'Ink It Over: A Touch Of Ink Novel

by Rachel Rawlings

  NICHOLAS ROUSED ME from sleep sometime later by wafting a steaming cup of coffee in front of my nose. A heaping plate of pancakes sat next to another overflowing with eggs, bacon, and toast on the coffee table a few feet from the couch.

  “I wasn’t sure what you would be in the mood for.” Nichols helped me up to a sitting position, a nervous smile on his face.

  “Where’s Lars?” My question was obviously not the response Nicholas had been expecting. He did his best to mask his disappointment, holding out the coffee mug for me as I adjusted myself into a sitting position and wiped the sleep from my eyes.

  “He said he had a couple of errands to run and he’d be back in a couple hours.” Nicholas moved the coffee table closer, setting up a makeshift eating area in what I assumed was his living room.

  “Where is here, exactly?” My stomach rumbled, so I grabbed a pancake from the stack to nullify its protest over my need to ask rudimentary questions like ‘where am I?’.

  “It’s my father’s place. Was my father’s place. It’s mine now.” Nicholas looked around the room, his aura pulsing colors of longing and sorrow. “He used to come here to cast. He was always cooking up something new. Magical perversions, according to my uncle. He always said we were meant to be more than one thing, that magic wasn’t meant to be confined in the caste society the Magistrate created. He probably would have put you out of a job. If they hadn’t killed him.”

  “Nullifying dual natures isn’t the only ward I know. I think I would have liked your dad.” I took a piece of bacon, trying not to moan over the first bite. “Do you have a kitchen witch on staff or something?”

  “Just yours truly.” Nicholas gave an appreciative smile and a small bow. “After my father died, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with MiMi, our cook. She was more like a grandmother to me than either of the women who claimed that title by blood. She was the first one to go after the money dried up, and Winslow stepped in to maintain appearances for the family’s sake.”

  “Winslow didn’t want his sister to appear destitute, but money’s never free with a guy like that, right?” It felt rude to continue eating as Nicholas offered an unfiltered glimpse into his life, but I needed to refuel so I grabbed another pancake and chased it down with more coffee.

  “No, no, it isn’t.” Nicholas turned his back to me, but I caught the anger darkening his expression. “He tried to erase any memory of my father, starting with MiMi. I was to become a candidate, live on campus. With one condition, of course.”

  “Sell your father’s workshop.” Until that moment, I hadn’t really paid attention to my surroundings. A rookie mistake that could have gotten me killed under different circumstances. But Lars trusted him enough to leave me with him, and I trusted him enough to stay.

  We’d come a long way in our relationship in a short time.

  The workshop was no larger than a modern efficiency. Based on the angled ceiling, I assumed we were in an attic that had been converted to an apartment. Providence was littered with old Victorians converted into tenements. Cauldrons dangled from the ceiling over wooden crafting tables along one wall. A simple utility sink and counter lined the other. Feigning a yawn, I covered my smile with my hand when I noticed the frying pan and Bunsen burner on the counter, reminding myself not to be too impressed he’d managed a breakfast feast without a real kitchen.

  We’re witches after all.

  “Yeah.” Based on Nicholas’s demeanor and tone, it was clear that old wound had never healed. How could it when he’d surrounded himself with memories?

  “But you didn’t sell it?” I left my perch on the couch and walked over to the crafting tables, studying their contents and the grimoires on the shelves above them. “How did you keep it from your uncle?”

  “Oh, I did sell it.” He answered my puzzled expression with a coy smile, clearly pleased with himself for somehow outsmarting Winslow. “I sold it, and then I bought it back. There were a lot of dummy corporations and blind trusts. It’s complicated and boring.”

  “And brilliant.”

  Nicholas preened at my compliment.

  “Grim always said give credit where credit is due. I don’t know much about your uncle, but I think it’s safe to say he’s not a stupid man. You managed to pull this off right under his nose without him finding out. There’s something to be said for that.”

