12
The daemon bent, fit his shoulder to my squishy gut, then stood with a growl that brooked no argument.
As tempted as I was to zap him, and the urge was strong, I had already hit him with one spell tonight.
For his own good.
Something told me any argument I made would fall on deaf ears, so I hung there, fuming, longing for the days when people cowered before me rather than slung me over their shoulders like a bag of rocks. It was a rude awakening to go from revered to manhandled—daemonhandled?—on the job.
I reminded myself the lack of fear from the residents of Samford was a good thing, and it was reaffirming to be accepted on my own magicless merit (mostly magicless), but it was fast becoming as plain as the button nose on my face that I hadn’t thought I would return to action as a white witch.
I entered this lifestyle on the run, and the trade-offs were worthwhile, until danger stalked those I loved and forced me to admit I was much less than I used to be.
The grimoire was looking better and better, and that was how I knew it was time to read it and burn it.
Temptation always started as an easy solution to a thorny problem that wouldn’t hurt anyone, or a hit of instant gratification that couldn’t be bad when it felt good and harmed none. Then it escalated. Slowly, a trail of chocolate cake crumbs that led to scrumptious damnation with the best intentions.
“Zombies,” the daemon rumbled, then set me down gently before frowning at me. “Careful, Rue.”
“That goes double for you.” I frowned right back. “You see a gun, you run.”
“Rue like me.” He preened, chest out and fangs sharp. “Rue care.”
All that kept him from offering me a hank of his hair was the knowledge we needed our hands free.
“Yeah, yeah.” I shoved him aside. “Rent a billboard, why don’t you?”
On Colby duty, Clay kept a step behind, but we were almost back to the cabin, and things looked grim.
“I want you in the air,” I told her. “Stay high, stay safe.”
“Will do.” She shot into the cloudless sky, words trailing behind her. “I could help if I had my sword.”
Sliding Clay a glare that ought to have singed his wig’s roots, I said, “Thank you for that.”
“Just wait until you see her wee daggers.” He shook out his arms. “They’re adorable.”
Colby was dangerous all on her own. Tiny weapons didn’t make her more lethal. They put my eyeballs at risk, but that was about it. As we crept down the path, I decided my problem was I didn’t want the teeny sword to become her Excalibur, or whatever they killed orcs with these days, or for it give her a false sense of safety.
A low moan drew me from my worries and focused me on a tall man dressed in a familiar black suit.
He was handsome enough, until he turned his head and flashed us gray matter seeping from what skull he had left on the far side. I didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t saying much. Clay probably knew him.
What mattered wasn’t who he was, or what he was, but who he had been.
Black Hat.
The black witch orchestrating this zombie fest wasn’t afraid of the Bureau. That wasn’t a comforting thought. A witch with that kind of power, who wanted more? Pfft. Who was I kidding? Any witch with a drop of magic wanted it to manifest into a well. But why target this one specific grimoire? How did they even know that Taylor had it? Or that Asa had given it to me for safekeeping?
The grimoire hadn’t been entered into evidence. Black Hat didn’t know, officially, that it existed, let alone who possessed it. That meant someone with access to the evidence logs had noticed its absence and decided one of the primary agents on the case had found it and kept it.
I was the logical choice, as the witch on our team.
But only one subject within its pages lent it more value than any other grimoire.
The information on Colby.
More than ever, I was grateful to have left it at home.