by Sara Hanover
“We don’t come in here. We’ve always just used the side or front doors, even though this is closer to the driveway. So, sad to say, we can’t take credit, and when Hiram and the crew just redid the middle, this stuff all piled up next to the walls.”
“Okay, then. When’s the trash collection?”
“Wednesday and yes, this is the week of the month when they get the big stuff if we leave it on the curb.”
“First things first. This wheelbarrow goes outside, in the corner of the yard. In the garage if we still have room after cleaning up all this stuff, but definitely in the yard.”
I peered. “There’s a wheelbarrow under that?”
He pointed at a substantial metal brace holding a half-inflated tire. “I’m betting there is.”
I hefted an armful of rags from the pile. A mouse darted out and raced off through the door before I could even jump. Carter raised an eyebrow.
“We’re going to have to work on your reactions. If that was a shadow assassin, you’d have been skewered.”
“B-but—”
He shook his head. “No excuses.”
I dropped the rags on the floor. “What if there’s a nest in there?”
“As the professor might say, this would be a good time to learn nesting behavior, especially since you intend to go after harpies. Theirs is definitely an avian culture.”
“I’m getting some plastic trash bags.” And I stomped off. Lightning retorts, if not reflexes!
He had the wheelbarrow—yes, it was one, if old and dented and rusty—halfway out the door when I came back with a box of lawn bags. I kicked the assorted rags around a bit but no more streaking squeakers emerged as I bagged the trash up. I threw the filled bag out and onto the driveway. I emptied the shelves of another sagging bookcase of some sort while Carter busied himself taking each load out to our trash.
As to the bookcase—this had been a good piece of woodworking once, but now the bookcase wood had grayed and faded so that I couldn’t even tell what variety of tree the planks had come from. I spit on a finger and tried to rub the dirt off with no success and ended up wiping my hand on my jeans. The open shelves on the top ran halfway down, and little post office box drawers finished the bottom. Maybe this had come from an old corner of an even more ancient library? I opened each drawer up cautiously, worried the rest of the mice might be up to playing Pop Goes the Weasel on me. I couldn’t see the back of the furniture, but there might have been a hole or two back there. Twine filled one drawer. Some brittle two- and three-cent postage stamps another. Most were empty.
And then I came to the one that didn’t want to open. I checked it over closely. No lock. Just stuck. I tugged on it. Really stuck.
I ran a fingernail around the rim to see if I could tell why it had gotten wedged in. No luck, but the wood didn’t seem to have swollen excessively around this one drawer. Nor was it crooked where the others had been straight. It simply didn’t want to open.
I pulled my glove off. Set the stone to the front of the door and said, “I will you to open.”
Not that anything like that has ever worked for me before.
Glove or no glove, filth covered my hands. I batted them against my thighs and tried to pull the drawer open again. Nada.
“Look,” I told the recalcitrant furniture. “I really want to see what’s in the drawer. No matter what it is. Well, not if it’s an angry mouse.”
No yielding.
Carter came in, and I handed him some more trash bags quickly, putting my body between him and the now-empty cabinet. For some strange reason, I didn’t want him to see the drawer I’d been working on. Mind you, the last stubborn bit of furniture I’d fooled with had held the maelstrom stone. I ought to know better.
“Almost done.” Carter nodded at me.
I looked around the mudroom. To my surprise, we were. A pile of old boots and galoshes leaned up against one wall. “I’ll go through those later and give what we can to the thrift shop. None of those are ours.”
“Sounds good.” He hefted the bags and returned to deposit them outside. Alone again, I put my hand on the cabinet. “Last chance.” And, left hand firmly on the brass pull, I gave it a jerk that would have won a tug-of-war contest.
The drawer came out so fast it dumped me on my butt and scattered the contents on my chest. Sputtering, I grabbed for paper so old it had yellowed inside its brown leather cover. The book, no; it had so few pages it qualified more as a pamphlet, composed in readable but faded ink. It reminded me of the Declaration of Independence on display at the Library of Congress. Brilliant, defiant, old, and priceless . . . and, sadly, fading away. I scrubbed at the cover. Fubject of Darke Artes.
Wonderful. Someone’s book of curses? It not only looked prehistoric but smelled like it, too: musty and mildewed. Old enough that capital S’s looked like funky F’s? That might date it back several hundred years. And what was it with old books of magic? Brian had his ancient journal and Steptoe had those few scraps written about my stone. I rubbed my thumb over the cover, and a chill slithered its way down my spine.
Carter’s shoes scraped on the driveway as he approached, and I shoved the thing inside my shirt. Friend or not, there were times when the Society came first, and I had no intention of his confiscating the thing until I’d gotten a better look at it. After all, I had found it.
Scout put his nose out to see what we were doing. “Not dinnertime.” He wagged his tail anyway and I got a chance to really get a good look at him. Undoubtedly Labrador retriever, but something told me he wasn’t purebred. A little slimmer in build, a little sleeker in the head, a little lighter on his feet. I folded up my legs and sat down next to him, waiting for Carter to return.
His long and lanky form filled the doorway, hiding the midafternoon light, his shadow spilling over the two of us.
