Black Magic Sanction. Ким ХаррисонЧитать онлайн книгу.
the woman’s bag. Finding her ID, she held it up between two fingers and nodded. Taking that as a good sign, I ran for the woman. Shunned or not, we were going to settle this now. Just because I couldn’t do magic didn’t mean I was helpless.
White coat furling, she ducked out of my swing and I shifted away from her kick. It was sloppy. You know just enough to get yourself in trouble, I thought, then whipped my scarf off, tangling her wrist as she punched again. She pulled away, and I yanked her forward and down into my raised knee. Her breath came out in a whoosh and she bent double.
I let go of the scarf and shifted behind her, jabbing my heel at the back of her knee. Her leg collapsed, and she went down, still trying to breathe. “Oooooh, sorry,” I said, then untangled my scarf, wincing at the sticky strawberry mess it now was.
Energized, I gave the woman the once-over to see if she’d had enough. Her tailored coat was a mess, and her hair had lost its perfect symmetry, lying in lank blond strands where there had once been perfection. Seeing her stare up at me, finally able to take a breath, I fell into a ready stance with my hands in fists. “Still think you’re tougher than me, Strawberry Shortcake?” I said, not moving as Ivy settled in beside me. Hands on her hips, she breathed deep—and smiled. I knew Ivy had too much control and class to go for her, but it was unnerving as she somehow grew sleeker and sexier, eyes dilating to a full, hungry black.
From nowhere, a quiver rose through me at the memory of her teeth sliding into my neck, and the exquisite feeling of rising pleasure mixed with the blood-boiling sensation of coming ecstasy. Closing my eyes briefly, I pushed the feeling away. Beside me, I felt Ivy quiver, scenting my reaction. No, Rachel. Everlastingly no.
The kneeling woman watched as Ivy flicked first her bag, then her ID at her, both sliding to a stop before her. Motions unsteady, she got to her feet. She wasn’t afraid, she was angry.
“It would have been easier had you come with me,” she said, and Ivy cleared her throat in challenge. Lips pressed, the woman brushed off her skirt, picked up her handbag, and, leaving her ID, walked to the door, her head high and looking tiny next to the overweight manager in a white shirt and blue tie yelling at her.
Ivy slid up to me, and I held my breath. “You want me to stop her?”
I shivered, remembering how much she had held in her chi. My gaze slid from the subsiding mass of toxic bubbles to Ivy’s arm, damp from the lobster tank. “No. You okay?”
“Yeah. It went numb is all. Like zombie prickles. How about you?”
The automatic doors slid open and she was gone. “Okay,” I said, then picked up her ID. Vivian Smith, from California. It had to be fake, and I shoved it in my pocket.
A nervous patter rose from the watching employees. It was all over but the lawsuits, and I edged away from Ivy, slipping on strawberries as I gave her some distance to allow her a chance to get a handle on her instincts. The manager was at the service counter, fuming. He was working up his courage, though, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d bring his high-pitched voice to me, a convenient scapegoat in heels and stringy, strawberry hair. This wasn’t my fault!
The goo covering the floor looked like a bloodbath. A glint of silver among the red caught my eye, and I searched the produce section until I found my bag. The manager’s complaints grew louder as I dug out my lethal-spell detector and my heavy-magic ley-line charm. I wouldn’t put it past Vivian to leave a booby trap, but both spells stayed a nice healthy green. The silver was just plain metal with no charms attached. At least, no lethal ones.
“What is it?” Ivy asked as I picked it up. Wiping the goo off, I felt myself go cold and my knees go wobbly.
It was an exquisitely tooled silver brooch in the shape of a Möbius strip, and I swallowed hard, my shaking fingers curving to hide it. My gaze went to the floor, seeing the tile unmarked as the bubbles subsided, then to Ivy’s arm—numbed, she said—and then to the broken strawberry display, realizing that that, too, could have been white magic. Extremely strong, but technically white magic, not black. I am such an idiot.
Over the last year or so, I’d been attacked by militant Weres, run down by elves on horseback, smacked around by angry demons, bitten by political vampires, eluded assassin fairies, and fought off angry banshees, deluded humans, and black-arts witches. But never had I made an error of judgment this bad.
I’d just publicly embarrassed a member of the coven of moral and ethical standards, the same group that had legalized my shunning.
Holy freaking hallelujah.
The stuffed rat was pointed at the wall, staring at nothing as it crouched atop an overfilled file on the five-foot-tall cabinet in Glenn’s office. The FIB detective was currently downstairs. As I’d figured, the grocery store had called the human-run FIB, not Inderland Security. Lucky for me, the I.S. hadn’t even shown up. Long story short, I’d been asked to accompany an FIB officer downtown to file a report. They’d even let me sit in the front, sticky as I was. Ivy had followed in my car and was waiting downstairs. It was good to have friends.
It had been a quiet ride through Cincy to the FIB building, my thoughts circling. Had the coven been trying to talk to me, and I’d just flushed my chance at getting my shunning removed? But why not just tell me what was going on? Those charms Vivian had been flinging around hadn’t been peace offerings. Had it been a test? If so, had I failed or passed?
I’d worked myself up into a very bad mood by the time we’d gotten here, but it had eased once Glenn had pulled me aside and snipped my charmed silver off even before I’d crossed the FIB emblem downstairs. Glenn was a good guy, complex in his thoughts and smart. His office, though … I looked at the mess, trying not to grimace.
A new flat-screen monitor was perched on his desk, a stack of files piled high beside it. The in-box was full, and the out-box held a couple of books on nineteenth-century serial killers. We were too deep into the FIB building for a window, but a bulletin board across from the desk gave the illusion of one, the clippings and sticky notes so old they needed thumbtacks. A new pressboard bookcase held a few textbooks, but mostly it was stacks of files and photos. Glenn was meticulous in his dress, and that usually carried over to his car and office. This mess was scary and not like him at all.
The floor was cold tile; the walls were an ugly, scuffed white; and the keyboard was old and stained with dust and coffee. Glenn had been Cincinnati’s FIB Inderland specialist for almost a year now, and I wondered if I was seeing him trying to do everything himself. Even the phone cord was still draped across the floor in what had to be an OSHA violation.
My roving gaze settled on a gleaming glass-and-gold clock serving as a bookend. It didn’t match the rest of the no-frills office, and I got up to read the inscription, grimacing when my coat pulled from the metal chair with the sticky sound of strawberries. The marble was cold on my fingers as I read, MATHEW GLENN, OUTSTANDING SERVICE, 2005. The clock was stopped, stuck at three minutes to midnight.
I set it down and checked my phone. Nine thirty. The sun had been down for hours. I wanted to go home, get cleaned up, eat something. What was taking so long?
Impatient, I went to the rat and turned it to face the room. Glenn had bought it with me at a charm shop last year, and I frowned when I realized the file it was sitting on was Nick’s. Nick as in my former boyfriend Nick. Ex-rat, ex-boyfriend, ex-alive if I ever got hold of him Nick.
My shoulders tensed and I forced my jaw to not clench. Nick had been a rat when I met him. A real rat, with whiskers and a tail, transformed with witch magic by a peeved vampire who’d caught Nick stealing from him. I couldn’t say much about that, though, since I’d been a mink at the time, thrown into Cincinnati’s illegal rat fights for having been caught trying to pilfer evidence of illegal bio-drug activity from beloved city son Trent Kalamack.
Nick and I had helped each other escape, which might sound romantic but