The Library, the Witch, and the Warder

by Mindy Klasky

  He let Connor lead him out of the office, back to the townhouse’s door. He worked the knob himself, raising his chin before striking out for the sidewalk. Connor growled once more and nosed the door closed.

  David didn’t take out his phone until he reached the streetlamp at the corner. There was no way to use his warder powers to transport to Apolline. He’d never met the salamander in person or been inside her lair.

  Uber would have to do instead. At least that way, someone would have a record of his last known whereabouts if the salamanders attacked.

  7

  David stood in front of a wrought-iron gate in the luxurious Kalorama neighborhood. His fingers itched to pull Rosefire from the ether. He was certain that would be a mistake—gripping a double-edged sword as he walked down the pre-dawn sidewalk in front of homes occupied by Supreme Court justices, former presidents, and billionaires. As it was, the scattering of black SUVs in front of prominent addresses made the nape of his neck itch. How many contained Secret Service agents and how many hid private security guards?

  Guards, like the one who manned the small green hut beside the gate he stared at. “May I help you sir?” the salamander asked, stepping out of his shelter. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over a rocky riverbed. His right hand rested comfortably on the butt of a handgun.

  So much for the element of surprise. “I’m here to see Apolline Fournier.”

  “Ms. Fournier isn’t seeing visitors at this time of day.”

  “Tell her David Montrose is calling, on behalf of Connor Hold.”

  “Ms. Fournier isn’t seeing visitors at this time of day.” The guard repeated his words without a ripple of variation, his eyes unblinking.

  “If you’ll just call her—”

  “I’ll call the DC police,” the guard offered instead.

  “There’s no need for that,” David said. It took an effort to sound dismissive, rather than nervous. The last thing he needed was to attract the interest of mundane law enforcement. Too much human attention, and David could find himself in front of the Eastern Empire Night Court—as a defendant this time, instead of as a character witness.

  The guard said pointedly: “Not if you’re heading down the street.”

  David hesitated. There were tools he could apply, warder’s magic. All it took was a quick touch, flesh to flesh, and he could make the guard forget David had ever stood at the gate. But a bout of amnesia wouldn’t do any good if the various security forces on the street saw him act. And he had to suspect that a salamander guard had some sort of arcane protection against warder magic.

  Not to mention the fact that any work he did could potentially be monitored by Pitt. In theory, the greasy rat would still be locked in his own bolthole, enjoying the sleep of the damned. But with a three-year run of bad luck behind him, he wasn’t about to take chances.

  “Look,” he said to the salamander in his most conciliatory voice. “I don’t want to make waves here.” From the guard’s skeptical glance, his best hadn’t been conciliatory enough. “Can I leave a message for Apolline? Write a note?”

  “Does this look like the Post Office?” the guard asked irritably.

  “Of course, I’d make it worth your while,” David said smoothly, as if he’d planned on bribing the fire-lizard all along. He fished his wallet from his pocket and slipped out a few bills. Folding them into a discreet rectangle, he moved to shake his adversary’s hand.

  The guard pocketed the bills with the speed of a striking cobra.

  David retrieved a leather-bound notepad from his breast pocket, along with a Montblanc pen. He didn’t bother shielding his note from the guard’s curious eyes. He had no delusions that his message would be kept confidential.

  I am authorized to discuss your recent acquisition. All reasonable offers will be considered.

  He printed his name and added his cell number. As he handed the slip to the guard, he mentally adjusted the definition of “reasonable.” Apolline would compensate him for his cash outlay—one way or another.

  He walked a full block before he took out his phone and shot a message to Connor. A in lair. Message left. Call me after shift.

  Shift. The word worked equally well to refer to Connor’s lupine status or his own work at the court—work he needed to report to in less than four hours.

  But he had other responsibilities too—more mundane obligations than salamanders or wolf shifters. Spot was waiting at home. The black Lab could come and go through his doggy door, that wasn’t a problem. But he couldn’t handle a can opener on his own.

