by Mary Hughes
“Auntie, where are you?” Clutching her pepper spray, Sophia eased farther into the store, gaze searching. The old-fashioned register seemed undisturbed. Ditto the dust on the heavy bookshelves.
Her neck prickled. She turned.
The showcase next to the door was smashed, a confusion of dream catchers, incense boxes, and heaped costume jewelry inside. The hairs on her nape rose. “Break my broomstick…” She clenched her eyes at the curse. She’d been without power for several years now. But old habits were hard to break.
A faint rattle from the back of the store snapped her eyes open. “Who’s there?” Her voice shook. “Auntie?”
No answer.
But she’d recognized that rattle, the beads curtaining the back doorway. If not Aunt Linda, then who? Mr. Kibbles, Auntie’s cat familiar? A burglar? Fingers so tight around the pepper spray they nearly dented the can, Sophia forged deeper into the store. Past the bookshelves. Past the reading area with its chairs and sofa and big Aladdin carpet, once a sun-drenched haven for her girlhood summers spent reading.
Now just shards of glass and empty echoes.
Swinging beads caught her eye, strands which curtained the private kitchen exit of the old-fashioned storefront. Someone had just stepped through that doorway.
A burglar? A murderer? A demon?
She swallowed dry air. “Auntie? Mr. Kibbles?”
No answer, not even a meow.
She released the spray to find her cell phone. Not to call the mundane police or even the Witches’ Council, whose Enforcers only came out for big things like demigod infestations. But she was alone, hundreds of miles from home with a car that had broken down on the way here and barely limped into town, and she needed to alert someone she was walking into trouble.
She texted her brother, Auntie’s door broken, hit send, and looked up.
A shaft of red sunlight beamed through the store, stabbing a back display case like a laser.
A portent.
Every hair on her body stood straight. She wanted to check the kitchen, but no witch ignored portents. Not even ex-witches. Veins throbbing with cold, she edged toward the showcase.
The red shaft spotlighted two wands, placed in an X.
Both had been hers.
Sophia swallowed hard. Her wands, the subject of a portent? Why? They weren’t special. Her learner’s wand was typical for a young witch, pink and sparkly. Heart pounding, she put away her phone to pick up the wand, intending to return it to its box, covered in peeling boy band stickers.
The moment she touched the wand, she smiled. Even baby spells danced, wonderfully magical, with the pretty pink stick. Someday another young witch would find learning magic fun with it. She settled it into its box and put the box on the bottom shelf.
Then she picked up the smooth, seductive length of the second wand. Carbon fiber, light, strong, and precise, here was a serious amplifier of magic. The handle still fit her palm like a living part of her. She’d had it with her constantly.
Until the day she sealed off her magic, four years and another lifetime ago.
Her smile died. She shoved the wand into the first empty space she saw.
Stars and moon…damn it, what were these wands doing here anyway? She’d given them to Aunt Linda on consignment. Not special, but the learner’s stick was in top condition and the carbon fiber wand was professional, handmade, and priced to move. It was suspicious she’d never managed to sell them.
Then again, Auntie was rather haphazard about her stock.
Sophia sighed and rolled her shoulders, trying to roll out some of her tension. Where was Aunt Linda? Was this simply another of her famous walkabouts, as when she’d wandered off in search of Bigfoot to complete her Magical Creatures of the World autograph set?
Plausible…except for that broken glass. And the portent. And the moving beads…
Sophia resolutely headed for the kitchen doorway. She put a hand on the beads to part them.
A furred streak shot through the doorway—straight at her.
Demon! Sophia jumped back. She landed braced, heart thudding in her ears, fumbling for her pepper spray. Nothing immediately attacked.
“Yip yip yip.” The cry, bouncing off floor and glass cabinets, was as piercing as a jet engine.
A Siren? Death by sex wasn’t so bad, but she’d rather avoid the soul-stealing part. Her hand landed on the spray.
Cold and wet touched her shin. Zombie…? She gasped and lost her grip on the can. Her gaze darted down, dread coiling inside her.
A dog sniffed her legs.
