by Lila Dubois
However, there were a few major cities that had long ago been declared the territory of a particular cabal or coven.
His coven had controlled Chicago since the great fire, which had been the aftermath of two dipshits from Scamall and Saol getting into a magical pissing contest. The cow wasn’t even a good cover story, but the non-magical population of the city accepted that and ran with it.
Scamall covens had won control of most of the Great Lakes, and Chicago was now the headquarters for several Scamall covens, including his family’s, and the Scamall cabal itself.
And people thought they called it the Windy City because of the politicians or the weather.
The lack of destructive event didn’t mean Harris hadn’t been taken by another witch. It just meant he hadn’t been taken by a practitioner from Scamall or Salachar. The destructive interaction only happened when the practitioners were from different cabals.
“Mr. Barclay, does your coven have any enemies, any other Saol covens you’ve had problems with?”
Another angry silence, though this one only lasted a few seconds.
“Mr. Dixon.” Fitz Barclay’s voice could have cut glass. “I have no idea what you people do in Scamall, but the Saol covens do not attack one another.”
You people?
The wall at Trajan’s back was floor-to-ceiling glass. The view wasn’t anything to talk about, only the street forty floors below and a forest of equally tall buildings. The wind whipped through the urban canyon, howling like a banshee and making the building sway ever so slightly. The plastic of the phone receiver groaned and cracked under his fingers.
“Control yourself.” The phone was yanked from his hand. A slender finger calmly pressed the speaker button.
Trajan pushed back from the desk, turning to look out the window. He closed his eyes, which he was sure held azure fire, and reached out, through the glass, to the swirling air. It danced around him, cold and powerful. He relaxed, and as he did the gusts calmed to the normal Chicago wind.
He turned back around and looked up at his cousin. Iris was a creature of ice and wind, her body seeming to emanate power.
He winced internally. She was family. He shouldn’t think of her as a “creature.”
Her gaze met his, and he looked away first. It was hard to look at Iris. She had one cobalt blue eye, and one black. Not a dark brown, but an iris of true black. The heterochromia wasn’t the result of a genetic mutation. A thin scar ran from just above her black eye, straight up into her hairline, and where the scar touched scalp, a streak of black hair stood out stark against the white-blond of the rest. Her eyebrows were also black, startlingly so against her pale skin.
There was the sound of someone clearing his throat, and Trajan looked back at the phone.
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Barclay said.
Iris arched one eyebrow, but she was looking at the phone, not Trajan. That hadn’t exactly been an apology. Trajan stayed silent, letting Fitz Barclay either dig the hole deeper or climb out all on his own.
“I called you because you’ve done good work for us in the past. I need Harris found, and found quickly.”
Trajan grabbed his notepad and looked down at what he’d scribbled so far. “Have there been any ransom demands?”
“No.”
“Does Harris have any bad habits?”
“No.”
“Fitz, I know this may not be something you’d want to discuss with an outsider, but if Harris has a drug or alcohol problem, I need to know about it. His disappearance may be related to that.”
“No, Trajan. He does not.”
They were back to a first-name basis, which was a good sign. Iris grabbed the pad from him and scribbled something before handing it back. Trajan took the paper and then read what she’d written. “Please send me the names and phone numbers of the relatives he’s closest to. I’ll need to speak with them directly.”
Another silence, this one tense, not angry. Trajan could feel the baron wanting to say there was no need, that no one in his coven would keep information from him.
Luckily, the man seemed to be a realist, because he rattled off a list of names and numbers.
“Thank you, Fitz.”
“How soon will you get to Montana?”
It would be nice to spend one night in his own bed. Just one night. “I’ll leave later today.”
Once more Iris grabbed the pad of paper. Trajan glanced at the note and then rolled his eyes. Iris raised her brows and rubbed her fingers together in the universal sign for money.
Trajan cleared his throat. “I’ll send over the contract now, and then let you know my arrival time. I’ll need either specific directions to the location of the abduction, or a guide. Preferably a non-practitioner.”
Most covens had employees or family friends who weren’t. What no one admitted openly was that sometimes those family friends were actually distant relations who were powerless.
“I will send you GPS coordinates when I send back the contract. I trust you’ll be able to find your way on your own?”
“Yes. Please keep your coven members away from the area.”
Barclay hmphed. “Use your skills sparingly; I don’t want our crops disturbed.”
Find my nephew, but don’t mess up my plants while you do it.
Priorities.
“I’ll email you soon, Fitz. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
When the line went dead, Iris picked up the cracked receiver, looked at it, sighed, and then placed it in the cradle. “Expensive phone?” Trajan asked.
“And new, too. All our lines are now digital VPN.”
Iris was unique, remarkable even, in that she was both a scarily powerful witch and technologically savvy. And that was on top of being a skilled investigator, interrogator, and ruthless businessperson.
He knew how she’d ended up like this, but it was still sometimes hard to reconcile the girl Iris had been with the woman she was now.
Trajan nodded sagely. “Ah yes, digital VPN. I was just telling Tiber that’s what we needed.”
