Feral Magic: An Urban Fantasy Romance-Thriller, Page 3

Chapter Three

  My heart started to pound again, my mouth went dry. Black pepper and smoke filled the air, tinged with a trace of honeysuckle, replacing the scent of old books and dust. I swallowed twice, failing to swallow my nerves, then said, “I came to see Constable Barnes.”

  He pursed his lips. In the absence of flames, I saw that he was a head taller than me and his hair color ranged from red-blonde to auburn, as though it were in a pattern which I couldn't see since it hung about his shoulders in waves. He said, “You just missed him.”

  My heart continued to thud in my ears. I rubbed my arms. I asked, “And you are?”

  “Mordon. Come out of hiding, and we'll talk. You'd best drop whatever spells you put in place. Don't lie to me. I don't take well to thieves, but I'm even worse to liars.”

  I wanted to object that I hadn't put up any spells to keep myself safe, but I didn't know that for certain. Not if what Griff had said was true and my magic was working without my knowledge. I would never have come if I'd known, if I'd suspected that my magic had returned.

  Mordon set to work finding his newspapers and putting them into stacks. With the exception of papers strewn over the floor and a busted door, the shop showed no sign of a forced entry. He paused when his gaze came across blood on the floor.

  Nervous, I let my invisibility ring slip off my finger, revealing myself sitting cross legged on the shelf. The man's brows bolted up. “That where you were hiding?”

  I nodded.

  Mordon frowned and held out his hand. “Give me my trinket back.”

  “This is mine. I haven't taken anything from your shop.” My fingers closed into a tight fist.

  “You have a trinket of that quality?” His brow furrowed, not believing me. “Where did you get the money for it?”

  “Busting bogeys.”

  “Is that what got you tangled up with that scum?” Mordon asked, crossing his arms. He was implying that we ran a scam together, Griff putting nasty spells in place, and me cleaning them up for a fee.

  At first I was angry with the implication, then I wondered how I had come to have Griff on my trail. I searched my memory in vain. “I'm not with him.”

  “What?”

  “I just ran into him. I didn't know he came to steal.”

  He went very still. “Don't lie to me again.”

  I licked my lips, then rubbed my arms, smearing blood. Mordon sighed and crossed to me in three quick strides. The air thickened and chilled. Mordon turned both of his hands palms up and said, “Let me see your arm.”

  My stomach flipped, but I felt the air soften then flow away. Biting my lip, I put my legs over the bookshelf and prepared to jump to the floor. Hands about my waist helped me down. I was surprised by their warmth, by how they didn't have the numbing tingle to them. I thought that I must have spent too long in the presence of a ghost. Real hands felt good. It had been a long time.

  A rag dabbed at the blood, then Mordon's fingers prodded the area around the sliver. When I looked down, I saw a rough bit of wood lodged into the underside of my forearm.

  “It's not deep. Do you want me to pull it out or wait for a healer?”

  Seeing the wood jutting out of my skin made me feel sick. “Just take it out.”

  Mordon wriggled it back and forth, then gave a quick tug. The shard came out. He rubbed the wound. Some blood flowed, but not enough to be worrisome.

  He led me to the front, and pulled a wooden box out from under the counter. Inside was what looked like a surgeon's kit from a museum.

  “Not going to do a spell?”

  Mordon's eyes met mine. “Healing isn't my specialty. Is it yours?”

  I didn't answer. Nothing seemed like a good reply.

  Mordon drew up a stool for me and sat down on a sea chest carved with Celtic knot work. He washed the cut out with alcohol and then wrapped it up.

  A minute crawled by with me staring at the floor and him staring at me. At last Mordon asked, “What brought you here to see Barnes about?”

  My voice lodged in my throat. I'd had so long to think over what it was that I would say, but I couldn't think of a single thing to say now. They all seemed so wrong, so terrible. They sounded so fake, and even worse now with what Griff had told me. I considered bolting for the door.

  Mordon put elbows on knees and tried to catch my eye. His brows were raised, a nonverbal prompt. I realized that I'd been holding my breath.

  “I don't think I should tell you. I need to speak to him.”

  “He'll tell me. I doubt I will even leave while you talk.”

  “Because you're a coven?”

  “Two of the four.”

  “That doesn't entitle you to my business.”

  “It does.”

  I gave it some thought. When sorcerers formed covens, they indeed did share all their information. If a sorcerer couldn't trust their coven, who could they trust? Back when this was just a simple matter of mandrake, witch doctors, lost memories, and bounty hunters, it made sense to come clean. Now that I apparently had magic which did not want to conform to my will, I was suddenly a danger to myself and those around me. There was one responsible thing to do.

