Fireborne Read online

  Mistaking my words of power for more than what they were, his lips lifted, welcoming me. I should have kept it strictly personal, but I didn’t. I gave him a kiss, the kiss. He hadn’t realized that now he was susceptible to the same weakness as magic wielders, even if his magic was manufactured. It was linked to him, part of his life and not-death—or rather, pseudo death.

  The arrogance drained from his face and was replaced by shock and then somnolence. I eased him to the ground as he slipped into the state of in-between, tethered in the liminal state between life and death.

  With Grayson lying peacefully, I easily found the Crelic, which he had fashioned into a bracelet. The engravings of the spell in a long-abandoned language harnessed the witch magic in the flat, round, opal-colored stone.

  I started to remove it but then stopped. It was linked to him; I wasn’t sure what would happen if I severed the tie. Would he go through true death? Not wanting to risk it, I uncuffed myself from him and bound his hands together with the cuffs. With him still on the ground, and taking advantage of the magic I had taken from him, I extended my hand to my supplies, willing them toward me. Nothing. I did it again. Nothing. The magic was there; I felt it in me when I pulled it from Grayson with the kiss. Why wasn’t it working?

  After making another futile effort to use magic that I would only have for a limited time, I started the timer. The small stack of supplies looked like I was planning a mini siege: whip, double-edged karambit, bola, runed cuffs, belt holding three sheathed throwing knives. Hauling the bag of weapons and my rifle downstairs, I quickly loaded them into my car and returned to Grayson.

  All the while, I was thinking. Why was the magic not available to me?

  If I had been a hundred percent positive he would be caught, I would have brought help because both Grayson and I were going to have bruises from getting him to my car. His would heal quickly, probably by the time he awoke in a cell, whereas mine would linger for days.

  Once he was loaded in my backseat, I leaned forward and whispered in his ear, hoping he’d remember the statement. In this state some people have been known to hear voices. Sometimes they remember, but usually not.

  “Magic has consequences. Even for you.”

  Magic had consequences; I knew that only too well.

  CHAPTER 2

  “This is for you.” Catching me as I left a scowling Grayson with the booking agent, Claire handed me the envelope.

  She was smiling overenthusiastically, as she always did. I opened the envelope and glanced inside. The bounty was more than I had expected; object retrievals came with a flat rate, and I figured the bonus was probably for expediency and preventing a scandal for the department.

  “Thanks.” I stuffed the envelope into my pocket and headed for the exit, pretending that I hadn’t heard her call my name. I could feel sweet freedom, when she caught hold of my arm.

  “You can’t leave without saying hi to your sister.”

  That’s exactly what I had planned to do. I was going to get out of there before she had a chance to interrogate me about the catch. I didn’t want to see Madison yet. I hadn’t had a chance to come up with a plausible story that conveniently left out giving Grayson the kiss—total misnomer, by the way. Kissing wasn’t necessary, but the process was easier and more controlled if I did.

  “If she’s still here this late, I’m sure she’s busy. I’ll call her later.”

  “Nonsense.” Claire held on to my arm to prevent a getaway. “She’s expecting me for a meeting, anyway. You can just pop in. I’m sure she’s interested to hear the details of catching Grayson.”

  Of course she would be, which was why Claire was there bright eyed and bushy tailed handing me the check instead of me picking it up from the Collections Office. No way was her presence a coincidence.

  Madison might have wanted to see me, but she was definitely busy, which was why Claire was taking the circuitous route to her office. One of the best agents in the agency was on sister-babysitting detail.

  The scenic route through the building allowed me to experience firsthand Claire, the Supernatural Task Force’s most profiled witch. She greeted everyone with an energetic “Hiya,” her arms flailing like one of those advertisement balloons. Her wide contagious smile was difficult not to return. If she weren’t such a stickler for the rules, I would have bet she was using her witchy magic to evoke such a response.

