Broken Bonds (Lizzie Grace 3)

“The idiot missed the plane,” Chester said. “Got caught in traffic or some such rot.”

“Which is not likely to make a good impression,” Ashworth added. “The council here is hard to please under the best circumstances.”

Despite my uneasiness, I couldn’t help smiling. “Oh, I don't know about that. I heard you impressed them enough to be offered the position.”

“And we all know they only did it because I forced them to confront their stupidity. It was a matter of expediency rather than common sense.”

“Have you two been over to the circle yet?”

“No.” Ashworth pulled out a chair and sat down. I had to bite my tongue against the urge to tell him not to get too comfortable. “We’re actually waiting for Tala to get back here—she’s going to take us across.”

I frowned. “You can’t remember where it is?”

“It’s dark, lassie, and my night sight isn’t what it once was.” A smile briefly twisted his lips. “What’s this I hear about another murder?”

“It’s a skinning, and I don’t think it’s got anything to do with our dark witch.”

Chester raised an eyebrow as he sat down opposite. It was a position that brought the force of his magic way too close and had sweat breaking out across my body again. “What makes you say that?”

“The magic didn’t feel the same.” And his magic was stirring—probing—again. Not me, but rather the spells that protected this place. Which was why Ashworth had brought him here, I realized. Despite accepting my statement that I was running from abuse, he’d wanted to see this man’s reaction to my spellcraft—and that meant it was more important than ever Chester didn’t see Belle and me together. “Would either of you like something to drink?”

“No, but I wouldn’t mind a piece of that cake you’re eating.” Ashworth glanced at the older man. “She and her partner make the best cakes and slices you’ve ever tasted.”

“A claim I’m more than willing to investigate,” Chester said, amusement evident. “And a black coffee would be good.”

“As long as you don’t mind instant—we’ve cleaned the machine for the night.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “In what way was the magic different?”

I rose, snagged Belle’s book from the spare chair, and headed behind the counter. “It was clean, not dark.”

“And you sensed it how?”

I tucked the book safely away and then glanced at him. “I didn’t. Not initially. I found the body via my psychometry skills.”

I made the coffee and plated up two slices of cake, then put everything on a tray and carried it over. As the two men picked up their plates, I grabbed my mug and leaned a shoulder against the nearby wall. I did not want to get closer to the wash of Chester’s magic. Why the hell he wasn’t controlling his output, I had no idea. Had he been in Canberra, he would have been quickly reprimanded, if not fined.

“And the magic?” he asked.

“Came from a cotton thread that was left on the body. I believe it was part of some sort of tracking charm. The rangers have it, if you want to examine it.”

He grunted. “If it’s not the same magic then there’s no need. I’m here to track a heretic, not chase a minor practitioner with blood on his or her hands.”

Which meant our paths probably shouldn’t cross too often, and I couldn’t be sad about that.

I took a sip of tea and wished it were something stronger. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who our practitioner might be?”

“Not without seeing the body, no,” Chester said. “Even then, we’ll have to confirm with blood and DNA tests, as most erase more identifiable marks such as fingerprints.”

I frowned and glanced at Ashworth. “I didn’t think the council kept fingerprint records of heretics.”

“They don’t,” he said evenly. “But blood and DNA samples are taken from every full-blooded witch at birth. It’s the easiest way to keep track of the bloodlines to avoid inbreeding mishaps.”

Which meant all anyone unconvinced by my story would have to do was somehow grab a sample of my DNA—even something as simple as a few strands of hair—and they’d uncover the truth of who I was quickly enough. It was a somewhat scary thought—and one that made me want to race upstairs and hide my hairbrush.

I downed the rest of my tea, but it didn’t do a whole lot to ease the dryness in my throat. “Even without that sort of confirmation, you must still have some idea as to who it might be. I mean, how many blueblood heretics are there?”

“At last count?” he mused. “Fifteen, I believe.”