Devious Magic (2 page)

“What does Gage think? Will he mind you moving out?”

“No, I don’t think so. I guess he’ll like having the house back to himself and it’s not like I won’t be in and out every day anyway. Plus, he and Beau get on really well. Maybe Gage will finally get a girlfriend if I move out,” she mused.

“Oh?”

“I think he’s dating someone, but you know Gage, kiss, don’t tell.”

That hit me unexpectedly hard. Gage and I were getting pretty close once. We dated, kissed and even spent the night in the same bed (alcohol-related and purely platonic... mostly!) On one occasion, we even came very close to having sex, but if we had, it would have been, for me, as much from anger as it was lust. Gage was a handsome man, tall and strong with a jaw covered in near permanent stubble, and thick dark hair. Although I’d always found him attractive, in my heart, I loved Evan. As much as I liked, admired, and yes, even lusted after, Gage... it just wasn’t going to happen.

If I were completely honest with myself, some lingering feelings remained but I didn’t want to be an indecisive woman who strung along two guys. I made my decision, picked my guy and I was sticking to him. The idea of Gage with someone else, however, still stung.
What was wrong with me
? I shook my head, trying to rattle the thought right out of me and tried to concentrate on what Annalise was saying; something about the inn with its huge fireplaces and the coastal walks they were planning to take.

“I’m going to get the full report when you get back, right?”

Annalise winked, a smile slipping onto her face. “Oh yes.”

A perky, redheaded waitress took our orders, her shoulders hunched, eyes concentrating intently on her notepad as we decided on our order. Her name badge read Aimee. She was new and I thought I’d seen her outside Wilding High a few times.

Wilding was a small town, almost a cliché in that it was the type where everyone grew up knowing everyone else. It put me at a disadvantage when I first arrived but the inhabitants were nothing if not hospitable and welcoming. Most passers-by would never realise that Wilding harboured a fairly big secret: it was home to a sizeable werewolf pack. I still didn’t know whether Wilding actively protected their lupine residents, or thought they were some archaic myth. Whatever the case, they resulted in some weird town ordinances such as no pets (no one wanted them accidentally eaten), and few businesses stayed open late whenever the moon was full.

“You know what, hon’? I’ve got a library book that I need to return. Would you mind if I dropped it off while we’re waiting for our lunch? I meant to do it yesterday but clean forgot.” Our non-nutritious but pleasing combination of fruit pancakes and French toast would be at least ten more minutes. The library was just down the street, around a ten-minute walk, there and back if Annalise were quick. Our food would probably hit the table the moment she returned.

“No, go right ahead.”

Annalise flashed a smile at me, grabbed her purse and coat and left. I watched as she crossed the street, walking hurriedly away, hands in her pockets and head bowed against the cold.

I people-watched while I waited. The thing about small town living was that it was easy to spot newcomers, since they were so obviously out of place, unlike my previous life in London. Here, I could spot out-of-towners as well as tourists who visited our pretty little town. Evan taught me something pretty vital, too. He showed me how to recognise the signature of a supernatural; to know when I was near a witch, daemon, wolf or something else.

Looking around, I tried my hand at spotting supes. I counted two wolves walking together across the street. Jay, whom I’d met previously, (I’d even seen him naked once, but not by design and I tried not to think about it), and his companion, someone I hadn’t seen before. I smiled at my skills before glancing away, my eyes coming to rest on a woman sitting on a bench outside the bakery.
Witch
. That surprised me. I didn’t know there were any other witches in town. I must have stared a moment or two too long because she looked up, then around her as if she knew she were being observed, before getting up and walking away. It might be nothing, she might just be passing through, but even so, I made a mental note to mention it to Étoile later.

The lunch crowd brought out a mixed bag of people. Suited men and women from the local businesses that hugged Main Street, teenagers from Wilding High with their wolf emblem jackets and scarves, people running errands and mothers holding the hands of little, chatty children.