  Besides, there was still time to snag a couple hours of sleep. Then a hot shower and a cup of decent coffee, not the sludge they served at the court.

  Wandering down a side street, David vaguely remembered a public park within a couple of blocks. He reached it in minutes—a couple of tall pine trees towering over matching marble benches. He took the nearest seat, slumping in the darkness beneath the massive trees.

  He looked left, then right, then left again, making sure no one had seen him take refuge. Finally satisfied the coast was clear, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He closed his awareness around the sturdy steel rope that led across the astral plane to the farmhouse he called home, deep in the Maryland countryside.

  He pictured the cornfields, sere brown from the summer heat. He smelled the fresh grass that surrounded his clapboard house. He felt the breeze blowing on his face. Clutching the familiar guidewire, he reached toward home.

  8

  David’s eyes were bleary as he sank into his office chair. Three hours of sleep hadn’t been enough to clear his head. He reached for a cup of coffee that was strong enough to strip paint before he thumbed on his computer. A message flashed in the corner of his screen: My office. Immediately.

  He didn’t need to check the sender to know he was being summoned by Norville Pitt.

  Sure enough, the man crouched behind his government-issue desk like a frog on a putrescent lily pad. The overhead fluorescent lights made him look seasick. His plastic pocket protector tilted forward at a dangerous angle, threatening to spill his pens onto the chaos of papers before him.

  He barked out a question before David could say a word. “Where are you on re-entering yesterday’s forms?”

  It seemed as if Pitt had deleted the records a lifetime ago. Of course he had to know exactly how much progress David had made; he could track every keystroke through his supervisory computer account.

  David kept his voice carefully neutral. “I’ve completed all but one.”

  “One left. And yet you had time to spend your night roaming around the city like some self-appointed vigilante.”

  All vigilantes are self-appointed. But David concentrated on the silver ring on his left hand, reminding himself of the self-control he’d mastered at the Academy. He didn’t say the words out loud.

  Pitt licked his lips, glaring at David through his fingerprint-mottled eyeglasses. Apparently Pitt thought David was more naive than a high-school freshman. No self-respecting warder would voluntarily admit anything he’d done the night before—not his trip to the cottage in Georgetown, his side visit to Seymour House, or his stop in Kalorama. Keeping his mouth shut was the only way to find out exactly how much Pitt knew.

  In the end, David had more patience.

  Pointing a finger directly at David’s chest, Pitt leaned back in his chair and said, “You’re a warder of Hecate’s Court.”

  Congratulations, Master of the Obvious. David could think the words. Emphatically.

  His silence clearly irritated his boss. Pitt slammed a hand down on his desk as he once again lost their battle of wills. “You have no business getting involved with shifters. It’s not your place to play message boy to the salamanders. Have some dignity, son.”

  Pitt was only ten years older than David.

  Ten years older, but he’d obviously invested some of that time developing a spy network. David wondered who’d ratted him out. He could only
hope they’d needed to pay Apolline’s security guard a hell of a lot more than he had.

  Or maybe Apolline had brought his message to the court herself. She could have complained about David getting involved in salamander business. He’d left his name there, after all, in simple block letters. He couldn’t have made her task any easier.

  Pitt shook his head in sneering disgust. “Cat got your tongue, Montrose? Let me keep this simple: I’m. Watching. You. I know everything about you. And I’m telling you, in no uncertain terms: Do not get between the shifters and the salamanders. Have I made myself absolutely, one hundred percent, perfectly clear?”

  David wanted to shout that Pitt always made himself perfectly clear—the man was as subtle as a black cat in a snowstorm. Even more, David wanted to argue that he had been acting like a warder. He’d been trying to resolve conflict in the Eastern Empire, guaranteeing that the world was a safer space for all the witches and warders who worked there.

  He wanted to say that Pitt had no right to police him, no right to interfere.

