by Cecy Robson
“I suppose you’re right.” I drop my heavy bag on my desk with a thud, wishing there was a better way to say goodbye.
Bill’s hand finds my shoulder. “Dahlia deserves justice and honor, just as the others lost to us. You possess the power to achieve both. I only wish I could offer you, and her, more.”
“Me, too.”
“Olivia!” Marco hollers loud enough to rattle the windows of his office. “Where the hell―”
“Your briefcase is in your closet,” I call out.
“I meant―”
“And your iPad is inside the rear pocket,” I remind him.
“But―”
“I charged it on Friday before I left and powered it down to conserve the battery. Do you remember your password?” I ask.
“Of course, I do. I’m not a moron!” he yells. There’s a brief pause, followed by more yelling. “Damn it. Did you change my password?”
“No, Marco.” I sigh. “Give me a second. I’ll be right in.”
“Fine. But you better bring coffee!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Doesn’t Marco realize I have briefs to type and souls to free? “Are you sure Marco will be okay without me, Bill? I just caught him up to speed from my last stint with Ryker.”
“Ryker’s PA and mine will take over your duties. Jane will also help as needed. Won’t you, Jane?”
Jane shuffles into her cubicle, steaming cup of coffee in hand. “What?” she squawks.
“I said you’ll help Marco if he needs it,” Bill repeats a little louder.
“I don’t want the Crypt Keeper’s mother helping me!” Marco barks. “What I want is a damn cup of coffee. Hell’s bells, isn’t she dead yet?”
I dive across the partition separating our cubicles when Jane reaches for her candy cane wand. It doesn’t matter how fast I move. Jane, bless her osteoporosis backside, is faster.
“Dhíoghail dom,” she spits, her beady black irises gleaming with hate.
Avenge me. Holy stars, she just whacked Marco with the evil eye.
Time slows, except for us. The papers I scatter in my haste remain suspended, the edges barely beginning to flutter. Bill and I exchange glances, panic spreading across our features like a bad rash.
Not Jane. She sips her coffee as if the gamut of her curse isn’t intensifying into the mini tornado at the tip of her wand. With an angry boom of thunder, the diminutive twister swirls away from the wand and ransacks its way into Marco’s office.
Bill mutters a few swears and chases after it, his legs pumping fast. The tornado beats him to Marco, banging into the massive desk and scattering everything on it.
Marco’s paper weight, briefcase, iPad, and a few pens fall on the floor with a crash, morphing into tarantulas the size of their former counterparts. Let me tell you, an iPad turned arachnid is one f’ing huge spider.
Marco screams, his caterpillar-thick eyebrows shooting up his receding hairline. His howls, in retrospect, don’t compare to the shrieks that follow when the tornado swallows his desk and spits out Harry Potter’s Aragog.
“Jane, stop it!” I yell, lunging for her wand. She jerks her hand away, still sipping and still very much keeping her wand from me.
Marco’s ear-splitting cries pound against my sensitive ears. The mammoth spider spreads her fangs, nailing Marco in the face with a thick stream of web. Bill roars, exploding into his gargoyle form. He grips the spider’s two front legs, barely keeping the pinchers from stabbing Marco’s flailing body.
The other versions of Jane’s creepy crawlies scuttle around Bill and swarm Marco’s rotund form. The smallest one, bright yellow and likely a former highlighter, leaps into the air, latching onto one of Marco’s eyebrows, trying to eat it.
I whirl back, horrified. “Jane, stop it!”
She takes another sip of coffee. I swing my leg over the divider and land sprawled across her desk, trying futilely to filch her wand. “You’re going to kill Marco!”
“Yup,” she croaks, scooting away on her office chair with a sudden rush of her power.
“Grath, the wanth!” Bill roars at me, his forked tongue shooting through his fangs like a streamer. He snapped off one of the arachnid legs but seven angry ones still remained, hell-bent on reaching poor Marco.
“I’m trying!” I yell back.
I kick off my shoes and jet after Jane. She zig-zags along the rows of cubicles, giggling like a possessed kid on a Big Wheel instead of an old druid priestess on a very modern office chair. She speeds up when she sees me coming, her black veil flapping behind her like a kite.