“So let’s talk about the dog.”
He leaned a shoulder against the door. “You don’t have to keep him if you don’t want him.”
I threw my arm around Scout’s neck. “I want him. But I think you know more than you’re saying.” Pup and I rocked together for a moment, and Carter gave us a look that was almost longing.
He sat down on the floor, too. Noticed the empty postal drawer resting there and stowed it back in the cabinet, sliding it into place. It made a little click as it did. I took note of that—darn thing had been locked in, after all. I gave Scout another hug to hide my interest.
“He’s not all Lab.”
“I guessed that. From his reactions and his looks.”
Carter shifted. “Not sure what he is. He and two littermates were left in a basket outside the police kennels. The other two just seem to be dogs. But this one,” and he reached out to rub under Scout’s cream-colored chin, “this one has always been different.”
“Very intelligent.”
“Yup. Older than his age, in some ways. And, he gets this look in his eyes, as though he not only understands what I’m saying but anticipates the consequences. A friend in the Society took a look at him about a month ago and gave his opinion on his heritage.”
What is it about magic users that they can’t seem to give straight answers? I bit back my impatience.
“And?”
“Maybe some elven hound in him.”
“Seriously? How do we know for sure?” Not only were there elves somewhere, but now they had dogs?
“We don’t, unless the person who bestowed him on us tells us, although it should be apparent in about twenty years, regardless.”
“Twenty years?”
“He won’t age like other dogs.”
Scout put his cold, wet nose to my neck and I grinned, thinking that having him around a long time was actually kind of reassuring to hear. “Any side effects?”
“He seemed to agree with your assessment of your friends, so I’ll grant him a certa
in awareness of magic and its affiliations. That, along with his excellent sense of smell and natural speed and agility, will give the pair of you an advantage.”
“Hear that?” I told Scout. “We’re going to make a great team.” He licked my chin in agreement.
“Eventually. Both of you have a bit of growing to do.”
“Gawd, I hope not. I’m already taller than most of the boys in my classes.”
Carter pulled a face, and I couldn’t tell if he was trying not to laugh or wince. “There could be one problem, though.”
“Which is?”
“He might not be the gift we think he is. He might have been stolen from a litter and discarded hastily, to hide him.”
“What litter? Someone might, sooner or later, come back to get him?”
He inclined his head. “Exactly.”
“I won’t give him up easily.”
“No, and since he’s obviously bonded to you, he won’t go easily either.”
I examined his face for a moment, looking at the planes of it: an ordinary yet well-defined face, not breathtakingly handsome like Malender though undeniably good to look at. Yet there was an expression hidden in his warm brown eyes. If I had to interpret it, I would say it was . . . concern. What had him worried?
“What’s wrong?”
His breath hitched slightly. “What makes you think anything is wrong?”
“I just feel it.”
He shrugged. “I can’t be around predictably for the next few weeks. Maybe longer.”
“Aha. You can’t keep tabs on me.”
“Something like that.” He reached out and wiped a smudge off my chin with the ball of his thumb.
“And where are you going to be?”
“I’ve an undercover assignment that is going to be very unpredictable.”
Now my breath caught slightly. “Dangerous?”
“It could be. I won’t bring that home to you, though, so don’t worry.”
“I’ll worry if I want to,” I answered him. “What is it, anyway?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Ordinary stuff for the police or magical stuff for the Society?”
“Not that either.” The corner of his right eye twitched ever so slightly.
My jaw dropped. “Both? Do they know? Are you like a special paranormal investigator now?”
Carter sighed.
“You don’t want to tell me.”
“I can’t tell you.”
I leaned forward. “Is my not knowing going to protect me better or worse?”
He blinked. “All right,” he said. “I’ll give you this. If, at any time, you hear of or run into a Nicolo or a Nico, walk away. As quickly as you can.”
He meant it. Every word of it, and he wasn’t going to give me any more detail than he already had.
“All right,” I agreed.
A long pause stretched into what could have become an awkward silence, but Carter filled it by leaning very close, tilting his face slightly, and my heart did a quick flutter because I realized he was going to kiss me.
And he did, his lips warm and possessive on mine, his hands coming up to my shoulders to brace me as I closed my eyes and gave into the warm feelings rushing through my body like a sea tide. My knees would have given out if we’d been standing. I kissed him back when he started to pull away slightly, and the moment lingered on. I could feel a heat in him, not the heat of a living being, but a fire, banked and waiting, as though a sun resided deep within, and I thought of his magical power. Awe washed through me just before he pulled back.
He touched a finger to my mouth. “Was that all right?”
“That, Carter Phillips, was about damn time.”
He laughed, stretched and got to his feet. “I work tomorrow, so any sleuthing for Hiram will have to wait until Tuesday afternoon. After practice? And stay out of trouble, all right?”
“Of course!” I rumpled up Scout between the shoulders. Who couldn’t stay out of trouble for a couple of days?
