You Only Spell Twic

by Paige Howland

  Pretty boy jerked back, stumbling straight through his kitchen cabinets. I snickered. He strode out a moment later and shot me a glare.

  I waved a hand to encompass the body. “Thought this might help.”

  “Yeah.” He looked down at the body, disconcerted. “Er, thanks.”

  He knelt down again, examining the muscles and organs. With one translucent finger, he traced the trajectory of the bullets through his body. “This one went straight through. This one, though, nicked my right lung. It caused a tension pneumothorax.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s when the lung deflates and the air can’t escape the chest cavity, so it puts pressure on the heart, causing a heart attack. That’s how I died.”

  I raised one of our eyebrows. “How do you know so much about that?”

  “Field training. Before the CIA, I was an army ranger. Gunshot wounds weren’t exactly uncommon in combat, and this is a pretty common way to die from one. Preventable, too, if you know what you’re doing and you get to it immediately.”

  “Okay, pretty boy. Let’s hope you know what you’re doing, because we can’t exactly take you to a hospital.”

  “No need. At least, not yet. Here’s what we need to do …”

  He needed my help—what else was new?—since ghosts can’t touch things without falling straight through them. So under his direction, I retrieved a medical kit and a jar of Vaseline from his bathroom closet. The medical kit contained a large needle, and he showed me where to jam it into his chest. That part was actually quite fun. I said so, which earned me a wary look. We couldn’t find a straw, which he insisted was necessary to keep the new hole in his chest open to allow the air to escape, so I snapped the head off a plastic spatula and used a simple spell to mold the plastic into a thin tube, and flattened the edges around the opening. Once the needle was removed, I taped the tube in place, slathered a piece of gauze with Vaseline, and taped it over his bullet wounds.

  When we were done, the pretty one knelt to inspect our handiwork. He nodded, satisfied. “That should do it. Thanks.”

  I shrugged. “It seemed the least I could do, seeing as how I’m planning to steal your girlfriend’s body and all.”

  He looked up slowly. During my life, I’d dealt with some of the most vile witches and mages in the world on a daily basis. But none of them ever looked quite so dangerous as this human did in that moment.

  I waved a hand. “Oh, not right now.” Even if I had enough control over her to do it, she’d always be there, in the back of our mind. Lurking. Plotting to overthrow me. No thank you. I didn’t like to share. “I’ve found the spell that I believe will bring me back to life, but my body isn’t much more than bones and dust by now. Obviously I’ll need a new one.”

  He stood slowly, his body tense. I recognized the look in his eyes. They burned with the need to destroy me, before I could destroy her. His voice was low and filled with threat when he said, “So find a different one.”

  “I would, but there’s hardly any point in rejoining the living as a regular old human. I’m a witch. And this body? It’s filled with magical potential. Not that she knows it, mind you.”

  Which really was too bad. I was starting to like her.

  “There is no fucking way I’ll let you do that.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t remember any of this after your soul rejoins your body.”

  “Then I won’t do it,” he said simply. “I’ll remain a spirit. I’ll find a way to warn her—”

  I was tired and this conversation had grown tedious, so I stepped out of Ainsley’s body and shoved him, hard. He wasn’t expecting that another ghost could actually touch him, and he stepped back. Right into his body. The instant his soul touched his body, it disappeared, sucked back inside. The hellhound chose that moment to pad back into the kitchen, the golem at his heels. The hellhound whined once and stuck his nose into the pretty one’s hand, while the golem sat cross-legged next to Ainsley’s body, crumpled on the floor where it had fallen.

  She’d come around in a few minutes. I frowned down at her, hoping this banishment spell hadn’t been a mistake. The consequences were going to be a doozy, and if she managed to get herself killed before she completed the spell to bring me back, I was going to be pissed. I supposed I’d just have to make sure she stayed alive until then.

  From what I’d seen so far, that was not going to be easy.

  35

  Someone licked my face.

  I grimaced and blinked, but there was only blackness. Furry, sulfur-scented blackness.

  “Oreo, move,” said a rough, slightly exasperated voice.

  The wall of blackness shifted and Ryerson was there, his anxious, beautiful face hovering over mine.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I sat up. The room spun, but he steadied me with a hand to my shoulder. I looked down at that hand. Felt the heat of his touch through the cotton of my T-shirt as reality slowly pushed through the cloud of fuzziness my thoughts were floating in.

  “You’re alive,” I whispered.

  He grinned. “It appears so—”

  Ryerson grunted as I threw my arms around him. Too late, I remembered he’d been shot and I might be hurting him, but his arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me close. He buried his face in my hair.

  “I thought you were dead,” I whispered into his neck.

  “So did I,” he said. “I’m still not sure what happened.”

  There was a question in his voice, and I pulled back far enough to look at him. “What do you remember?”

  “Not much,” he admitted. “I left headquarters. Came home, took a shower. The debrief team arrived. It was only the one agent.”

