“What if it makes them feel … good?” Heat rose to my cheeks, and I was very glad we were not having this conversation in person.
I heard the smile in her voice. “I’ve heard that if the person has strong romantic feelings toward the witch, then the experience can be quite … pleasurable.”
Only Ryerson couldn’t have those feelings for me. He was love cursed. Also, he hated me. “So if the person despises the witch, he should feel pain, not pleasure, right?”
“People’s emotions are never black and white. His reaction will reflect his strongest feeling for the witch.” Belinda’s voice rose. “Oh, hex it. Don’t touch the ragweed!” To me, she said, “Teenagers. I’m sorry, sweetie. I have to go. I’ll dig up the counter-spell to the love curse. Call your mother.”
We hung up.
Footsteps echoed down the hall, and I shoved the phone under a pillow just as someone rapped the door once and then opened it. Tiago stuck his head inside, a garment bag folded over his arm. I felt the tiniest glimmer of disappointment that he wasn’t Ryerson and squashed it down.
“I ate all the fried rice,” I said before he’d opened his mouth.
He blinked, trying to catch up. “What?”
“I assume you came to your senses and wanted your leftover Chinese back. Well, I ate it all.”
He shook his head. “That wasn’t mine. Ryerson went out in the middle of the night and picked that up. Said it would make you feel better. No idea where he found a Chinese takeout place open that late.”
Well, that was … nice. I was still trying to process that when Tiago asked, “What do you know about curse breaking?”
I blinked, dragging my thoughts back to Tiago. Had he overheard my conversation with Aunt Belinda? “Not much,” I admitted. “I know there’s a counter-spell, but I also know it requires the blood of the witch who cast the spell and …” I shrugged.
Tiago’s eyes tightened. It couldn’t be easy knowing one of their own had done something like that. “Yeah. That’s what Andersen said too.”
So they’d told the company about the curse. “Is Ryerson on his way back to Langley then?” The thought of not seeing Ryerson again, of not even getting to say goodbye, left me feeling hollow.
“No. He’s still on mission.”
“What? Why?”
The curse made him unpredictable. Surely they’d want to at least try to remove it before he went back into the field.
Tiago’s frown deepened. “Partly because we have a short window of opportunity for this job, and we can’t get another team in place in time.”
“Why can’t you take his spot?”
Tiago smiled, but it held no warmth. “Because the powers that be have decided the curse makes Ryerson even more perfect for this mission.”
A sense of foreboding crept up my spine. “Why?”
He tossed the garment bag on the bed. “Because he wants to die, and with this mission there’s a very real chance that’s going to happen.”
17
I frowned at the mirror. “I don’t think this is how I’m supposed to wear this.”
“It’s right,” Dahlia said from the iPad screen propped against a pillow on the bed. “Trust me.”
I gave her a dubious look through the mirror and tugged at the dress’s high, keyhole neck.
“That shit is vintage. Stop messing with it.”
I dropped my hand. “My face feels weird.”
“That’s because it’s not your face.”
True. Thanks to Andersen’s potion, I’d traded my white-blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles for sleek black hair that swung gracefully above my shoulders, flawless skin, and chocolate-colored eyes. The dress itself was wine red, with three-quarter-length sleeves and a wide sash at the waist that accented my narrow hips. For the first time in my life, I was beautiful.
“I feel itchy.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes. “You should ditch the bracelet. It doesn’t go with the dress.”
I touched the leather at my wrist protectively. “The bracelet stays,” I said firmly.
She shrugged. “Whatever. Just remember, Andersen says that potion only lasts twenty-four hours. You guys need to get in and out of North Korea before it wears off. Got it?”
Easy peasy. My stomach dipped. “Sure.”
“Good. Now let’s talk tech.”
Ten minutes later there was a knock on the bedroom door. “Ainsley,” an unfamiliar voice called. I opened the door and there stood Mr. Chun Yong, dressed in a dark suit with no lapels that buttoned up to his neck.
“It’s time to go,” Ryerson said from Mr. Chun Yong’s mouth.
