Hell's Spells (Ordinary Magic Book 6)

by Devon Monk

  The keys jingled, down into his front pocket, because he never remembered that I’d put a little dish right there on the shelf for his keys, pocket knife, pencil, measuring tape, wallet.

  He’d wonder where the keys were in the morning. I’d tell him to check his pockets, just like I always did.

  I’d remind him there was a shelf for that, a bowl.

  Boots were next, the heavy steel-toed ones he’d been so excited to find on sale, and which I’d teased him about while he’d worked rain-proofing into them with that short, soft-bristled brush.

  Then he paused. He was listening for me, I thought. For my breathing. For me to call out his name.

  I held my breath and didn’t move, lying on my side and staring at the little sky-blue flower pot set off center in our bedroom window.

  There’d be morning light. With any luck, there’d be more than enough for it.

  With stockinged steps, always heavy in the heel—he had never tip-toed in all the time we’d been together—he walked the length of the hall. But instead of coming into the bedroom, his bedroom, our bedroom, he paused there at the door.

  It was half open. I never wanted him to come home and think I was shutting him out. I knew he could see my back from that angle, I knew he could see Spud, who lifted his head and thumped his tail, lying beside me, his back pressed against mine, holding the space where Ryder should be.

  I knew he could see the dragon pig curled up on the bench at the foot of the bed, the shark toy Spud had given it tonight propped under its head. Knew the dragon opened its eyes, red light pouring from them, casting the room in fire, flame for a moment, all dragon in its waking. Then, finding itself safe in our house, the twin spotlights of its gaze snuffed, eyes closed. One. Two.

  Ryder waited there. I wanted to turn. Wanted to tell him I was awake, that I hadn’t really been asleep. I’d been thinking of him, waiting for him.

  But then his hand, resting on the doorframe, lifted, the soft snick of flesh releasing painted wood distinct in the air, like an exhale. A choice.

  He did not step in. His footsteps followed the hallway, down to the spare bath where the door opened and closed, the light clicked, and the water ran, hot, I knew, and full blast.

  The water changed to the massage feature, the pulse hard, but not hard enough to beat the soreness out of his shoulders and his left hip he’d been rubbing when he didn’t think I was watching.

  “Come to bed, Ryder,” I said to the wall, to the windowsill, to the little pot that might one day be a flower. If I didn’t kill it with too much water, too little water, too much sunlight. All it needed was enough. Just enough.

  The water stopped. I waited as he dried his body, ran fingers through his hair, and pulled the towel around his waist because he hadn’t come into the room for clean boxers.

  I catalogued his movements through the house. He threw his clothes in the laundry room—the measuring tape in his pocket clanking against the side of the dryer.

  I smiled at his soft curse, smiled wider at his sudden stillness. As if waking me was the last thing he wanted to do. As if letting me rest was something he really wanted to give me.

  Or maybe avoiding talking to me was the only thing on his mind.

  My eyes flicked to the pot. Water, sunlight, patience, time.

  When he finally came in, he smelled faintly of beer—the good stuff Crow had thrown in the basket—and lemon chicken.

  I stared at the bedside clock—an old-fashioned, wind-up thing with glow-in-the-dark squares painted at the tips of the hands and above each number on the face. It was three a.m.

  Late. Too late for a job.

  This was the quiet fear. That what he was hiding wasn’t a what, but a who. That he had found someone else.

  My mind, my logical detective, crime-solving mind, went through tonight’s evidence. Other than the hour, there was no reason for me to think he had been out with someone else. I didn’t smell perfume on him, didn’t smell alcohol other than the beer.

  Except he’d showered, hadn’t he? And not in our shower where I might smell cologne, not in our shower where I might see his clothing in disarray.

  No, well, yes. That was all true. It was also pretty paranoid, and there was little to back it up. If he’d been worried about me seeing his clothing, he would have started a load when he was in the laundry room.

  So what did I know?

