SPELL TO UNBIND, A

by Laurie, Victoria

  I wanted to go after her, to hunt her down and kill her, and I had the very real sense that if I simply let go, I’d learn exactly who and where she was, but as I was trying to decide what to do, I felt a violent tug on my essence that sent alarm bells clanging through my head.

  The cruet was quickly absorbing all of my energy—like a vampire, it was trying to suck me dry. I recoiled violently, pulling as hard as I could to get out of its clutches, but the effort cost me, and no sooner did I feel all of my energy come crashing back into me than I lost all consciousness.

  The next thing I knew, I was on the floor staring up into the bright sunshine, which was shining directly into my face from the window.

  As I shielded my eyes, I realized several things at once: The sun should not have been that low on the horizon, because, last I’d checked the time, it’d been a little after noon. The monocle was still gripped tightly in my fisted right hand, but there was no sign of the cruet. And footsteps from inside the house were coming from the central hallway.

  Clearly, I was no longer alone.

  Chapter Five

  Day 1

  For several seconds, I didn’t know which was louder: the sound of those footsteps on the bare wood floor or my hammering heart.

  Blinking to full alertness, I scrambled up to my feet, but I was shaking all over, and my limbs felt weak and slow to respond. I was woozy and nauseous, and even with the surge of adrenaline, I still felt muddle-brained.

  Surveying the room, I realized I’d have to either crawl out the window in the parlor or make my way across the hallway to the bathroom where the window was still open from when I’d come inside.

  The window in the parlor looked older. Hauling it up would make noise and alert my presence to whomever was inside the house. But to get to the water closet across the hall I’d have to tiptoe over squeaky floorboards and make my way across the central hallway without being seen or heard.

  Without my coin, I was totally exposed. Hiding was an option, but if whomever had entered was even half as powerful as me, then I’d be discovered rather quickly. And then I had to question whether the person in the house had perhaps been the killer. Suddenly I didn’t just have to worry about being discovered. I had to worry about ending up like a guest at the dinner party.

  If it wasn’t the killer but a caretaker, then the police would certainly be alerted, and I’d be stuck here while the authorities searched the premises and hopefully missed discovering me. Mortals don’t usually worry me, but given the scene in the dining room, I knew that I’d have far more than just one or two cops to contend with. The whole place would be crawling with the unbound in no time.

  I thought about all of this in the span of just a few seconds, doing my best to control my racing heart and rapid breathing. I decided that the window off the bathroom was the best of the bad choices in front of me, so I began to creep toward the entrance of the parlor, keeping in time with the fall of the footsteps out in the hallway. It was a miracle the visitor hadn’t yet seen me, but I’d been sprawled out on the floor near the wall, hidden from anyone advancing from the front door, which was definitely the way I thought the stranger had come in. He or she would certainly notice me if they decided to turn around, so I had to be quick and hope that the scene in the dining room was shocking enough to root them in place and allow me to get across the hall and out the window unseen.

  As I neared the entrance to the hallway, however, I heard the footfalls pause, and someone sucked in a breath before whispering a string of expletives.

  The voice, although hushed, was decidedly male, and it was obvious that he’d discovered the dinner party.

  Flattening myself against the wall, I gathered my courage. I had one shot, and it needed to be now. Bracing myself for the dash, I poked my head around the corner to peek at where the stranger was standing and found myself looking down the barrel of a pistol big enough to take off my head.

  “Don’t. Move,” the intruder said. He needn’t have worried. I had no intention of moving even to blink. Or to breathe.

  We stood like that, him facing me, me facing his gun for several seconds, and I began to realize that I’d shocked him by poking my head out from the doorway like that. He’d had his pistol drawn as he’d moved through the hallway to investigate, probably tipped off by the smell, and my timing had been such that I’d stuck my head out at the exact moment he’d begun turning back toward the door.

  Sometimes, I have the best luck.

  Chancing a deep, much needed inhalation, I lifted my gaze from the barrel to his face and was honestly shocked at the sight of him. He was absolutely beautiful.

  With thick black hair, an absolutely straight, almost elegant nose, the most perfect square jaw, gorgeous hazel eyes, and lashes so long I was envious, I drank in the sight of him. There was such symmetry to his features, the right side of his face looking like an exact replica of his left—he seemed almost unnatural in his perfection.

  And although he was holding his gun tensely as he stared at me, I imagined that his well-muscled arms and legs were lithe when in motion. He stood like someone who’d had a lot of practice holding a firearm. There was a confidence in the set of his shoulders, and he practically oozed virility.

  In other words, I found him … breathtaking.

  And yet … he ignited not a single spark in my home fires, even though he was, without question, the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  Which meant that, were I not bound by the spell I’d been cursed with, he could’ve even been the love of my life.

  Well, except for the fact that at his waist he wore a bronze shield, he’d just caught me at the scene of a grisly quadruple murder, and he could at any moment pull that trigger and take off my head.

  It was hard to imagine that after hobbling out of Elric’s offices last evening I could’ve been any more screwed, and yet here I was, a day later, with a cop’s gun in my face and four dead bodies at the end of the hallway.

