A Drop of Magic, page 9
part #1 of The Magicsmith Series
“Since I was losing blood, I called a practitioner I know and asked him to meet me at my place rather than drive myself to the hospital. Unfortunately, I stumbled on the way home and broke my phone. That’s why I didn’t answer. I don’t remember much beyond that. Luke said he took me back to his place because I was in worse shape than he’d thought and he needed some special herbs to patch me up. He kept me under while he worked. I just came home today.”
I tipped the noodles into a colander and got a face full of steam.
It was a pretty lame ending for the story, but I didn’t want to embellish more than necessary to make it believable. Keeping the story close to true would make it harder for him to catch me in a lie.
James’s steady gaze made me squirm. He seemed almost disappointed, like he’d expected a more fantastic tale. One with giant monster wolves perhaps?
“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said at last. “May I see your arm?”
“It’s all bandaged up right now. Luke told me to leave the goo on for at least a day.”
“Ah, well, I suppose that’s that then.” His mouth twitched up for a moment like he was suppressing the urge to smile. “It’s fortunate I’m paying for your security system. I imagine the personal attentions of a practitioner would be quite expensive. As I understand it, they are generally called only when a person is beyond help by normal medical means.”
The water glass froze halfway to my mouth. I hadn’t considered what Luke’s services might cost. I’d been so wrapped up in what had happened and finding out about the werewolves, I hadn’t stopped to think that Luke wouldn’t be working for free. I was grateful for what he’d done, but it’s not like I was the one who called him. Maybe I could get the werewolves to foot the bill? Sure, I’d bring that up with Marc right after I found out if he was there to kill me.
“Alex? Alex?” James finally caught my attention.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Are you all right? You went very pale.”
“I’m fine,” I gave a half-hearted smile. “Just tired. Luke said I’d be pretty weak for a few days.”
“I shall take that as my cue to leave then.” James pushed away from the counter.
I gestured to the pasta draining in the sink. “What about dinner?”
The corners of his mouth curved up, but the tension didn’t leave his eyes. “Another time.”
I followed him to the door. A gust of frigid night pushed through when I opened it, snapping my hair and making me shiver. The setting sun had taken the day’s warmth with it. “Sorry again for worrying you.”
He paused on the threshold and set one hand on my shoulder. “You are not immortal, Alex. Neither are you replaceable. Please be careful.”
The butterflies were back, and my sudden lightheadedness had nothing to do with blood loss. The musky scent of his cologne flooded my senses, and for one terrifying moment I let myself imagine he might kiss me. Then I slammed the thought away. It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. I didn’t want it to happen. Did I?
The worn edge of the door frame dug between my shoulder blades as I drew back from his touch. “Good night, James.”
His grip tightened briefly, then fell away.
SUNLIGHT STREAMED through my bedroom window. I laid there for a long moment. Then, careful of my ribs, rolled onto my side. A warm lump of gray fur greeted me.
I blinked twice, then reached out to poke the intruder. Fur twitched under my hand, and a pair of slitted green eyes lifted to peer at me. Cat yawned, dousing me with a cloud of warm cat breath, then closed his eyes and tucked his nose back under his tail.
“What’re you doing here?” I glanced at my open bedroom door, trying to remember if I’d let him in last night. More and more, I was getting used to having Cat underfoot.
I scratched behind his ears, making them twitch. “If you’re sticking around, I should invest in some kitty litter.” Cat’s purr rolled through the mattress for a moment, then tapered off as he fell into a deeper sleep.
I worked my way off the bed by increments, pleasantly surprised by the ease with which I could move and breathe compared to the night before. I was still sore, but the intensity of the pain had faded to a distant, throbbing, ache.
My dinner dishes were still on the table when I shuffled to the kitchen in search of breakfast, and the dirty pasta pot and colander sat beside the sink. I wrinkled my nose at this scene of domestic neglect, but headed straight for the kettle. While the water heated, I scooped more of Luke’s foul-smelling herbs into a mug. He’d given me enough to last two days. If I felt as much better tomorrow as I did today, that would be plenty of time to get me back to a decent condition. I really did owe him huge.
Suppressing a sigh at the thought of repaying that debt, I carried my stinky tea over to the computer. David’s reply waited in my inbox. After several lines chastising me for making him worry, he wrote that Oz would be over to install my new security system early Friday morning.
I regretted making Maggie and James worry, but felt worse about David. After what happened to Aiden, he must have been a mess. My recent disappearing act had proven pretty conclusively that—despite being an introvert living at the back end of nowhere—there were people who would miss me if I were gone.
I licked my lips. Marc would convince his friends I wasn’t a threat. He had to.
My thoughts circled back to Aiden, as they always seemed to lately. A quick Internet search brought up the article that identified him as the latest victim. The article didn’t include much. A few lines about his work as a park ranger and a generic lament about a life cut short. The rest was more anti-fae propaganda.
Recalling the man in the alley, and his seemingly genuine belief that I could somehow solve this crime, I pulled up every article I could on Aiden’s murder and those that preceded it. There were dozens. Some were opinion pieces or political posturing. Others read like speculative fiction, the details turning my stomach.
