I curled up on the couch with my mug of tea and turned on Downton Abbey, scrolling back through and selecting episode one of the first season.
I contemplated peeking through the windows to see if I could catch sight of the sorcerer in the suite above the barn, even though the angle was wrong from the sitting room’s corner of the house.
I didn’t.
But it was a struggle.
I had gained immunity to magically boosted poisons quicker than I was developing any resistance to this torturous physical attraction.
I wrapped my fingers tighter around the mug, sipped my tea, and opened my email on my iPad. My inbox contained three unread messages, dating back to sometime the previous week, which was the last time I’d checked it.
All three were from Karolyn Dunn, a recruiter who operated within the Adept underworld — or at least the section of it that I had come into contact with. She arranged introductions and various jobs. Contracts, it was rumored, that she enforced with her reputation of casting impossible-to-thwart curses. All of our communication had been conducted by email. Christopher had set up some system that routed my email through different addresses, so I’d never needed to worry about my physical location being traced.
But, as I’d previously told Karolyn, I wasn’t interested in taking on any more contract work after the final job she’d arranged in San Francisco in October 2017. I had told the recruiter so even before I’d agreed to the job that had nearly cost me my freedom. Her finder’s fee for that assignment had been deposited the moment I signed my name to the contract. And unless she had placed spies in the warehouse, she had no way of knowing whether or not I’d actually even walked away from that job alive.
No one else on site had.
I was alive only because Christopher and Paisley had rescued me. We had fled the city that evening, worrying even as we made our way up the coast and across the border into Canada that any rumors or fallout of the bungled job, the dramatic rescue, and a clairvoyant working with an amplifier would draw the attention of the Collective.
It hadn’t. Yet.
Unless that was why Aiden Myers was currently installed in the suite over the barn.
I wouldn’t have put anything past the Collective, including the patience it would take to wait until I’d settled, to wait until I’d made a home for myself. And then instead of attacking outright, to send the sorcerer, drained, vulnerable. To see what I would do. To test me.
If Aiden was a pawn in the Collective’s long game, he might not even know it.
I shoved that line of thought out of my mind. Paranoia wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Actively seeking what information I could while Aiden recovered his recent memories would be a far more productive use of my time and energy.
Karolyn Dunn was persistent, though. Even though I hadn’t answered a single one of her emails since San Francisco, the 15 percent commission she would make off an amplifier of my power level was clearly keeping her hopeful. I deleted the messages in my inbox unread.
Then I began to compose an email to one of the six people in the world who could connect the name on my passport to my magical abilities. Ember Pine.
Ember Pine was a witch, but her magic revolved around contracts and estates for the Adept. She worked out of the Seattle location of Sherwood and Pine, but that law firm maintained offices all over the world. If you were magically inclined and needed a lawyer, you went to Sherwood and Pine — as I had quickly discovered when it became clear that I hadn’t actually permanently drained all of my and Christopher’s magic when we’d broken out of the compound. Though the name of the firm, and of Ember herself, was disconcerting, apparently the Sherwoods and the Pines were prolific, and not all branches of the family even knew each other.
How she might have been connected to Silver Pine was the first question I’d asked Ember. I hadn’t mentioned my connection to the black witch, of course. Specifically, that Silver Pine was one of the members of the Collective, and that while she was overseer in 2011, she had tried to kill me — kill all the Five. As a result, she’d died by my hand instead.
It wasn’t easy to murder me. Not when I saw it coming.
Using the umbrella of the oath that enforced her confidentiality in all the work she did for me, Ember had declared that she had no conflict of interest, and no connection to a Silver Pine or to the black witch’s immediate family.
Of course, in a magical family as widespread as the Pines or the Sherwoods, I was certain there were many blackened, even diseased branches.
I typed Information pertaining to an Aiden Myers into the subject line of the email.
Then, trying to decide how nonspecific I could be and still give the witch lawyer something to go on, I wrote:
Ember, I have happened upon a sorcerer who calls himself Aiden Myers. In his early thirties, dark hair, blue eyes, with tanned skin that might indicate a different ancestry than his last name implies.
I paused, fingers hovering over the iPad keyboard. I wasn’t certain how to phrase my core request, over email, to a lawyer.
Please reply with any information you deem pertinent to any continued contact with him.
Specifically, was he a threat who needed to be eliminated? But I didn’t need to add that. Ember Pine had drawn up five magical contracts for me, skillfully hiding my identity while ensuring that those who hired me couldn’t renege on payment if I completed the task the contract set forth.
Ember was also aware of some of what had happened when my last contract had been broken, when Christopher had to step in and rescue me. Because she’d sent an extraction team to the warehouse, which had arrived without engaging us just as we’d been leaving, the moment after the magic binding both parties was severed. As per our agreement. That was how skilled Ember was when it came to wielding her pen. The moment the sorcerer who’d contracted my services had tried to double-cross me, Ember had known.
I could have broken through the blood-fueled barrier that the sorcerers had held me with that night, but doing so would have killed the young witch they’d used to ignite and feed the containment spell. Harvesting her life force one drop at a time, in order to drain me of my magic.
