The Alchemist and an Amaretto: The Guild Codex: Spellbound / Five

by Marie, Annette

  And so I’d had no choice but to lie to him too. My secret pact with Eterran hung over me, a hard pit of guilt and anxiety lodged in my stomach.

  Pushing those worries aside, I smiled nervously at Ezra. “I have one more for your album.”

  He watched as I opened my bedside drawer. Pulling out a brown envelope, I offered it to him. With a curious smile, he opened the flap and slid out a glossy photo.

  Our faces filled the image, my lips bright red from Sin’s fancy lipstick and his hair combed back, a gray tie snug around the white collar of his dress shirt. I was reaching for the phone he held, my lips forming the word “wait” as I tried to adjust the camera angle. He, however, wasn’t looking at the camera. His face was turned toward mine, a grin stretching his lips, his mismatched eyes bright with silent laughter as he snapped the picture before I was ready.

  Though it wasn’t anything close to my most flattering photo, it was my new favorite shot of him. Not just because of his smile and laughing eyes, but because of the way he was looking at me, his arm around me, holding me close as I reached for the camera, oblivious to his gaze.

  He stared at the picture for a long moment, then grinned. “I told you it was a perfect photo. I love it.”

  My heart added a delighted leap to its acrobatics. He opened his album, turned to the last page, and slipped the new photo under the protective plastic.

  “Ezra …” I began.

  He glanced at me, wariness in his eyes. He’d picked up on my tension.

  “Ezra, can we …” Deep breath. I could do this. “Can we, um … talk about …”

  The kiss. Could we talk about the kiss? The one where he’d crushed his mouth to mine like he needed me to breathe? The one that had rocked my world right out of orbit?

  I was shit at this kind of thing. Discussing emotions always made me choke and run away. But this … I needed to talk about this. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I needed to know what it meant.

  “We should get ready for dinner,” he murmured, his gaze sliding away from mine.

  My nerve almost broke but I held my ground. “Why can’t we talk about it?”

  “Do we need to? It was just a kiss under a mistletoe.”

  Well, at least we were on the same page about what we needed to discuss.

  I swallowed hard against his dismissive words. “I thought it was more than that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  I clenched my hands. “Don’t screw around with me. Don’t pretend that was nothing to you.”

  He stayed quiet, avoiding my eyes. I’d seen this behavior from him before—an inner withdrawal, a deliberate and stubborn avoidance of a topic—and I didn’t like that I was seeing it now. I would have to push him for answers.

  I swung my bedroom door shut, then strode to him. He stepped back, his legs bumping the bed.

  I stopped almost on his toes. “Talk to me, Ezra.”

  He lifted his gaze to mine, his mouth curving into a faint, rueful smile. “You’re stubborn.”

  His words were a reminder of the last time we’d done this—me cornering him in the bathroom at their house. Where I’d told him I didn’t care that he was a demon mage. Where he’d caressed my face, then hugged me with a desperation I would never forget.

  “Extremely stubborn,” I agreed. “And I’m not leaving until you talk to me.” I lifted my chin. “Or you can kiss me again. Your choice.”

  His eyes flicked down to my mouth, then snapped back up. He swallowed, his throat moving, and for a second, I swore his hands twitched in my direction.

  Inhumanly quick, he slipped past me. I spun as he crossed the room and halted, facing the closed door, his hand pressed against the wood and shoulders bowed.

  “I can’t do this, Tori.”

  My muscles locked up. The hoarse emotion in those quiet, simple words—he wasn’t just talking about a kiss.

  “There are things you don’t know about me.” He spoke to the door as though unable—or afraid—to speak to my face. “When Aaron and Kai told you what I am, they didn’t tell you the worst part.”

  The floor under my feet suddenly felt unstable. “What didn’t they tell me?”

  He was silent, the seconds stretching past, then he exhaled sharply. “You already know a demon mage has to fight his demon for control, but that’s not the end of it. Whether the human gets weaker over time or the demon grows stronger … whichever it is, the demon always wins in the end.”

  I couldn’t breathe right. Why was there no air in this room? “What do you mean?”

  “The average lifespan of a demon mage is eight years. The record is ten.”

  My hands, fisted at my sides, trembled. “I don’t understand.”

  His shoulders moved with a silent breath. “I’m going to lose my mind to my demon. It happens to every demon mage. Always.”

  Eterran’s voice whispered in my head. Ezra knows his body and soul are destined to be mine.

  “But—but your control is so good.” A whimper of denial wormed into my voice. “You’re better than those other mages. You …”

  “My hold over my demon and his magic started weakening about four years in, and it’s been slipping ever since.” A long pause. “Do you understand? I’m losing. It’s already begun, and I’ll only get more dangerous as my demon gets stronger.”

  My voice scraped in my throat. “Ezra …”

  He turned around, putting his back against the door. Dark despair, deep and hopeless and heartbreaking, dimmed his eyes. “I’m sorry I kissed you. It was stupid and selfish of me. I just—”

  He broke off, shaking his head.

  My mind was reeling, my chest tight and burning. I blinked rapidly as I absorbed this bombshell that explained so many of the brief comments and hidden reactions from Aaron and Kai.

