The silence stretched on for long enough that Amber knew she’d piqued Molly’s curiosity. “Okay,” Molly said. “Where would you like to meet?”
Connor and Willow were having lunch in Edgehill, so despite Molly’s assurance that she wouldn’t cause problems for the pair, Amber figured keeping Molly occupied in Marbleglen wasn’t a bad call. “What’s your favorite place in Marbleglen?”
“There’s a great Mexican place on Dahlia Drive,” Molly said. “Give me your number and I’ll text you the address.”
Amber hurried back upstairs to change and to tame her hair into something more respectable. She called a goodbye to Aunt G, who seemed more than happy to be working on the cat toys in the quiet, and with only Tom and Alley for company, and darted out the door.
As she mentally cast the alarm spell to lay over the entrance, and then manually locked the door, someone said, “Good afternoon, Miss Blackwood.”
Amber spun around and eyed the pair of people standing behind her. One man and one woman, both in crisp black suits. They were both about five-foot-seven and wore identical impassive expressions. The woman was in her forties and had short black hair cut in a bob, and the man was a bit younger with a head of wavy blond hair. His face was clean shaven.
Her clarity spell told her that there was no detectable glamour here.
“Do you plan to stab us with that, Miss Blackwood?” the woman asked.
Amber realized then that she held her keys in her fist, her car key poking between her pointer and middle finger. Then she looked back up at the pair standing before her. A couple months ago, Amber had spotted a man watching her while she ate breakfast with Edgar. With one look, Edgar had pegged him as a cop. Or, rather, a private investigator. There had been something about Alan Peterson that had stuck out to Amber immediately, though she hadn’t been able to pinpoint it until Edgar had slapped the cop label on him. She got that feeling again now. These two didn’t feel threatening, necessarily, so much as wildly out of place on the street before her curiosity shop while dozens of happy feline-obsessed tourists milled about.
Just beyond the pair, Amber spotted Betty Harris standing on the sidewalk watching them. One dark brow was raised in question. Amber knew if she gave Betty a signal that she was in trouble here, she’d come running across the street armed with a rolling pin to whack these two over the head. Amber was sure spry old Bobby would help, too.
Instead, Amber nodded at her and smiled softly, letting her know she was okay. Reluctantly, Betty headed back into her busy bakery.
Refocusing on the pair, Amber said, “Can I help you with something? The shop is closed for the foreseeable future.”
The man’s gaze briefly swept back and forth along her shopfront, as if he were cataloguing everything that lay beyond the windows. “We have no interest in your store, Miss Blackwood. But we would like to speak with you.”
“About what?” she asked. “I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Cancel whatever it is,” the woman said. “What we need to discuss with you will take a while. And considering that your shop is closed, you have the time.”
Amber’s face heated. Who the heck did this lady think she was? “Look, I don’t have to do anything. I have no idea who you people are. Tell me what you want or I’m leaving.” She clutched her keys a little tighter.
Tourists were starting to give them a wide berth. Amber imagined her expression was somewhere in the realm of “terrified rabbit.” Betty was inside Purrfectly Scrumptious now, but was watching Amber with her nose practically pressed to the glass wall.
The woman in front of Amber flared her nostrils just slightly, the first sign that she actually possessed human emotions. So, that ruled out this pair being aliens or robots from another planet. Hopefully.
“We’re from the WBI,” the man said. “The Witch Bureau of Investigation.”
Amber worried her eyes would fall right out of her skull, given how wide they grew.
“I’m Agent Barker,” the man said. “And this is Agent Howe.”
The woman, Agent Howe, nodded once. “We know Kieran Penhallow called you three nights ago.”
Now Amber’s mouth hung open.
Agent Barker angled a look at Agent Howe and said, “We’re really buying into the rumor that she is going to solve the Penhallow problem?”
“Hey!” Amber said, brain catching up enough to be offended.
“We’ll buy you lunch,” Agent Howe said, then turned and walked away, presumably headed for the parking lot.
