“Is it all right?” he asked gruffly.
“Oh yes. Very much so.” I met his gaze. “Are you happy with it?”
He shrugged, but then smiled reluctantly. “Yeah. You were right. It’s kind of in—”
The door to the apartment’s sole bedroom opened, and Ambrose broke off.
“Who here?” The voice was small and creaky.
An elderly woman swaddled in sweaters and a flannel nightie shuffled a few steps into the living room. She was tiny, fine-boned, and so pale she looked silver, inexplicably reminding me of a chimaera fish. Her white hair was in a braid that reached her waist. Her eyes were white too, and I remembered she was blind.
Ambrose threw me a quick, nervous look. “It’s my boss, GramMa. It’s Mr. Saville.”
“I’m sorry to intrude, Madame,” I said.
She stopped a few feet from us, swaying ever so slightly as though rocked by an unseen current. She began to sniff the air. Which was…a little different.
There was something else a little different about her, and I understood where Ambrose’s talent sprang from.
“There dark powa here,” she whispered.
My scalp prickled.
“No, GramMa,” Ambrose said quickly.
“No, Madame,” I said. “I promise you I mean no harm to you or to Ambrose.”
“You ave come yah to take my son!”
“No. No, really, I haven’t.”
Ambrose pleaded, “GramMa, Mr. Saville is my boss. He’s my master.”
I doubt she even heard him. She pointed at me and began to cast her spell.
Some of the words were French, some English, some…something else. Jamaican Patois perhaps? While words matter in spellcasting, intent matters more, and despite her age and mental confusion, her intent was focused and deadly. As the air began to change, grow misty and green, I made the avert sign. The coffee table flipped over, flinging blue ink everywhere, and the lamp next to the couch exploded.
“No, no! GramMa, no. Please no!” Ambrose was crying. He did not attempt to stop her, of course, would never have dreamed of using Craft against her.
Nor could I. Or rather, I could have, but such an act would be unthinkable.
It would also be unthinkable to let her slay me.
Open the door that hides within
Protect this crone from mortal sin
I shall return another day
But just for now I must away
The door to the apartment flew open at the same moment a blue rectangle appeared. I opted for the rectangle and sprang through the frame of light.
I landed on my hands and knees on a high wooden platform.
A high wooden platform surrounded by yellow prison bars and crowded with small children, one of whom shouted into my face, “It’s MY turn!”
“I—right. I see that.” I looked around and saw also that, in addition to the munchkins, there were several alarmed-looking women already on their feet and closing in on what turned out to be a large and elaborate play structure, complete with a plastic green palm tree that was preventing me from standing.
This is what comes of relying on kiddie Craft. And relying on kiddie Craft is what comes when you make promises you shouldn’t make.
“You’re too BIG,” another tiny terror bellowed, and kicked me with her pink daisy sneaker.
“Ouch! All right. I’m going…”
I dove down the wavy blue plastic slide, arms first, and landed ungracefully in a pile of sand and scattered toys. I could hear the cell phones clicking like paparazzi as I scrambled up and sprinted away, hands raised to shield my face.
* * * * *
“You can stop laughing now,” I told Andi.
We were sitting in the back office of the Mad Batter, the specialty cupcake shop Andi owns and operates.
I suppose you could say Andromeda Merriweather is my best friend, but when you’ve known someone as long as I’ve known Andi—all my life, in fact—the bond is closer to blood tie than friendship. And I say that as someone raised in a society where blood is everything.
Anyway, Andi is three months older than me. She’s tall and lanky, wears her coppery hair short and spiky, has hazel eyes and freckles as cute as cupcake sprinkles. Despite all that refined sugar, she’s not a frivolous person, but she laughs easily, and she was still laughing as she pushed a red-brown cream-cheese-topped cupcake my way.
“Sorry. But you have to admit, if this happened to Bree or V. or Whitby…”
“I’d be laughing my ass off if it happened to Whitby,” I agreed. Waite Whitby is my first cousin on my mother’s side, which means that if I were to break my neck falling off a kiddie play structure, he would take my place in the direct line of succession to trône de sorcière.
Well, no, because he’d have to get my mother and his mother out of the way first, but anyway, he’d definitely move up a rung on the ladder. Which is something he’s been aware of since he was seven and I was five and he tried to drown me in the fountain of our aunt Laure d’Estrées’ Parisian garden.
Not that you need to know about that now.
I took a bite of cupcake and raised my eyebrows. “Mmm. What is that?”
“Devil in Red Velvet.”
“Wow.” I savored another lusciously creamy sweet bite, said slowly, thickly, “Did you…?”
“Just a pinch,” she admitted.
“Kind of pushing the envelope, don’t you think?”
She acknowledged it. “They’re not for my regular customers. I’m thinking of starting an exclusive line, catering to Craft clients.”
I nodded. The idea bothered me, no lie. There’s so much bias against mortals, but I really didn’t expect that of Andi. For one thing, she’s in love with a mortal—although she won’t admit it.
“How’s Trace?” I asked, none too subtly. Trace Levine was probably John’s best friend. They grew up together, served in the SEALs together, and Trace had been Best Man at our wedding, which was where he’d met Andi.
She made a face, reading me correctly. “He’s fine. Everything is great between us.”
You would think that would be good news. But you would be wrong. Her sigh was wistful.
I changed the subject. Only not really. “Does John talk much to Trace?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“I mean, like we talk.”
“Oh.” Andi moved her head in negation. “No. John’s so busy these days. But no. He doesn’t talk to Trace about police business. Or even family business. Not anymore.”
I felt a little twinge over that “not anymore” because I knew that was John keeping my secrets.
She slid a blue mini cupcake with green and teal sprinkles my way. “Try this Neptune’s Nibble.”
I said regretfully, “I think I’m cupcaked out.”
“Not possible.” She tilted her head, studying me. “What are you going to do about Ambrose?”
At this reminder I checked my phone once again for messages, but there was still no word from Ambrose. I did see a message from my belle-mère, but pretended I didn’t.
“I don’t know. I certainly have a better understanding of the situation.”
She said slowly, “Does John realize you’ve taken Ambrose as your apprentice? Because you promised not to use magic, but how can you instruct the kid without using any magic of your own?”