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

by SM Reine

  “Naw,” he said.

  She waited, as if expecting him to elaborate, but he didn’t bother.

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  “Yup,” he said. Sophie was a know-it-all and that wouldn’t ever change. Frankly, at this point, Lincoln wasn’t sure he cared to make her. He was gonna have Poppy’s pie. Everything was beautiful.

  The waitress appeared at the end of the table. It wasn’t Poppy, but one of her nieces. Lincoln knew her as Robin McBride. The chunk of diamond on her finger suggested she’d be a missus by now, though.

  She was a plump woman with bobbed curls and bright red lipstick that must have cost a pretty penny in this economy. She smiled in greeting to see Sophie, but then her eyes fell on Lincoln, and her smile vanished.

  “What are you doing here?” Robin asked.

  “I’m in town to visit my dad,” Lincoln said. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard what’s up with him.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard, and I’m ready to dance on his goddamn grave,” she said.

  Cold washed over Lincoln. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t take it personal,” Robin said. “The whole town’s just as awful as he is, in their ways.”

  Lincoln was still holding the photographic evidence of his dad’s only flaw. He set it down slowly, trying not to let the affront rise inside of him, trying to breathe through the anger. “My dad taught you at Sunday school, Robin. The least you can do is be polite when he’s living his last hours on this side of Heaven’s gates.”

  Her pretty features twisted up with rage. “I’m sick of being polite. I’m sick of being quiet. There’s no way in hell I’m serving John Marshall’s son. You want food? You go order it at the counter if you can find someone more willing to forgive and forget.”

  She clicked her pen, jammed it in her apron pocket, and marched away. The crowd parted in front of her.

  Lincoln felt hot and cold and like the world had turned upside down.

  “Everyone loves my dad,” he said to nobody in particular.

  “Not everyone, clearly,” Sophie said. Worry knitted her brow. “Are you okay?”

  No, he wasn’t okay. Lincoln had played with Robin, many years younger than him, at Sunday school every week when his dad taught it. They’d been good friends at the time, inasmuch as young children of disparate ages could be good friends. Her reaction didn’t bother him because of the betrayal of it—the ingratitude.

  Her reaction bothered him because he was afraid that John Marshall had earned it.

  Lincoln lifted the faded photograph again, looking at a man he didn’t know as well as he’d thought.

  Sometimes dying’s a consequence of living an asshole life, and your dad was always an asshole.

  “I’ll order food at the counter,” Lincoln said numbly.

  Inanna was waiting for him by the register. She stood as if looking for a vacant barstool, of which there were none. It was miraculous that everyone seemed to walk around her ghostly form, as if unconsciously aware of the presence of a long-dead god in their midst.

  Lincoln placed the order. He got oatmeal for Sophie—close enough to that corn stuff that she’d surely like it—and then got pie and milkshakes to share with his mom. They’d always ordered matching breakfasts like that, back when they still liked each other.

  “I’m sorry about Uncle John,” said Poppy, who was manning the register.

  He’d been so lost in his own thoughts that he was surprised by the kindness. “Thanks, ma’am.” He tried to hand her cash for breakfast, but she waved him off.

  “Uncle John’s family doesn’t pay at my counters anymore,” Poppy said. She wasn’t related to them by blood, but a lot of people called Lincoln’s father Uncle John. He was that much an avuncular figure for the church. “You come back any time your belly gets empty, darling.”

  How could she smile so kindly at him when her niece had spit such venom?

  Who was telling the truth about John—Robin and Susannah, or Poppy and Sissy?

  Lincoln was still feeling empty when he returned to Sophie. She was back to her translation, unaccompanied by Susannah. She had tucked the photograph of John and Junior in her pages, as if to make sure it wouldn’t blow away.

  “I can’t believe you ordered pie for breakfast,” Sophie said, scratching off one last word before snapping the binder shut. “I read your lips: two slices of cherry pie, and two vanilla milkshakes with the malt on the side.”

  “You don’t even know what cherry pie is,” Lincoln said.