“And maybe even dessert if you behave,” Agent Barker said, following her.
Amber glared after him. She wasn’t sure why either of them had to be so rude. She knew she didn’t have to follow them, though. Amber supposed the tools the WBI possessed would blow the FBI’s out of the water. They were witches, and likely very powerful. Granted, Amber knew nothing about the organization, but the image in her head was dang impressive.
She could walk the other way. She could call a cab. She could just lock herself inside her shop until they went away.
It had been a full minute since the pair of suit-clad grumps had rounded the corner of her building. She was fairly certain Betty still had her nose pressed to the glass.
Amber’s curiosity, as always, got the better of her.
Heaving out a breath, she followed them. When she emerged into the parking area, the two agents had their backsides resting against the hood of a black sedan, their arms crossed. When they spotted Amber, Agent Barker held out a hand to Agent Howe, palm out. Agent Howe grumbled, reached into her pocket to pull something out, and then slapped what looked like a few dollar bills into the man’s hand.
Amber clenched her jaw. She should just turn around right now.
But she trudged forward anyway. Agent Barker held open the back door of the SUV and Amber climbed into its spacious interior, which was pristine and smelled new. Amber wondered where the WBI’s headquarters was located, and if there were smaller branches scattered across the country, like with the FBI.
As the eerily silent SUV pulled out onto Russian Blue Avenue, Amber stared out the black-tinted windows. She needed to tell her family that she’d been peacefully kidnapped. She pulled out her cell phone. “Where are we going?”
“The Manx Hotel,” Agent Barker said. “It’s quiet this time of day, and we’re also meeting someone there.”
Amber texted her aunt and sister to let them know where she’d be, giving them her location, but staying light on the details. Considering that she didn’t have any yet.
Even though her gut told her these people had been truthful about who they were, Amber remembered how thoroughly duped her own mother had been by a Penhallow who had taken his glamour to a level so extreme, he’d assumed the identity of someone else. Who was to say these two weren’t Penhallows conducting an elaborate ruse?
Blowing out a steadying breath, she called on her magic, which had been buzzing anxiously under her skin since these two had materialized out of nowhere. Her intention was to find out the truth of their visit, but she also wanted proof that she wasn’t being tricked like a kid being lured into a creepy van by a nefarious man offering candy.
She called on the fear she’d felt when she worried her magic had put little Noah in danger. She called on her worry that somehow her sleepy tea had harmed Henrietta. And she called on her paranoia that every new face she encountered in Edgehill was someone who wished her harm. Her magic responded in kind, as if it were bubbling lava waiting to erupt from an angry volcano.
She took all that built-up feeling and poured it into her words. “Agent Barker, Agent Howe, what are you doing in Edgehill?”
Her magic practically sang as she unleashed it, happy to be used in such a direct and forceful way. Forceful enough that the car swerved. Amber pressed a hand against the door to keep herself from bumping into it. The agents let out twin grunts of discomfort.
Robotically, Agent Barker said, “I have been sent here to question Amber Bl
ackwood on the spell she used to cure Kieran Penhallow of his curse.”
A moment later, Agent Howe said, “I’ve been sent here to make sure Agent Barker doesn’t botch the assignment.”
Amber’s magic immediately settled. They were telling the truth.
Agent Howe’s gaze snapped to the rearview mirror to glare at her.
Agent Barker however was shooting daggers at Agent Howe in the driver’s seat. “You’re my babysitter?”
Agent Howe unleased a dramatic sigh. “Yes, Barker. But it also means they’re going to start giving you your own cases soon, assuming you don’t screw it up.”
“Maybe they put you with me to help you work on your people skills,” Agent Barker snapped, “since you don’t have any.”
An awkward tension settled over the car. Amber envisioned opening the car door and rolling out onto the street.
