License to Spell_An Urban Fantasy Novel

by Paige Howland

  It took me only a second to figure out the magic wasn’t mine.

  Every witch’s magic has its own scent, like a signature perfume. Mine smells of the forest just before dawn: damp, rich earth, spicy cedar, and crisp, fresh air. This magic smelled like vanilla and sweet berries, with a hint of cinnamon. It was faint, and I never would have caught it had I not been so close to him. It brushed against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms, and I shivered and wondered what kind of spell he was wearing. The magic stilled and then retreated back into Agent Smolder, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the magic didn’t want me there. Strange.

  Agent Smolder shuddered and tightened his grip, like it was my fault the magic he wore didn’t like me.

  “Stop it,” he said, his voice harsh and uneven against my hair. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Yeah? I bet that’s what all the trained assassins say. Right before they stuck a knife in your throat or shoved bamboo under your fingernails or—

  “I’m here to recruit you.”

  —gutted your eyeballs with hot spoons or … wait.

  Did he say recruit me?

  “Mremurmrd,” I said into his fingers.

  “I’m going to let you go,” he said. “I just want to talk. Don’t run. I don’t feel like chasing you.”

  By that point I would have promised to hex my mother if it got him to back off, so I nodded. He pulled his hand from my mouth and stepped back. I spun to face him, my heartbeat racing as I flexed my fingers, more out of habit than anything. I glared at him, but his gaze was on my hands. Smart man.

  “I’ll ask you one more time. What the bloody hex are you doing in my apartment?”

  His dark eyes rose to meet mine, and his mouth twitched. Was he … laughing at me?

  “Your aversion to curse words just went British.”

  I scowled. “The British are better at it. Now what do you want?”

  “I told you. The agency sent me to recruit you. We have a mission that requires your … skills.”

  “I’m a barista.”

  “You’re also a witch. I’m Agent Ryerson, and I work for the Magical Protection Division of the CIA. We’ve been tasked with a matter of national security, and I’m afraid it requires the help of a witch.”

  I blinked. The magical what now?

  “Doesn’t the CIA have a witch more qualified than me?”

  His jaw tightened and something dark passed behind his eyes. “We did. She’s dead.”

  Oh, well. When he put it like that. “No.”

  His eyes narrowed. “No?”

  “No.”

  “I’m offering you the chance to protect your country.”

  “And your last witch, whom I assume was highly trained and much more powerful and experienced than me, died doing it. No thanks.”

  His eyes flashed and I felt my temper flare in response, which is exactly what I didn’t want. I needed to calm down. It was the only way I could call my magic back. Sure, it would want to “help” if I got angry enough, but the few times I’d been that angry, well, let’s just say it didn’t end well for anyone, especially me.

  Agent Smol—er, Ryerson, didn’t seem bent on murdering me at this particular moment, but he was a spy. A real-life, honest-to-witchness spy. And if Netflix and Daniel Craig had taught me anything, it was that spies were unpredictable, violent, untrustworthy, manipulative, violent—

  So not helpful. I shook my head, turned on my heel, and headed deeper into the apartment, to the wire cage that took up most of my kitchen countertop.

  Agent Ryerson followed me, doing his best impersonation of a looming, malevolent shadow. He stopped in the doorway of my galley kitchen and swept the tiny space with a glance.

  “Where do you cook?” he asked.

  “I live above a Chinese restaurant,” I reminded him. “I don’t need to cook.”

  He shook his head. I ignored the judgment rolling off of him in waves, slipped the clasp off the cage door, and made a cooing sound. Jinx poked his striped head out of an old coin purse I’d rescued from a flea market, saw it was me, and scampered to the door on tiny pink feet. He climbed onto my outstretched hand and scurried up my arm to my shoulder, where he tucked himself behind the curtain of my frizzy blonde hair. I could almost feel my blood pressure dropping.

  “What is that?” Agent Ryerson asked.

  “This is Jinx. He’s a sugar glider.”

