Spellsmoke: An Urban Fantasy Novel (A Fistful of Daggers Book 2)

by SM Reine

  “It’s so exotic,” said Abigail. “I would love to have my hair like that. You’ll have to do mine tonight.” Her hair was fine and gold, like the grass outside, and Sophie had no desire to touch it.

  “You don’t want her to do your hair,” Ashley said dismissively. “She’s so tired, she’s been in the house all afternoon hiding from us.” Her tone turned high-pitched, as if talking to a child. “Why don’t you go outside, Sophie? We’ll be cooking in here and you don’t want to get in the way.” She was speaking slowly, too.

  Sophie matched her pitch and slowness, careful to speak clearly just in case Ashley didn’t understand. “I was hoping to find Lincoln. I was not hiding today, but working on an ongoing translation, and I expected him to assist me. Have you seen your cousin?”

  “Translating from what, Kenyan?” Abigail asked.

  “Sumerian,” Sophie said.

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “Were we capable of tracing our individual ancestries throughout the millennia, I suspect that you would find that many of us originate from Mesopotamia, as it is regarded widely as a cradle of civilization. That said, I am not from that region of the world—indeed, I am of no nationality at all, regarding myself as somewhat more of a citizen of history.”

  Ashley and Abigail exchanged looks that Sophie could only interpret as “do you hear this idiot woman talking?”

  “Bless your heart. I’m gonna pray for your soul,” Abigail said finally.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Sophie said. “My thanks.” She gave them a little bow and descended the stoop’s stairs.

  They didn’t even wait to begin their angry muttering until she was too far away to hear them.

  Sophie had the sense not to exhale until she’d stepped behind a tree. Her shoulders sagged, fist pressed to her belly where it hurt.

  Everything here was so overwhelmingly different from her quiet farm. There were superficial similarities: the garden that the Marshalls kept had different plants in it but was equally organized and almost as expansive; their pond likewise appeared popular among the local wildlife and mosquitos alike. If Sophie closed her eyes to inhale the late-summer scents, she could pretend that she was home.

  The company, however, was wildly different.

  An old man stood over the barbecue, and his belly was so large that it hung over his jeans. Rather than a belt, he wore suspenders striped with the colors of the United States flag. He carried a handgun on his belt. His eyes were squinty-small behind the thick lenses of his glasses, and his gnarled hands shook on the grill tongs.

  Elderly women also sat near him, their folding chairs arranged in a circle. Some held dusty old beer cans. Another was leaning forward, separating pits from cherries, her once-golden hair hanging in limp gray fuzz over her shoulders. Sophie hadn’t seen so many women in one place before—aside from her visit to the Middle Worlds. She’d certainly never seen so many old people. Their colorless skin looked so frail and papery.

  The younger adult family members were gathering by a pickup’s tailgate and unloading supplies from inside of it. Susannah was not among them, nor was Lincoln.

  The people by the barbecue didn’t acknowledge Sophie when she passed, but they did fall silent.

  In the absence of conversation, their gazes seemed to scream judgment.

  Lincoln also was not by the pond. The children were shrieking as they hurled mud at each other on its shore, and Sophie couldn’t help but watch with a genuine smile even though Lincoln also was not there.

  Her toes sank into the mud at the edge. She hadn’t had any shoes to wear aside from her usual boots, and she was pleased to feel the squish underneath her feet. It was grainy and slimy, growing life. Quite fertile.

  The children realized they were being watched. A little boy stopped dead and stared openly.

  “Hello,” Sophie said.

  The boy’s eyes were as round as the moon. “I’m Wade. What’s your name?”

  “Sophie. I’m a friend of Lincoln’s. Do you know Lincoln?”

  “Nope,” the boy said, even though his face looked to be a miniaturized version of his uncle’s. “Do you need to take a bath?”

  “Most likely,” she admitted. She had been busy traveling, and there weren’t many showers in the Middle Worlds, nor had she been at the home in Reno long enough to avail herself of their unreliable plumbing. “Why do you ask? Can you smell me?”

