“He’s after the map,” Warner hissed as he straightened.
“He’s not after the map, loser,” I said. “And you hurt my ankle.”
This threw Warner momentarily, though I wasn’t sure it was concern for my health and safety that gave him pause.
“The vampire is my friend,” I added.
“Vampires don’t have friends, especially not dragons. They’re evil incarnate —”
“Wake up, sixteenth century, and smell the progress. It kind of tastes like freedom, doesn’t it?”
“Freedom is just the moment before disaster falls.”
Kett started laughing. Warner whirled to look behind him, but he still couldn’t see the vampire.
“Not helping, Kett,” I called. “And Warner, I’d be careful. Talk like that will only endear you to the vampire.”
“Kett.” Warner spat the vampire’s name like it was a wad of tasteless bubblegum. “The vampire you were … texting.” ‘Texting’ was given the same treatment as the name.
Kettil the executioner, of the vampire Conclave, stepped out from the shadow. Warner flinched at his appearance. The vampire hadn’t changed — not a single hair was different than the last time I’d seen him. He was all ice … skin, hair, and demeanor. Only his eyes — gone back to blue now — offered any color in the dark of the late evening. He was easily four inches shorter than Warner and half as broad, though I knew from experience that he was muscled granite underneath his lightweight tan cashmere sweater and designer blue jeans. The V-neck was his only nod to the warmer weather.
“I should have snapped your neck,” Warner said.
“Hey!” I cried.
“And yet you couldn’t, dragon,” Kett answered.
“Why was your so-called friend stalking you?” Warner said to me. His sneer was impressive and seemed utterly natural on his face, which made me wonder if he was sneering underneath the inscrutability all the time. It made me wonder if I could actually trust him.
“I know nothing about you,” I said, voicing my thoughts out loud. “Neither does Pulou, really. Other than who and what you claim to be. And being a mighty dragon, I’m sure the treasure keeper gives little thought to the frailties of the merely mortal.”
“Your point?” Warner snapped. If words could break bones, he’d be good at it.
“You tossed me aside like —”
“I was protecting you —”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“She really doesn’t,” Kandy called. Her dry tone cut through the tension building between Warner and me. I looked up to see the werewolf leaning against the valet desk. “Hey, vamp,” she said.
“Werewolf.” Kett nodded to Kandy over his shoulder.
“You’re here to help me treasure hunt,” I said to Warner, attempting to keep my tone measured and even. “No more or less. Do not step between me and another again. Never again.”
“You’re only half-dragon —”
“Yeah, I’m tired of that. I know I should give you leeway, what with the deep sleep, dead mom, and skewed sense of —”
Warner turned and walked away.
“ — duty.”
I watched his broad shoulders, noting how stiffly he held himself, as he turned the corner and walked out of my sight and into the market.
“I like him,” Kandy declared.
Kett laughed.
“That’s a lot of laughing for one day, vampire,” I grumbled. Man, I hated it when people walked away from arguments. “I guess I was a little … hasty.”
“Yep, like the pudding,” Kandy said.
I stared at her.
“Porridge,” Kett said, as if he was clarifying.
Kandy waved him off as she bounded down the stairs.
“What? Is that an American saying?”
“And British,” Kett answered.
“Shut up,” Kandy said gleefully. Then she playfully punched Kett in the shoulder, knocking him flying a half block down the sidewalk.
I glanced around to make sure there were no accidental witnesses of this feat of strength. The street and sidewalks were still clear.
“Ow!” the werewolf cried, woefully holding up her hand. Her forefinger and middle finger were hanging slack.
Kett was back beside us and peering at the cuffs Kandy wore before I could speak.
“Intriguing,” he murmured. Then, quick as anything, he reached up and snapped Kandy’s fingers back into place. She yowled.
Jesus. I’m surprised we hadn’t attracted a crowd yet.
“You should be more careful, wolf.” Kett was, as always, completely unruffled by being tossed down the sidewalk.
