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I stop myself from arguing, knowing when it comes to winning a war, concessions must be made. “With cream,” I add as the vampire waitress scurries off.
“And can we make sure that’s black? Please and thanks.” Cyella’s voice is milk and honey. It returns to its usual frostiness as she directs her next words my way. “You don’t deserve a lavender candle.”
“I agree. Anything you’d like to light is fine with me,” I try.
Her shoulders deflate, and I know I’ve said something wrong. “Greiko didn’t want to come. I asked.”
“I understand,” I confess.
It’s why I didn’t ask in the first place. This is between me and the journalist who didn’t claim to know of an illegal demon hiding in plain sight. While she knows Greiko used to work witha collection of mages willing to break the law, she also knows he’s been enchanted to never say their names.
It must be one of many magical safety precautions, meaning even if Greiko wanted to expose those he considers good, non-greedy lawbreakers, he’d only manage to sing an annoying song instead. I’ve seen it. It works.
“He doesn’t mention you.” Her pursed lips bother me for some reason, probably because I’ve never seen her do it. Non-demon faces have such intricate expressions. No wonder more and more of us are giving up on mimicking the illusion. I don’t see more than one or two a day, but there was a time when even the thought wouldn’t be more than a wild fantasy.
“He’ll only have to talk through the lawyer and Felicity.”
I don’t know why I’m telling her this. Maybe so I’m not just sitting here looking like an idiot. It’s one thing to defy an awkward silence and sit in it anyway. It’s something else to let your opponent know you have nothing to say.
“One old black coffee with no sugar,” the waitress says. “Can I –”
“Just the check, please,” Cyella says, not lifting her eyes from the page.
While I sip my drink, since there’s no way I’m letting her think old coffee scares me, I wonder if she knows the name of the alchemist Greiko hired. Whoever they were, they created something strong enough for Felicity to use behind my back. I’d be interested to know what they have to say about the mage who contacted me. I’ve never reached out to a witch or warlock in fear of it being the one I bartered with.
“You’re going to have to do better than this,” she says, gesturing to the paper. “We’re hypnotizing you at your earliest inconvenience.”
“Even if I think whoever got three hundred years from me probably has lived twice as long?” Magic police rarely botherme, though that’s strictly because of the false ID. I can’t imagine there's a witch or warlock alive, the old-fashioned way at least, who could be so skilled.
“Fuck.” Her face falls. She knows I’m saying this mage is dangerous. Chances are, they’ve already taken precautions to counter any average spell.
I’ve only ever heard two stories I could actually corroborate where mages could command the attention of a demon without something specifically linked to it. A claw or horn would be a guaranteed connection, though a trio of claw marks is the typical connection. One legend, which probably has a pinch of truth to it, described a warlock who used a footprint in the snow to summon a creature.
These examples don’t help me, though. I came straight from the underworld, meaning that whatever was used to tune directly into the frequency that is my mind isn’t something I know about. And the mage had to use something. Otherwise, how would they even know of me?
29
FELICITY
“So don’t kill me,” Argoss says, running a hand through his dark hair as he stands on the front porch.
I grip the handle of the door and shake my head.“You have no idea how famous those last words are,” I reply, trying to figure out what’s behind his back.
Please don’t be that ferret. Please don’t be that ferret, I think.
I know what it takes to keep something sentient happy, let alone breathing. I just don’t know about Lucy. She’s more of a ‘hold your breath under water until someone pulls you up by your swimsuit straps’ kind of girl, not ‘I should stop showing off and stand up now, otherwise this might be my last trip to the pool’ kind of girl. For now.
“Your eyes say back away slowly,” Argoss admits, also slowly.
“You’re getting better at cues!” I observed in my best camp counselor voice. The kind that actually babysits like they’re supposed to and everything. This reminds me to remind Argoss what the meaning of R-rated is while the problem isn’t red hot and in my face. Much like I know a pet is about to be. “Nice job, buddy.”
“Buddy is a word you call a friend,” he counters, but I have no idea whether it’s a bad thing or not.
“Only when they’re killing it in the getting better department.” I laugh. Eek, ‘getting better department’?
My hands are on my hips now, also like a camp counselor. But the ones babysitting because no one else is interested in slapping bellies somewhere secluded. Very different scenario. His simmering growl-groan, which is something he does when he’s come to a conclusion, pulls me out of my head.
“And to be someone’s friend is good,” he adds with a smile. This guy makes me clumsy and flustered in even a boring scenario. “You're a worthy opponent, wife. I’m proud of you for changing my mind about that.”
