Dime Store Magic

by Kelley Armstrong

  PRAISE FOR KELLEY ARMSTRONG

  AND Dime Store Magic

  "Armstrong must have decided one day to throw every genre she could imagine--mystery, horror, supernatural thriller, romance and chick-lit--into her writerly cauldron. What she conjured up is the hilariously hip Women of the Otherworld series."

  Calgary Herald

  "Sexy supernatural romance ... This story's special strength lies in its seamless incorporation of the supernatural into the real world. A convincing small-town setting, clever contemporary dialogue, compelling characterizations, and a touch of cool humor make the tale's occasional vivid violence palatable and its fantasy elements both gripping and believable."

  Publishers Weekly

  "A fast-paced, compelling ride. The magical goings on are great fun but--for my money--the entire story is enhanced by Armstrong's skill at creating this sometimes dark and dangerous world in a contemporary setting."

  The Telegram

  "Long before American author Stephenie Meyer came on the scene--four years before, to be precise--Canadian fantasy novelist Kelley Armstrong began paving the way with Women of the Otherworld."

  Winnipeg Free Press

  "Delivers a tense, action-packed, psychokinetic wallop."

  Rue Morgue

  "Armstrong offers up a fun and fanciful glimpse into a fictional world where supernatural beings live and work among us."

  Edmonton Journal

  "An original and lively writer ... Dime Store Magic is an entertaining thriller."

  The London Free Press

  "Canada's Queen of Suspense ... Paige is a worthy successor to Elena, and Dime Store Magic a worthy successor to Armstrong's first two books."

  Calgary Herald

  BOOKS BY KELLEY ARMSTRONG

  The Otherworld Series

  Bitten

  Stolen

  Industrial Magic

  Haunted

  Broken

  No Humans Involved

  Personal Demon

  Living with the Dead

  Men of the Otherworld (stories)

  Frostbitten

  The Nadia Stafford Series

  Exit Strategy

  Made to Be Broken

  The Darkest Powers Series

  The Summoning

  The Awakening

  To my father, for all his support and encouragement

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With thanks ...

  To Helen Heller, my agent, without whom there would be no Women of the Otherworld series.

  To Anne Groell, my editor at Bantam US, for taking an interest in this book, and making the switch to Bantam absolutely painless.

  To Anne Collins, my editor at Random House Canada, who knew just the solution for all my manuscript crises.

  To Antonia Hodgson, my editor at Warner UK, for her continued enthusiasm and great editing advice.

  Finally, to every reader who has E-mailed me with praise for the series. Your notes made a writer's day a whole lot brighter, and a day of writing a whole lot easier!

  PROLOGUE

  Todd adjusted his leather power seat and smiled. Now, this was the good life. Driving along the California coast, road stretching empty before him, cruise control set at fifty, climate control at 68degF, Brazilian coffee keeping warm in its heated cup holder. Some might say it'd be even better to be the guy lounging in the backseat instead of his driver, but Todd liked being where he was. Better to be the bodyguard than the guy who needed one.

  His predecessor, Russ, had been the more ambitious type, which may explain why Russ had been missing for two months. Odds around the office watercooler were split fifty-fifty between those who assumed Kristof Nast finally tired of his bodyguard's insubordination and those who thought Russ had fallen victim to Todd's own ambitions. Bullshit, of course. Not that Todd wouldn't have killed to get this job, but Russ was a Ferratus. Todd wouldn't even know how to kill him.

  Todd figured the Nasts were behind Russ's sudden disappearance, but that didn't bother him. When you signed up with a Cabal, you had to know what to expect. Give them your respect and your loyalty, and you had the cushiest gig in the supernatural world. Double-cross them and they'd wreak their revenge right into your afterlife. At least the Nasts weren't as bad as the St. Clouds. If the rumors were right, about what the St. Clouds did to that shaman? Todd shivered. Man, he was glad--

  Lights flashed in the side mirror. Todd looked to see a state patrol car behind him. Christ, where had that come from? He checked his speedometer. Dead-on fifty. He made this trip twice a month and knew the speed limit didn't change along this stretch.

