Deadline (Blood Trails Book 1)

by Jennifer Blackstream

  I was halfway through the bowl and starting to feel normal, when a streak of pink shot across the room, and Peasblossom crash-landed on the table. She hit the bread bowl and sent the bread flying into the air, then bounced off the table and landed in a pile of mismatched buttons.

  Mother Hazel caught the pieces of bread one by one, not taking her gaze from her soup. She replaced them in the now-cracked bowl and kept eating.

  I stared into my soup, keeping my eyes open wide to prevent any more tears from falling.

  “Shade!” Peasblossom gasped. “I’m back!” She paused with a button in her hand. “You’re having dinner without me?”

  I held out a piece of bread, without looking up. Peasblossom flew to the offering, took it, sat down, and munched away. She lasted twenty seconds. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I found out?”

  I ate another spoonful of soup. “What did you find out?”

  “Well, I can’t find the rusalka alibi at the Hemington Agency. Apparently, she left to have a swim back to her family. But I found out other stuff…” She swallowed her bite of bread and contemplated me with narrowed eyes. “That is not the attitude I expected. What’s wrong with you?”

  If I knew what was good for me, I’d fake it. I’d smile at her, flatter her a little, get her to tell me what she’d found out. But the rage was gone, and the tears had taken what energy I had left. I was too tired to pretend. “Flint came to see me.”

  I must have looked worse than I thought. Peasblossom didn’t swoon, didn’t complain she’d missed him. She landed in front of me, by my bowl of soup.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” I clenched my teeth and stared into the chowder while I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat. “I was so stupid. I should had made him leave as soon as he got there. Demons take it, I should have left. I knew how powerful he was, knew what he’d try to do. He made me look like an idiot, like an incompetent…witchling.”

  Peasblossom’s pink eyes widened. She looked at Mother Hazel, but my mentor remained silent, eating her soup as if she didn’t hear us at all.

  “You’re not a witchling,” the pixie said. “You’re a proper witch. And a private investigator. You can do this. And I can help.”

  “I was unforgivably stupid. He peeled the protection potion off me as easily as though he were slipping off a pair of panties.”

  Peasblossom’s eyes almost bugged out of her head, and I scowled. “Don’t look at me like that. My panties remained where they should be. It was just a kiss, but he played me, played me when I should have been too smart for that.” I glared at my spoon. “Then there's the bomb. My reputation isn’t even strong enough to discourage—”

  “A bomb?”

  I grabbed the spoon, wishing it was a knife. “Someone set a trap right outside the garage. I set it off when I drove over it, and if I’d been going a little slower, it would have gone off with me right on top of it.” Images of my three suspects fanned out like playing cards in my head, and I tightened my grip on the spoon. “I don’t know who did it.”

  Peasblossom put her tiny hands on mine and leaned in with excitement bright in her eyes. “Dabria went to see Isai again.” Her voice dropped to an excited whisper. “And you won’t believe what she did.”

  I dropped the spoon, and the chowder swallowed it in a creamy hug. “What?”

  “She tortured Isai.”

  I fell back in my seat, forgot it was a bench, and tipped backward. Heart pounding, I grabbed the edge of the table and hung on, keeping myself upright. The oak table was heavier than some cars, and remained still despite my tugging. Mother Hazel took another piece of bread from the bowl and continued eating her soup.

  “Tell me,” I urged Peasblossom, when my breath came back enough for me to speak. “Give me the details.”

  “I followed Dabria to this event where Isai and Vera were setting up for some charity. She strung him up with magic and screamed at him that he better tell Anton where the book is. Said she wasn’t going to die because he’s stupid enough to steal from the vampire.” Her eyes widened. “She cut him. With swords. Two of them—she was spinning them like pinwheels!”

  “Is he dead?” I asked.

  “No. Vera stepped in, made Dabria stop. Got cut for her trouble, too. Anton will be furious.”

  “Did Isai admit anything?”