  “Is there? So what would you say?” Nicholas’s question caught me off guard.

  “What?” Confused, I turned my attention from the spell books to him.

  “You said there’s something to be said. I was just curious to know what that something was and if it was about me.” Nicholas turned up the wattage on his smile and amped up the charm. A dangerous combination that I’d thankfully built up an immunity to over years of working around men in close quarters all day.

  “It’s a turn of phrase. Besides, you’re not getting any more compliments out of me.” I gave him a little wink and went back to examining his books, one in particular which had caught my attention. “Charmed or Cursed – A Study in the Duality of Witches.” Without stopping to ask for permission, I pulled the book from its place on the shelf and began flipping through its pages.

  “My father wrote it.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “The Magistrate burned every copy. Except one.”

  I closed the book, examining the cover and spine in more detail, my fingers tracing the author’s name embossed in black lettering—Nathaniel Marks—before sliding it back in its place on the shelf.

  “Take it.” Nicholas reached over me, pulled the book back down from the shelf, and handed it to me when I refused to take it. “I’m interested in what you’ll think of him, of his theories.” There was an intensity in the way he looked at me I’d never experienced before, as if the approval he wanted was about more than just his father. “You know, with you being a Warder and all.”

  “Really? You’re sure you want my opinion?” I was far from scholarly and used to a Warder’s opinion not counting for much. Our clients saw us as a necessary evil. The Magistrate... Well, they skipped right over the necessary and went straight to evil.

  The corner of my mouth turned up in a crooked smile as Nicholas nodded his assurance that my thoughts and feedback were not only wanted but valuable. I flipped to the dedication.

  For my son, nothing is implausible. Everything is possible with magic.

  For a split second, I believed those words, believed we really could do anything. I imagined what it would be like if Nathaniel Marks and Grim were still with us, the conversations that would never take place. The change that could have happened but wouldn’t because they were dead.

  Both at the hands of Winslow and the Magistrate.

  The warmth I’d felt spreading through my heart and mind holding Nathaniel’s work, reading his words, became an icy chill as reality set in. Grabbing what appeared to be a clean dish towel from the counter, I wrapped the book, protecting it as best I could with a layer of terry cloth, and put it in my pack with the rest of the things Lars left me for safekeeping. Pulling out a change of clothes to make room for one man’s life work, it occurred to me I was still wearing the clothes I’d been in when Aldridge attacked us.

  “Is there somewhere I can change?” I looked around the attic workspace, realizing for the first time I hadn’t seen a bathroom.

  “The water closet?” Nicholas grimaced, walking to a small door on the other side of the attic. My brow arched, puzzled over his old-fashioned turn of phrase for bathroom, until he opened the door.

  The linen closet in the bathroom at Something To ‘Ink About had more square footage.

  “I know a guy in New York, and his efficiency has a bigger bathroom than this.” Backing into the tight quarters was the only way a person could get inside and close the door behind themselves. Unless I wanted to run the risk of getting a wet foot, I wasn’t changing in the bathroom. “RVs have bigger bathrooms than this.”

  Nicholas chuckled as I continued to gru
mble over the size of the bathroom and my privacy dilemma. “My father didn’t live here; he worked here. Why waste valuable spelling space on a bathroom?”

  On a sigh, I whispered an altered version of an invisibility spell that would allow Nicholas to hear me without seeing me. “Lars would have a fit if he saw me wasting my already depleted reserves on this.”

  “You could have just asked me to turn around.” Nicholas busied himself fixing a cup of coffee while I went about changing. A smart man would have made two. “Are you always so worried about what Lars thinks?”

  Was I? My knee-jerk reaction would be to answer no, but that wasn’t entirely true.

  “I may not heed his advice, but Lars is the only person left whose opinion of me matters.” The poltergeist peep show continued as we spoke, clothes disappearing and reappearing as they were either pulled or tossed out from behind my cloaking spell. In nothing more than bra and panties, I slipped one foot into my clean jeans, when I had the sensation of being watched and turned to see Nicholas leaning against the back of the couch, eyeing me over the rim of his mug. “Enjoying the show?”