While all the victims died in their homes, that’s where the similarities ended. Some houses were ransacked, others didn’t seem to have anything out of place. Some doors were broken, others were still locked. Some people died from simple bullet wounds or severed arteries while others had been tortured. Page after page of grizzly descriptions, quoted laments from grieving relatives, and calls to action scrolled past.
Photos of the victims punctuated my search. A young woman with piercing green eyes smiled on the arm of her fiancé, full of hope and promise. An old man with wild, wispy hair walked hand-in-hand through a farmers’ market with his equally ancient wife, leaning together for support. A middle-aged woman strained the seams of her business suit as she sat feeding pigeons on a sun-dappled park bench. My heart grew heavier as I clicked past each life-filled face until Aiden stared back from my computer screen.
If a pattern lay buried somewhere in that mess, I couldn’t see it. Pushing back from the computer, I massaged my temples. How stupid to think I could provide any useful insight when Garcia’s task force had failed to make a connection. What did I know about murder investigations?
I cursed my own uselessness, and might have wallowed longer but for a knock at the door.
Chapter 7
MY STOMACH CLENCHED. It was probably Marc. But was he there to talk, or to finish what the other wolf had started? What if it was Bryce, or Smith and Neil, or some new insane threat? My lungs pumped faster as my brain raced with possibilities. Was this how Aiden had felt?
Shrugging into a baggy beige cardigan to hide my arms, I crept around the room and peeled back a corner of curtain to peer through the front window.
Standing on the porch was a man in his mid-to late-thirties. He was an inch or two shorter than I was, but twice as wide, giving the impression he’d been compacted. His mouth was a little too large, turning down at the corners in a perpetual frown. His hair was close-cropped dirty-blond, thinning on top. Dark glasses covered his eyes, so I couldn’t tell where he was looking, but I didn’t think he’d noticed me yet.
I hesitated long enough that he knocked again, adding, “Ms. Blackwood? I’m with the PTF.”
I chided myself for letting my paranoia get the better of me and opened the door a crack. “Can I see some ID?”
He flipped open a little leather wallet with an official-looking bronze badge. “My name is Paul Johnson. I work in the Denver office.”
I opened the door the rest of the way. “Are you here about the fae I reported?”
“Not exactly.” He tucked his sunglasses into a pocket, and settled his pale blue eyes on me. “Mind if I come inside?”
Stepping back, I indicated the couch, then took up position on one of the chairs. Sweat broke out on my palms as my mind skipped between the stranger behind Magpie and his crazy claim that I was part fae, and the werewolves and Luke’s assertion that the PTF hadn’t discounted them entirely. I swallowed, and willed my voice not to shake. “What’s this about?”
“I’m investigating a case that may be connected to the report you made. I take it you haven’t received my messages? I’ve been trying to contact you since Tuesday. When I got no response, I thought it best to come in person.”
“My phone broke Monday night.”
His lips pursed, like he was trying to decide if he believed me, and I resisted the urge to shift under his scrutiny.
“You were friends with a man named Aiden Daye, correct?”
“Yes.” A thrill of hope raced through me. Maybe they’d found Aiden’s killer. If the PTF was involved, that meant faeries. Maybe those Purity activists were right.
“You’re aware of what happened to him?”
I nodded. “I spoke with the police. Is the PTF investigating his death as well?”
Side-stepping the question, he asked, “How well did you know Mr. Daye?”
“We’ve been friends since college. We never dated, if that’s what you mean, but David and I were the closest friends he had.”
“I see.” He fell silent and pursed his lips, as if trying to decide what to say. “What I’m about to tell you is sensitive information about an on-going investigation. You cannot tell another living soul. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
He leaned forward, propping his arms on his knees, and I found myself mimicking his pose. The intensity of his stare made my skin itch. “Mr. Daye was under investigation for trafficking faerie artifacts.”
“What!” I jerked back as though I’d been burned. “Aiden would never be involved in that.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes never strayed from my face.
“Yes. We were very close. I know he wouldn’t do that.”
“He was also suspected of being an unregistered halfer.”
My mouth gaped like a fish out of water until I pulled myself together enough to stammer, “There must be some mistake. I’m sure I would have known if Aiden was a faerie.”
“Do you know many fae, Ms. Blackwood?”
“Well, no,” I admitted.
“Then how can you be sure? Most fae can easily pass for human, and many halfers don’t even realize themselves what they are. That’s why what we do at the PTF is so important. Otherwise, normal humans have no way of telling who is who.” It sounded like a speech he’d practiced often.
I thought back to the stranger in the alley and his assertion that I could be a halfer without even knowing. How certain was I, really, about anything these days?
“Aiden was just an ordinary guy . . .” Even as I said it, I remembered all his idiosyncrasies—sweeping for bugs, worried people were watching him. Maybe he really had had a reason to be paranoid. I tried to remember Aiden in my studio. Had he ever touched the metal there, the iron or steel?
