Spellbound

by Kelley Armstrong

  We jogged to the theater parking lot, hoping to see him peel out. No luck. He'd delivered his message and made his escape.

  "Damn," I said as we walked back. "I was really hoping he was nuts. No one listens to crazy people."

  Adam shrugged. "As far as most people are concerned, anyone talking about raising the dead is crazy. I doubt he's worth worrying about, but the council will need to follow up. This will help." He lifted his cell phone. He'd snapped a photo of the sorcerer. It was a decent shot, enough to confirm that I'd never seen the guy before in my life. Adam sent me a copy, and I filed it away to pass around to some contacts later.

  We waited for Jaime in her dressing room.

  "Well, that was a new one," she said as she walked in. "Normally supernaturals give me crap for being too open with my powers. Did you catch up to the guy?"

  I shook my head. "Adam got a photo and we know his type--sorcerer, though that was obvious from the fog spell."

  "He seemed to recognize Savannah," Adam said uneasily.

  "And, for once, it wasn't just someone mistaking me for my mother. He said my name. Made me feel special."

  "Just what you need." Adam grabbed a bottle of water from the tray. "Anyway, if Hope's feeling up to it, we should get her to run with the story."

  Hope's day job was working for a tabloid. Specifically, she covered the paranormal, everything from Bigfoot sightings to alien encounters. Having her write about the incident might seem ill-advised, but that was how we handled a lot of exposure threats. Hope covered it, sprinkling in enough false information to throw serious paranormal investigators off the trail. Something like this was bound to hit the Internet, and nothing made people say "bullshit" like having the story featured in True News.

  "There's something we need to talk to you about, too," Adam said. "The real reason we're here."

  He glanced at me and, for a second, I didn't know what he was talking about. Then it all rushed back.

  "What's up?" Jaime opened an icy bottle of water as she settled into a chair. "Jesse isn't suffering from any lingering effects, is he? That kind of possession can leave serious psychic bruises. They'll take time to heal."

  "He's fine. It's me. I . . ." I've lost my spells. My power. It's gone. The words stuck in my throat.

  "Are you okay?" She tightened the cap back on the bottle and rose. "I'm sure you're not, but--" She stopped, gaze shifting to the right in a look I knew well.

  "Ghost?" I said.

  She nodded, then rose and turned to the newcomer. "If you were sent to protect me, you're about an hour late."

  "Hey, Mom," I said.

  I said it casually enough, but it didn't feel casual. It never does. When my mother first became Jaime's spirit guide, the Fates had threatened to end the relationship if Mom had too much contact with me. God, how I'd hated that. Threw tantrums. Screamed at the heavens. Cursed the Fates the way only a fifteen-year-old would dare.

  Over the years, I'd come to realize they were right. If we couldn't be together, we couldn't keep pretending we were. We both had to move on. Still I loved being able to have some contact with my mother, and it was hard, knowing she was right there and I couldn't see her, couldn't hear her, couldn't touch her. Couldn't be with her.

  "It's not your mom, Savannah," Jaime said.

  Not Mom? Who else would come to protect her? No, not come. Jaime had said "sent." Who would be sent to protect Jaime?

  "My father."

  When she nodded, I turned to the empty air and said, "Hey." Again. It was as casually as I could say it, but there was nothing casual about it. I couldn't even say "Hey, Dad," because Kristof Nast had never been my dad. I'd only met him a few days before he died. Died at my hands. Caught up in a storm of grief, thinking he'd had Paige killed, I'd launched a knockback spell so hard it threw him against a concrete wall. I'd been in a trance state, so everyone thinks I don't remember what happened. But I do.

  So does he, I'm sure, but when I brought it up once through Jaime, he stuck to the fiction that he'd died when the house collapsed. He said it was his own fault, that he'd screwed up trying to get custody from Paige, and he regretted that. But he was with my mother again so he was happy, even if he did miss his sons and the chance to really get to know me.

  I missed that, too. Sometimes I think about what it would have been like if Mom was still alive and Kristof had come back into our lives. I knew from my half brother, Sean, that our father had been everything he could have wanted in a dad, maybe everything I would have wanted, too. Only I'll never get the chance to find out. Not really.

