Her face tightened, but she continued to stare at him, not responding to his accusation. Sebastian couldn’t read anything off her stony face, and he wondered what he would do if she just turned and left. Would he try to stop her? Could he even stop her?
Finally, she shifted, crossing her arms and taking a half step back to lean against the inner wall of the tower. Her stance was more relaxed, though her expression was anything but. “I don’t work for my father anymore. Mr. Silvester said someone had a job for me. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
Sebastian glared at her, annoyed that his truth coin remained as cool as the gray stone around them. He’d never trusted Trista, not like Lily had. But right now she was his only chance at finding Lily before something terrible happened.
“Fine,” he bit out. “If you don’t know where Lily is, then where’s your dear ol’ dad?”
Trista could have given Anton a run for his money—her only reaction was a twitch of muscle in her jaw. She took her time replying, and Sebastian got the impression she never uttered a word without carefully thinking it over first.
“Is finding my father the job?” she asked.
Sebastian hesitated, wondering how much to tell her. Feeling a sudden inspiration, he held his hand by his face, indicating the height of someone slightly shorter than himself. “Did you ever see your dad talking to a guy about yea tall, short brown hair, clean-shaven, manly sort of face? Wore lots of suits and acted like a stuffy government stooge? Went by the name of Richard Grant?”
A long moment of calculated silence followed his question, and he gritted his teeth to stop himself from asking again.
“My father had a contact in the FBI. If they ever met in person, I wasn’t there to see it.”
Triumph surged through Sebastian. “I knew it! That stinking, slimy, lying, two-faced little—little—” He broke off, impotent rage rendering him speechless. The idea that Agent Grant had been in John Faust’s pocket the whole time, even while he was supposedly hunting down Rex Morganson, made Sebastian’s blood boil. It was only Trista’s words that brought him back from his murderous thoughts.
“Do you actually have a job for me, or are you just wasting my time?”
“Yeah, I got a job,” Sebastian snarled. “Lily’s been kidnapped and John Faust is behind it. I need to find out where he’s hiding, rescue Lily, and pound his face to a bloody pulp, though I’m not picky about the exact order of things. I might just pound his face in first, then rescue Lily, then pound it a little more for good measure.”
Trista didn’t smile. In fact, her only reaction to the news of her half-sister’s plight was the slightest angling of her brows. To a casual observer, she might have seemed coldly indifferent. But what her body didn’t betray, her eyes hinted at. They were hooded and stormy, and Sebastian suspected there was some struggle raging behind them—he just had no idea what that struggle was.
A minute ticked by, and Sebastian fought his impatience with every painfully cultivated ounce of self-control he possessed. He longed to stomp around the stone plinth and shake Trista until words spilled out of her mouth. But she didn’t seem like the type to do anything on a whim, which meant her silence was deliberate. That meant she wasn’t going to speak until she was good and ready, no matter how much of a hurry he was in.
“How much?” she finally said after what felt like an eternity.
The question made Sebastian’s eyes narrow. “This is Lily we’re talking about. Your sister, remember? The one who helped you get out from under that psychopath’s thumb? Just tell me where he is and we’ll call it even.”
Trista didn’t even blink. “How much?”
Grinding his teeth, Sebastian did some quick mental calculations. “How ‘bout a thousand.”
“Twenty.”
Sebastian’s mouth dropped open. “You’re insane. If you think a measly bit of information is worth that much—”
“I don’t know where my father is.”
“Wait a minute, then what—”
“But I will find him, and I will take you to him.”
“Okay, but still—”
“Twenty thousand.”
Sebastian glared across the chilly chamber at Trista’s impassive face. The tense silence was broken only by Sir Kipling, who started hacking like there was a hairball stuck in his throat. Except, judging by the look on his whiskered face, Sebastian suspected the stupid cat was laughing.
“That price is still outrageous. What makes you think I even have that kind of money?”
“Anton wouldn’t be wasting my time with someone he knew couldn’t pay.”
