Simply Irresistible (22 page)

No. The important issue was how she could use their stay in Portland and surrounding environs to further her goal of disseminating the right kind of information to create even more chaos around her.

When she was participating, each story had to further that goal. Of course, KAHS covered a lot of stories that meant nothing in Eris’s scheme of things. But here in the heart of happy mage country, where Blackstone had his friends and his restaurant, where Dexter Grant, that good-hearted do-gooder, had settled, and where the late Eugenia Kineally practiced her particularly offensive brand of niceness … well, this would be the best place to dismantle some magical systems that had gotten way out of line.

The fact that the Fates had chosen to hide here, cowards that they were, was simply gravy.

“Erika?” Sturgis asked.

She could tell from his tone of voice that he expected her to agree with him.

“I think we should stay here,” she said, setting down the crust of her oil-saturated bread. “We haven’t done any live reporting from the Northwest in a while, preferring to rely on our affiliates—and, as we all know, their reporting is beyond wretched. Who cares about trees, anyway—old growth or otherwise? There have to be other stories in this part of the country, right?”

Sturgis was staring at her as if she had grown a new head. Kronski had a grin on his face that he was trying—and failing—to suppress.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sturgis said. “There’s no news here. This is the ass end of nowhere.”

His voice carried, like usual, and the patrons of the restaurant looked at him. Half of them seemed offended. Locals, probably. The C-team news crews who had been covering the weird building all morning gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Maybe there’s the perception of no news,” Eris said, “because no one pays attention to this part of the country. We might break a few stories. Have you thought of that?”

“I’ve been hoping to check out some of the fringe political movements here,” Suzanne said, her voice breathy and timid, as usual.

Fringe political movements. Eris sighed. As if that story hadn’t been done to death.

Kronski saw her expression. “I’m sure there are other stories too.”

“Like a scientific investigation of the Great Disappearing Building.” Sturgis crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, tilting it on two legs. He nearly collided with the waiter, who was bringing their lunch.

The food was fragrant and simple. Eris had ordered a rabbit stew and found it to be old-fashioned—as in positively medieval—and for a moment she toyed with leaving Blackstone alone to ply his craft. No one made food like this any more and, contrary to what she would have said half an hour earlier, she found she actually missed it.

“Give my compliments to the chef,” she said to the waiter, allowing the twinkle in her eye to show.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, bowing to her with a formality she hadn’t expected.

Eris smiled and turned to her stew. Staying here wouldn’t be as difficult as she thought. She’d even eat most of her meals here, not just to keep her eye on Blackstone but to give herself a treat.

“I think pursuing the science angle might be one small story we could do,” Eris said, looking at her small team. “But I’m sure we’ll find something else as well. Just give me a little time. I’ll come up with a story that will make everyone from ABC to CNN to
Time
to the
New York Times
pay attention.”

“You’d better,” Sturgis muttered.

Maybe she’d take that deep voice away from him, and make him sound like he was on helium all the time. That would upset him, perhaps permanently.

But not yet. She still needed him.

For now.

However, when that changed …

“You’re scheming again,” Sturgis said.

“Yes.” Eris smiled at him. She had a wonderful afternoon planned. Grant and Kineally had gone to Grant’s house, where Eris would soon join them, proving to Grant just how meager his powers were and to Kineally how fragile a psychic’s mind could be.

Then Eris would go get the Fates and dispose of them. She might even finish her tasks in time to have dinner at Quixotic.

“What are you thinking about?” Kronski asked, which was a much better question than the implied questions in Sturgis’s scheming comments.

“I’m thinking that with a few changes, I could grow to like this place,” Eris said.

“This restaurant or the Northwest?”

“All of it,” Eris said. Her mood was so much better than it been in the morning. Of course, Strife was off on some unimportant mission, so she didn’t have him to worry about anymore. “I really think that this little burg will provide the turning point for everyone here.”

Everyone, including the mortals surrounding her and the mages who were discussing the “evil mage and his plan” in the kitchen.

