by Keri Arthur
I turned my gaze to the vast room. The inside area had been painted battleship gray rather than black, but biomechanical and alien forms still adorned the multi-arched ceiling. At the point where they all met, Maelle had built a dark glass and metal room that—despite the strobe lighting—was all but invisible. Only the occasional glimmer of light across its dark surface gave its position away. The room wasn’t only Maelle’s lair—a place from which she could keep an eye on everything happening within her small kingdom—but also her safe place.
Few people were invited into it.
I rather suspected the uninvited never got out of it.
Roger motioned me to one of two spare chairs in front of the bar—a vast twisted metal and glass construction that dominated this side of the upper tier. As I sat on the alien-themed barstool, a bartender appeared and gave me a bright smile.
“What can I get for you?”
“Just a sparkling water, thanks.”
“That’s a rather staid choice given it’s on the house,” Roger commented.
“Yes, but I’m driving, so better safe than sorry.”
A smile twitched his lips. “I’m thinking one drink would not tip you over and, even if it did, our ranger would not charge you.”
“Then your thinking would be wrong.”
Awareness prickled my spine, and I turned to see Maelle approaching. She was wearing a dark green riding habit—the sort women in the Jane Austen era might have worn—and her rich chestnut hair had been plaited and curled around the top of her head. Under the bar’s cool lighting, it looked rather crown-like. Her porcelain skin was perfect and her lips a deep, ruby red—a sign of just how recently she’d fed. There were no lines on her face and absolutely no indication that she was, in fact, centuries old.
If not older.
“I tend to agree with you, young Elizabeth.” Her softly accented voice carried easily over the noise. “The ranger is nothing if not a stickler for the rules.”
“He has a job to do,” I said, somehow managing to keep the surge of annoyance out of my voice. “It’s not about being a stickler, more about keeping this reservation—and everyone within it—safe.”
She perched on the vacant seat beside me, her movements oddly regal. “I would think the true guardian of this reservation is not a ranger, but rather a certain witch.”
The bartender appeared with my drink. I gave him a nod of thanks and tried to ignore the sliver of alarm that ran through me. Not so much because of what she said, but because it oddly matched my own nebulous but nevertheless strengthening feeling.
“I rather think this reservation deserves far more than an underpowered witch.”
She studied me for a moment, the pale depths of her eyes giving very little away. “As I have said before, this reservation seems to have other ideas.”
“This land—and the magic within it—isn’t sentient, Maelle. It can’t decide anything.”
Which wasn’t exactly the truth—not now that Katie’s soul was part of the wild magic. And if anyone was the protector of this place, then it was Katie. It was, after all, the reason she’d given up what was left of her life.
Maelle’s smile held little in the way of warmth or belief. But then, given her ability to both sense and create magic—even if it was the darker kind—she’d have to be more than a little aware of what was happening in this reservation.
And it made me wonder if magic was the reason why she’d come here. She might have already denied it, might have made no play to use the wild magic in any way, but I still doubted it was a coincidence.
“Roger said you visit for business rather than pleasure,” she said. “So what is it you desire?”
I hesitated. “A man was murdered tonight, and the rangers suspect it might be a vampire.”
Something flared in her eyes. Something that was dark and very dangerous.
“I hope you’re not here to accuse.” Her tone hadn’t changed, but chills nevertheless raced down my spine. “Because that would be very unwise.”
I resisted the urge to rub my arms. Or, better yet, run. “I wouldn’t have come here so unprepared if I’d intended to do something as stupid as that.”
A smile twitched her lips, though it didn’t ease the coldness in her eyes. “Then what is it you wish?”
“I have some photos of the wounds. I was wondering if you’d look at them and tell me if they’re vampiric or not.”
She studied me for a moment, not moving but very much reminding me of a snake ready to strike. “You don’t think they are?”
“No, but I’m not the vampire expert here.”
That smile got stronger, and the shroud of dangerousness that had so easily fallen around her faded. It by no means meant I was any safer, but at least it felt that way.
“Show me,” she said.
I opened up the photo file on my phone. She plucked it from my hand, her fingers briefly touching mine. Though I was well guarded against the sensory hits that came with psychometry, images still flowed; a blonde-haired woman who looked far too young to be a vampire’s meal ticket, the flash of a golden crown in her hair, the deep red of the velvet chair behind her. Only it wasn’t a chair, but rather a throne.
Not recent images, but older. Far older.
Which was puzzling. Generally when images or emotions did get past the shields I’d developed over the years to protect my sanity, it was because I’d been caught unprepared or they were simply too strong. So either Maelle had been seriously dwelling on a past conquest, or that prophetic part of me was trying to tell me something about her.
“These are not the bite of a vampire,” she said. “Our bite doesn’t leave bruise marks such as this.”
“That’s what I figured.” I hesitated. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what sort of demon or spirit does leave that sort of bruising?”
