Wilder Mage (4 page)

“Dammit to hell, what am I going to do?”

Bert shrugged. He sat on one corner of the table, dug some dirt from under his thumbnail, and flicked it away, ignoring Justus’s look of disgust. “She’s kinda hot, though. Wiz, I don’t get the cow you’re birthin’ here. You got the ward stone around your neck protecting your cover, so what’s with the freakin’-out session?”

Justus pushed away from the table and stood. Biting back another oath, he sucked in a deep breath instead and closed his eyes. “Yeah, well, I don’t like to take chances. True, she can’t feel my signature, but there’s no need to push it.”

Justus brushed his hands together and winced when he remembered the imbedded glass in his palms. “Time to get some work done, now that they’re gone,” he said.

Maybe it would help clear his mind also.

Bert grinned. “Oh, cool. Magic,” he said.

With full dark and no witnesses—except for a teenage
Looney Tunes
—it was his best opportunity. Justus turned off the lights and strode to the antique wing.

Ignoring Bert, Justus gradually extended his senses in all directions, tentatively feeling for the presence of another adept near or the working of magic. Nothing. Slowly, he allowed his awareness to expand to a distance he felt was safe enough to give him space to work without interference. With the smallest touch of his will, Justus tied off his magic, leaving the guardian circle, and pulled his sense of the surroundings away. Like a soap bubble and almost as fragile, the circle, if touched by magic or another wizard, would burst, collapse, and anything he was doing inside that bubble would snuff out before another adept felt it, giving him time to cut the energies he was using and avoid detection.

“Hey, Wiz, don’t forget the cloak this time.”

Sourly, Justus looked at Bert and worked a shield of Air. Last time he cleaned up broken glass, the swirling particles had given him a myriad of cuts and scratches. Always learn by your mistakes, that was his motto. He briefly considered leaving Bert outside the shield to watch him run, but squashed that thought and settled the shield of Air around both of them. Bert looked down at his forearms and grinned. His face had the look of a delighted child waiting for an anticipated carnival ride, marveling.

Justus called to the particles of broken glass. In his mind, he defined which articles were worthless and which were of value. Every corner of the shop tinkled and chimed as the shimmering pieces gathered in front of him, some scooting from under tables and cracks in the floor, and other bits from shelves and the curtains.

“That is so cool,” Bert said softly.

“Devil child, shut up.”

“Oh, that is totally not true. I’m human.”

Justus hissed and Bert subsided with a grin.

A glittering cloud grew. Justus pulled out a black garbage bag and held it open. He directed the mass into the opening, and the cloud quickly obliged with a sound of rasping sand. With a subtle tug, the minute shards pulled free of his hands to follow their mates into the bag. Then the seeking magic gathered the dust, and it formed a dirty cloud that was less pleasant to look at than the glass particles. The murky shadow of grime joined the glass in the bag.

He tied the bag and dragged it to the door, then stood with his hands on his hips to survey the shop. Still untidy and disorganized, but at least it was cleaner. With a flick of his will, he touched the guardian bubble. It burst, leaving no trace of his workings inside the circle.

Bert brushed his hands of imaginary dust, as if he were doing the work. “Now, what about the girl there, boss? We did all the cleaning…”

Justus looked at him.

“…You did all the cleaning,” Bert continued smoothly. “What’s she gonna do now?”

Justus shrugged and examined the sidewalk in front of the store. Workers lingered under the streetlights, and men with clipboards assessed the damage. The human traffic was thinning, but still too numerous to complete the cleanup outside. Cars crossed the cleared intersection. A late party seemed to be revving up in one of the nearby apartments, with a bass loud enough to shake the ground under his heels. He would need to wait until later to clean the sidewalk.

“I don’t know. Maybe she’ll quit,” Justus said. At Bert’s dubious roll of his eyes, Justus lifted one shoulder. “I suppose…oh, well, maybe the girl can help with organizing, checking stuff in, rearranging. Heaven knows you don’t have the knack.”