“Jane, get back here, now!”
The one super power I possess being a pixie is my innate ability to prance. Sure, it’s not much to brag about, but it helps now. My legs propel me off the floor and onto a desk. I catapult over a service guy frozen in the middle of towing away our broken copier, the hem of my skirt skimming his bald head.
Ryker glances up from his paperwork as I land. By no small miracle, I manage to clutch the back of Jane’s chair. She drags me along, not slowing down. I pull my body up and wrench the candy cane wand from her grip. The chair dwindles to a stop, back where we started.
I stand, panting as I lift the over-accessorized little stick above my head and away from Jane. I may be short, but I have enough height to foil Jane.
“Harumph,” she snaps.
Just because I have the wand, doesn’t mean I let my guard down. For a little old lady, Jane packs quite the sucker punch. “Jane, I’ll give you your wand back if you promise to expunge the curse. You know how Marco is. He didn’t mean to insult you.”
She responds with a defiant tilt of her sharp chin and an arthritic middle finger in Marco’s direction.
A dismembered spider leg slaps against the glass. Bill broke off two more in our absence and squashed three smaller spiders with his gargantuan foot. One creeps out of the office and scrambles beneath Jane’s desk.
“Oliviath!” Bill roars, motioning to where poor Marco lays mummified in the corner.
Jane notices and resumes her hellish giggles.
“Jane,” I tell her. “That’s not funny?”
“What happened?” Ryker asks. He stalks down the hall, taking in the frozen atmosphere and its occupants. His widening stare homes in on the chaos that is Marco’s office.
Ryker’s arrival momentarily distracts me, and Jane takes full advantage. She leaps into the air and out of her orthopedic shoes, reaching for her wand.
I hold tight and so does she. The wand shakes at jackhammer speed. I think Jane’s wand is reacting to her power. We discover too late it’s reacting to mine. The wand tumbles between us and spins, the heart and ribbon end stopping and aiming at Marco’s office. The overhead lights illuminate in blinding capacity, far exceeding their wattage and buzzing as if ready to explode.
Except the only thing that explodes are the spiders. All of them.
Like the sound of rupturing balloons, they detonate.
I expect blood, guts, and innards—whatever makes up ginormous arachnoids. Instead petals of roses, pansies, lilacs, lilies, and daisies smack against the fishbowl office and shoot through the open door like cannon fodder, knocking me and Jane on our asses.
“Shit,” she crows when I push up on my elbows.
Ryker remains a stone wall, watching the floral surplus spill from the office. I suppose nothing really “wows” the Grim Reaper.
Bill wades through waist-deep flowers, growling. The virtual garden does little to hide his super-sized male parts as he rustles into the hall. Thank the stars his new talisman holds strong, dangling from a gold chain an inch below his collarbone. He prowls toward Jane, flapping his wings to relieve them of the mounds of buttercups adorning the arches.
“Janeth,” he hisses. “Thith ith no wayth for anth Ancienth tooth behaveth.”
“What?” Jane croaks.
I’m learning Jane’s hearing is selective at best.
Flowers cascade down my dress as I stand. “He says,
‘this is no way for an Ancient to behave.” I frown at her. “And he’s right.”
She raises her thin brows at me.
“Jane,” I say. “Don’t you blame me for this. I’m not the one who sent tarantulas to kill Marco.”
She smirks.
I gasp at her cheekiness. “I have no idea how this happened. You clean this mess up this instant!”
“Spoilsport,” she quips. She holds out her hand. “Wand.”
I mutter something, too, it’s just not worth repeating. “She wants us to find her wand.”
“Mm. Mm. Miff. Moff!” Marco is hollering beneath layers of blossoms and webbing.
Bill rolls his large almond eyes. “I’llth gothe freeth himth.”
Ryker crouches beside me as I crawl along the sea of blooms. “Did you ever do anything like this before?”
My hands search blindly beneath about twenty pounds of flowers. I sneeze when a stigma pushes up my nose. “No. But I’ve never dared to touch Jane’s wand before.”
“Trigger,” Jane croaks, returning to her cubicle.
