He gestured back to the stairs, and she followed with one last look back at her son’s room. Tarquin explained quickly what had happened, and Olivia grew paler, eyes wide. She led the way down the stairs. She went carefully, holding the bannister, and he watched her make each step, thinking he might need to grab her in case she fell. They reached the foyer again, and he stopped, concerned. “He’ll be just fine, I promise. I stopped the curse and healed him. He should be much improved in the morning. You and your son have my sincerest apologies for what happened.”
“Thank you,” she fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable with a stranger in her house. “Would you like some cookies or something to drink? I made peanut butter cookies this morning.”
“That sounds delicious, thank you, but I must return to work,” Tarquin demurred. Olivia looked relieved, and tired. He should leave. Not to mention he had an irrational fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth, forcing him to lick at it incessantly until it was gone, having eaten some decades ago when he was in his true form. She didn’t need to know that.
Something was very wrong in the Keening household, and he had a sinking suspicion he knew exactly what. He smiled at Olivia as he walked to the door. “Your home is lovely. Are you remodeling it or doing renovations?”
“Oh! Thank you!” She blushed in the same manner as her son. “The house is old and needs repairs. The plan was to keep everything the same, just repair the damage accrued. Then, well, things happened.”
The projects looked stopped just at the beginning, and there was dust and a lack of other scents in the house aside from Alaric and his mother. Money trouble was the most likely culprit. Olivia’s scent was one of pain and the bitterness that came from betrayal, and the epiphany solidified into certainty.
Olivia called her son Ric, he assumed without the K due to the spelling of Alaric. His new employee Alaric was Rick, the caller from the podcast. His mother had been swindled by her former paramour, leaving her with a home in pieces and a mortgage she couldn’t afford. And Alaric had left his life behind in the States and traveled north to help his mother with her debts, needing a job—and fate, or perhaps a wish fulfilled, delivered him to Tarquin.
Determination swelled in his heart and Tarquin nodded respectfully to Alaric’s mother. “I’m certain the house will be even lovelier than it is now once renovations are complete. Please call the number my assistant left with you if Alaric’s condition declines. I will call in the morning to check on him, and hopefully I’ll see him at work on Wednesday. Have a pleasant day.”
He left quickly after one more look back up the stairs, Olivia hurriedly opening the door and saying goodbye as he went.
Tarquin stalked down the cracked path and got in the SUV. He didn’t want to leave Alaric behind, but he had two problems to solve—his attempted murder, and the location of the scoundrel who dared to harm Alaric Keening and his mother.
“Cariste, I need you to find someone for me.”
Tarquin grinned toothily when Cariste handed him a folder, flipping it open. “Roy Shivens, fifty-three, Montreal native and currently on the run for a multitude of felonies, chief of which is stealing over a quarter million dollars from Olivia Keening.” Shivens looked like a miserable person—he had a long history of swindling women and organizing cons. There was a picture. Handsome, with a pleasant face, golden blonde and blue-eyed, wide smile, but his expression came across as fake and too perfect. Tarquin wanted to blast that smirk off his face with a few well-placed lightning bolts.
Olivia Keening had been taken by a pro, and the hole she found herself in was a deep one. The loans she took out to renovate her family property were at extortionate rates and far more than had been needed, most likely a result of Shivens’ influence. Anger and the desire to hunt Shivens down roiled in his belly, and a distant rumble of thunder echoed off the windows.
“My tracking spell has him in Toronto, as of an hour ago.” Cariste handed Tarquin a slip of paper and he memorized the address. “Do you want me to fetch him?”
“I’ll get him myself. I’ll leave in a few minutes.” Tarquin pulled the picture from the file and stared at it, tiny sparks of static discharging around his fingers, leaving small scorch marks on the paper. This was the man who’d harmed Alaric’s mother and left Alaric worn down by stress and worry. Shivens would pay. “Ready a plane for me in Toronto. I won’t be carrying him back with me.”
“Yes, Master Tarquin.” They grinned. “My spell will guide you on your journey. I will continue to look into the other matter while you’re out. Happy hunting.” Their smile turned into a smirk. Cariste could see how badly Tarquin wanted to fix the hurts inflicted upon Alaric and his mother, and thankfully they didn’t make too big a deal about it. Cariste bowed elegantly and glided from the office, heading back to their desk, the door swinging shut behind them.
Tarquin went to the hidden door in the wall of his office, the panel opening silently with the slightest touch to the concealed biometric pad. The door slid shut behind him in the narrow space, the stairs just wide enough for him to climb upwards with an inch or so to spare on either side. There was a small, cleared area of stone and gravel that he had put in not long after he bought the building, to accommodate him in his true form. The other matter Cariste was investigating was his attempted murder, but he had his suspicions on who it was—the man who owned the properties in question had a habit of trying to screw people over in business deals. Tarquin wanted the properties, but until their provenance could be proven, the deal was tabled.
And he wanted to confront the man who tried to kill him and nearly killed Alaric instead. Electricity sparked along his shoulders and hands, his magic reacting to his emotions. He reached the roof and closed the metal door behind him, shrugging and stretching his shoulders and arms. Tarquin breathed in cold air and city exhaust, clouds in the overcast sky darkening and swirling.
He relaxed and let his magic free. Clothing and items in his pockets were absorbed into his magic, broken down and stored for when he resumed his human form.
The human body morphed, expanded, and reshaped in a shower of sparks, dark blue lightning bolts smacking the ground as his paws hit the stone and gravel, tail snaking out behind him. He roared, shaking out the last of the change, wings mantling, catching the powerful drafts that converged at the top of the building. Thunder rumbled above him, echoing his roar. He grumbled, scratching at the roof, and he sent out his senses, expanding his awareness of the sky and horizon, zeroing in on the direction he needed to go. Cariste’s spell spun in front of his eyes, showing him the way, and Tarquin turned to the west and with two great bounds, leapt off the skyscraper, wings opening with a thunderous snap.
Tarquin’s prey had no idea the trouble coming his way.
Alaric sat on the couch, patient as his mother fussed over him. She draped a blanket over his lap and then poured him some tea from the tiny pot on the coffee table. It was Tuesday, the rest of Monday having disappeared in a haze of exhaustion and sleep.
“When did Tarquin—I mean, Master Tarquin—call?” he asked as he pulled the fleece blanket higher, lying down with his head on the armrest. The couch was decades old but well-tended, and the living room right off the foyer still had most of its furnishings. The more pricey antiques throughout the house had been sold off the first week Alaric came home, not that he was sad to see them go, but his mother mourned the losses. It was her childhood home and she grew up with many of the pieces they had to part ways with to make ends meet.