  “Get on the ground,” the cop ordered, his voice never rising above a conversational tone. My mind tried to search for an option that didn’t include prostrating myself. “Now,” he added, when it was clear I was stalling.

  My gaze flickered over to the door of the bathroom. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned.

  But I was thinking about it. I was thinking about it hard. “I want to show you my ID,” I said to him.

  “The only thing you’re going to show me is your face on that floor.”

  “Okay,” I said, lowering myself a little to demonstrate that I’m a good sport. “I’m getting down, but you’re gonna be sorry when you cuff me and realize I’m a fed.”

  There was a flicker of doubt in those gorgeous hazel eyes, and I thanked my lucky stars that I’m a practiced and convincing liar.

  “What agency?” he asked.

  I continued to crouch down slowly, my palms raised. “The bureau. I’m a brick agent.” I purposely used the slang word for a field agent, working an investigation for the FBI.

  I thought I now detected a hint of interest in the cop’s eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was for me or for the fact that I’d verbally identified myself as a field agent. “Who’s your SAC?” he asked, using the abbreviation for special agent in charge.

  “Ted Kedzierski.” I said the name without pause or stumbling over the difficult surname’s pronunciation. Throwing out the lie that I worked for the feds wasn’t something I did lightly; I’ve researched a whole division down at the Hoover Building, and I know enough to make myself sound credible, even without the badge.

  My captor squinted at me. He seemed to recognize the name. “I know him,” he said. “Who’s his ASAC again?”

  “John Fell,” I told him, identifying Kedzierski’s second in command, also without hesitation.

  “Know him too,” the cop said. “Helluva guy.”

  I offered up a crooked smile. “Helluv an asshole,” I corrected. “But we bricks put up with him because Kedzierski is e
ven worse.”

  One of the things I’d discovered in my research was that the number of field agents revolving through Kedzierski’s division was twice that of the normal rate. I figured it had to be because Kedzierski was a prick, and Fell either was afraid to stand up to him or he was also a prick.

  The cop chuckled, but he didn’t relax his grip on the gun. “Okay, show me your badge, but do it slow.”

  I stood tall again and lowered my hands, then reached into the pocket of my leather jacket and withdrew one of my favorite trinkets. The object looks like nothing more than a bit of scrap metal, but when I hold it up to someone and place a suggestion around it, it transforms in their eyes to whatever they expect to see. “Here’s my badge,” I said. Making a flipping motion to activate the spell, I added, “And my ID. See? I’m Agent Courtney McMahon.”

  The detective peered at my palm, and his brow furrowed. “What the fuck is that?”

  A whisper of alarm traveled across my shoulders. “My ID and badge,” I said, giving the trinket another slight flick, feeling the warmth from the scrap within my palm. The spell on the charm was active.

  The cop looked from my palm to my face and then back again before lines of anger creased his brow. “That some kind of joke? You think showing me a piece of trash when I ask to see your ID is funny?” Motioning over his shoulder with his chin in the direction of the dining room, he added, “You think that’s funny?”

  I glanced at my palm. The trinket was there, splayed out and warm against my skin. The magic was still present, and it should’ve worked to convince the cop that I was a fed, unless …

  The trinket I carried wasn’t especially powerful. It would work only on someone unbound. Mystics with almost any talent would be able to see right through it.

  “You’re bound …” I whispered.

  Those beautiful hazel eyes widened for a moment before narrowing again. “What did you say?”

  I pocketed the trinket and got down on the ground. I could’ve easily lied to a regular cop, but I had no chance with one who was a mystic. “It’s not how it looks,” I said, laying my cheek on the floor and lacing my fingers together over the back of my head. “They were dead when I got here.”

  Hours later, I sat handcuffed to a metal loop in an interrogation room, wondering how the hell I’d ended up here.

  For most of my life, I’d put all of my focus into one objective: Find the mystic who’d bound me and kill her. That’s it. Simple enough. Just that.

  But for all of my life, that’d proved ridiculously hard. The woman was a ghost. It’s like one of the world’s most powerful mystics wasn’t known within any circle of influence. How she’d gotten so powerful and yet had managed to fly so low under the radar was beyond me, but no one I’d ever questioned or interviewed had heard of her or recognized my description—except for one person.

  A beautiful Nigerian mystic named Ndidi, who’d once been quite kind to me, had suggested that, fifty years earlier, during a long summer tryst with Elric Ostergaard, he’d once told her a story about an old mystic hag dressed in rags that he’d come across in Hungary. He told her the old woman was noteworthy because she was so incredibly talented, and yet, he’d never heard of her.

  Elric had insulted the hag, and she’d given him a good wallop when she cast a bundle of essence at him. Things had escalated to traded punches of energy between them until the pair had come to an exhausted stalemate. It was at that moment that the hag had confessed to him that they both shared an interest in eliminating a mutual rival—a mystic who’d been attempting to control an area along the Romanian boarder. She suggested they form an alliance and Elric had agreed, although he was quite suspicious of the crone.

  The next day a great battle had taken place, and the pair’s mutual rival was soundly defeated. Afterward Elric sought to celebrate with the old woman, but when he went in search of her, he discovered that she’d simply walked back into the shadows without so much as a goodbye.