I followed him past the real Chun Yongs still draped over the couch, and outside to a limo with tinted windows that waited for us at the curb.
Ryerson and I climbed into the back seat while Tiago, dressed in a suit and chauffeur’s cap, slipped behind the wheel.
“Let’s go over the plan again. You two have twenty-three hours and—” he glanced at the dashboard clock as he merged into traffic, “—eighteen minutes to get inside the North Korean palace, find the artifact and get out of the country. The private plane you’ll be using is staffed with people who have met the Chun Yongs before. It doesn’t appear any of them are particularly friendly with the Chun Yongs, so they shouldn’t bother you too much. Even so, once we reach the airport you’ll need to act like your covers. You both read the briefing report, right?”
Briefing report, briefing report … That huge folder Ryerson gave me to read on the plane while I was busy willing it not to fall out of the sky? Nope. “Sure. Yep. Who doesn’t?”
Tiago sighed. “The Chun Yongs are not very affectionate with each other, and they’re snobs, so talk as little as possible to each other and to the plane staff and you should be fine.”
“Be rude,” I said. “Got it.”
“A car will be waiting at Pyongyang Airport to take you to the palace. Your disguises should get you inside without a problem. We don’t have much intel about what palace security will be like, but it’s a safe bet they’ll at least have a metal detector so you won’t be able to take any weapons with you. Use your magic to find the artifact. Ryerson will steal it. Then you’ll pretend to be sick and Ryerson will make excuses to leave early. Take the car back to the airport and fly back here. Any questions?”
“What does the artifact look like?” I asked.
“We don’t know.”
Great. “What happens if we get caught?”
“Don’t get caught.”
“But what happens if we do?”
“The usual. If either of you is caught, the Agency will disavow all knowledge of you and your mission. You’ll be tried and either executed or sentenced to life in prison or one of their hard labor camps.”
Oh. I swallowed hard. “So don’t get caught.”
Tiago winked in the rearview mirror. “Now you’re getting it.” His gaze shifted to Ryerson. “And remember, if Merrick is there and you can take him out without blowing your cover, fine. But this is a retrieval mission, not an elimination. No unnecessary risks.”
“I know what our mission is,” Ryerson snapped. Which wasn’t exactly an answer. Tiago must have recognized this too because his eyes narrowed.
The guys spent the rest of the ride filling me in on North Korean etiquette and customs and by the time we reached the airport, my head was spinning with them. Tiago drove straight onto the tarmac where a private plane waited for us. He parked, rounded the car, and opened my door. I stepped out on shaky legs.
“Hey.” Tiago caught my hand to steady me and met my gaze. “You got this.”
I nodded. Tiago stepped back and into the role of disinterested chauffeur.
“Remember,” Ryerson murmured as we walked to the plane, “with Andersen’s potion you’ll be able to speak Korean, but you won’t understand it when it’s spoken to you. Try to let me do the talking.”
I glanced at him in surprise. “You know Korean?”
“Not much,” he admi
tted. “So it’s important we get in and out without having to socialize too much, or our cover will be blown. Let me worry about that. Your job is to find the artifact and any magical security measures that may be protecting it, and sense Merrick if he’s there.”
“Sure,” I muttered. “What could go wrong?”
A Korean man dressed in a smart suit and a black cap met us at the stairs and led us onto the plane. Ryerson said a few words to the stewardess while I tried to relax into my seat. Ryerson had given me the window and I watched Tiago drive away, my anxiety growing with every turn of the tires. How big was this plane, anyway? It felt small. Like the slightest shift in wind might blow it off course and send it hurtling into the ocean. Or whatever we crossed to reach North Korea. I really needed to invest in a map.
The captain’s staticky voice announced what I assumed was takeoff over the speakers, and the deep whirr of the engines thrummed beneath my skin.
This was really happening.
“Hey,” Ryerson murmured in English next to me. “Deep breaths.”
I nodded, but it felt shaky. Everything felt shaky. “Aren’t we supposed to talk in Korean?” I whispered.