“Yeah, potpourri is not my strong point.”

Strange that she had so little innate magic. When she gathered the elements to ease Maggie’s pain, it was a small, but complex use of magic. Justus could see the effort had nearly drained her when she sighed and hunched her shoulders, as if suddenly exhausted.

It was almost as if…Justus shook his head.

No, not at her age. She appeared to be in her middle twenties. Could be she just didn’t have much ability or talent in magic. The other reason was nearly inconceivable in this modern, enlightened age.

And if it were true, if she hadn’t come into her abilities because of
that
, all the more reason to find a way to fire her.

Or he would have to run.

The smells in the apartment were an incongruous combination of fresh paint, mothballs, and Chanel No. 5. She could feel the welcoming heat of the late afternoon sunlight streaming through lacy curtains at one end of the long room.

The long trek from the front door and up the stairs to her apartment over the attached garage was like a trip through a museum. The house was huge, built with servants’ entrances and alcoves containing crystal vases and porcelain knickknacks. Dark wood framed the doors and windows throughout the home.

As they left, Emmett had squabbled with his wife, arguing about why the sky was blue. Good-natured laughter had mingled with Maggie’s “oh, you.” Their voices faded, and she was alone in strange surroundings.

Strange, because anything with four walls and indoor plumbing was a mansion. No curious wildlife to keep her company, a bonus. Sable wasn’t sure she would sleep at all in the bed with its patchwork quilt. And what would she do with the four pillows stacked at the headboard when she rarely had one?

At the opposite end of the windows, a private entrance led outside. By the door, a faded blue umbrella hung in smart order by a pale blue jacket, both waiting patiently for an outing.

She wandered around the open space, noting the cheery rag rugs and warm smell of candle wax. The potpourri in the bathroom, with its dried rose petals and oranges pinioned with cloves, was the breaking point, an extravagance that overwhelmed her mind.

But hell, anything out of the weather was lavish for her.

Sable blew out a deep breath to come back to her personal reality. This would not last, and letting anything past her defenses would hurt more later on. No way would it do for her to get used to this strangeness, this hominess.

Her thoughts returned to the antique shop, her new boss, and his reaction to her. When she had stepped through the door of the shop, she thought Emmett was the owner, until the older man had waited for an answer from the one studiously ignoring her entrance. The McIntyres’ eagerness surprised her. Doubt and suspicion hit a moment later. Her transient lifestyle taught her enough to wonder at the generosity of people. Surely their interest wasn’t because they were concerned for her, a woman they had just met. Probably they saw a young person, strong and slightly desperate, who had limited means. Yes, that was what they saw, someone to help them with chores. Someone that gained their sympathy.

Her spine stiffened with the last thought. After that first paycheck, she would hand over every cent she could afford.

What did the owner see? That was an easy question to answer. A bedraggled gal who had slept under a bridge for the past two days.

Using the facilities at parks, filling stations, and cheap department store restrooms sufficed in most cases, but a real shower hadn’t been a part of her daily routine since the last time she could afford a cheap motel room. She glanced at the bathroom and grinned. Well, that was first on her “to do” list.

The spray was hot and stung her skin, feeling like heaven as the glorious stream hit her. She used the last of the motel room toiletries and decided part of the first paycheck would go for some new soap and shampoo. Standing in the warmth, she felt content, a first in a long time.

After drying off with the neon pink towel and slipping into a long-tailed T-shirt, Sable sat on the edge of the bed and used a thinning brush on her long hair. It was another item to purchase, a hairbrush to replace the nearly bristle-less one. As she combed through her damp hair, she pondered her new boss, the tall silent man sweeping the floor. With a shock, she realized she didn’t even know his name. After he had given that curt nod to the McIntyres, they had hustled her out so fast, she hadn’t even had a chance to hear his voice or get more than the impression of a man in his late twenties, his hair as black as ebony.

