Do something.
DO SOMETHING.
“Shut up!”
“Excuse me?” Agent Meyer jumped at his outburst and now had one elbow cocked back, hand hovering near her belt where she no doubt had her sidearm holstered.
“Sorry, I wasn’t—I mean, things are a bit stressful,” Sebastian explained, then abruptly stood and extended his hand. “But thank you for your help.”
Agent Meyer rose slowly, a wary look on her face. Instead of shaking the proffered hand, she held out her business card. “I’m sure everything will be fine, Mr. Blackwell. Call me if you hear from Agent Grant. Now, if you would please return to the lobby.” She held an arm extended toward the door.
Sebastian left the office, fists in his pockets and barely aware of his surroundings as Agent Meyer escorted him to the lobby, still throwing him guarded looks. After she left him by the front desk, he just stood there for a moment, blind to his surroundings while he tried to bully his mind into deciding what to do next.
He should summon Grimmold and track down that filthy FBI agent.
No. No fae. They would never talk to him again.
He should go see Anton. Anton would know what was going on—he always did.
No. Based on their last little tête-à-tête, Anton would probably shoot Sebastian in the face for letting Lily get kidnapped. Hadn’t he already warned Sebastian to leave Lily out of his screwed-up life? Well, Sebastian had tried, and look where that had gotten him.
So what should he do? He had nothing left—
“Merrrow!”
Sebastian snapped out of his daze as the low hum of the lobby quieted and people looked around in confusion at the loud meow. Of course, there was no cat in sight, but then Sir Kipling could have written an entire book on How Not To Be Seen. Sebastian didn’t bother trying to spot the elusive feline, who had silently shadowed him since Lily’s disappearance—Kip would make himself known when he was good and ready. Instead, Sebastian strode toward the door, knowing now what he needed to do.
He wasn’t alone—Lily had taught him that—so it was time to stop pretending he was.
***
Sebastian waited on his aunt’s doorstep after having rung the doorbell, resisting the urge to lean against the door frame and close his weary eyes. His mind was on fire with impatience, while his body was begging to shut down. To distract himself, he thought about a similar day last year, much warmer than this chilly February morning, when Lily had been holding him captive in a surprisingly strong grip to keep him from slinking away. He’d had no desire to ask for his aunt’s help with the Jackson Mansion curse and be reminded of all the ways she disapproved of him, but Lily had been adamant. Of course, Lily hadn’t been privy to Sebastian’s long and troubled history at the time, or why, exactly, his aunt had disowned him. She’d just thought he was irreverent and irresponsible—which he was—and in need of some “firm” encouragement—which he was not. Yet even if her misguided efforts had been clumsy, she was still the catalyst that had begun rebuilding bridges in his life long ago burned and crumbled to rubble. The fact that she’d stuck around, even stood up for him, after learning the truth about his past...
Sebastian shook his head, amazed as ever at how determined and brave Lily was, despite her self-professed social anxiety. If their places had been reversed, Lily would’ve already had a plan in place and been rushing off to rescue him. Again. Instead, here he was, trying not to break down on his aunt’s front porch.
“Sebastian? What are you doing just standing there? Come in, come in!”
With a start, Sebastian realized he’d been so preoccupied he’d completely missed the door opening to reveal Mrs. Singer’s worried face.
Good grief, he needed to get a grip.
“Sorry. Hi, Mrs. Singer,” he said, too exhausted to be embarrassed as he stepped into the house. He’d barely cleared the doorway and hadn’t even gotten a chance to unzip his leather jacket before Lily’s mom swept him up in a bone-crushing hug. Apparently strong grips ran in the family.
When she finally released him, she kept her hands on his shoulders and looked up into his face, her eyes full of unspoken fear. “Is there any news about...about...”
Sebastian shook his head and the tension in him that had eased for a moment swooped back in full force. “The FBI won’t be any help. I need to talk to Aunt B. Do you think she’s up to it?”
Mrs. Singer nodded, swallowing hard. “She’s resting in bed. The nurse at the hospital said they couldn’t find anything obviously wrong with her. They wanted to take some blood samples for testing, but of course Ethel flatly refused. I think she’s just very worn out and needs to rest.”