  “What can I do, Ezra?” I asked hoarsely, stumbling toward him. “How can I help?”

  I stretched my arm out, my fingertips brushing his chest. He caught my fingers, his warm hand gripping tight. His other hand rose, thumb brushing across my cheek—wiping away an escaped tear.

  “Just be my friend,” he whispered, “for as long as you can.”

  My vision wavered as I lost the battle against my tears. His face blurred, and I choked on a sob.

  The door handle clicked and a breeze hit my skin. I wiped my hand over my face, clearing my eyes, but he was already gone, the door hanging open, the hallway empty.

  I stood alone, trembling, terrified. My gaze fell on his photo album, forgotten on my bed. Seven months of photos, of laughter and silliness and the best moments of my life. Unbeknownst to me, had our happiness been ticking away, an unseen and silent timer counting down to an inevitable end? How long did Ezra have until his demon destroyed him completely?

  My lungs heaved as I fought back another sob. I strode into the hall. The door to Kai’s guest suite was open and his voice drifted out, followed by Aaron’s laugh.

  The two mages looked up as I stormed in, their amusement dying at the sight of my tear-streaked face.

  Kai stepped toward me. “Tori—”

  “How long has Ezra been a demon mage?” I fired the question like a bullet, fierce and fiery.

  He cast a surprised glance at Aaron, then refocused on me. “Nine years.”

  The average lifespan of a demon mage was eight years. The record was ten.

  “Actually,” Aaron said in a quiet voice, “nine and a half.”

  Nine and a half years. That meant Ezra had been barely fourteen when he became a demon mage. And now, at only twenty-three, his time was almost up.

  My breath wheezed out. Aaron stepped close and Kai was right there on my other side, the two mages positioned like bodyguards, as though they could shield me from the truth. They’d tried to. They hadn’t revealed this final, soul-crushing detail to spare me.

  Kai touched my shoulder. “Did Ezra tell you?”

  “That h
e’s going to lose his mind to his demon, and it’ll probably happen soon?” I asked with a harsh, bitter laugh. “Yeah, he did.”

  Aaron grimaced. “The hell kind of timing is that? It’s Christmas.”

  “I forced him into it.” I looked between them. “What’s the plan?”

  “What plan?”

  “To save Ezra!” I grabbed Aaron’s sleeve and shook it angrily. “How are we going to get that demon out of his body before it destroys him?”

  Kai wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulling me into his chest. As he rested his cheek against the top of my head, my panic almost broke free. Kai wasn’t normally touchy feely—and the fact that he was now terrified me.

  “It’s a lifelong, soul-binding contract,” he whispered. “It can never be undone.”

  “But what if—”

  “There is no ‘what if.’ Do you think we didn’t try? Aaron and I researched Demonica and demon mages for three years straight after we found out what Ezra is. We looked into everything.”

  Everything … except the demonic amulet they didn’t know I had.

  Just as Eterran had promised, Ezra was doomed. I might’ve hoped he could survive past ten years, but based on recent evidence and Ezra’s own warning, Eterran was well on his way to taking full control. That meant the amulet was no longer a last resort. It was Ezra’s sole chance at survival.

  Eterran had said it himself: You are giving him his only chance.

  I leaned back into Kai and closed my eyes. They didn’t know it yet, but we were going to save Ezra. We would use the amulet to separate him and Eterran—somehow. I had four weeks to find out all I could about the amulet and come up with a plan.

  And then I would tell Aaron and Kai everything.

  * * *

  Tori’s adventures continue in

  DRUID VICES AND A VODKA

  The Guild Codex: Spellbound / Six

  - Pre-order now on Amazon -

  Coming January 3, 2020

  // KEEP READING //

  For an exclusive short-story prologue for Druid Vices and a Vodka!

  * * *

  And don’t miss…

  SLAYING MONSTERS FOR THE FEEBLE

  The Guild Codex: Demonized / Two

  The Crow and Hammer’s most recent recruit, Robin Page, returns with her mysterious demon to search for her family’s ancient Demonica grimoire.

  - Pre-order now on Amazon -

  Coming November 1, 2019

  * * *

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  A Little Warped

  Rob Jacobsen & Annette Marie

  A GUILD CODEX STORY

  Part I

  From the rooftop of MPD headquarters, I could see most of downtown Vancouver. Low-hanging clouds shrouded the city in a wet mist, obscuring the tops of the tallest skyscrapers. I had my hood pulled up from under my black denim jacket, but it didn’t help much. It was a cold, gloomy day.

  Well, the weather was gloomy.

  I was freaking hyped.

  “Finally,” I declared. “I can check this off my bucket list.”

  Huddled in the roof access doorway, Lienna raised an eyebrow. “Your bucket list includes investigating a murder on a farm?”

  “Not that part.” Of course not. Who got excited about murder? Well, maybe Hannibal Lecter, but the only bright spot for me was the interruption in my normal duties. A homicide investigation sounded significantly safer than our usual—hunting serial killers, identifying terrorists, tracking unbound demons, tagging rogue assassins, and fining guilds for bureaucratic infractions.

