pockets of Cormac’s jeans were filled with talismans and charms, so it wasn’t like he was one to talk. But they hadn’t done much to protect him the last time Durant confronted him.
“I still don’t know who this is a trap for,” Gregory said, coming up alongside Cormac where he stood on the sidewalk outside the shop. The night had turned cold; the magician rubbed his hands together. “Do you trust this Queen of Swords?”
Amelia could be ruthless. She gathered power to her. She had driven men mad, she had made them kill themselves. She had a hundred years of history he knew very little about. But they were partners. A team. She’d said so herself.
He chuckled. “We’ll find out, I guess.”
Shortly before midnight a figure emerged from darkness. Like a vampire, it seemed to move in the shadows, hiding until it came into the circle of a light, then it marched toward them, up the middle of the street. Isabelle Durant, looking elegant in silk slacks and a tailored suit jacket. Her hair was loose but still perfectly styled, her makeup expensive. She looked so out of place here. Cormac might have taken everything from her when he killed her Master, but she didn’t have to look like it.
She held something cradled in her arms, covered with a woven, patterned scarf.
A mad glaze in her eyes, she caught sight of Cormac and gave him a weirdly flirting smile, looking him up and down like he was on a shelf at a store. She believed she had the power here.
“You came,” she said, haughty and condescending. “I wasn’t sure a man like you could be lured by such an emotional appeal.”
That she could be so wrong and so right at the same time. A harder man would not have been swayed by emotion and would have walked away from Amelia. Cormac was going soft, and maybe he didn’t mind so much after all.
When he didn’t answer, her smile turned brittle. “Well, aren’t you going to ask how your father died? Aren’t you going to ask how I know such a thing?”
Cormac said, “My father died when a werewolf ripped his throat out. I watched it happen. I’m not here for that. I want what you’re carrying there.”
Her expression crashed into hard, stony hate. She’d been tricked; that had to sting. But she still had what he wanted. Question was, what was she going to do about it.
With a flourish, she removed the scarf, revealing the clay pot. He studied it as best he could at this distance and was pretty sure it was the same pot. Same shape, color, and markings.
He started toward her, one slow step at a time.
“Back,” she ordered. “Stay back.”
He held up his hands. No trouble, no trouble at all. “A lot of people looking for you, Durant.”
Ignoring him, she set down the pot and drew something out of the handbag hanging off her forearm. The bag was stuffed full of who knew what. Cormac’s heart started pounding hard; he had to work to calm himself, to not march straight over and put his hands around her throat.
The pot drew his attention. He held his breath, listening—would he even know if Amelia was there? Could she reach him?
Durant had taken out a piece of chalk and drew a circle on the asphalt, maybe four feet in diameter. Biting her lip with concentration, she worked quickly, marking symbols around the circle. Messed up a couple of times and had to awkwardly rub out the mark and try again. This wasn’t second nature to her. She was acting like she was following someone else’s instructions. That arcane circle—that looked like Amelia’s work. Durant only thought she was working her own spell. Cormac had never had a harder time waiting for a trap to spring.
He tilted his head at Gregory. “What’s that look like to you?” he asked softly.
“That’s out of my league,” he answered. “That lady’s going to blow something up if she isn’t careful. Magically speaking, I mean.”
Nielson and her crew were probably here already, lurking. They were well hidden. Would they give Cormac the time he needed? And how much time was that. . .
“Durant!” He walked into the street. “Why come after me now? Why come after me at all?”
She wouldn’t look at him. “A good plan takes time to pull together. Darius wanted to just kill you and be done with it. I told him he’d never succeed. And he didn’t. My plan was better. It might have taken time to learn what I needed, but I can be patient. My Lord Edgar would be proud, don’t you think?”
Darius? Was that the vampire who’d come after him last week? And what would she say if he told her that he hadn’t thought about her, Edgar, or any of his vampires in years?
The chalk crumbled out of her fingers, all used up. She stood. Her hands were shaking. “She’s important to you, isn’t she?” she said, taunting, glancing at the clay pot. “You’d do anything to save her.”
“Just about.”
“Well. Come on. Pick it up.” Backing away, she nodded at the pot, which was sitting in the middle of the circle she had drawn. Both it and Cormac would be contained within its boundaries, if he stepped up to it.
Slowly, he approached. A sign, if Amelia could just give him a sign. . . No, he’d had plenty of signs. “How do I know this isn’t just going to knock me out again, or worse?”
“What you think doesn’t matter. If you want to save her, you’ll do it.”