A smile tilted his lips. He said something in Korean. Probably “deep breaths.”
The plane began to taxi down the runway. I pulled in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and gripped the armrests until my fingers hurt.
“Easy, Hawkeye,” Ryerson murmured and covered my hand with his. At first I thought the hand-holding was for the staff’s benefit, meant to solidify our cover as husband and wife, but then I remembered Tiago had said the Chun Yongs weren’t affectionate with each other. If anything, this would hurt our cover.
Speaking of hurt …
I cracked an eye. Any moment now the curse would decide hand-holding was not on its list of Ryerson-approved activities and try to kill me again. At least the homicidal curse took my mind off the plane hurtling us through the air at a billion miles an hour.
But all I felt from him was steadiness and warmth. No magic. The new body must have confused it.
I let go of the arm rest and gripped Ryerson’s hand instead.
The stewardess brought us mini bottles of water. Her gaze lingered on our joined hands. Ryerson met her gaze and held it, and she moved quickly away.
Neither of us let go until we reached Pyongyang.
The plane didn’t fall out of the sky. I felt a little less surprised every time that happened. And a little more annoyed that “every time” was a phrase I now used to describe my plane trips.
But after tonight, I was done with all of it. I would go back to living a normal, safe life. No more airplanes. No more getting shot at and nearly blown up by magic-wielding terrorists. No more Ryerson sticking to me like a dark, grumpy shadow.
That last one sent a pang of regret through me.
It’s not like I’d never see him again, I reminded myself. He’d still stop by the café for his morning coffee between missions. And besides, I still needed to find a counter-spell to the love curse. I glanced down at our joined hands resting on his temporarily meaty thigh. I’d still see him. Just not like this.
The plane touched down and taxied to a stop. We were escorted to a black sedan and driven to the Pyongyang Palace, which looked less like a palace and more like a fortress. An enormous, boxy, concrete fortress set against a cloudy, dark sky. The only adornments on the structure were a giant portrait of some Korean guy and a flag mounted on the roof. Across the wide, empty square in front of the palace was a lone burst of color against the stark landscape: a garden with meticulously groomed hedge walls and rows of evenly spaced red-and-white flowers. A queue of well-dressed partygoers spilled out of the palace’s front entrance and down the stone steps.
“Stay close,” Ryerson whispered as we took our place at the end of the line.
I nodded. No way was I going anywhere without him. Not here.
The man in line in front of us nodded at Ryerson, who nodded back. The line moved slowly forward.
Out of boredom, I reached out with my magic. No way was the artifact outside the palace, but maybe Merrick was lurking in some recessed shadow. I didn’t expect to sense anything, so I was surprised when my magic touched something.
I stiffened and Ryerson glanced at me. Outwardly, nothing about him seemed to change, but that one glance told me everything had changed. He was alert, eyes scanning the crowd for signs of trouble.
I concentrated on my magic and what had spooked it. It wasn’t Merrick. I knew what his magic felt like. This didn’t feel like a mage or a witch at all. It felt like a spell, somewhere near the front of the line. The crowd shifted forward, and we moved with it. Just inside the foyer, people were shedding their electronics and jewelry and walking through a metal detector. My magic nudged the couple at the front of the line, looking for the spell. The man walked through the metal detector and my magic hesitated, unwilling to follow him through.
I frowned and reached for the metal detector itself. There was something off about it. The next person in line stepped through it, and the detector pulsed with magic. I sucked in a sharp breath. Then it blinked green and he was allowed to pass without incident, oblivious to the machine’s true purpose.
“Um, Ryerson?” I whispered low so no one could overhear us. “The metal detector. It’s charmed to detect magic spells.”
Ryerson’s gaze snapped to the metal detector. It lingered there briefly and then swept past it, taking in the half dozen guards observing the crowd with sharp eyes and rifles slung over their shoulders.
The line swept us forward. We were next.
That charm would sense our spells instantly. We’d be arrested. Tried. Imprisoned. Executed. If we lived that long.
