Unleash (Spellhounds Book 1)

by Lauren Harris

  It wasn’t that funny. I could have sworn it wasn’t that funny. But as she slapped her hand on the counter and doubled over in renewed shrieks, I found myself jolted into bewildered laughter.

  It took a few minutes for us to stop giggling into our cereal bowls, and I found my stomach ached like I’d just finished a few hundred crunches. It was a good ache, though—a better ache than any of the others I could name. I kept my sleeve shifted over my bruised hand, even as I loaded my bowl into the dishwasher and bid my temporary roommates good night.

  Their rooms were up a set of stairs to the left of the TV, in perfect line of sight to my borrowed couch. Krista clambered up, calling down her wishes of sweet dreams, but Jaesung stopped with his hand on the light-switch.

  He half turned and glanced at me, a question flitting through his eyes, but it wasn’t a question I was meant to answer. It was the sort of question people ask themselves before leaving a complete stranger alone in their living room.

  “Night,” I said, hoping to hurry his exit. The laughter had been a nice respite, but now I wanted to call Morgan, to find out what was going on and where my pack was.

  Jaesung’s gaze darted down to my hand, and his lips pursed for just an instant before relaxing back to fullness. He smiled then, and though he looked tired, the suspicion I’d seen had vanished so completely I might have imagined it.

  “There’s a bathroom at the top of the stairs,” he said. “Door straight ahead.”

  I gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded, breaking eye contact and going for my bag, hoping he’d get the hint and go upstairs to bed. A moment later, the lights went out with a click—all but the light over the kitchen stove, which spilled past my shoulders and limned Jaesung’s forearms and glasses in amber.

  For a moment, he was featureless as a shadow, and just as unknowable. Then my eyes adjusted and I made out the relaxed balance of his weight shifted to one leg, and the darkness of his eyes beyond the reflection of the lenses.

  “Night, Miami,” he said. His voice sounded much lower in the dark.

  I clenched my teeth, listening to each footfall on the stairs, noting which ones squeaked under his weight. I didn’t move until his door opened and closed again.

  Then my phone was against my ear, ringing as I held my breath, prepared for my cousin’s voice. One ring, two, three…but Morgan didn't answer.

  I called again, left a whispered voicemail, and ignored the swoop in my gut. It was late. He was probably sleeping or tucked away somewhere with his ringer silent—that was the sensible way to think about this. A traitorous voice whispered that my cousin didn't know how to sleep soundly. Even something as innocuous as the change in lighting from a brightened screen would have roused him.

  I forced myself to set the phone down, stretch out on the battered leather sofa, and tuck my forehead against the back of the couch. I couldn't help Morgan now. All I could do was get some rest and try to learn as many mandalas as I could before the Guild caught up with me.

  A wall clock ticked somewhere in the room, measuring out my heartbeats as I traced the magic circles in my mind. My fingers twitched against the soft leather, drawing the way power would flow to the four anchors, then through each concentric ring of glyphs, twisting and shaping until it leapt from the mandala as a fully-formed spell. Fire and water, earth and air—these seemed simple, their effects obvious. But there were hundreds of markings in each one. Too many ways it could all go wrong. If I was going to learn these spells, I would have to learn them flawlessly or risk blowing a crater in the nearest solid object. Or myself.

  Despite the pressure, my phone’s presence tugged at my brain. It was like the connection to Morgan created a magnetic pull, dragging me back to the phone with inexorable gravity. With Mom gone, he was the only blood family I had left. Still, I refused to turn back over, squeezing my eyes shut so blurred stars bloomed behind my eyelids, the sky through my cousin’s binoculars.

  For a moment, I imagined the smell of the sea. I was thirteen and lying on the dock at our harbor hideout, tears blurring and clearing the crystalline lights above before they slid back into my ears. My father was gone, and I didn’t think I’d ever feel safe again. A silhouette appeared at my side and Morgan held his binoculars to my eyes. He let me cry, pretending he didn’t see as I twisted the focus dials, trying and failing to make the sights behave like a telescope.

  “What’s the one right there?” he’d asked. “The W.”