“He—you—that’s not the point!” Sebastian spluttered. “I have no guarantee you can deliver. Only professionals can get away with charging that much—people with a reliable track record, or at least a reputation. You’ve been doing this for, what, a few months? I’ll give you five thousand, take it or leave it.”
With insulting casualness, Trista twitched her shoulders in a half shrug, pushed off the wall, and headed for the door. Sebastian glared daggers at her back as she left the little tower, his fists clenching and unclenching as he struggled internally.
She was extorting him.
Trista was likely the only person alive who knew how to track down her father. She knew it, he knew it, and she knew he knew it. And he did have the money, even if such an expense would not be healthy for his trust fund—the trust fund his parents had left him full of money he hated to even think about, much less use. The only time he’d ever dipped into it was to help Lily, and he would do it again, if he had to. It just rankled him to let the brash little wretch get away with using his desperation to extort money out of him.
Cursing under his breath, Sebastian strode from the tower after Trista. “Hey, wait a minute!” he called, though she neither turned nor slowed her pace in response. Breaking into a jog, he caught up with her on the dirt path and reached out to grab her upper arm to spin her around. But before his fingers could even touch her, she whipped around like a striking snake. Her closest arm swept up to block his grab and continued in a circle that trapped his arm against her. By the time she was fully facing him, she had him in a neat little submission hold with his fingers bent back and his arm locked, forcing him to stand on his tiptoes to relieve the pressure.
“Ow, ow, ow! Stop it! I was just trying to—”
Trista increased the pressure, and Sebastian bit back a curse. She held him there for a few heartbeats, as if waiting to see whether or not he’d gotten the message. When he remained silent, she eased her grip, though she did not let go.
“Rule number one: don’t touch me. The next time you try, I’ll break your arm.” Her tone was deadpan and her words no-nonsense—not a threat, just a statement of fact.
Not daring to move, Sebastian swallowed, waiting for her to finish making her point and release him. After another heartbeat, she did, then turned and headed back up the path. After a few steps, she called back over her shoulder.
“And my name isn’t Trista anymore. It’s Mallory. Mallory Caine.”
Sebastian stared after her, curious and irritated in equal measures. Shaking his head, he massaged his arm and glared down at the edge of the path where Sir Kipling sat blithely, having watched the whole thing.
“A big help you are. Why didn’t you scratch her or something?”
The cat gave a meow that oozed sarcasm, as if to say, “What? You looked like you had everything under control.” Then he flicked his tail and trotted up the path after Trista—er, Mallory. What kind of crazy name was Mallory? It sounded like it belonged to a ginger top slinging beers at an Irish pub. He snorted at the mental image of a glaring Trista—good grief, Mallory, this was going to take some getting used to—serving alcohol to a bar full of inebriated Irishmen. The amusing vision helped ease the unpleasantness of his situation. He was decidedly un-thrilled to pay someone twenty thousand dollars who had just threatened to break his arm. But Sir Kipling seemed to trust her, and nothing
she’d said had warmed his truth coin in the slightest.
Grumbling under his breath, he ran to catch up with her.
***
Two hours later, the three of them were on Interstate 20 westbound well on their way to Birmingham, Alabama. After transferring half the money for the job to Mallory’s bank account—and resisting the urge to call her ginger top—Sebastian had been ordered into his car and given directions to head west. When he had insisted on knowing their destination, he’d learned rule number two: don’t ask questions. He had considered pressing the issue, but with his fingers still sore, had decided he could afford a little patience—for now. At least the paralyzing urgency constricting his chest had eased a little now that he was actually doing something.
Mallory had chosen the back seat and spent the entire time typing away at a small laptop she’d pulled out of her backpack. Apart from directions, she hadn’t spoken a single word. Sir Kipling had curled up in the front passenger seat, having claimed it after Mallory had made it clear she preferred to sit as far away from Sebastian as possible. With nose tucked under his fluffy tail, the cat looked to be thoroughly enjoying his nap as if he had not a care in the world.
