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Chapter Twenty-Two
Blake
A shiver of unease moves through me as I watch Tamsin disappear into the hospital. The metal door closes behind her with a definitive clang. I don’t like leaving her alone.
But as much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. My presence seems to be preventing her from finding a cure for Luciana. She should be safe in the hospital, with Devon and fae guards. It doesn’t seem the Night Guild knows where we are yet, so we have that going for us, too.
Casting one final look at the hospital, I call on my magic and transport myself to a café a couple miles away. It’s run by three pixie sisters, and the food is delicious. One of my go-to places on the rare occasions I visit Edinburgh.
When I reappear outside the café, I pull my jacket tighter around me. The snow has finally stopped falling, but it’s piled up everywhere still, and everything is covered in a thin layer of ice. Tree branches, light posts, mailboxes. It’s cold as hell. Just like I like it.
The café is located in a quaint building that looks like a cottage from the 18th century, which it probably was. A sign over the door says Pixie Pastries. A little on-the-nose, but the supernatural community sometimes likes to have their fun with humans. Hiding in plain sight and all. The door is bright red, as are the window frames.
“Well, Blake Blackstock, it’s been quite a long time,” says Mira, one of the sisters, when I sit down at a table by the front window.
“Hi, Mira.” I offer her a polite nod.
“What’ll you be having today, love?” She points at the menu in front of me. “We have a couple special menu items for the season, a spiced plum cake and red velvet petit fours.”
I smile. “Just coffee, please.”
Mira nods and walks off, and I call Colin on my cell to check in. After a brief discussion, he confirms that all is quiet back at the estate. Nessa and Ainsley haven’t had any issues with the other demons, they continue to stay in their neutralizer-induced coma. Aengus hasn’t been heard from, presumably still off sulking. And apparently Daniel has finally asked Ainsley on a proper date after a decade of pining. About damn time.
Speaking of things that are about damn time…
The next call I make is to my attorney, who is also a warlock. “Oliver,” I say when he picks up. “I need you to meet me. In Edinburgh.”
“Well, good morning to you, too, Blake,” he says. “Where exactly am I meeting you?”
“I don’t have the address yet, but can you be available in an hour?” Mira drops my coffee off and I take a long swig of it.
Oliver sighs, and I can imagine the older English gentleman pinching the bridge of his nose as he often does when I make such requests. “What have you gotten up to this time, Blake? Should I be worried?”
“Not in the least,” I say. “In fact, this will probably be the most tame thing I’ve ever asked you to do.”
“Like the time you had me bribe the government of a small country in southeast Asia so you could export magical crystals? Or the time you forced me to invest in your friend’s singing beet farm?”
“Hey, we made a fortune off those singing beets. Fantastic therapeutic qualities in magical potions.” I grin, even though I know he can’t see it, and take another sip of coffee. “But no, I’m being serious. This is a perfectly normal transaction.”
“Might I ask what we are transacting?” Oliver’s voice sounds pained.
“Just a bit of real estate,” I say. “I’ll text you the address in a moment.”
I hang up the phone, drain the rest of my coffee, leave a twenty on the table, and walk back outside. Then I transport myself again. This time when I reappear, I’m standing in front of a huge, stately old stone house. A house with a red-roofed tower.
After jogging up the stone steps to the front door, I knock and then step back.
The door is opened a short time later by a middle-aged man. He has no scent of magic about him, just an ordinary human. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“I’d like to buy this house,” I say.
The man’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Oh, I’m afraid it’s not for sale.” He leans forward and peers down the street in both directions as if wondering if one of his neighbors has pranked him and put a for-sale sign in the yard.
“Just name your price,” I say with a smile. “Money is no object.”
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, clearly at a loss for words.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I say. “I’ll add in an extra hundred thousand because I need you to be out by tonight.”