  “Cassiopeia.” That night, I’d taught Morgan the constellations Dad taught me. Later that week, he’d shown me how to clean and shoot a gun, and where to hide a knife on my body. That was the only way we knew how to grieve. And love.

  He would call.

  Chapter Ten

  I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I woke to the baying of a low-voiced dog downstairs and the deep, earthy smell of ground coffee. My brain throbbed, and I sat up with the overwhelming sense that my whole head was wrapped in packing foam. My eyes felt swollen, pulsing where they pushed back into the sockets, and every muscle in my back seemed to have shortened overnight.

  I'd been running for days. I couldn't quite put my finger on how many it had been—two? Three? How many days since the Sorcerers snapped the enslavement spell? How many since Mom died?

  I opened my eyes, knowing I was alone before I even glanced around the sun-striped floor. Good. I hated to think what pitiful animal I resembled, nested in the living room of two near-strangers. The dizzy, punch-drunk exhaustion of last night was gone, and I no longer thought I'd be able to talk to Krista or Jaesung like a normal person. Not that I'd managed much of that last night.

  Despite my awkwardness, the muffled voices that rose from downstairs sent a swirl of comfort into my chest, like the beckoning steam of a hot drink. It felt good to wake up knowing there were other living beings so nearby. Too good. I was dangerously close to wanting to stay on this cognac-colored couch and steal a few more hours of sleep.

  I massaged my forehead and raked the heavy bramble of dirty blonde hair back from my face. It had come out of its braid in the night, smelling of sweat and train and car exhaust. There was no lingering scent of ocean or blood—just the tacky feeling of salt water gone dry, refusing to let my fingers pass through.

  That's when I noticed my phone, and the little message bubble.

  I snatched up the phone, clicking into the message and racing through it. Within a few words, however, the unspooling tension tightened right back up.

  Hey, I ninja'd your number while you were drooling on our couch!

  If you're in town for a few more days, you should hang out with us. Poo-stank would love someone to throw things for him while I’m not home.

  Anyway. Don't leave without saying bye! J.

  I stared at the phone—my lifeline to my pack and the bearer of brutal truths—and this incongruous message stared back. I had brief, military-style texts from Eamon, that terrible voicemail from Morgan, and now this. There were little icons in the messages—a laughing face, a cartoon dog, a waving hand. I wanted to delete it.

  My brain prickled. It felt like anger, but warped, and it pushed out the brief sense of comfort from not being alone. He'd taken my phone and put his number in it. Called or texted himself. He hadn't even asked. What if Morgan had texted me something important and he'd seen?

  Part of me wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this was commonplace in normal-people society. Maybe he was flirting with me. I didn't get honest flirtation that much, not from guys who were my age or anything near as clean as Jaesung. I should probably be happy he didn’t think I was a crack whore, not mad he’d committed a minor invasion of privacy.

  But the rest of me remembered the restrained power of his movements, the way he picked up bags and vaulted stairs and steered unwelcome train passengers like he had total command of every muscle—like he had training. The rest of me had read threat from him last night, when he'd met my eyes and spoken about secrets. And now he'd gone into my phone. W
hat if he'd been looking for something other than a way to get in contact with me?

  And, sweet hell, what if he'd just tagged me like a shark? I couldn't give up the phone—it was the only way to contact my pack—so if he was working with the Sorcerers, he'd be able to call me any time he wanted. I wasn't sure how phone traces worked, but I imagined having a cell number helped.

  Which meant he could have Morgan's number now. He could track him too. I felt sick. The likelihood of Jaesung being a Sorcerer wasn’t overwhelming, but there was no text or missed call from Morgan to displace the anxiety.

  “Good morning!” Krista’s singsong greeting sent me halfway off the sofa. With the barking carrying on downstairs, I hadn’t heard her feet on the stairs.

  I whipped around to see her standing in the doorway in a pair of khaki cargo pants and a tee shirt stained with a streak of yellow gunk. A flush colored her cheeks, and her blue eyes were bright beneath orange-penciled brows. What caught my attention, though, was the enormous tattoo down her left arm. It was a riot of colors, and though I couldn’t see the entire thing, it looked something like a rock star from the 80s surrounded by freaky creatures in gray and green.