I’d been his friend for years, surely he would have trusted me enough to tell me? But as I considered it, I wondered if that was true. Aiden knew I didn’t care much for the fae. I didn’t hate them as much as the Purists, but I still blamed them for their part in the war and what it had cost my family.
I shook my head. If he’d been a faerie, why not just register like he was supposed to? He might have lost his job with the city, but surely that was a small risk compared to deportation?
As my brain wrestled with the implications, I couldn’t help feeling Aiden had become a stranger. It was like losing him a second time.
“Are you sure?” I demanded. “Do you have proof Aiden was a halfer?”
“There’s evidence, but since he was still under investigation, it’s inconclusive.”
“So you’re not sure.”
“Not one hundred percent, but near enough. If we’d already proven him fae, his death would have fallen under PTF jurisdiction. But regardless of his fae status, the circumstances of his murder overlap my current investigation.”
“The illegal artifacts.”
“Yes. We were tracking a certain object in Mr. Daye’s possession, but it went missing when he died. The fae who visited you were probably after the same item, thinking Mr. Daye passed it to you before his untimely demise. As I understand, it was a small silver box. Can you recall Mr. Daye having any such object?”
I imagined Aiden’s house. He’d kept it neat and tidy, almost sparse. Most people collected trinkets from their life—photos, souvenirs, mementos. Not Aiden. His walls had been empty except for one picture of his grandmother and a picture of him, me, and David from a trip we took in college. I had a copy of the same photo on my mantel, with “The Three Musketeers do Mexico” scrawled across the bottom in David’s sloppy handwriting. Aiden had two cases of books, all non-fiction. No trinkets used as bookends or shelves of knickknacks.
“If he had a box like that, I never saw it.”
“I see.” His frown deepened. “It’s very important we retrieve that box, Ms. Blackwood. Faerie artifacts are dangerous, and trafficking in them is a serious crime.”
“I told you, Aiden wouldn’t have been involved with that.” Halfer or not, Aiden had been a good man.
“Not knowingly perhaps. If you remember anything, or find any information pertinent to my investigation, you’ll let me know?” He smiled in a way that was supposed to be congenial, but felt fake.
I took the card he offered. “If those fae were looking for the box you think Aiden had, do you think they killed him?”
“It’s a good possibility. The PTF is cooperating fully with the task force investigating the possible serial killings, though no fae connection has been established yet. But your friend’s death may not be related to the others. More likely, he was killed for the faerie artifact, and his murderer either has the box or is looking for it. Either way, tracking down that artifact is our best chance to find his killer.”
Catching Aiden’s killer obviously wasn’t this man’s top priority, but he was right about the box providing a strong lead.
“I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”
“Thank you, Ms. Blackwood.”
I stood to show Mr. Johnson out, but a knock at the door interrupted us. With a PTF agent present, I didn’t feel the need to spy before answering.
Marc had finally come for the visit Luke promised. The afternoon sun caught red highlights in his chestnut curls, creating a soft, coppery halo that would have been inviting if not for the intense hazel eyes that accompanied it. Swallowing hard, and praying that look didn’t mean he’d come to kill me, I kept my eyes trained on his broad chest as he pushed past me without being invited.
“Not interrupting anything, I hope.” His voice carried a low rumble, the hint of a growl. Finding a PTF officer in my living room probably wasn’t the best way to assure a werewolf his secret was safe with me. Then again, how would he know? It’s not like agent Johnson had a neon sign above his head that said PTF.
“I was just leaving.” Agent Johnson stepped up to the door, and Marc shifted to create a space for him to pass.
My fingers twitched to stop Johnson, but that would only delay the inevitable. If Marc’s pack had decided to kill me—No. Marc had to have convinced them. I swallowed and tried to keep my voice even as I said, “Goodbye, Mr. Johnson.”
“Please call if anything comes up, Ms. Blackwood.” He nodded to Marc. “Good day.”
Marc opened his mouth as soon as the door closed, but I held up a hand to forestall him. “Shh.”
He bristled, but pressed his lips closed and waited until Mr. Johnson got in his car and started down the drive before asking, “What was a PTF agent doing at your house?”
“You know him?”
A muscle in Marc’s jaw twitched. “I’ve seen him before.”
I lifted my chin, forcing myself to meet his glare. “He had some questions for me.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Alex,” the rumble of his voice reverberated in my chest, “if the pack has been compromised I need to know. Now.”
Facing off against an angry werewolf might not have been the brightest idea, even if he hadn’t come to kill me, but I was tired of being interrogated. Fists balled at my sides, I forced my voice to remain even. “Yours isn’t the only secret in the world. It’s got nothing to do with you.”
We stood like statues locked in a staring contest for a moment. Then he let his arms fall to his sides and gave a curt nod. “Sorry, but when you’ve got a secret like ours you tend to get a little paranoid.”
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Now that suspicion had taken a back seat, concern laced his voice.
“You tell me.” I took a step away from him. “Luke said you’d come with a verdict.”
