The Shatterproof Magician (The Inscrutable Paris Beaufont Book 4)

by Sarah Noffke

  “Says the man with the surname ‘Noble,’” Uncle John said with a belly laugh. He pointed at Hemingway. “I like this guy so much that I gave him my best fly fishing tips.”

  Paris huffed. “You don’t even tell me your fly fishing tips.”

  “I also don’t take you fly fishing,” he muttered and cupped his hand to his mouth, whispering loudly to Hemingway. “She talks…a lot.”

  Paris shook her head. “That’s fine. I’m leaving you at home when I go…well, I have no idea where I’d go without you. You’re so damn well-behaved.”

  Uncle John nodded good-naturedly. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve always tried not to embarrass you, Pare.”

  She caught Hemingway smiling fondly at her and Uncle John. “What is it?”

  Realizing that she’d caught him, Hemingway glanced down and dug in the container he’d been working on when they entered. “Oh, nothing.”

  “What is it?” she pursued.

  Hemingway didn’t look up, just continued to dig around in the pot. “Nothing. You seem like such a loner but seeing you with your uncle, well, it makes you seem…”

  “Human,” Paris supplied.

  To her surprise, Uncle John chuckled. “I know you two are friends, so I’ll tell you, Hemingway, that when Paris came along, we all lost it.”

  Paris tensed, thinking he was about to tell how her existence brought great evil to the world, hungry for her. Instead, he smiled wide.

  “I’d seen extraordinary magic and humanity clinging onto its very existence,” Uncle John continued. “I’d thought I’d seen it all.” He gave Paris one of the most sentimental looks she’d witnessed on his face. “It wasn’t until we all laid eyes on Guinevere Paris Beaufont that we saw the magic of a real human. Soft like a fairy. Strong like a magician. And full of fire. I can’t think of any better mixture.” He nodded at Hemingway. “So, yeah, she’s pretty human. The way Mother Nature intended them to be, a perfect mix of many races.”

  “Well, thanks.” Paris blushed as her hands went behind her back. “Here I was, worried that my uncle coming to the college would be awkward.”

  Uncle John laughed and waved her off. “I’m here on business. You’re helping. You too, Hemingway.” He indicated the guy shaking dirt off his hands. “We hoped you could tell us more about this deadly nightshade that’s gone missing.”

  “Oh?” Hemingway suddenly looked confused. “Do you think that deadly nightshade was involved in Agent Opal’s murder?”

  “We know,” Paris answered. “The killer was fairy.”

  “Which is another reason I know it wasn’t you.” Uncle John winked.

  “This fairy used deadly nightshade,” Paris continued. “Since you said it went missing from the greenhouse, I hoped you could tell us about the timeframe.”

  “Yeah, when did it start going missing?” Uncle John added.

  “Oh, recently,” Hemingway answered at once. “In the last week, for sure.”

  “You said that it’s increasingly been popping up in the Bewilder Forest lately,” Paris began. “Do you think it’s possible that someone started planting it to harvest it? Maybe for the exact purpose of taking out Saint Valentine?”

  She was thinking of Becky Montgomery or one of the other more conservative students who kept a low profile but silently didn’t like how things ran at Happily Ever After College.

  However, to her surprise, Hemingway adamantly shook his head. “No one planted the deadly nightshade.”

  “How do you know?” Paris asked.

  “Because the seeds are rare,” Hemingway answered. “I had the same question, so I looked into it. The plant doesn’t reproduce from seeds. Not usually.”

  “How does it sprout?” Uncle John asked.

  “It’s magical,” Hemingway explained. “So magic brings it around or spreads other plants.”

  “Oh, so someone used magic to make the deadly nightshade.” Paris ran through the options of who it could be.

  “Yes, that’s what I’ve decided.” Hemingway dropped his gaze.

  “They’d have to be someone powerful,” Paris mused and chewed on her lip, trying to think.

  Hemingway nodded. “Correct.”

  “Plus skillful,” Paris continued.