  “Wasn’t that unusual?”

  “Normally yes, but the director said he’d only send agents he had personally vetted. Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem unusual. The agent asked for a beer. I grabbed two from the fridge and then … that’s it. That’s all I remember. Except …” He paused, like there was something else, but finally he shook his head. “I feel like there was something else, something important, but I can’t remember.” Frustration colored his voice.

  My fingers trailed down his naked chest, to the slippery gauze covering the bullet holes in his chest. Ryerson’s hand covered mine, and he ducked to catch my gaze.

  “Ainsley?” he said softly. “What happened? How am I alive?”

  “We banished the grim reaper before he could collect your soul.”

  He blinked at me. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Like an avalanche of questions had tumbled through his head and he was struggling to pick just one.

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and the ghost of my great-great-aunt Myrna. She was a member of the Coven of the First Flame.”

  Speaking of which, she was being awfully quiet.

  “Aunt Myrna?”

  What? she snapped. I’m tired.

  Just making sure you’re okay.

  I’m just peachy until what we just did catches up to us. And mark my words, it will catch up to us. There are consequences to all spells, Ainsley. That reaper won’t stay banished forever. He’ll be back, and there will be hell to pay. And that is not a metaphor.

  She was grumpier than usual, and I swallowed hard. I knew there would be consequences, but we’d deal with them, whatever they were, later. For now, Ryerson was alive, and that was all that mattered.

  “Ains?” he said, a look of concern on his face. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Aunt Myrna.”

  “Right. Your aunt who is a ghost.” One of his eyebrows had crept up. With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten he didn’t know about that particular complication yet.

  “She’s possessing me,” I explained. “Aunt Myrna, meet Ryerson. Ryerson, Aunt Myrna.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Aunt Myrna said, pitching my voice rough and low, horror-movie style.

  Ryerson went very still, staring at me.

  Aunt Myr
na snickered.

  I thought you couldn’t take me over unless I’m asleep or overly emotional!

  I didn’t take you over. Just ghost parlor tricks.

  Awesome.

  To Ryerson, I said, “Sorry. She has a weird sense of humor.”

  “Ainsley, what—”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll explain later.”

  Ryerson looked ready to argue, but in the end he just nodded and pushed to his feet, pulling me up with him.

  “We should go. I need to call Director Abrams and report this … what’s wrong?”

  I frowned. “It’s just … Director Abrams’s team. They never showed up.”

  “The debrief team?”

  “No. I called Dahlia on my way over here and told her you were in trouble. She told Director Abrams, who promised to send a team. But they never arrived.”

  Ryerson’s jaw tightened. “Maybe he never got the message. Maybe Dahlia’s the mole.”

  Maybe. But she didn’t know we’d found the book. And she’d been with me until I’d left headquarters, and Aunt Myrna had said the shadow organization sent assassins to my house too. Why do that if they knew I wasn’t there?

  Something niggled at my memory. Something that had been bothering me since I’d left headquarters. With everything else going on, I hadn’t given it much thought. But now I did. And the implications of it made me feel ill.

  “Aunt Myrna,” I said slowly, “at headquarters, when you said the guy in charge of the Morocco attack was standing in the hall, there were two men in the hallway. Which one did you mean?”

  The older guy. Distinguished-looking, silvery hair.

  My mouth went dry. “Director Abrams?”

  That’s the director you keep talking about? The one you gave the book to? She snorted. Smooth.

  The world tilted sideways, and I gripped the countertop for support.

  “Ainsley?” Ryerson said, alarmed. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s Director Abrams,” I whispered, then met Ryerson’s gaze. “He’s a double agent.”

  “What? No.”

  “Think about it. He’s the only one who knew we had the Grimoire. We delivered it right to him. He made sure we didn’t tell anyone else that he had it. Then he ordered you to go straight home and then sent the debriefing agent, who killed you. Sort of. And he made me an agent, and then ordered me to go home. And then sent assassins to my apartment. We delivered the Grimoire to the very organization we were tasked with keeping it away from.”

  I expected him to argue. But Ryerson was a better operative than that. Or maybe he just wasn’t surprised that one more person he’d trusted had betrayed him. Expected it, even.

  My heart broke a little for him.

  “Shit,” he breathed.

  I nodded. “Help was never coming.”

  “Oh, he’ll send someone,” he said grimly. “It just won’t be to save me. It’ll be to kill you. Actually, I’m surprised he hasn’t sent someone yet.”

  I waved a hand toward the living room. “He probably thinks Eyebrows took me out.”

  “Who?”

  “The dead guy in your living room.”

  Ryerson blinked. Then he turned and walked out of the room. A moment later, a string of curses floated from the living room.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. One new text message, from an unknown number, and six missed calls. Also from an unknown number. The CIA, probably. The text was a video. While I debated whether to watch it or wait for Ryerson, the phone danced in my hand. Another incoming call. I answered it.

