Black Magic Sanction. Ким Харрисон

didn’t miss a step. “I heard that.”

      Alone for the first time in hours, my tension eased. Today had not been fun. I hadn’t slept well after getting back to the church. The sliver of trust I’d put in Al was seriously in doubt. Not that I ever trusted him, but I’d thought our arrangement had bestowed a measure of honesty between us. Guess not. I wasn’t happy with Pierce either. He was a teenage crush from a time when life spread long and wide, and consequences reached only to Friday, date night. I was done entertaining crushes, angry with Pierce for having risked everything to impress me. I wasn’t impressed, and he could fall into a volcano for all I cared.

      It had almost been a relief to be awakened from a restless sleep at an ungodly ten in the morning by the sound of Jenks’s cat, Rex, crashing into walls while chasing pixy kids. Ivy had actually made me breakfast, then hung around in the kitchen messing with her computer while I’d whipped up a batch of sleepy-time charms. Then she made me lunch. I’d finally told her I was going grocery shopping just to have some time alone. I figured she’d stay home, but no-o-o-o. Jenks had all but laughed his wings off and said he’d watch the church. Smart man.

      Apparently I’d told Ivy just enough about Al’s trickery to worry her. She knew enough about witch magic to realize that messing with auras might give me insight into how to save her soul. Maybe that was her problem. I was sure that my “progress” would make it to Rynn Cormel’s ears, her master vampire and the man we both looked to for protection from other vampires. I should be thankful, but I really detested the dead vamp.

      A soft prickling of my skin came from nowhere, and I turned to find Ivy at the meat case, her back to me as she leaned on the counter flirting with the butcher. The only other person in sight was a petite woman in an uptight office dress, her head cocked as she studied the cracker labels. She looked bland enough, but something had tripped my warning flags.

      Tucking my hair behind an ear, I glanced to the front of the store and into the parking lot past the big plate-glass windows. It was dusk—the time when humans started to shun mixed areas of the city and stick to their own streets as Inderlanders took over—but the sun was still up, which meant the woman wasn’t a dead vamp. It was unlikely she was a living one on her own this deep into the human side of things. She probably wasn’t a Were for the same reason. That left a human looking for some magical help—highly doubtful—or a witch looking for the same.

      She couldn’t be a witch. I was shunned, and Cincy’s entire witch population knew it.

      Drifting to a stand with early strawberries, I mentally went through my short list of who might have followed me this deep into traditionally human territory, then winced when I went through the even shorter list as to why.

      I snuck a furtive glance at her, her sensible brown shoes, nylons, and blah brown skirt giving me the impression of sophistication coupled with an appalling lack of imagination. The woman was as thin as a mannequin, but not nearly as tall, and her blond hair was slicked back as if she thought she had to eliminate all softness to make it in a man’s world.

      She looked up and I froze when we accidentally made eye contact. Damn, I thought as the woman blinked, her blue eyes wide, and smiled slowly—shocking the hell out of me. Double damn. She’d seen me come in with Ivy and was checking me out!

      My face warmed. Eyes averted, I angled to put the display of strawberries between us. I was straight, but after losing three boyfriends in two years—one to illegal activity; one to the grave; and a third, not really a boyfriend but gone all the same because I’d been shunned—I wasn’t up to trying to explain things to a nice-looking woman who had misread the nonverbal communication between Ivy and myself.

      Undeterred, the woman drifted closer. One hand was in the pocket of her skirt-length, white cashmere coat, the other was holding the latest gotta-have purse, one that probably wasn’t a knockoff. She must go to a tanning salon, because her soft amber glow was impossible to get during early spring in Cincinnati. Her nails were short, professionally polished,with white tips gleaming. The woman’s upscale mien was completely at odds with the instrumental eighties being piped in, the bleach-faded tile, and the occasional blaring loudspeaker.

      My frown deepened when a faint whiff of redwood overtook the smell of chlorine and the tart scent of strawberries. She’s a witch? Crap, if she was a witch, then she knew damn well who I was. And if she knew who I was, she wasn’t trying to pick me up. At least, not for a date. It was a job—one that involved black magic.

      Slow down, Rachel. Relax, I told myself, not even seeing the fruit as I picked up a carton of strawberries, fidgeting. Maybe she needs help and is scared to ask. Hell, I’d be. When I wasn’t playing demon student in the ever-after, I was an odd mix of bounty hunter, escort-through-troubled-waters, and a magical jack-of-all-trades—able to rescue familiars from trees and bring in the big bad uglies that no one else wanted to touch. I’d been shunned, yes, but maybe the trouble she was in was greater than her fear of being shunned for asking for my help. But she didn’t look scared; she looked confident and in control.

      Setting the carton of strawberries down, I retreated, my thoughts spinning to the last time I’d been accosted by a black coven member on a recruitment drive. He’d taken offense when I’d told him to shove his dark coven somewhere even darker, and then they’d tried to kill me.

      Adrenaline seeped into me, slow and sweet, making my heart pound and my senses come alive. It felt so good, it scared me. A quick look told me Ivy was gone. The butcher, too. My kick-butt boots scuffed, and I pulled out my phone as if checking the time, sending a 911 to Ivy before shoving my cell into a back pocket. Even if Ivy was checking out the meat behind the counter, she’d come.

      My jaw tightened as I stood before a bank of green veggies against the wall. My back was to the woman in a show of nonchalance, but I stiffened as her sensible shoes tap-tap-tapped to a halt eight feet away. Before me was a display of carrots. Back off, babe, or I’ll kill you with this carrot.

      “Excuse me,” the woman said, and damn it if I didn’t jump. “Are you Rachel Morgan?”

      Her voice was high, almost too childlike to take seriously, and I turned, my fingers sliding off the damp carrots. Her height came in a few inches shorter than mine, heels and all. That hand was still in her pocket, and her smile had a touch of mockery. I didn’t want any trouble, but I’d finish it if she started some.

      “I’m sorry, do I know you?” I said just as sweetly, putting a bunch of carrots in my canvas bag. Not very heavy. Need more weight.

      My gaze flicked past her. Damn it, Ivy, where are you? There could be anything in that pocket of hers. The woman didn’t look like much, but then I didn’t either in my jeans, boots, short red leather jacket, and scarf.

      “Are you Rachel Morgan of Vampiric Charms?” the woman asked again, and I shifted to a stand of organic potatoes, trying to put distance between us. “Cincinnati’s famously shunned witch. Right?” she insisted, her hand still in her coat pocket as she followed me.

      Famous and shunned didn’t go together as much as one might think, and I sighed. My first thought that she was a black witch seemed to be correct. Hefting my bag, I dropped a potato into it and felt my arm stiffen against the extra weight. “Not interested,” I said tightly, hoping she’d do the smart thing and go away.

      But I was never that lucky, and she leaned over the potatoes, eyes mocking. “Black magic doesn’t scare me, and neither do you. Come with me.”

      Like hell I will. Disgusted, I set another potato in my bag and opened my second sight to take a look at the more nebulous view of the situation, managing to keep my reaction to a mild “mmmm.” The woman’s aura was spotless. That didn’t mean she wasn’t a black witch. She could be sloughing her smut onto someone.

      “According to the press,” I said as I dropped my second sight, “Rachel Morgan dresses in skintight leather and has orgies with demons. Do I look to you like I’m wearing skintight leather?” A third potato went in with the rest. Almost heavy enough to knock you on your ass.

      Angular