It all looked so normal but I knew better than most how deceiving appearances could be. Ever since I discovered, in the worst possible way, that people just weren’t what they seemed, I’d been more than hesitant to let my guard down for a moment. Sometimes danger seemed to lurk everywhere I looked. The expectation of finding it seemed to be embedded in my psyche now. However, my instincts had gotten a lot better, though that came with a price – being hunted. Witch hunters as well as witches, you name it; I have a target on my back.

I checked my watch. Close to ten minutes had passed.

“Careful now, the plates are warm,” said Aimee, sliding my order in front of me, then Annalise’s on her side of the table. She set down cutlery wrapped in a napkin and hurried away, notepad out, to wait on a young family who had just entered.

I inhaled the warm, sweet aroma of pancakes, relieved that right now, the only thing being hunted was the strawberry scooting around my plate as it evaded the stabbing tines of my fork. I checked my watch again. Ten full minutes. Annalise should have been back by now and it seemed rude to eat without her, even though my stomach was giving off an ominous rumble. Sighing, I dropped my fork with a clatter and picked up the berry between my thumb and forefinger, biting into it just as I looked up and saw Gage round the corner. He caught my eye, grinned, gave a casual wave and mouthed “Happy birthday!”

I returned his smile just before he barrelled past, bags of dry cleaning slung over his arm, clearly in a hurry to get his chores over with on his only day off. It took every single bit of restraint for me not to turn my head and watch his fine figure retreat. Having never before finding two men attractive and having that interest returned, I didn’t really know what to make of my behaviour. Kitty would probably know the right thing to say. I decided I would ask her later.

Catching sight of Annalise’s cinnamon French toast, sitting deliciously opposite me, I took another quick look out the window for Annalise, wondering what was holding her up when a shadow fell across my table. Looking up, I expected to see Darla or the pretty, redheaded waitress.

Instead, I viewed a thickset man in a black suit and a shirt so pristinely white, it was like a fresh snowfall. He slid into the booth opposite me, as though I invited him there. I frowned at him, assuming he made a mistake and waited for him to leave. He didn’t.

“Good morning, Miss Mayweather,” he said after a long pause, resting his wrists on the table and folding his hands together.

I smiled hesitantly at him, in case I knew him while I tried to place his face. It was no good. I couldn’t think where I could possibly know him. “Do we know each other?” I asked, thinking I would apologise for my ignorance later after he’d jogged my memory.

“You could say that,” he replied. Picking up the menu, he studied it for a moment, then flicked his eyes up at me. “What’s good here?”

“Everything,” I said, which was true.

He laughed, a short, sharp sound that didn’t have a lot of humour in it. “Unfortunately I’m not quite that hungry.” He signalled a waitress with a shake of the menu and she walked over quickly, notepad ready. “Coffee,” he said to her, his voice easy and melodic. “And... apple pie. Is the apple pie good, Miss Mayweather? It sounds good.”

“Sure,” I said, now completely distracted from the pancakes I’d already started demolishing. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really can’t place you.” There was something off about him, something that made my nerves tingle. I couldn’t place him at all. His accent was English, in a very proper way that didn’t reveal his region, and that was what made him stand out the most. That, and the arrogant way he had taken over my table. This man was a long way from home and I had a bad feeling about him.

“We haven’t met formally,” the man replied, his attention on me again, coolly assessing me, but not at all annoyed by my question. “But you met some friends of mine, almost a year ago now.”

“Oh?” A year ago I’d been on the verge of leaving England, after being chased by a gang of men whom I now knew were murderous witch hunters. They were behind a string of merciless burnings across Europe. The night I left England, I had nearly fallen prey to them and it terrified me.

The man smiled; his teeth a perfect row of white, expensive, dentistry. He could have been a businessman, a lawyer, anything. I was certain I’d never met him.

“Miss Mayweather, you are of interest to my employer,” he said, “and my employer would very much like to meet you.”

“Are you offering me... a job?” I asked, my brows knitting together as I became purposefully dense.

He laughed. “No, no. My employer has, shall we say, an interest in you. He asked me to approach you, to introduce us to you. His last attempt to make contact with you was unsuccessful and he was most displeased.”

“Who is your employer?” I asked.

