by Lisa Plumley
Makes it divide. Christ. T.J. couldn’t believe he’d forgotten that. He’d been duped by a trick so simple, even the greenest IAB agent was capable of dodging it.
He blamed Dayna. It was a good thing his bonded witch had run again. Otherwise, if T.J. found her alone, he’d…
“—makes it separate and grow stronger. That’s right.” The warlock approached, smiling at T.J.’s bared teeth and surly expression. “Just like the dozers are separating from us and growing stronger as they hump their way into oblivion, squirting out ignorant babies and pretending their so-called technology is going to save them in the end.” He sneered. “The only thing that could possibly save them is an awakening. And the only thing that could possibly save you—”
With an explosion of effort, T.J. jerked forward. Using his rigid, net-encased body as a battering ram, he head-butted the warlock. His opponent howled and stumbled backward. T.J. nearly followed him to the ground. At the last instant, he conjured an airstream to keep him on his feet. Still, he faltered.
There was definitely something wrong with his magic.
All the same, his maneuver was sufficient to break the charm the forager had placed on his witchmade net. It slackened just enough. Groaning with relief, T.J. wriggled free of it.
With a dark look, the other warlock stood. He raised his hand to his forehead. A purplish lump already rose on his skin.
“I forgot to tell you,” T.J. said. “I don’t like lectures.”
“Fuck you, McAllister. I don’t care what Garmin said—”
Garmin? What did Leo have to do with this?
“—you’re not worth all this trouble.”
The warlock gathered his strength. A flare of magic caromed toward T.J., fast and lethal.
T.J. ducked. The other warlock snarled. He rose in the air with his arms outstretched. His suit swirled against the blackness as the wind he’d conjured intensified, harsh and cold.
Too cold. Clenching his jaw against it, T.J. reached upward. He assembled his scattered focus, then caught hold of the trailing current, capturing it the same way he’d captured the surveillance information he’d gathered from the cusping-witch class. With a Patayan incantation, he yanked.
Deprived of wind, the forager plummeted.
He hit the ground with a sickening thud. At the same instant, his emotions went blank. With his face impassive, T.J. leaned over him. He flipped open the warlock’s jacket and searched his pockets. His fingers closed on a steely lump.
He withdrew a familiar lanyarded silver talisman.
Son of a bitch. It still wasn’t over with yet.
Chapter Eleven
Standing in the classroom doorway, Dayna couldn’t help gawking. One of the cashmere witches rose from a kneeling position in front of their rumpled-looking instructor. With her back three-quarters to Dayna, the other witch said something to Professor Reynolds. Her husky tone carried. Her exact words didn’t. Still, the implication was plain. Dayna had interrupted a private moment…one no one had been intended to witness.
With a lithe grace, the other witch turned her head. Her profile—beautiful, subtly exotic, and unplaceably familiar—faced Dayna. In an unhurried gesture, she touched her index finger to the corner of her mouth. She offered Professor Reynolds an intimate smile and another murmured comment. The instructor nodded, pinned to his chair with a blissed-out expression.
Or maybe that was an uncomfortably…eager expression on his face. Dayna couldn’t tell for sure. Her gaze slipped lower. She wished it hadn’t when she glimpsed the bulge in his pants.
Hmmm. Despite Camille’s plans, Professor Reynolds’s lap appeared too busy for anyone else to be sitting on it right now.
Intending to tell her friend exactly that, Dayna turned to leave. In her haste, she accidentally unleashed a dose of misaligned magic. A stack of books took flight from a nearby shelf, arrowing straight toward her professor and his…prodigy.
Uh-oh. “Look out!” she yelled, trying to remember the spell used for steadying wayward items. Despite her tendencies toward organization, it wasn’t one she’d had much practice with.
Professor Reynolds froze, unable to move. Dayna wondered if tomorrow’s EnchantNet news headlines would read: CUSPING-WITCH CLASS INSTRUCTOR KILLED BY FLYING BOOKS—ALL BLOOD TRAGICALLY CONGREGATED IN GROIN. Even for a warlock, death by hard-on seemed an ignoble way to go. Urgently, she tried another spell.
