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“But a muting spell is still a spell—”
“Yes, but it’s a very low-level one—at least externally. He’d have to be driving past to even sense it, and even then—given the unconventional nature of our magic—he’ll hopefully think it’s nothing more than a very minor barrier spell from a couple of fairground witches.”
And that was certainly something we’d been called more than once growing up in Canberra, even if it was obvious that—while I might not live up to the family name and expectations—I did at least have a greater capacity of magic than the fortune tellers and tricksters who usually worked at such places.
“And remember,” I continued, “both Ashworth and Anna commented on not only the unusual construction of our network of spells, but also the fact there’s wild magic woven through it. If this witch is after control of the main wellspring, then—”
“Any indication there’s already a witch on the reservation capable of using the wild magic is dangerous,” she finished. “But there’s still one major flaw in your thinking—anything you and I might create isn’t going to fool him for long.”
“We don’t need long. We just need to keep him from sensing our magic from either a distance or even as he’s driving past, and coming to investigate.”
“Good point. You go do that, and I’ll do the prep.”
It took me a couple of hours to weave the muting spell through all the threads we’d placed not only around the reading room, but the café itself. I wrapped the strongest dampening around the layers that contained the wild magic—because there was, rather surprisingly, more than one, even if Ashworth and Anna hadn’t been aware of it. While the wild magic might have only recently “outed” its attachment to Belle and me, it had very obviously been with us since the beginning. There was no other reasonable explanation for the very base layer spells—the ones we’d created when we’d first moved into this place—to be touched and strengthened by its presence.
Belle handed me a vitality-boosting potion the minute I came out of the room, and for a change, it didn’t smell like a swamp—consideration for the customers who were eating their breakfasts rather than my stomach, I suspected.
We were surprisingly busy that day. Belle and I alternated between helping Mike and Frank—our chef and kitchen hand—out in the kitchen, and Penny—our waitress—in the café. It made the day pass a whole lot quicker, although things were never boring when a good portion of the gossip brigade descended. Mrs. Potts wasn’t there, but she was the topic of much conversation. I was rather pleased to hear that she and her husband had talked things out, and that Henry’s possessions had not only escaped rain damage but had in fact been accepted back into the house. But not, Gina had noted in a rather superior voice, into the main bedroom, as was proper considering the secrets he’d kept.
Once we’d closed and done the next day’s prep, Belle made us both a hot chocolate while I made ham and salad sandwiches.
But just as I pulled out a chair to sit down, wild magic whisked in, its touch urgent as it pulled at my clothes, my hands, my fingers.
A heartbeat later, I heard the sirens. Whether they were ambulance or ranger, I couldn’t say, but fear nevertheless seeped into my heart.
Something had happened. Something bad.
“Go,” Belle said. “Don’t worry about the pack—the wild magic is with you so use it if you have to.”
I grabbed my purse and keys and bolted for the rear of the café. The car lights flashed as I pressed the remote but as I climbed in, the wild magic wrapped around me, its energy so thick and heated that sweat immediately broke out across my skin and fear struck my heart.
That fear wasn’t mine. It was Katie’s.
Her force rolled through me—a swift but intense moment that left my whole body feeling stretched and shaky. But it also left me with the impression of where I had to go.
Ashworth’s apartment.
I swore, threw the car into gear, and roared out of the parking lot, barely missing one of our customers as I did a quick left onto the main road. Five minutes later, I was pulling onto the road where Ashworth lived.
To be greeted by a sea of ambulances and ranger trucks.
And, in Ashworth’s driveway, Aiden’s truck.
Chapter Nine
Which explained Katie’s urgency. This wasn’t about any old werewolf—it was about her brother.
I parked in the first available spot then ran toward the apartment. Jaz swung around and held up her hands. “Whoa, Liz, this is a crime scene. You can’t go in there.”
“Are they…is he?” I somehow managed to
get out as I slid to a stop.
“No one’s dead except the shooter, so you can relax.”
I didn’t. Not immediately. “Then why are there so many ambulances here?”
“Because Aiden made a code nine call—”