I hadn’t stuck around to figure out their long-term plan. Most likely my death or my imprisonment.
After Christopher had freed me and we’d slaughtered every last sorcerer on site, I’d carried the young witch from the warehouse, half dead despite the magic I pumped into her. I’d left her in the care of Ember’s team. And then I hadn’t asked after her since, not wanting to draw more attention to her, no matter how often she strayed into my dreams.
It was odd that not murdering the young witch to save myself haunted me more than any of the lives I’d taken out of necessity or on command.
Ember had also handled all the paperwork when I’d purchased the Lake Cowichan property. She had drafted and now held my will, overseeing the estate that needed to be in place to look after Christopher should I die before him.
Seven years ago, I hadn’t known that I needed anything like a will, or magically binding contracts. The Five had been educated by the Collective, covering basic language and math skills, but everything else had been carefully curated as need to know. I had to be taught to drive, to read maps, understand directions, and deal with certain levels of technology, such as computers. I had been trained to mastery level in multiple weapons and martial arts disciplines, until I showed a skill and a preference for blades and mixed martial arts.
But other than children’s books as we were learning to read, I wasn’t given access to literature or history or anything the Collective considered the province of the mundanes.
I wasn’t taught to cook. I couldn’t do my laundry. I didn’t really know how to exchange goods for money, though I understood the process. YouTube turned out to be a valuable source of information about many mundane activities.
I added a thank you and my name to the email, then hit send.
Feeling utterly moronic when I h
ad first signed up for them, I took remedial classes at a number of community centers over the first two years when Christopher and I were figuring out how to function, how to hide among the mundanes. But when I’d shown up for the first class — Christopher had taken cooking, while I took a life skills class — I saw that everyone else was my age or older. So I didn’t feel so stupid, so ignorant. Apparently, everyone had gaps in their education.
Stretching the forty thousand dollars that Bee had sourced for us let us plug what holes we could in our education, including basic Spanish, and had let us get by on entry-level jobs. For me, that was cleaning. Christopher took up dishwashing, then cooking. And yes, I hadn’t had any idea how to actually clean a house. Those jobs allowed us to move regularly as we headed north along the west coast of South, Central, and North America, always trying to figure out if we still needed to run from the Collective.
I set the iPad to the side, sipping my tea and refocusing on my TV show. Yes, it had taken me seven years to get to the point of owning a home and trying to figure out who we were if we weren’t running from the Collective. And attraction or no attraction, I wasn’t going to let Aiden Myers disrupt everything I was building.
If his amnesia wouldn’t let him tell me what I needed to know about how he came to be in Lake Cowichan and who sent him, maybe Ember Pine could dig up something.
And then some decisions would have to be made.
Chapter 3
Christopher was stirring fresh linguini in a large pot of boiling water on the stove when I wandered back into the kitchen. I had changed into a dark floral sundress, pairing it with a light black cardigan because it was starting to cool off at night, and Christopher still wanted to eat with the patio doors open. I might have also brushed my hair. A lot. Until it fell in a thick gleaming sheaf down my back. I also heavily considered applying what little makeup I owned, but settled for clear gloss with just the hint of a glimmer.
“You look nice,” Christopher murmured, though he hadn’t actually looked up at me.
I stepped around him, pulling the glass pitcher I usually used for iced tea out from the cabinet over the dishwasher, then filling it with water. I carried it and three matching glasses to the table, which Christopher had already set with plates, napkins, and utensils. I set out the glasses, pouring the water.
With the sun in the process of setting in a deep wash of oranges, the yard and the far edges of the back patio were cast in shadow. I flicked on the patio light for what I realized was the very first time, and was surprised to find it worked. Then I allowed myself a glance at the clock on the stainless steel exhaust fan over the stove.
7:05 p.m.
He wasn’t coming.
Paisley appeared out of the shadowed yard, skulking up the back steps and brushing past my legs with a grumble. She prowled around the kitchen, circling the island and continuing to voice her discontent in a series of snorts.
“She wanted chicken,” Christopher said, tossing the pasta under running water in the sink, then dumping the contents of the dripping strainer into a large bowl. He carried the bowl and a smaller pot over to the table, placing both on the quilted potholders set in the center. Another bowl covered with a tea towel was already on the table, along with a green salad.
We sat down at our usual places across from each other. Christopher passed me tongs. I pinched a serving of steaming pasta, allowing it to pool on my plate. I passed the tongs back to Christopher, lifting the top off the pot.
The smell of creamy garlic-and-tomato sauce wafted out. I took a generous scoop of the sauce and poured it over the pasta on my plate.
Paisley paced around the table, knocking her shoulder against the chair nearest the open French-paned patio doors.
“That’s enough,” I admonished gently, reaching over to discover that the tea towel hid thick slices of garlic bread.
I smiled at Christopher. He bobbed his head, already twirling a bite of the pasta on his fork.
Paisley huffed out a long dramatic sigh, pacing out to the patio.
Aiden wasn’t coming, wasn’t joining us for dinner. I was oddly relieved.