“Of course she does. She went toe to toe with a greater demon in a battle of wills and barely came out alive. We might need to tie her to the bed, because you know she won’t stay in it for long.” Sebastian shook his head then started moving toward the hall stairs, taking off his jacket as he went while Mrs. Singer walked beside him.
“I’ll stay and keep an eye on her for—well, for as long as it takes.”
“How’s Jamie?”
Mrs. Singer let out a shuddering sigh. “He’s very quiet. I’m half afraid he’ll try to sneak off in the middle of the night to go looking for Lily. He doesn’t show it, but he thinks the world of her. He’s always looked up to her, and now that his siblings know about magic, things are, well, a bit awkward at home. Sally’s a practical sort, and Tom and Drew just pretend it doesn’t exist and get on with the farm work. But Becca...well, she’ll come around eventually, I’m sure.”
“Have you, um...told them about...” he trailed off as Mrs. Singer shook her head.
“I—I’m sure I won’t need to.” They halted at the base of the stairs and Mrs. Singer took his hand in both of hers. He couldn’t help but notice how her fingers trembled. “This will all be over soon. You’ll find Lily and everything will go back to normal.”
“Of course I will.” The automatic response felt weak leaving his lips, so he said it again, forcing himself to believe it. “Of course I will, Mrs. Singer. You have nothing to worry about.”
The look she gave him was full of a mother’s worry, but she put on a brave smile and was opening her mouth to reply when a meow interrupted them. Glancing around, Sebastian spotted a windswept-looking Sir Kipling at the base of the stairs. The cat must have just come in from outside where he’d no doubt been poking about for any sign of intruders. Earlier that morning the precocious feline had caught a ride with him in Aunt B’s old Buick that he’d used to transport the elderly wizard from Agnes Scott campus to the hospital. From there Sir Kipling had been an invisible but ever-present shadow as Sebastian had called Mrs. Singer, broke the news, then borrowed Aunt B’s Buick again to drive to the FBI field office. Once they’d returned to his aunt’s house, the cat had slipped out and disappeared into the yard. Now he stood with one paw hovering over the bottom step, like he’d only paused on his way up to fuss at them for being slow.
At the sight of the silky-furred feline, Mrs. Singer smiled. “Oh hello, Mr. Kipling. I’m glad to see you’re back safe.”
The cat gave her a long-suffering look, as if he were some martyred saint in a Renaissance painting, then bounded up the stairs, no doubt headed for Aunt B’s room.
“I, uh, don’t think he likes being called ‘Mr.’ Kipling,” Sebastian said, the first smile in hours lifting one corner of his mouth.
“Goodness me, I forgot. I can never remember if it’s Mr. or Sir.”
Sebastian chuckled. “Oh, it couldn’t be anything but Sir. Have you seen the size of that cat’s ego? But why bother with either? Just call him adorable fluffball. Problem solved. Though you might want to give him milk every chance you get so he won’t murder you in your sleep. He’s smart enough not to bite the hand that feeds him.” Grinning a little at his own joke, he put his foot on the bottom step, then turned his head back to Mrs. Singer.
“You want to come up and join the powwow? I know you’ve b
een sort of, well, out of the game for a while, but three minds are better than two.”
Mrs. Singer gave him a grateful smile, but shook her head. “I want to, of course. But I can’t, not right now. I still have to call Lily’s supervisor at the library and convince her Lily is very sick and needs the rest of the week off. Oh, if I don’t keep at Jamie to get his school done, he’ll be so behind when we get home he’ll never catch up. Besides, you’re right.” The woman deflated and her shoulders drooped as she raised a hand to rub her forehead. “I’ve spent years doing everything under the sun to hide my family, years telling myself it was better that way, convincing myself not to make that phone call or send that letter telling people I loved that I was okay. When Lily left, it took me a whole week to get up enough courage to call Ethel and beg her to watch over my daughter. And look where all that effort has gotten me.” She raised her head to meet Sebastian’s gaze, regret stark in her eyes. “Lily is in terrible danger and I’ve been cut off from the magical community so long I—I don’t know who to turn to. Thank the heavens for dear Ethel. I don’t know what we’d do without her.” Mrs. Singer shook her head again and gave Sebastian a fierce look. “Just find my daughter, Sebastian. Once we know where she is, there’s nothing in heaven or on earth that will keep me from getting her back.”