  “You look dirty,” he said.

  Sophie looked down. Her clothes were quite clean. “Excuse me?”

  “I hate baths,” Wade said. “If you jump in the lake, everything washes off. See?” He grabbed her wrist and got her quite wet, though that was the only effect. He seemed confused by the result. “Oh.”

  Her smile spread. “Have you never seen anyone with skin like mine before?” She dropped into a crouch beside him, holding her damp arm out so that he could see it better. “I’m not dirty. This is just the color of my skin. Skin coloration is related to the amount of melanin we have. I have a good deal of melanin, but you have a tiny bit too, right here.” She tweaked his nose where he had the most freckles.

  “You’re so brown,” Wade asked. “Can I touch?”

  Blessed little scientist, so curious about his world. “Yes, you may touch me again. Thank you for asking.”

  But when Wade reached out small hands to brush them over Sophie’s forearm, Abigail appeared from out of nowhere.

  “Washington Davis Adair! What in the world do you think you’re doing?” She immediately jerked the child onto her hip and stormed off.

  All the children had noticed Sophie’s interaction with Wade, and they clearly sensed that interacting with Sophie would get them in trouble. They scattered.

  Now the pond filled previously with laughing children was empty, and she was alone on its bank, watching the women jerk the children back toward the barbecue. Closer to safety. Away from Sophie.

  She pressed a fist to her stomach again. It was hurting even worse, like acid was trying to digest her very own tissue.

  Another vehicle pulled up the dirt road. The driver didn’t bother getting close enough to navigate the pickups clustered by the house. He stopped halfway up the road and the passenger door flung open.

  Lincoln Marshall spilled onto the dirt.

  He stood immediately, so clearly he wasn’t significantly injured—only scuffed and annoyed.

  The driver slammed the door shut, swung around on the driveway, and hauled down the street at an impressive speed.

  “Thank the gods above,” Sophie sighed.

  Lincoln wasn’t dead, though he may wish he’d been murdered after she got to him.

  Chapter 14

  The car that Krantz the Werewolf took away at top speed didn’t move with the preternatural swiftness of its driver, but fast enough to pepper his pants with a thousand tiny pebbles.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  He was left covered in dust and filled with the powerful urge to get back to the hospice. To that shriveled, defenseless old man that people were calling John Marshall.

  “Mr. Marshall!”

  Sophie was padding toward him, her bare feet booted by mud. She was dressed in floating white cotton, her braids loose at her back. Her skin was highlighted in gold glitter and underscored with velvety brown. Dewy sweat glistened on a brow furrowed disapprovingly.

  Lincoln would have rather had Sophie frowning at him with that disapproval than deal with anything else. “You doing all right, shortcake? Any sign of the assassin?”

  “None, though if it had attacked me, I would have happily used your family as human shields,” Sophie said.

  She wasn’t joking. He could tell.

  “It seems that we stumbled into a worse situation than we intended,” Lincoln said.

  “I would certainly say so.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Your family treats me as though I have an infectious disease.”

  “Bigger problem than that.”

  “It m
ay not bother you, but being viciously unwelcome is a rather big problem for me,” Sophie said.

  “Not bigger than getting abducted by the local werewolf pack,” he said, rubbing his neck and grimacing. The muscle tension hadn’t gotten any better on the bumpy road through the mountains.

  Her disapproval melted to excitement. “Werewolves! An entire pack of them? They abducted you? Did you get to see all of them?”

  “Thousands,” Lincoln said.

  “I forgive you for your abandonment, in that case. I would also abandon you for an opportunity to witness such a thing.” She squirmed with delight. “Gods above, that must have been incredible! I’ve never heard of any single shapeshifter pack cohabiting in such volume! Surely that cannot be natural for their ilk!”

  “It ain’t natural, but they don’t got a choice. They’re stuck together for the same reason I was stuck with the guys in Reno.” He glanced toward the house. Everyone was watching them but pretending that they weren’t. Lincoln turned his back to his family. “The Alpha told me that someone’s been killing patients at the hospice, and he wanted to be sure it wasn’t me.”