  I ducked into the refrigerator where I kept a slab of dark, creamy chocolate, a block of only slightly moldy cheese, and a bowl of fresh, chopped fruit. I grabbed a strawberry and held it up to Jinx, who gripped it and nibbled, tickling my neck with his whiskers and soft fur.

  I stretched my fingers out again, testing them, and Agent Ryerson’s gaze snapped to my hands. Then he frowned.

  “You’re trying to call your magic and it’s not responding. Why?”

  Crap in a cauldron. “How do you—”

  He waved me off. “I have magic-viewing contacts.” I felt my eyes widen, but he was still talking. Working through his thoughts. “Earlier when you called your magic, your hands sparked and then glowed blue. You traced a rune with it. You were surprised then at finding me in your apartment, but you’re afraid of me now and trying to hide it. Most witches would call their magic. But you’re not. Or you can’t.” He paused, and then understanding lit his eyes. “You can’t call your magic when you’re afraid.” He shook his head and murmured, “This just gets better and better.”

  Whatever the hex that was supposed to mean.

  But he was right about not being able to call my magic. I looked casually around for a weapon, just in case, but my kitchen wasn’t the mecca of sharp and pointy things that most people’s was. My utensil drawer was mostly plastic sporks, disposable chopsticks, and soy sauce packets, my sharpest knife was the Swiss Army one attached to my keychain, and if I owned a frying pan, no one would be more surprised than me.

  I opened the oven and grabbed a fresh bottle of wine from the top rack. Heavy, very club-like. I closed the door, satisfied, only to find Agent Ryerson staring at my oven/wine rack like it had personally offended him.

  “Seriously?” he said.

  I shifted my grip to the neck of the bottle. Ryerson rolled his eyes, but he didn’t try to take it from me. Yet.

  “If you really wanted to recruit me,” I said, “why didn’t you call first?”

  “I did. Several times. You didn’t answer.”

  No he—wait. Those restricted numbers. Of course the CIA wouldn’t call from a traceable phone.

  “So you broke into my apartment?”

  He leaned a shoulder against the door frame and shrugged. “You weren’t home and waiting in the car would have drawn attention.”

  “You could have waited in the restaurant.”

  “I don’t like Chinese. Besides, that old man at the bar has a sharp eye.”

  “First, everyone likes Chinese. And second, you thought breaking into my apartment would be less conspicuous than having a drink at a bar?”

  “Yes.”

  Whatever. “Look, I’m not interested in being the CIA’s pet witch. Especially not after your last witch bit it. I happen to like my life, thank you.”

  He raised an eyebrow at my kitchen and I scowled.

  “What’s the mission, anyway?” Not that I was going to do it. Still, it was hard not to be a little curious about a threat that the CIA was so desperate to stop that they’d come to me, a nobody witch whose closest brush with danger was the daily rush-hour commute down the GW Parkway.

  “I can’t tell you until you agree to do it.”

  Right. “Look, if you guys are all you’re cracked up to be, you have to know that as far as witches go, I’m not that powerful. If witches were Marvel superheroes, I’d be Hawkeye.”

  Heck, Aunt Belinda had twice as much power as me, and she was only like the third most powerful witch in her coven.

  “Who?”

  “Hawkeye. You know, the guy with the bo
w and arrow while everyone else is destroying buildings with their fists and shooting laser beams from their eyeballs and whatnot.”

  “It’s sad that you know that.”

  “It’s sad that you don’t. My point is, why me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I waited, but he didn’t elaborate. Fine. “This is ridiculous.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

  “I … wait, what?”

  “I said I agree with you. This is a sensitive matter of national security. I disagree with the decision to bring an untrained, untested, volatile witch on board.”

  “Volatile?”

  He crossed his arms. “You attacked a man with magic today for hitting on your friend. Jealousy is an ugly thing.”

  “I wasn’t jealous! And I didn’t attack him. He spilled his drink.”

  He tapped his temple. “Magic viewing contacts, remember?”

  I glowered at him. Jinx nudged my ear and I fed him another strawberry.