Ryerson pulled out his stolen wallet and slipped it into a potted plant just inside the door. Then he leaned down, but not by much—he wasn’t much taller than me anymore—and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. Or at least, that’s what it looked like he was doing. He used the movement to tuck an ear bud into my ear and whisper, “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
18
“No. Nuh-uh. No way. Ani,” I said.
“You’re making a scene.”
“I’m making a scene? Your whole plan is to make a scene!”
Actually his plan, if it even deserved to be called that, was to distract the guards and give me time to slip by the detector un … well, detected. Like I could somehow do this without him.
“You’re the secret agent,” I reminded him, proud of myself for sounding calm when I was anything but. “Why don’t I distract the guards and you find the artifact? Then you can rescue me or whatever.”
“Two reasons,” he whispered. “First, I may be the spy, but you’re the witch. We don’t know what the artifact looks like, and I don’t have the magic necessary to find it or any security measures that might be protecting it.”
I looked up into his eyes. “And the second reason?”
The guard waved us forward and I tensed. Ryerson held my gaze, his eyes glittering. “There is no rescue.”
And with that, he straightened and stepped through the metal detector.
At first, nothing happened. It didn’t beep or even flash red. Maybe I’d been wrong.
Then one of the guards looked up from the monitor he was bent over. He wore the same military cap and red uniform with gold braids along the shoulders that the rest of his team wore, but there was something in his eyes I didn’t like. I let my magic whisper over him.
Mage.
Probably the same mage who had charmed the detector. His attention was riveted to Ryerson. Someone behind me let out a startled gasp. My gaze swung to Ryerson and I sucked in a sharp breath.
His glamour was gone.
He stood there, over six feet of hard muscle, bronzed skin, and deep-green eyes. And despite everything, my heart tripped.
The charm didn’t just sense spells, it stripped them.
For one long moment the guards stood frozen, g
aping at the American standing in the middle of their palace foyer.
Then Ryerson winked at them. Winked. Sure, now he develops a sense of humor.
Then he turned and ran. Drawing them away from the crowd. Away from me.
The guards launched into action, shouting and sprinting after him, and the foyer plunged into chaos. Ryerson and all of the guards but one disappeared around a bend in the hall. Over the noise of the crowd and the shouts of the last guard attempting to restore order, came the echo of gunshots from down the hall.
Panic wrapped itself around my spine.
“Ainsley!”
I jumped and whirled around, but there was no one there. No one who knew my real name, anyway. That’s when I remembered the bud Ryerson had tucked in my ear.
“I’m here,” I said.
“Good,” Dahlia said. “We heard Ryerson’s plan. From the yelling, I’d say it’s working. You need to get inside. Now.”
“But Ryerson—”
“Can take care of himself,” she said firmly.
She was right, of course. Ryerson was trained for this sort of thing. And the distraction he’d caused wouldn’t last forever.
I stared down the hallway some more.
“Ainsley!” Dahlia snapped.
Right.
I forced my attention back to the foyer. There was a narrow gap between the metal detector and the wall. Heart pounding, I slipped between them. No one stopped me. No one even noticed.
I hurried into a cavernous ballroom where hundreds of people were already gathered, oblivious to the commotion outside. An orchestra played a slow mellow song. Peppered among the fancy people with their fancy drinks were dozens of stone pedestals, each displaying a different artifact that looked like it would be more at home in a museum than a ballroom. Statues, vases, pottery, jewelry encased in glass, even … was that a mummified hand? If anything in here dripped with magic, my money was on that.
Ryerson and I had planned to take our time. To wander among the exhibits and pretend to appreciate them so we could search for the artifact without calling attention to ourselves. But it wasn’t just the party guests or even the guards I’d been worried about. Normally, the power expended to sense magic is so subtle that only the most powerful witches and mages can feel it. But using a lot of magic at once, say, to search a large area in a short amount of time, is not subtle. It’s the difference between a light breeze and a hurricane. Humans won’t feel a thing, but a witch or mage might.
License to Spell: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Undercover Witch Book 1) Page 12