Mercenary Read online

  I frowned and tapped the picture. “I have an idea.” I put the picture down and reached into my pouch. After burrowing past a handful of plastic fish, an empty DVD case, and a handful of stuffing from a missing stuffed animal, I pulled out a silver pentacle necklace. It had been a gift from one of my well-meaning neighbors, a costume piece with no magical value.

  “What’s that for?” Peasblossom asked.

  “Barbara says he’s refused to talk about what he saw.” I fastened the clasp and let the pentacle hang outside my shirt over my heart. “If we’re right, and he did see someone or something Other, then I need him to believe that I’m someone who won’t dismiss it, that I believe in those things too.”

  “So you’re hanging a pentacle around your neck?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a very popular symbol. More recognizable to a human than a rune.”

  Footsteps in the hallway prompted me to turn in time to see the pocket doors slide open.

  Roger did not look like his picture. The calm, collected man in the photo with his power stance and piercing stare was hidden somewhere deep beneath a trembling aura of barely-repressed panic. I guessed his wife had dressed him, but the pressed dark brown suit and crisp white shirt couldn’t make up for the colorless cheeks, wide eyes, and hair that had been pulled on often enough it may never lie flat again.

  “Ms. Renard.” He crossed the room to shake my hand, as if his body moved on autopilot while his mind spiraled further down the rabbit hole. He didn’t meet my eyes and, like his wife, he didn’t look at Scath. But I wasn’t sure if he shared Barbara’s familiarity with the rule against distracting service dogs on duty, or if he would have ignored Scath regardless due to the way the silver pentacle consumed his attention.

  I pulled on my magic, twining purple strands of energy around my voice as he approached. If he was half as analytical as his wife, then the charm probably wouldn’t do much, but every little bit helped. “Hello, you must be Mr. Temple. Pleased to meet you.”

  His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “Pleased to meet you. That’s a lovely necklace. Family heirloom?”

  Or maybe I won’t need the charm at all.

  “Yes, it is.” I drew a finger around the pentacle, ignoring the imperfection in the silver paint where it didn’t quite cover a flaw in the metal underneath. “My mother was…” I stopped and pretended to hesitate before giving him a polite smile. “It was my mother’s.”

  Roger leaned forward, and the light from the bright overhead light reflected off the sweat beading at his temples. Blood and bone, he was more desperate to talk than I’d hoped.

  I was distracted enough by his agitated state that I didn’t see him reach for me. My eyes flew open as he grabbed my hands, clinging to me as if ready to fall to his knees and beg for my help. He seemed to remember himself a split second later and released me, standing there with his hands fisting and un-fisting at his sides. Heart pounding, I resisted the urge to speak first, letting him gather his wits for an explanation.

  “Was your mother a witch?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  I’d intended to slow play the charade to build his confidence in me, but it was painfully clear from his behavior that it wasn’t necessary. Whatever Roger had seen, he was desperate to tell someone, and the pentacle had been all the nudge he needed for that someone to be me. “I’m a witch. And something tells me you want my help. Is that true?”

  Roger choked, his legs bending as if having trouble supporting him. He nodded, too fast and too hard. It put him off balance, and he swayed, grabbing one of the wingback chairs for support.

  “Okay, why don’t you sit down and tell me what happened?”

  I tried to guide him to sit in one of the chairs, but he shook his head.

  “I don’t need to sit. I need to tell y—” He gagged, cutting himself off and clutching at his neck. The veins in his temples swelled, standing out against his flushed skin.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, alarm raising my voice an octave.

  He pressed his lips together, sucking in deep breaths through his nose as his eyes bulged. “Can you read my mind? Can you touch something and see what happ—?” He choked and fell into the chair sideways, swallowing over and over.

  “Something’s wrong with him,” Peasblossom hissed against my neck.

  “No kidding,” I muttered. “I’m not telepathic or clairvoyant,” I told Roger. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with you?”