  “I’m not entirely naive to your fragment of the world. Omar used to bring me American movies and books to pass the time,” she said. “Indeed, I am quite familiar with Americana, and the culture of nostalgia built around it. I’m also aware of how iconic cherry pie is—as a delicious dessert filled with sugar. Nutritionally speaking, that sort of food offers little.”

  “You don’t eat pie because it’s healthy. You eat pie because it’s delicious. Ain’t nothing wrong with having a delicious breakfast.”

  “That may be true if you don’t make a habit of it, but your interaction with the cashier suggests to me that this is something you often do. I understand your desire to indulge, Mr. Marshall, but I don’t understand why that desire overrides your health.”

  “Heaven forbid I make choices based on emotions rather than logic,” Lincoln said. “We’re at terrible risk of having fun.”

  Her face was very straight. “There’s little risk of that in this dreadful county.”

  “We’ll see what kind of tune you’re singing after the pie gets here. Maybe once you taste how good it is, you’ll learn to enjoy yourself.”

  “I have great fun quite frequently,” Sophie said. “I’m downright delightful.”

  Lincoln had a thing or two to say about that, but the words didn’t make it out. Inanna hadn’t followed him back from the counter. She was slipping through the crowd to look at each person, as if expecting to find a face that she knew. Today she was clad in cotton with a gleaming belt. Her jewelry was simple, but numerous; she wore leather cords around her throat and wrist that were adorned with teeth. Only some of the teeth looked like they came from animals.

  Sophie followed his gaze. “What are you looking at?”

  “She’s here,” Lincoln muttered.

  Sophie’s eyes brightened. “Inanna?” Her gaze slid right over the god creeping between tables. “What’s she doing?”

  “Looking around.”

  “Not focused on you? Fascinating.”

  It made Lincoln nervous. “She’s getting worse,” he said, gaze locked on his upside-down coffee mug. “She’s getting more like a person of her own.”

  “I can’t wait to talk to her,” Sophie said.

  Poppy appeared tableside to serve them gracefully. She must have put their orders at the top of her list in order to get them fed so quickly. “Here you go, baby,” she said, smoothing back Lincoln’s hair. “And for you.” She had brought more than oatmeal for Sophie, including a dazzling array of fruit, bacon, and fried eggs on the side.

  “Did I order this much?” Sophie asked.

  “No, but you’re not from around here and I thought you might like to try something else,” Poppy said. “And Sissy was right. You’re so skinny.” She pinched Sophie’s arm.

  “You spoke with Sissy Cassidy about me?” Sophie asked.

  “Gossiping about you is gonna entertain the ladies of this town for months, I guarantee it,” Lincoln said.

  “Your arrival’s good timing,” Poppy said. “We only just got bored gossiping about Lincoln’s last girlfriend. How is she doing?”

  “Great,” Lincoln said. “She’s great. Haven’t seen her in months.” Not since she had killed the entire goddamn world.

  Poppy clicked her tongue against her teeth. “That’s her loss and Sophie’s gain. Eat up and please let me know if you want anything else.”

  “Actually, I do have a question,” Lincoln said. “What’s Robin’s beef with me? She refused
to serve us because of my dad.”

  “You don’t worry about that nastiness,” Poppy said. “Some people just can’t let go of their lies. Robin should know better than cling to all that. So you don’t worry, all right?”

  “But what are the lies?” he asked.

  “Such poison will never cross my lips.” She drew an invisible x over her plump lips with her fingertip. “I always warned Susannah that she was gonna cut fissures in our community that nobody could fix, and now it’s done, and you and Robin are part of the fallout. Let it go.”

  She left, shooting one last scowl at Susannah by the counter.

  “What’d your mother do that everyone finds so gossip-worthy?” Sophie asked, delicately spooning brown sugar crumbles onto her oatmeal.

  “It’s a long story,” Lincoln said. “Short version is that she got sick of raising my dad’s kids and cheated on him while we were at school. He found out, and she vanished. Barely talked to my sisters or me after. You can’t explode like that without the town remembering.”