“Keep your opinions to yourself, vamp,” Kandy snarked back. But she turned and grinned at me. The werewolf — whether she’d admit it or not — had a missing member of her pack back, and this pleased her. I wished I could be so … easily anchored.
Usually fretting wasn’t my thing, yet I seemed to slip into it any time life paused these days. I couldn’t even get through a yoga class anymore without my mind drudging up mini panic attacks about black magic and dead sisters, rather than the peace I desperately sought on the mat.
“I’ll look after Warner,” the green-haired werewolf declared. Then she took off at a trot, calling back over her shoulder. “You never know what a dragon is going to do next.” Yeah, that was manically gleeful as well. I worried that Kandy was mixing up Warner’s grumpiness with Drake’s playful energy. She was an adult, though. And admittedly, she could read people way better than I could.
“You have dented the dragon’s ego,” Kett said. He was watching me watch Kandy.
“You think?” I laid on the sarcasm.
Kett touched his neck thoughtfully, though no mark or bruise appeared where Warner had held him. “His magic is different than that of the fledgling’s or your father’s.”
“Yeah. Same underlying spice, but he can adapt. Like, change his accent and clothes at will.”
“Ah, a chameleon.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I met Kett’s ice-blue eyes and smiled. “I’ve missed you.”
“Have you, warrior’s daughter?” He showed no trace of humor in his face or tone, but I was fairly certain he was amused.
“Yeah, I guess if you’re old as hell, a couple of months means nothing to you.”
“Interesting word choice.”
“Let’s not play games, vampire.”
Kett inclined his head. “You’re here to see the reconstructionist.”
“And how do you know that?”
The vampire didn’t answer. He just slipped back into the shadows, then moved east up the hill to disappear around the corner of the hotel.
I sighed and followed him. If I looked up from here and counted floors, I’d be able to pick out the windows of our suite. Instead, I scanned the main street, which was empty to the north but full of people a block or so south. Even though it was almost eleven o’clock at night, people were still coming and going from restaurants or pubs. All the stores were closed. Others, clustered in groups farther south, seemed settled in for the night.
Seattle was still mild this time of year, similar to Vancouver, and sleeping in the streets was a viable option … you know, if you didn’t have any other options.
Given the choice, I know I’d choose to curl up on my couch and watch an old movie on Netflix at this time of night any day of the week. At least then the only demons I saw were trapped on my TV screen.
Man, I was in a mood tonight. Something about Warner really set me off … in a bunch of different directions.
Still, as the scent of Wisteria’s sweet nutmeg magic filtered in on the slight breeze, I couldn’t deny the tiny thrill and the grin that spread across my face as I turned north toward the cafe on the next corner. I actively denied this part of me — tried to bury it in cupcakes and chocolate. But, with the vampire in the shadows somewhere nearby, each step I took towar
d solving the mystery Pulou had handed me felt solid and sure.
I liked the unknown chaos coming my way. It filled all the dark, empty places.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The cross streets in this section of Seattle — including Pine Street, where the front entrance of the Inn at the Market was — all dropped off steeply to the market and the waterfront. Along with the fact that all the neighboring stores and restaurants were closed and therefore dark, this gave the impression that the brightly lit Bacco Cafe was perched on a precipice.
I could see Wisteria settling into a table at the farthest corner of the cafe and ordering something from the server. A tea, I guessed. Oddly, the chairs closest to her had been lifted and flipped onto their tables as if the floor was about to be scrubbed.
Wisteria’s dark blond hair was pulled back into the perfectly smooth French twist she had worn the last time I saw her. Her cornflower-blue, pristinely pressed cotton dress was belted in white to create an empire waist. She looked as if she was about to attend a wedding, but this was everyday attire for the witch. The blue of the dress was a couple of shades lighter than the magic I could see pooled in the palms of her folded hands.