  Another nod. “That’s right.” Hemingway looked nervous.

  “And I guess, someone who wants to cause harm,” Uncle John supplied.

  Hemingway held up a finger covered in dirt and paused him. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  Paris and Uncle John both shot him confused looks.

  “So this person grew a deadly plant but without the intent of using it for evil?” Paris questioned.

  Hemingway nodded. “Yeah, I believe that the person who caused the deadly nightshade to grow in the Bewilder Forest is you, Paris.”

  Chapter Fifty

  It felt like Hemingway had knocked the air out of Paris without touching her. Her mouth hung open as she tried to will a breath into her lungs.

  “Pare?” Uncle John finally broke the silence. “That doesn’t seem right.”

  “I think it is, though.” Hemingway wiped his hands on a cloth, cleaning off the dirt. “It’s your demon blood.” He gave her a consoling look, sensing her trepidation about the sensitive subject still.

  “I’m not evil,” she argued.

  He nodded. “I know. I was confused at first when the deadly nightshade started popping up. In twenty years, I’d never seen it here in the Bewilder Forest. Then you showed up, and it did too. However, I know enough about plants and the earth to understand that it responds to those around it. At Happily Ever After College, we get certain plants that only grow around fairies, like honeysuckle and hibiscus flowers.

  “Sweet flowers,” Uncle John observed.

  “Exactly,” Hemingway affirmed. “However, when I showed up, Mae Ling pointed out all the succulents that started sprouting around the forest.”

  “Hardy plants that can withstand drought and harsh conditions.” Uncle John grinned. “Like a magician.”

  “That’s what got me thinking,” Hemingway continued. “Certain plants are cued based on the magical race around them. Since you’ve shown up here, Paris, we’ve had hummingbird hawk-moths, a whole host of intelligent plants used in unique elixirs, and deadly nightshade.”

  “Because of my demon blood,” Paris guessed.

  “Yes, but it’s not a bad thing,” Hemingway pointed out. “Remember that deadly nightshade, when used correctly, is a wonderful sedative that is crucial in operations and medical treatments. It’s all about the way you use it.”

  “Just like it’s all about how you use your blood, Pare,” Uncle John offered. “Like you use your demon blood to propel you for good.”

  Paris sighed, not having expected this. “So I made the deadly nightshade grow in the Bewilder Forest.”

  “Yes, but it was someone evil who took it to create a poison and try to kill Saint Valentine,” Hemingway asserted.

  “That’s not on you, Pare,” Uncle John emphasized, already sensing she was worried that she’d had a hand in this.

  Paris nodded, deciding at once that she’d fix this the only way she could. “Yeah, so we have to figure out what fairy knew how to use deadly nightshade and stole it.”

  “Then we will find out who our killer is,” Uncle John said victoriously, smiling proudly at his niece.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Headmistress Willow Starr kept looking over her shoulder toward the fairy godmother mansion. “You need to get out of here now. Mae Ling can’t hold the FGA agents off for much longer.”

  The fairy godmother ushered Paris, Christine, and Faraday farther toward the Bewilder Forest. Thankfully, a large oak trunk blocked them from view from the mansion. Still, the agents had been patrolling all over the Enchanted Grounds, snooping, and there was no telling when one would poke his nose into their business.

  “So you’re okay with us going forward with this plan?” Paris needed to ensure she wasn’t goin
g to cause more problems for the headmistress after everything.

  Headmistress Starr wavered. “I don’t see what choice we have. The love meter is low. Saint Valentine doesn’t feel that he can trust those around him at FGA. You two have found enough evidence to suggest someone is corrupting love and sabotaging relationships. At this point, our best bet is to gain more information. The FGA board wants us to do less than ever before. Plus, the divide between Matters of the Heart has never been so great. We have to do something. In light of the attempts on Saint Valentine’s life, I have to do something major, and this is my best bet. I can’t go. I have to play headmistress, but I can make an excuse for why you two are gone for the day.”

  “I have an awful headache,” Paris supplied.

