Gunnar narrows his eyes. “This isn’t a game, Sabine.”
“Then what is it, Gunnar? An exam?” I lean in closer, expecting him to scowl, but his pupils dilate and dip down to my lips, taking a further plunge to my chest. With a growl of frustration, his eyes snap back up, not meeting mine. He storms toward yet another elevator.
I’m on the fifth floor. This door requires a key, which Gunnar plucks from his pocket before shoving it into the lock.
“You have a key to my place?”
“The agency has spare keys to all our agents’ apartments,” he answers gruffly, storming into the apartment ahead of me. “Not like we need them. We can teleport inside,” he adds.
Whatever common knowledge I’ve retained does not include magic, because all this witchy woo-woo stuff still sounds nuts.
The door to the apartment is heavy and closes on its own behind me as I enter a living room and take in my digs. If my place had a flavor, it would be plain old vanilla. The walls are painted eggshell white and beige, and the room contains light green furnishings. Pillar candles stand on white holders. There’s a single shelf of paperbacks between mahogany wood bookends. The coffee and end tables are clutter free and clean. The place looks minimalistic, squeaky clean, and has a chemical smell. I expected something a little more eclectic from a secret agent with purple hair and a nose ring.
I walk up to a shelf with tiny plants in porcelain pots and squint at a photo of me with brown hair. Guess I wasn’t as colorful as I thought. When did the purple hair happen?
I face Gunnar, who quickly looks up with a grimace. Was he checking out my ass? I raise my brows.
“I will pick you up at eight tonight. Get some rest.” He strides to the door then swings around with narrowed eyes. “And no doing magic in front of witnesses. Number-one rule.”
I put my hands on my hips. “What’s the number-two rule—only wear dark clothes?”
Gunnar grunts.
I try for a real question. “Is my name really Sabine Lasalle, or is that an alias?”
“Alias,” Gunnar answers brusquely.
“So?” I tap my foot on the hardwood floor when he doesn’t elaborate. “What is my real name?”
“Not important.” He lifts his chin, a mischievous grin on his lips like he’s hidden something I want and enjoys keeping it from me. “You have been Sabine Lasalle for over ten months. You teach French at the EDL Vancouver. We already arranged time off for you to complete your mission, so you don’t need to worry about going into your day job for now.”
“French teacher by day, Agent of Night by . . . night.” I snort.
Gunnar purses his lips like he doesn’t see the humor. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who jokes around. Apparently, I am that kind of person. A comedian and a clean freak. Hmm.
“What’s important is the mission,” he states. “That’s why you took the time off—to focus and prepare for the mission. That’s still your objective.”
I drop my arms to my sides. “Wouldn’t it help if I had my memories? Shouldn’t we be focusing on that?”
“Complete your mission, and I will make recovering your memories my number-one priority.” Gunnar’s lips part slightly when he smirks. “In the meantime, rest.” He turns away.
I take a step toward him. “Wait. If I really am a witch, what kind of magic can I do?”
The smirk is gone when Gunnar inclines his head my way. “Figure it out, and figure it out fast.”
“You’re not very helpful, you know?”
“Yeah? Well, you started it.”
I smile even though he’s being a dick. There’s something familiar about our bickering. Anything familiar at this point is a comfort—even squabbling with Broody McTats.
He shakes his head and, with a huff, leaves my apartment.
Once the door smacks shut, I decide that before I do anything else, I should probably shower. As I strip in the washroom, I confirm that, no, I am not wearing any panties.
Chapter Two
Magic 101. Whatever
Who is Agent—Alias—Sabine Lasalle?
That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out ever since getting out of the shower and brushing out my awesome purple hair.
Sabine Lasalle keeps no journals, has no pets and no living plants—they’re all plastic—and, to my disappointment, no guitar. Secret agent. Check. Part-time rock star. Nope. Well, I suppose it’s never too late to learn.