She shook her head. “I’ve not come across anything like this in my many years alive, and I’ve crossed swords with more than a few demons or spirits in that time.”
“Figuratively or literally?”
“Literally, of course.” Her tone was cool, but amusement glinted in her pale eyes. “I was not always as refined and ladylike as I am today, and a long sword made of blessed silver is a very satisfying method of banishing demons, let me tell you.”
I nodded. Witches often used blessed silver knives for the exact same reason, and a sword did have one advantage over a knife—reach. “Isn’t it a little dangerous for a vampire to be picking up a weapon of blessed silver?”
“Not if one is old enough or wearing the appropriate protection.”
Which meant gloves, obviously. Still, it was good to know that blessed items of any kind weren’t as big as a deterrent against vampires as many believed them to be.
“Anything else?” she asked.
I hesitated again. “I don't suppose you’d know if a man by the name of Kyle Jacobson was here tonight?”
“Is he the victim?”
“Yes. There’s a photo of him at the front of those other pics.”
She flicked back through until she’d found the hastily snapped one of Jacobson. “He’s not someone I’ve noticed. Roger?”
He stepped closer and peered at the screen for several seconds. “He does frequent the club, but I can’t recall him being here tonight. Which, of course, doesn’t mean he wasn’t. I could check the security cams, if you’d like.”
“If you could, that would be great.” I retrieved my phone and shoved it back into my purse. “If the being that did this to him had come into the club, would you have sensed it?”
“I’d think it unlikely given I’m not attuned to such forces, only those of my own kind.” She rose elegantly. “You know where to find me if you have further questions, Elizabeth.”
And with that, she disappeared into the darkness. I blinked and glanced at Roger. “That was rather sudden, wasn’t it?”
“A problem has arisen in one of the private rooms that needs attending to.�
�
I hadn’t known there were private rooms, and I had absolutely no desire to uncover what they might be used for. I quickly finished my drink then followed Roger through the room and left.
It was close to dawn by the time I got home. I parked Aiden’s truck beside the old Ford wagon Belle and I owned, and then slipped inside the café through the rear door. Shadows filled the hallway but pale light filtered through the windows in the main dining area, highlighting various bits of mismatched furniture and the small teapots of flowers that decorated each table. The air was warm and rich with the scents of cinnamon and chocolate, and magic caressed my skin. Its source was the multiple layers of protection spells we’d placed around the building. No one intending us harm would ever get in here easily; not even, I suspected, the strongest of witches. While I hadn’t intended it, the wild magic was layered through the spells that protected us. It gave us an edge—one that had already saved our butts.
Of course, it was also something of a liability given any witch who came into the café and started looking a little too closely at our spell network would notice the presence of the wild magic; it was something that would raise questions I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—answer.
Trepidation stirred anew, but I did my best to ignore it and ran up the stairs to my room, where I stripped off and climbed into bed. I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow; if I dreamed, I didn’t remember it.
It was close to ten by the time I rattled down to the café. Belle had left a note saying she’d gone for a run, and I discovered a text on my phone from Aiden stating he was heading home to sleep, and that he’d drop by to get the keys in the afternoon, just before he started his shift. I made myself some breakfast and then started decorating the cakes Belle had baked last night. Normally it was an activity that soothed my mind, but I found myself constantly looking at the nearby clock to check the time. The trepidation that had stirred last night was not only back, but increasing in intensity the closer it got to twelve thirty—the time the new witch was supposed to arrive.
Belle reappeared just before that. She was a little over six feet tall and had the physique of an athlete—something she was proud of and worked hard on. She was a Sarr witch by birth, so had their ebony skin, long, silky black hair—which was currently swept up into a ponytail and dripping sweat onto the floor—and eyes that were a gray so pale they shone silver in even the dullest of light.
I was almost her polar opposite, possessing the crimson red hair of the blueblood lines, pale skin, and a smattering of golden freckles across my nose and cheeks. The one thing I would never be described as, however, was athletic. I tended to be a little more generously curved, and my exercise was no more strenuous than walking and yoga.
I pulled out the revitalization brew we kept in the fridge and poured her a glass.
She gulped it down and then said, “I needed that.”
“Apparently so,” I replied, amused. “And now you’d better go shower, because Ashworth and Eli will be here with the new witch soon.”
Eli was Ashworth’s partner and a retired RWA witch. While the two of them were currently living in temporary accommodation, they’d recently decided to move to Castle Rock permanently. Not only because they liked life in the reservation, but because Ashworth was apparently fascinated with the “conundrum” Belle and I presented. According to him, our magical abilities combined in a way no one had thought possible. We’d long been able to draw on each other’s strength, but neither of us had—until he’d mentioned it—been aware the merging was deeper than that.
“I’m not sure why he’s bothering,” she said. “He knows we want as little to do with the man as possible.”
“He really hasn’t got a choice—our magic is helping to protect the wellspring, and we’ll need to be involved in dismantling it so the new witch can weave his own spells around it.”