  He was working a job out of town. He came home sweaty and tired and sore. There was mud on the boots he loved, and half the time his hair was plastered to his head from sweating under a hard hat.

  He was working. That much I knew.

  But no one worked a construction site this late at night. Certainly not the architect-slash-foreman.

  Even catching up with paperwork shouldn’t keep him this late.

  Something was going on. Something was probably wrong.

  I knew that.

  What I didn’t know was why he didn’t want to talk to me about it.

  Spud thumped his tail again, but the dragon didn’t bother opening its eyes this time. Ryder softly greeted the dog, then used the come command to get Spud to move down to the foot of the bed where he was supposed to sleep.

  Where he slept when Ryder was home.

  Before obeying, Spud got up and waited for pets and scritches, both of which included Ryder gently crooning what a good boy he was and the muted jangling of Spud’s tags.

  With Spud settled, Ryder just stood there, maybe staring at me, maybe staring at the little blue flower pot on the window sill.

  “I’m awake,” I said softly.

  Ryder hmmmed. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  And this, this was familiar too. Too familiar. Time and patience were well and good, but falling into a habit—a rut—was safe. And it wouldn’t solve anything.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  He tugged the blankets back and slipped between them. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts, he just scooted across the bed and curled up behind me. Warmer than Spud, the bend in his knees mimicking mine, his foot nudging under mine until our ankles were all tangled up.

  His hand slid down my shoulder, rested on my hip, as if testing cold water. I shifted enough so I could lean back into him. He took the opportunity to drape his arm across my waist and slide his other arm up behind both of our heads.

  I leaned my head back and just breathed, needing this, the contact, the touch. Knowing he was there, right there with me, holding me.

  He bent his head so that his face was pressed in my hair. I felt him breathe me in.

  “Meetings ran late. Then there was paperwork. And the client dropped in and wanted a tour. I didn’t mean for it to go so late. I tried to call. No battery.”

  I waited. He breathed and breathed, then yawned. “The chicken was really good, Laney. Really good. And I was dreaming about that beer all day. Thanks.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Beer gets you dreaming about coming home? I’ll have to keep the refrigerator stocked.”

  But before I’d even finished the sentence, his arm went heavy, and his head rocked back a bit. His grip on me slackened. He was already snoring.

  I shifted, moving his arm so it didn’t feel like I was trapped under a newly felled Douglas fir. I didn’t shift away from him, didn’t want to move too far.

  “Water,” I whispered, staring at the little blue flower pot. “Sunlight, patience, and time.”

  “And truth,” I added. “Because you’re gonna have to tell me what you’re hiding, Ryder Bailey.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I was alone in the bed. No dog, no dragon, no boyfriend. The smell of coffee and sausage drifted through the air along with the clatter of dishes being moved from the sink to the drying rack.

  The little blue flower pot was right where I’d left it, a finger of sunlight spilling into it.

  Hopefully it was enough.

  I took a quick shower. I’d need to cover Than’s shift and my own today. Jean
had covered my shift yesterday, but she had today off.

  Myra would be back. I knew she’d want the download on Than’s interior decorating choices.

  “Morning,” I said. “Smells great.”

  “Pancakes in the oven.” Ryder rubbed oil into the cast iron skillet before stowing it in the drawer beneath the oven. He sauntered my way. “Sausage too.” He stopped in front of me and oh, how my heart beat harder.

  Today’s Henley was sage green, and it made his eyes darker. Instead of a flannel, he’d layered with a black, sleeveless jacket.

  “Sleep well?” He moved right up into my space, swaying a little as if aiming down a runway, gaze laser-locked on me.

  “Eventually.”

  “Sorry about coming in so late.” His hands were a welcome weight on my hips. He drew me closer, pulling me in for a kiss. “You were snoring.”

  I made an offended noise, and I felt the huff of laughter on his lips. He was here and now and so right, I couldn’t have moved away from him if I’d tried.