  “Morning,” I replied. I lowered my phone from where I’d clutched it against my pulsing chest.

  She grinned and headed for the kitchen. “You sleep like the dead, babe,” she said, knocking the handle of the sink so the water turned on. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

  “No, I just woke up,” I said. I slid my phone into my pocket as I stood up, but Krista’s gaze followed it.

  “Did your people call?” she asked, soaping up to her elbow. I shook my head and made my way over to the breakfast bar, sliding onto the stool across from her.

  “No, they’re taking their fucking time.”

  Krista flashed a grin up at me as she dried her hands. “That just means you’ll get roped into helping out here. After lunch. Well, I guess it’s breakfast for you.”

  She tossed aside her towel and snagged an empty mug from the counter, wiggling it in my direction. I gave her a thumbs up. She slid it into one of those single cup pod-coffee machines and, after some arcane ritual of button-pressing and lever-pulling, had the device gurgling.

  “So, I was telling Sanadzi about you working with dogs in Miami and she said you could help out today, if that’s cool with you.”

  I shrugged—until I knew what was going on with Morgan and the pack, I didn’t want to leave the rendezvous behind. Local Sorcerer or not, this was the safest place I’d found, and it didn’t cut into my bankroll. I could study the book, but I could only memorize so many mandalas before my brain overheated.

  “Sa-NA-jee,” I said, sounding out the name. “She’s the one getting married? The vet?”

  “Yeah. Oh my God!” Krista grinned, rocking back against the fridge and clapping her hands. “I told her about the dress and she fucking died. Sooyoung—that’s Jae’s mom—did the same thing for the other two bridesmaids and we all have to get our dresses taken in. She’s really embarrassed she made them too big, but there’s plenty of time for alterations, so Sanadzi wasn’t upset.”

  I nodded, though I had a hard time faking interest. Wedding prep drama just seemed so…domestic. I might have craved a normal life, but the thought of getting caught up in such pointless worries almost made me thankful for the perspective of growing up enslaved to a blood magic gang lord. Almost.

  Krista grabbed my coffee, and as she slid onto the stool beside me, I wondered what it would be like to be her, where my chief concerns were college, bridesmaids dresses, and weight. Was that privileged life easier, or did it feel just as hard?

  This time, I heard the footsteps on the stairs. Rapid, measured steps that hit every stair on the way up—not Jaesung. Not anyone I knew. Krista turned on her stool in time to intercept a tall, out-of-breath woman with two laden plastic bags.

  She was unique enough to draw anyone’s eye. Her facial structure suggested at least one of her parents was black, but her tight curls were blonde and her skin was a freckle-dusted fawn that still held a tinge of pink from her flight up the stairs. She had a long, curvy body adorned in green corduroy overalls, orange paisley shirt, and a grin that could have dimmed a lighthouse.

  I blinked, certain this was the first time I’d seen overalls in real life. Or corduroy.

  “You’ve gotta be the waif!” she announced, and headed for me like a missile. I saw the spreading arms and tensed. She was about to hug me. Why would she do that? We hadn’t even met! I leaned back in shock, stopped by the bartop pressing into my spine.

  Then Sanadzi wrapped thin, strong arms around me, and I found my chin jammed over her shoulder. Her hands pressed into my back. Multiple chunky necklaces clicked against my cheek. It wasn’t so much politeness that kept me in place as surprise, like I’d found a mythical beast of legend: the Hugger.

  I patted her elbow, thankful when the hug didn’t last more than two heartbeats. She pulled back, both of her hands on my upper arms, squeezing like even her fingers had to hug me.

  “Oh, she’s no waif,” Sanadzi said. She grinned and looked over her shoulder at Krista. “She’s one of those solid skinny people like Baby Jae.”

  Krista rolled her eyes. “That figures.”

  With one last squeeze of my biceps, Sanadzi let go. Her eyes flicked back to me, a striking amber-green. “I heard you’re a dog person?”