  But he swallowed every one of his protests. They went down like lye, but he pressed his lips closed until he was certain he could say, “I understand.”

  Those two words, and nothing else. Because that was the only way to get Pitt to dismiss him. The only way to head back to his office.

  And the entire way there, every step down the drab corridor with his fingers rubbing the familiar swirls of his Torch, David heard the words Pitt hadn’t said. He didn’t know anything about the Compendium. Anything about the Osgood collection or Neko. Norville Pitt didn’t know Jane Madison existed.

  And David would do anything to see that Pitt never discovered the truth.

  9

  David sat in a sturdy Adirondack chair on the front porch of his farmhouse, watching the sun set over the nearby woods. Spot lay at his feet. The enormous black Lab occasionally flicked his tail against the floorboards to prove all was right in his world. David took a long pull from the bottle of beer balanced on the arm of his chair. He deserved it, just for making it through another shift in Norville Pitt’s nightmare of a clerk’s office.

  He’d spent the day on another useless project, transcribing a collection of eighteenth-century wills into an outmoded database. Pitt had vetoed four different proposals to make the documents more useful.

  Still, David hadn’t argued too strenuously. He knew his work would be deleted on some pretext in the near future, and he’d have to re-create the wheel. Again.

  As always, he’d repeated to himself, “Hecate’s will be done.” He just hoped the goddess end this particular torment in short order.

  At least the mindless work gave him a chance to reflect on Jane Madison and the Osgood collection. When he’d left the witch, she’d seemed determined to forget all those books in her basement, never to work a spell again. Not likely. Magic called to magic across the miles, across the centuries. The Osgood collection had summoned Jane Madison to that garden cottage, and it wasn’t going to let her walk away after liberating one free-spirited familiar.

  David needed to consult with Linda. But he hadn’t dared contact her from his bugged office. And now she was occupied all evening, celebrating his father’s birthday.

  David drank deeply again, determined not to think about George’s sixtieth or Linda’s earnest invitation. He wasn’t going to dwell on his middle brother James—who was probably even now rattling off NASDAQ numbers like a living computer—or his youngest brother Tommy, who would have everyone laughing with his imitation of jurors at yet another high-toned indie film festival.

  He wouldn’t think about his father, lips grim, eyes hard, and judging, always judging. Finding David wanting in everything.

  No. He wouldn’t reach out to Linda tonight. The problem of Jane Madison could wait another day.

  An hour after moonrise, a Mini Cooper turned down the long driveway. As the car made its way toward the house, Spot climbed to his feet. Staring into the silver-lit night, the dog whined deep in his throat. David set a comforting hand on his head.

  Connor Hold took his time unfolding his lanky frame from the small car. His cuffed jeans looked black in the moonlight, emphasizing the length of his thin legs. He wore a sweater vest over a plaid shirt. His eyeglasses glinted in the darkness.

  A nightingale’s song crested in David’s mind, the familiar marker his powers had long ago bestowed on the Washington alpha. Connor approached the three porch steps and locked eyes with Spot. Feet still firmly planted on the ground, he extended one hand to the dog, keeping his fingers curled in a loose, non-threatening fist. Spot sniffed with interest, whuffing deep in his throat. After a moment, his tail wagged, slowly at first, then faster. He crouched into a play bow, tongue lolling.

  “Not tonight, pal,” Connor said, reaching up to tug at Spot’s ears. The man’s voice was rough, as if he’d cheered himself hoarse at a concert.

  The dog tried a few more bowing invitations, but Connor only sank into the Adirondack beside David. He accepted a beer, clinking the glass neck against David’s bottle before he nodded approval of the artisanal microbrew.

  “Sorry about last night,” Connor rasped.

  David grunted, not looking at his friend. They’d carried on countless conversations before, both staring out at the darkness—on this porch, at the Petworth townhouse, at the wolf shifters’ old house on Seymour Street, the one the salamanders had burned down.