Giving Lily’s mother a determined nod, Sebastian headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time as new energy filled him.
He slowed at the top and put one hand on his bruised ribs as he tried to get his breath back without inhaling too deeply. Stupid ribs. He cursed Roger long and eloquently in his head as he paused there, and his idle gaze was drawn down the hall to the open door of the guest bedroom where his brother had been sleeping for the past few days. Except for the ticking of the hall clock and the quiet murmur of noise from the kitchen downstairs, the house was silent and there was no sign of life from the guest bedroom. Sebastian shook his head and strode toward his aunt’s room.
As he approached, he noticed the door was slightly ajar—no doubt Sir Kipling’s doing—and wondered if he should knock before entering. Or if he dared enter at all. This was, after all, the den of the she-dragon. No doubt Lily would have smacked him for being so disrespectful, but Lily hadn’t had the “great and terrible” Madam Barrington as a guardian for two years. Memories from his youth washed over him, and he vividly recalled the forbidding look on his aunt’s face when she promised a fate worse than death to any nosey boy who dared set foot in her bedchambers. She had never specified what, exactly, his punishment would have been, but he had dreamt up all sorts of gruesomely torturous scenarios, fueled by his own robust imagination—no doubt her plan all along.
Sebastian almost smiled at the thought.
Almost.
Pushing back the memories and his feeling of trepidation, Sebastian gave a soft knock, just in case his aunt was resting.
“Enter,” said a thin voice from within. Sebastian felt a pang of sadness at hearing the weakness in it, but he schooled his features into a carefully neutral expression as he pushed through the doorway—his aunt would not thank him for his pity.
Like the rest of the house, Aunt B’s bedroom had high ceilings and old-fashioned windows that stretched from knee height all the way up to the top of the room. But unlike the other rooms decorated in darker hues, the master bedroom was done in shades of ivory and white, giving it an airy, peaceful feel. The windows were framed by gauzy curtains edged in intricate lace, though their once pristine whiteness had faded with age. An antique chest of drawers and vanity made from pale cherry wood added some color, along with a writing desk, well-worn armchair, and marble-topped side-table. A large four-poster bed with an intricately carved headboard completed the ensemble, and sitting in it was Sebastian’s aunt.
She sat propped up by pillows with Lily’s red spellbook open on her lap and Sir Kipling sprawled across her feet, busy administering purr therapy for the old woman’s benefit. Of course, the fact that he was purring didn’t mean he was happy. The angle of the cat’s ears and the slow twitch of his tail told any observer exactly what he thought about lap-stealing books. If Sir Kipling hadn’t been smart enough to know what gruesome fate awaited anyone who harmed one of Lily’s books, then Sebastian would have feared for the spellbook’s mortal existence. As it was, it seemed the cat had accepted his fate with as much grace as could be expected from a feline denied his rightful throne. As for the spellbook, Sebastian assumed Aunt B had rescued it along with Lily’s carpet bag from McCain Library before they’d left. Sebastian knew the book was properly called an eduba, but Lily always got so adorably annoyed whenever he “forgot” the proper term, so of course he forgot at every possible opportunity.
Except Lily was gone.
No, not gone, just “temporarily mislocated,” he told himself firmly, pushing back against a spike of panic. The term was one Lily used whenever she couldn’t find something and refused to admit she had lost it. The memory squeezed his heart so painfully he forced his mind back to his aunt. The old woman had looked up when he’d entered, and now she stared at him with all-too-knowing eyes.
“You should be resting, Aunt B,” Sebastian said, hoping to divert her scrutiny. “They should have made you stay in the hospital at least overnight.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” she snapped, her voice gaining a little strength now that she had something to be annoyed about. “I am in perfectly good health, considering the circumstances, and we have no time to dilly dally about.”
