Dirty Magic (34 page)

A
n hour later, Morales pulled up in front of my house. On the way, we’d called Gardner to tell her the bad news. Unfortunately, she had some of her own. The ASAC had given her and the team seventy-two hours to find Bane before he called them back to Detroit for reassignment. It was better than an immediate withdrawal, but it also added another layer of pressure. Especially since the entire team was showing the strain of burning it from both ends for the last few days.

As we pulled in, my phone buzzed to indicate an incoming text. It was from Pen, telling me I had the night off because she was at the hospital. “Shit,” I whispered.

My original plan had been to spend the night at the hospital, but Pen had beaten me to it. I shot back a quick text thanking her, but inside I wanted to cry. Probably she thought she was doing me a big favor, but the idea of another night alone in that too-quiet house made me want to claw off my skin.

“Everything okay?” Morales asked, shooting me a look.

No, it wasn’t. Not at all. “Yeah.”

“Well, there’s someone bothering me—well, there are lots of things, actually,” Morales said, putting the car in Park. “But the main thing is, the potion itself. You said early on he had to have help cooking a potion with those alchemical elements, right?”

I nodded. “He could have recruited some wizard from the Votaries to help him.”

He shook his head. “Or maybe we were too quick to clear Volos.”

I froze. Considering I was hiding the Volos visit from Morales, the conversation had just taken a turn into dangerous waters. I searched Drew’s face for some hint he knew I was withholding something, but his expression was curious, not accusing. “Look, I’m no Volos apologist, but that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” he said, raising a brow. “What if they worked together and staged Marvin’s murder to clear Volos of suspicion?”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” I said. “Volos is building that community center on Bane’s turf and with the botched tunnel raid, they’ve had to postpone the project. What’s in it for Volos to cooperate with Bane when Gray Wolf has done nothing but cause problems for him?”

Morales blew out a breath. “None of this adds up. Why would Bane go to such lengths over a stupid community center?”

Relieved to have the conversation centered on Bane again, I shrugged. “It’s not really about the community center at all.” I toyed with a frayed thread on my jeans. “It’s about principles … and turf.”

Morales snorted. “Spare me the street wisdom, Prospero. Sociopaths like Bane don’t have principles.”

“Sure they do,” I said, looking up. “It’s not conventional morality, but covens are guided by their own codes. The first of which being that a wizard’s turf is sacred. Volos isn’t just sending some guys to sell on the Sangs’ corners. He’s using the legitimacy he earned by lining the mayor’s pockets to drive Bane out of his territory altogether. That’s the ultimate insult.”

He pursed his lips and seemed to think it over. “If that’s true, then Volos knew exactly what he was doing.”

“He knew.” I nodded. “In fact, I’d bet he was counting on it.”

“So do you think he’s doing all this because he wanted Bane’s territory for himself?”

I nodded at him. “Maybe. Maybe not. But he definitely knew his plan would piss off Bane.”

“I just wish we had more time on this.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Or that LM had a location for Bane so we could end this today.”

“I think LM liked you,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, sure. Before you know it we’ll be trolling the titty bars together.” He shuddered at the thought. “I hear homunculi are real pussy magnets.”

I choked on a laugh. My head filled with an image of Mary hunkered on a stool sipping a Shirley Temple while LM played wingman to Morales. Beside me, Morales’s deep baritone echoed my own higher giggles. After the stress of the case, it was cathartic to laugh over something so ridiculous. Finally, I wiped the tears from my eyes and let out a contented sigh. “I needed that.” I looked at him. “Thanks.”

“I do what I can.” He smiled genuinely. It hit me then that without really meaning to, I’d started to actually like the ass. “You want some company? I could come in for a while.”

The words hung there in the air between us like a big neon question mark. His gaze was too frank to misunderstand his meaning. If he came in we’d probably share a few beers, some war stories, maybe a few more laughs. And then, we’d share a few pleasurable hours in my bed. A few merciful hours when I wouldn’t have to worry about Danny or Bane or Volos or any of the hundred other problems weighing me down.

He waited patiently while I weighed my options. He hadn’t made the suggestion from any sort of emotional place. It was almost as if he’d thrown it out there because having sex was what all guys and gals did together eventually.

No doubt he’d be a firecracker in the sack. And I wasn’t worried about romantic complications. He was too practical for that, and I wasn’t naive enough to let a couple of orgasms make me stupid over a man.

“I’m thinking it’s better if you don’t,” I said finally.

Idiot! The voice in my head sounded disconcertingly like Baba’s, which did nothing to spark my libido. But I knew the only reason I’d be inviting him in was because I was afraid to be alone, and I refused to let fear guide my actions.

“You sure about that?” He tilted his head in a way that I’m sure would have changed the minds of most women.

But I wasn’t most women. “Yeah.”

He looked surprised and disappointed, but also a little impressed that I’d somehow managed to resist his charms. “If you change your mind, I’m just a phone call away.”

You had to give the guy points for persistence. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I opened the door and climbed out of his truck. “Have a good night, Morales.”

Just before the door shut behind me, I heard him mutter, “Yeah, right.”

He waited for me to get inside before his truck roared off into the dusk. I watched until the red lights disappeared, and then I went inside to face the silence.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I was drinking a beer at the table in the kitchen, wishing it were something stronger. The can was cold and wet in my hand. The clock ticked agonizingly slowly in the background.

My eyes were on the phone in front of me, willing it to ring. I’d already called Pen and chatted with her for a few minutes. But the strain of pretending I was keeping everything together became too much so I’d ended the call quickly.

The idea of calling Morales to come back flirted with my bad decision sensors. But before that thought could gather much steam, something sticking out from under the fridge caught my eye.