  Peasblossom leaned forward again, and her hand slipped on part of the rim coated with chowder. She slipped and fell with a squeak, catching herself on the bottom of the bowl. I’d eaten most of it, so the remainder only came to her elbow. I offered her a napkin to clean herself up, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “No, he didn’t confess anything. He screamed at her, saying he didn’t have the book.” Peasblossom pulled herself out of the bowl, her arm coated in soup, and looked at me with a new level of severity. “Foxglove says he said a lot of really, really, really bad words.”

  My head spun as my brain tried to organize the new information, to process it with what I already knew. “Why would Dabria torture Isai?”

  Peasblossom licked the potato soup off her hand, then wrinkled her nose. “Ew. You put clams in it.”

  “You said she told him she doesn’t want to die. Obviously she thinks Anton believes she took the book. But why?” I dangled the napkin in front of her, urging her to clean herself up. “I have no evidence on her. More than anyone, all suspicion against her is circumstantial, based only on what she’s capable of. We know she could have known about the book from Isai, and she has the skill to get past the traps. But there’s no proof. She wasn’t seen anywhere near the building, wasn’t caught talking to anyone connected with the vault.”

  “Maybe Anton found more evidence on her?” Peasblossom offered, wiping her hand on my napkin.

  “Then why wouldn’t he tell me?”

  “Maybe it’s a trick.”

  I glanced down and blinked. She was sitting with her body wrapped around a small cup of honey, the size of a shot glass. I pressed my lips together and narrowed my eyes at Mother Hazel. “She hasn’t had dinner yet.”

  My mentor gave me the look grandmothers give mothers when they’ve indulged a grandchild the way they never would have indulged their own offspring, then resumed eating her soup as if she’d done nothing.

  “Maybe she tortured Isai to make everyone think she didn’t do it, that she thought he did it and she wanted him to admit it before she got killed by accident,” Peasblossom said.

  “If she got killed for it, it wouldn’t be an accident,” I muttered. “It doesn’t make sense she’d be that worried unless Anton knows something I don’t.” I hesitated, then looked at Mother Hazel. “Is there any way to recover information Anton tranced me to forget?” I’d asked a similar question of Dominique, but though the woman was powerful, there was no comparison to my mentor. I had no idea why Anton might trance me to forget something about Dabria, but then, I didn’t pretend to understand how the undead master’s mind worked.

  Mother Hazel swallowed her soup. “If he tranced you to forget something, a psychic could search your memory for gray spots. Vampires don’t erase memories, they blanket them in a very strong sort of hesitation spell.”

  “So could a psychic help me get those memories back?”

  “You’d be hard-pressed to find one who will try. Perhaps with a lesser vampire, but with one such as the prince of Dacia, chances of doing irreparable damage would be too great.” She pointed at me with her spoon. “Do you recall last fall when Carter ate his sucker while wearing that cheap, lacy Tinkerbell costume?”

  I winced. “Yes. No one noticed the bits of candy stuck to the lace till they’d dried.”

  “Indeed. And when his mother tried to pull the hard candy off the lace, she tore it to shreds.”

  “And his sister cut the lace off and used it to make a dead bride costume for the Day of the Dead celebration a few days later.”

  Mother Hazel smiled at that, then grew serious again. “Think of that Tinkerbell
lace as your mind and that piece of sucker as the information you’re trying to get.”

  My stomach rolled. “I see.” I looked at Peasblossom. “Did Isai admit anything? Accuse Dabria of anything? Did he say anything?”

  Peasblossom licked honey from her lips, smacking them happily. “Yes. A lot of really, really bad—”

  “Besides the bad words.”

  She shook her head. “No. He kept screaming he didn’t do it, and calling Dabria a lot of—”

  “Really bad words.” I retrieved the spoon from the bottom of my bowl and absent-mindedly licked it clean. If Dabria wasn’t putting on an act, then someone had made her feel like the prime suspect. And she believed Isai was the real thief. Isai had been going around to other wizards, trying to find someone to help him break a ward. Perhaps he did have the book.