I know I’m supposed to get some rest, but I can’t. At least not until I open every cubby, closet, and drawer. I try to open them with my mind, being a witch and all, but they remain stubbornly closed until I pull them open with my slender fingers. I want to know what Sabine eats. What she drinks. What she wears.
She has an entire drawer of workout clothes. Looks like I’m a jogger.
Daylight streams in through the windows overlooking tall buildings. The sound of traffic and an occasional honk makes its way into the apartment.
I change and put on a pair of runners before heading out to explore the city beyond my apartment.
The sky is gray, the air crisp, but it does nothing to diminish the city’s coastal charm. A paved path takes me directly along the ocean, past parks and harbors filled with yachts. The waterfront trail leads into Stanley Park. I jog along a sea wall, looking out across the water at the city, with serene woods to my other side. There are towering wooden totems and metal statues along the route. Every bend along the trail leads me to new discoveries. I run all nine kilometers, intent on seeing it all.
After returning to my apartment, I’m ready to crash. I shower again, eyes halfway closed as warm water streams down my tall, lean body. My mind might be coming up blank, but my body is telling me I haven’t slept for a while.
Once I’ve dried off, I put on a pair of plain black cotton underpants and a green tank top with gold lettering that says: “Sassy Lassie.”
My bedroom is small, but soft fuzzy gray rugs line the sides of the queen-sized bed with its sumptuous white blanket. I crawl in and sleep the sleep of the dead or—in my case—oblivious.
Pounding at the door wakes me. I groan and keep my eyes closed. Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away. But when it stops, my body forgets the fog of sleep and goes into high alert. Next thing I know, I’m standing in my living room, in my underwear, casting a shield of energy in front of me as I confront my intruder.
Gunnar looks like he’s posing, arms flexed and a smirk on his lips. “Good, it’s coming back to you.”
The energy shield disperses as I lower my arms. My jaw drops in wonder. “Did I just teleport?” Gunnar merely nods.
“How did I do that?”
Wow! Amazing! If only I could remember how I performed this feat of nature so I can do it again.
“It’s like riding a bike,” Gunnar says. “Now, get dressed. You should have been ready and waiting for me outside.”
Fine, Grumpy Pants. I’ll teleport back to my bedroom and throw on some clothes.
I squeeze my eyes closed and think of what I want. When I reopen them, I’m still standing in the living room and Gunnar’s focus has shifted to my chest. His attention returns to my eyes in an instant.
“How come it isn’t working anymore?” I demand, my lower lip pouting.
“Just do what you did before, or walk the five steps back to your bedroom,” Gunnar huffs impatiently, rolling his wrists. “Just get a move on.”
Eleven, I think to myself petulantly when I retreat into my room. Not five steps. Eleven.
I yank open a drawer.
“You know you could just snap on your clothing,” Gunnar yells from my living room.
I snap my fingers, but I’m still wearing the same undies and tank top. With a hefty sigh, I put on a pair of dark jeans and a black turtleneck. Might as well blend in with the rest of the night brigade.
Gunnar takes me back to headquarters and plants himself beside one of the whiteboards, arms folded, tapping his foot.
As I near, I se
e the photos of Blaze and Chilton Addington taped to the board, along with photos of a living room, kitchen, washroom, and bedroom. The words “Chilton Addington’s Apartment” are written in black marker above the pictures.
Like the previous night, most of the desks are empty and there’s another room full of agents who don’t look much younger than me.
“How long have I been an agent?” I ask.
“A year and a half.”
I startle because I’m never sure if Gunnar is going to answer my questions. His response on this one was immediate.
“Now, are you ready to focus on your mission?” I shrug and nod. Gunnar raises his brows like he’s expecting more. Seeing that I’m listening, he continues. “You will have to sneak into Chilton’s apartment while he’s at work, locate, and steal his ticket to the Ball.”
“Stealth mission. Got it,” I say with a wink.
Gunnar shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be smiling, Sabine. If you hadn’t gone off mission, you could have stolen the ticket from under Chilton’s nose.”