The other witch rolled her eyes. She sighed, then aimed an unhurried glance at the flying books. As though in slow motion, her mouth formed the words of an incantation that Dayna wasn’t familiar with. She spoke its magic too low to be heard clearly—especially above the crash of the books falling to the floor.
Whew. Feeling her face flush with embarrassment, Dayna set aside her wrecked corduroy jacket and rushed to scoop them up. With jerky and uncoordinated movements, she piled the books back on their shelf. At last she faced the instructor—and his companion, a witch she suddenly recognized.
Francesca Woodberry.
Her sleek presence made Dayna feel twice as gawky—and hugely aware of her own magical shortcomings, too. Francesca had been queen bee of Covenhaven Academy during Dayna’s time there. Indisputably popular, adept with magic, and occasionally cruel, Francesca had been the girl everyone wanted to be friends with—and no one wanted to cross. Her clique of popular girls had ruled the school. Whatever Francesca had wanted, she’d gotten.
Ten years later, it appeared nothing much had changed.
Apparently, witches born of privilege never lost their aura of specialness. Francesca certainly hadn’t. The moonlight hurried through the windows to gild her famous dark hair. The oxygen molecules leaped over themselves to allow her to glide by. The evening silence held steady, waiting for her to speak.
Instead, Professor Reynolds snapped out of his daze.
“Careful, Ms. Sterling.” Appearing much more alert now, he gave Dayna a censorious glare. “That could have been dangerous. You’re fortunate Francesca was here to help out this time. Your next mistake might not be repaired as quickly…or as easily.”
“Oh, don’t be so hard on her, Professor.” With an indulgent air, Francesca smiled. In a barely perceptible gesture, she flicked her fingertips over his knee, her caress both flirty and authoritative. “She’s probably doing her best, poor thing.”
Her gaze dipped to Dayna’s clothes, swerved to her ornately shaped golden armband, then lifted again. Francesca offered a cursory smile. No sign of recognition stirred among her perfect features. It was just as though she and Dayna hadn’t shared classes, hallways, and several years of their lives together.
Unfortunately, they had.
Beneath that dismissive look, Dayna couldn’t help but slump. She was a successful research librarian, a good friend, and a kickass presence at the annual Southwest Salsa Challenge hosted by her human neighbors in Phoenix. But in that moment, she might as well have had PERSONA NON GRATA stamped on her chest in foot-high Day-Glo letters. That reminder of exactly how little she mattered here in the magical world didn’t feel good.
Then again, being in Covenhaven had never felt good. If she’d actually belonged here, Dayna never would have left.
“You’re right, Francesca. Of course.” Reynolds aimed an owlish glance at Dayna. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sterling. I’ll try to keep your…limitations in mind. Did you need something else?”
“Just my backpack.” Awkwardly, Dayna hustled to it. She slung it over her shoulder, feeling comforted by its familiar weight and its promise of easy escape. She paused, prodded by a force she couldn’t describe. “And an application. For class juweel.”
Professor Reynolds blinked in apparent surprise.
Francesca laughed openly. “You? For juweel?”
With languorous movements, she left the instructor behind and approached Dayna. Her nearness felt…threatening. That made no sense at all, even given Dayna’s latent inferiority complex.
Defiantly, Dayna lifted her chin. She nodded.
<
br /> Francesca pursed her lips. “But…Are you even in the right class, Darla? You don’t seem to belong here.”
“It’s Dayna. And I’m in the right class.”
“Really? Because you don’t look like you’re cusping at your full magical powers.” Her gaze slipped dismissively to Dayna’s modest cleavage and jeans-covered hips, then rose to her face again. She gave a derisive cluck of her tongue. “And you seem awfully outmatched compared to everyone else’s abilities—at least their abilities to throw a hex.” Francesca leaned nearer and lowered her voice. “Speaking of which, I think your ugliness hex is still in full force.” With overt commiseration, she frowned. “I’m seeing a few split ends. Well, more than a few. I thought you’d want to know, so you can touch up before—”
Dayna fought an urge to smooth her hair. “I’m in the right class. Everyone is allowed to compete for juweel, aren’t they?”