  It was even possible he’d gone to Dabria for help. She’d been breaking wards to steal from other magic users for centuries. Perhaps he’d promised her entrance to Serafina’s if she would help him. If he could open the book, chances were that he could force Anton to have the wards on Serafina’s castle lowered. If Dabria refused him, maybe he’d threatened her. He could have said he’d tell Anton that Dabria did it, fabricate evidence.

  But if Dabria feared Isai was framing her, couldn’t she have gone to Anton and told him Isai had the book, told him Isai had asked for her help opening it? If she didn’t know the vampire had sealed the castle at his wife’s vehement behest, then she wouldn’t know that ratting out Isai wouldn’t get her access. Or maybe she was sneakier than that.

  “It could have been a stunt to throw off suspicion,” I said. “Which would mean there is evidence out there somewhere, something to make her think I’ll find out it’s her.”

  “They might have planned it together,” Peasblossom offered.

  I tapped the spoon on my lip. They could have planned it together, set the scene to make them both appear innocent—Dabria for being frightened, and Isai because if he had the book, surely he would give it up under torture, to save his life?

  A headache throbbed at the base of my skull. There were too many possibilities. I needed evidence. Physical evidence.

  Like a fresh crime scene.

  Mother Hazel arched an eyebrow as I fell off the bench in my haste to get up, but she said nothing as I scrambled to my feet and bolted for the door. Peasblossom shouted as she struggled to take her honey with her, then gave up with a curse and flew after me. She pinned herself to my head like a mangled bobby pin and continued grousing about her abandoned honey as I paused in my old bedroom to retrieve my bike. The contraption was old and rusting in more than one place, and I said a small prayer of thanks that the wheels hadn’t gone flat. Mother Hazel watched me push it out the door without a word.

  “Stupid, stupid,” I murmured, climbing onto the bike as soon as I was off the porch. “A fresh crime scene and I left it.”

  “You left the sidhe,” Peasblossom snapped. “He just happened to be at the crime scene.”

  “True.” I bit my lip. I had a scroll in my pouch somewhere, I knew I did. It had a spell for tracking teleportation. And it was beyond my skills. I pedaled faster.

  “You ran a stop sign.”

  “I’m on a bike.”

  Peasblossom clucked her tongue. “You’re still supposed to stop at stop signs.”

  I ignored the small stab of guilt. Peasblossom was right. But then, the only person I was going to hurt on a bike was myself. And right now, I didn’t care.

  I lived on a quiet residential street lined with mostly small one-story houses with good-sized yards an almost mandatory gardens. I stared down the street, straining to see my driveway, scanning the sky for any sign of smoke that would suggest the fire had survived my water spell. I wasn’t too worried. I couldn’t leave my car lights on without someone popping by to let me know, a fire would have been reported long before it became dangerous.

  Peasblossom rolled over on my head, propping her chin on her elbow and digging her bony joint into my scalp. “I don’t see what the big hurry is. The spell won’t work anyway. It’s way over your head.”

  “I appreciate your vote of confidence.” My nerves twisted a little tighter, a silent acknowledgment that the pixie was right. Tracing a teleportation spell was not something I’d ever attempted before. The focus it required, the complicated weaving of different energies…

  “And the trail will be cold. Even for a properly trained witch, it would be difficult.”

  “Another vote of priceless encouragement, thank you.”

  The pixie scooted forward and hung down over my forehead, blocking my vision enough to make me swerve. “Peasblossom!”

  “What if Flint is still there?” she demanded.

  With my heart lodged in my throat, I righted the bike and turned into my driveway, pulse racing both from that hair-raising moment of driving blindness and Peasblossom’s mention of the leannan sidhe. “He’s not here. He had no reason to stick around, especially since he must have heard the bomb go off.” I gritted my teeth. “And if he is here, I’ve got another handful of frost for him.”

  “Another handful of frost?”

  I didn’t explain. The last thing I needed was for Peasblossom to know how I’d escaped Flint. It was just the sort of thing she’d find amusing enough to share with others, and nobody spread the word like pixies.