“What do you mean gone off mission?” It’s really not fair to be scolded for something I can’t remember. Yet again, Gunnar has me at a disadvantage.
Agents, new recruits—whatever they are—file out of a room and head for the elevator. A petite young woman with smooth brown hair that flows to her hips lingers behind the group. She wears skinny black jeans and a black turtleneck that clings to large bosoms that stand out against her willowy frame. She smiles at Gunnar. When he looks her way, she gives him a cute little wave.
“Good night, Maélie.” His voice is neither flirty nor cold. It’s masculine, which has an appeal all on its own.
A soft pink blush fills Maélie’s cheeks as though he just paid her a compliment. He’s probably so used to women falling over themselves around him that he hardly notices anymore.
As Maélie shuffles away, Gunnar flicks a glance my way. “Things started out good. You managed to befriend Chilton for the past year, getting closer to him than any agent who tried before.”
I stare at Chilton’s photo. The surveillance person snapped him seated alone at a café, staring at his laptop screen. There’s a hesitant smile on his lips. He looks like a good guy—someone I’d want to be friends with in real life, not just as an assignment.
“That was before you decided to throw a tantrum, dye your hair a ridiculous color, pierce your nose, suck down a half liter of bourbon, and throw yourself at him.”
My eyes widen. I study Chilton’s photo closer.
“We had sex?” Is this why Gunnar’s annoyed at me? Is Broody McTats jealous? I think of the possessive way I’ve caught him looking at me a couple times and a shiver jets down my spine.
“Most likely,” Gunnar grumps.
“What makes you think that?”
“The photo you sent me from his apartment made it pretty clear.”
Now I’m gaping at Gunnar, my jaw slack. He glares back, gritting his teeth.
“I sent you a sex pic?” I ask incredulously, jabbing my hands on my hips. “Why would I do that?”
“It doesn’t matter right now. What matters is completing your mission.” Gunnar grabs a piece of silver paper from his desk and tapes it on the board beside Chilton’s photo. “This is a replica of the ticket you have to steal. We have an extra one made to size. You will locate Chilton’s ticket and switch it out for the fake. By the time he realizes he’s been duped, it will be too late to warn his brother. Blaze will already be transported to the Ball, and so will you.”
I run a passing glance over the ticket before settling my eyes on Gunnar.
“I want to see the photo I sent you,” I say.
Gunnar sighs and rubs his temples. “Can you please focus on the mission?”
“Switch out tickets; slip Blaze a locator substance at the Ball. Got it.” Gunnar makes a growling sound. “Did I miss anything?” I bat my lashes with exaggeration, instinctively knowing it will annoy my irritable handler.
He steps toward me until we’re inches apart and breathing the same air. His eyes drop to my lips and remains there as he speaks in a low, silky voice. “I deleted the picture you sent. You’re in enough trouble as it is, and despite our differences, I look out for my own.”
He makes my body all tingly for a moment. Then, he turns away to open the top drawer of the desk. Damn it, maybe he is my type. Like yin and yang. I’m obviously the comic relief, and he’s the broody one. My arms move from my hips to my stomach, wrapping around myself. I swallow silently to bring moisture back to my dry mouth. While Gunnar’s back is to me, I lean toward the board and read the writing on the ticket.
Just as the moon has brought me to you,
So shall the moon bring you to the ball.
All Hallows Eve.
The Witching Hour.
Sweet. My kind of hour.
“Is this a costume party?” I ask, reading over the date again.
Gunnar holds a tiny, sealed baggy filled with yellow powder pinched between his thumb and pointer finger.
“It’s a black-tie event. Don’t worry, you picked out your gown and shoes a month ago.” He holds the baggy in front of my face. “This is the tracking substance. Slip it into Blaze’s drink at the Ball, and it will stay in his system for up to twelve hours. As soon as he is transported home after the Ball, we will be able to pick up his signal and capture the bastard.”
Sexy bastard, I think, eyes roaming over Blaze’s photo.
“Is Blaze his real name?”