  He slowed, expecting the police car to whiz past. It stayed on his tail. He shook his head. How many cars had zoomed by in the last hour, going seventy or more? Oh, but they hadn't been custom-designed Mercedes limos. Better to pull over someone who looks as if he might pass you a few twenties to avoid the hassle of a ticket. If so, they'd picked the wrong car. Kristof Nast didn't bribe mere highway patrolmen.

  As Todd put on his signal and pulled over, he lowered the shield separating him from his passenger. Nast was on his cell phone. He said something into the phone, then pulled it from his ear.

  "We're being pulled over, sir. I had the cruise set at the speed limit."

  Nast nodded. "It happens. We have plenty of time. Just take the ticket."

  Todd raised the shield and put down his window. Through his side mirror he watched the patrolman approach. No, make that patrolwoman. A cute one, too. Slender, maybe thirty, with shoulder-length red hair and a California tan. Her uniform could fit better, though. It looked a couple of sizes too large, probably a hand-me-down from a male colleague.

  "Morning, Officer," he said, taking off his sunglasses.

  "License and registration."

  He handed them over with a smile. Her face stayed impassive, eyes and expression hidden behind her shades.

  "Please step out of the vehicle."

  Todd sighed, and opened his door. "What seems to be the problem, Officer?"

  "Broken taillight."

  "Aw, shit. Okay, then. Write me up and we'll get it fixed in San Fran."

  As he stepped onto the empty road, the woman turned and marched to the rear of the vehicle.

  "Can you explain this?" she asked.

  "Explain what?"

  As he walked toward her, his heart beat a little faster, but he reminded himself that there couldn't be a serious problem. The Nasts never used their family cars for anything illegal. Just in case, though, he flexed his hands, then clenched them. His fingertips burned hot against his palms.

  He glanced at the patrol car, parked a mere two feet behind his. It was empty. Good. She didn't have a partner. If things went bad, he'd only have to worry about the woman.

  The officer stepped into the narrow gap between the cars, bent and checked something just to the right of the left taillight. She frowned, eased out of the gap and waved at the bumper.

  "Explain that," she said.

  "Explain what?"

  Her jaw tightened and she motioned for him to look for himself. He had to turn sideways to fit between the cars. Couldn't she have backed up? She could see he was a big guy. He bent over as much as he could and peered down at the bumper.

  "I don't see anything."

  "Underneath," she said curtly.

  Bitch. Would it kill her to be polite? It wasn't like he was arguing with her.

  He lowered himself to his knees. Christ, was this gap narrower than he'd thought or had he been packing on the pounds? The front bumper of the patrol car pressed against his mid-back.

  "Ummm, do you think you could back your car up a little?" he said. "Please?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Is this better?"

  The patrol car pi
tched forward, pinning him. The air flew from his lungs. He opened his mouth to yell for her to put it into reverse, then realized she was still standing beside the car ... which wasn't running. He grabbed the limo's bumper and pushed. The smell of burning rubber filled the air.

  "Oh, come on," the woman said, leaning over him. "You can do better than that. Put some real firepower into it."

  When he swiped at her, she backpedaled out of reach and laughed. He tried to speak, but could only get enough air to grunt. Again he pushed against the bumper. The rubber stripping melted against his fingers, but the car didn't budge.

  "Only an Igneus?" she said. "The Cabals must really be hard up for half-demons. Maybe there's an opening for me after all. Sit tight now, and I'll be right back."

  Leah opened the driver's door and climbed into the limo's front seat. She looked across the rows of buttons on the dash. Talk about electronic overkill. Now, which one--

  The shield between the seats whirred. Well, that saved her the trouble.

  "Did everything go--" Nast began.

  He saw her and stopped. His hand lifted, just off his lap, fingers moving as his lips parted.

  "Now, now," Leah said. "No spell-casting."

  Nast's seat belt jerked tight, taking up the slack so fast he gasped.