She blinked. Nope, still a dog down there, nosing her ankles. Or a doglet, rather, a terrier no bigger than a football. Heaving a deep breath to slow her thudding heart, she bent to ruffle his or her head. “Hello there, sweetie.”
Its little tail started wagging, like a ceiling fan set on whap.
“Auntie finally got a pet, huh? How’s Mr. Kibbles taking it? Not well, I bet. What were you doing in the kitchen?”
She headed through the beads into a room redolent of warm memories, sugar cookies baking, and Auntie’s comforting-if-oxygen-depriving hugs. The kitchen was fairly tidy. No sign of a burglar or an auntie.
But a big fat yellow tabby sulked on top of the refrigerator. Mr. Kibbles wasn’t the stereotypical black, but Auntie wasn’t a typical witch.
The little poof dog trotted in behind her, yipping as if he or she was offering suggestions.
Mr. Kibbles hissed.
The dog, instead of jumping or barking at the cat, sat regally on its haunches and gave the cat the Look. Powerful magic, wielded unknowingly by mundanes, the Look was the sword-sharp “if you do this the world will end” eye-communiqué given by spouses the world over.
It was not given by rat dogs to fat orange cats.
Sophia laughed, ruffling the dog’s bangs. “I’m seeing things, doggie. Worried about Aunt Linda, I guess.”
The dog transferred its attention to her. He—or she—barked three times, with grave authority, like a bank president admonishing someone who’d tried to cash a bad check.
“What don’t you like, me calling you doggie?”
It nodded.
She blinked in surprise. The dog couldn’t understand her, could it?
Nope. Unless it was a shifter or familiar—but dogs never were. Too artless. Dogs—the ultimate WYSIWIG, What-You-See-Is-What-You-Get, complete with slobber and jumping on the couch. This dog couldn’t be a subtle shifter or wise familiar. She shook off the idea. “What should I call you? Curly?”
The dog shivered then gave a single, sharp yap.
“No, huh? Mitzy? Sweetie?”
That got an actual growl.
Sophia laughed again, surprised she could with glass on the floor and Auntie missing. But for some reason this little ball of fur made her happier. “If Auntie were here you’d get Oogywoogiesnookums. The fat one up on the fridge was Umpylumkins until I talked her down to Mr. Kibbles.”
The dog sneezed, stood, and turned his-or-her back on her—hmm, from behind that was definitely a he.
“Impressive package for a little guy. How about Prince?”
The dog cocked his head over his shoulder at her. Yipped doubtfully.
“Close, huh? What about King?”
The dog turned toward her, his bark enthusiastic.
“King it is.” She laughed again. “King of the Poof Dogs.”
The dog snipped a yip, turned his back, and stuck his snout in the air.
She stopped laughing. Was she just imagining that eerie intelligence?
Well, yes. Unless Arcane Animal Husbandry 101 had been completely overturned in the last four years.
The orange lump on top of the fridge, on the other hand… “Mr. Kibbles, do you know where Auntie went? There’s a can of tuna in it for you.”
In answer, he leaped from refrigerator to countertop to floor and padded out the back of the kitchen. Familiars could take human form, but Sophia had never seen Mr. Kibbles as anything but
a cat. She followed him to the hallway.
He sat by Aunt Linda’s slippers, washing his face.
Auntie’s slippers, instead of her shoes. Sophia’s spine ran cold.
Behind her, King yipped. She glanced at him. His little brow was furrowed, and she almost heard his, “What’s wrong?”
He couldn’t understand, but it was comforting to pretend he could. She bent to pat his head. “It’s nothing, sweetie. Aunt Linda’s walking shoes are usually here.” It meant Auntie had left under her own steam. But if she was okay, why wasn’t that glass swept up? The door repaired? Why wasn’t she answering her cell phone? “She’s gone outside.”
He barked at the word “outside”.
“Oh dear.” Where was Linda, that she’d left this poor doggie without his walkies? “I’m so sorry, King. I have to find Auntie first. I’ll take you for a walk later.”
As a stopgap, she laid papers on the kitchen floor.