Agent Barker seemed to remember then that there was someone else with them, and he turned in his seat to glare at Amber. “A simple question would have sufficed, by the way. We’re both layered in protections that keep witches from using truth spells on us. It’s difficult to do your job when criminals force you to show your hand. When those spells get bypassed—which you shouldn’t have been able to do—it hurts.”
A sense of smug pride washed over Amber despite the precarious situation she was in.
“Probably more information than you needed to give her,” Agent Howe hissed.
Amber crossed her arms and offered Agent Barker her own glare. She squashed the urge in her to apologize. “Yeah, well, if you two weren’t so cryptic and downright mean, I wouldn’t have had to do it.”
Agent Barker grumbled and turned back in his seat.
“Don’t do that again,” Agent Howe said.
Amber didn’t appreciate being scolded.
Then she added, “But it’s good to see the rumors about you actually hold the possibility of being true.”
The feeling of inadequacy slammed back into Amber, exhausting her. She kept quiet for the rest of the ride, wondering who on earth would be meeting them at the hotel.
Chapter 8
The Manx Hotel was the most lavish hotel in Edgehill. The exterior was more reminiscent of a Victorian-era mansion than a typical hotel complex. Kim had said she had it on good authority that John Huntley would be staying there in the coming days. Security was no doubt going to be beefed up to keep the diehard fans from trying to storm the guy’s hotel room.
As the SUV pulled up in front of the building, Amber craned her neck to study her favorite part of the hotel—the elegant black cat statues that were scattered around the property, several of which were perched on the corners of the roof like gargoyles. The last time she’d been to this hotel had been when Kieran was in town and, while he’d been prowling around, had murdered an innocent maid.
Had the agents chosen this hotel because of its loose connection to Kieran, or were they clueless? Could it be Kieran who was meeting them here? Had the WBI been the ones to free him from prison because of the change in his magic?
Silently, the agents stepped out of the SUV and headed for the entrance. Perhaps Chief Brown had gone through the same training program as these two. They just wandered off, knowing somehow Amber would follow them. Then she flashed back to Agent Howe slapping cash into Agent Barker’s awaiting palm.
This was Amber’s danged curiosity’s fault. Maybe she gave off a pheromone that let everyone around her know that if they provided the smallest amount of interesting information, Amber would trot along behind like a sheep. She let herself out of the back seat, then made her way through the small black gate and up the steps.
She only allowed herself a moment to marvel at the oval-shaped window resting in the center of the front door—and the cat paws, whiskers, and pointed ears etched into the glass—before she stepped in after the agents.
Though the interior of the hotel was as elaborate and sprawling as the outside, the dark colors of the lobby made the space seem smaller than it was. The walls and floor were made of a rich, dark wood, the elegant black-and-white photographs on the walls were encased in thick black frames, and the few plants in the room were in massive black pots. The wide staircase rose behind the C-shaped registration desk that sat in the middle of the room. An open doorway stood on either side of the lobby.
A few months ago, from the rightmost doorway, Amber had heard the sound of Connor and his friends talking and laughing on the eve of Connor’s birthday celebration. Today, the agents hardly stopped in the lobby long enough to acknowledge the receptionist before heading for the left doorway.
Amber trudged after them. The room they walked through was a lounging area furnished with a few forest green sofas, a handful of armchairs, small tables, and a flat screen television sitting atop a dark wood stand toward the back of the room. The agents didn’t stop here either; they moved through yet another open doorway into a swanky in-house restaurant.
Small, intimate tables were positioned on the left side of the room, while the right side was taken up by a curved, glass-fronted bar. Expensive bottles of liquor lined the mirror-covered wall behind the pair of bartenders, one of whom was busily chatting up two women who sat before him. Elegant silver lamps hung from the ceiling.
The agents strolled along as if they owned the place. Amber was mostly only aware of how underdressed she felt. Her black ballet flats were scuffed and filthy when compared to the gleaming floor beneath her.