  I took a step towards a side door. “It's not something that needs urgent attention.”

  “It is urgent enough that you felt the need to break into King's Ransom.”

  That bit of the day was something I would forever regret. How would I talk out of that?

  “The thief opened the door. I came in after him. This isn't the best time for you, I'll come back when you're less busy.” I twisted the doorknob. Locked.

  “What did I say about lying?” Mordon asked. He moved behind the register, pulling out two chairs in a not-so-subtle invitation. “We can discuss why you broke into my shop. And how.”

  “I didn't take anything.”

  “I have not accused you of such a thing. Take a seat. Tell me what my thief was saying. It might help me understand why he took what he did.”

  I braced myself and neared his arrangement. Seeing how he controlled if the shop kept or released me, my options were limited to co-operating or not. Either way, I would see Constable Barnes. But one way, I could make a favorable impression on his friend. Mordon watched me closely, not the way a man does a woman, but the way a trainer studies a new horse.

  There were two chairs. One was a comfortable-looking wingback with a blanket tossed over an arm. The other was a vintage metal garden chair, the kind with a heart-shaped back found in cutesy bistros. Not sure which one to take, I remained standing by the counter, hoping that he would sit first. Mordon cocked his head to the side. I gazed down at the line of ticking pocketwatches. He moved to my other side, grabbed the bistro chair, and sat down in it, effectively cutting off my escape.

  Uneasily, I went to the weathered wingback. To keep myself from falling through padding meant to hold someone far bigger than myself, I had to slip off my shoes and tuck my legs up underneath me. Even so, I smelled him. Black pepper, spices, and the earthy musk of a man.

  Mordon rested his elbows on his knees, his legs clearly taking the weight off his chair. He leaned forward, those odd eyes of his watching my whole body, reading me like a book. “Who are you?”

  “Feraline.”

  “That is your name. Who are you? A bogey buster?”

  I blushed, not entirely sure how to answer. “Well, I gave you what you gave me.”

  A smile spread across his face. “This is true. I am Mordon Meadows, Drake Lord of the Kragdomen Colony, sole proprietor of King's Ransom Magical Antiquities, Protector of the Coven at King's Ransom. At your service.”

  Such a formal introduction. “So, do I call you…?”

  “Mordon.”

  “Ah.”

  “Shall we try you again? Who are you?”

  “Miss Feraline Swift, house cleanser and potion-brewer.” I almost added, wanted by Constables and bounty hunters alike, but I thought the better of it.

  “Why those trades?”

&nbs
p; “They're safer versions of the family business.”

  “Which is?”

  “Demon hunting.”

  He lifted an eyebrow in a high arch. “A serious business.”

  “Oh, yes. I got out before I could get into too much trouble.”

  Not that that did me a lot of good, I thought, seeing my recent mess.

  Mordon chuckled, a warm and rich sound which instantly sent happy little tingles across my body. Early in life, I'd learned that a man's voice was my weak spot. Specifically, rumbling voices with a foreign tinge to their accent. I could overlook all sorts of flaws if a man had a voice that resonated exactly the way Mordon's did.

  “I wasn't speaking of your parent's business. I meant yours. Genuine bogey busters are a rare find.”

  I preened at the compliment, even as I thought, That was smooth. Off-handed compliment right when I show signs of softening. Still, it worked. I'd have to risk it sooner or later. “I have something to show you.”

  A slight cock of the head was my response.

  I showed him Madame Meredith Cole's letter. As he read, I folded my hands in my lap and tried to remove their icy chill by putting them between my thigh and the chair. What would he think of it? Or of me? Not worrying about it was impossible.

  “When did you get this?”

  “A couple days ago, I think.”

  “Did you answer it?”

  I froze in indecision.

  Mordon said, “You can tell me.”

  I imagined what would happen if I told him that the last thing I remembered was moments before a witch doctor's appointment on Sunday? That Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were gone as entirely as if the whole world had played a prank on me?

  “I heard that Meredith Cole hasn't been seen in some time. And there's talk about cleansers going missing. It seemed suspicious. I wanted some advise on the matter. That's all.”

  “So you haven't made contact with the sender of the letter?”

  I shook my head.

  He considered me, holding the letter in his hand. Evidently it bothered him more than he was letting on, if I had managed to distract him from the whole breaking-and-entering conversation. When he looked up again, he said, “I will show this to Barnes when he returns, but it could take some time. You look tired. Come, you can wait for Barnes upstairs.”

  I opened my mouth, ready to object.

  “It's the coven's communal quarters, not my personal living space. Entirely safe, and more comfortable than here.”

  He was right. I was tired. My body hurt from a dozen different things. Even my eyelids slid closed right there folded up in his monstrous chair.