License to Spell_An Urban Fantasy Novel

by Paige Howland

“Are we going to Poland now?” I asked.

  “Tiago and I are going to Poland,” Ryerson said. “You’re going back to the States.”

  Oh. That didn’t sound so bad.

  “To stand trial for treason,” he added.

  Um. “I’m sorry, what now?”

  “You aided the escape of an international terrorist. What did you think would happen?”

  “I think I jumped into a car when you started shooting at me.”

  Tiago glanced at Ryerson in surprise. “You shot at her?”

  “I shot at Alec. She kept getting in the way.”

  Tiago settled back in his seat, like he was completely unconcerned. “Doesn’t matter. Corporate wants her on this mission.”

  “What?” Ryerson and I said at the same time and then traded glares through the rearview mirror.

  Tiago shrugged. “I don’t make the rules. Take it up with corporate.”

  And that’s exactly what Ryerson did. Loudly. And with hand gestures. He was still on the phone when we reached the safe house, and he stormed inside to change clothes and grab our bags. And hopefully a shower.

  Tiago twisted in his seat and unlocked my cuffs.

  “Thanks.” I rubbed my sore wrists.

  He nodded toward the safe house. “Don’t take it personally. He’s been a little … intense since Sloane died.”

  Sure. In the last three hours Ryerson had dragged me into a firefight, shot at me, left me tied up, and threatened to turn me in for treason. Nothing personal to see here.

  I must not have looked convinced because Tiago added, “He’s really not a bad guy once you get to know him.”

  That was just the thing. I didn’t want to get to know him. My life had been one disaster after another since the moment I’d found Ryerson in my apartment. Once this mission was over, I hoped I’d never see him again.

  I ignored the tightness in my stomach that came with the thought of never seeing him again. Sure, he was hot. He was also dangerous. Angry. Reckless. Stubborn. Merciless. And hurting.

  I squashed the pang of sympathy I felt. It wasn’t hard. I just reminded myself of the last day and a half that I’d spent with him. By the time Ryerson strode back to the car fifteen minutes later dressed in civilian clothes—a polo shirt and jeans—his hair still damp from a shower, I’d worked myself back up to solid indignation.

  The flight to Poland was uneventful. Nobody talked to me, a nice flight attendant gave me a tiny bag of pretzels, and the plane didn’t fall out of the sky. Finally, a win.

  We reached the safe house in Poland around six a.m. local time. I shuffled into the apartment, chucked off my boots and face-planted onto the first bed I came to. I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours and sleep came hard and fast. I woke hours later to a growling stomach and sunrays spilling across my pillow. Someone had placed my bag at the foot of the bed. I showered and dressed in a t-shirt and yoga pants, and swept my damp hair into a ponytail. Then I reached for my magic. It was sleepy, unfurling lazily when I called to it, but it was there. Satisfied, I let it go and went in search of the kitchen.

  The apartment was small: two bedrooms, a kitchenette, one bathroom, and a living room. A quick search of the kitchen cabinets turned up a half-eaten box of expired cereal, a case of bottled water, and an end-of-the-world-bunker-sized box of protein bars. I felt a pang of longing for some Chinese takeout—the list of things I wouldn’t do for lo mein and garlic chicken was getting real short—and then grabbed a bottle of water and a protein bar and flopped onto the couch next to Tiago. He didn’t look up from the video game he was playing, but he nodded at the other controller resting on the coffee table next to his crossed ankles.

  I shrugged and grabbed the controller while Tiago flipped the game to two-player mode.

  “Where’s Ryerson?” I asked.

  “Out doing recon on the targets.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Who?”

  “The targets.”

  “Why?”

  “Because calling them ‘targets’ feels sinister.”

  He slid me a look. “You know we’re the good guys, right?”

  I waited.

  Tiago sighed and chose two avatars from the selection on the screen. “Kwan and Nari Chun Yong.”

  Satisfied, I turned my attention to the aliens tearing across the screen.

  “Okay,” Tiago said, “the point is to shoot the aliens. The ‘RT’ button is your trig—shit.”