“No.”
“Then what is?”
“Doesn’t matter. He’d just give you another fake one.”
I huff. “Can’t you tell me more about my mark? I’m already going in with a muddled brain. Don’t send me in blind. What did he do?” Like I’m not clueless enough already. Gunnar needs to loosen his lips and let me know who I’m dealing with.
Gunmetal gray eyes lock on mine. A sneer curls his lips. “Blaze used to be one of us, first an agent, then a handler like me until he betrayed the agency.” Darkness seeps inside my chest. Even without my memories, the disloyalty coats my tongue with bitterness. Gunnar studies my reaction and must approve of what he sees because he continues. “Right before he went rogue, we hunted down and captured a witch responsible for a disastrous public display of power that left one civilian dead and three hospitalized. Blaze shocked us all by incapacitating the witch’s guards to free her before she could be transferred to a remote holding facility. Then he turned his back on the agency. He’s been on the run ever since. All for a pretty face.” Gunnar’s jaw tightens. “The identities of every field agent he ever worked with was compromised. They all had to be benched. Dozens of agents were forced to take desk jobs or become instructors at the School of Night.”
“Shit,” I whisper, heat roiling through my stomach.
I cover my mouth, staring absently across the room as gray clouds churn inside my mind. Blaze Addington is going down.
“How am I supposed to get close to him?” I ask.
“You managed just fine with his brother. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Gunnar replies coolly.
I lean forward and glare into Gunnar’s face. “Hey, I’m a secret agent, not a call girl,” I grouse.
The muscles cord in Gunnar’s tattooed arms as he balls his fingers into fists. “Just complete the mission, Sabine.”
“Fine. When should I steal the ticket? Tomorrow?”
Gunnar shakes his head. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. You’ll go in on Monday after Chilton leaves for work.”
I look at Chilton’s photo again, hoping for some tingle of recognition. Supposedly I slept with the guy and took a sex photo of the act. You’d think my body would respond in some way. Maybe it only works if I’m face to face with him.
I feel no response to him. Instead, I try studying the pictures of his apartment, starting with his bedroom. Did I leave my neon green underwear on the bamboo floor? I stare harder as though that will make my panties material
ize in the photo.
No bells are ringing in my head. I move my attention to the living room with its walls covered in mixed media art. There is a white sofa with four seating modules and a chaise on one end and a round glass coffee table set in an iron frame.
Am I a sex-on-a-bed or sofa kind of gal? Or maybe the rug on the floor? Guess I won’t find out until after my memories are retrieved.
“Do you think Chilton wiped my memories?” I ask, wrinkling my pierced nose.
“Chilton Addington plays by the rules, unlike his brother,” Gunnar informs me. “I highly doubt he’s responsible for your current state, but we don’t know exactly what happened and can’t risk a run-in between you two.”
Stealth mode it is.
Chapter Three
Something of Mine
Monday morning, I arrange a Lyft to the West End address Gunnar gave me shortly after nine. Chilton will be starting his workday at Total Design. Even though it’s overcast, I’m wearing cat-eye sunglasses. My hair is tied back with a tan scarf that alternates between a cheetah print and light-blue-with-black-lined patterns. Purple wisps frame my face along my cheekbones. The duplicate ticket to The Monster Ball sits on my lap in a large envelope, hiding it from view.
As soon as someone comes out of Chilton’s building, I freeze the entry door before it can close again and dash inside. Even if someone saw it stick for several seconds, they’d never guess it was magic. Gunnar and I spent yesterday flexing my powers for six solid hours. At least my magic is coming back to me even if my memories aren’t.
I push my sunglasses to the top of my head and skip the elevator, opting for the stairs to Chilton’s fourth-floor apartment. There’s no one in the hallway when I walk up to his door.
Right. So let’s try this teleporting thing again. I look to my right then to my left just to be safe, and once confirming that no one has stepped out of their apartment, I stare at Chilton’s door and imagine appearing on the opposite side.
Nothing happens.
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