Defensive Magic: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Tale (Lost Library Book 3) (25 page)

“I don’t know her full name. She hangs out at a local coffee place. Says she’s a writer, but I’m pretty sure she owns the coffee shop, too.” He pulled a pad and pen out of his back pocket and wrote down the name and a rough location. “As for the community, some are good people who didn’t fit in at home. Others are criminals. And I’ve already told you about the people who are ill. There’s also some overlap in those groups. I know a guy who’s an earth witch and grows pot. Not a bad guy overall, but he runs a pretty big weed operation.”

The longer Tom had spent with Lizzie, the more comfortable he’d become. He sounded like a sociable, regular kind of guy. And the beard and clothes, in context with the man’s behavior, seemed more like working-at-the-house clothes. This guy wasn’t maladjusted or down on his luck in any way. John had clearly let his bias color his judgment, and he wasn’t proud of that. He could berate himself later. Lizzie was still quizzing Tom about Margot.

“Margot says she’s a writer—you don’t believe her?”

“Maybe. Eh, not really. I wouldn’t believe anything she says.” He turned to John. “Just a feeling. I can’t smell a lie.” Returning his attention to Lizzie, he added, “She does work on a laptop. But she doesn’t seem to actually do much writing.” He shrugged. “Again, it’s just a feeling.”

Lizzie started to stand up, saying, “If that’s all, we’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for making time for us.”

John couldn’t shake the feeling that the Pack had done Tom a horrible injustice. He’d truly believed at the time that escaping—getting away from the persecution—would do him some good. But there were a dozen other, better ways they could have handled it. He asked Tom as he stood, “Do you want me to let James know… Ah, can I tell James anything for you?”

Tom gave him an indecipherable look. “No. James and I talk.” He got up and headed to the kitchen, saying over his shoulder, “James paid my tuition bills. We stay in touch.”

Tom returned with a card in his hand. Handing it to Lizzie, he said, “If you want to skip the shotgun greeting, give me a call next time.” And he winked at her.

Jesus. He’d never hear the end of this.

Five minutes later, after they’d gotten back on the road home to the hotel, John was getting a well-deserved lecture from Lizzie. “Why would you think that he has no phone? He’s an architect with a business, for goodness sake. The man has a master’s degree. I mean, he’s a bit of a nerd. He carries a pen and notepad in his pocket. But—what were you thinking?” Lizzie looked at him like he’d sprouted an extra head.

“I guess I forgot that people can change.” And did Thomas Alexander ever change.

“He seems like a nice man. Certainly talented, if he designed his own house. I liked him.” She studied his face for a reaction.

Since Lizzie was a damn good judge of character, he was glad he could honestly agree. “Yeah. I liked him, too.”

He’d have to have a long talk with James about his cousin. Technically, James wasn’t allowed to speak with Tom because he’d been banished. But had he really been banished, or just encouraged to leave? It had been a complicated and embarrassing situation. James must know that there wouldn’t be consequences for staying in touch with his cousin. But what if he didn’t know? He pulled over to the side of the road.

“What’s up?” Lizzie asked, looking around at the empty road.

“Everything’s fine. I just need to send a quick text.”

A few minutes later, he was back on the road. He wasn’t sure if he’d just started another whirlwind of controversy, but it was the right thing to do. His text had been brief and to the point:
Saw Tom. Doing well. Let’s talk about bringing him home.

Hopefully, James would get the message and recognize it for the apology that it was.

Chapter 31

B
y the time Lizzie and John hit the city limits and, shortly thereafter, the ever-present sensing ward, Max still hadn’t called, but he’d dropped a text with flight info and said he was working the e-mail angle. Lizzie was navigating to the coffee shop on her phone when Harrington rang on John’s phone.

Lizzie answered, “John Braxton’s phone, Lizzie speaking.”

Harrington replied, “‘Hello’ is too dull for you?”

She wrinkled up her nose. “That just seems rude when you’re answering someone else’s phone. You’re on speaker. John’s driving.”

Harrington made a muffled noise, then said, “I have a contact for you at the police department. This is one of our less official contacts.”

Immediately suspicious, Lizzie asked, “What
exactly
does that mean?”