  Anyway, awkward. Just all-around awkward.

  "If you guys need to talk," I said, "we'll step out and--"

  "No, he's here for you," Jaime said. She glanced his way, listening. Then she blinked, startled. "Can't you just--?" A pause and her cheeks flamed. "No, of course. Right. Okay, well . . ." She forced lightness into her voice. "Just take good care of it. I put a lot of work into making it just the way I want it."

  "What's he--?" I said.

  Jaime's head jerked back. The water bottle fell from her hand.

  "Savannah."

  Jaime's voice was pitched low, the inflections wrong. She'd let my father take over her body. Full-channeling, something she'd once claimed she'd never let a ghost do. Since then she has a few times, with my mother. She trusts her. My father? Not so much.

  I knew he scared her, though she tried to hide it. In life, Kristof Nast had scared most people. He'd been the heir to the most powerful Cabal in the country, a corporation that gained and maintained its position through raw, merciless ambition. According to everyone who'd known my father, he'd been perfectly suited to lead the company. Even my mother called him a ruthless bastard, though coming from her, that was a compliment.

  My mother loved him. Jaime tolerated him only because of that. Yet she trusted he wouldn't have any reason to keep her body, so she'd let him do it once before, the first time we "met" after his death. To allow it again . . . ?

  Something was wrong.

  "What's--?" I began.

  "Sit, Savannah. Please."

  I did.

  "Your mother wanted to be here," he said. "But the Fates have sent her on a mission, and if she'd made a stop to see Jaime, they'd know it was to speak to you."

  Figures. The Fates were always sending my mother on errands. That was the bargain she'd made to return Paige and Lucas from the afterlife. Don't even ask how they ended up there--long story--but to get them returned, Mom agreed to do a favor for the Fates, which somehow turned into years of favors, proving that when it comes to dealing with otherworldly entities, it's not just the demons you have to watch.

  "I need to talk to her," I said. "Or to the Fates. Can you arrange that?"

  "I could," he said. "But . . . I know what happened last night, Savannah. With your powers. That's why I'm here."

  My hands trembled with relief. "Good. Thank you. It was a mistake. I wanted to fix the mess I made, but I didn't seriously mean I'd give up my powers. I didn't even say it out loud."

  "Someone took advantage of you, sweetheart. A bargain requires a spoken or written binding agreement, not just a thought or a wish."

  I managed a smile. "Next time, I'll call you. You're the expert in demon deals."

  He chuckled. "True, but in general, my advice would be simply not to make them. In this case, though, you clearly were not making a bargain. We have no idea how such a thing could be accomplished. That's what the Fates have your mother investigating."

  "The Fates? But they're the ones who did this." My heart battered my ribs. "Aren't they?"

  "The Fates can be as devious and underhanded as any demon. But they aren't responsible for this, and they have no idea who is."

  I was screwed.

  My father assured me that my mother was on the case, and so was he and this would all be resolved. Of course they'd say that. Of course they'd mean that. But if the Fates didn't know who'd zapped my powers, I was screwed.

&nb
sp; Even if my parents found the demon responsible, I couldn't negotiate with it the way I could with the Fates. I'd have to reverse the whole deal, give up what I'd gotten in exchange for my powers.

  That didn't matter to my father. Yes, he agreed it was terribly tragic for this little girl and her grandmother, but Lucas could help with the court case and Paige could make sure Kayla had a good foster home until it was resolved. What was important here was me. My mother felt the same way. Both my parents were fiercely loyal to friends and family. The rest of the world? Not their concern. It was a view I'd thought I shared until, given the choice between saving myself and putting Leah back in hell, I'd chosen to spare her future victims.

  My father mentioned that, too. Nothing overt, just a reference to "that business in the warehouse," telling me it was very brave, and under no circumstances was I ever to do it again. Pretty much the same message Mom had passed on. Terribly noble, but there'd be no more of that, thank you very much.

  As for my situation, I let my father assure me it would be resolved. I let him advise me to lie low in the meantime. I let him ask Adam to take care of me while I was vulnerable. I discussed it all very calmly and maturely, and I did the same with Jaime when she returned.