When he had finally looked down at her, she felt a chill almost of fear. His face, unsmiling and almost angry, had a long red scratch up one side of his cheek, from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone. It was otherwise emotionless, cold, as if he hated her on sight. With that thought roiling in her head, Sable felt her stomach turn into knots. Maybe now that she was cleaner and not so scruffy—clothes...some new clothes would be on the agenda for that first paycheck also—he wouldn’t look at her with such distaste the next time they met. Although why she should care, she didn’t know. As long as she could keep her job for a while, at least long enough to restock things. For a bit of…normalcy. But the price she would pay for this morsel of happiness would be great, the crushing pain she would feel when she had to leave and find another hiding place.

She sat still, her brush forgotten, staring at nothing in the slowly dimming light. Night was darkening the windows, and soon, everyone would be asleep. She dropped her face into her hands, and the silent tears leaked from around her fingers.

She was less successful controlling the sounds of weeping, but soon, no one would be awake to hear her.

Chapter Three

T
he no-neck guard showed little emotion as Dayne Mathon turned off his motorcycle and stepped onto the pavement. The man stood at the entrance of the high-rise building, with arms crossed in front of him like a guy looking to enter a Wrestlemania bout. And win.

Not good. As the new chief of security, Dayne wanted a headquarters’ guard that didn’t appear like trouble walking. He wanted someone who knew the definition of subtlety, not a blatant show of force. People gave the quasi-thug a wide berth, their glances giving way to hurried steps and nervous swallows.

A man stood opposite the guard, his balding pate like a spotlight in the sun. As Dayne eyed him curiously, the other man pushed off the side of the building and gave Dayne a crooked smile.

Dayne frowned. He took off his helmet, gathered a bit of his Fire element, fixed the phantasm onto the brain bucket, and placed it on the seat. Anyone that tried to make off with it would find a surprise—a blistered hand. He turned when the balding man approached.

“Wow.” The man edged closer to the bike. With his hands behind his back, he leaned down, as if to inspect the paint job. “What is that? A Kawasaki?”

His pale eyes focused on the bike like a frog on a bug. When Dayne didn’t answer, the man straightened and gave him a tiny smile. Dayne felt the elements gather around the man and build as he waited. The man’s watery eyes narrowed.

“Vulcan,” Dayne said. He held very still “Bought it a couple of months ago.”

The man nodded, the slim crescent of a smile remaining. “Nice.”

He sauntered back to the building and leaned against the wall again.

Dayne barked a laugh, then walked to the entrance. The eyes of the muscleman guard were the only part that moved, watching him like a coiled snake ready to strike. The other man’s slight smile never changed.

He approved. The beefy guard made a perfect diversion for the real muscle: the balding man with the enormous talent. He couldn’t be sure where his abilities lay, but it was a powerhouse of strength. He could feel the signature of adepts, but their elements remained a mystery. Until they used them.

Dayne walked into the cold, sterile lobby of gray-patterned tile and black fixtures. The only color to the décor was a scrap of paper, a discarded piece of blue by the front desk. As he watched, a prim woman dressed in a severe brown suit bent and snatched the jarring distraction from the floor. She crumpled it and dropped it into a black wastebasket by the desk.

Four kids, ranging from grade school to a teenager, waited in an alcove. The young kids played at a child-size table with coloring books and building blocks, ignoring the unsmiling adults that stood against the wall behind them. The haughty teenager feigned boredom, but his fluttering hands gave him away. Dayne averted his eyes and walked quickly into the elevator. They were waiting for their “appointment,” and it had nothing to do with him.

The elevator rose silently with no crappy, phony music to invade his thoughts. Dayne unzipped his black leather jacket and let it fall open to expose his maroon T-shirt. He realized he was sweating. He grumbled under his breath, cursed, and tried to control his breathing again. Resisting the will of the head of their clandestine business wasn’t possible, but it didn’t mean he had to like the garnered attention. Or the consequences of an unwanted promotion.