Kett was somewhere in the shadows of one of the storefront stoops just ahead of me. I could taste his magic rather than see him. “Why are you hunting the reconstructionist?” I whispered into the dark night.
“Why do you assume I’m hunting anyone?” Kett murmured back without revealing himself.
“Well, you aren’t working together. Are you? Or dating? Do vampires even date?”
“Your words indicate jealousy, warrior’s daughter.”
“But my tone sounds concerned.”
“Indeed,” Kett laughed. “I would not be hunting a Fairchild witch without permission.”
“Whose permission? And do you have it?”
Kett didn’t answer.
“Have you even met her?” I asked.
“Not officially.”
“And this isn’t any of my business.”
“Not even remotely.”
I sighed. I had my own reasons for being in Seattle, for meeting with the reconstructionist. I wasn’t here to police Kett or Wisteria, if she’d done something to get on the Conclave’s radar.
“She saw you die in London,” I said.
“Yes,” Kett answered. “Perhaps it is best left at that.”
I nodded into the darkness and continued up the sidewalk toward the cafe. I could taste Kandy’s magic no more than a few blocks away, but I wasn’t familiar enough with Warner’s magic to pick up his whereabouts. Or perhaps he was just really good at concealing his magic.
Still tasting the vampire’s peppermint magic somewhere behind me, I stepped through the door. The cafe had a midcentury feel to it — black and white linoleum, Formica tabletops, wire condiment holders — but didn’t go overboard with the aesthetic.
Wisteria looked up as I entered, and I involuntarily flinched from the raging pool of witch magic that overlaid her eyes so densely I had no idea of their actual color. The reconstructionist frowned, but then immediately smoothed the expression from her face. I’d forgotten that the witch held her magic so intensely concentrated behind her eyes, and then in her hands. I imagined it had something to do with how she utilized that magic, but I had never seen witch magic held this way. By taste, Wisteria was nowhere near as powerful as Gran, or even my mom, Scarlett. But as I had the first time I met her, I understood that as tightly coiled as Wisteria Fairchild kept her magic, I didn’t want to be the one to see it all unravel.
“Jade Godfrey.” Wisteria’s American accent was subtle beneath the measured, polite tone that I imagined she had learned in some high-priced private school.
“Wisteria Fairchild. Thank you for meeting me.” I offered her a broad grin as I sauntered over to the table. The cafe was completely empty, and oddly tidy.
“As requested.”
Right. Boundaries erected and acknowledged.
I settled into the seat across from Wisteria, which placed my back to the entrance. No one with a drop of magic in them was going to sneak up on me even if they got past the vampire outside — which I wouldn’t hesitate to say was pretty impossible. Not that I had anything I knew of to worry about in Seattle. Like Vancouver, the Pacific Northwest in general wasn’t a hotbed for magic beyond the witches of the Godfrey coven. A coven that claimed me as one of their own, though I was only half-witch and effectively nonpracticing.
Wisteria changed the position of her folded hands. On first glance, her fingernails were tastefully French manicured. But with a closer look — beyond the magic that coated my human vision — I could see that her nails were painted a shimmery light blue beneath their white tips, rather than the traditional pink.
“Nice manicure.”
“I like yours as well.” Wisteria actually smiled. Well, the edges of her lips quirked upward.
I grinned and tapped my jade-green nails on the table one at a time. “They match my knife.”
Wisteria lost the half-smile, and I instantly regretted my flippant words. I didn’t want the witch to be any more scared of me than she already was.
The server crossed out of the kitchen and quickly unloaded her tray onto our table. She had a ring of pink roses tattooed around her right wrist that matched the pink streaks in her hair. She was also about one-quarter witch, her magic so diluted — just a hint of the grassy tone that told me she was of witch decent — that I hadn’t noticed it until she’d entered the room.
I glanced at Wisteria, who was gazing steadily at my left shoulder. Treating me as if I was a shapeshifter or a vampire, taking direct eye contact as some sort of power play — or an invitation to a power play.