Eris smiled again. It felt good to taunt the enemy—even when he had no idea she was doing so. She knew, and that was all that mattered.

Vivian and Dex arrived in his backyard seconds later. His house wasn’t a palace by any stretch, and that embarrassed him. He knew the theory, heard it expressed by longer-lived mages than he was: that any mage who had lived at least a hundred years and hadn’t become rich was a failure.

He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t even close. He’d never been interested in earning money. After the Fates had chewed him out, he had disappeared into public service. Then, when he had enough money saved, he opened his own pet store. Nothing he’d done had been a moneymaking enterprise. In fact, he’d come close a number of times to losing everything.

The fact that his business was marginal and his house had been outdated thirty years ago normally did not bother him. But he wanted to impress Vivian. And even though she professed to know nothing of the magical world, she wasn’t shocked by most of the things she’d seen.

Maybe she’d even heard that old chestnut about a mage, his money, and failure.

The backyard was fenced in, with tall trees in the corners, the branches hanging over the fence, the roots pushing up beneath. Fuchsia baskets hung from the top of the fence, and along the sides, hydrangeas grew in a variety of colors. No one could see in, and he couldn’t see out. It was his little haven in what had once been the countryside between Tigard and Newberg.

Now the area was all built up. When he’d had enough money to buy his neighbors’ lots, he hadn’t thought it necessary. By the time he realized it was, he no longer had the funds—at least not without selling one of his hideaways. So he lost his view and some of his privacy. But he didn’t care. This little patch of land was his, just like the store was his. Just like the cave was his.

Sadie, his familiar, didn’t even raise her head. She was used to Dex popping in and out. She was lying in a patch of sunlight near the back door.

Her eyes flicked open briefly, and he could tell she was angry.

He’d left for the store early that morning—Sadie was not an early riser—and he’d promised her that he’d send for her in time for lunch. Instead he’d been all over the city, using magic, and revealing their special places.

And now he’d brought a woman home with him.

“Where are we?” Vivian asked.

“My place,” Dex said. “Technically, we’re in Tigard.”

“Technically?”

“When I bought the place it was so far out in the country, the real estate agent thought I was nuts.”

Vivian looked at his house. It was one of the first ranch houses ever built in Portland. It had even been written up in the
Oregonian
—how the modern new styles were finally coming into the old city. Even though he had a new roof and aluminum siding put on two years ago, the house’s age still showed.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

He walked around Sadie and headed toward the back door. Two of his cats popped out of the nearby shrubbery and ran for the front of the building. Another slid through the cat door, off to hide from the newcomer.

Vivian frowned, then focused on Sadie. Sadie raised her head and tilted it to one side. Vivian walked toward her, hand outstretched, and Sadie watched as if she’d never seen a human before.

Then Vivian crouched in front of Sadie. Sadie sat up and put her paw in Vivian’s hand, something Dex had never seen before. Vivian smiled at Sadie, shook the paw, and then stood, without petting Sadie’s head, which was something Sadie despised.

“Did you hear that?” Vivian asked as she returned to Dex’s side.

“Hear what?” he asked.

“I was afraid of that.” Vivian shook her head. “I’ve had a long day.”

“Did Sadie say something to you?”

“She talks?”

Dex shrugged. “She’s my familiar. She has skills that regular dogs don’t have.”

“Oh.” Vivian gave Sadie another glance. The wolfhound’s tail thumped against the grass.

That answered Dex’s question. Sadie didn’t mind Vivian. Maybe Sadie didn’t see her as competition for his affections. After all, Sadie took care of all the strays he constantly brought home. There was no reason Sadie would reject a human just because Dex was attracted to her.

The thought sent a shiver of fear through him. Maybe life would have been easier if Sadie had gone after Vivian. Then Dex could let her slip out of his life like he’d let so many other people do. He always felt that he couldn’t share himself, that he couldn’t take care of them in the way he wanted, and so he faded away, letting them think he was no longer interested, or he had something better to do.

He pushed open the kitchen door and stepped inside. The kitchen had once been considered huge—a full-sized square room with a window over the sink, a place for the kitchen table, a freestanding stove, and counter space on two walls.