  After that I said I needed a few minutes alone, and left the theater. Then I lost it. Started shaking uncontrollably, panic choking me until I gasped for breath. I vented my rage and frustration on the nearest wall, and I wouldn't have stopped if Adam hadn't appeared. He pulled me away and held me tight, letting me pummel his back instead until I realized what I was doing and threw my arms around his neck and cried. Sobbed like I hadn't since the day I'd finally accepted that my mother was gone and she wasn't coming back.

  Now my powers were gone. And they weren't coming back either. I was as lost without them as I'd been without her.

  I cried until I realized I was crying. Me. Savannah Levine. Breaking down like a little girl. I pulled back from Adam, my cheeks burning, my heart thudding against my ribs, the walls of the alley closing in, Adam standing too close, watching me too carefully.

  I took a step away.

  "Don't, Savannah," he said softly. "Please don't run."

  "What am I going to do?" I whispered. "Without my powers, I'm--"

  "Exactly the same person you are with them. Just a whole lot less dangerous."

  He was trying to make me smile. Instead, fresh tears filled my eyes.

  I was Savannah Levine, ultrapowerful spellcaster. Daughter of a Cabal sorcerer and a dark witch. Without my powers, I'd be a human PI working for an agency specializing in supernatural cases. As useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle.

  It wasn't just that I needed my powers to investigate cases. I had a contact list filled with the names of unsavory supernaturals that Paige and Lucas couldn't get near. Unsavory but well-connected supernaturals who'd reached out to me because I was the daughter of Eve Levine. If they realized I was spell-free, they'd stop taking my calls. Then I'd have nothing to offer the agency. Nothing to offer Paige, Lucas, Adam . . .

  My gut clenched and I staggered forward. Adam grabbed for me, but I pushed him away and ran.

  Another theater down the road had just gotten out, and the sidewalk was jammed with strolling patrons, in no rush, just chatting about the show. I weaved past little old ladies with walkers and shuffling old men.

  Just move. Please. Just move!

  My head started to throb as I slowed to a walk. I squeezed my eyes shut. Just what I needed. More headaches. I'd been having them for days, and I'd assumed they'd been part of the poison Leah fed me, but--

  I stopped, ignoring the curses of a middle-aged couple that crashed into me.

  Headaches. They'd started when I first went to the commune, then seemed to come and go at random. Only it wasn't random. It happened every time the witch-hunter was near me.

  I looked out over the sea of faces--

  A hard blow to the back of my knees made my legs buckle. I fell against an old woman and she tumbled off the curb with a shriek.

  Headlights flashed. Someone screamed. I wheeled to yank the woman back. The headlights veered out of the way as the truck driver swerved for the middle of the road. Metal crunched. Glass shattered. Hands grabbed onto me. Adam dragging me onto the sidewalk, the old lady, too.

  He released the old woman and kept tugging me along. I wrenched out of his grasp and looked around for the witch-hunter. But the crowded sidewalk was a mob now, pressing in from all sides. People shouted. Cameras flashed. The stink of burning rubber filled the air.

  I pushed my way back to the curb. The old woman sat on it, another woman crouched before her, asking questions. She seemed fine. In swerving to avoid her, though, the truck had hit a delivery van. The van driver lay across his steering wheel. One man yanked on the jammed driver's door as a woman cleared glass from the broken windshield so they could pull him out.

  I started forward.

  Adam caught my arm. "Nothing you can do," he whispered. "We need to go."

  six

  My parents might want me to lie low, but I was old enough to make decisions for myself. The accident outside the theater told me I had to get this witch-hunter bitch. I had enough deaths on my conscience already.

  To my relief, Adam agreed. He also agreed that we shouldn't tell Paige and Lucas yet. They'd be back from Hawaii in two days, and I had to warn Paige first, but until then, they should continue enjoying their vacation.

  We got a hotel room for the night. A good hotel this time, on a floor requiring elevator card access. Far from perfect security, but it would slow down the hunter if she came for me.

  We shared a room. Hardly the first time we'd done that. I used to wish it was a problem, suggesting that Adam found the situation a little too tempting. He didn't. That night, I was glad of it. I didn't want to be alone.

