by Anise Rae
After another minute, the noise of the street sweeper mage rumbled into the quiet neighborhood. Three, maybe four, blocks away.
By order of the neighborhood committee, all cars had been moved off the street either by their owners or by the tow spells of the mover mages the committee contracted. Every Wednesday morning, except in the winter, the sweepers came by with their spells roaring like train engines. The committee was full of clean freaks. No other neighborhood in the city swept this often, but it was convenient timing for this spill.
“Come on, now,” she spoke aloud, as if she could coax the street sweeper mage to hurry over.
She needed this rotten dust gone before anyone on the street noticed. She’d poured everything she had into her new shop, all of her energy and all of her savings from her contract jobs. The result, Potions by the Park, was charming and welcoming, and she sold the finest potions anywhere in the city if she said so herself. No one was going to clip this dream and stifle her trajectory. Not a crook, not a foe, not even a suspicious enforcer. If it failed—and it would not fail—she’d have to get a job at the big potion manufacturing plant.
Goddess of the stars, the last thing she ever wanted to do was to step foot into The Tavis Potions Corporation.
The breeze chose that moment to rattle the tree branches. The contaminated dust rose to greet it. From her spot in her doorway, she threw a quick containment spell over her cloud of winger pollen and fairy dust, keeping it knee-level. Disaster averted. She let her shoulders drop with a sigh. But it was a premature move, for when the breeze passed on and the leaves stilled, a clattering ring sounded from inside her shop. She looked back.
Surely the keeper’s stone hadn’t just triggered.
It had been years since she’d heard that sound, though it was as recognizable as the shake of a rattlesnake’s tail and just as much of a warning of approaching danger.
Maybe she was hearing things. One catastrophe per morning. That was her limit.
But the short, squat vial on the highest shelf behind her counter wiggled in its spot. It was spelled to stay in place and to look cloudy, though she could see the stone inside with no problem. If the thief had chosen that bottle to inspect, he would have hit a payday.
The bottle jumped. Once, twice, again and again.
Oh no.
Inside the bottle, the stone danced to footsteps or a pulse that she could not hear, a rhythm of disaster stomping forward.
Keeper’s stones weren’t intended for shopkeepers. They were meant for dragon keepers. They announced the incoming presence of a fellow dragon rider who might try to steal his herd. Dragon riders—an ancient breed of mage that no longer served a useful purpose—never trusted their own kind, even now, though none of them had a herd, much less a single dragon since ancient times.
Likewise, Thea didn’t trust any of them either. They were a dangerous temptation, almost always packaged in a handsome, manly wrapping. Their natural instinct was to seek treasure and hide it away in their covert dens. She’d gotten too close to one once and had fallen all over him like raindrops in a storm. He’d tried to stick her in his rider's den and cut her off from friends and family to keep her all to himself. If it hadn’t been for her very old grandmother’s determined help, she never would have escaped.
She'd learned her lesson and now avoided the mage type at all costs, making good use of the stones that generations of Redding potionnesses had passed down, woman to woman.
The stone rattled again. A rider was definitely coming.
She dashed inside the shop, flipped the lock with a push of vibes and double-checked that the closed sign was displayed. Forget guarding her contaminated cloud. That dragon rider mage could just mosey on down the sidewalk. If he stayed out of the gutter and away from her contained dust, he’d be fine. Besides, the street sweeper mage was almost here.
As she turned to her counter, she caught a glimpse of sparkling powder draped across the sidewalk.
Oh no. Oh no. The words replayed in her mind like a broken recording spell.
Her broom had missed a spot.
Marcus Tavis leaned against the towering maple tree that had declared the corner of Whittier Street and Mohawk its home long before any of the current neighborhood residents were born. He was alone on the corner. The day was too young for joggers or mothers strolling with babies toward the park at the end of the block, and the street stretched too far from the main thoroughfares for morning rush hour.
Althea Redding was the only other creature stirring. Her black sweater might have kept him from realizing that her black pants were pajamas, but their silky shine gave them away. Whatever vile potion she’d holstered at her waist weighted down her pants and revealed a hint of creamy skin. Her feet were either covered in slippers or some flimsy shoe. Her brown hair was piled in a haphazard knot high on her head, strands falling free as she watched her broom strike against the sidewalk hard enough to loosen a century’s worth of dirt and dust.
Hints of the coming sun lightened the sky with a soft orange and pink glow, not enough to see details on this cool autumn morning, but dragon rider mages had keen eyesight, especially when they had eyes on their prey.
Even from across the street he could see her tight brow and the tension in her lips. She was just above average height for a woman, he supposed. But still, he doubted her chin would reach his shoulder. Her form was slight. She’d blow off the back of his motorcycle, which was parked at a discreet distance down the block and on the correct side of the road for the coming street sweeper.
Not that he’d ever give a woman like her a ride.
As intended, she was completely oblivious to his presence. His smoke shrouded his form with a subtle don’t look spell as he spied. She was connected, somehow, to the poison his sister was addicted to. Independent potionnesses like Althea Redding were every bit the menace to society that their reputations hinted at. Their ethics and morals were as loose as the leash he held when he walked Pilot, his fifteen-year-old retriever.