  Elric had then remarked to Ndidi about the oddity of someone so powerful and yet so obscure, and he’d further hinted that the hag was one mystic he’d never forget, and the only one he might legitimately fear.

  As I’d listened to Ndidi, I’d known immediately that Elric had encountered the very mage who’d cursed me, and that had set a whole new plan into action.

  The plan would no doubt be challenging, but there was an orderliness to it and even a simplicity.

  Step one: Gain the attention of Elric Ostergaard.

  Step two: Win an interview.

  Step three: Land the job.

  Step four: Work off five years of contracted service.

  Step six: Have Elric fulfill the contract by telling me who and where to find the hag.

  Step seven: Find the hag, exact my revenge, and be free of the curse that bound me.

  In all the planning and time that’d gone into steps one and two, I never thought I’d get so hung up on step three. I’d figured I’d either bomb the interview and die, or get the job and start working off my time.

  This whole “bring me the egg and we’ll see about a job” thing was something I’d only loosely strategized for, and all this additional stuff with Grigori’s murder was further turning something complicated into a giant fucking mess.

  Shaking my head ruefully, I considered that I’ve been in tricky spots before, but I don’t know that I’ve ever been in a situation where I had four days to produce a mythical magical trinket or my life was forfeit, and I’d likely have to spend what was left of those days in jail watching the clock tick down because I’d been caught at the scene of a gruesome murder by perhaps the only mystic ever to enlist in the police academy.

  And in the hours and hours of sitting here and wasting even more time that I didn’t have, I hadn’t yet been formally charged. Or interviewed. Or offered a phone call. Or a bathroom break. I’d simply been stripped of my leather jacket, parked in this interrogation room, handcuffed to the table by the hazel-eyed detective, and told to sit tight.

  The charge of murder was only a matter of time, though. And I doubted I’d get any shot at bail—not once they correctly identified me, which was probably happening as I sat. If they’d just let me make a call, I could alert Dex and have him figure out a plan. Maybe he could spring me from the city lockup and grant me a few days on the run while I searched for the egg. But where could I even begin to search for it? Grigori’s house had been a bust, and the mystic’s killer had likely stolen it after he or she had done the deed.

  I was coming to the realization that I had no play, no plan, and no chance.

  It was enough to bum a girl out.

  Just when I felt myself starting to give in to my own personal pity party, the door to the interrogation room opened, and in walked the star of the show: my gorgeous buddy from Grigori’s house. He slapped my jacket on the side of the table and a folder down next to it, lifted the back of the chair opposite mine, and twirled it around to straddle it. He then took his time considering me with a steely, determined expression.

  I returned the favor and once again admired his face, features, and especially his physique. He’d taken off his black blazer and now wore a charcoal gray V-neck sweater, which clung tightly to his well-muscled arms and broad shoulders. By the looks of things, he worked out perhaps almost as much as I did.

  I appreciate that in a person.

  “Detective,” I said with a hint of mirth. I’d never heard of a mystic passing himself off as a cop before. Most of us figure out ways to make far better livings.

  He lifted his chin in slight challenge. “Esmé Bellerose.” My full name slipped off his tongue like a piece of milk chocolate—smooth and seductive. I liked it, but that twinge—that hint of something sexual taking place between us—wasn’t happening for me.

  Oddly, I was a little disappointed.

  Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “I think it’s hardly fair that you know my name when I still don’t know yours.”

  “Kincaid,” he s
aid simply.

  “Kincaid …” I prompted, waiting for him to tell me his full name.

  My question sparked an amused expression. “That’s it,” he said. “Just Kincaid.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “It suits you.”

  Kincaid placed a hand on the folder he’d brought with him and flipped it open. Inside was a mug shot taken of yours truly more than twelve years before from the town of Nanterre, France, where I’d been caught by local authorities with some stolen merchandise on my person. Of course, I’d stolen the objects from a local mystic who’d been practically begging to have his house robbed, but I was able to convince the authorities that I’d come across the items innocently enough—by way of a stranger selling trinkets in the park. The charges were dismissed, and I was encouraged to leave town quickly, which I did.

  I had to give some props to Kincaid for discovering the mug shot. As I said, it was more than a decade old and from a foreign law enforcement agency, no less.

  He held the photo up for me. “Nice profile.”

  I smiled. “It’s my good side.”

  “You’re a thief.”

  “And you’re a liar.”

  I wondered what he had to gain by passing himself off as an unbound rather than the mystic he so clearly was.

  Kincaid narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t we all?”

  I offered him that one-shoulder shrug again. “I’m not.”

  “Really, Agent McMahon?”

  “That wasn’t so much a lie as a fib.”

  “Ah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And, what’s the next fib, Esmé?”

  I shook my head and raised my palms up to him, the metal of the handcuffs clanking against the table. “Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you the absolute truth.”

  “Did you kill those people?”

  I stared levelly at him. “No.”

  “Did you have anything to do with their murders?”

  “No.”

  He tapped his index finger on the table, considering me. Even without saying so, I could tell that he believed me. “Why were you in that house?”