“Non-magic-using and he has no idea we exist.” Harrington paused, “We’re paying him, so his loyalty is questionable. He could be offering his services elsewhere. Our least desirable contact type, but you should at least be able to keep track of the investigation’s progress.”

“Excellent,” John said as he pulled into a gas station parking lot. “We’ll take it. Anything else on operators in the U.S.?”

“I had my folks narrow in on Vegas. They couldn’t find much. Whoever is there, they stay off the grid. But I’ll have them keep looking. And Lizzie? We can’t find any information on this large scale ward you described.”

“Don’t dig too deep yet,” John replied. “Not at the locals or at the ward. We have the name of a lead—Margot.”

“That’s no coincidence,” Harrington mused.

“No. And if this Margot is your Marguerite Brasseaux, then I don’t want her to know we’re aware of her connection to Worth. An IPPC investigation into her Vegas identity or the local community would tip her off.”

Lizzie didn’t want to miss her opportunity for a Worth update, so she asked quickly, before the call ended, “Do you have an update on Worth’s location?”

“We thought he might be in Manila with his second, Sylvester. But we only have rumors at this point. He’s gotten much more careful with his money. Twice now we’ve frozen and seized assets. That has to hurt him.”

“Okay—thanks,” she replied.

John ended the call with an assurance that he’d let Harrington know if they discovered anything about Margot that IPPC would find interesting. He looked out the front windshield of the rental car for a moment, and then he said, “If she is a spell caster who can create such a massive ward, we need a rapid exit plan. I want you out as quickly as possible if something goes wrong.”

“Us.”

“What?”

“You want
us
out as quickly as possible, and I agree. Let’s talk exit plan.”

They reviewed a few possibilities, then headed out to the coffee shop to get a look at the physical layout and make their final determinations. The plan was to go to the coffee shop and—surprisingly—get a cup of coffee. John would check for the witch and healer from his third challenge and Lizzie would check for any wards on and inside the building.

Only one thing didn’t quite fit. “One question—you never went in the field where the witch and the healer were staked out for the challenge. How can you recognize their scent? Is there some way that you guys can describe scent to each other?”

“Nothing so complicated. Scott collected a scent article. I’d rather catch the original scent—fewer contaminants—but collecting an article works.”

Lizzie gave him the don’t-make-me-ask-and-look-like-an-idiot look. At least, that was how she thought of it. And it usually worked.

“Right.” John smiled. “A scent article is just something that holds the target scent. You’d take something as scent neutral and uncontaminated as possible—sterile gauze works great but you use what you have—and place it next to the scent you want to collect. It absorbs the odor. Put it an airtight container, and you have a portable scent.”

“That is really clever. Wait a second—they do that with sniffer dogs, don’t they?”

John choked down a laugh. “Thanks for that. I love being compared to a dog. But yes, search dogs, police dogs, their handlers use scent articles.” He grinned at her. “I like to think we’re a little better than a local PD’s bloodhound, but I’m not looking too closely on the off chance I’m wrong.”

“That would be pretty humiliating,” she teased him.

“We good?”

“Yep, I’ve got the location mapped. Let’s hit it.”

It didn’t take them long to find the coffee shop, and there was even parking. From the quick drive around, they’d found two exits. It was a small local place, and even midday they had a good number of clients in and out, as well as several resident slow-drinkers with laptops.

Lizzie did a quick check and found a more sophisticated sensing ward. “She can minimally tell magic-type, probably some sense of magic strength—” Lizzie cocked her head, peering intently at the wards.

John prompted her with a quick, “Hey.”

“Sorry. It’s quite clever. She’s set it up to attach to the walls, not the ceiling—that part is pretty standard from what I’ve seen. But it’s like she’s wound together several wards into one. Tying the wards together is the clever part. There’s a how-much ward, a what-type ward, and—”

She tried to untwine the wards in her head, but she couldn’t quite make out the last one. She twisted them this way and that way in her mind, and as her frustration grew, she absentmindedly pulled her magic and gave a little push. The strands unwound slightly. “Oh, shit,” she softly exclaimed. She quickly dropped the threads of the three wards and they twined together again.

John was reversing out of their parking spot, as he asked, “What just happened?”

“No—stay. It’s fine.”

He paused.