  “Madison’s obviously busy, I’ll catch her later. It’s not a big deal,” I said, once our route took us to the break room for coffee.

  “Want some?” she asked, ignoring my comment and filling her bright-pink coffee cup. I wanted something stronger, but coffee would have to do. She busied herself grabbing coffee and a few cookies from the open package on the counter, oblivious to the looks of confused amusement of the few agents in the break room. Their reaction reminded me that Claire’s appearance was a series of contradictions. Dark-brown asymmetrically styled hair was shorn scalp close on the sides. Her heavily lined azure eyes were enhanced by the coating of mascara. Multiple piercings decorated both ears. Her dark-brown jacket almost hid the happy face on her t-shirt. Well, at least she was halfway dressed professionally—she had on a nice suit jacket and slacks.

  The scenic route, coffee, and snacks might have been enough time for Claire to fill the silence with STF updates but was not long enough for me to come up with an edited version of Grayson’s apprehension.

  When I heard a male voice coming from Madison’s office, I took it as a sign that the universe was working in my favor, but after Claire knocked on the door to announce her arrival and peeked in, Madison invited us in.

  The owner of the voice had on an ill-fitting suit that didn’t flatter his tall, lanky frame. His squared jaw was clenched tight, and a bloom of color brushed the tip of his aquiline nose. He pulled his intense, amber-colored eyes from my sister long enough to give Claire a disdainful look. Definitely a police detective.

  The bridge that linked the two buildings and allowed the departments better access to each other didn’t improve their working relationship. They were in a perpetual state of contention. My sister and the man in the suit looked as if they’d rather fight a tiger than have a conversation with each other. It was tight smiles, dulcet pleasantries, and use of their titles like they were evoking a curse. The strained relationship between the police and the STF didn’t show any prospect of being resolved anytime soon. I couldn’t help smiling, although it really shouldn’t have brought me joy to see her so perturbed by him—better him than me.

  “Hello, Adam.” Claire’s voice returned the hostility he’d just sent her way. Take that, Adam. He definitely wasn’t ever going to be treated to one of her high fives or fist bumps with accompanying explosion. Actually, no one should be treated to them, but anyone around her long enough would get one.

  Madison had been promoted to Chief of the Supernatural Task Force’s Runes and Recovery Department two years ago. They policed the darker side of the supernatural world that involved illegal magic, magical object recovery, and deaths as a result of illegal magic use. The latter seemed to make up the majority of their work. Whenever there was illegal magic, a death always seemed to follow.

  Adam gave a gruff greeting, then instead of returning his attention to Madison, his eyes traveled over her office. Madison’s massive office, like her home, didn’t have one thing out of place. The large space was enlivened by the muted peach walls decorated with inspirational quotes framed in the same walnut wood as her desk that, with a click of a button, elevated to a standing desk. It was practical because, being always cautious and in a perpetual state of attentiveness, Madison couldn’t sit down for long. Adam’s gaze traveled to Madison’s chair and eyed it in the same manner I had the first time I saw it. A fully customized chair, with arms and adjustments that allowed it to be positioned in ways I wasn’t sure the body moved—or should move. It was an impressive chair, which undoubtedly cost a great deal of money.

  Adam’s frown deepened.
I wondered if it was her office that bothered him, or the STF budget that allowed her to have such an office.

  “Unfortunately, we need to continue this discussion later,” Madison informed Adam in a breezy, professional tone, subtly letting him know it was a ceasefire and nothing more. Not a surrender or acquiescence. It was a good demonstration of why she was the youngest person to have ever held the position of Chief of Supernatural Task Force.

  “We need to work together. If we think you aren’t being forthcoming with information, how can our agencies trust each other?” Adam said. The creases in his face deepened with his scowl.

  “I agree. You asked if the Crelic was missing. I answered. The Crelic is in our possession, and I confirmed the rumor wasn’t true.” He opened his mouth to speak, but Madison held her hand up, halting further discussion. “This conversation will be continued at a later date.” Her tone left no room for debate.