  “I’m on holiday with my parents in the Canary Islands,” Christine added. “They’d never holiday there because it’s way too much fun and tropical, and we might have a good time.”

  “That’s your excuse?” Paris teased.

  Christine nodded. “Yeah, if I’m living vicariously through my fake self. Deal with it.”

  Headmistress Starr smiled pleasantly at the two. “Be careful. Don’t take chances. I can’t imagine what you’ll face to investigate FriendNet for us.”

  “It’s going to be awful,” Paris admitted. “We’re disguising ourselves as hippies.” She twirled her hand, and Christine’s blue gown disappeared, replaced with a long flowy linen shirt and bohemian pants.

  “Oh, wow, this breathes.” Christine squatted slightly. Her hair was up in a loose bun with flowers around it.

  Paris made herself look similar, turning her shoulder-length hair into dreads and putting a fake tattoo on her forearm with the word “Perfectionist” crossed out. Above that it said, “Be Yourself.” On the other arm were several bangles.

  “You two look…” the headmistress paused. “Well, like individuals.”

  Paris sighed. “Yeah, right. Hippies conform to individuality in the most ironic of ways.”

  “You’re a conundrum,” Christine stated.

  Paris nodded and gave the headmistress a consoling look. “We’ll be fine. I know this isn’t your usual protocol, but we have to figure out what’s going on there. Someone is orchestrating all these problems with relationships.”

  “You think you can figure it out?” Willow asked.

  Paris shook her head. “No, not at all.” She pointed at Faraday on the grass beside them. “He understands programming and whatnot much better than us. I think if we distract the FriendNet folks, he can determine what’s happening behind the scenes.”

  Not at all looking confident about putting this in two newbies’ hands and a talking squirrel’s paws, Headmistress Starr managed a forced nod. “Okay, well, still be careful. I’m counting on you. Saint Valentine, who is under a lot more scrutiny than usual, is counting on you. Still, that’s not a reason to take any unnecessary risks.”

  Paris leaned down and plucked up the squirrel, snuggling him close. “Sounds like our kind of mission. Ready to be my support squirrel?”

  He mock-grimaced at her. “I don’t like the title, but sure.” Then, as the portal to FriendNet materialized, Faraday added, “You’re going to owe me for calling me a support squirrel.”

  She nodded as they stepped through to another place. “Yeah, how about I risk everything to return you to your old life?”

  “That might do.” Faraday snuggled in close as the portal absorbed them as if he was afraid it might swallow him whole otherwise.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “Oh. Gods. I’m in hell,” Paris muttered when they entered the top floor of FriendNet.

  “Yep, there is a land worse than the world of hippies,” Christine declared, her arms opened wide. “The urban warehouse of hipsters.”

  Paris shook her head, hooking her temporary “Consultant” badge onto her flowing pants. Their magic had easily gotten them by the guards and the receptionist, who didn’t appear to care that they were there. She had stated that appointments weren’t static and had no idea if the head programmers were meeting with a consulting firm.

  Paris made a note to take out all hipsters, right after all hippies.

  “Oh, wow, your support squirrel really suits you,” a guy with a long handlebar mustache said, striding over to Paris and Christine. He appeared to be wearing his younger brother’s pants since they came up to his mid-calf. “I once had a snake as my support animal, but he ate my support mouse so I had to get rid of them both.”

  Paris wanted to clock Handlebar Mustache right then but thought that might blow their cover, so she refrained. “I’m sure they are both happy together now.” She forced a smile.

  “Let’s hope so,” the guy said. “So you’re the consultants?” He stooped, eyeing her badge. “Oh, Starflake. What a great name.”

  Christine held out her hand, not having a badge. “My name is Rosewater.” She had been so happy with the name she chose and couldn’t wait to share it.

  He wrung her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Or meet me again,” Christine stated. “We probably collided in a past life.” She was enjoying the opportunity to be a dirty hippie.