  Sophie set her spoon down. “Gods above, Lincoln. I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugged it off. “Dad stuck around. I did the best I could to protect my sisters and cousins after that, and he helped me become the man I am today. I don’t miss my mom.”

  “Strange,” Sophie said softly. Her eyes were on Susannah’s back. “She seems to love you, so why leave?”

  Lincoln shrugged and grunted and forked his pie. With the cherries melting over his tongue, he let thoughts of his mom’s infidelity drift away, replaced by childhood memories of warmth. Happiness. The pie tasted as good as the surety that his dad was a great man. A boon to the community.

  They were naming a damn school after him.

  Sophie watched him eat, nose wrinkled.

  “Jealous?” Lincoln asked.

  “That looks repulsively colorful for eight o’clock in the morning, and I wish to taste it,” she said.

  “Get your own pie.” He took another, bigger mouthful.

  Sophie jerked his plate out from under him. “I won’t let your childishness get in the way of scientific discoveries in the field of cherry pie.”

  “You said it’s repulsive,” Lincoln said, jerking his plate back.

  Sophie pronged his hand with the fork.

  He jerked back. “Ow!”

  She stole a large bite of pie while he was still shaking his hand. Sophie contemplated the flavor, tines resting against her lip.

  “I hope you hate it,” Lincoln said.

  “I’m not sure I do.” Sophie took another bite. “I’ll have to continue investigating.”

  “Hey! That’s my pie!”

  “I might share a bite if you’re nice,” she said, grinning at him.

  The Historian was teasing Lincoln. Over his damn pie.

  There was nothing Elise-like about the sparkle of mischief in Sophie’s eyes, but Lincoln couldn’t help but remember the last woman he’d shared Poppy’s pie with anyway. How he’d had to force-feed Elise and she’d still thought it was gross.

  Sophie liked it. She loved it, in fact, judging by the way she was suddenly halfway through his slice, and he’d definitely have to order another one.

  Inanna caught his eye across the diner. For a blink, he confused her with Elise again. She was lifting a knife as Elise so often did, allowing its blade to catch a sunbeam, as though anointing its cutting edge with light.

  And then she swung—at his mother.

  Lincoln leaped to his feet with a strangled shout.

  Inanna’s knife plunged into Susannah’s back.

  And nothing happened. Both knife and god vanished, Lincoln’s mom showed no injury, and the restaurant had fallen dead silent.

  Everyone was looking at him.

  He gave an uncomfortable laugh, shaking off his jacket. “Never did like spiders,” he said.

  The men at the table next to them laughed.

  “It’s just a spider,” said Boone, a beefy guy with a gray beard.

  “I was surprised,” Lincoln said.

  Conversation resumed slowly once he sat back down.

  Inanna was at his shoulder, inhabiting nearly the same spot as Sophie. “What are you doing, you crazy bitch?” Lincoln hissed between clenched teeth.

  “You’d best not be speaking to me,” Sophie said.

  He shook his head tensely without dropping Inanna’s gaze. He pulled Sophie against him just so they wouldn’t be merged together like that, like a ghost. Like Sophie needed to be protected from Inanna.

  “What did that mean?” Lincoln asked in a tone under a whisper. His mom was approaching. People were still listening.

  Inanna raised her dagger to point its tip at Susannah.

  “That woman is evil. She needs to die.”

  Chapter 23

  “I need to be exorcised,” Lincoln said.

  Sophie put her finger on the last page she’d read and looked up. “Hmm?”

  They were sitting outside Poppy’s Diner. Lincoln had lost his appetite after Inanna mimed killing his mother, and he hadn’t thought anything could make him lose a taste for pie. He’d kept eating it after someone had poisoned a slice to assassinate him, for Christ’s sake.

  “I can’t wait any longer to find Elise. We’ve gotta do your ritual now so I can get Inanna out of me.” Lincoln dug a box of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He’d found it in his room—an artifact of his rebellious teenage years. The cardboard was bent and yellowed from age. When he took out a cigarette, the paper was brittle under his fingers, and he was certain that tobacco wouldn’t be worth smoking.