  Adam’s huffy departure caused the tension in her face to relax. Out of habit, she lifted her hand to her hair but quickly remembered that her mane of deep-sienna curls was gone. She’d complained that the mass of hair, a result of her Irish father’s shockingly red hair and her Haitian mother’s thick dark coils, made her look too young, and worrying about it coming loose from a holder or bun was a distraction. Her hair was darkened to brown, just a shade or two lighter than mine, complementing her copper skin. It was cut short enough to draw the eye to the button nose that softened her features—too much, she said—and made her look cute. It was a contradiction to her cool disposition that some found off-putting.

  “He’s always so concerned about our agency. It’s like he has a crush,” Claire teased.

  “Crush, my ass. I suspect he’s behind any and every leak and rumor about us. I don’t trust him.” Madison glared at the door with the same ire and frustration I’d seen only once before, when she found me next to a dead body. I had called her first, even before my mother, who had been cleaning up my messes far too long. At twenty-five, I’d needed to start handling situations better. But calling Madison hadn’t been any better than relying on my mother. Instead of my mother making my problem go away, it was my mother’s best friend’s daughter.

  Shaking off her frustration, she moved closer and gave me a quick squeeze. “Erin, it’s good to see you.”

  Sure, I’ll play your game. No one called you the moment I let them know I had Grayson. You being here is just a coincidence.

  “Always,” I said, returning the hug. “It’s late, don’t you want to get home? We can talk later.” I glanced at the clock again. I needed time to construct a story. One that she couldn’t poke holes in; one that wouldn’t make me falter during her interrogation.

  “I’m fine. Let’s go have a drink. You caught Grayson in two days. I want to hear about that.” Censure and sibling pride struggled to get the upper hand and resulted in the weirdly rigid smile on her face.

  I’d have a drink or two and she would have water. She wasn’t going to drink on a work night. Not this late.

  “It’s late,” I repeated. “Go home and rest. We can chat later.”

  “No, I’m fine. Let’s get a drink and you can tell me about your tag. I knew the moment I heard you were on the job that we’d have the Crelic.”

  “I don’t want a drink,” I told her, which was a lie. I wanted a drink or three and a night to relax and come up with the story I’d tell her. Her light-brown eyes studied me. I fidgeted under the weight of it. Our history and friendship gave her an unfair advantage and an uncanny ability to see when I was hiding something.

  “Fine. Let’s have waffles. You’re always in the mood for waffles.”

  Our unusual relationship was forged by our mothers’ friendship. They were inseparable and raised us as sisters. We pointed out on numerous occasions that if they were sisters, we’d be cousins—not sisters. That always earned us scathing looks of reproach and chastisement about being “mouthy,” and when they were feeling settled in their martyrdom, they’d looked abashed while saying “is that any way to speak to your mother.” Our answer was always yes, especially when there were flaws in the genealogy. Despite the irregularities in our lineage and no recognizable traits that would identify us as sisters, people readily accepted it.

  The six-year difference in our ages meant Madison took on the role of older sister—protecting me at all costs. I owed her for so much, especially my freedom. If it weren’t for her intervention, I would be serving time in prison instead of having been sent to the Stygian, where they house misbehaving supernaturals who manage to avoid jail time.

  She was my sister in every sense of the word, but we were polar opposites in nearly every way.

  I looked over my shoulder at Claire. “I thought you all had a meeting?”

  “It can be discussed later,” Claire said hurriedly and ducked out of the room with a quick wave.

  “Waffles it is.” Madison looked at a packet on her desk and frowned. “I need to take care of this, but I’ll meet you at Tallulah’s Grille.” The smile that emerged moved in phases until it was wide and lively. I witnessed the inception of an idea, something I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like.