The waitress placed a hot chocolate in front of me, and some sort of floral mint tea by Wisteria. The hot chocolate smelled divine, though slightly sweeter than I usually made it. Then she placed a plate of what looked like mini cheesecakes in the middle of the table.
“Um, hello,” I said.
The server laughed. “Not ours. Fortunately for me, or I’d be three hundred pounds easily.”
“I brought them,” Wisteria said but then didn’t elaborate.
The server placed a fork in front of Wisteria, and another in front of me. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Wisteria said.
The server retreated back behind the front counter and through the swinging door to the kitchen.
I gestured to the plate of sweets. “You’re not trying to woo me, are you? Because for these, I might consider it.”
Wisteria barked out an involuntary laugh, which seemed to surprise her as much as it did me. A slight smile remained on her face as she gracefully lifted a hand to point at individual treats. I imagined it would be terribly painful to be Wisteria Fairchild’s full-time friend. I could pretend that all her apparent perfection was a learned facade to try to make myself feel better. But I could tell as easily as I could see her coiled magic that Wisteria Fairchild was a well-educated, cultured, and thoughtful woman. Around her, all my imperfections would be glaringly and constantly obvious to me.
“The cafe closes every day at three,” Wisteria said.
“I could have chosen another place.”
“Everything in the immediate area closes at or before 10 p.m. But a quick phone call here and a quick trip to the Confectional was easy enough.”
“You obviously know me too well.”
“The Confectional is actually one of my favorite places in Seattle. Shall I enlighten you?” she asked, referencing the mini cheesecakes.
“Please do.”
Wisteria pointed to a cheesecake wrapped in crinkly brown paper with a hint of a green swirl in its topping. “Key lime white chocolate. Usually only available for the summer season, but I managed to grab one before they changed their menu for the fall.” She tugged at the paper edge of another treat to reveal three layers. “Peanut butter and chocolate.”<
br />
I let out an involuntary groan.
Wisteria laughed under her breath. “Wait for it,” she said as she pointed at the final cheesecake. “The quadruple chocolate. Dark chocolate blended into the batter with chunks of milk-, white-, and extra-dark chocolate in the center.”
“Chocolate in the batter and extra-dark chunks mixed in?” I moaned. “I love you.”
“They have cheesecake truffles —”
“Enough,” I cried as I lifted my fork eagerly to the dessert before me. “I already don’t know where to start.”
Wisteria laughed quietly again, unfolded her paper napkin, and spread it across her lap. Then she lifted her eyes to me. I didn’t flinch when I met her gaze this time. She chose to dig into the key lime treat first. I managed to get a quarter of the peanut butter and chocolate onto my fork and into my mouth without salivating too unbecomingly. I never was one for delayed gratification. The peanut butter was smooth and creamy.
“Lovely,” I said.
Wisteria nodded. She was still savoring her first bite. I ruthlessly attacked the quadruple chocolate and immediately decided to somehow steal the idea — in cupcake form — for the bakery. Though the creaminess of the cheesecake might not translate … maybe in a thick cream cheese frosting —
“You have something you would like me to look at?” Wisteria asked, reminding me — very politely — that this wasn’t a play date.
“Yes, a map.”
“You think I can reconstruct the magic of a map?”
“I hope so.”
I glanced around. The cafe was still empty.
“The server will not return until after we leave. I’ve already paid her for opening and for her time.”
I reached into my satchel, which I still wore slung across my chest. I hadn’t even thought to hang it over the back of the chair, not with the knife and the map in it.
I nudged the plate of desserts and my ignored hot chocolate to the right edge of the table, against the window. I rolled out the map on the left.
Wisteria gasped and dropped her fork. It clattered against the lip of her tea and then flipped off onto the floor. “The magic …” she moaned, then clamped her mouth shut.
Shadows, Maps, and Other Ancient Magic (Dowser Series Book 4) Page 10