“Well, technically that’s true.” Francesca chuckled. “But you shouldn’t worry about that, Delilah.” Confidingly, she leaned closer. “You see, the position is already filled.”
The backward glance she cast at their instructor made her intimation obvious. She intended to be juweel. If the pup tent she’d pitched in Professor Reynolds’s pants was anything to go by, she was well on her way to cementing that prize, too.
“The position can’t be filled already,” Dayna argued. “The juweel isn’t announced until graduation day. It’s traditional.” Silently, she thanked Leo Garmin for sharing that useful detail with her. She straightened her spine and directed her gaze at Professor Reynolds. “I’d still like an application, please.”
He looked intrigued. Francesca looked irked. Dayna felt almost triumphant. Also, stupid. Because she didn’t have a rat’s chance in a witch’s brew of making juweel. She was getting in way over her head again. But in that moment, she didn’t care.
Ignore me now, snooty Francesca Woodberry.
Her moment of ersatz victory was cut short by Professor Reynolds’s world-weary sigh. “Ms. Sterling, if you hadn’t been away from Covenhaven for so long, you would already know this, but…there is no application for juweel. It’s awarded solely at the instructor’s discretion on graduation day. The truth is, witchfolk are not overly fond of paperwork, so—”
“Really? You should tell that to the folks down at the IAB. They’ve got mounds and mounds of paperwork.”
“Is that so?” Professor Reynolds paused. “Still, I’d be careful if I were you. There’s a great deal you don’t know about Covenhaven.” He gestured vaguely. “About…the new Covenhaven.”
“You mean the Covenhaven that’s obsessed with The Old Ways? The Covenhaven that’s run by the IAB and filled with pastels and cashmere? Yeah, I’m becoming pretty familiar with that. I don’t like it much, but I’m here for now, so if you don’t mind—”
“Whoops! Debbie, your pants are on fire.”
“Really, Francesca?” She rounded on the other witch, who smirked at her in return. “My pants are on fire? That’s the best you could come up with? That’s pretty juvenile, even for you.”
“I’m being serious. Your pants are on fire.”
She motioned downward. At the same moment, Dayna felt the first surge of heat, like blowback from the preheated gas barbecue on her neighbor’s porch when someone opened it to start grilling hot dogs. The hems of her jeans sparked, making an ineffectual sound like a faulty Bic lighter.
An instant later, the flames ignited in earnest.
In a blur of motion, T.J. strode through the offices of the InterAllied Bureau. At this hour, the place was almost deserted. The computers were quiet. The lights were low. The usual hum of witchy busyness was gone, replaced by the glimmer and click of the agency’s newly installed autoshadowing memory flickers.
The smell of stale decaf coffee hung in the motionless air, underlaid by the sulfurous stink that had haunted his first years here. He’d never gotten used to that smell. Growing up on the res, he’d mostly been exposed to Patayan magic.
Patayan magic was clean. It imbued natural materials with directed energy. It didn’t strong-arm other elements—or people—into magical cooperation, the way legacy magic often did. It didn’t leverage weakness and exploit humans the way myrmidon magic almost always did. Instead, Patayan magic just…arose, called into being by its user’s inborn skill and training.
But the truth was, T.J.’s Patayan side couldn’t deconstruct legacy magic the way his warlock side could. So at times like these, being of compound birth came in handy. Scowling with fierce intent, T.J. peered through the IAB’s witchmade walls. In contrast to the human-constructed buildings in Phoenix, they were pixilated by magic. He was able to see through them easily. That flaw was something the IAB had inexplicably failed to address when they’d placed their headquarters in the magical spaces above Covenhaven’s false-fronted Main Street buildings. On the other hand, when you were mostly hiding from unaware humans, pixilation wasn’t much of a tell.
An admin witch called out a greeting. T.J. gave her a brief nod, then kept moving. He reached the agency’s private interior. Here the lighting was better, the sulfur stink was muted by air filters, and the carpet was more luxurious than in the common areas where agents and their constituents spent their time. His steps depressed the cushy pile uncaringly beneath his feet; his hand squashed the lanyarded talisman he’d found in one tight fist.