“Leave me out of this!” his cousin called from the hall.
“Stop listening at the door, you dumb fuck,” Trajan yelled back.
“But we want to know what’s going on!” Jezebel yelled.
Iris turned and in two steps shut the door. There was a chorus of disappointed sounds from the hallway.
“There are too many cousins,” Trajan said darkly.
Iris smiled as she turned. She wore black pants, a black shirt, and a white jacket. When she’d been younger, before “the incident” as the family called it, she’d favored flowing blue dresses and lots of jangling silver jewelry. She’d looked an artist’s rendering of a Nordic witch, and would occasionally even put a glittery snowflake sticker on her cheek like a beauty mark.
Now she wore only black and white and was the powerful, reserved CEO of Dixon Securities.
“Sometimes it seems that way,” Iris agreed.
Trajan recounted the conversation up to the point that she’d come in and put it on speakerphone. Midway through she relaxed enough to half-sit on the edge of his desk. “It’s odd that he came directly to you.”
“Is it?” Trajan settled deeper into his chair. Since he was going to have to get up and leave it soon, he wanted to make the most of the time he did have with the ergonomic leather beauty. “If the situation were reversed and you needed help from someone outside our coven—hell, outside our cabal—would you use official channels?”
“Fair enough, and you’ve done work for them before.” Iris rubbed the eyebrow above her black eye. “Make sure you charge him appropriately.”
“You mean charge him a lot.”
“Do you like what we pay you?”
“It keeps me in burgers and beer.”
Iris snorted. “Good luck, Tray. You don’t have much time, so have someone help you with your travel arrangements.”
“Fine.” He scowled at the closed offi
ce door. “I’ll ask Jez.”
“Not if you need to actually get there today. I’ll send Sarah.” Sarah was Iris’s personal assistant, and a normal human. She’d been hired away from a law firm, promised better hours and more money in exchange for her ruthless organization skills and discretion. Because she worked so closely with Iris, she was well aware that the services Dixon Securities provided relied on some extra-human capabilities. She either didn’t care or had become so jaded by what she saw working with lawyers that a boss who could probably level the city with a windstorm wasn’t even a blip on her radar.
“Thanks, Iris.”
She nodded and walked to the door, placing her hand on the knob.
A gust of wind howled past the building, so strong it sounded almost like a human scream.
Trajan jumped to his feet and whirled to the window, pressing the palm of his hand on the glass. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses. A second later he felt Iris join him at the glass.
He quested with his senses, trying to identify who had called that wind. It could be a sign of emotional or physical distress in one of their family members, or an indication that there was trouble brewing in one of the other wind-witch covens in Chicago.
“I don’t feel anyone,” he said aloud.
“No…it’s not coming from someone.”
Trajan turned to look at his cousin. Her head was tipped back, eyes open. She stared skyward, but her gaze was unfocused. Her blue eye glowed faintly.
“What is it?” he asked.
She didn’t respond.
His office door opened and Tiber, Jez, and a few other family members pressed in. He motioned for them to stay back and stay quiet. Finally Iris’s eyes slid closed.
“Iris?” Trajan stretched out his arms, ready to catch her if she collapsed.
She shook her head. “I need to call the High Magus.”
The tense silence that followed rippled with fear.
“What is it?” Trajan asked again.
Iris sighed. “That’s the problem. I don’t know.” She turned to face the family. “It wasn’t anyone in our coven who conjured that wind.”
Jez leaned against Tiber. “An omen?”
“Possibly,” Iris conceded. “I will talk to the High Magus, ask what the Harbingers have said.”
Jez went pale at the mention of the Harbingers.
“Be careful.” Iris pitched her voice so low only Trajan could hear.
“You think this has something to do with the missing Saol witch?”
“I’m not sure, but I think…I think that was a Wind of Change.” She whispered the last words, as if scared to speak them aloud.
A Wind of Change?
Oh. “Oh.”
“Exactly,” she confirmed.
Trajan looked longingly at his chair. The chair he would not spend the day sitting in while staring at the wall. “Well, fuck.”
Iris let out an inelegant laugh that would have been called a snort if she weren’t so ladylike. “Well, fuck, indeed.”
Chapter 3
Well, they weren’t planning to starve him to death.
Harris rolled over in the deliciously comfortable bed and watched as the hatch on the bottom of his cell door opened and a fancy tray was slid into his room. The dishes were covered with silver tops as if it were hotel room-service delivery, but the silverware was plastic.
It was the second such meal he’d received.
After tossing back the covers, he picked up the tray and carried it back to the bed. Whatever drug they’d used when they kidnapped him was finally wearing off.
He propped up the pillows and sat back against them, tray on his lap. Breakfast food, as he suspected. Though there were no windows in the large concrete cell, his internal clock was telling him it was morning. He poked through the scrambled eggs and veggies, but everything had been well cooked and the tomatoes had been seeded. Whoever his captors were, they knew enough about his magic to know that he might be able to coax life from a seed or a raw plant product.