  He shook his head, his eyes falling closed and his shoulders slumping forward.

  “It’s all right, just hold still. Let me try something.”

  I waved my fingers in his direction, my magic flowing out in a blanket of silver netting. Detecting magic was a simple spell, and it was as familiar to me as the Cinderella spells I used so often. I didn’t need to say a word to send the magic out, and immediately, purple light burst to life in a coil around Roger’s throat. My eyes widened. A binding spell. Wrapped so tightly around his windpipe it was a miracle he’d been able to say as much as he had.

  “Roger, someone is keeping you from talking about what you saw. Am I right?”

  Roger didn’t even try to answer, but the tears flowing from his eyes were answer enough. I could relate. I knew what it was like to be magically prevented from talking about something. At least I understood the magic, understood what such a binding meant. I could only imagine how terrifying the sensation would be for a human unfamiliar with the Otherworld.

  “All right, listen carefully.” I eased him back until the chair hit his legs and he fell into the thick cushions. I knelt on the floor in front of his chair, meeting his eyes and speaking as slowly and calmly as I could. “Someone is using a binding spell to keep you from telling anyone what you saw. But spells like that are very specific. It can’t keep you from telling me anything at all, only the specific details. Did you sign a contract?”

  He nodded his head, then froze, hissing in pain.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t try to tell me anything, don’t try to talk.”

  “Blood everywhere.” His breathing caught, and he gripped the arms of his chair. “Blood everywhere. Body parts.”

  His lips moved without making a sound, and an alarming red tint crept into his cheeks. I grabbed his face in my hands, tried to force him to look at me. “Don’t talk,” I said firmly. “Don’t think about that night. Don’t think about what happened or what you’re not allowed to talk about.”

  “Blood! Not human! Blood!”

  His face turned purple, and I cursed. He was thinking about the memory too hard, the magic was reacting, the binding tightening like a garrote.

  “Roger, that’s enough.” I poured magic into my voice, trying to calm him down. I had to stop him from talking before the spell gained too much momentum.

  It was too late.

  Roger shoved himself out of the chair, grabbed my shoulders, and shook me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Ac— Ac— Acme!”

  “Stop talking!” I tried to wriggle free, but he shook me again. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and sweat poured from his head, soaking his hair, but still he didn’t take his eyes off me.

  “ACME!”

  He released me so abruptly I fell, hitting the floor hard with one elbow. He gasped, a wet, choking sound, and his eyes bulged as veins swelled beneath the skin of his neck and temples. He hit the ground on his knees and keeled over before he could get his hands out to catch himself.

  I crawled to his side and put one hand on his forehead and one on his chest. His frantic heartbeat pounded against the palm of my hand, and I tried to hold onto him as he thrashed on the floor.

  “He’s too agitated for a sleep spell!” Peasblossom squeaked. “The binding is going to kill him!”

  “Get me a sleeping potion, now!”

  “Are you sure we have one left?”

  “Now!”

  I blocked out her panicked voice and stared into Roger’s eyes. For a second, I allowed myself to channel Flint, and I
took a page out of his strategy book and leaned closer to Roger until my face was all he could see. His eyes locked onto mine, and I let my power rise to fill my stare.

  I’d used the evil eye before to weaken someone’s defenses against a psychic attack. Now I used the power like a scalpel to cut through the tangled knot of panic clouding Roger’s mind. Something cool and smooth dropped onto his body and rolled against my hand. Peasblossom had found the sleeping potion.

  Roger stilled, and I took advantage of that split second of hesitation. I ripped the cork out of the bottle and poured it down his throat, wedging the top of the bottle past his parted lips.

  I couldn’t afford to be gentle, not when I only had a small window before the panic shut me out again and started working to block the effects of the spell. I pinched his nose, forcing him to swallow every last drop of the potion. Roger’s eyes widened, then fluttered closed. His body heaved off of the floor, tightening into an arch and remaining like that for a long heartbeat. Then he collapsed and was still.