Moving faster, T.J. let his gaze rove from office to conference room to bullpen. He didn’t find what he was looking for. At the end of the hall, one door remained impenetrable. Knowing that barrier stood intentionally, T.J. headed toward it. He bared his teeth as he eyed the name on the placard outside, then shoved open the door to reveal a luxe executive suite.
Inside, Leo Garmin glanced up from his desk. His features looked handsome and implacable, his expression a trademark mix of caring and undisguised arrogance. Garmin was happy to show concern for others, T.J. knew. He might genuinely have felt it, at least some of the time. But he made sure everyone knew he was the better, kinder warlock for having done so. In Garmin’s world, keeping score mattered. Winning mattered most of all.
“Ah, Agent McAllister. I’m glad you’re still with us.”
“Bite me, you bastard.” Filled with cold irritation, T.J. dropped the lanyarded silver talisman on Garmin’s desk. It landed with a clatter, its IAB logo glittering in the artificial witchy light. “If you wanted me to report in, you could have asked. Foragers? What the fuck is the matter with you?”
A shrug. “Nothing a little obedience wouldn’t cure.”
“You want obedience? Get a dog.”
His boss offered a small smile. “You were supposed to be here yesterday, to drop off your last assignment, that runaway witch. Steerling…Starling…oh, that’s right. Dayna Sterling.”
“You know damn well who I’ve been tracing.”
“I know you were supposed to deliver her personally.”
Things had gotten plenty personal between him and Dayna. Shutting out the memory, T.J. crossed his arms. “You might have some complaints coming from those foragers in your shadow army. You should tell them not to try jumping me by surprise.”
Garmin steepled his hands. “Is anyone dead?”
“You tell me. You must have been watching.”
“If I could watch you, I wouldn’t need special agents.”
T.J. couldn’t help grinning. During his dark years, he’d developed a few special tricks to keep his whereabouts unknown. Even after recruiting him, the IAB hadn’t been able to weasel those tricks from him. “Old habits are hard to break.”
“Unfortunately, protocol isn’t. Not for you.”
“You knew that going in.” T.J. nodded at the talisman on Garmin’s desk. “Consider that a polite request. Call off your foragers. Next time I won’t go so easy on them.”
“They’re IAB agents. You can’t just—”
“Watch me.” With grim anticipation, T.J. inhaled a raspy breath. He rotated his arm to ex
amine a bloody scrape just below his shoulder—evidence of his earlier fight. “My loyalties last only as long as yours do. You knew that going in, too.”
Garmin muttered an obscenity. “You’re a Patayan. You’re supposed to eat, sleep, and breathe loyalty.” He gave a cocksure grin. “Hell, you people probably shit loyalty.”
“I’m only half Patayan.” T.J. stood unyieldingly. “The rest of me is suspicious of everyone, all the time.”
With a sigh, his boss shuffled a few papers. He loosened his tie to show off the ten-year-service pin the IAB gave its veteran kiss-ass executives. Its crested logo shone brightly, evidence of Garmin’s ability to be loyal to at least one entity.
T.J. was part of that entity; that was true. But if push came to shove, he had no doubt his boss would put the IAB first and his agents last. It was just the way things were.
“Why were you at Covenhaven Academy tonight?” Garmin asked.
“It’s personal.” T.J.’s mission to find the juweel—like his promise to his magus—had nothing to do with the IAB. The bureau may have saved his ass once, but his life as a Patayan guardian had little to do with his work for the witching agency that employed him. He crossed his arms and frowned at his boss. “All I want is your word. Don’t send any more foragers after me.”
“You know I can’t promise that.”
“Then we have a problem. I have a commitment I can’t break. Your foragers are getting in my way.”
“Foragers wouldn’t be necessary if you would report in.”
“I’m hardly a greenie. I don’t need to punch a clock.”
“Maybe I say you do.” His boss eyed him. Then he ran his hand over his bald head, a move that typically—in Garmin’s easy-to-read world—signaled a change of topic. “We’ve had a complaint about your services, by the way. According to one of your recent snares, you were ‘intrusive, invasive, and scary.’”
“Yeah.” T.J. nodded. That was probably true. “So what?”
“So we’re trying to run a civilized agency.”