  “Did you know that the government has rules against witches using magic against or to unduly influence other people?” he asked casually.

  “What? That’s not a thing.”

  “They don’t look kindly on witches attacking humans with magic. National security and all that.”

  “This is the US. Isn’t the CIA’s jurisdiction, like, everywhere else?”

  “For the most part. But if we see a problem, like a violation of Section 12(d)(i) of the Magical Enforcement Act of 2007, we’ll pass it along to the FBI.”

  “You just made that up.”

  “Tell that to the feds when they arrest you tomorrow. Unfortunately, since magic doesn’t officially exist, neither do things like due process. You’ll be taken to a black site detention center where they’ll determine if you should be stripped of your magic, and therefore your memory.”

  My eyes narrowed, and my grip tightened around the wine bottle as a frisson of fear skittered up my spine. “And let me guess, if I agree to help the CIA, you won’t report my alleged violation of a law you totally didn’t just make up.”

  He shrugged. “Your choice.”

  Curse it. What was I supposed to do? I was ninety-five percent sure the law he cited wasn’t a real thing, but what if I called his bluff and I was wrong? I could not live in a dusty old bunker under some soybean farm in Jersey. Besides, who would take care of Jinx?

  He’d said it was just one mission. Maybe I was blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Maybe they just needed a witch to read through some reports or something. And … my dad’s words niggled at the back of my brain. Was he right? Was I putting my life on hold? Should I take a risk? No. He’d meant make a business plan, not become a spy.

  But what if … what if this was my chance to find out what really happened to Alec? Maybe then I could move on.

  I set the wine bottle on the counter with a sigh. “Fine. You win. What do I need to do?”

  He pushed off the doorjamb. “Go to work tomorrow. Bring your overnight bag. It’s by your bedroom door. I already packed it for you. By the way, you have like three pairs of underwear that don’t have holes in them. You should really go shopping.”

  I gaped at him. “You touched my underwear?”

  He started to walk away, then flicked a glance at Jinx’s cage. “Maybe get someone to watch your gerbil. And obviously, don’t tell anyone about this. Not even Zoe.”

  I followed him to the front door.

  “You should tell Zoe and your family that you have to leave town for a few days. Make up some excuse.”

  Wait, the overnight bag. Was I leaving town? So much for my “report reading” theory.

  “I could tell them I met a guy and he’s whisking me away on a romantic weekend getaway.”

  “It should be something believable.”

  I scowled at his stupid broad back as he opened the door and stepped onto the landing. “Are you always this charming?”

  He turned at the door with a sigh. “That’s not what I meant. You’ve had one date in three months. You haven’t had a serious boyfriend in three years. Anyone who knows you won’t believe that you met a guy and agreed to skip work and leave town with him. It’s not you.”

  “How do you know—”

  “CIA, remember? Look, I’ll work out a cover for you. Just go to work tomorrow and wait for my call.”

  “But—”

  He walked down the stairs and called over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow. Oh, and Hawkeye?”

  “What?” I snapped.

  “Wear the blue panties tomorrow. The ones with the bows.”

  5

  I couldn’t sleep.

  Maybe it was the fact that I had woken up a barista and went to bed a spy.

  Or maybe it was the spark of hope that tomorrow I might meet someone who could tell me the truth about what really happened to Alec. Maybe then I could close that chapter of my life and finally move on.

  Or maybe it was the fact that every time I closed my eyes, I pictured Agent Ryerson standing in my dark bedroom, elbow-deep in my unmentionables.

  Drawer. My unmentionables drawer.

  When my alarm finally went off at five a.m. I stumbled out of bed, fed Jinx, and staggered into the shower. I swept my hair into a ponytail, threw on black pants, a reasonably clean uniform shirt, and the plainest, whitest underwear I could find.

  I spent the whole drive to work brainstorming excuses for why I’d up and leave town for a few days. One long-lost sister, a spa getaway Zoe would insist on taking with me, and a search for a Nazi-killing ark later, I walked into the café.

