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I shot him a look over my shoulder. “No. It smells like cookies. Of fucking course, magic.” The real question was what, exactly, a spokesperson for the Magic-Free Movement was doing with a magical cabinet in her office.
“Just clarifying,” Doc replied mildly, his eyes skimming over the floor, looking for a pathway to get across the room to where I was standing.
“Hey, Hart?” That was Ward. “She doesnotwant you getting into whatever you’re getting into.”
“I fuckingbetshe doesn’t,” I replied. This, of course, only increased my interest in the little magical cupboard.
Doc had started making his extremely careful way across the room, and I moved—also cautiously—to let him have my clear spot right in front of the cabinet.
Doc spread his fingers wide in front of the door, then hummed softly. “Ward?”
“Nothing’s going to bite you,” came the answer.
Yet another one of Ward’s weird magical abilities is the capacity to see magic. He said it looked like neon lines painted on the world and on people—mostly on people.
“But it’s magically sealed?” Doc asked.
“Yeah. Want me to do something to it?”
Another hum. Then, “No, this is witch magic. I’ve got it. Can I touch this?” he asked Quincy. She dug around in her bag, then passed him a pair of enormous gloves, which he pulled on.
I felt a soft shudder in the air as Doc’s fingers traced a pattern on the surface of the cabinet, then it emitted a soft click.
“Shall I?” he asked me.
“Fuck, yeah.”
He opened the little door, revealing an extremely underwhelming little jump drive in the velvet-lined interior.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked the cabinet.
“It does make one rather curious about what’s on the jump drive,” Doc observed.
I rolled my eyes at him. “You don’t say. And here I was planning to just leave it there.”
Doc’s lips twitched.
“Guys?” Ward sounded upset, and I turned to find out why when a coffee mug pelted me in the side of the face.
“Fuck! Fucking—Ow!”
Taavi barked.
“Oh, shit, sorry!” Ward sounded mortified. “I—shit. I should’ve seen that coming. Hart, I’m so sorry.”
I gingerly touched my cheek, determining that the liquid dripping off my face was in fact only room-temperature coffee. As though the rest of me weren’t already battered enough, now I was going to have a fucking bruise on my face, as well. I sighed heavily. “I’ll live,” I replied. “Fuck. Never liked this face, anyway,” I muttered.
I was getting really sick of being the punching bag of MFM assholes. Both living and dead, apparently.
“Hart—” Ward had moved back into the doorway, and his grey eyes were wide and guilty-looking.
I sighed. “It’s not your fault, Ward,” I replied, forcing myself to sound less pissed off than I was. He wasn’t responsible for the stupid dead woman who wanted to throw shit at me. And it really wasn’t his problem that my reflexes were shit today because I let myself get the crap kicked out of me by rioting MFM dickbags.
“I’m assuming you want this?” Doc asked, pointing at the drive.
“Yeah, I fucking want it.” I held out my hand, since there was no way I could reach into the cupboard with Doc in front of it without knocking over several things or stepping on something else.
“Should I take a picture of it first?”