  He lit up anyway, inhaling the stale, bitter smoke. It tasted like stained casino carpeting. Like sinuous white lines framed by licks of black. Like underground bars, women wearing leather, and steel pressed against his throat.

  Sophie tucked her notebook away, then made a binder appear. The one with the most current translation progress. “I’m afraid I’m still missing too many key elements of the ritual to perform it, even if I fill in with the best of my witchcraft.”

  “I can’t wait any longer,” Lincoln said again. He’d sent his mother away at the first opportunity, putting a safe distance between them. But that would only last so long.

  He needed Elise Kavanagh. Now.

  Yet there was an old photograph of John Junior burning in his back pocket, heavier than a lead weight. It was one thing to walk away from Grove County. To walk away from Ashley’s demands, and from Sophie’s ritual.

  It was another thing to walk away from the men in the photograph.

  A figure passed between trees on the opposite end of the street. Its unnatural fluidity gave it away. No forest animal was that big and still that graceful.

  Lincoln stood, taking another drag of cigarette. It felt like Elise’s pale hands were curling around his lungs to shelter his heart.

  “Is something wrong?” Sophie stood from the bench more slowly, taking time to repack her bag. “What do you see? Is it Inanna again?”

  “Hey,” Lincoln called out, white smoke trailing from his nostrils. “What are you doing over there?”

  Abel Wilder emerged from the shadows. He only seemed human once the light fell over him. His shadow had been quadruple his size.

  “What are you doing there?” Abel didn’t look for cars before loping across the street, and he earned a honk for the trouble. “I thought you didn’t have business outside Mortise. That you were just here for your family.”

  “I’m having breakfast,” Lincoln said. He realized that Sophie was squirming next to him, as she did when excited about something. This time she was also grinning widely. She wanted an introduction. “This is Abel Wilder, by the way. The Alpha mate.”

  “Oh my goodness! A genuine werewolf Alpha!” Sophie danced where she stood. “Knowing that many preternaturals returned from the brink of extinction is one thing, but meeting something as rare as a werewolf Alpha in person is—my goodness, it’s such an honor! May I please shake your hand, if it’
s appropriate to ask?”

  “Uh…” Abel said. “Sure.”

  He only gave permission when Sophie had already grabbed his hand and shaken it. Lincoln had always thought of the Wilder brothers as being dark, but next to Sophie’s ebony skin, Abel just about passed for a normal white guy.

  Sophie shook enthusiastically enough to turn even Abel’s muscle-corded arm to spaghetti.

  “Abel, meet Sophie. She’s my…friend,” Lincoln said.

  Abel eyed her sideways. “Uh huh. Right.”

  “Oh, I’m your friend now?” Sophie only looked a little bit annoyed by the assignation. She was much more interested in the Alpha. “May I please look more closely at your scars? I assume they’re a result of inter-pack fights, and I’d be curious to examine them! I would also love to hear your war stories!”

  “No,” Abel said after a beat. He seemed to be having a hard time keeping up with Sophie’s repeated change in focus, like she was running on her own timeline just as much as the time-bending assassin. “Don’t like being touched. Don’t like staring either.”

  “Of course, of course,” she said. “There’s no need to sate my academic interest at the expense of your personal comfort. Being such a public figure affords you little privacy, so you are wise to erect firm boundaries! Thank you for speaking with me nonetheless. Thank you for meeting with me! Gods above! Did I mention that this is such an honor?”

  “Slow down, shortcake,” Lincoln said. “You’ll scare off the werewolves before the sheriff can concoct fake reasons to arrest them.”

  “You helping him do that?” Abel asked.

  “I want real justice. You know me.”

  “Don’t reckon that I do,” he said. A family emerged from Poppy’s Diner, and Abel glared at them with golden eyes. The mother hugged her children close as she hurried them to her car. “So, you’re only in Northgate for breakfast. You’re not trying to solve this case before Sheriff Adair?”

  Lincoln wasn’t going to admit to that. His help was still the only potential leverage he held against the pack—his only connection to Elise in the region. “That’s gotta be what you’re doing, isn’t it?”