  “What happened?”

  I jumped, and dropped the potion bottle. I hadn’t head Barbara come in. Cursing under my breath, I tried to nudge the bottle in front of me so I could hide it between my body and Roger’s. Without answering her, I groped for my cell phone and dialed 4944.

  “4944, what’s your emergency?”

  “I need an ambulance at 121 Boyer Ave.” I glanced at Barbara. “Fifty-five year old man is unconscious, possibly a stroke.”

  “You can’t talk because there’s a human in the room.”

  “Yes.”

  “Unconsciousness is magically induced?”

  “Yes.”

  “An ambulance is on the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  I ended the call and put my cell phone back in the side pocket of my pouch. “An ambulance is on its way. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Barbara knelt next to me, brushing Roger’s hair back with her left hand. “What happened?”

  Her voice was gentle, as if she thought Roger could hear her and she didn’t want to upset him.

  “I don’t know. He was having trouble breathing, and he fell over. I think he got too worked up, maybe a stroke or a heart attack. He’s going to be fine though, he’s breathing.”

  But not very well. There was still a gasping sound coming from his throat, and I had no idea if the sleep spell would be enough to temporarily stop the binding. I needed that ambulance to get here now.

  Goddess, I was so stupid. I should have checked for a binding before I pushed him. I should have known that a man that deals in secrecy among Otherworlders was a prime target for such a spell.

  Peasblossom clung to the neckline of my shirt under my hair. Suddenly she tapped my back, the gesture rapid, panicked. I stiffened, but before I could move, something cold and hard pressed into the small of my back.

  A gun.

  Chapter 8

  Adrenaline jerked at my body like a magician ripping a table cloth free and destroying a set of ceramic dishes in the process. My nerves spasmed painfully as I tried to draw in a deep breath. “Barbara, what are you doing?”

  “Put your cell phone on the floor, fold your hands on top of your head. Then stand up, slowly, and face me.”

  The steely tone of her voice matched her weapon perfectly. She didn’t come right out as say “or I’ll shoot you,” but the calm set of her shoulders, and the easy way she held the gun conveyed the sentiment for her. I’d been right about the clutch purse.

  I did as she instructed. Outrage poured down the empathic link between me and Peasblossom, but I tried to send calming energy back at the seething pixie. Now wasn’t the time to do anything rash.

  “Barbara,” I tried again. “The ambulance is on their way. Is this how you want them to find you? Holding a gun on the person trying to save your husband’s life?”

  “Save him?”

  Her voice dropped a degree, frosty enough to send a chill over my skin. She nodded at the floor, and I glanced down. The potion bottle lay next to Roger’s unconscious form, looking empty, and strange, and very, very suspicious. My stomach dropped.

  “Get away from him,” she barked.

  I did as she asked, cursing as she walked forward to scoop up my cell phone. She backed away to a safe distance before swiping her thumb over the screen and glancing down. “You called 4944. I don’t know what that number is, but it certainly isn’t an ambulance.”

  “It’s a private service,” I said evenly. “I thought you would appreciate discretion.”

  “I’m not a fool, Ms. Renard.” The way she said my name suggested she no longer believed that was my real name. She slipped my cell phone into the pocket of her white sweater, then fished her own cell phone out of a slim pocket in her skirt.

  She didn’t take her eyes off me long enough for me to do anything, but I wasn’t worried enough to use magic—yet. Flint had been clear that discretion was needed. And somehow I didn’t think revealing the Otherworld to Barbara when it was a glimpse of the Otherworld that had put her husband in a precarious situation to begin with would go over well. But if it came down to getting hurt or using magic, I knew which one I’d choose.