  Tiago scrambled to catch up as I took out two jackals and a grunt and reloaded in one smooth movement. Tiago took out the next three and then glanced at me in surprise.

  I shrugged. “It’s Halo. I used to play this with my brother and Alec, when they’d let me.”

  Tiago looked at me a moment longer, and then a horde of aliens exploded across the icy tundra and pulled his attention back to the screen. Tiago blasted them with an assault rifle.

  “Those guys are easier to kill with a Covenant storm rifle,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said drily. But I saw him pick up a storm rifle from a dead Covenant soldier. We fell quiet while we cleared the icy cliffs and moved into the alien compound.

  “So, you grew up with Alec?” Tiago asked casually. Too casually.

  “Yeah. He was my brother’s best friend. What happened to him?”

  I didn’t expect him to tell me anything, so I was surprised when he said, “Not a goddamn thing. And the bastard still turned on us.”

  I spun toward him, the game all but forgotten. “What happened?”

  But Tiago just shook his head and refused to tell me anything else. Freaking spies and their stupid secrets.

  Finally, I gave up and turned back to the game. But when Tiago’s avatar stepped in front of me to deal with a grunt, I couldn’t help myself.

  “Hey!” he said as his avatar keeled over with a bloody hole in its back.

  “Oops.”

  We played a few more levels and then I got bored. “What’s Ryerson’s deal?”

  “He hasn’t been himself since Sloane died.”

  “So he’s not always a wanker?”

  Tiago raised an eyebrow. “Ryerson is one of the agency’s best agents. Of course he’s an ass. But lately he’s been more …”

  “Reckless? Obsessed? Psychotic?”

  “… intense.”

  An alien burst out of a hallway into the room we were clearing. I tried to shoot him, but I was out of ammo, so I punched him instead. Or tried to, at least. Even in video games my punch is more shriek-slap-run than an actual blow.

  “Is that really how you punch?” Tiago sounded horrified.

  “I don’t usually need to punch people.”

  “Do you know any self-defense moves?”

  I thought about that. “My brother tried to take my cookie once. I stabbed him with a fork.” I was three, but I thought that still counted.

  Tiago grabbed the remote and flipped off the TV, then pushed himself off the couch. “Get up. I’m teaching you some moves.”

  I eyed his outstretched hand with deep skepticism. “This sounds dangerous. What if I twist an ankle?”

  Tiago blinked at me. “You faced down armed terrorists today, but learning a few self-defense moves is too dangerous?”

  Curse it. “Fine.”

  I helped Tiago move the furniture against the walls, and he spent the next hour teaching me different holds and moves and how to find my balance. I was sweaty, breathing hard, and lying on my back after Tiago laid me out again, when a deep voice said, “You need to step into your strikes more.”

  14

  Tiago pulled me to my feet. Ryerson leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching us. I hadn’t even heard him come in. The man moved like a cat. A lithe, sexy, possibly feral cat.

  “I need to check in anyway,” Tiago said. “She’s all yours.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Tiago. His expression was pure innocence as he strode from the room, leaving me alone with Ryerson. The latter pushed fr
om the doorway and crossed the room until he stood right in front of me.

  “You’re short,” he said.

  “You need a haircut.”

  A line formed between his eyebrows.

  “I thought we were pointing out each other’s flaws.”

  Ryerson shook his head. Good, because I doubted I’d be able to come up with any more. Unless we moved on to Ryerson’s personality flaws. That was my wheelhouse.

  “Most of your attackers will be taller than you and outweigh you by a hundred pounds. Stand with your feet closer together, and balance on the balls of your feet. Your best option is to evade rather than block and wait for an opening. Like this.” He grabbed my hips. I ignored the heat that seared my skin through my yoga pants and did what he said. “Better. Now try to punch me.”

  My fist shot forward before the last word left his mouth. He moved and my punch sailed past him. He caught my arm and before I knew what had happened, my back was pressed against a hard chest.

  “You’re putting all of your weight into your punches. That’s good if your attacker is close and you know you’ll make contact. It’s bad if you’re not, because you’ll lose your balance. Try it again.”