“There’s no guarantee the new witch’s protection net will be any stronger than the one you and Ashworth have woven around it.”
“Except for the fact that even Ashworth has stated his knowledge of recent spell developments is seriously lacking, and his power will not be enough to counter any major entities that head this way.”
“I guess.” She dumped the empty glass in the nearby sink. “Just don’t give them the fresh cakes—not until we know if this new fellow is worthy of them.”
I snorted and, as she headed upstairs, walked around the counter to set up the coffee machine.
One o’clock came and went. I did more prep for tomorrow, but it did little to ease the gathering tension.
I wished I knew why. Wished I knew what it was about this witch that my psychic senses were picking up and fearing.
“Ashworth’s just pulled up outside,” Belle said as she came down the stairs.
“And the witch?”
“With him, obviously.” Her gaze narrowed slightly. “I can’t read him.”
The tension became alarm. “Why not?”
She hesitated. “I think he’s wearing one of those devices that stop telepathic intrusion.”
“Why on earth would he be wearing one of those?”
“Maybe he was forewarned about us.” She frowned. “I could probably get past it, but it’ll take some effort.”
“It might be worth attempting to do so. All we know about him is his name, and Frederick is a very common name in the various branches of the Ashworth tree. It doesn’t tell us anything.”
It certainly didn’t tell us if he was related to the Marlowe branch of the witch tree, which did have Ashworths scattered right through its bloodline.
“True.” Belle’s expression became somewhat distracted as she began breaking through the electronic shield protecting the other witch’s mind. “It’s interesting our Ashworth didn’t know him, though.”
“Not really.” I walked over to the sink and washed my hands. “I wouldn’t recognize most of the witches in the Marlowe family tree, even if I passed them in the street.”
“And we’ve been running from the ones you would recognize.”
A smile touched my lips. “True.”
The small bell above the café’s front door chimed merrily and then a familiar voice said, “Lizzie? You here?”
Ira Ashworth, not the mysterious Frederick.
“In the kitchen.” I hastily dried my hands on a tea towel, and then headed out into the café.
Three men came through the door—Ashworth, Eli, and the man who was the new reservation witch.
He was tall and well built, and looked to be around the same age as Belle and me. His crimson hair gleamed like dark fire in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and his features could at best be described as pleasant.
Pleasant and familiar.
This man was Fredrick Montague Ashworth.
Otherwise known as Monty.
My cousin.
Two
A wide grin split his features. “Lizzie! What the hell are you doing here?”
Ashworth’s gaze went from us to Monty and back. Surprise, and perhaps a hint of understanding, touched his expression. “You know each other?”
Energy surged, a force as fierce as a gathering summer storm. Belle, pulling out all stops to break through Monty’s shield and prevent the words that would give away our real identities.
“Hell, yeah.” Monty tossed his bag on the nearby table and strode toward me. “We went to school together. We’re actually—”
The rest of that statement never made it past his lips. His eyes went wide and he stopped abruptly. “What the fuck?”
His gaze slipped from me to the door into the kitchen—he might not be able to see Belle, but he certainly knew she was in there—and anger stirred in the silver depths of his eyes. But he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.
As Belle hastily wound some preventative measures through his mind, I forced a grin, stepped up, and threw my arms around him.
“Monty,” I said, with a bravado I certainly wasn�
�t feeling. “Why the hell have you accepted the position here? Isn’t it a little less than fitting for an Ashworth heir?”
Monty’s father—another Frederick—had come from England to marry my aunt. While he wasn’t as powerful as my father, he nevertheless held a seat on the high council—a position that usually passed on to the firstborn child, thanks to the fact blueblood witches generally only married into a family with similar magical strength. In the distant past, that had sometimes meant cousins and even siblings marrying. The net result had, of course, been an increasingly higher rate of congenital and inherited disorders. It was one of the reasons why the witch lines were now so heavily monitored, and why arranged marriages had come into existence. And the law had no problem with such arrangements—unless, of course, one or both parties were coerced or even forced into the marriage.
Monty grabbed my arms and thrust me away. For several seconds, multiple emotions crossed his face—anger, frustration, and confusion—before he said, “I had very little choice in the matter—it was either this or remain in the spell records department.”
I frowned. “Why would someone of your stature be shoved sideways into a cataloging position? Isn’t that usually reserved for second-tier witches?”
And Monty certainly wasn’t that.
His brief smile held more than a little bitterness. “When I went through accreditation, it was revealed I didn’t have the expected magical strength.”
“That still doesn’t explain—”
“Let’s just say my parents were so damn disappointed that I accepted the first available job and got the hell away from them.” His gaze narrowed. “What’s your excuse?”
I knew he wasn’t referring to the reasons we were here, but with Ashworth and Eli here, I wasn’t about to answer that truthfully.
“We left for a very similar reason.”
“At sixteen, and well before you ever went through accreditation.”
