You Only Spell Twic

by Paige Howland

  Quick as lightning, Tiago clamped a gloved hand over my mouth, stifling my scream before it left my lips. But that didn’t stop my heart pounding double time or the magic from sparking at my fingertips.

  The shadows coalesced around the form, and my eyes adjusted to the shape. It was a girl. A child. No more than seven or eight, tops. Her eyes were wide as saucers, and I noticed the cup she was holding—probably just up getting a drink of water—a split-second before it slipped from her trembling hand.

  But Ryerson was already moving, and he caught the cup just before it clattered to the tile floor. Careful not to point his gun at her, he touched a knee to the floor, bringing himself eye level with the girl.

  And a strange thing happened. She didn’t scream or try to run away. Maybe it was fear, but I didn’t think so. The longer she looked at Ryerson, the calmer she seemed to be. Ryerson whispered something to her. Her eyes widened, and she nodded then pointed up the stairs. He stood and lifted a finger to his lips. She nodded and then turned and fled on bare feet deeper into the house. Ryerson moved to the stairs.

  I glanced anxiously down the hallway where the girl had disappeared, steeped in impenetrable darkness and shadow, and wondered why Ryerson hadn’t stopped her. Wouldn’t she tell someone? I thought about going after her and casting a silencing spell, but Ryerson didn’t seem concerned that she would blow our cover, and I trusted him.

  So instead, Tiago and I followed him up the stairs to the second floor. Doors lined both sides of the hallway. By silent agreement, Ryerson took the doors on the left, and Tiago took the ones on the right. Ryerson opened the first two doors, glanced inside, and then closed them quietly. At the third room, he eased the door open, looked into the darkness, and then stepped inside, gun trained on the bed in the middle of the room. Tiago was closing the door across the hall. I tapped his shoulder and gestured to the room Ryerson had disappeared into. He nodded and moved quickly into the room, gesturing for me to wait in the hall.

  Fine by me.

  While Ryerson stepped even with the bed and communicated with Tiago through that weird eye language I was learning most spies use (and I was only a little jealous of), I leaned against the wall and allowed myself to think about how awesome it would be if the Grimoire was actually here, in this house. I could find the counter-spell for Alec’s werewolf curse, Ryerson could deliver the book to the CIA, and I could be home before the new season of Bachelor in Paradise started next week.

  I should know better than to be all optimistic mid-mission.

  As if the universe decided a reminder of that fact was in order, the door next to me, the last room that Tiago hadn’t had time to check, swung open, and a guy wearing boxers and not much else padded into the hall, yawning through his beard and lazily scratching his hairy, substantial gut.

  He saw me and froze.

  Oh, broomsticks.

  The man recovered quickly. His eyes narrowed, and he stepped back inside his room, only to return with a handgun, which he pointed at me.

  Magic sparked at my fingertips, eager to be used. I drew the floor-bucking rune Aunt Belinda had taught me then hesitated. We were on the second floor. What if the rune compromised the integrity of the floor? What if that little girl was right underneath us?

  Oh, for goddess’s sakes, said the voice in my head, and before I knew what was happening, my hands jerked up and magic leapt from my fingertips, arcing straight into the man’s hairy chest. He screamed and fired, though I didn’t think it was on purpose as I dove out of the way. He spasmed once and dropped to the floor, but one look into the room across the hall and I knew the damage had been done. Ryerson’s gaze jerked to mine as the man and woman shot up in the bed.

  Ryerson yanked the man out of bed. He glared up at Ryerson, seemingly unafraid of the armed men who had broken into his house in the middle of the night. The woman screamed and Tiago grabbed her and covered her mouth, though I noticed he took care not to hurt her. Ryerson snapped something at the man in a language with harsh yet fluid syllables—Arabic, maybe—and I glanced at him in surprise. He wasn’t wearing a language spell. If he was, he’d simply speak English and the man would hear the language he would understand. Ryerson was just full of surprises.