By today’s standards, the kitchen was small and dark, its original herringbone wallpaper and green tile ugly and old. The mess didn’t help, either. He still had dishes in the sink. Newspapers covered the butcher-block table he’d bought twenty years ago, and rolled-up bags of cat food sat on the counters. The dog food kibbles were spread all over the floor—the cats had been playing with it again.

The house smelled faintly of cat pee, thanks to a late torn he’d saved thirty years ago, and the inevitable litter boxes that he didn’t clean as often as he should.

Nurse Ratched, his Siamese, sat on the counter, watching as if she disapproved, which she probably did. When she realized Dex had noticed her, she meowed at him angrily and jumped down, disappearing behind the stove.

Vivian looked around, drinking it all in, seeing his failures and his losses and all the things that he hadn’t done in all the years, things people like Blackstone and Vari probably did in their sleep.

She turned toward him and smiled. “I grew up in a house like this. I loved it.”

Had she heard his thoughts? He thought he had blocked them, but he wasn’t being as cautious now as he had been earlier. Or was she just being polite?

He made himself smile. “I don’t know if you’re hungry after that soup, but I have stuff here—”

“No,” she said. “I’m tired. I just want to sit down.”

He’d forgotten how pale she’d been. “Let me check what Vari did to your neck.”

She nodded, and turned so that her back was facing him. Her neck was long and slender, the kind that should be highlighted with jewels and open collars. The fine hairs had been singed, many of them broken off, and a line of dried skin ran down her spine, disappearing into her shirt.

His fingers hovered near the base of her skull, not quite touching. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” she said. “It did before he took the spell away, but it hasn’t hurt since.”

“Good.” Dex let his fingers brush against the singed hair. It was coarse, although the nearby curls were fine. She smelled faintly of rosewater and soap, a good combination. He wanted to lean in and inhale.

But he didn’t. His fingertips brushed the injured area, and he closed his eyes, touching her with his magic as well. No one’s power remained except Vivian’s. He found Vari’s magical signature in the singed hairs, but no one else’s. The other spell had been cleaned of its identifying marks. Dex couldn’t tell who cast it.

Only its shell remained.

It had been a very subtle and powerful spell. Dex wasn’t sure he’d be able to disable it without causing some damage to Vivian’s spine. He was glad Vari had done the cleansing.

“Did Vari say who had done this?” Dex asked, opening his eyes.

Vivian had her head bent forward. The dried patch ran up into her scalp. “He said he couldn’t tell. There was no—signature?”

Dex nodded. Unless Vari was a more talented mage than he seemed, he didn’t have the skill to clean off two spells like that. “Well,” Dex said, “looks like he got all of it.”

“Good.” Vivian started to turn around, but Dex put one hand on her shoulder.

“Let me take care of the damage the spell left,” he said.

“Is it burned?” Vivian asked.

“Like a sunburn,” he said, and felt thankful that nothing more had happened. There had to have been an explosion to cause this kind of damage. Vari must have absorbed it into himself, or the damage would have been a lot worse.

Dex felt his cheeks heat up. He hadn’t really been fair to the Quixotic team. Blackstone had been right: Dex was used to working alone. He hated taking orders, and Blackstone had rubbed him the wrong way. Staying with that group would have meant listening to Blackstone, and Dex wasn’t willing to do it.

He also wasn’t willing to share Vivian.

He used a light healing spell, sending it through his fingertips. He ran them along the dried skin and the singed hair, restoring it all to its original state.

Vivian’s skin was silky, her hair shimmery. He let his fingers linger a moment longer than they needed to before his hand dropped.

“There,” he said.

Vivian turned to face him. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “My pleasure.”

It was his pleasure. She was his pleasure. He ran his forefinger along her cheek and she leaned into his touch. She was enjoying this as much as he was. He could feel her longing mingling with his own.

He cupped her cheek with his hand, and then leaned in, hesitating for a moment in case she wanted to back away. She didn’t. Her gaze met his and then her eyes closed as their lips touched.