  Zoe looked up from the tray of cinnamon rolls she was sliding into the bakery display case and her eyes narrowed.

  She knew. I hadn’t opened my mouth and she knew. Of course she knew. She wanted to be a spy. Intelligence gathering was her thing now. Her things used to be yoga and The Bachelor. I missed those days.

  She slid the display door shut with so much force that it snapped back open.

  “Zoe?” Apprehension tumbled through me as I rounded the counter and grabbed a fresh apron from a hook behind the storage room door. “What’s wrong?”

  She crossed her arms and glared at me. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  I knew it.

  “I can explain.” I couldn’t explain. Not really.

  “Don’t bother. I mean, I came clean to you yesterday about applying to …” her voice dropped to a whisper-yell, “… the you-know-what, and you didn’t feel like you could tell me you’d applied to be the Java Hut regional manager?”

  I blinked. I hadn’t applied for … oh.

  Agent Ryerson had said he’d take care of it. A regional manager interview would take place at the regional company headquarters in Boston. This was much more believable than anything I’d come up with. Not that I’d ever admit that to him, of course.

  She was waiting for an answer, so I said, “Right. Yes. That’s a thing I did.”

  She rolled her eyes and stormed into the back. I followed her.

  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have. How did you find out, anyway?”

  She grabbed a sleeve of to-go cups and shouldered past me, back out to the floor. “Corporate called this morning. Told me I’d be on my own for a few days while you interviewed and, if all goes well, you’d be headed straight to a week-long training seminar in Lake Tahoe.”

  A week!

  I swallowed a bubble of panic and tried again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I—”

  She slapped the sleeve on the countertop with a sigh. “No, don’t apologize. I’m not mad because you didn’t tell me.” At my doubtful look, she amended, “Okay, it’s partly that you didn’t tell me. But Ainsley, what happened to opening your own shop? I thought that was your dream, not climbing the Java Hut corporate ladder.”

  “It was. It is. I just …” I flopped down on a delivery box. “I don’t know why I agreed to do this. It was stupid. But don’t worry, I’m s
ure they’ll realize right away that they made a mistake. That they don’t want me, and I’ll be back here in no time.”

  Zoe’s face fell. “That’s not what I meant. If this is what you want, then go for it. I’m just worried if you always play it safe and never take a chance on something, you’ll regret it.”

  My throat tightened. That sounded an awful lot like what Dad had said last night. And I wanted to tell her. I opened my mouth to do just that, and my phone rang. I pulled it out and answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Meet me at the visitors’ desk. Five minutes. Bring your bag.”

  The brusque, familiar voice hung up.

  I shoved the phone in my pocket and stood. “I have to go.”

  Zoe threw her arms around me. “You’re going to rock this interview. I’ll see you in a week.”

  I nodded and left before I started to cry. Or worse, told her everything.

  Agent Ryerson was waiting for me at the visitors’ desk. He handed me a visitor’s badge. I looked at it doubtfully.

  “I already work here,” I reminded him.

  “You don’t work where we’re going,” he said.

  I swallowed and clipped the badge to my shirt, and then followed Agent Ryerson through a metal detector and into the belly of the CIA.

  Ryerson was right about one thing: I didn’t work here. The café was just inside the main doors. I’d never ventured past the hallway bathrooms. Why would I?

  The hallways beyond the metal detectors were wide and bright and filled with people going about their day, saving the world. Just another Wednesday.

  Agent Ryerson led us to a bank of elevators. We stepped inside and he swiped a keycard against a screen and then hit “7.” We rode in silence and stepped off into another long hallway filled with keypad-protected doors. Ryerson nodded to a few people we passed, and then stopped outside a door marked 7C-6. He swiped his key card and stood still for a retinal scan, then we walked inside.

  The sunken room was huge and a hub of activity. Desks filled most of the space, with frosted-glass offices and conference rooms lining the walls. Ryerson led me to a conference room and waited until I took a seat. Then he set a folder in front of me.