Bronze dust and red buffing
compound coated my work surface, my jeans, and my hands. Pulling down
my respirator mask so it hung over my collarbone like a necklace, I
set the Dremel aside and, fingers clasped, pressed my palms toward
the ceiling until my back popped. My stomach growled, and I glanced
longingly at the dregs of coffee staining my empty mug. Breakfast had
been a long time ago. The air in the studio smelled of warm metal and
sulfur patina, and my nose twitched with the warning of an oncoming
sneeze.
Sniffing, and brushing the back
of my wrist over my upper lip, I snatched up a polishing cloth to
wipe out the residual red rouge caked in the corners of the bronze
queen chess piece. I was careful to keep my mind clear as I worked,
blocking off my emotions so they didn’t accidentally spill over
into Uncle Sol’s Christmas present due to my magical ability.
That would be a fine gift. Here’s
a fun game full of anxiety and stress that makes you sick to your
stomach when you touch the pieces.
When the queen shone with a
mirror finish, I set her beside her king, ready to lead her army
across the cherrywood chess board.
On one side of the battlefield,
fractal-pattern pawns guarded a court of frozen snowflakes—all
sharp angles and hard lines—their
shapes as bright and clear as their finish. Across the no man’s
land of checkered space, a second army sat, ready for war. These
pieces were dark, stained to an oil-slick finish. In contrast to
their counterparts, the patinaed court swooped and curled with
organic curves.
The set was done. One more item
checked off my to do list, and not a moment too soon. I’d be on my
way to the fae Winter Festival in less than a day. My tutors, Kai and
Hortense, had been cramming almost every waking moment with fae
etiquette lessons to help me survive my debut at the Court of
Enchantment. Most of the lessons boiled down to “Don’t be
yourself.”
Standing, I brushed what metal
dust I could off my jeans, then scrubbed my hands raw at the sink in
the corner.
I had a box all prepared for
Sol’s gift, kept safe from the studio’s mess in a cabinet off to
one side of my work space. The chess pieces each slipped into
individual pockets in two felt-lined drawers under the board. Once
the armies were laid to rest, I set the board on a bed of bubble
wrap, covered it, and tucked it in. I secured the box with packing
tape and scribbled the address for Uncle Sol’s New York apartment,
the closest thing he had to a home, across the top. Then I cleaned my
Dremel, placed it back on its peg on the wall, and swept up the
evidence of my work.
Straightening, I turned a slow
circle, making sure everything was tidy. Thanks to the time-dilation
between realms, this would be the last time I set foot in my studio
for at least a week. Assuming I came back at all.
A colorful sheet hung like a
ghost in one corner of the room, suspended on the copper sculpture it
was keeping safe from my creation process. All the tools were in
their places, the kilns were off, the forge was cold.
Grabbing Sol’s present, I
turned out the lights and locked the studio door. The mid-morning sky
was clear but cold, tightening the skin across my cheeks. Tendrils of
mist still huddled in shadows, close to the ground where the sun
couldn’t find them. I breathed deep, and crossed the clearing to my
house.
I set Sol’s package on the
breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room, and
glanced at the clock on the wall.
Crap.
I only had thirty minutes until my shift at the bookstore.
*
I flew through the back door to
Magpie Books, purse dangling from one hand, keys clenched in the
other. I’d stripped off my dirty clothes, wiped the worst smudges
off my face with a damp rag, and pulled on a clean outfit in two
minutes flat. I’d also careened down the Boulder Canyon like a
maniac, so I was only five minutes late for my shift.
Shoving my belongings into a
locker in the back room, I pushed through the employee-only door to
the store proper and jogged up an aisle of bookcases toward the
front.
Dozens of people were perusing
the shelves, arms piled high with popular titles, and the front door
jingled constantly with the flow of holiday traffic. The scent of
pine and cinnamon mixed with the smell of books and coffee. A row of
over-stuffed stockings hung on one wall, each embroidered with an
employee’s name. Mine was third from the end.
Kayla stood by the register. Her
platinum blond hair was pinned back from her face with two tiny
silver clips. She wore her usual high-collared, ankle-length dress to
hide the gossamer pixie wings she’d once shown me. I licked my
lips, recalling the heady sensation caused by the magical dust that
came off those wings.
“Hey, Kayla. Sorry I’m—”
My apology stalled as my gaze shifted past Kayla to the café area
and a knot lodged in my throat.
Standing at the counter was an
agent of the Paranatural Task Force—PTF
for short. He wore blue jeans, brown boots, and a button-up shirt
with a beige plaid pattern, nothing to mark him as a PTF agent, but
I’d recognize Benjamin O’Connell anywhere. Hard to forget a man
who’d sworn to ruin your life. Especially when he had the means and
authority to actually do it.