I tore a hunk from the garlic bread, dipped it in the creamy tomato sauce that had slid over the pasta and onto my plate, then took a bite. “Very good. Thank you.”
“Thank you for staying, for not making us run.”
I nodded but didn’t meet his gaze. I hadn’t ruled out running as a possibility yet. But Christopher already knew that.
“There’s apple crisp for dessert.”
That got my attention. “Did you try making ice cream?”
“I did.”
With the eggs from the chickens. Our chickens. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Footsteps drew my attention to the back patio. The sorcerer’s magic was so muted that I hadn’t picked it up until he was only steps away.
Aiden paused in the doorway, narrowing his striking blue eyes until they grew accustomed to the light level.
My stomach squelched, then fluttered. But I ignored my reaction and kept my gaze on him, steady. Even if Christopher had caught a glimpse of him joining us for dinner, Aiden was a complete unknown.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” The sorcerer’s voice was full of gravel. He’d been sleeping, but had changed out of the suit into the jeans and the charcoal henley, leaving the top two buttons undone. I dragged my gaze away from the hint of dark chest hair this revealed.
Aiden stepped forward, hesitating at the chair that Paisley had knocked off kilter. It was obvious that he would have preferred to not have his back to the doors, open or closed.
Christopher gestured to his right, offering up the other chair. Aiden crossed around the table. I tried to not track his movement as he passed behind me. He didn’t brush against my chair, but for a brief moment, I wished he had.
My emotions were getting idiotically out of hand. I was going to make a fool of myself, if I hadn’t already. I didn’t get to have crushes, and doing so with an unknown entity like the sorcerer was beyond idiotic. It put everything we were building in jeopardy.
Aiden settled to my left, immediately unfolding his cloth napkin and placing it across his lap. He scanned the food, his gaze settling on the fourth plate, but he didn’t comment on it. He served himself.
Christopher and I continued to eat in silence.
Paisley, half-hidden in the shadows on the back patio, threw her head back and let out an undulating howl.
Aiden flinched.
“That’s enough,” I said, firmer this time. “Join us or don’t eat.”
Paisley stepped inside, skulking up to the table and standing so that just the top of her head, eyes, and ears were visible over the top. She stared at Aiden.
He froze with a piece of garlic bread halfway to his mouth.
Christopher reached over, dropping three-quarters of the remaining pasta and three scoops of sauce on the fourth plate. “Take it with you.”
Paisley grumbled.
Christopher added two pieces of garlic bread to the plate.
Paisley, still glowering at Aiden, took the edge of the plate in her mouth and pulled it off the table.
The sorcerer suddenly looked far more alert than he had just a moment before. He ate the garlic bread, but didn’t take his eyes off the demon dog.
Paisley skulked out onto the patio, perfectly balancing the plate. She stepped to the right, settling down just out of sight.
“I didn’t know if you ate meat,” Christopher said, speaking to Aiden. As if that would explain Paisley’s undoglike behavior.
“I’m grateful to share your table and your meal,” Aiden said, not answering Christopher’s implicit question.
I tucked the tea towel back over the garlic bread, then rolled another bite of pasta in my fork.
Aiden tracked the movements of my hands.
I quashed the urge to ask if he could see magic. That wasn’t a common trait. But I was already all but certain that Aiden’s magic was uncommon, powerful.
Why else would someone have taken the trouble to drain it?
“He didn’t check the food for poison,” Christopher said.
Aiden paused, glancing up at him, then over at me. He slowly resumed chewing the bite he’d just taken.
“Why would Aiden think you’ve poisoned him?” I asked patiently, just in case Christopher’s clairvoyance was leaking.
“Well … you know, he’s that type of sorcerer.”
Aiden took a sip of water. “What type is that?”
Christopher tilted his head, plainly befuddled that he needed to clarify. “The type that someone would strip the magic from.”
Ah. Apparently in some timeline, I’d actually asked the question I hadn’t figured out how to articulate, since I had made it clear that I wasn’t to be questioned about my or Christopher’s magic. And Aiden had rather heroically managed to not interrogate us about Paisley. Yet.
Aiden raised an eyebrow. “Evil?”
Christopher frowned, looking at me.
“Dark,” I said, clarifying. Good and evil weren’t the sort of distinctions any of the Five made.
“Dastardly.” Christopher grinned. “Devious.”
I looked at my plate. “The kind you’d want at your side in a fight.”
“But not at your back,” Christopher said.
“Don’t you mean front? Not facing in a fight?” Aiden asked, seemingly not at all thrown by the turn in the conversation.
Christopher laughed. “If you were facing Socks in a fight, you wouldn’t be standing long. The only reliable way to drop her is to sneak up.”
I glanced at Aiden. He had stopped eating again, watching me instead and clearly conflicted as he tried to reconcile Christopher’s description of me with the woman who sat before him.
He looked down at his plate, taking another bite. “I don’t plan on sneaking up on either of you.”
“Oh,” Christopher said brightly, “that wouldn’t work with me anyway. I’m most dangerous up close.” He eyed me. “Though I suppose you are too, Socks.”
Demons and DNA (Amplifier 1) Page 6