“Really. It’s good. I mean, I think it is. It’s not like she won’t immediately know I’m a spell caster anyway. And what I did—I think it will look like I tried and failed to fiddle with her wards.”

“Why were you
fiddling
with her wards?”

“I couldn’t quite make out—ugh, never mind. It was stupid. You know I love puzzles, and it was like a puzzle. Anyway, we’re good. Let’s go.”

“We’re ordering coffee—that’s all,” he said as he re-parked. “So what was the last ward?”

Lizzie knew there was a satisfied grin on her face, but she couldn’t wipe it away. She was feeling pretty proud of herself. “A dormant ward, waiting to be triggered. It locks down the shop—no one in and no one out. Cool, right?”

John closed the door he’d just opened. “We’re not going in.”

“What? Oh—no, it’s good. That one I have covered. There’s a flaw,” she said and waggled her brows.

“I’d like to lock you in the trunk right now and go in by myself. Or better yet, go home.” He huffed out an annoyed breath. “Just so you know.”

But he was talking to her back, because she wasn’t waiting around for him to decide this was too dangerous.

A few seconds later, he was walking next to her and murmuring, “If I live to be fifty, it will be a miracle. You’ll give me a heart attack long before then.”

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, distracted by the ward she was casting. “I count one spell caster inside.”

He opened the door, and, as they agreed, he let her go first to make a final check for wards. They’d already argued over this before arriving. Hand on her back, he followed directly behind her. They walked up to the counter.

When the young, trendy barista asked for Lizzie’s order, her gaze drifted over Lizzie’s shoulder briefly and then back again. John was standing at a ninety-degree angle to the counter, resting his hand on the counter and body oriented mostly to the room.

“One black coffee and a hot tea.” Lizzie took an English Breakfast tea from the selection next to the register and placed it on the counter.

John pulled his wallet out to pay, but the barista declined payment saying it was on the house. He smiled politely, tipping his head at someone behind Lizzie.

She looked over her shoulder, and a young woman gave a small wave and smiled in greeting. Maybe mid-twenties, she had brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and a fresh-faced look achieved with a light and discreet application of makeup, and casual clothing—a tight tee, skirt and sandals. She could be any college kid. This must be Margot.

Leaving their drinks at the bar for the moment, Lizzie followed John to the table where the young woman was sitting. They’d been expected—not surprising. Lizzie and John knew Margot would be waiting for them. Neither of them had expected her to openly approach them.

The young woman gave Lizzie a polite, social smile. Her attitude towards John was significantly warmer. Lizzie got it—John was hot and that was hard to miss. But it was just a little too obvious and bordered on rude.

Margot greeted John first. “I’m Marguerite Brasseaux. I believe you know my father, Zachary Worth.”

John never missed a beat, but Lizzie coughed to cover her hiccup of surprise.

“John Braxton, Alpha of the Texas Pack. I’d be lying if I said it was a pleasure,” John replied in a deceptively mild tone.

Margot pursed her lips in apparent displeasure. “I’m no fan of my father’s.” Turning to Lizzie, she said, “You must be the one who tinkered with my ward so unsuccessfully. Lizzie Braxton, yes? I hear that you’re new to magic. It’s too bad that you have so much catching up to do.”

Lizzie had no idea what to say to such a blatantly insulting comment. The only response that came to mind was incredibly rude, so she followed some excellent advice given to her as a child. She kept her mouth shut. She also kept half her attention on the intertwined threads of the wards Margot had surrounding the building. All she had to do was yank on one thread and it would unravel. More specifically, deconstruct the power-sensing ward—the weakest ward—and the rest wouldn’t function correctly. Tinkering unsuccessfully, her ass. And then she realized Margot shared one important trait with Daddy, they both had gargantuan egos. She was much more careful, but still—it was a weakness.

“Clearly you want to speak with us.” John’s voice was even. Lizzie wasn’t sure how John could maintain such a calm façade—but he truly was a master at it.

“Oh no. You first,” Margot insisted, steel underlying her words.

Without hesitation, John said, “Were you involved in Vicky’s death?”

“She wasn’t Pack and therefore no concern of yours.” Margot took a sip of her coffee. “Try again, John.” Margot almost purred when she said John’s name.