Then Sophia returned to the store proper, thinking maybe Aunt Linda left a note by the register, or tacked to the community bulletin board.
The register was on a counter near the front of the store. She found the pad of paper her aunt kept to figure tax—the register was that old.
The pad’s top sheet was blank. Sophia was trying to see if she could make anything of the dents by turning the pad this way and that in the dying sunlight when a bell clanged right behind her. She leaped out of her skin, her nerves flaring like live wires. The pad dropped from her hand and hit the floor with a thud.
“Yip?” King, who’d followed her into the store proper, gave a small, concerned bark.
“It’s okay.” She put a hand to her breastbone, where her heart was trying to dent it from the inside. “It’s just the landline.”
Auntie’s store phone was a wall-mounted monstrosity with separate cones for ear and mouthpiece. Sophia picked up the bell-shaped earpiece and leaned in to speak into the trumpet mouthpiece. “Uncommon Night Owl. How may I—”
“What the hell,” a bear-like voice growled, “did you do to Noah?”
Noah.
All her fear evaporated in a rush of heat. The name sang along her spine like strong magic. Her belly did a little shimmy.
She barely managed a professional, “Who is this?”
“Who’s this? You aren’t Miz Blue.”
“I’m a Miz Blue.” Summers cashiering here kept her from chewing the rudeness out of Mr. Growl. “I repeat, who are you? And who’s Noah?” Her tummy shimmied again and the heat in her blood flushed goose bumps along her arms.
Mr. Growl started swearing.
“Hey. I’m not even sure those are all real words. No answers until you give me some.”
“I’m Mason Blackwood,” he bit out. “Noah’s cousin. He’s the leader of our…group.”
“Group, hmm?” Mentally, she substituted the word “pack”. Shifters couldn’t recognize witches, but witches could identify shifters. Aunt Linda had mentioned that the local wolf clan recently had a change of alpha. The Scauth pack was renamed Blackwood for the new alpha Noah Blackwood…
Her whole body shimmered.
She nearly dropped the phone. Stars and planets…damn it all. That was lust running delightedly up and down her body.
Witches and wolves and lust—extremely, totally forbidden. Lightning coming down from the sky, gods hitting the smite key forbidden.
“Where’s Noah?” Mason growled in her ear.
“I don’t know…” She dribbled off as she barely recognized her own throaty purr. Putting a hand to her pearls, she thought cool bankerly thoughts, about compound interest and mortgages and the clink of the coin machine sorting dimes and quarters into slick paper sleeves, pounding hard cylinders into tight sheaths…good heavens, where had that come from? “Why would you think your cousin was here?”
“Miz Linda Blue had a problem there in the wee hours of the morning with a boy in our group.”
The wee hours, when the store alarm had gone off.
Mason went on, “She called Noah in to handle it.”
“That’s not right. Auntie handles her own problems.”
“Not for our group,” Mason growled. “We police our own.”
And didn’t that just have the pawprint of secretive shifter all over it? “If it happened so long ago, why are you first calling now?”
“I’m not. I’ve been trying since dawn. Noah went, but he never came back.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him.” About to hang up, she paused. Noah was at the store after the alarm went off. He was possibly the last person to see Aunt Linda. “I need to talk with him, too. Tell you what. There’s an outside chance he’s upstairs. I’ll go check, and then we can talk again.”
“Blackwood Small Engine Repair, Third and Pine.” Mason hung up.
Sophia stared at the ear piece. Typical shifter, a male of few words—and most of those growled. She’d meant “talk” over the phone. She hung up with a shrug. Denizens of the magical communities did prefer face-to-face over technology. Well, most of them did.
Heading for the steps, she considered what she might find upstairs. Not her aunt. Even if Linda had been working in the sales bins, she would have known the instant Sophia was in the store. Auntie might not have heard her if she was taking a nap in her room in the back, but leaving her store open without someone to mind the registers? Not likely.
Sophia mounted the steps.
Even less likely that Noah—shiver—was in her aunt’s guest room, sleeping. Probably nobody was up there. But in case a burglar or the person who’d broken the door and display glass hid upstairs, she scooped out her cell phone and readied her thumb over her brother’s speed dial. Just to be safe.