Sebastian wished he could say the same.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Richard, couldn’t stop replaying every interaction, re-examining every word and deed in light of what he now knew: the FBI agent was as dirty as a piece of coal rolled in cow dung. The possibility that John Faust’s spy in the FBI could have been someone else never even crossed Sebastian’s mind. Everything made sense now—why the FBI never seemed any closer to catching Rex Morganson; why Richard wanted to keep such a close eye on Lily; why he had wanted to team up with them. The only question remaining was whether or not the traitor was working with Roger too. Somehow Sebastian didn’t think so. As much as it rankled him to admit, the FBI agent had seemed sincere in his efforts to stop the demonic killings. And Richard had to care at least a little about keeping Lily safe, or else he couldn’t have fooled Sebastian’s truth coin. But what on earth did the idiot think would happen to Lily once John Faust got his claws in her? If the FBI agent had swallowed some sob story about estrangement and misunderstanding, that didn’t make his crimes any less heinous—it just made him a traitor and a fool. If only Sebastian could get his hands on the scumbag...
“Take this exit.”
Mallory’s command interrupted Sebastian’s murderous daydream. With a few more clipped directions from her, they merged onto 65 South and, after another five minutes of silence, she had him exit the interstate and head west toward Red Mountain Park.
Sebastian had only ever been to Birmingham a few times. From what he knew about the city’s mining history, the southern end of Red Mountain where the park was located boasted the largest concentration of iron ore mines in the area. For almost eighty years they had provided ore to the iron and steel industry that had exploded in the late 1800s and given Birmingham the name “Magic City” for how it seemed to boom overnight. Of course, what most people—mundanes, at least—didn’t know was the rather ironic double meaning of the name. Sebastian had never learned the specifics himself. Aunt B undoubtedly knew more, but for obvious reasons, he’d never felt welcome chatting her up about random magical topics.
He had just about decided that Mallory’s rule number two could go stuff itself, but before he could open his mouth, she leaned forward and motioned to the right. “Pull in here.”
Confused, Sebastian turned off into a perfectly normal-looking gas station—normal as in southern, with its strategically placed potholes, large pickups with grammatically incorrect bumper stickers, and boiled peanuts advertised in the store windows. He slid into a parking space and turned off the car, then listened to the engine tick while Mallory went back to typing on her computer as if he didn’t even exist.
“All right, that’s it,” Sebastian said, twisting around in his seat to glare at his guide. “Where are we going, and why are we sitting here? We don’t need gas, and Lily’s life is on the line. Every second we waste could be her last, and if something happens to her because you were sitting around playing solitaire on your stupid computer, I swear I’ll—” He stopped himself and clenched his teeth, trying to suppress the uncomfortable prickle behind his eyes as he breathed in and out deeply to calm the storm in his chest.
He could do this. Lily was not going to die. He wouldn’t let her.
“Are you finished?” Mallory asked after a moment of charged silence.
“Only if you answer my questions,” Sebastian snapped.
“You hired me to do a job—”
“I hired you to take me to John Faust, but it won’t do me one cursed bit of good if Lily is dead by the time we get there. So stop being all cool and collected and act like you give a flying monkey’s backside whether she lives or dies!”
Mallory’s fingers stilled. “And why would I do that?” she asked, voice devoid of emotion, but somehow still threatening.
“Because she’s your sister, for Pete’s sake! And don’t pretend she’s responsible for anything John Faust has ever done to you. Your father is a slimy bastard and has been since before you were born.”
For a dozen heartbeats, Mallory didn’t respond, nor did she look up at him. She was as still and lifeless as the air in a long-forgotten tomb. Then her fingers started dancing across the keyboard again. When she spoke, her voice was flat and she addressed his questions like she was reading off a list of bullet points. “You hired me to do a job. The sooner I finish it, the sooner I can stop listening to you whine. Mundane technology is a blind spot for wizards, so I’ve been hacking my father’s aliases and putting out word to his former associates. That takes time, and it won’t go any faster no matter how much you complain. We came to Birmingham because we need very specific weapons to go up against a dangerous wizard. We’re going to see my supplier while we wait to hear word. The next pointless question you ask will cost you an extra thousand dollars, or a tooth. I don’t care which.”