Ryker gives it some thought. “She’s right. Your contact with Cathasach could have triggered your power and a possibly more.”
“That’s fantastic,” I add. I’d gone from no magic, to killing death hounds, and converting spiders into petal popping piñatas. The fun doesn’t seem to end. My eyes widen when I find Jane’s wand beneath an extra thick mound of flowers.
I lift it, victoriously . . . and double the florals overtaking the office. The force knocks us backward. Ryker yanks the vibrating wand from my grasp and tosses it to Jane. She catches it as if the wicked thing couldn’t wait to return to her liver-spotted grip.
“Goth damth ith!” Bill roars over Jane’s devilish giggles.
Ryker rests his head on a bed of rose petals and shifts his gaze my way, spitting out a leaf so he can speak. “We shouldn’t delay your training. If Cathasach has triggered your magic, you must learn to master it before it takes control . . .”
Chapter Fourteen
It took Jane an hour to clean up her mess. She had to alter the fucker’s (aka Marco’s) memory, re-grow his eyebrow, and return his furniture and office supplies back to pre-arachnid glory. It should have taken her less time, but the little dickens was having too much fun.
Ryker waits near my desk. He’s not hovering, per se, yet I’m innately aware of his presence. I’m not certain when that sense of his presence began. Maybe it was always there, and I was too blind to see it.
“Are you almost ready?” he asks.
“Just a moment, please.” I type quick and work just as fast. I have to manage my workload, take care of Marco, and support the less experienced staff. Right now, my super organization skills and resourcefulness just aren’t happening. Stars, I can practically feel every breath Ryker takes.
I type and retype the email to Bill’s secretary and the two new hires. I try to be specific on what Marco needs for his next few hearings and how to handle his moods. Between the three of them, I’m hoping they’ll keep him satisfied or, at the very least, non-homicidal.
“Olivia!”
“Second drawer on your left, Marco!” I yell back.
“You don’t even know―” He slides the drawer open. “Fine. But that’s not where I want it!”
I don’t miss a beat, speaking calmly. “Then put it where you want it, but don’t forget to tell me where.” I snatch the giant coffee an intern brought and hurry into Marco’s office. Ryker follows. He doesn’t make a sound, except here I am, feeling him again. “I have your coffee and a few documents that require your signature.”
He skims the letter at the top of the pile. “Who the hell is Diamond? And why do I have to pay her this ridiculous amount?”
I clear my throat. This will be fun. “Her name is pronounced Dee-ah-mund and—”
“Is this a joke, Olivia?” He leans forward, his new eyebrow giving an extra angry twitch. “Have I ever left you with the impression that I like joking?”
I continue, unaffected, and hoping to heaven and back Jane didn’t give that eyebrow a life of its own. “She’s a new hire, with a great deal of experience, and it’s only three-grand more a year than what you paid Chelsea.”
“Why should I pay Ruby—”
“Diamond,” I correct, emphasizing the correct pronunciation.
Oh, stars, and doesn’t that piss Marco off. “With a name like that she belongs on a pole with clear heels, Olivia. Not in my office!”
“Marco,” I say, forcing a patient smile. “How can I say this? We need quality workers—”
“Not strippers,” he mocks.
So much for patience. I ram my hands on my hips. “Marco, I am sick of the skanks that occupy space here looking to snag an attorney instead of focusing on their jobs. By paying a little more, for better quality, production will increase and you’ll make it up in profit.”
Maybe it’s me, but the new brow seems extra fuzzier and extra moodier. Or maybe it’s just Marco. “Why do I put up with you?” he snarls.
“Because I take care of you and I know what I’m doing.” I point to the paper. “Date and initial here.”
He glares. I sigh. “Marco, I have a lot on my plate. Diamond starts tomorrow. I’d like you to be nice to her.”
He grips his pen, ready to chomp it in half. “Are you saying I’m not nice?”
“Yes. I am.” I totally go Jersey and lift a hand. “Marco, this case I’m helping Ryker with will be tough to get through. I’m not sure how available I’ll be. I want you to be patient . . .”
“I’m patient!”
“. . . with everyone who’s covering for me. They’re here to help you.”