  “I have to approve this job.” Madison was giddy. As giddy as she was capable of being. It was the animatronic move of her shoulders—a shimmy but stiffer—that gave me pause. Seeing a spirited, carefree Madison was fun because it wasn’t something I saw often. This was her little happy dance. This off-beat, stiff shoulder shake with rhythmless jazz hands didn’t fill me with the same joy it did her but was a reminder that I was willing to go many lifetimes without seeing it again. On a child, it’s cute—on an adult woman, it was a reason to call the EMTs.

  “You’ll be perfect for it. You’re a great bounty hunter and I appreciate you helping me out, but this is a steady job.”

  “In an office?”

  She nodded, eyeing me apprehensively. I suspected the job would entail me being in an office, surrounded by humans, to remove any temptations of being around magic. My plaintive smile surely looked as forced and fake as it felt.

  “We’ll discuss it at Tallulah’s,” she suggested, and I knew that while she was dealing with the details of the job, we would both be preparing our deliberation and ready to engage in a lively—possibly hostile—debate.

  She raised her desk to the standing position, moved the mouse to wake up the computer, and shifted her gaze to the corner to look at the clock. “We’ll meet in forty-five minutes.”

  It never failed. Whenever I left the Supernatural Task Force building, my attention always went to the adjoining police station. Technically, it was all the police department, and the Supernatural Task Force was a division. The overt symbolism of the building wasn’t lost on anyone, nor the contradiction. The skyway joining the three-story sister building presented a unified front, a symbiotic relationship born from mutual respect and social dedication.

  The STF center was gray brick with undertones of browns and beige. The police department: brown brick, undertones of gray and beige. It seemed like they’d have a harmonious relationship working in conjunction to keep the city safe. The PR spin and the big production they made of the momentous event when the buildings were complete dominated local news and social media. We were inundated with verbose speeches, people in suits presenting their most endearing smiles while making promises that only the most naïve would believe would be kept. We all returned the fake smiles, graciously accepted the platitudes and the grandiose speeches, although supernaturals and humans alike knew there would be no amicable relationship.

  The police officers still sneered at the building as if it had feelings and could tell how much it was detested. They seethed about the multitude of issues that they had with the laws they thought protected the supernaturals. Not all of them held animosity for the supernaturals, but the ones that did weren’t adept at hiding it.

  The man approaching me, River, was at the top of that list. The detective with rumors of political aspirations pulle
d a smile onto his face when he saw me. His tone started neutral but quickly acquired a cold edge, and if a person was observant enough, his dislike of me soon became clear. I was very observant, especially of him. He’d need to control that. It made him sound insincere, although when it came to dealing with me, he probably was.

  “Look who it is. Always a pleasure.” It wasn’t. He hated me. Arriving second on the scene after the incident, he saw the spin Madison had put on it and the beginning of her goal to get me off for murder. He hated my guts, and maybe he should. In his mind, I was a blatant example of how the supernaturals “got away with murder.” In his mind, and technically, I had.

  “Hi,” I pushed through clenched teeth, keeping my tone light and overly saccharine.

  “Staying out of trouble?” he asked, taking a sip from his coffee cup. Working in his favor was his dazzling smile that hit all the right notes to make him seem warm, caring, and endearing. Perfectly aligned teeth. The smile of a potential politician. His beach-sand skin had a healthy glow, but the lines were possibly sun damage, not age. Definitely the outdoorsy type. In his early forties, I guessed, with dark hair salted so nicely that it wasn’t ridiculous to think a stylist was involved. Tall, broad build and the assured grace of a person who could handle himself and had the requisite training and real-life experience to hone his skills. But he wasn’t in the field in that capacity. In a year, he’d moved up to detective.

  I searched for a way to end the conversation. There wasn’t one, because whether intentionally or not, he was blocking my path. His oaky cologne wafted from him and small lines around his mouth and lips formed from the strained smile that he worked to make look genuine.

  “Congratulations on getting into law school,” I said, wanting badly to end the encounter. Move one: I show you I’m keeping as close tabs on you as you are on me. Your move.