The man leant back in his seat while Aimee set a mug down, pouring it to the brim with coffee, then adding a plate of hot apple pie with a little flourish. The man dug his fork in and took a large bite, chewing on it. After a couple of mouthfuls, during which he made appreciative noises, he put his fork down. “First things first, let me introduce myself. My name is Mr. Jones.”

“Really?” I blurted out and he laughed, the lines around his eyes creasing. He was probably somewhere in his forties, cheeks slightly puffy, but clean-shaven with dark brown hair, cut very short. I would be hard pressed to describe him later, he was so average.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. You know my name.”

“That I do, Miss Mayweather. That I do.” He picked up his fork again, tapping the tines on the plate. “This really is good pie. Am I putting you off your pancakes? I do apologise. Don’t let me stop you from enjoying your breakfast.”

“What’s your first name?” I asked.

He hesitated. “John.”

“John Jones?”

He smiled again. It didn’t reach his eyes, of course. They remained hard and cold, despite his easy smile. “No, I don’t believe it either, but, like I said, it hardly matters. Let’s be formal, Miss Mayweather. My employer demands formality.”

“Who is your employer?” I asked slowly, my mind racing. I narrowed it down to a couple of unpalatable options. My first thought was the Council, who had returned to my life only a few months ago. It was after I’d gotten caught up in a very strange magical case that drew a lot of witches to Wilding. The Council were the governing body of witches, a secretive faction of the population. Part organisers, part regulators, they set the rules that witches lived by, and enforced them, imposing sanctions when things went awry, or when a witch turned rogue.

The Council had been in disarray for several months when the last leader was murdered right in front of me. It was that disorganisation which left all the other witches vying for power. Council leadership would be a major coup for whoever got elected, be it legally obtained or by intimidating the competition.

My second thought was the FBI or CIA; some big organisation that might want to harness a witch’s power even if they didn’t quite believe in it. But that still didn’t explain Jones’ accent. My final guess was the most unpalatable of them all.

Mr Jones took his time eating another piece of pie before he answered. “My employer is known by many names, but I believe you know him as the head of the Brotherhood.”

Two

My fingers dug into the thick upholstery of the booth bench, my eyes searching for an exit, while I absorbed Mr. Jones’ revelation. From the booth’s location in the centre of the diner, I realised how isolated I was and my heart sank. Mr. Jones sat between the door and me. A plate glass window with “Darla’s Diner” in a thick red font stood between the street and me. To get to the rear exit that opened onto the rear alley would mean somehow traversing the counter before Jones could catch me. Then I would have to dart through the kitchens: all three completely impossible. Much as I hated to admit it, I was trapped.

Mr. Jones barely glanced at me as he forked off a piece of pie, steering it into his mouth. He waved the fork at me as he swallowed. “There’s no way out, Miss Mayweather. Besides, we’re just having a friendly chat. I’d hate for it to be cut short,” he said, his fork already aimed for the last piece.

“Your people tried to kill me,” I hissed, lowering my voice. The enticing aroma of my pancakes suddenly smelled cloyingly, sickeningly sweet.

Mr. Jones shook his head, his eyes rolling just a fraction. “Not I. That’s a job for the minions.” Pushing his empty plate away, he reached for his mug and sipped the coffee, while riveting his cold eyes on me the whole time. “Do pay attention, Miss Mayweather, you can’t leave until we’ve finished our chat.”

He was wrong. I could. I could shimmer out of there, even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it publicly. All I had to do was lean down, out of sight, so no one else noticed, and disappear. It didn’t matter if this Mr. Jones saw. He already knew who I was, so it stood to reason that he had some idea as to what I could do. In thirty seconds, I could be safe, away from his mild-mannered threats.

“I know what you’re thinking and I advise you against it,” Jones warned.

Playing the innocent, I asked, “Advise me against what?”

He leant forward, closing the span of table between us. He hissed the word as if it were distasteful. “Disappearing.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because I’ll kill every person in this place, Miss Mayweather, and that blood will be on your hands.” Mr. Jones arched his eyebrows as he leaned back against the red leather, one hand stroking it as if to remind me that the same colour could splatter every surface, if he so chose.