Clenching my fists, I continued
past the register, ignoring Kayla’s furrowed brow. I stepped up to
O’Connell. “What are you doing here?”
O’Connell raised one eyebrow.
“Getting a coffee.”
I crossed my arms. “Why here?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
Emma, the barista, pulled a lever
on the copper machine behind the counter and a hiss of steam poured
out. She jingled as she worked, her many chains and piercings
clicking with each motion, but her usual perkiness was absent. Her
shoulders sagged, and when she turned I saw dark circles below her
eyes.
Last month, Emma took, and
passed, the test to become a practitioner—a
rare human who could use magic. She’d also convinced a local healer
named Luke to take her on as his apprentice, which would explain her
glazed expression. I knew from experience that using magic was
exhausting.
I inched closer to O’Connell
and pitched my voice lower. “What do you want?”
“I was worried you might get
lonely after I saw the list of potentials brought in this morning.”
My heart stuttered, and my mouth
went dry. Potentials were people reported for exhibiting magical
behavior. They were rounded up, dragged to the nearest PTF facility,
and tested for paranatural abilities. I’d seen firsthand how brutal
PTF tests could be, and the consequences of failing . . . I was just
lucky my ability to handle iron protected me from suspicion, since
that was the main way they tested for fae heritage. Not all my
friends were so lucky. If he’d gotten his hands on any of them . .
. . I swallowed the sour taste in my mouth.
“Gonna take all day to get them
processed.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck—the
picture of an overworked employee just trying to get through the day.
“Then there’s the testing. Could be days. Weeks maybe, backed up
as we are.” He leaned toward me like a friend sharing a secret. His
nearness made my skin itch. “We’ve been up to our eyeballs in
suspicion reports since the election results came in.”
Colorado’s governor-to-be, Gary
Anderson, had run a Purity campaign, aligning himself with the
extremist group that endorsed wholesale slaughter of anyone with a
drop of magic in their blood. I’d already noticed several
disturbing changes around town, like iron bead curtains hanging in
doorways, anti-fae stickers in storefronts, and a recent call for
magical-segregation in schools.
News that the number of reports
had risen since the election wasn’t surprising, but it was
disturbing. The same thing happened right before the Faerie Wars
broke out, when tension between the humans and fae had been at its
highest. I shuddered to think how much worse the situation was going
to get come January, when Anderson was officially sworn in.
“I guess between the halfer,”
O’Connell cut his eyes to Kayla, “and the witch,” he nodded
toward Emma, “you’ve got all the company you need.” He smiled.
“For now.”
Emma set a to-go cup on the
counter and O’Connell stepped away from me to grab it. He lifted
the steaming container to his lips, hissing when the hot liquid hit
his tongue. Then he raised his drink in salute and walked out the
door.
“Hey, Alex.” Emma smiled. The
steel ring in her lip glinted. “Want your usual?”
I set my hands on the counter,
leaving sweaty smudges on the glass. “Was that guy bothering you?”
She frowned. “No. Why?”
I shook my head and walked back
the way I’d come. Passing Kayla, I said, “I need to make a phone
call,” and hustled back through the “employees only” door
before either of my coworkers could do more than blink.
Yanking open my locker, I grabbed
my cell phone and stood with my finger over the contacts icon. Did
O’Connell really have one or more of my friends? Or was he trying
to trick me into giving someone away? Could he have bugged my phone?
I frowned. The CSI shows on TV
always talked about cloning cell phones, but people had to steal the
phones first. And even the PTF needed a warrant for a legal phone tap
. . .
I scrolled through entries,
wondering who was most exposed.
My first thought when O’Connell
hinted a friend had been taken was of Kai. But O’Connell wouldn’t
have called him a potential. Kai was a fully registered fae, living
at my house on a visa granted by the PTF. Plus, O’Connell had
already dragged Kai in for extensive
testing.
I shivered, recalling the way Kai
had screamed during those tests.
No. Kai was safe. As safe as a
fae could be, considering the growing influence of Purity.
But James—a vampire hiding in
plain sight—was definitely not safe. O’Connell knew we were
friends, and potentially more. Our complicated relationship status
had come under close scrutiny when James was investigated for murder.
I’d
since slammed the brakes on dating, but the jolt of dopamine and the
way my body tightened whenever he was around made it painfully clear
that my heart and my head weren’t on the same page.
I pressed the call button. As
soon as the line connected I asked, “Where are you?”
“The nest.” The sound of
James’s voice loosened some of the ropes of tension squeezing my
chest.