He clenched his teeth. His sister’s sharp, shrewd mind was a wreck, but during her chaotic fits, he’d picked out Thea’s name at least a dozen times over the last week. Plus, his sister had strolled past this shop on three occasions in the last four days. He still couldn’t believe he’d stooped to secretly following Saxon around, but the Chief Potionness of the world’s largest potions manufacturing company, an accomplished and capable woman, was on the brink of destruction.
He had no one to blame but himself. He’d been pulling back from his business duties because he and Saxon had almost freed the company—and the family—from their matriarch’s grip. The legal tangles were unwound, and Grandmother Tavis would soon find she had no one’s strings to pull. Marcus had relaxed. He’d looked away. And some wicked witch had flown through his lax defenses to poison his sister and play with her mind.
He had to save Saxon before she ran the family business into the ground and cut off the salaries of over two thousand mages in factories around the Republic. His mission this morning was to get the Redding woman to admit to poisoning her with her illegal potions. Then he’d make her pay.
Problem solved.
He’d arrived at his sentry post by the maple tree in time to sense the scratchy vibes of a weak alarm spell waving through the air. He might not have noticed if he hadn’t been focused on her shop. She hadn’t called the enforcers judging by the lack of approaching sirens. He wasn’t surprised. As far as he was concerned, it was another strike against her. A potionness who dealt in illegal potions—IPs for short—wouldn’t call for help from the authorities.
He shifted against the tree, squinting at her as if his perfect eyesight needed help in bringing her into focus. Her face was populated with delicate features, a perfect disguise for an IP dealer, as was her skill with a broom. He didn’t imagine there were many IP dealers who were this tidy.
As she turned back to her shop, he stepped off the curb toward his target. Two seconds after the door shut behind
her, a puff of vibes knocked against the door as she locked it with a spell.
No matter. It wouldn’t keep him out. He crossed the street as the sweeper mage rounded the corner and began its crawl down Mohawk Street, heading toward him. He slipped off his suit jacket as if he were readying for a confrontation and caught it by the crook of his finger, tossing it over his shoulder. He’d left his tie in the storage compartment of his bike, as was his habit when he rode it to work.
When he was halfway across the intersection, the potionness popped out of her shop again, her broom in hand. She tackled an invisible spot on the brick sidewalk, head down, oblivious to him. He gave a mental shake of his head. IP dealers really should be more aware of their surroundings.
He quickened his pace, ready to capture his target, not worrying about the sound of his footsteps over the roar of the coming street sweeper.
Damn, those machines and their mages were loud.
He stepped on the curb as she smacked at the ground with her broom, her back to him. Her frantic pace suggested she was in a race with the street sweeper. As the giant vehicle closed the distance, a flash of sleek black darted across the street, sprinting in front of the sweeper and right between Marcus’s legs.
“Kitty!” the potionness cried, spinning around as Marcus danced about the cat. He tumbled, falling off the uneven curb.
The dirty gray vehicle towered over him as he lost his balance. He shot out a stream of vibes trying to regain his equilibrium, but it wasn’t going to be enough. Time slowed, giving him too many seconds to contemplate the disgrace of his demise that would be described in his obituary.
Sucked up by a street sweeper. May he rest in pieces.
He might have slapped his hand to his forehead if the force of the suction hadn’t already caught his arms. The buttons on his fine white shirt popped off and disappeared into the looming machine. His suit jacket followed leaving only the burn of the fabric against his fingers as it was sucked away. His skin would be next. He was coming apart.
He couldn’t catch a breath. The atmosphere had become a vacuum. It all happened in a moment of time that stretched as thick as the syrup over the pancakes he wished he’d had this morning. That would have made a nice last meal.
A pair of slender arms wrapped around him like soft feathers on a wing. The potionness had stepped in front of him.
Hell, what was she thinking? Before he could toss her aside, her touch was followed by a burst of vibes that showered over him like a gentle rainstorm and anchored them both to the curb.
She squeezed her arms around his torso and buried her head against his chest, now naked and bare, his shirt sucked to its doom. Her muscles quivered against him, her vibes like molten steel hardening in the cool morning.
The motor and vibes of the street sweeper cut off like a pair of scissors had snipped its cord. Silence wrapped around him.
He was still alive.
Chapter 2
Thea’s head rose and fell as if it were resting on a bellows that puffed at flames beneath a giant’s cauldron. Except for that small movement, she was locked in place. Her chin was tucked. Her cheek pressed against a solid mass. Her eyes were shut hard. Her muscles and mage vibes were as frozen as a rabbit spotted by a hungry dragon flying overhead. Heck, she wasn’t even sure her blood was still flowing.
“What the blasted hells are you thinking?” The sweeper mage behind her had a shout that matched the roar of his motor. If the neighbors weren’t already awake, they were now. Still, his heated fury wasn’t enough to thaw her ill-timed freeze.
Goddess, she sucked in emergencies.
A firm grip around her lower arms pried her off, peeling her away from the one hint of warmth she’d had. A shiver wracked through her, but it rattled her brain into action.
This man was a dragon rider mage.
Right. The stones had sensed him.