  "Hands out where I can see them," Leah said.

  Nast's eyes blazed. His fingers flicked and Leah shot backward, hitting the dash.

  "Okay, I deserved that," she said, grinning as she righted herself. She looked at the seat belt. It loosened. "Better?"

  "I'd suggest you seriously consider what you're doing," Nast said. He adjusted his suit jacket and eased back into his seat. "I doubt this is a road you wish to take."

  "Hey, I'm not stupid or suicidal. I didn't come here to hurt you. Didn't even hurt your bodyguard. Well, nothing a few weeks of bed rest won't cure. I came here to make you a deal, Kristof--oops, sorry. Mr. Nast, I mean. It's about your daughter."

  His chin jerked up, eyes meeting hers for the first time.

  "And now that I have your attention ..."

  "What about Savannah?"

  "Been looking for her, haven't you? Now that Eve's gone, there's no one to stop you from taking what's yours. And I'm just the person to help you do it. I know exactly where she is."

  Nast shot his sleeve up and checked his watch, then looked at Leah.

  "Is my driver in any shape to resume his duties?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Questionable."

  "Then let's hope you can talk and drive at the same time."

  CHAPTER 1

  BEWITCHED, BOTHERED, AND

  BEWILDERED

  I was in trouble with the Elders. Again.

  I'd been a trial to them all my life and now, at twenty-three--no longer a precocious child or a rebellious youth--they were running out of excuses for me.

  "Something must be done about Savannah." The speaker phone added a not-inappropriate whine to Victoria Alden's voice.

  "Uh-huh." My fingers flew across the keyboard, hammering out the next line of code.

  "I hear typing," Victoria said. "Are you typing, Paige?"

  "Deadline," I said. "Enhancements to the Springfield Legal Services website. Due in two days. And counting. Look, can we discuss this later? I'll be at the Coven meeting next week, and--"

  "Next week? I don't think you're taking this seriously, Paige. Pick up the telephone, stop working, and talk to me. Where did you ever learn such manners? Not from your mother, rest her soul."

  I lifted the receiver, gripped it between my shoulder and ear and tried to type quietly.

  "It's about Savannah," Victoria said.

  Wasn't it always? One of the few perks of having custody of thirteen-year-old Savannah Levine was that my rebellions paled in comparison.

  "What's she done now?" I asked. I flipped to my file list of JavaScript functions. I was sure I'd written a function for this last year. Damned if I could find it now.

  "Well, I was talking to Grace last night and she expressed concern over something Savannah told Brittany. Now, Grace admits Brittany may have misunderstood the details, which I can certainly see. We don't expose Coven neophytes to this sort of thing, so I'd be shocked if Brittany did understand what Savannah was talking about. It seems--" Victoria paused and inhaled sharply, as if it pained her to go on. "It seems Brittany is having trouble with a few girls at school and Savannah offered to ... to help her make a potion that would result in these girls being unable to attend the school dance."

  " Uh-huh." Ah, there was that function. A few hours of coding saved. "Then what?"

  "What do you mean, 'then what?' Savannah offered to show Brittany how to make these girls sick!"

  "She's thirteen. At her age, I would have liked to make a lot of people sick."

  "But you didn't, did you?"

  "Only because I didn't know the spells. Which was probably a good thing or there'd have been some serious epidemics going on."

  "See?" Victoria said. "This is exactly what I've been talking about. This attitude of yours--"

  "I thought we were talking about Savannah's attitude."

  "That's it exactly. I'm trying to bring a serious matter to your attention and you brush it off with quips. This flippant attitude will never make you Coven Leader."

  I stifled the urge to remind her that, as of my mother's death, I was Coven Leader. If I did, she'd "remind" me that I was Leader in name only, and this discussion would turn from irritating to ugly in a heartbeat.

  "Savannah is my responsibility," I said. "You Elders have made that very clear."

  "For good reason."