I rubbed my forehead, fighting
back a headache. James had spent the better part of a week preparing
for the arrival of a new master vampire—some
woman named Victoria—who’d
claimed ownership of the Denver area nearly as soon as we’d put the
old master down. How she’d known about the vacancy so fast was
anybody’s guess, but she’d come to town two nights ago.
“You’re all right?” I
asked. “No . . . problems?”
“I’m
fine.” Worry crept into his voice, stretching his syllables. “Has
something happened?”
“It’s nothing.
I’ll see you at dinner tonight.” I disconnected before he could
press me for more information. If he wasn’t O’Connell’s
prisoner I didn’t have time to waste chatting with him, and the
last thing he needed while dealing with a new, powerful vampire was
to be distracted.
I scanned through my remaining
contacts. Some names were missing, like Chase and Jynx, the shifter
siblings crashing at my house, and Hortense, the tutor sent by my
grandfather to fill the gaps in Kai’s lessons. They were all full
fae, and I had no way to contact them except face-to-face, but Chase
had been a snoring ball of gray fur at the end of my bed when I left
for work, and Jynx had been watching television. I bit my lip. I
couldn’t imagine Hortense being careless enough to get caught by
the likes of O’Connell.
That left the wolves. I knew
several members of the local werewolf pack, thanks to my recent
exploits, but I didn’t have all their numbers. One number I did
have was Marc’s. As the leader of the pack, he was sure to know if
any of his members had been picked up by the PTF.
The line rang . . . and rang. No
answer.
I took a deep breath. No reason
to panic yet. Maybe he was just in the shower. Scrolling further down
the list, I clicked the entry for Oz, a pack member I’d actually
known before I discovered, rather violently, that werewolves were
real.
The line rang. I bit my lower
lip, my heart rate starting to climb. No answer there either.
I didn’t have a direct line to
Sarah Nazari, a werewolf detective with the Boulder police
department. And Sophie—my
human friend turned werewolf the night we both learned they were more
than just stories—had
her phone privileges revoked after sneaking out to go clubbing and
nearly shifting in a building packed tight with tasty mortals.
I thumped my cell phone against
my forehead. A couple missed calls was hardly conclusive, but my gut
told me O’Connell had gotten his hands on some or all of the
werewolves. Waves of dread rolled through me. I had to know for sure.
Lifting the phone one more time,
I called Maggie. A month ago, talking to Maggie would have been the
most natural thing in the world. Now, the prospect made my insides
writhe. Maggie was one of my few remaining human friends, and the
only one I’d managed to keep completely out of the craziness my
life had become. But my secrets had driven a wedge between us, and I
wasn’t sure how to bridge that gap.
Before I’d walked into the
near-certain death of Merak’s nest, I’d written a letter to
Maggie explaining everything and apologizing for keeping her in the
dark, just in case. I hadn’t died. I also hadn’t given her the
letter yet. I’d stuffed it in my nightstand drawer, too afraid to
face the fallout of laying my secrets bare, especially as the gulf
between us grew larger.
“Alex?” Maggie’s voice was
sharp. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just—”
“Are you at the store?”
I looked at the employee door,
then at the exit. “Yeah, but I need to leave.”
“Bloody hell, Alex. Your shift
just started, and this is the last shift you’ve got before the two
weeks you requested
off during the busiest
shopping season of the year.”
Her voice rose as she spoke, her London accent becoming more
pronounced.
“I know, but something’s come
up.”
A loud sigh came through the
phone. “Something always comes up with you these days, and you’ve
told me bugger all about it.”
“I know. I—”
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long do I need to cover?
The morning? The whole day? Forever?”
I shuffled my feet and looked up
at the speckled ceiling tiles. “Better not count on me today.”
“I can’t ever count on you
anymore.”
Dead air filled the line as I
struggled to find something to say, something to make things right
between us, but she was right.
“I can’t take this anymore,
Alex. Not with . . . ” A sharp exhale and a shaky breath. “You’re
sacked.”
The words dropped like a bomb in
my head, splintering my thoughts into a million shards of jagged
shrapnel. I opened my mouth to argue, to come clean about my
heritage, to explain why I’d missed all those shifts, but all that
came out was a ringing silence.
“I’m sorry, Alex.”
The line went dead.
Pressure built behind my eyes.
I’d
thought about quitting the bookstore dozens of times—usually when I
was fighting to get out of my nice warm bed before the sun came
up—but I’d never really
considered it. Magpie Books had been Maggie’s dream, but we’d
built it together. I’d been there from the start, and I’d always
assumed I’d be there till the end. Magpie was supposed to be a
place I would always belong.
Dropping the phone in my purse, I
blinked until my tears were no longer in danger of falling. Somehow,
I had to repair my friendship with Maggie. I couldn’t afford to
burn any more bridges. But first, I needed to find out what had
happened to the werewolves.