After following the curve of the bar, the space opened up into a large dining area. Plush black booths flanked shiny dark tables. A large, square brick fireplace took up a chunk of space in the middle of the room, the wide shaft disappearing into the ceiling. A fire roared behind a metal grate, but Amber was fairly certain it was actually a looping video of a crackling fire. When a woman in black slacks and a white top, a large tray balanced on her hand, came bustling out of a black door to the right, Amber caught a brief glimpse of busy kitchen activity.
As Amber and the agents rounded the fireplace, Amber spotted the only occupied booth in the back corner of the room. In the next second, she realized it was her cousin Edgar.
What in the world was he doing here? And how had the agents gotten him to agree to show up? She often couldn’t get the man out of the house—and she was family.
When Edgar saw her, he practically sprung from his seat, looking both relieved and desperately uncomfortable. Which meant he had no idea what this little meeting was about either. He said nothing to her when she reached him, just visibly swallowed and nodded a hello. They slid into the booth together on one side, and the agents took their seats on the other.
A waiter showed up to deposit four ice waters on the table and then hurried off again without taking their orders.
Amber gave the room a quick once-over and noted that no one was seated near them within earshot. She crossed her arms on the table and leveled a stare at Agent Howe across from her. Amber needed straightforward answers before her myriad theories about why they were here gave her a stress-induced ulcer.
Edgar spoke before Amber could think of what to say. “So what’s this all about? I was just about to start a dungeon raid when you called.”
Agent Barker looked like he was seconds away from neutralizing Edgar as if he’d just admitted that he made bombs in his spare time.
“It’s a video game thing,” Amber said quickly. Then she jerked her head Edgar’s way. “He’s a total nerd.”
Agent Barker relaxed.
Agent Howe looked mildly disgusted, but that seemed to be the woman’s default expression. “Is it true that you cured Kieran Penhallow of his curse by severing his connection to magic, Amber?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you accomplish that?” she asked.
Amber’s gaze flicked back and forth between the agents, nervous about confessing this out loud while also knowing these people likely already knew the answer and were only seeking confirmation. There had been a warning written by her
mother in the margins of her grimoire, stating that she hoped Amber and Willow never needed a magic-severing spell. Which likely meant that Amber’s mother had figured out that the most viable way to end the curse was to take magic away from the cursed witch altogether. Amber’s mother never had the chance to find out if her spell worked.
“A spell I found in my mother’s grimoire.”
The agents exchanged a look.
“The same grimoire that has the fabled time-travel spell in it?” Agent Barker asked.
“Yes,” Amber said. “And it’s not fabled. I’ve seen it.”
Agent Barker leveled his gaze on Edgar, who stiffened beside her. “And you were the keeper of the book since the deaths of Annabelle Henbane and Theodore Blackwood?”
Amber’s heart constricted at the mention of her parents.
“That’s right,” Edgar said, then a bit reluctantly told them about his altercation with Neil Penhallow—the man who had killed Amber’s parents and was Kieran’s older brother—the night of the fatal fire. At the beginning of his story, Edgar balled his hands into fists on the table. By the middle, he had one of those fists pressed to his forehead. And by the end, as he explained how Neil had used his magic as a weapon against him, Edgar could hardly get the words out. Not from emotional pain, but mental. His eyes were squeezed shut. Neil was no doubt trying to get Edgar to stop talking, to keep his secrets from the WBI.
Edgar let out a guttural cry and slammed a fist onto the table, making the glasses of water jump. Amber caught hers before it tipped over. The couple on the other side of the dining area looked over to see what the fuss was about. Agent Howe quickly waved away a concerned-looking waiter.
Amber took over the story then, explaining that Neil had infected Edgar with a small dose of cursed magic. “We don’t know how, but Neil’s magic and Edgar’s have fused. Neil’s voice lives in Edgar’s head. Neil either is able to see through Edgar’s eyes, or he can read Edgar’s mind enough that he’s able to deduce things about Edgar’s surroundings.”
Pawsitively Betrayed Page 9