  “Come on—you can’t blame a guy for trying.” Nicholas hadn’t broken all the way through. He could have if he’d wanted to—something I might have remembered if I hadn’t almost bled to death—but he earned points for not doing so. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking at you. Your magic... It... I don’t know, it feels different. I was just trying to figure it out.”

  “Ever the candidate.” I tried to ignore the unexpected sting to my ego over Nicholas’s interest in my magic as opposed to the exposed parts unknown. “Well, knock it off, or I’m going to tell Lars you’re a Peeping Tom.”

  As if the mere mention of his name had conjured him up, Lars’s designated ringtone blared from my phone somewhere outside of my invisibility shield. Haphazardly shoving body parts into pant legs and sleeves, I popped my magical bubble and followed the sound before Lars went to voice mail and had a coronary.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Are you on your way here? You’re coming to get me, right?”

  Nicholas seemed disappointed, a frown settling on his face over my line of questioning with Lars and my rush to leave him and his secret workshop. I’d worry about that later. Lars and I had each other’s backs. Splitting up felt wrong. We were better as a team, and I wanted him by my side, not on the other side of town.

  Lars ignored all of my questions and dropped yet another unexpected bombshell. “Karen Brown is missing. Not gone to ground, missing.”

  “Well, shit.” I waved off Nicholas’s inquisitive look and kept talking to Lars. “The party just never stops. Are you still at the shop? We can meet you there.” With my phone wedged between my cheek and shoulder, I started collecting my things and cramming them inside my backpack.

  Nicholas followed suit without question, gathering a few items and putting them in his own bag.

  “I don’t want you out in the open. Stay where you are. I’ll come to you.” Lars was about to end the call when Nicholas, able to hear his booming voice without being on speaker, chimed in.

  “The workshop’s security ward isn’t just a Now You See Me, Now You Don’t. It’s layered with a Look Away charm. He won’t be able to find it. The harder you look, the harder it is to find.” Nicholas winced under my withering glare.

  That tidbit of information would have been useful prior to Lars leaving me in his care.

  “I installed it after I bought the property back. A necessary precaution that I forgot to mention in light of everything going on.” He set his bag down and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t usually cook breakfast for my prisoners.” Amusement glinted in his eyes as one corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “Don’t mark me again.”

  “Tell the campus boy not to worry. I can find you no matter where you are.” With that ominous warning hanging in the air, Lars ended the call.

  “So, who’s Karen Brown?” Nicholas took my bag and set it next to his on the floor before heading back to the coffee pot. Caffeine addiction was something Candidates and Warders had in common.

  I gave him the rundown on Ms. Brown, her daughter Karen, and the ward I’d given her between bites of pancakes that had long since gone cold. Nicholas listened with interest, asking questions about Angels of Mercy and their purpose. Despite his protests, he would have made a good candidate—if being a candidate were actually a good thing.

  To his obvious disappointment and frustration, I didn’t have much to tell. What I knew would fill a thimble. Angels of Mercy were rarer than Warders. But the conversation offered a distraction and helped pass the time until Lars arrived.

  We talked until there wasn’t anything left to say, reaching a comfortable silence. I sat still, relishing the quiet. It was most likely the last chance we’d get to rest. When Lars showed up, we were on the run again.

  And we wouldn’t be able to stop.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “DAMN, THAT STINGS.” Lars burst through the door to the workshop after tripping the last of Nicholas’s magical alarms, brushing his hands along his arms and legs like he’d been swarmed by a colony of fire ants.

  I rushed him and wrapped my arms around him without a care for any residual magic. “What took you so long?”

  He untangled himself from my embrace, nodding a greeting at Nicholas, and fished a crumpled paper out of the front pocket of his jeans. “This.”