She shuffled back. Her foot met the curb and she went flailing, only to be caught by the man again. This time she lifted her head enough to see a sculpted chest so fine that an artist might have carved him.
“I could have sucked your body into my bag," the street sweeper mage shouted. "Then it would be a body bag!”
“My apologies, sir.” The rider mage’s voice was low and smooth, nothing like her shaking hands or her vibes that were too brittle with icy cold to tuck back into their place. Like an extra appendage or a sixth sense, vibes could reach out on an energetic plane, and like hands, they needed to behave themselves or people took offense. As she scrambled to shove her vibes back, she lifted her head higher and met the dark blue eyes of Marcus Tavis.
A gasp escaped from her mouth, a mix of horror and outrage. What the vibing hell had she’d done to deserve this? A Tavis stood half-naked on the sidewalk outside her shop.
She recognized him from the LifeStyles pages of The Dispatch. She’d certainly never met him. Never wanted to. At least not now. Once upon a time, she’d been best friends forever with his sister. She’d shared everything with Saxon. The girl Saxon had been was perceptive, clever, and entertaining, though she wasn’t the strongest potionness. She was also oddly protective, too much so.
Since then, Thea had learned enough about herself to know that gravitating toward that last characteristic was her weakness, a dangerous one, but back then that friendship had been her whole life tied up with a pretty bow. She’d been immersed in every aspect of Saxon Tavis’s life, though her former friend had never invited her home on their free weekends from Potion School.
“Do you know what happened to me the last time I sucked up somebody?” the sweeper mage hollered.
Thea turned around to see him wrench off the stocking cap that covered his bald head. He shook it at them in a tight fist. “I had to go on unpaid leave for one month! I nearly lost my contract with the city. How am I supposed to feed my kids if bimbo mages like you dash into the street when the signs clearly state to vacate the premises? You are a trash-vibing idiot! You ought to kiss this girl’s vibes for saving your worthless life!”
Thea hustled three steps back. “Not necessary.” She pointed a finger at Tavis as if she might hold him back with the strength of one digit. But it wouldn’t matter if she threw every vibe she had at him. Nothing could hold back a dragon rider mage when he had a goal to acquire.
Retreat!
The word shouted through her mind.
She bent down and picked up her broom.
Leave it!
She should have listened.
When she straightened, Tavis stood in front of her shop door, pushing it open with his vibes.
“Wait! No! You can’t go in there. I’m not open. And…you…you….” She shook her finger at him again. “You don’t even like independent potionnesses.”
He stepped over the shop door’s threshold as the street sweeper restarted his roaring engine and chugged away. Tavis looked over his shoulder at her, one eyebrow raised high, his naked back flexing with more muscles than she’d thought possible. The city’s two-time bachelor-of-the-year—ever since the Rallis twins found their mates—smoldered on her threshold. She should have stocked extinguish potion by the door, hosed him down, and put him out.
Literally.
Instead, he stood inside her shop, holding the door open for her. He gestured her inside with a strong arm.
“I’m not open yet.” The words wobbled. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders.
He stepped farther in, his arm stretching to keep the door open for her. “I believe it’s a violation of the fire code to have your door open inward instead of out.”
She scoffed, so aggravated she actually stomped her foot. “So like a Tavis…criticizing, bullying. And by the way, this is a historic building. I was granted an exception.”
“An observation, not a criticism.” He shuffled inside another step while his vibes propped open the door.
High on her shelf, the stone rattled.
His gaze sharpened like a hawk. Or perhaps like a dragon,
but it was impossible to say since the beasts hadn’t existed in a few millennia. “What was that noise?”
It wasn’t illegal for her to have the keeper stone, but it was beyond unusual and she didn’t owe him any explanations. “None of your business.”
He looked down at her, moving his head with the slow smoothness of the enormous, dangerous creature his mage type used to tame. “Then let’s talk about something that is my business.” The words drawled, slipping from between his lips with a honeyed purr. It matched his well-defined pecs and a belly that rippled with cords of muscle. Of course it did. Typical dragon rider. Sultry. Sexy. Dominating. They sucked up a woman’s life as if they were cousins with street sweeper mages.
“Mr. Tavis, I assure you there is nothing related to your business that I could possibly discuss with you.”
“How’s Saxon?” The short words sounded like an accusation.
She might have laughed if she hadn’t been consumed by the aftermath of adrenaline. The truth was, she felt a bit sick. “No idea. I haven’t seen Saxon since the day she stole my future from me. Surely you heard about that? Or maybe she never confessed to you how she cheated on our graduation exam.”
“Thirteen years ago?” He jutted his chin down as if lowering himself a few inches might help him see her better. His vibes glided out and brushed against her, ready to take a hungry chomp out of her energy.
“Twelve.” She waved her hand in front of her, swiping at the air as if to freshen it. “And quit that with your vibes. It’s bad manners to contaminate a public space like that, though what can one expect with a dragon rider? I’m going to have to air out my shop now.”
He sent his vibes against the door, closing it with a quiet click. His eyes were hard and something stark and cold drained through them. “You haven’t seen Saxon in twelve years.” His words fell flat.