  Despite my claim of confidence, I couldn’t help but glance at my front door and hope I was right. If Flint was there, he’d be ready for me this time. I didn’t think he’d fall for the same trick twice. Next time, we’ll see how he likes fire.

  I got off the bike and left it in the yard before approaching the circle of charred stones in my driveway. Based on the damage, it seemed like the force of the bomb had gone straight up, but it had still blackened a solid circle of the pale gray gravel beneath it. I glanced around, searching for debris, but I didn’t look too hard. I knew nothing about bombs. I dug in my pouch for the scroll, shoving aside a pair of gloves, a pillowcase, and a shower curtain ring.

  “I have a pretty good idea who did this, and if I’m right, she teleported here.” No sorceress would tolerate those construction cones if she didn’t have to.

  “Dabria probably teleports everywhere,” Peasblossom agreed. She flew over my head, hovering a few inches below the top edge of my garage, staring at the blackened wood. She dipped, worry pinching her delicate features.

  I didn’t need telepathy to guess what she was thinking. “I’m fine,” I said gently.

  She crossed her arms and looked away, hiding whatever emotion was on her face. “I know. Just do your spell.”

  Affection warmed my chest at the gruffness in her voice, but I let her have her privacy. The scroll felt heavy as I lifted it from the pouch and turned my thoughts to the spell. I took a deep breath and knelt down. The parchment of the scroll weighed against the pads of my fingers like the dry, scaly hide of a lizard, so different than the modern paper I was used to holding now. I used that tactile difference to adjust my frame of mind, imagining I was the condescending old wizard who’d traded it. Think like an arrogant old coot.

  Just as Mother Hazel had trained me, I read the scroll several times, so I could say the spell out loud without tripping over the words. I spoke clearly and loudly. Sometimes, confidence was the difference between success and failure.

  And sometimes, confidence didn’t do squat.

  CHAPTER 15

  The snapping sensation against my tongue warned me something was wrong. The energy of the words fought the restraint of my voice, fought against being forced into the shape I needed them to be. Tiny pricks of pain against my vocal cords made me wince, slurred my syllables. I faltered.

  The writing on the scroll caught fire, searing silver light crackling with veins of gold burning an impression on my vision like a brand. The magic flowed from the parchment, up my arms, then bored into my brain with all the delicate care of an electric cattle prod. I choked on a breath, my body sei
zing as I tried to hold my concentration, keep the image of how I wanted the spell to work in my mind. The picture I had of the magic flowing over the surrounding area, highlighting in brilliant mercury any spot where someone teleported to or from, erupted with blinding white cracks. It shattered like a scene viewed in a mirror, the energy snapping the bonds of my control, exploding outward.

  Gravel launched into the air like popcorn. Only instead of a fluffy snack, it rained down small stones. Small, heavy stones.

  Boulders if you were a pixie.

  “Aaahhh!” Peasblossom shouted. She dove into the garage, gossamer wings a blur as she rushed to escape being crushed by the hail of rocks.

  I swore in Old Sanguenayan and covered my head and neck. Rocks pelted my back and arms, pain sparking everywhere they landed, an occasional hit against bone drawing hisses and more bad language. By the time it finished, I felt like one huge bruise. As did my pride.

  “I told you it wouldn’t work. But did you listen? Noooo…”

  Peasblossom glared at me from her perch on the garage door opener. As I forced myself to my feet, she slid down the manual release cord and planted her feet on the plastic handle. Her movements set the cord to swinging, making it more difficult to keep glowering at me, but she did her best.

  “You almost crushed me!”

  I fished a rock out of the mock turtleneck of my shirt where it protruded from my jacket and threw it over my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. You could have been hurt and it’s my fault. I should have protected you first. Are you all right?”

  Peasblossom’s wings drooped, the fire of her tirade stolen by my premature capitulation. “Yes,” she grumbled. She stuck her chin out. “You’ll listen next time, won’t you?”