  Strangely, that last one often seemed the most perilous.

  Playing Murder She Wrote in cottage territory was a bit outside our scope, but if the boss needed us there, we’d put on our detective hats and be there. Speaking of which, I needed a proper Sherlock Holmes deerstalker.

  “The helicopter,” I added matter-of-factly. “I’ve wanted to ride in a helicopter since I was a wee lad binging A-Team reruns in my foster parents’ basement. Every action movie ever has an awesome chopper scene. Apocalypse Now, Die Hard 2, The Matrix, James Bond movies across the board, The Dark Knight, Black Hawk Down, Rambo III … I could go on.”

  Lienna tucked a lock of black hair behind her ear. “Doesn’t the helicopter crash or blow up in most of those?”

  “Yeah, but the good guy always survives.”

  “And you’re the good guy?”

  “We’re MPD agents. Aren’t we always the good guys?”

  Lienna scoffed. “Depends on who you talk to.”

  Ah, well, I couldn’t argue there. Lienna was on the Clark Kent end of the morality spectrum, but when it came to the rest of my fellow agents, I wasn’t all that convinced.

  The MPD, an acronym for something Latin and confusing that I’d never bothered to memorize but more realistically stood for “Magic Police Department,” kept the world’s mythics under control. The job involved an uncomfortable number of people trying to kill us … or maybe that was just a reflection of my limited personal experience.

  If it was weird that I doubted the integrity of my “esteemed” colleagues, well, they didn’t like me either. Not that they didn’t have their reasons.

  “What else is on your bucket list?” Lienna asked.

  “For cool methods of transportation? Let’s see. A dragon boat, a tank, a snowmobile, a zeppelin, a double-decker bus, a cruise ship—”

  “We were on a ship last month.”

  “That was a cargo ship—and we almost died on it.” I gave her a dubious look. “Are you really comparing that industrial monstrosity to a luxury cruise liner with buffets, gift shops, and Elvis impersonators?”

  A black dot appeared on the horizon, growing steadily larger as it flew toward us. Lienna stepped out of the doorway and we waited—me fidgeting impatiently—beside the landing pad that spanned the east end of the rooftop. A low whump-whump-whump reached my ears and my heart rate spiked.

  “What about a rocket?” Lienna asked. “Or a space shuttle?”

  “Huh?”

  “For your bucket list. No outer space vehicles?”

  “Hell no. Have you seen Gravity? Or Alien? Or 2001? Nothing good happens in outer space.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  I got that a lot—the classic Lienna eye roll—and I loved it. You’d think it was an expression of annoyance, but I saw it more as a sign of affection. And Lienna was extraordinarily affectionate.

  The unmarked black helicopter plunged downward. It slowed to hover above the landing pad, then settled onto the rooftop. Cold gusts from its thunderous rotors whipped Lienna’s long hair all over the place like a maniacal hair dryer. My hood blew off, but since I kept my hair short—I liked to think it gave me that Jake Gyllenhaal appeal—it mostly stayed put.

  “Get to the choppa!” I yelled to Lienna in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression.

  That earned me another eye roll. See? Super affectionate.

  Bending at our waists, we ran toward the whirlybird. The large door swung open and the copilot hopped out, waving us over. Lienna climbed inside. Grinning broadly, I jumped in after her. Three jump seats were lined up side by side, and I was surprised to see that a weirdly small man, about forty years old with a perfectly bald head and round, dark-rimmed glasses, already occupied the furthest one.

  It was Dr. Bunsen
Honeydew! Except, you know, a human and not a Muppet.

  Recovering from my surprise, I dropped into the seat beside Lienna and fumbled for my harness. The copilot shut the door and handed us each a bulky headset. As I squashed it on my head, the chopper lifted into the air, vibrating with the power of the rotors. The surrounding rooftops shrank away as we shot skyward, and my stomach flipped.

  “This is awesome,” I squeaked quietly to myself.

  Feminine laughter sounded in my ears, buzzing with distortion. My startled gaze flicked to Lienna.

  She tapped her headset. “We can hear you.”

  Aw, crap. I looked past her to the distinctly unimpressed Honeydew, then cleared my throat and asked in my deepest, most masculine voice, “Do you know where we’re headed?”

  “A farm,” he replied curtly, his voice equally distorted by the mic.

  Gee, thanks, Mr. Informative. “Did someone murder a horse?”

  Lienna tensed so abruptly she elbowed me in the side. “God, I hope not.”

  I shifted over a few inches, wincing. Note to self: horses were no joking matter for Lienna Shen.

  “I have a second question,” I said, turning the conversation away from the glue factory. “Who the hell are you?”

  Dr. Honeydew forced a smile and reached across Lienna to offer me his hand. “Shane Davila.”

  “Did you say de Vil? Like Cruella?” I asked, shaking his hand as I pictured him in a floor-length fur coat. It worked in a vaguely Liberace way.

  “Davila,” he repeated, with extra emphasis on the last syllable. “And you are?”

  “Kit. Agent Kit Morris.”

  That wasn’t me trying to pull off a “Bond, James Bond” thing. I still wasn’t used to introducing myself with a job title—especially that job title.