  I snatched it out of his hand and used the edge of the coffee table to smooth out the wrinkled surface. I froze when a familiar face took shape. “Aldridge.” I looked up at Lars. His expression, cold and angry, warmed when he saw what must have looked like fear in my eyes. Because it was. “So soon? I thought we’d have more time.”

  Nicholas took the paper, examining the reward poster for himself.

  “I tried to tell you...” Lars stopped short of ‘I told you so.’ There was more he wanted to say, about actions and consequences—I’d heard the lecture before, probably a dozen times since Grim’s death—but he held back. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Getting you out of Providence is all that matters.”

  “Savannah?” I tried not to sound disappointed. “For how long? Wait—you said ‘you.’ Meaning me and not us?”

  “Savannah is out of the question. We’re way past pretending like there’s nothing to see here. They know, Adeline. They know who and what you are.” Lars reached inside the tattered leather jacket he’d worn for as long as I’d known him and pulled out a large envelope with a familiar scrawl across the front.

  Adeline.

  Nicholas moved closer, his breath a warm contrast to the chill running across my skin. Normally I’d throw a playful jab, verbal or literal, to warn someone off for crowding my space, but seeing Grim’s handwriting shook me to my core.

  I traced the seal, Grim’s insignia pressed into the blood red wax, before breaking it and opening the envelope containing the letter Grim had only wanted me to see in case of an emergency. His contingency plan. Something else fell out of the envelope, catching my eye as it fluttered to the floor.

  A Polaroid of some grungy street kid with matted hair and tattered clothes.

  It was a picture of me, from the night Grim saved me if my appearance was any indication. Most of my time was spent hustling pedestrians for change or dumpster diving behind the Pork Pit were Grim found me, but nights on the street were dangerous with no place to hide from the predators. I was weak and running from my foster parents, but I wasn’t dead. I remembered the marks they used on me, and I honed them on anyone who tried to hurt me. Grim was one hash mark away from lying prone with his pockets turned out behind the dumpster before I realized he wanted to help me.

  I’d followed him out of that alley and never looked back.

  Hands shaking, I read the letter. First to myself and then aloud for Lars and Nicholas.

  Adeline,

  If you are reading this, it means I’m dead, and you, my little shadow, are doing your best to f
ollow me. Lars, no doubt, is doing his best to stop you. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard. Go easy on him. You are more to him than even a little sister—you’re his closest friend. There is no one I trust more than Lars, which is why I am entrusting you to him.

  Of course, you already know that.

  So instead, I will talk of things you don’t know. I hardly recognize the girl in that picture anymore. No longer the swallow with the broken wing, she is fierce, and so is her magic.

  Magic is where your story begins. Goddess willing, it’s not where it ends. When I saw you, broken and beaten down by the world generations of witches before us created, I had every intention of dimming your magic. I knew immediately what you were. How could I not? Like begets like.

  Every night since the first night I found you, I put you to bed with the intent of warding your magic in the morning. By your thirteenth birthday, I knew that I never would and that it was time you learned your trade. It’s a rare sort of magic, being able to bind your will to someone and alter what they are. Not some cheap parlor trick glamour but under the skin, into their magic.

  If I could take back every one of the years between then and now and bind your warding skills, I would. By teaching you to ward, helping you become the practitioner you are, I set you on a path destined to end in death.

  I pray to the Goddess it’s not yours.

  I don’t know who your parents were or what happened to them, only that they must have had connections. I’ve seen and done enough in my life to know you ended up in foster care because of what you are. Just like I know in my heart the reason I found you is because of what you are.

  Lars will try to protect you, to stop you—don’t let him. The only way to survive, to live, is to be who and what you are. Anything less and you’re dead already.

  You’re a Warder, Adeline. There’s a reason we were hunted to the brink of extinction, our brand of magic all but eradicated and wiped from the spell books. Use what you know. Use what the Goddess gave you.