  There was a commotion downstairs. Yelling, in both English and Arabic. The muffled sounds of a struggle. Ibrahim and Carl had found company. I hoped the little girl was hiding somewhere safe.

  If Ryerson was concerned about the fight downstairs, he didn’t let on. He snapped something else in Arabic, and the man’s expression shifted from anger to confusion. They shouted at each other for a while, until finally Ryerson looked at us.

  “He says he doesn’t know where the book is. Actually, he says he has no idea what we’re talking about.”

  “Do you believe him?” Tiago asked.

  Ryerson shrugged.

  “Ask him about Bilal,” I said, and the man’s eyes snapped to mine. They flashed with recognition for only a moment before he schooled his expression, but it was too late. Ryerson pounced on it. A few more minutes of shouting at each other, and Ryerson finally glanced up, anger shining in his eyes.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “He says Bilal used to work for him but not for a few years and not as a thief.”

  I frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means Bilal’s work here wasn’t voluntary. And probably unpaid,” Tiago answered, narrowing his eyes at the man in disgust.

  “He says Bilal escaped three years ago. Stole a car and money from him when he left.” Approval sparked in Ryerson’s eyes. “Razak’s still pretty mad about it. Given their history, I don’t think Bilal would send the book back to him even if he did try to hire him to do it.” He glanced at me. “Do you feel any magic here?”

  “Nothing.”

  Ryerson shrugged. “Then I believe him.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Tiago said.

  “The girl downstairs mentioned that Bilal has a brother, but she couldn’t remember his name. I’ll get his name, and we can try him next.”

  Tiago and I must have looked surprised because he said, “What? Kids like me.”

  I shook my head as Ryerson exchanged a few words with our captive.

  When he glanced up, he was scowling. “He says he’s done and won’t give us anything else.”

  “So what do we do now?” I said.

  Tiago shrugged. “We make him.”

  I might be new to this whole spy thing, but I’m not stupid.

  Torture.

  That’s what they meant.

  I knew I was right when Tiago ushered me into the hall and dragged the struggling woman out with him and closed the door, sealing Ryerson and the man inside. Alone.

  “A little help?” Tiago said through gritted teeth as the woman bit his gloved hand and attempted to kick him in the shin.

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “You basically kidnapped her in her own home, and you’re torturing her husband. What did you expect?”

  “This is Rabia Oubeid, and that is her lover, not her husband. She’s actually wanted by four different countries, including ours, for human trafficking charges. And I expect a little help because if I have to knock her out, it’s going to hurt. A lot.”

  Right.

  Tiago held her tightly as I walked up to her, drew a rune—one of Andersen’s—in her forehead while she glared at me and then pushed magic into it. Her eyes fluttered, and she went slack in his arms.

  “How long?” he said.

  I shrugged. “An hour?”

  He nodded and lowered her to the floor then caught sight of the half-naked guy lying unconscious on the floor. He raised an eyebrow at me.

  “You’re getting better with your offensive spells.”

  Yeah. Telling him that I didn’t do that, the other witch who lived in my head did, didn’t seem like a good plan, so I shrugged.

  We waited in the hall. I had a feeling if I wasn’t here, Tiago would be inside that room with him.
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  An eternity later—okay, it was probably more like ten minutes—Ryerson stepped into the hall. “He gave up a name and an address. Either of you have something to write on?”

  I reached into my pockets. In one of them I felt a crumpled piece of paper. Probably a receipt. That would do. I pulled it out and unwrinkled it and then stared at it.

  “What is it?” Ryerson said.

  “Um, a name.”

  “What name?” Ryerson said, his teeth clenched.

  “Amadou Abdellahi.”

  Ryerson closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “I don’t suppose that’s the same name that guy just gave you? Of Bilal’s brother?”

  He nodded.

  Whoops.

  Alec must have slipped the name into my pocket back at the Rio airport. Which meant he knew then that Ryerson was going to betray him. Or at least, he suspected as much.