  “Holding off the shift is…exhausting,” Connor said.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get there sooner.”

  Connor shrugged. They drank peaceably for a while before he asked, “Any word from Apolline?”

  David shook his head. “Not to me. I think she called Pitt, or maybe I was followed. He read me the riot act, anyway.”

  Connor’s frown was almost lost in his beard. “Sorry about that.”

  Now it was David’s turn to shrug. They were both sorry about a lot. “So she’s not willing to negotiate. What will you do?”

  “What can I do? I need to get the Collar back. The younger wolves are already getting squirrelly without it.”

  “Squirrelly how?” David pictured all sorts of havoc the shifters could work in their inner-city neighborhood.

  Connor grimaced. “Ethan brought home a porterhouse for dinner.”

  David raised his eyebrows. He’d long ago accepted his friend’s unconventional choice to live as a vegan—at least in human form. As a wolf, of course, all bets were off; Connor could demolish a doe in one long weekend.

  But the Washington Pack followed its alpha in all things, even agreeing to eschew meat as humans. If Ethan—one of the younger brutes in the pack—had brought home a porterhouse, he was violating a basic rule.

  David said, “That must have gone over well.”

  Connor sighed. “Extenuating circumstances. I made him grill it outside. And I looked the other way when Sondra and Noah helped him finish it off.”

  David’s look was sharper at that. One young shifter straying wasn’t a complete surprise, not with the pack in emotional free-fall over the theft of the Collar. Three, though, was a definite cause for concern. Connor’s authority was on the line.

  Commenting on the obvious wouldn’t help. Instead, David said, “Here’s what I don’t get. The salamanders don’t have a pack structure. What the hell do they want with the Collar?”

  Connor looked uncomfortable. Finally, he said, “It’s the werewolves’ fault.”

  “Werewolves?” David knew that full-blooded wolf shifters created lesser werewolves by biting unsuspecting humans on the night of a full moon. Every shifter alive viewed werewolves as second-class citizens—too weak to shift by force of will alone, destined only to gain wolf form on future full moons.

  “Two new ones,” Connor said, sounding frustrated. “Brutes, turned last year, when we moved into the new house.” He took another long pull of beer before he faced David directly. “I thought they were comfortable with the pack. That they understood how thin
gs work.”

  David waited. Something had gone catastrophically wrong.

  Connor set down his beer bottle with a distinct ring. He ran his hand down his face before he said, “They wanted to impress me, wanted the pack to think they were equals. So they broke into the salamanders’ burrow and stole the karstag.”

  “Sweet Hecate,” David swore, suddenly wishing he’d opted for something stronger than beer.

  The karstag was the salamanders’ most sacred artifact. The obsidian blade had been forged in the primeval volcano that gave rise to all salamanders throughout the world. It was a symbol of the creatures’ history, their twin god and goddess of fire, all they held holy.

  If the werewolves had taken the karstag, it was no wonder the salamanders had retaliated by stealing the Collar. In fact, it was a miracle the salamanders hadn’t burned Seymour House to the ground. Seymour House, and the entire city block it sat in. And every other pack stronghold on the eastern seaboard.

  “How’d they manage that?” David asked, amazed that two recently turned werewolves could defeat an entire nest of salamanders.

  “I’m not sure yet. We’re still getting all the facts. All I know right now is the wolves took it in their human form last night, a couple of hours before moonrise. They managed to get it down to the Den before they turned.”

  “So where’s the damned thing now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” David’s shock made Spot whine. He barely remembered to stroke the dog’s broad head, to calm him back to a dark shadow on the porch.

  Connor let his hands dangle between his knees. “They buried it somewhere at the Den. There’s a hundred acres down there. We could search for years and never find it.”

  “Make them show you where they put it!” David’s voice crackled with outrage. Connor Hold was alpha of the Washington Pack. He had to know how to manage a couple of wayward brutes.