He should probably be more afraid than he was. Right now he was lethargic and hungry. After a few bites of food, he forced himself to stop just lying there thinking. Time to start doing something about his current situation.
The last thing he clearly remembered was working with a field of rapeseed. That had been Tuesday just before sunset. He looked down at his half-eaten breakfast. Was it Wednesday morning? No, that didn’t seem right. More time had passed. There were other things he remembered, though those were hazy and he wasn’t sure what was a memory and what had been a dream. He’d slept deeply and soundly last night, an experience that was novel for him.
The more he thought about it, the more he was sure that he hadn’t been gone for a single night. It had been longer. He’d been in a car, then a plane. Or had that been one of the dreams?
Another hatch in the cell door opened. This one was midway up, and square, unlike the large rectangular one near the floor.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Barclay?”
That voice. He recognized that voice. Who was it?
The girl.
He was ninety percent sure that the girl had been real. If his memory could be trusted, she’d run into him when he walked out of the rapeseed. He remembered feeling something sharp near his neck and spinning around. She’d fallen back, a slender young woman with dark hair and pale gray eyes the color of slate.
He’d dreamed about her.
Considering his current predicament, she probably hadn’t run into him, but rather attacked him. That stabbing feeling must have been a needle. She’d drugged him.
“Is there any point in asking you to let me go?” He put some eggs onto a bit of waffle and then dunked the whole thing in syrup before eating it. No one could see what he was doing, so he could go nuts.
“I want to let you go, and I will, if you help me with something first.” Her voice was contrite and soft.
“If you wanted my help, kidnapping me may not have been the way to go.”
There was a pregnant silence, and when she spoke again her voice had lost most of the contriteness. “I’m sorry, but I think you’ll understand why it had to be this way, for both our sakes.”
Harris shrugged, aware she couldn’t see him, and took another bite. He should probably be more freaked out than he was. He’d been kidnapped, after all.
Except the cell they’d put him in was designed for comfort. There was an en-suite bathroom. The bed was more enjoyable than what he had at home, and there was a small bookcase filled with reading material and a nice arm chair.
If not for the fact that he’d been sleeping most of the time he’d been in this room, he would have practically considered it a vacation.
“What day is it?” he asked.
“It’s Thursday. I’m sorry about that. You reacted to the medicine we gave you more strongly than anticipated.”
“Medicine. Right.” He ate more eggs.
“I’m sorry, Harris.” The woman was back to sounding genuinely worried. “I couldn’t risk you attacking me again. I had to keep you asleep.”
“Attacking you?” Even as he asked the question he remembered more about that night.
Holy crap, he’d used magic to attack her.
“Are you okay?” He set the tray aside and went to the door, bending to peer out the hatch.
Outside his cell door was a concrete hall. More artificial light. Nothing living, except the woman, who must have been standing off to the side, just out of sight. He was able to pinpoint her because of her voice.
“Don’t,” she pleaded.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be nice.”
Harris rubbed his head. “You’ve said that before.”
“How much do you remember?”
“It’s coming back, bit by bit. What did you give me?”
“Ketamine.”
“Horse tranquilizer?” His voice was pitched a bit higher than normal.
“Only a
little bit.”
“Oh, well, in that case.”
The apology disappeared from her voice. “You were smiling the whole time.”
“I was high as a kite. No wonder I’m so relaxed.” And no wonder he’d had such vivid dreams.
“You’re relaxed?” Now she sounded relieved. “That’s good.”
Harris leaned against the wall, starting to enjoy the conversation. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d still prefer not to be a prisoner.”
“Right.” Her tone firmed. “Let’s talk about that. I need your help. Agree to help me and I’ll let you go.”
“I want to believe you.” He retreated to the bed and went back to eating breakfast.
“But?”
“But you kidnapped me instead of asking me for help.”
“I had to. For both our sakes.”
“You kidnapped me to help me?”
“Yes.”
Harris laughed. “Maybe I’m still a little drugged, but I’m having a hard time taking this whole situation seriously.”
“Please, Mr. Barclay, this is very serious. It’s life or death.”
Harris’s fork stopped halfway to this mouth. Life or death? He looked down at the food. Had she poisoned it? Maybe she had, and she’d give him the antidote only if he helped her.
“Wait! Wait, that’s not how I meant it.” She made a frustrated sound. “For me it’s life or death. All I need is a little bit of your time, and your magic.”
Harris took a sip of water from the bottle included on the tray. “Magic? Lady, you must be high—there’s no such thing as magic.”
“Mr. Barclay, I know.”
Harris sighed. It had been a weak attempt at secrecy. The magical community didn’t actively try to hide. There was no need. Most of the population was so unwilling to even entertain the idea of magic that they would never believe it, even if they saw it happening before their eyes. Oh, sure, people enjoyed illusionists and stage magic, but deep down they knew it was a trick.
Humanity’s willful ignorance aside, that didn’t mean it was a good idea to go around making full-grown trees spring up in the middle of a parking lot. One of his cousins had done that.
“Harris,” he said. “Call me Harris, and you’re…Kim, right?”