  "Because her mother practiced dark magic. Oooh. Scary. Well, you know what? The only scary thing about Savannah is how fast she's outgrowing her clothes. She's a kid. A normal, rebellious teenager. Not a black witch. She told Brit she could make her a potion. Big deal. Ten to one she can't even do it. She was either showing off or trying to shock us. That's what adolescents do."

  "You're defending her."

  "Of course I'm defending her. No one else will. The poor kid went through hell last summer. Before my mother died, she asked me to take care of Savannah--"

  "Or so that woman told you."

  "That woman is a friend of mine. You don't think my mother would have asked me to take Savannah? Of course she would. That's our job. To protect our sisters."

  "Not at the risk of endangering ourselves."

  "Since when is it more important--"

  "I don't have time to argue with you, Paige. Talk to Savannah or I will."

  Click.

  I slammed down the phone and stalked from my office, muttering everything I wished I'd said to Victoria. I knew when to hold my tongue, though sometimes knowing and doing were very different things. My mother was the political one. She'd spend years working to effect one small change to Coven Law, soothing every rumpled feather and arguing her point with a smile.

  Now she was gone. Murdered nine months ago. Nine months, three weeks, and two days. My mind performed the calculation unbidden, springing open the stoppered well of grief. I slammed it shut. She wouldn't have wanted that.

  I was brought into this world for one reason. At fifty-two, after a life too busy for children, my mother looked around the Coven and saw no worthy successor, so she found a suitable "genetic donor" and, using magic, conceived me. A daughter born and raised to lead the Coven. Now that she was gone, I had to honor her memory by fulfilling that purpose. And I would, whether the Elders wanted it or not.

  I abandoned my computer. Victoria's call had chased all interest in programming from my brain. When I got like this, I needed to do something that reminded me of who I was, and what I wanted to accomplish. That meant practicing my spells--not Coven-sanctioned spells, but the magic they forbade.

  In my bedroom, I pulled back the area rug, unlocked the crawl space hatch, and tugged out a knapsack. Then, bending down and reaching farther into the hole, I undid a secret latch, opened a second compart
ment, and pulled out two books. My secret grimoires. After putting the books into my bag, I headed for the back door.

  I was slipping on my sandals when the front doorknob turned. I checked my watch. Three P.M. Savannah didn't get out of school until three forty-five, which is why I figured I had nearly an hour to practice before making her after-school snack. Yes, Savannah was too old for the milk-and-cookies routine, but I did it every day without fail. Let's be honest, at twenty-three I was ill equipped to parent a teenager. Being home for her after school was one thing I could manage.

  "What happened?" I asked, hurrying into the hall. "Is everything okay?"

  Savannah backpedaled, as if fearing I might do something rash, like hug her. "Teachers' meeting today. Early dismissal. Remember?"

  "Did you tell me?"

  She rubbed her nose, trying to decide whether she could get away with a lie. "I forgot. But I would have called if I had a cell phone."

  "You'll get a cell phone when you can pay for the airtime."

  "But I'm too young to get a job!"

  "Then you're too young for a cell phone."

  Old argument. We knew our lines, and never wavered from them. That was one advantage to being a mere decade older than Savannah--I remembered pulling the same crap with my mom, so I knew how to handle it. Maintain the routine. Give no sign of wearing down. Eventually she'd give up ... not that I ever did.

  Savannah peered over my shoulder to look down at my knapsack, a feat she could easily manage, being two inches taller than my five feet two. Two inches taller and about thirty pounds lighter. I could have explained the weight difference by pointing out that Savannah was very slender, but to be truthful, I was about fifteen pounds over what most women's magazines listed as the ideal weight for my height.

  Savannah, by contrast, was very tall for her age: tall, thin, and coltish, all awkward angles and jutting limbs. I told her she'd grow into her body, as she'd grow into her oversized blue eyes. She didn't believe me. Like she didn't believe me when I'd advised her that cutting off her waist-length black hair would be a mistake. Now she had a straight, wispy bob that only made the angles of her face even more prominent. Naturally, she blamed me, because I didn't forbid her to cut her hair, instead of just cautioning against it.