I stopped in the empty street outside the café. A construction crew had been here. That much was clear from the sawhorses, buckets, and tools shoved up against the building next door. There was no sign of a crew.
Ryerson stopped next to me. “The building was inspected. It’s safe. They’ve buttressed the walls and sections of the ceiling that were in danger of collapsing. They should hold for another couple of days at least.”
I was not reassured. He didn’t say why the construction crew wasn’t at work on a sunny Thursday afternoon, but I suspected our field trip had something to do with it.
“What happened here?” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. Bully for me.
“Merrick,” Ryerson said, his voice dark.
“A bomb?” My throat tightened as I thought of all the people who must have been inside when whatever happened, happened. My magic felt that something was wrong, and it nudged the back of my mind, wondering if it was needed. I pulled in a deep, steadying breath. Not yet, I told it. It withdrew, but I felt it humming beneath my skin, waiting. I felt calmer, knowing it was there and would come to me when I called it. Well, except if it decided I was too afraid. Then it would burrow deep inside me and wait out the storm.
Ryerson shook his head. “Not a bomb in the traditional sense. Forensics found trace magic. We think he used a spell.”
I stared at the hollowed-out shell of the building. I had no idea magic could be used to do something like this. To be so … destructive. Aunt Belinda didn’t talk much about dark magic—that is, magic that defied the Wiccan Rede: and it harm none, do what ye will—except that it existed, and it twisted the user’s soul into something dark and unnatural and unrecognizable.
I pulled in another deep breath and with it the stench of burned things. I did not want to go inside that building, but the sooner I did, the sooner we could leave.
I steeled myself and stepped through the hole where the door used to be.
Immediately, I felt alone. I looked around and realized Ryerson’s ever-present shadow wasn’t looming beside me. I glanced back. He was standing in the “doorway,” staring at an overturned café table near the window. Well, near the hole where the window used to be.
“Ryerson?”
His gaze snapped to mine, anger and something darker burning deep in his eyes.
I swallowed hard. “You with me?”
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the Ryerson I knew was back. Still angry, but his expression no longer made me want to run screaming from the building.
“Yeah, I’m with you,” he said.
Part of me wanted to ask him what that was all about. Like I cared or something. I frowned, more at myself than at him, and then focused on what we’d come here to do.
I walked farther into the building. My boots crunched over glass and bits of concrete, and I was suddenly very glad to have them. Ryerson moved quietly at my side, and when I stepped on a piece of concrete that shifted beneath my feet and pitched me forward, he caught me with a firm arm around my waist and tugged me flush against his chest.
My heart beat wildly, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the near face-plant into sharp bits of concrete or the way his warm breath fluttered over my cheek, sending a completely unexpected shiver through me.
“Be careful,” he said, his voice gruff and warm at my ear.
I nodded shakily and pushed away.
Focus, Winters. Find this Merrick guy’s signature, and get the hex out.
Except it wasn’t that easy.
The building was destroyed weeks ago, and magic signatures fade with time. Normally, I’m not able to feel a witch or a mage’s signature after a day or two. But Merrick had used a lot of power, and remnants of a spell like that would last longer. I hoped.
When I’d reached the middle of the space, I opened up my senses to the room and called my magic to me. It came quickly, a familiar warmth that filled my hands and left my arms tingling. I walked carefully through the rubble, reaching out with my magic, in search of … well, anything. It wasn’t like I knew what I was doing. Normally, I just sensed magic without really meaning to, like other people might turn a street corner and smell meat roasting on a street vendor’s spit and know there’s a hot dog cart just ahead. I’d never tried to search it out before.
And for a long while, I felt nothing but frustration. I was about to give up when I felt something. It was weak, a light flutter of magic against my own, so light that I almost mistook it for a breeze through the broken walls. I moved toward the back of the shop, and it grew fainter. I stepped toward the front of the shop, and it grew stronger. I followed the trail, like a magical game of “Marco Polo,” to the front window. Yes, it definitely felt strongest here. I let my magic flow over the broken table, the chair that was more ash than wood, and the glass shards littering the floor.
There was definitely something here. Something almost … familiar. I stepped closer, and a hand closed over my arm.
“That’s not him,” Ryerson said.
“There’s something here,” I said.
“You’re right. But it’s not Merrick.”
I frowned. If it wasn’t the mage, then it must be a witch, just out for an afternoon of shopping who had stopped at the café for a coffee. Some poor witch who had been at the wrong place at the worst possible time, who had probably tried to save herself with a spell. A powerful one, if I could still feel her weeks later.
Ryerson’s hand tightened around my arm and I winced. I glanced up to tell him to ease up, but the look on his face made me clamp my mouth shut. He was staring at the broken table again, his expression so dark even his eyes seemed blacker. His teeth were clenched so tight it cut white lines along his jaw, throwing the nicks and scrapes into stark relief. My brow furrowed as I looked from him to the table and back again. What was his—
Oh.
“You were here,” I breathed, “when it happened. The magic signature I sense, that was her, wasn’t it? Your partner.” The thought of Ryerson near the café when it exploded sent a shudder through me, and I realized I didn’t like the idea of seeing him hurt. Which was crazy. I barely knew him, and what I did know I didn’t even like.