  “Ian, it’s Barbara. I need you to come to the house, now. Roger’s hurt.” A brief pause, then, “That woman you met earlier was here to speak to him. I came in and found her next to him with a bottle of some sort of chemical. Roger’s lying on the floor.” Her voice tightened. “He’s breathing, but his face is flushed and he’s sweating. I think she poisoned him.” Another pause. “She said she called a private ambulance. She dialed 4944.” Another pause. “All right.

  She ended the call and gestured at me with the gun. “Let’s go.”

  Peasblossom tensed, digging her hands into the neckline of my shirt and pressing her feet into my spine as she prepared to launch herself at my attacker. I shook my head as I turned to follow Barbara’s gesture.

  Not the time, I thought, trying to send calming energy to my familiar. It was hard when I wasn’t feeling calm myself. Barbara was so angry I could practically feel the heat of her temper burning behind me. And the potion bottle would look terribly damning to someone who didn’t use potions. I pressed my lips together and pulled in another deep, slow breath through my nose. EMS would be here any minute. Barbara wouldn’t be expecting them so quickly. I just needed to stall.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’re going into the closet.”

  “The clos—”

  “If you don’t move now, I’ll get the chloroform. And chloroform is not like the movies, Ms. Renard. It’s not that quick, and it’s certainly not that safe, so I suggest you move, now.”

  I bit back the sharp retort that I was well aware of the realities of chloroform. I also wanted to point out that I had potions that could fulfill the promises the movies made about chloroform, but that wasn’t helpful information at this juncture. So I kept my mouth shut.

  I marched out of the room, following her directions until we reached a door not far from the front entrance. She opened it to reveal a coat closet and I frowned.

  “Get in,” Barbara commanded.

  I did as she asked, feeling a bit surreal. I’d expected to be locked in the basement, or maybe tied up in a bedroom. A closet seemed too flimsy a choice for someone as careful as Barbara. And I was right by the front door. If she went back to the study…

  Barbara’s face darkened. With more speed than I would have given her credit for, she struck me across the face with the butt of her gun.

  The blow had significant force. My head snapped to the side, and I gasped. Pain arced through my cheekbone and my head throbbed with an intensity that threatened to drown my vision in grey fog. A blow to the temple could make the brain bounce against your skull, resulting in unconsciousness, a concussion, or worse. Being a witch would help with the “or worse,” but unconsciousness was a real concern.

  Before either I or Scath could react, Barbara closed the close
t door. A low-pitched buzz heralded the sealing of an electronic lock, and when I raised a hand to touch the door, cold metal met my palm. The thin wooden door I’d seen from the outside was a false front to cover a much more substantial locking mechanism.

  I felt the door in the darkness, my stomach bottoming out. No door knob. This wasn’t just a closet, it was a miniature safe room. I sighed. That’s why it was by the front door. In case someone showed up with violent intentions, Barbara could immediately close herself inside this room and wait out the police. I snorted. Who was I kidding? Barbara Temple wasn’t the sort of woman to call the police. Not when her good friend had his own private military company…

  “Bloody brilliant,” I muttered. Rolling my eyes, I held out a hand, palm up. “Lumen.”

  Three cheery yellow lights sprang from my palm to hover in the air around me. I twirled my finger in a circle and flicked it up, sending the lights to hover in a triangle over my head.

  “At least it’s a big closet.” I eyed the line of coats ranging from thick faux fur to light summer cardigans. The coats took up the back half of the closet, but there was plenty of room for me to stand without getting buried between them. I studied the door, but found no knob, and no keyhole. An electronic panel on the side wall had a screen and a phone, but none of the buttons I pushed turned it on. I guessed you needed a code to make it work. A code I didn’t have.

  Barbara’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Ian will be here soon,” she said tightly. “In the meantime, you’re going to tell me what you gave my husband.”

  “It was medicine,” I told her, keeping my voice level. “He was having a panic attack. I was trying to help him calm down before he hurt himself.”

  “Bullshit. That was no medicine.”

  “It’s homeopathic.”

  “What did you give him?” Barbara demanded again.