I’d gotten the colors backwards, and almost ruined a whole sheet cutting it wrong. “Jeez, that was close. Thank you!”

  “My pleasure. After all, it’s my work you’re doing here. I have a vested interest in making it come out right.”

  I measured three times before cutting, and again three times before the second sheet.

  By this time, of course, the giclée print was totally dry—it really only takes a minute or so, even on a heavily saturated piece like Mahlen’s art—and I was able to get it matted, bagged, and wrapped in brown paper without looking like a total incompetent boob. “There you go!” I said at last, handing it to him.

  “My, what a huge package,” he said.

  I burst out laughing. “That’s what she said!” Then I clapped a horrified hand over my mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight, Mahlen, honest to god.”

  He took a step closer to me, his eyes dancing with merriment, though his expression was serious. We were in the front of the shop now, both behind the counter; I had been about to ask him whether I should ring him up now or if he would need to pay after he’d delivered the print and been paid himself. Outside, it had grown dark. It must be six-thirty, if not later.

  “Grace.” He swallowed. “Thank you so much for doing this for me.”

  “It was my pleasure,” I said, trembling a little. “You’re a good client of the shop. We like to take care of our own.”

  He nodded. “Yes, but that was above and beyond.” He blinked his lovely pale green eyes, seeming to struggle with something before adding, “I have to deliver this right away, but that will only take a few minutes. Then…I was wondering…could I take you to dinner?”

  I gulped. “Oh, gosh, that’s not necessary…”

  He put a hand on my arm. More sparks, oh how I loved those sparks. “I know it’s not necessary. I want to.” Then he dropped his hand, looking at it as if he didn’t know how it had gotten there. “I mean, if you want to go, um, out with me.”

  Mahlen O’Connor just asked me out! I wanted to run and hide; I wanted to shriek in delight and hop up and down. I settled for an awkward stammer. “Er, sure, okay, yeah.”

  He beamed, and it was like the sun came out all over again. “Great! So, uh, do you want to just come with me, or…?”

  “I have to close up here, and then I can meet you at—where are we going?” It was a short walk to downtown from here, I could probably get there in fifteen minutes or less.

  “I don’t know! What do you like? Italian? There’s a great place down by the water, Columbus House, we could go there.”

  I paused, thinking about which bus lines went to the waterfront, and what their schedules might be, and how long it would take to get there if one came right away, versus how long it would take if the city’s buses operated in the more usual way…

  Mahlen mistook my hesitation. “Or Asian! There’s an amazing Thai place just next door to Columbus House—”

  “No, it’s not that,” I hurried to reassure him. “I don’t have a car, and the waterfront is pretty far.”

  “Oh. Oh!” He thought a moment. “Well, let me just come back and pick you up, then. My client is only about ten minutes from here, if traffic is light. Then we can figure out where to eat on the way.”

  “Sure. I can do everything I need in twenty minutes.”

  “Great!” He gave me his adorable smile again, and turned toward the door. “See you soon!”

  “Don’t forget the print.”

  He turned around and smacked himself in the forehead with his open palm. “Ahh!” Then he gathered up the print and headed out—or would have, if they door hadn’t been locked.

  “Here, let me help you,” I said, giggling as I walked to the door with my set of keys.

  By the time he’d finally left, I was relaxed again, still laughing a bit as I thought about it all. He was at least as nervous as I was. But we were going out!

  What a strange day it had been… As I set the register to going through its end-of-day calculations and shutdown routine, I let my mind drift, trying to somehow take it all in. I thought back to my afternoon coffee with Emma Foster, and the strange story she told me, the even stranger request she’d made of me. Four boyfriends?? Look how dorky I was with even one guy who I’d had a crush on for a year! There was literally no way on this ever-loving green earth that I could handle such a thing.

  I shook my head, smiling. She’d seemed so disappointed. As if there had ever been a chance I’d say yes. And I did like her…maybe I should call her for another coffee date, eventually. After I saw where this thing with Mahlen was going…if it was going anywhere at all, beyond just a thank-you dinner from a grateful client.

  I hoped this collector of his took his art down to Hollywood in his private plane and did whatever amazing thing he was going to do with it with whatever bigwigs he was going to do it with, and the bigwigs discovered Mahlen and he hit it big—in whatever way old-fashioned artists hit it big in Hollywood, in this digital age. But he was so talented, so creative; surely they’d find a place for him somewhere. His gifts were wasted here in the city, hanging on coffee shop walls, selling for twenty and thirty bucks if he was lucky.

  I had just shut down all the computers and the few printers we left on all day and was switching off the lights when there was a knock on the door. I grabbed my coat and purse and went to join Mahlen.

  He ushered me into his car—an old ramshackle Toyota that smelled of paints and turpentine—and headed toward the waterfront. “How did it go?” I asked him, once he’d maneuvered out of the print shop’s neighborhood and onto a wide, fast-moving throughway.

  “Oh, fine. Sorry I’m a bit late—he wanted to unwrap your careful packaging and see the actual print. Can you believe it?” He grinned over at me a moment. “We put it all back together just as you had it, don’t worry.”

  “Not at all! I figure if he’s taking it on even a private plane, it should be protected.”

  “Yep.”

  Then we were awkwardly silent again for a minute. Oh jeez what if we don’t have anything to talk about at dinner, I suddenly fretted. What was I thinking? Probably I should have gone home and gone to bed early after all. Monique was right. I’d just been so sick, and now I was flooding my system with adrenaline and endo
rphins?

  “Well, here we are,” Mahlen said, breaking into my spiral of self-doubt. He was pulling the car into a tall parking structure. “I figure we can just put the car here, and then walk around and see what looks good.”

  “Sounds perfect to me.”

  Since it was a Monday night, the garage was sparsely filled, so we found a spot and were on the sidewalk in no time at all. “Columbus House is just there,” he said, pointing across the street. “If you want to look at the menu?”

  “Sure.” How did he know I’d never been there before?

  Well, the menu looked great, but… “Can you, um, afford this?” I asked.

  “Grace, did I not just sell a huge print to a collector who is taking my art to Hollywood on his private plane first thing tomorrow morning?”

  I chuckled. “Well, yeah, but how much do you sell prints for? That’s the only thing you know for sure about all this.”

  He patted his pocket, still grinning. “Enough to not only buy you anything you want on this menu, but to do it all over again tomorrow night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Come on.” He offered his arm, tentatively; I reached up and took it, and let him usher me inside, secretly thrilling at the implication of his words. He wants to buy me dinner night after night?!

  Ours is a casual city, thank goodness; the hip young woman at the check-in podium didn’t even glance at our jeans and sweatshirts before showing us to a lovely little table with a view of the sparkling harbor just outside. Nor did the waiter turn up his nose at us.

  Mahlen ordered a bottle of wine from a wine list he didn’t even let me look at, but not before determining that I like red wine better than white. I was going to draw the line at letting him order my dinner too, but apparently he was modern enough that he didn’t feel like he needed to go there.

  The wine arrived, and I ordered scallops on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes; Mahlen ordered lamb shanks. And the wine was delicious, and somehow all my nerves just fell away. We talked easily, as if we’d known each other for years. Well, we’d been acquainted a whole year, I supposed; but we’d never had a real conversation before, not like this. I learned that he’d moved to the city five years ago after growing up in a small town in the eastern part of the state; that he’d always been an artist but was only now trying to make an actual living at it (and doing about as well as I’d guessed: barely); and that he’d never been married but had come close once, to his high school sweetheart.