I shoved the thought away to think about later. Much later.
Ryerson’s gaze shifted from the table to me, and I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. He just looked so … destroyed.
He must have really loved her, whoever she was. No wonder the guy was a wreck.
At some point, my hand had covered the one wrapped tightly around my bicep. We seemed to notice this at the same time, and Ryerson’s mask slammed back into place. He let me go as if he’d been burned and stepped away.
“We’re done here,” he said sharply. “This was a waste of time.”
I nodded. Ryerson’s phone rang and he dug it out of his pocket. He answered it without looking, his gaze still locked on mine.
“Ryerson,” he answered. Whatever he heard made him tear his gaze from mine and focus on the call. “When?” he asked sharply as he walked deeper into the café for privacy.
I blew out a shaky breath and began to step around the table to reach the relative safety of the sidewalk, but a whisper of magic ghosted over me, sending shivers up my spine. I froze as the magic prodded me, curious, like a child might poke a dead animal with a stick.
And then it was gone, just like that.
I glanced out the window and found Tiago, looking none too pleased with a camera-strapped tourist who had wandered a block too far. Tiago was lecturing him in Portuguese and pulling him up the street. A quick glance deep into the café confirmed Ryerson was still on the phone.
The magic brushed my arm again, like it was teasing me. Calling to me.
I hesitated. This magic felt different than a mere signature. It felt more alive, somehow. But this is why Ryerson had brought me here, right? To find the magic Merrick had left behind.
I stepped deeper into the café and reached out with my magic. This time, I found the f
oreign magic instantly. It was stronger than the witch’s signature, although it smelled similar. Probably from living in the same space for so long. I needed to be closer to the source of the old spell to distinguish it from the witch’s magic, so I followed it. The magic made it easy, pinching me with invisible fingers every time I took a wrong step, until I was standing in front of a blackened wall halfway into the café.
Feeling uneasy and not sure why, I glanced at Ryerson, but he was still on the phone, and his back was turned.
I looked at the wall. There was something there, a soft pulse, beneath the soot and burn marks. I tucked my sleeve over my palm and swiped at the grime covering it. The image beneath the burn marks flared to life. A symbol that now pulsed a deep electric red.
A rune.
And somehow, I’d just activated it.
I stumbled back from the wall, my heart thumping out a frantic beat. That runic branch symbol, it wasn’t one I’d ever used before, but it looked familiar. Like I’d seen it recently. In … oh, hex. In Andersen’s lab. On the grenades.
The rune was a bomb.
I glanced around frantically. The front of the building was a few steps away. I could probably make it. But Ryerson was too far away. I didn’t know how much time we had, but I doubted he’d make it, especially since I’d have to take time to explain what was about to happen.
My gaze slid outside again and Tiago, who was back, frowned at me. Then his gaze slid to the wall. His eyes widened—apparently Ryerson wasn’t the only one with magic-viewing contacts—and he shouted for us to get out.
We were out of time. I don’t know how I knew it, but I did.
I didn’t think—didn’t give myself time to feel the fear that would send my magic diving for cover when I needed it most. Just threw myself deeper into the café, grabbing my magic as it tried to tuck tail and run, and traced a symbol in the air, shouting the words to activate it. Ryerson was ten steps ahead of me. Eight. Six. I flicked the rune at him. His eyes widened and he reached for his gun, but there was no time. Three steps. Two. I threw myself at him and said the last word to invoke the rune just as my magic billowed out around us, and the force of the impact sent us sprawling on the floor. But instead of being shredded by the sharp bits of concrete, glass, and tile that littered the ground, we landed on a cushion of magic that lowered us gently to the floor.
And for a long moment, nothing happened.
I was straddling Ryerson, my knees locked around his hips, surrounded by a bubble of magic. His narrowed eyes met mine, and I felt a frisson of unfamiliar magic slither up my arms.
“What the hell—” he said.
And then the building exploded.
9
In one swift movement, Ryerson shifted so that his big body covered mine, his arm tucked over my head. It was noble and totally unnecessary. My magic bubble protected us from the blast.
When it was over, my magic—sensing the danger had passed—popped the bubble, and Ryerson lifted his head. His dark eyes found mine.
“What the hell did you do?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the rune bomb or the magic bubble, but it didn’t matter. I had bigger problems.
“Can’t. Breathe.”
Ryerson lifted himself off me and pushed to his feet with a wince, as if the weight of his body pressing mine into the floor had been the problem. I rolled to my side and used my hands to push to my knees, but that was as far as I got.
“Ainsley?” Ryerson said, his voice suddenly sharp. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Black spots floated into my vision. It felt like invisible fingers had wrapped themselves around my throat, and now they squeezed.
I clawed at my throat, but there was nothing there.
All magic comes at a price. The more magic a witch expends, the higher the price. It was one of the reasons I only worked small spells, which I paid for in lost energy, headaches, muscle cramps, that sort of thing. But this spell was different. It was big magic, more than I’d used in years. In fact, I’d only used this particular spell once before, a long time ago. I didn’t remember it leaving me breathless, but maybe I’d forgotten. Or blocked it out.