  He let me go. I spun and punched. He moved again. We worked this way for another thirty minutes, until my breaths came in short gasps. Meanwhile Ryerson hadn’t even broken a sweat, the plonker.

  Hoping to distract him, I groaned, “Why are you helping me?” Then I decided my word choice needed work. It didn’t feel like help. It felt like he was taking pleasure in destroying me slowly. Limb by achy limb. “I thought you were mad at me.”

  I was lying on my back where he had dropped me to the floor. He frowned down at me, then offered me a hand. I looked at it suspiciously.

  “I may have overreacted,” he said.

  “May have?”

  He hauled me to my feet and pushed a hand through his dark hair. “Merrick and Alec both escaped today. I was frustrated.”

  Slightly mollified, I said, “Why do you hate Alec so much? What did he do?” I rolled my shoulder with a wince. I felt like a broken record. Emphasis on the broken part.

  “Just be careful with him, okay? He’s manipulative.”

  “No, he’s not.” I was tired of vague, dire warnings. I threw a half-hearted punch. Ryerson was distracted but not that distracted. He caught my arm easily and yanked me into him.

  “Better.”

  The barest hint of a smile crinkled his eyes, and warmth spread through me. He really was gorgeous. And despite what I’d said earlier about him needing a haircut, I rather liked the way his dark hair curled messily around his ears. His gaze flicked to my mouth, and magic whispered over us.

  I shoved away from him so hard I toppled onto the couch. “What kind of spell are you wearing?”

  His brow furrowed. “I’m not wearing one.”

  I studied him. Was he messing with me, or was it possible he really didn’t know? “You felt that magic a moment ago, right?”

  He frowned. “Of course I felt it. You’re a witch.” He waved a hand vaguely. “I figured it leaked or something.”

  I scowled. “First, I do not leak. Second, that wasn’t my magic.”

  Ryerson’s gaze sharpened. “Then what was it?”

  “I told you. You’re wearing a spell.” And whatever it was, it didn’t like me.

  “And I told you I’m not.”

  This argument was getting us nowhere, so I called my magic. It rose up, gathering at my fingertips. I sent it out toward Ryerson. Searching.

  Ryerson stepped back. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for something. Hold still.”

  Ryerson didn’t look happy, but he stayed put. Did that mean he trusted me? I pushed the thought away to think about later. Right now I had to focus. Sensing a spell is different than sensing a witch or a mage. Witches and mages each have a signature that makes them easy to identify. It’s like adopting a dog’s sense of smell and then finding the person in the room wearing the strongest cologne. Sensing spells takes more finesse. More focus. It’s about finding the intent behind the magic. In the café, I’d followed the mage’s signature and the magical breadcrumbs Merrick had left, then more or less stumbled across the rune carved into the wall.

  This was different. This was searching out a spell that clearly didn’t want to be found. My magic feathered around us, not quite touching him. There was definitely magic there. I felt it, but it was buried deep.

  I hesitated.

  So here’s the thing. In order to figure out what kind of spell he wore, I’d have to push my magic inside of him. And magic can feel … intimate to nonmagical people. At least that’s how Aunt Belinda had described it with a wink. I’d never tried it before, partly because I’d never had reason to and partly because I don’t trust Aunt Belinda’s winks.

  But if Ryerson really didn’t know what kind of spell he was wearing, and it was buried so deep that not even the CIA’s magic-sensing wards had detected it, then this was the only way to find out.

  “What is it?” Ryerson asked.

  “There’s definitely magic inside you. I can probably figure out what kind of spell, but I’d need to push my magic inside of you, and I’ve heard that can feel … different.”

  Ryerson’s jaw worked. I could tell he didn’t like the idea of wearing a spell he knew nothing about, and that was warring with the idea of letting a witch he’d known for barely a day tinker about with her magic inside him. Finally, he relented. “Fine.”

  I cleared my throat. “It’s also easier if I’m touching you.” At least, that’s what Aunt Belinda said. Just as likely she was lying about that part.