Sebastian pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to contradict her, since he absolutely agreed with her reason for disregarding her health. That didn’t mean he had to like it, though.
“Now, if you are quite finished wasting time with pointless worry, we have much to discuss. I take it the FBI is clueless as to Agent Grant’s whereabouts?”
“Wait, how did you even know—”
“Simple deduction, nephew. Agent Grant, who has had a questionable interest in Lily for some time now, is suspiciously absent. Therefore, your first move would have been to seek out his partner to ascertain his whereabouts. Had you gained any leads, you would be following them, not standing in my bedroom gaping at me like a drowning fish—” She broke off as a fit of coughing took her, and Sebastian started forward, alarmed. But his aunt held up a bony hand and waved him back as her other hand fumbled for the glass on her bedside table. Sebastian hated seeing how her limbs shook as she brought the cup to her lips and drank, but his mind furiously avoided thinking about words like “fragile” or “dying.”
“That is better. Now, sit down, Sebastian, before I get a spasm in my neck from staring up at you.”
He forced himself to obey, even though the restlessness in his limbs begged for movement, for action. He pulled over an austere-looking wooden chair from beside one of the windows while she took a few more sips from her cup. It was only once he had draped his jacket across the back of the chair and seated himself that he took a good look at the liquid she was drinking. It was acid green. He peered warily at it, wondering what sort of strange concoction it was.
“Is there a newt in my drink, or have you lost your wits entirely?”
“What? Sorry, no, I’m just distracted.” He peeled his eyes away to meet his aunt’s severe stare and got to the point. “According to Agent Meyer, the slimeball took a few personal days, but when she tried to call and find him, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Agent Meyer said his plane was just delayed or something. Obviously her partner never told her anything about his case or us. It was a dead end.” Sebastian clenched his fists, wanting to punch something. Instead, he forced his fingers to relax and laid his hands on his knees, then took a deep breath to fight the sense of urgency throbbing in his blood.
Madam Barrington nodded. “The possibility needed to be eliminated. Now that you have done so, let us move on to a more profitable line of inquiry. You must go speak to Mr. Silvester.”
Sebastian choked. If he’d been drinking anything,
he would have sprayed it across his aunt’s bedspread. “Wh—what? Mr. Silvester as in Anton Silvester? You—what—how do you even know him? He’s a criminal, for crying out loud. Doesn’t associating with criminals go against your high-and-mighty code or something?”
His aunt’s look of severity returned—pursed lips, narrowed eyes, and all. But this time he refused to be intimidated. He’d had enough of that when he was young, and while he might have regrets about his past, he wasn’t going to apologize for who he was or turn into some kind of uptight, stuffed shirt to make his aunt happy.
For a moment, it looked as if she were going to scold him. But then Sir Kipling abruptly rose and stretched, diverting her attention as he sashayed up from the foot of the bed to settle beside her. He laid a soft paw on one of her wrinkled hands in a play for attention, then looked up at her expectantly until she exhaled mightily through her nose and relaxed. She lifted her hand to scratch Sir Kipling behind the ears with expert fingers, making the cat lean into her touch and purr unabashedly.
“While I do not make it my habit to invite Mr. Silvester over for afternoon tea, it has always been in my best interest and in the interest of my students for me to be professionally acquainted with the players of note within our magical society, regardless of my personal views. I certainly do not approve of Mr. Silvester’s chosen profession—well, his clandestine one, in any case. He possesses exceptional taste in art, and his gallery is a credit to this city. We do, however, have a specific...interest in common.”
His aunt’s hesitation made Sebastian’s brow furrow and his eyes narrow. What “interest” did Aunt B have that would drive her to associate with a criminal like Anton? Certainly not him, the wayward nephew and professional troublemaker. He was more of a problem than an interest. But maybe Lily…
The beginnings of a revelation sparked in the corners of his mind, casting brief flashes of light over something monumental that he couldn’t quite grasp. “What are you saying? You don’t mean...” He trailed off, staring at his aunt’s placid face. Her expression revealed nothing except a faint air of resignation.
Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus Identity Page 2