The invisible fingers at my throat loosened just a smidge, and then Ryerson was there, lifting me into his strong arms. His hands were everywhere, looking for something he could punch or glare into submission. Finding nothing, he stuck two fingers inside my mouth, as though something might be lodged in there. I swatted at him, but it did no good.
Finally, in desperation, he settled his mouth over mine and tried to push his own air into my lungs.
The invisible fingers at my throat went white with fury. The black spots spread into dark waves that crashed against my consciousness, threatening to drag me under.
With everything I had left, I pulled my magic to me. Maybe it was a bad idea, using my magic to save me from the consequence of using too much magic. Then again, I was about to die from magical asphyxiation. Hard to get much worse than that.
My magic was sluggish, exhausted from the bubble spell, and it unfurled from my core reluctantly, like a lazy cat woken by a toddler who had just yanked its tail and announced that it was playtime.
I clawed at it desperately until finally it sensed something was wrong and perked up. Then it freaked the hex out.
For a terrible moment, I thought I’d spooked it. That it would dive back inside me and refuse to come out until either the danger had passed or I was dead. I doubted it was all that particular about which. But instead, my magic wrapped itself around me like a protective onesie, forcing itself between me and the invisible fingers at my throat. The fingers didn’t flinch.
My vision was black now and I felt myself teetering on the brink of a dark abyss. A frustrated growl came from somewhere above me, and I felt myself being passed from one set of arms to another.
My magic grew weaker as I clung desperately to the edge of consciousness. It fumbled drunkenly for the invisible fingers and somehow, it managed to grab one of them. It peeled it back, then reached for the next. And the next. Like the invisible fingers were suddenly weaker, too. My magic peeled away the last finger and then collapsed back inside me, utterly spent.
I sucked in a deep lungful of air. It was filled with concrete dust and ended in a terrific coughing fit, but it was still the sweetest air I’d ever tasted.
Tiago set me on my feet and laid a steadying hand on my back as I braced my hands on my knees and spent the next half minute relearning how to breathe. Ryerson crouched in front of me, a pocket knife in one hand, a piece of paper rolled tightly into a thin, stiff tube in the other. They looked suspiciously like what people in the movies used to trach people who were choking.
I eyed them warily. “What were you going to do with those?” The words scraped along my dry throat and I winced.
Ryerson’s eyes tightened at the corners in what I decided to believe was a smile but could just as easily have been a scowl. “Improvise,” he said.
When I could stand without passing out, Tiago led us out of the café.
“What the hell happened in there?” he asked once we reached the relative safety of the sidewalk.
Tiago and Ryerson both looked at me. Right. “Well, the good news is I found Merrick’s signature. I think. I mean, there was magic, and I traced it to the rune he left. I guess I sort of activated it, and—it was an accident!” I said when Ryerson’s jaw tightened.
Tiago scrubbed a hand through his short hair. “Okay, so Merrick booby-trapped the café, and you stepped through the tripwire. How did you survive the blast?”
I smiled weakly. “Rune witch, remember?”
Tiago gave me a look that said that explained absolutely zilch. In the distance, the long wail of emergency sirens announced that we were running out of time.
“She wrapped us in some sort of magical bubble,” Ryerson answered, then he folded his arms over his broad chest, and his penetrating gaze met mine.
“What happened after that? Why couldn’t you breathe?”
I blew out a shaky breath. “I think it was the price for using that spell.”
I expected him to demand more of an explanation, so I was surprised when he simply nodded.
Tiago frowned. “Your magic tried to kill you?”
“No. Yes.” I shook my head, trying to organize my thoughts. Now that I thought about it, it didn’t make sense. My magic had saved me, so what had been behind the magic that had tried to kill me? Had it really been the consequence of using so much magic, or was it something else? Another nasty surprise from Merrick that I’d stumbled headlong into without even realizing it, because I had no idea what I was doing?
Hot tears and what promised to be an epic headache gathered behind my eyes. “I don’t know,” I finally said, then something occurred to me. “Didn’t you say the CIA swept this building for magic residue before we got here?”
Tiago nodded, his expression grim.
“Why didn’t they find the rune?”
“I don’t know,” Tiago said. He didn’t look happy about it. “Either our team missed it, or it was put here after they did their sweep.”
Well, I had found it, so it seemed pretty unlikely that a highly trained team of CIA magical investigators had simply missed it. Which meant that Merrick had returned to the scene after the investigators had left. But why? Only a witch or a mage could have activated the rune, and someone with more knowledge and training than me would have surely recognized it for what it was and known to avoid the magical tripwire, as Tiago had put it. What were the odds that the CIA would send an untrained, untested witch back to the scene?
I shook my head. It didn’t make any sense. It was like he’d known we were coming.
Ryerson gave a sharp nod up the street. Tiago looked that way and cursed. A group of onlookers had gathered at the police tape. The sirens were louder. They’d be here any minute now.
License to Spell: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Undercover Witch Book 1) Page 7