  His jaw tightened, but he nodded sharply. “Just do it.”

  I started to stand, but he walked over to the couch. He eyed the cushion next to mine, then seemed to think better of it and knelt on the floor in front of me. Putting a little extra distance between us and making it easier to bolt if he needed to. Fine by me.

  I scooted to the edge of the couch. Unfortunately, his nearness forced my knees to spread around him and made our positions feel a lot more intimate than if he had just sucked it up and sat next to me. He seemed to belatedly realize this too. He tensed, but said nothing. Right then. This wasn’t awkward at all.

  I spent a moment trying to find the least intimate place to put my hands and finally settled on his shoulders. My magic floated around us like a soft breeze.

  “I don’t think this will hurt,” I said.

  “You don’t think?”

  “I’ve never done this before.”

  He nodded grimly. I was fresh out of ways to procrastinate so I pulled in a deep breath and pushed my magic inside him. Ryerson tensed, his shoulders going rigid under my hands.

  I paused. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No,” he said through clenched teeth.

  I eyed him dubiously.

  “Keep going,” he said. “Just be quick, okay?”

  I pushed my magic deeper. Ryerson sucked in a breath and clenched the sofa cushion on either side of my thighs.

  “Ryerson …”

  “Don’t,” he gritted out. “Just find it.”

  I pushed deeper. There was definitely something there. My eyes drifted closed, and I concentrated on unfurling the whisper of magic at his core.

  Ryerson grunted and buried his head in the curve of my neck, his breath hot and harsh against my skin. I tried to ignore it, but then his hands found my hips. I froze in surprise, my concentration broken as my heart rate quickened.

  “Hurry.” His voice was rough, like sandpaper brushing over my skin, raising goose flesh in its wake.

  I nodded shakily and tried to focus on the whisper of magic inside him. I poked it with my magic and was surprised to find it wrapped tightly around something glowy.

  His soul.

  Oh, hex it.

  It took incredibly advanced magic to attach a spell to someone’s soul instead of their body. It also explained why An
dersen’s spell sensors hadn’t picked it up. It wasn’t a spell at all. It was a curse.

  I let my magic drift through him, looking for ways to separate the curse from his soul, and Ryerson’s grip tightened around my hips. A soft growl was the only warning before he yanked me into him until my legs were wrapped around his waist.

  My focus completely obliterated, my eyes flew open. Ryerson’s hands spread over my hips, then dragged up my sides to tangle in my hair. My skin burned where he touched it, and heat spread through me.

  “Ainsley,” he said, his voice rough, “I need …”

  I’ll never know what he wanted to say because the curse chose that moment to flare to life between us. It curled itself around Ryerson, preparing for … something. Now that I thought about it, the curse had let me get closer to him than it ever had before.

  Belatedly, I realized why.

  I yanked my magic back, but it was too late. The curse magic had wrapped itself around my magic and hitched a ride … all the way back inside me.

  15

  Earlier, when I’d thought this day couldn’t get any worse, I was wrong. So, so wrong.

  Ribbons of dark, foul magic curled around my throat. I couldn’t breathe.

  “Ainsley,” Ryerson said. Urgency had replaced the gruffness in his voice. “What’s wrong? Ainsley!”

  My own magic rose up, trying to fight down the curse, but it was no match for the dark magic now that it was inside me. Ryerson’s hands were everywhere, trying to find something he could touch, something he could fight. Tiago ran into the room, but neither of them was a mage, and there was nothing either of them could do. Magic wasn’t something you could punch or shoot into submission.

  I scrambled away from Ryerson’s searching hands and toppled over the back of the couch, and the magic around my throat eased fractionally. That gave me an idea.

  I couldn’t talk, so I gestured wildly at the door.

  Ryerson stood frozen, hands clenched, eyes wide. His expression said he desperately wanted to punch something, but there was nothing to punch.

  I stumbled into the wall, as far from Ryerson as I could get without throwing myself out the window. From what I remembered, we were three stories up, but if Ryerson didn’t leave soon the window would become a very real possibility.