  He pulled back slightly. “And you stole all the covers.”

  “I never—”

  The second kiss was harder, deeper. I stopped trying to make whatever point I was trying to make, and just let him kiss me until I was liquid inside.

  When he pulled back again, he paused, then caught my lips with his teeth, softly tugging, even though my mouth was swollen and tender.

  “No need to dress up, but maybe not the uniform,” he said.

  I licked my lips and blinked up at him, trying to remember what he’d been saying. Had he been talking?

  “Huh?”

  He grinned, and it was a wicked thing, wild and happy. I wanted to drag him off to bed. I tugged on his wrist, but he held up his other hand.

  “This.” He flipped up two fingers with a card between them. A business card.

  “What?”

  “Our reservation is at six. You come casual but nice, so maybe not the uniform. I’ll come casual but nice, so maybe not the work boots. We have the balcony room with the view. No dragon.”

  He pointed at the dragon pig, who toddled over to sit on my foot and puffed smoke at him.

  “Yeah, you’re staying home.”

  “Tonight?” I asked, sand shifting under my feet. Had I’d woken up in the wrong world, with the wrong Ryder?

  This was our house, that was definitely the chonky dragon pig sitting on my foot, and Ryder was one hundred percent walking out the door, swinging on his overcoat and whistling.

  Spud danced and wagged until Ryder gave him an ear scratch.

  “Six!” Ryder said right before the door closed.

  “Six,” I repeated.

  Spud galumphed over to me and danced around, barking at the dragon pig, running away and crouching, then barking at the dragon pig some more. He wanted to play.

  Spud’s feet were sandy which meant Ryder had taken him out for a run.

  “Okay. Dog ran, breakfast made, dishes done. What are you up to Ryder Bailey?”

  The business card had The Westwind printed across it in a breezy little swirl. It was a little cliff-edge restaurant where people booked out small special events like anniversaries and Valentine’s Day dates.

  I’d been told the decor was totally romantic schmaltz, but the food was good and the desserts wonderful. I’d never been there before.

  I glanced at the wall calendar. Not his birthday, not mine.

  “Maybe he’s celebrating the end of the build?”

  The dragon pig made little grunty, snuffle sounds and trotted off to the living room.

  “You coming with me today?” I grabbed food, poured coffee, and ate breakfast standing.

  The dragon pig lorded over the living room, Spud adorning it with toy after toy, each dug out of his personal pile, carried over to the dragon pig, and dropped in front of it.

  Spud sat and waited, tail wagging. As soon as the dragon pig grunted approval, Spud barked and ran full speed back to the toys to find the next offering. The dragon pig fluffed and pushed and stacked the growing hoard into the size and shape of pile it desired.

  There were days like this when the dragon pig just wanted to stay home and be worshiped by his single fuzziest of fans.

  “You two look like you’re doing okay here. I’ll try to come by in the afternoon in case anyone needs a bathroom break.”

  The dragon pig oinked twice.

  “Okay, fine. If Spud needs a bathroom break. I know you don’t work that way.”

  It was true. The dragon did not poop. That was one of the upsides to having a dragon pig, although his ability to find demons who were hiding and bring them to me had also come in handy.

  “Be good.” Spud found a skunk with a good squeak in it, and was shaking the holy living stuffing out of it. I hadn’t even put my hand on the knob before my phone rang.

  “Delaney Reed.”

  “Boss,” Shoe said. “Mrs. Yates called.”

  “About her penguin?”

  “Yup.”

  “Stolen again?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s…okay. Why is she calling?”

  “She’s been the target of criminal mischief.”

  “I can guess all day, but the longer this goes on, the quicker I’m going to put you in charge of the department’s Secret Santa exchange this year.”

  He inhaled, held his breath a minute, like he was thinking it just might be worth it, then he let that breath out. “Someone left statues in her yard.”

  “Statues?”