  “Ainsley Winters?”

  I didn’t recognize the heavily accented voice.

  “Maybe,” I said. Ryerson walked back into the kitchen, jaw tight, his expression even more troubled than it was before. His attention shifted to the phone in my hand. I put the call on speaker. “Who’s asking?”

  “We have Alexander Marcusi.”

  The accent was thick, the consonants hard. I glanced at Ryerson.

  “Russian,” he mouthed.

  Russians. Great. Probably the same guys who had killed Bilal and attacked us at Aduna’s home.

  “What do you want?”

  “The Grimoire. Bring us the book, and the werewolf lives. Fail, and he dies.”

  I glanced at Ryerson. His expression was not reassuring.

  “How do we know you have him?” Ryerson said.

  “We sent a video. You have three days to bring the book to Orel. We will call in forty-eight hours with further instructions.”

  The line went dead.

  My fingers were shaking so badly, I couldn’t make the video play. Ryerson gently took the phone and hit play.

  The gray on the screen cleared quickly but the video was shaky, and a few seconds passed before it was steadied enough to make out the image. As the picture sharpened, my nails dug into Ryerson’s arm. Because chained to the wall in some sort of cell, underneath a mess of blood and bruises, was Alec.

  The whole video was maybe six seconds. I watched it again and again, until finally Ryerson took the phone away.

  “You’re just torturing yourself now,” he said softly.

  He was right. Because if Alec had been kidnapped by the Russians, it must have happened during the fight at Aduna’s. Ryerson had assumed Alec had run, and I hadn’t thought twice about it.

  I knew I shouldn’t have left them.

  “Orel,” I said. “I remember that name. It was in Alec’s file. I thought it was a person, but I guess it’s a city? In Russia?”

  Ryerson nodded.

  “What are we going to do?” I whispered and then looked up at Ryerson. “Alec—”

  “—will die if we don’t give them, whoever they are, the Grimoire,” Ryerson said grimly.

  “We can’t let that happen.”

  “I know.”

  “I know you two have had your differences, but we have to save him. We can’t just let him die … wait. What did you say?”

  Ryerson ran a hand over his face. He looked tired. Exhausted, really. But underneath that was determination. And anger. Lots and lots of anger.

  “You’re right. Alec and I have had our differences. But I won’t just leave him to die.”

  I stared at him. Stunned. “Every time you see him you try to arrest him. Or kill him.”

  “Yes. Based on what Director Abrams told me that Alec did. That he murdered his team. That he was a traitor.”

  And now that we knew Abrams was the real traitor, it called into question everything he said.

  I squeezed Ryerson’s hand. He used the opportunity to pull me closer.

  “Besides,” he said, “if anyone is going to kill Alec Marcusi, it’s going to be me. And he clearly cares about you, so I suppose he can’t be all bad.”

  “He cares about you too.”

  Ryerson smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Which wasn’t exactly agreement, but he didn’t deny it either.

  Apparently tired of being ignored, Oreo shoved his snout into Ryerson’s hand. Ryerson scratched behind his ears. I reached a hand toward the hellhound’s shoulder, and a tiny golem scampered up my arm to sit on my shoulder.

  Ryerson didn’t look up as he said, “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but you know what we have to do, right?”

  I blew out a deep breath. Because I did know. “We have to get the Grimoire back.”

  He nodded, his expression tight. “Which means …”

  I squeezed his hand and met his gaze.

  “We have to break into the CIA.”

  The End

  For Now…

  Ainsley’s adventures continue in Spell Another Day, coming soon!

  Thank you!

  Thank you so much for reading You Only Spell Twice! This one was a labor of love and wound up quite a bit longer than I was originally planning, but Ainsley and friends just kept getting themselves into trouble. I’m working on Spell Another Day (book 3) now, which will be out in 2020.

&nb
sp; Speaking of 2020, it’s shaping up to be a pretty busy year for book releases. Besides Spell Another Day, look for Magic and Magnolias, the first in my new Sweetwater Inn series, about a reluctant southern innkeeper who runs an illegal monster kennel out of her basement, and in July 2020, look for Witch, She Hunts, a modern-day Hansel & Gretel retelling of the siblings as they enter Grimsley College, where the magic is darker, the witches are hungrier, and Hansel and his frat brothers are way too excited by the promise of candy-flavored Jell-O shots for their own good. (This fairytale retelling is part of the Never After collection, which you can learn more about HERE.) Besides all of that, there may be another surprise or two that I’m working on now but I’m not ready to announce just yet…

  Anyway, with so many amazing stories out there competing for your time, I really appreciate your willingness to spend some time in my world. If you enjoyed Ainsley’s story and have a few minutes to leave a review, I’d probably love you forever. Reviews are the most important method we have to bring attention to our books and reach more readers.

  Yours,

  Paige

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