  “Of course it was not. You don’t possess any powers that permit you to kill remotely, and it’s unlikely one such as Inanna would desire it anyway.”

  Lincoln hadn’t expected her to defend him. “That’s right.”

  But she wasn’t finished. The awfulness of it seemed to creep over Sophie. “And yet…is not a hospice where dying people are made comfortable as they await their exit from this life?”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” he said.

  “And someone is killing them? That is—gods above, that is beyond deplorable!” Sophie spluttered. “Death is a time of dignity. A holy thing. And someone is taking away the opportunity for graceful passage? Unacceptable! We should get there immediately to protect your father! And the other patients! I’ll grab one of my bags—I’m sure I have something that can help with this!”

  She only took a couple of steps before Lincoln caught her by the elbow. “I’ll look into it. Remember, Miss Keyes…you’re hiding.”

  “I can’t hide when people are being hurt so close by!”

  “How many more people get hurt when your fancy-pants Historian memory dies with you?” It wasn’t entirely a rhetorical question. Lincoln wasn’t wholly convinced that the world needed a damn thing that Sophie contained within her memory, or even that her memories were accurate.

  “Losing the Historian would be a much less direct hurt,” Sophie said. “It would take time for things to go awry.”

  “But it would go awry,” Lincoln said. “You asked for my help, and I’m gonna help, but I need you to help too. And that means laying low. Let me investigate this quietly.”

  “Ooh, I hate it when you’re right. It’s particularly galling coming from a man who is so often deeply, frustratingly wrong.”

  Lincoln frowned. “Wait, why am I protecting you?”

  “You can’t help yourself and I’m taking advantage of your misplaced sense of chivalry for my benefit,” Sophie said primly. “In that case, I shall offer my expertise to help anywhere I can. Safely.”

  “I figured you would.” He jerked his head toward the house. “The investigation starts here, shortcake. Stick with me.”

  “Is that nickname a height joke?” she asked, hurrying behind him.

  It would have been appropriate if it had been. She was tiny compared to Lincoln, almost hilariously so. “Sure,” he said.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying to me.”

  “Yep,” he said.

  They walked up to the tailgate of the pickup. Lincoln’s sister, Abigail, was standing by a foam cooler with Uncle Art. The two of them had always gotten along well; Uncle Art thought women had a place in the kitchen, and Abigail had never wanted a life outside of one.

  “Abby,” Lincoln said, opening his arms.

  His sister gave him a pinched smile. “Linc.” She stepped forward and gave him a terse embrace. “You finally showed up.”

  “Yeah, I need to find Noah,” he said.

  “I haven’t been introduced,” boomed Uncle Art. “Who’s this beautiful lady?” He was looking behind Lincoln at Sophie, who wasn’t exactly cowering, but also didn’t look like she had any patience for the conversation.

  “This is my colleague, Sophie Keyes,” Lincoln said.

  “C’mere, gimme a hug,” Uncle Art said.

  “I decline the generous offer,” she said from behind Lincoln’s back.

  Uncle Art boomed with laughter. “I see why you’ve been avoiding the family. Trying to keep her from us, huh?”

  “You know me,” Lincoln said. “I keep busy.”

  “Then you must be the busywork,” Uncle Art said to Sophie.

  Lincoln wished that the ground would open up and devour him rather than have to watch his uncle flirt pathetically with Sophie.

  He almost thought it worked. The earth shook under his feet, and the windows on the house buzzed from the hard shake.

  “Whoa,” he said. “What was that?” It had already stopped.

  Uncle Art caught the pepper grinder before it could fall off the barbecue’s table. He plopped it into place again. “That was number seventeen.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re up to eighteen, Uncle Art,” Abigail said. “We’ve been having earthquakes lately. A lot of them.”

  “Like a big one and aftershocks?” Lincoln asked. It wasn’t unheard of. They were in an area with high seismic activity, and they could have a couple perceptible earthquakes on a good month.