  “Penguin statues. She wants, I quote: ‘All those hideous, phony fakes out of my yard immediately. I will be more than happy to file charges. Especially if that glassblower is behind it.’ End of quote.”

  “Why aren’t you out there?”

  “I’m on the tip line for the stolen items.”

  I had forgotten about that. Which was strange. I never forgot the cases we were working.

  “Okay, I’ll see to it. Keep me in the loop on the robberies.”

  “Roger that.”

  I thumbed off the call and was going to get in the Jeep, but found myself at the back of it staring at a box covered with a moving blanket. For a second, I wondered why it was there. I didn’t keep boxes and moving blankets in my car. But the thought was gone before it was fully formed.

  I stuck my hand in my coat pocket. The tissue I’d used to wipe Than’s sweat off my hands was in my pocket. I didn’t remember folding it.

  Then I was dreaming, all the world a foggy drift.

  “This is very good,” said the voice of madness, the voice that could make the world stand still. “Place it with the others. Wait until the moon is new. Aren’t we lucky that’s tonight?”

  I didn’t speak. I was just standing there, floating, a balloon tied to a fence, bobbing in the breeze.

  “This is a critical step, Delaney. Move the blanket to one side.”

  The voice had sidled up beside me. I could see him at the corner of my eye. It was the same man—

  —not a man, not real—

  —who had spoken before. Only this time he looked excited. As if a great gift, a great treasure, was about to be opened.

  I watched my hand push the blanket off the box that should not be in my car.

  “Beautiful,” he breathed. “Just stunning.”

  A part of my mind was screaming, hitting the panic button, dialing 911. This was wrong, bad wrong. That part of me was distant and tiny, so easily covered by the sound of his voice, so easily drowned by his words.

  “You can look.”

  I didn’t want to. I fought the urge, desperate to maintain some control in this, whatever this was. But my head turned, my eyes tracked as if I had no control over my head.

  “Behold the beauty.” He pointed, his hand in a black leather glove, the stitches burning like licks of flames, a thin river of lava crawling through heavy black stone.

  He pointed at the box, the crate that could have once carried milk jugs or eggs. It was
wooden, lined with a soft lap blanket with little moons and stars on it.

  I recognized that blanket. It was mine. I hadn’t seen it since I’d been attacked by a vampire in my family house on a hill.

  Sweat broke out over my body, pooled under my arms.

  I didn’t remember going home to get it. Didn’t remember putting it in this crate, in my car.

  I didn’t remember the contents either. My brain refused to process what was right there in front of me.

  “Can you see it? Can you see these rare and powerful things?”

  A Feather. About three feet long, covered in gold and opalescence and glittering jewels. It curved gently, like the lash of a great eye. Like the curve of the horizon under a starry, sunset sky.

  There were so few of them on the earth. So few that it would be a rare person indeed who may have seen one.

  Or a citizen of Ordinary. Someone who may have walked into the community center and met our very own Valkyrie, Bertie.

  This was her Feather, usually displayed on the shelf behind her, recently stolen.

  Anyone could have taken the Feather so openly displayed. Even I had been in her office that day, had seen it on the shelf with her other collectables.

  Next to the Feather was a statue wrapped in the blanket. My breath caught, my ears rang. I knew that statue. A black wolf surrounded by other wolves, carved out of the heartwood of an ancient tree.

  The stolen Wolfe clan Heartwood.

  “The wing of the Valkyrie, the heart of the wolf. You have done so well, Delaney.”

  I wanted to look him in the eye, and tell him to back the hell off. But my head would not move. My feet would not move. My mouth was stitched.

  The world held too still, or we were moving so quickly that this moment was accelerated and wedged between other, steadier moments.

  “Now,” he said, “the sweat of Death’s brow. I didn’t know how you would come by it, but oh, how you’ve come through for me. So many others would not have been able to do this at all. Not find one of these ingredients, much less all three. And here you are, more than capable of gathering all three within the span of a week. I had been prepared to wait for years, many years.”