  “Damn it,” Tiago muttered. “He’ll be way ahead of us.”

  “Maybe not,” Ryerson said. “You guys checked the animal crates before they opened the plane, right?”

  Tiago nodded. “We figured he’d found a way to leave the plane before we got there, maybe as it was taxiing.”

  But Ryerson was shaking his head, and I said what we were both thinking. “He never got on that plane. He probably didn’t even fly into Nouakchott. He probably flew into another city.”

  Ryerson nodded. “He might still be on the road.”

  “We need to go,” Tiago said.

  Downstairs, we found Carl and Ibrahim and a dozen others, mostly women and children, in the living room.

  Ryerson glanced at Carl. “Is this everyone?”

  Carl jerked his head toward the back of the house. “Four guards out back. Two others sleeping down here. We took care of them.”

  Ryerson nodded then stepped into the room and spoke in Arabic to the small crowd.

  Ibrahim raised an eyebrow at Carl, who narrowed his eyes.

  “What’s he saying?” I asked.

  “He told them that if they don’t want to be here, we’ll take them with us,” Ibrahim said. “Ryerson, man, that’s not the mission.”

  Ryerson ignored him, and the room broke into quick, hushed conversations. In the end, not all of them wanted to leave, but enough did. Including the little girl from the hallway who watched Ryerson and Tiago with adoration in her eyes.

  Carl grabbed Ryerson’s arm. “This is not the mission.”

  Ryerson stared at his hand until Carl finally removed it.

  “Am I in charge of this mission?” Ryerson said quietly.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I’m making it part of our mission.”

  “The Company isn’t going to like this,” Ibrahim said, but he didn’t look unhappy about it. Not like Carl did.

  Tiago looked surprised, but he didn’t say a word. Just glanced at Ryerson then at me then back to Ryerson again. He tilted his head, like he was considering him.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Ryerson said. “Ibrahim, you and Carl take these people, any of them who want to go, to safety. Call the office. Dahlia will come up with something. Tiago, Ainsley, and I will go after the Grimoire.”

  Carl shook his head. “The office will be pissed.”

  “Just do it.”

  Ryerson crossed his arms, and we waited until Ibrahim said something in Arabic to the people in the room. Half of them stood and followed them outside.

  “Come on,” Ryerson said and walked out after them. Like he wanted to make sure they actually did it. Carl scowled, but everyone squeezed into the van while Ibrahim called Dahlia, and they drove away. In our only murder van.

  I opened my mouth to ask Tiago if Mauritania had Uber, but he was gone too.

  “Where’s Tiago?” I said.

  “Went to find us a ride.”

  “Oh.”

  This was the first time Ryerson and I had been alone together since we’d arrived in Brazil two days ago. I cast him a sideways glance. His attention was on the house. The street. Always watching for a threat. Never letting his guard down. It looked exhausting. And lonely.

  “Do you ever relax?” I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but he glanced down at me, startled.

  “We’re standing outside a very angry arms dealer’s house. Eventually he’s going to get himself free of those restraints we left him and his men in, and if we’re still outside his house when he does, it won’t end well for us. Besides that, Mauritania is not exactly the safest country in Africa these days. Speaking of that, don’t go out alone here, okay?”

  Okay, point taken. But … “I’m not just talking about tonight.”

  He flicked me a glance then went back to scanning the street. “I used to relax. When I was under the curse. And look at everything I missed.”

  His voice was hard by the time he finished, each word snapped off, like he’d waited so long to say them that now they were stale and brittle.

  Right. That. See, after Alec went rogue, Ryerson was reassigned to the MPD and partnered with a witch. A kind of evil, definitely crazy witch. She put a love curse on Ryerson to distract him from discovering who she really was—a double agent loyal to the shadow organization inside the CIA, the same group Alec had warned me was after the Grimoire, and that we still didn’t know much about. And even though we caught her and broke the curse, we hadn’t really talked about it. And he clearly had no intention of doing so now, no matter how much he might need to.