CHAPTER SEVEN
A SEA OF TROUBLES
“TIME TO MEET the neighborhood,” I told Scout as I put his harness on him, noting that it came in an adjustable size, because this guy was not going to stay at his four-month-old size long. Especially not eating the way he did. His stainless-steel bowl reflected a licked-clean surface, as bright as any mirror, right back at me. The handsome blue-and-green-plaid harness stood out against his golden-cream hide, and he swiped his tongue across the back of my hand as I finished with the buckles.
“You’re going to meet some of the nice people on my charity run. I don’t deliver meals anymore. I passed that on, but I still visit a lot of my customers. They’re older but fun. And, it’s just after dinnertime, so they’ll be serving dessert, maybe. Sometimes they have cookies.”
Scout’s ears perked up alertly.
“That’s right, I said the word. Not saying it again.” I snapped the leash into the harness and grabbed a windbreaker from its hook in the now clean and utilitarian mudroom. I hoped the cool breeze would chase the blush from my cheeks—Carter kissed me!—and I could keep my feet on the ground. I still felt a buzz about my lips, a pleasant, tingling feeling. Scout gave me a quizzical tilt of his head as if wondering the same thing. “Let’s go.”
He took off, pulling me with him. We compromised on a slow jog with frequent stops to check the pee-mail around the various trees and shrubs. Two blocks away, we came up to Mrs. Romero’s house, a tidy little bungalow that always had a wreath celebrating one season or another on its door. She’d knitted me a sweater early in our relationship, a knitted commodity I had plans for at the annual Ugly Christmas Sweater party. She heard us clattering up the porch, Scout panting, and came out, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Tessa! How good to see you. It’s nice having our regular back, but I do miss your visits! She drives and it seems like she whisks in and out so quickly I barely get to say hello. I just put a batch of cookies in the oven. Can you wait till they’re done? Come on in.” Without waiting, she retreated and went back into the house. Scout made as if to lunge after her. I pulled on the leash.
“Careful with the treats. She often leaves out or doubles ingredients.”
He shook his head at me in disbelief.
“You’ll see.” We followed inside.
She sat in her little living room, smiling, the dimples in her cheeks flashing as did the ones in her petite hands. Her knees were dimpled, too. When I first met her, I’d wanted to trade my Aunt April, who is tall, lanky, and a little mean-spirited, for this porcelain doll of a grandmother. She had her own family, though, and I suspected they would do battle to keep her.
“So tell me about the pup.”
“Just got him. This is Scout, mostly Labrador retriever—”
“Good dogs, they are. One of the most popular breeds in the States. Energetic, though. I bet he needs this walk. Look at that tail!”
“I thought I’d bring him over to get acquainted.”
“I’m honored.”
She held her hand out. He sniffed it, more than politely, although I suspected he was checking out the cookies. He rubbed a paw over his muzzle as he lay down at my feet. “Told you,” I muttered quietly to him. He looked disappointed.
“I just thought I’d check on you and see how you’re doing.”
“Oh, fine, fine. The weather’s turning now, and my arthritis will be bothering me again soon, but what a relief to get out of the summer. Of course, in another month or two I’ll be complaining about the cold!” She let out a cheerful laugh. “How’s college?”
“Fine. It’s too early to predict, but we’re hoping the team makes finals.”
“Splendid, but don’t forget the scholastics. Thinking of driving the route again?”
“I don’t think so, got
a small car now and need to pay insurance and gas. I need a job that pays. You know how that goes. I miss everyone, though.”
“And we miss you—” A rattling buzz went off, and she bounced to her feet. “Oh, the cookies! Sure you won’t have one?”
Scout looked up at me with big brown eyes.
“One or two would be great, but only a couple. Got to stay in these jeans.”
“Of course, dear.” She came out of the kitchen with a little baggie full of warm goodies steaming inside. The pup’s ears went up and down several times as if he was tasting the cookies by scent, and he probably was.
Scout gave a satisfied chuff as I hugged her good-bye and left. I pulled a cookie out, breaking it in two. “This way, we’ll both only be half-poisoned. Last time, I swear, she put a whole salt lick into the batter.”
He gobbled his down while I nibbled cautiously, and the sugar cookie tasted great. “Remind me to tell her this is a good recipe.” Pleasantly surprised, we sauntered on down the street.
His tail cutting the air like a curved saber behind him as we jogged, we both enjoyed the cooling afternoon air. Mrs. Sherman, another delightful widow, occupied her rocking chair on the porch and waved happily at us. Her brilliantly red bouffant looked as perky as usual. “Come on up here and let me see that fine beast you have.”
She leaned over as Scout bounded up next to her. “And who’s a good dog? You are!” She smiled at me. “A wonderful looking pup. Yours or have you taken up dog walking?”
“Mine.” I omitted the birthday present part, because I didn’t want her to jump up and go rummage for something to give me. She had a spare room that she used for crafts and such, and wrapped presents in a rainbow of tissue papers amid boxes of scraps and half-finished projects. Last time I’d won the jackpot and gotten a nice bottle of lilac-scented toilet water, but I didn’t want to press my luck.
I gave her a little hug. She looked fine, except for some tired bruises about her eyes. “Sleeping all right?”
“I’m at the age where any sleep is welcome.” She patted her bouffant wig.