I pulled the item out and realized it was
The Alchemist’s Handbook
. It had been there ever since Danny had thrown it at me. Jesus, that night felt as if it had been months ago instead of just a few days. I snatched it off the floor and sunk back into the chair. Heaving a big sigh, I opened the cover to a random page. Despite myself, a small smile tilted up the corner of my mouth. The chapter I’d landed on was called “Practical Tips for Cleansing Tools.”

And just like that I was transported to a time fifteen years earlier when Uncle Abe was giving me yet another one of his lectures on the importance of cleaning my beakers and burners between batches. “A lazy wizard is a dead one, Katie-girl.”

Back then I had definitely been lazy, but now? Laziness was a luxury I couldn’t afford. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had the house to myself for a night to do nothing. I should appreciate the time, but instead all these fucking thoughts about Danny kept poking away at my brain.

Like, most of the time when I sat by Danny’s bed, I wished it had been me potioned instead of him. That’s what I was supposed to feel, right? As if I’d gladly trade places so he could live a healthy, full life?

On the other hand—and I’d never admit this out loud—sometimes I was relieved it wasn’t me. I tried not to even acknowledge that thought. It was more like a shameful itch at the back of my skull. If I’d been the one hurt, Danny would be dealing with the worry and the fear. And the thought of being hooked up to hoses and a bag to collect my urine made my spine shrivel.

And then there was the third kind of thoughts, the dark ones, when I really resented that it hadn’t been me. Not out of any sense of nobility. Quite the opposite. Sometimes I wished I were the one always being taken care of and worried about for a change. Not the caretaker. Not the doer. Not the one spending every moment fighting. Not thinking, thinking, thinking all the fucking time. And that’s why I never talked about it. Because the shame of that selfish train of thought made me want to put my revolver in my mouth and pull the trigger.

A rattle sounded as my phone danced on the table. I jumped out of my self-pity and scrambled to grab it. Some stupid part of me hoped it would be Morales trying to change my mind. I picked it up, not sure I’d say no this time, but when I saw whom it was from I cursed.

The offer still stands. Don’t let pride make your decision. Let me help Danny. —John

“Fucker,” I said to the phone. I wanted to throw it, but with the mounting medical bills, and the extremely recent threats of unemployment, I didn’t have enough money to replace it. Instead, I set it on the table with slow, deliberate movements.

I couldn’t blame Volos for sending the text—actually, yes, I could—but for some reason the wording of it was what really got to me. Who texted with perfect grammar? I mean, really? He might as well have been engraving an invitation to a fucking ball. And how the hell had he gotten my phone number?

For lack of anything else to punish, I picked up the book again and began flipping pages. Every now and then I’d find hastily scrawled notes I’d left in the margins. That earnest girl, the one with nothing but potential ahead of her, felt like a stranger now. If I hadn’t detoured her off her original path, she’d probably have had no problem coming up with the potion we needed to save Danny. Because that girl, despite all her faults, was talented. “My little miracle worker,” Uncle Abe had called me.

Where was my miracle now?

I took another long swallow of beer. Miracles didn’t happen for the wicked, no matter how righteous their current path. But then my conversation with Pen the other day when she told me about that little girl dying floated to the surface.

“You can’t save them all,” I’d said. And then she looked at me with a mixture of despair and resolve. “I have to try.”

Shit, who was I kidding? The minute Volos had walked out of that room, a tiny voice in the back of my brain had begun whispering. I’d managed to ignore its words until now, but in the silence of that house, which already felt haunted by a boy who wasn’t even dead yet, I listened to it.

Maybe I can save him if I cook.

I ran my hands through my hair. This was crazy. When Morales arrested Bane, he’d make the asshole give up a cure for Danny.

“Don’t be naive,” the voice whispered.

Bane had pulled Danny into his plans because he knew it would handicap me. For some reason, he wanted me in pain. He’d gladly do a longer sentence for not offering up the antipotion if he knew I’d be suffering outside the cell.

So what was the alternative? Sit around, wringing my hands and hoping that my principles would keep me company after Danny died?

Principles were nice in concept. But in practice, they were real sons of bitches.

I set down my beer and followed my gut to the place where I knew I’d find what I needed. Down the stairs. Past the Mount Doom of laundry and into Danny’s room. His scent—a combination of funky gym socks and the cologne I’d given him last Christmas—lingered in the air. I ignored the painful scent memories and soldiered on. Pushing aside an avalanche of clothes, sports equipment, and other tools of the American teenaged boy, I finally reached the door at the back of the closet.

I’m not sure why the previous owners had built the hidden space. I assumed it was for added storage since the original construction had no attic and they’d converted the basement into a bedroom. It was more of a small closet set behind another closet, but we called it “the attic” anyway. Probably they’d used it as a convenient space for old clothes and photos and precious memorabilia. But me? I used it as a dumping ground, a hiding space—a cemetery?—for all of the skeletons I didn’t want to see anymore but couldn’t bear to destroy from my old life.

The instant I wedged open the door, the musty scents of dried herbs and essential oils gone rancid hit my nose like a punch. The fist to my gut wasn’t caused by the scents so much as the realization that part of me was eager to go digging through those boxes.

“Jesus, Kate,” I said out loud. “Get a grip.”

Cardboard boxes were shoved in haphazard piles along the walls. I groped for the string I knew was hanging from the ceiling and pulled. The single, bare lightbulb exploded with light too close to my eyes. Tracers and dust motes danced in my vision for a moment, playing tricks on my mind. I imagined I saw Uncle Abe’s smirking, too-knowing face in the corner. I blinked and rubbed my lids to clear away the specters.