  I tried anyway. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  Naturally. I studied his profile in the darkness. The strong, shadowed jaw. Those wary eyes, scanning the darkness. Looking everywhere but at me. The way his dark hair curled just slightly around his ears. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and yet I hated the reminder that Sloane, that crazy witch, had taken advantage of him. That she’d blinded him to the truth and made him believe he’d failed at the one thing he cared more about than anything else: his work. Just the thought of those six months he’d spent under her curse, a curse that had been slowly killing him while she watched … it made me want to hex her all over again.

  “Whoa, hey,” Ryerson said, those observant eyes now focused on me. Or more specifically, on my hands. I glanced down. They were glowing, lit with magic I didn’t remember calling.

  “What’s wrong?” Ryerson said, all of that intense focus now trained on me.

  I pulled in a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. I told the magic I didn’t need it. Not now. It gave its version of a shrug and spooled lazily down my arms to settle at my core once more.

  “What is it?” he said again, refusing to let it go.

  “Why is it that I have to tell you what’s wrong, but you never have to tell me what’s bothering you?” I said irritably.

  He watched me a moment, his jaw working, and then he looked away. “You’re right. You don’t have to tell me.”

  I sighed. “I was thinking about Sloane.”

  He nodded, his jaw tight. “She almost killed you.”

  True, but … “That’s not why I was upset.”

  He looked at me.

  “How … how was your time with her?” Goddess, this was awkward. But I wanted to know. And more importantly, I was pretty sure he needed to talk about it.

  He looked away. He was quiet so long I assumed he wasn’t going to answer, until finally he said, “I didn’t know about the curse. Not until you came along, anyway, so it wasn’t that bad. I was distracted. All the time. In love, or so I thought.” He shook his head bitterly. “I was too distracted to see her for who she really was. If anything, that’s the opposite of love.” He glanced at me. “Is that why you were upset?”

  “I don’t like the thought of people using my friends.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

  I thought about that. Did I think of Ryerson as my friend? Maybe not in the same, go-out-for-drinks-to-complain-about-our-jobs, watc
h-cheesy-romance-movies-and-drink-wine way that Zoe and I were friends, but yeah. We were friends. Also, Zoe and I really needed to find an activity that did not involve alcohol.

  He was waiting for an answer.

  “Yeah. I suppose we are.”

  Huh. Who would have thought? Ryerson was my friend. My really hot friend. With excellent cheekbones. And abs of steel. Who looked really good in field clothes.

  I shook my head, trying to clear it of thoughts of Ryerson’s body, which naturally made me think of the one time I’d been up close and personal with him, last week. Sure, it had been magic induced, and we hadn’t really done anything, but just the memory of his hands on my hips, dragging me into him, his fingers tangling in my hair …

  I shook my head so violently this time that Ryerson stepped closer, alarmed. I looked up into those worried green eyes, and despite the fact we were standing outside an arms dealer’s house in the middle of the night, I felt safe. His gaze flicked to my mouth. My heart rate quickened. I leaned closer and …

  A car pulled into the curb.

  Ryerson tensed, and his attention shot to the car. Like he was surprised to find it there. Then he shook his head and stepped away from me. Far away. Like it was my fault he had been too distracted to notice it.

  I tried to feel bad about that. I really did.

  Tiago lowered the passenger window of the old sedan. He glanced from Ryerson to me and raised an eyebrow. Like he could tell from a glance that something weird was going on and figured he’d get more out of me than he would Ryerson. Usually, he’d be right.

  But it was nearly five a.m., and I was suddenly too tired to figure out why Ryerson was hot one minute and so cold the next, much less try to explain it to someone else. So we both climbed into the car—Ryerson in front, me in back—and said nothing.

  I fished the address out of my pocket and gave it to Tiago, who plugged it into the GPS, and off we went.

  Thirty minutes later, we arrived.