Wicked Wings (Lizzie Grace 5)

Ashworth grunted and glanced at me. “Ready?”

“I guess. What do you want me to do?”

“Stand on the opposite side of the rock. Once we join hands, I’ll start the spell. You repeat my words, and the result should be a protection circle that’s anchored by our presence rather than spell stones.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why do I have to go into the deeper water?”

“Because I’m older and frailer.”

I snorted and moved into position. Once I’d positioned the flashlight securely on the rock, I reached out and clasped his hands. His power crawled over my fingers, probing my energy, testing its depths—an automatic reaction rather than a deliberate one. Even so, he sucked in a breath. “Damn, the wild magic is strong in you these days.”

I met his gaze warily. Ashworth might be aware of my connection with the wild magic, but I hadn’t yet mentioned the reason I believed it was happening. The fewer people who knew about that, the less chance there was of the information getting back to my parents or husband.

And yet it would happen. Eventually. No matter how discreet Monty and Ashworth were in their requests for information on either the wild magic or human interaction with it, sooner or later, one of the higher-ups would get curious and come investigating.

I’d always had my mom’s features, but with my eyes now silver rather than green, there could be no mistaking whose daughter I was. The only reason it hadn’t happened before now was the fact that all the witches—Monty aside—who’d come into the reservation so far, generally had little physical contact with either Canberra or the High Council.

I tried to ignore the almost instinctive wave of trepidation and fear that rose whenever I thought of the place I’d once called home, and said, “Did you ever get an answer to that request you put in for more information about it?”

“She’s still searching—it takes a while to do these things when you’re trying to be careful.”

I hoped she was doing more than being careful. I hoped she was using every trick in the book—magical or not—to cover her search tracks. “Will the presence of the wild magic affect your spell?”

“Given its tendency to weave itself through your spells these days, I daresay it will—but it’ll probably only strengthen it and that’s never a bad thing. Ready?”

I took a deep breath to center my energy and then nodded. He began the spell, and faint threads of gold pulsed into existence. I waited until he’d finished the first layer, and then repeated his words, weaving my spell through his, keeping my threads close without the two actually touching. We continued on, layering in multiple levels of protection until the air shimmered and a mix of gold and silver threads formed a wide dome over the two of us.

Once we’d both tied off the spell and then activated it, he released my fingers and said, “Right, let’s see what’s going on with these damn feathers.”

He swung his backpack around, pulled out a silver knife, and then carefully touched the nearest feather. When nothing happened, he pushed the tip of the knife deeper into the pile and then spread them out. The wind stirred, catching several of the smaller feathers and tossing them into the air. I half raised a hand to grab them, then immediately clenched my fingers against the action. Ashworth hadn’t yet cleared them of any spell, so caution was the best option. Besides, he didn’t seem too worried about them drifting away; his concentration was on the larger ones currently pinned under his knife. His magic surged anew, a force so strong that in this confined space it made the hairs on my arms stand on end. He spent several minutes probing the feathers, then grunted and put his knife away.

“There’s definitely no spell. It’s residue we’re feeling, nothing more.” His gaze met mine. “Do you want to try your psychometry?”

I hesitated and then slowly reached out. The caress of darkness was definitely fainter now than it had been only half an hour ago, which suggested the residue was rapidly fading. If I didn’t try this now—if I waited until we got the feathers back to the café—we might well lose any chance of uncovering just who or what these feathers belonged to.

I’m here, Belle said. I’ll pull you out if anything nasty happens.

I know. But it didn’t do a lot to ease the trepidation stirring inside.

I picked up one of the larger feathers, being careful not to touch any of the blood staining the striped quills. For several seconds I simply stared at it; then I opened the psychic gates and reached.

Images came. Clouds above me, trees below, juveniles on either side, wing tip to wing tip. Hunger stirring, sharp eyes scanning. Movement. Prey. We swoop lower, skimming past leaves and branches, silently approaching. The prey senses us, starts to run. Too late. Far too late… then energy hits us from the side and flings us off course. We tumble, tail over beak. My sisters hit tree trunks. I roll on, tearing feather and flesh as I drop into a ravine and crash onto a rock. Lie there, stunned, unable to move, blood and feathers and pain rolling all around me…

The vision faded, and I blinked.

“Anything?” Ashworth asked.

I twirled the feather lightly between my fingers, watching the paler stripes glimmer in the light as I gathered my thoughts. “We’re definitely dealing with a shape shifter, but there was something odd about the flow of her memories.”

“Define odd.”

I frowned. “There were fragmented and yet not. It’s almost as if she wasn’t entirely human—”

“Well, she’s not—she’s a shape shifter in bird form.”

“Shifters are still human,” I replied tartly. “They’re just from a different evolutionary branch of the tree.”

“I think you’ve been spending too much time around Ashworth,” Belle said, her voice dry. “You sounded just like him then.”