His upper lip curls. Well, isn’t this going just smoothly? I slap my hand over my forehead. “For pity’s sake, Marco!”
Ryker edges around me, closing the distance between he and Marco. He doesn’t loom nor touch him, but he’s close, his deep rumbling voice soft. “I recognize this is a difficult time for you, sir. I appreciate your willingness to allow Olivia to assist me. She’s irreplaceable to you and you fear losing her. I know this. Take comfort in knowing she’ll back to you soon. And, in her absence, allow the staff to help and work with you.”
Marco’s scowl softens with each passing word. “Very well, son,” he says. He finishes signing the form and signs the next few documents without question. “Just be sure I get her back in one piece.”
“Yes, sir.” Ryker rights himself and motions toward the door. “Shall we, Olivia?”
I blink back at them. “Ah, yeah. Bye, Marco.”
Marco doesn’t glance up. Everyone else does as we pass. The associate who always fixated on Dahlia abandons his office when he sees. “Hey, Ryker―I mean, Mr. Scott.”
It occurs to me that aside from the partners, I’m the only one who called Ryker by his first name? Bob, the associate, leans casually against the door. “Heard you have a big case. What’s it about?”
“Murder,” Ryker replies.
Bob blows out a breath. “Damn, man. You get all the good cases. I’d love to sink my teeth into a murder case. Hey, do you need any help?”
“Olivia is helping me.”
His greed is sleezy enough to make me want to shower. “Is she?”
I lift my chin. “I’m capable of more than just making coffee,” I remind him.
His grin broadens. “I bet you are.”
Ryker steps closer to me. “I hope you’re not implying something other than Olivia’s professional skills. It won’t sit well with me or the partners.”
Bob keeps his attention on me. Had he caught the barest trace of Ryker’s lethal stare, that stupid smile would slide right off his face. “Not at all. But if you change your mind―”
“I won’t. Olivia is the only one I need.”
Bob does a double-take when Ryker steps toward him, stunned by Ryker’s tightening stance and balled fists. Bob knows he crossed a dangerous line. “Ah, yeah,” he says, coughing into
his shoulder. “Sorry to hear about Dahlia quitting, Olivia. She was sweet.”
Sweet piece of ass, that I never got to bite, is probably what he really means. Idiot. I’m two seconds from punching him in his super-sized Adam’s apple.
“Let’s go, Olivia,” Ryker rumbles, keeping Bob in his sights as we continue down the hall.
I’m glad Ryker can see past Bob’s phony persona. I’ve never liked Bob yet his behavior tugs at my heart. It’s a reminder that Dahlia is no longer around for him to flirt with. She’s gone, and suffering, just like my family.
I take several deep breaths when we enter the elevator, trying to will away my tears. Moving on without Dahlia is excruciating. How am I going to focus my magic and train with barely more than a day to mourn? I need more time than this . . .
My throat tightens and my breathing grows frantic, despite my efforts to slow it. I start hyperventilating, pining to see my friend’s sweet face and missing the gentle way she took care of everyone.
Dahlia is gone. Just like everyone I loved before her.
Ryker narrows in, close enough for his body heat to stroke against the length of my arm. His presence, so warm, contrasts the cool soothing air filling my lungs and slows my rapid breathing. Each intake of air is like ice to my throbbing wounds and every beat of my heart is like a heavy stone lifting from the rubble that buries me.
Tears drizzle down my cheeks as I lower my lashes and choke back a cry from the reprieve.
A deep thrum murmurs in my ear. Peace, it whispers.
I jerk away, reaching for the banister to steady me. Ryker stretches out his hand, trying to catch me. My gaze travels from his hand, up his arm, to that dimple, unable to go further. “D-did you just do something to me?”
Ryker withdraws his hand and straightens, turning his body dead center toward the door.
“Did you?” I repeat quietly.
“The Ankou is tasked with many things,” he says. “He doesn’t exist simply to care for those who died.”
“He doesn’t?” I question.
He straightens further. “I’m sorry,” I add. “I don’t mean to disrespect you or sound naive. It’s just that all I know about Death is shrouded in darkness.”