  “Right.” Handlebar Mustache drew out the word. “So what do you want to see first? We have our creative space.” He threw his arm wide at an area with a pool table and bean bag chairs. “Then we have our other creative space.” He indicated an area with darts and records. “And we have the less creative space.” The last area he motioned to was a set of offices with floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Faraday tugged at Paris’ linen top, which made her feel like she was a girl on a beach instead of trying to fix love for the human race. “How about I check out your tunes?” she asked Handlebar Mustache.

  “I’d love to challenge one of you in some pool,” Christine stated.

  Handlebar Mustache chuckled. “No one wins or loses here. We are always winning if we’re having a good time.”

  Again Paris had a moment where she fantasized about putting this guy in a headlock. Instead, she nodded. “That’s what my friend meant. She wanted to have a good time at pool with you.”

  Handlebar Mustache grinned under too much facial hair. “I like you two, consultants. You know how to have fun and see how we operate. The last consultant only wanted to talk to Dash.”

  “Last consultant?” Paris asked as Handlebar Mustache walked away.

  “Oh, yeah, this bloke in a total black suit that looked like it belonged to my dad,” the guy stated. “He couldn’t have been the least bit comfortable.”

  Paris and Christine both exchanged looks. Faraday tensed on her shoulder.

  “Wow, he sounds like he was out of a Dick Tracy film,” Christine joked.

  The guy nodded. “Yeah, and he was wearing this hat like in the old films and had this serious look about him. Oh, and a ballpoint pen as if he would take notes at any moment or something. It was totally not of this world. I think there was a ruby heart-shaped gem on the top of his ballpoint pen. Like, is that legal by diamond rights?”

  “Right?” Christine asked. “We should have gnomes check into this.”

  “Sounds magical,” Paris said, giving Christine a pointed look. He also sounded like an agent, but he could have been some guy.

  “Did Dick Tracy have a name?” Christine asked casually.

  The guy shook his head. “If he did, I didn’t catch it. We prefer not to go by names here. It weighs us down.”

  “Yeah, why be able to identify each other and avoid confusion when conversing,” Paris pretended to agree.

  “My point exactly,” the guy stated. “Why not direct questions and statements to everyone? We’re all friends here.”

  No, we’re not. Paris wondered if she should punch the guy in the kidneys or the face when she finished here. She decided she’d sweep his little legs out from under him and let the concrete do the work.

  “So this Dash,” Christine said, twirling an errant piece of hair that had come loose from her
messy bun. “Is he at yoga or something?”

  Handlebar Mustache shook his head. “He’s at the poker tournament in the breakroom. I’ll get him and you two some craft beer if you’d like. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds okay,” Christine answered, the perfect picture of cool.

  Totally buying the act, the guy trotted off, leaving the three alone in the middle of FriendNet Corporation.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  “I’m going to kill these people,” Paris whispered to her friends.

  “Not if I kill them first,” Christine replied. “Like, I’ve known people who were the worst, but these guys make them seem like rich panhandlers, who are the second-worst after these guys.

  “Your example didn’t have to be so literal,” Paris muttered.

  “Sorry,” Christine muttered. “The lack of air conditioning and lack of paint on the exposed walls is getting to me.”

  “Did that consultant sound a lot like an agent for FGA?” Paris ignored the awesome and yet distracting humor of her friend.

  “That definitely sounded like an agent,” Faraday squeaked inconspicuously on Paris’ shoulder so only she and Christine could hear him.

  “I-I-I don’t know,” she stammered, looking around at the open space. “I think we need more evidence.”

  “Like shots from security cameras and whatnot?” Faraday asked.

  “Well, I thought of asking the inner girl circle here for sketches of the most uptight guys to stroll in here in the last ninety days,” Christine stated. “But I get now why you brought the squirrel. That guy is smart.”

  “I know.” Paris winked at him. “So you think you can hack in and find the security system thing-a-ma-jig or whatever you call it?”

  “Do you mean the security system?” Faraday asked.

  Paris shrugged. “I guess if that’s what you call it.”

  “That’s what everyone calls it,” he remarked.