Sebastian glared at her forehead, missing Pip more than ever. The pixie would have had a grand time taking the wind out of Miss Grumpy McGrumperstein’s sails. As it was, Sebastian could do nothing but sit there until Mallory finished typing and closed her computer. Finally, she looked up at him with her expression as blank as ever.
“My father once said Lily’s cat could sense his construct spy, is that true?”
Sebastian scrunched up his forehead. “He said Kip could do what?”
“His spying raven,” she said with exaggerated slowness. “He called it Oculus. Can the cat sense it?”
“How am I supposed to know? Lily’s the wizard who can do all that fancy stuff. I’m just a lowly witch, here to take orders, shell out money, and not ask questions,” Sebastian said, not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Besides, Kip can understand you just fine. Ask him yourself.”
Mallory shot him a dubious look. Sebastian couldn’t imagine that talking to a magical cat was any weirder than having a wizard for a father, but then he’d spent years dealing with the fae, so perhaps he was more used to magical non-humans than she was.
“Go on,” he prompted. “You might have to poke him to wake him up first, but he’ll understand your question.” Sebastian was fairly sure Sir Kipling was only pretending to sleep at this point. But he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see how Kip would react.
To his disappointment, however, Mallory obviously had experience with cats, or else her cautious nature made her smart enough not to poke a sleeping feline, because she simply leaned around the passenger seat and repeated her question.
Sir Kipling did not so much as twitch.
She tried again, tone unchanged, though Sebastian could see her posture was stiffer than before.
This time Sir Kipling yawned mightily, stretched, then curled up again with his belly facing upward in fluffy invitation.
When Mallory didn’t move, Sebastian cleared his throat. “I believe our feline ov
erlord is demanding payment.”
Mallory raised one incredulous eyebrow, then shook her head. “It’s a trap. Basic ambush predator behavior to draw in unsuspecting prey.”
Sebastian tried to cover his laugh with a cough and ended up sounding like some sort of demented goose. “Well I guess you won’t know until you try. I doubt he’ll answer your question until you pet him. If it’s any consolation, he’s this annoying for everyone else, too, not just you.”
With the barest grimace, Mallory extended her hand and gave Sir Kipling’s silky belly a cautious stroke with one finger. The cat’s purr became noticeably loud in the close confines of the car, and he stretched out his front paws, toes and claws spreading in a show of feline contentment. That lasted for about five seconds, until Mallory apparently decided she had groveled enough and began to withdraw her hand. In a flash Sir Kipling flexed his entire body, all four paws and teeth clamping down on the girl’s hand like some sort of fluffy bear trap. Mallory froze, wisely deducing that any struggle on her part would only result in a collection of painful gouges.
“I think he’s—uh—saying that you—heh—didn’t pet him long enough,” Sebastian said, struggling to get the words out between suppressed snorts of laughter.
Mallory glared daggers at the cat, but Sir Kipling seemed completely immune to her deadly gaze. Finally, she eased her hand forward and began to scratch the cat’s belly again, using all five fingers this time. As if made of liquid, Sir Kipling oozed back down onto the car seat, teeth and claws retracting and purr restarting as his human supplicant returned to worshipping his floofy magnificence. At least, that was the commentary Sebastian imagined in his head as he watched the interplay and tried not to start snort-laughing again.
After a very long couple of minutes, Sir Kipling gave a languid stretch and then rolled upright, taking a leisurely moment to lick a few stray tufts of fur back into place before facing them both. He meowed expectantly, and Sebastian whispered out of the side of his mouth, “I think he said, ‘ask your question again, oh human underling.’ ”
Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus Identity Page 7
