“That was a long-ass day.” John put his arm around me as we walked up the steps to our townhouse. I sighed agreement.
Pyewacket, the three-hundred-year-old Familiar who inhabits the body of a Russian Blue cat, greeted us inside the enclosed loggia. I picked him up, bumped my face against his furry one. “Hello, you.”
Pye purred hello.
“What’s he doing loose?” John unlocked our front door.
I murmured, “He loves the nightlife. He got to boogie on the disco ’round, oh yea,” and Pye meowed in accompaniment—and then conveyed the real news of the evening.
“Are you kidding? John—”
John had already pushed open the door, stepped inside, and turned on the light. The night breeze gusting through the living room from the wide-open French doors leading onto the back patio slammed the door shut again, cutting us off.
I yanked it open. “John!”
John swung back to me, his expression hard and dangerous. He put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me back a couple of steps. “Stay outside. We’ve had a break-in.”
I planted my hand on the door, which he was trying to close in my face. “I know. It’s okay. They’re gone now.”
John stopped trying to propel me out of harm’s way. “What do you mean they’re gone?”
“Pye says they’re gone.”
“Pye says?”
It’s not like we hadn’t been through this. But I think even after four-plus months, it was hard for John to accept that Pyewacket was more than a surly cat with a taste for Friskies Paté and Jewel of Russia Ultra Black Label.
“Pye was here when they…broke in.” I faltered because they had not broken in, they had used an unlocking spell. Our intruders were definitely Craft. That, in my opinion, was the worst news of the night.
John made a sound of exasperation. “If you and the Cat on the Mat don’t mind, I’m going to check for myself.” He closed the door firmly and, to my irritation, locked it.
Still cradling Pyewacket, I put my hand up and snapped my fingers. You don’t need an unlocking spell for your own front door. The deadbolt turned, and the door swung open.
John was already halfway up the staircase leading to the master bedroom, the second guest bedroom, and his office. Oh, and the gun safe. He glanced back, but apparently decided to choose his battles, because he continued upstairs without a word.
I looked around the front room. Other than the open French doors, everything seemed normal. Well, I mean there was a skeleton sprawled facedown on the hardwood floor, and several vintage black sequin-covered cat pop-ups lay on the coffee table, but that was from me not finishing putting up the Halloween decorations.
“What were they looking for?” I asked Pyewacket. “Do you know?”
Pye did not know. He had not stuck around long enough to find out.
“Who were they? Do I know them?”
The best Pye could do there was assure me he did not know them. He jumped from my arms and disappeared up the staircase after John.
I closed my eyes, attempting a Sort de découverte. It’s a very old spell, and, in these days of electronic surveillance, nearly obsolete.
Quem oportet te habere altitudo, pondus, et aetatis, et sexus, ubi es?
Tu quis es, mille rerum, sed quisque elegit artifex videre quæ vos decies non quod tibi nomen est?
ex quo non sis et sis mihi.
Ostende faciem tuam!
I think there were problems with my recollection of the spell, but in any case, before I finished speaking, John came back down the stairs, and I broke off.
If John had noticed me waving my arms and chanting Latin in our living room, he didn’t mention it.
“They broke into my desk. It doesn’t seem like they took anything. They were in your office as well. You’ll want to take a look, but I’m guessing you won’t find anything missing.”
“If they weren’t here to rob us, why…” I tailed off at John’s expression.
John said bleakly, “My guess? They were looking for something they could use to blackmail us with.”
Chapter Four
The police came and went.
The fact that the police commissioner’s own home had been broken into meant the case would be given highest priority. The fact that nothing had been removed from the police commissioner’s home meant the case would be downgraded to lowest of high priority in a city where there are over fifty thousand property crimes a year.
Disconcertingly—for John and the boys and girls in blue—no one showed up on the footage of our surveillance cameras. Our security system showed no signs of having been disarmed, and yet had not been triggered by the intruders.
After the uniformed officers had reluctantly, apologetically retreated, John poured us each a glass of wine, and we settled on the sectional sofa in the sunken living room.
It was nearly midnight by then. We toasted a little wearily.
“¡Arriba.” John touched the rim of his glass to mine.
“Abajo.”
“Al centro.” We clicked the bowls.
“Adentro.” We drank. I finished, “Abracadabra.”
John expelled an amused breath, leaned forward, and kissed me. I kissed him back. Our mouths lingered, but then he drew back—reluctantly, at least—and said, “Do you have an explanation for what happened here tonight?”
“I think you called it. I think someone was looking for information that could be used against us.”
“That’s not what I mean, though.”
I made a face. “I know. But you’re not going to like hearing what I believe happened.”
“Hearing things I don’t like is part of my job description.”
I sighed, let my head fall back on his outstretched arm. “I think magic was used to break in here tonight. I think that’s why no one showed up on the surveillance tapes. I think that’s why the alarm wasn’t triggered.”
“Magic.” His tone was flat.
“You asked. That’s what I believe.”
He groaned softly, tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I really have a hard time believing this stuff.”
“I know.”
“Why would magical beings have to resort to blackmail? Why couldn’t they just force the rest of us to do their bidding? If there are witches, why don’t they run the world?”
“They run part of the world.”
I felt his stare and shrugged. “That’s the truth. There are witches in positions of power. Just like there are mortals in positions of power. We’re not omnipotent. We’re not…we’re mortal too, remember?”
“That’s what you’ve said.”
“It’s the truth. We have certain advantages—”
“What are your disadvantages?” he cut in.
I hesitated. “For one thing, there are a lot fewer of us than you. We’re not prolific. Few witches bear more than one child. Most can’t conceive at all. In the numbers game, we’re slowly but surely playing a losing hand.”
He was silent.
I said, “When it comes to our…powers, they’re more like candlelight than atomic blasts. That doesn’t mean one couldn’t achieve the same effect as punching in a doomsday code, but it would take a lot more than magic to achieve that end.”