  It was past midnight by the time we got the room. I took a shower to clear my head while Adam called for takeout pizza. By one thirty, we were stretched out on one of the double beds, each working on our laptops, eating pizza, and drinking beer from the mini bar.

  While Adam researched witch-hunters, I checked out the information "Amy" had put on her cookie-cult application. We talked as we searched. Neither of us is good at doing anything in silence, a fact that drives Paige and Lucas to distraction in the office, as we call out our finds between the reception desk and Adam's office.

  "She's not Amy Lynn Tucker from Phoenix," I said, turning the laptop to face him. "Surprise, surprise."

  He glanced at the Facebook photo on the screen. "Looks similar, though."

  The girl who was hunting me was about the same age as Amy Lynn--nineteen--and had the same mousy brown hair, sallow skin, and thin build.

  "Could be related," Adam said. "I'm going through the information my dad sent"--he'd asked his father for everything he knew on witch-hunters, without suggesting we'd found proof they existed--"and there were a couple of old reports of incidents in Arizona. Did the girl have an accent?"

  "I don't think I ever heard her talk."

  I pulled up a list of Tuckers from the Arizona DMV--Paige has us hacked into most DMVs in the country. There were no more Tuckers at the address given on the application. None with a driver's license, at least. There were hundreds in Phoenix, though. Way too much work to survey without proof that our witch-hunter was a Tucker.

  The application also listed a high school and references. The school was in Mesa, Arizona, meaning it was probably Amy Lynn's alma mater. As for the references, I supposed they could be connected to the actual witch-hunter, but a preliminary search didn't turn up anything and it was far too late to phone. So I started surfing for something else in our office database.

  After I'd been quiet for a few minutes, Adam glanced over.

  "Case files?" he said. "I'm sure if we'd had witch-hunter investigations, we'd remember them." He looked closer. "Oh."

  My search was for all cases where we'd helped someone who'd been screwed over by demons. Not surprisingl
y, they comprised a healthy portion of our business.

  "You want to talk about it?" he asked.

  "No."

  He paused, then said, "All right."

  "I'm oka--" I inhaled. "No, I'm not okay and you know it. But if I think about it too much, I'm going to really not be okay. I just want to concentrate on the case and try not to stress out until I'm sure there's something to stress over."

  "Agreed. So focus on the witch-hunter."

  He shot a pointed look at my laptop. He was right. My parents had much more experience with demonic pacts, and they were on the best side of the veil to investigate them. Let them handle it. Concentrate on the immediate threat.

  I shut my laptop.

  "It's going to be okay," he said. "Whatever happens, you'll be okay."

  I nodded, chugged the rest of my beer, and headed to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

  The next morning, I called one of my black-book contacts. Molly Crane, a dark witch. Molly always had time for me. Not because she was a good friend. Not even because she'd been good friends with my mother. No, Molly had time for me for the same reason I had time for her. I was useful. She was useful. Sometimes, in our world, that's what it comes down to.

  When I asked whether she'd ever heard of witch-hunters, her sigh was so loud, I swore my phone vibrated.

  "Not that bugaboo," she said. "Let me guess. Paige told you about them. Typical Coven witch bullshit. She may think she's above that, but let me tell you--"

  "It wasn't Paige."

  "Oh. A client, then? A witch claiming someone wants her dead just because she's a witch. Dig deeper, Savannah, and you'll find that she's crying racial profiling to cover up the fact that she's done something to deserve being on a hit list."

  "That's what Paige thinks, too."

  That was all the incentive Molly needed to give her opinion a oneeighty spin. Molly was the type of person who'd never moved far from a high school mentality. To her, Paige was one of "those" kids--the cute, smart, popular ones that girls like Molly hated. Whatever Paige said was wrong. Dead wrong because that Harvard degree she'd earned didn't mean she was actually clever, just school smart.

  Molly didn't go so far as to say she believed in witch-hunters. But she trotted out every scrap of information she'd ever heard, and promised to canvass her contacts and send me anything she found because, you know, the legend of the witch-hunter has been around a very long time, and there could be something to it.