King hopped up the stairs after her, yipping a double bark that rose at the end, like a question. Like he was saying, “What’s going on?”
A talking dog. She was either completely nuts, or had a great premise for a new reality show.
But it made her want to answer the question. Oh, what was the harm? If a burglar hid upstairs, he already knew she was here. And talking to a dog wasn’t insane, only thinking he actually answered was.
“I just don’t like the picture I’m getting, King. The store alarm went off last night. Or rather, early this morning. Well, my brother Gabriel had rigged it to notify him, and he called her right away. My aunt answered, but she sounded stressed. She babbled about being in a spot of trouble, said that she’d call him back—but she never did. Now, she’s not only gone, this Noah”—shiver—“has disappeared too. I don’t like it at all.” Reaching the top of the stairs, she automatically started sketching a simple locater spell for her aunt.
Pain. Pins and needles jabbed both hands. With a gasp, she clamped her hands to her sides. The pain died down.
King gave a concerned yip.
“I’m fine.” But her heart was thudding and her forehead was prickling with sweat.
She searched Auntie’s two bedrooms and a bath, methodically, checking closets and under the bed. Nothing out of place.
The store half, in the front…well, Auntie had learned shopkeeping in the sixties, complete with round rose-colored spectacles, peach wine, and her best friend Mary Jane. Sophia was never so happy as when the shag carpet had come up…and off the walls.
The dog followed her on her search, as quiet and alert as a bodyguard. Not big enough to guard a mouse, but she was glad for his company. This was supposed to be a quick visit to make sure Auntie was okay, not all bloody sunlight and portents.
No burglar, but no Noah either. Time for Mason’s.
She clomped downstairs but before she could leave, Mr. Kibbles meowed at her. Loudly. She’d promised him tuna, and a familiar’s metabolism meant he’d get cranky if he didn’t get fed—and when Mr. Kibbles got cranky, Auntie’s heirloom linen got shredded. Sophia poured out the last of the cat food into his pointedly empty dish and plopped a can of tuna on top.
While the cat familiar nom-nommed with a room-rumb
ling purr, she put down fresh water for both animals then hunted for dog kibble. No bag, not even an empty doggie dish.
“Have you been eating cat food, sweetie?”
King’s little face screwed up and his tongue pushed out repeatedly.
So buy some, after talking to Mason.
Sophia headed for the front door, adding sweep up to her mental list as she crunched gingerly through the broken glass. Her hand was on the doorknob when a sense of wrongness made her look up.
Beyond her car, across the street. She stopped breathing.
A hooded man lurked in the shadows, intently watching her.
Chapter Three
Sophia swallowed fear as cold as crushed ice. She tried to see the figure’s face—but the hood shadowed it.
The head raised. A glimpse of man-chin… He turned and disappeared.
She clutched her pearl necklace. Her whole body felt cold.
King yipped. Are you okay?
She inhaled deeply, pushed the air out, and shoved aside her shock with it. “I will be.” She was saying it to herself, not answering the dog. Really. “I’ve got to find Aunt Linda. According to Mason, Noah was probably the last person to see her. He might be able to tell me what happened or where she went—if I can find him.” The streetlight outside flared on. Sunset was only minutes away and complete darkness would fall soon after. She put her hand resolutely on the doorknob. “So, next stop, Mason’s garage.”
King yipped eagerly and trotted toward the door as if he’d come too.
“Oh no, sweetie.” Turning, she bent and pushed him back gently before he stepped on the broken glass. His body was surprisingly sturdy for such a little guy. Maybe the weight of that swinging package. “No walkies now. Use the paper.”
“Yiiiip.” He scowled at her. It was equal parts scary and adorable.
She felt herself weakening, but Aunt Linda might not have time for her to wait. She pushed the dog away more firmly. “King, no. You can’t come.”
He howled his dismay—like a soprano wolf.
She snapped straight in equal dismay. King is just a dog. Jerking the door open, she skipped through before he could tag along and quickly closed the door after her.