  At last, I found my voice. “Yes!” I said, snatching my coffee cup and holding it in front of me to ward off any future hugs. Luckily, Sanadzi seemed satisfied with the first one and joined Krista in doling out huge plates of Chinese take out.

  We ate, they talked, and I avoided questions with well-timed bites of lo mein, glad when discussion turned to Sanadzi’s upcoming wedding. I took a second helping of sweet and sour chicken, packing away energy while I had the chance.

  After lunch, we descended to the dog rescue. As Sanadzi opened the office, Krista and I rolled up the two enormous garage doors to display a day as cool and clear as glass. I hadn’t looked at the seasonal changes around me since Virginia, and the nipping cold at my cheeks and nose warned me before I blinked the day into focus.

  Miami skies were the kind of blue that made a person squint, burning hot into your irises whenever you looked too long, but up here, over a line of fiery maple leaves, the sky seemed to ache with color, like there was too much blue to hold. Across the street, a small park entrance lay behind a wrought iron fence, which stretched between two buildings in a more contemporary brick than the fire house.

  I sniffed the air, which had a tinge of spicy smoke to it.

  “Is something burning?” I asked, and took a deeper breath to make sure. It reminded me of patchouli, or men’s cologne.

  “Leaves, probably,” Krista said, then pointed across the street. “Yup, in the park. They’re raking today.”

  I spotted the piles of leaves, amber and brown and gold on grass still green despite the chill. For a minute, I just stared, taking in the trees and the sky and the chill air nipping at my cheeks, taking the colors and scents of fall. This was October. The word finally connected with an image.

  For the next four hours, I worked with Krista and Sanadzi, clipping leashes to harnesses and jogging up and down the street with the dogs that could run. I cleaned out soiled newspaper from the kennels and helped reapply foul-smelling paste to Poo-stank’s patchy fur.

  It was almost four-thirty when my phone rang. I was sweating, lifting a limp, one-eyed mutt onto the examination table for Sanadzi to look at. He was in bad shape, and didn’t even twitch at the buzz of my phone against his spine. Krista met my eyes, then looked at Sanadzi.

  “We got it,” the older woman said. “This booboo’s not going anywhere, poor thing.”

  I jogged to the stairs and snatched up my phone on the fifth ring, my breath short as I reached the top of the stairs.

  “Hello?”

  “Are you safe?” Morgan’s voice sent a rush of relief through me, so
strong that I had to lean against the door for a moment, dizzy with it.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I heard him let out a breath, as if he’d been holding it too. Something creaked, like a chair, and I imagined him sitting at some motel-room desk, tattoo crawling out from the collar of his shirt, his riot of white-blond hair restrained in a hasty ponytail.

  “Where are you?” he asked. His voice was so tired, so raw that I almost answered.

  “I’m in—I’m at the rendezvous.”

  He grunted. “I don’t know where the rendezvous is. Eamon didn’t tell us. He just told us which places to go next. Had us up and down the East coast, breaking off into groups. The Guild sniffed our asses the whole way.”

  I swallowed. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m not hurt.”

  The clock on the wall ticked softly and I flexed my fingers, as if punishing myself for my safety with the sting of raw knuckles. “Me either.”

  I pushed off the door and headed to the dog bed that still held the remnants of my shredded bag. “Where are you? Eamon didn’t want me to say anything about the rendezvous, but I can come to you.”

  “No.” The word stopped me at the edge of the coffee table. I moved the phone away from my ear a second, as if the speaker had delivered a sting. Morgan’s voice was farther away when he said, “I’m being watched.”

  I gave a humorless laugh. “Who isn’t? They were waiting for me at the rendezvous, though I don’t think they know that’s what it is.”

  Morgan breathed a curse and, his tone agitated, growled out, “I thought you said you were safe.”

  “Compared to what?” I picked at the seam in my jeans. “I got away. Some good Samaritans I met on the train adopted me and the Guild backed off. They don’t want to involve mundanes.”

  He was silent for several breaths. I sank onto the arm of the couch, staring at the bottles of shampoo and conditioner peeking from beneath a pair of jeans.