  “No aftershocks. None of them are real big, either. It’s just every couple of days, wham. A good hard shake and it’s over.” Uncle Art shook his spatula in the direction of the mountains. “I tell you, it’s those shitters! They’re drilling or something up there, trying to steal our minerals! Do you like that, Linc? Shitters instead of shifters?” He laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

  “I really gotta talk to Noah,” Lincoln said. “Is he at the Sheriff’s Department?”

  Abigail looked surprised. “No, he’s here with me. By the barbecue. If you’re going that way, you should carry the cooler to him.”

  Lincoln peered around the side of the house. He couldn’t see Noah, but he saw Aunt Bee fussing at the grill with tongs, shouting orders at someone. That someone had to be Noah.

  “Thanks, Abby,” Lincoln said, picking up the cooler and heading around the house.

  He’d figured from all the cars that there would be a lot of Marshalls around, but he was still surprised to see how many folks had come together for his father. Skylar was there. So was his mom, three other aunts, and about a million children.

  Plus Noah Adair.

  He had the tan of a man who worked outside and the belly of a man who liked beer, though it was layered over the muscle of a goddamn bull. He wore a sheriff’s department tee with its shoulder seams stretched to the limits. His Carhartts were belted with sturdy leather to support his tactical gear, which he wore even among family: his sidearm, extra magazines, a Taser, a baton.

  Noah Adair had probably been excited when the apocalypse came around and he’d finally gotten an excuse to use his gear.

  “Noah,” Lincoln said.

  “Lincoln,” Noah said.

  They shook. Lincoln didn’t hear any bones breaking in their hands, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. They gripped each other and kept squeezing too long.

  Lincoln smiled.

  Noah smiled too.

  And they squeezed harder.

  Neither of them was going to give up. If Lincoln didn’t let go, he’d be locked in this handshake for the rest of his life. It was Sophie’s shoulder brushing against his that reminded him to disengage his fingers, freeing himself in case he needed to protect her—a much more important task than proving he was manlier than his brother-in-law.

  Noah’s smile got smug. He reached his hand around Lincoln to shake Sophie’s.

  “You m
ust be Sophie Keyes,” Noah said. “I’ve been hearing about you from the family.”

  “And there’s not a doubt in my mind that all of it has been a fair assessment of me as a human being,” Sophie said, so brightly that even Lincoln almost couldn’t tell she was pissed.

  “What brings you back, Lincoln?” Noah asked. “Are you looking for a job?”

  “I’m just here for Dad.”

  Noah’s eyes wandered over Sophie. “Too bad you’ve got distractions keeping you away. With the way things are, even you might be able to get a job with the county again.”

  “Obviously,” Lincoln said, “since it looks like they were stupid enough make you sheriff. The last time I saw, you hadn’t even made deputy.”

  “We’ve had to lower our standards after Genesis. Low enough even for you, Lincoln,” Noah said. “You couldn’t limbo under that bar. Maybe your lady could, but you can’t.”

  “She’s not my lady. And the department wasn’t yours before Genesis. How’d you score it?”

  “Same way President Peterson got his office. An experienced man was in the right place at the right time, and I’ve taken the post while we get everything together for a proper democratic election.”

  “We’d be downright retarded not to reelect him,” Skylar said.

  Aunt Bee nodded her agreement. “With all those werewolves hunting in our mountains, he’s the only one I trust to keep us safe. You know some of the other people think we should get along with them? Like Mayor Springfield.” She crossed herself with a shudder.

  “Well, I guess all I can say is that the county’s lucky to have your service,” Lincoln said.

  “You know, I was the last deputy left in these parts after Genesis.” Noah couldn’t resist getting one last dig in, reminding Lincoln that he’d gotten booted for corruption—as if the entire county hadn’t been his exact brand of corrupt, too.

  That didn’t explain why Noah was the only deputy. “Where did the old sheriff’s brother go? You know, Tommy Dickerson?”