Personal Demon

Page 8

 
I circled behind the store to a parking lot filled with compact rental cars and minivans with out-of-state plates. A narrow gravel path ran between the lot and the store.
I walked between the two minivans nearest the shop, my apartment key in hand, as if I was preparing to get into one of the vehicles. The solid wall of the store was broken only by a glass door that had probably once been a secondary entrance, dating from more prosperous days when the shop owned the parking lot. It was now blocked by a rack of cheap sunglasses.
Hoping to get a peek inside, I slipped to the front of the vans. As I reached the fence, I had a mental flash—
a “light pop” like a camera flash had gone off. I backed up a few steps, then approached again. Sure enough, in the same spot, everything went white.
Sunken Treasures souvenir shop was protected by a spell.
About a year ago, while doing a job for the council, I’d realized I could detect security spells. With Paige and Lucas’s spellcasting help, I’d learned to figure out exactly what kind of spell I was detecting. Like having an error box pop up on your computer screen—all you see at first is a basic warning message, but the details are there if you have the know-how to find them. Paige’s analogy, not mine. Deep in my brain, a racial demonic memory knew what the spell was. And soon I had it: a perimeter spell to warn of one specific type of intruder—supernaturals.
A souvenir shop protected by a witch spell to detect supernaturals. Was the shop owned or staffed by a witch? Or was it part of the test—so someone would know when a recruit entered the store and could swoop in and make things very difficult.
Damn.
 
I idly watched a group of teens saunter through the lot. As one tossed a souvenir bag to another, I got an idea.
 
I FOUND MY target easily enough: a boy about thirteen, still young enough to be on vacation with Mom and Dad, but old enough to escape them when he could. He stood outside the T-shirt store, reading the off-color slogans.
As I approached, his face reddened as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Hey,” I said, flashing a big smile. “Do you have a second?”
“Uh, sure.”
I motioned to Sunken Treasures across the road. “There’s something in there I want to get for my boyfriend, as a joke, but I’m, well, kind of embarrassed to buy it. It’s a shell with a woman in a bikini on it.”
To an adult, this would seem strange. But to a thirteen-year-old, all adults are strange, their motives inexplicable. I described the shell and gave him a twenty, with the promise of another when he returned.
Fifteen long minutes later, he was back, empty-handed.
“They have a rack of conch shells and some of them are painted, but none with girls in any kind of bathing suit.”
“Huh. Must have been a different store, then.”
I let him keep the twenty and he disappeared into the T-shirt shop.
My next mark was a fortyish man who sucked in his spare tire as I drew close. For him, I had a new story: I’d been in the store the night before with friends, some of whom had been drunk and made a scene. I really wanted this shell for my brother, but I was afraid the store owner would recognize me and kick me out.
He too returned empty-handed. “It’s behind the cash register,” he said, handing me back my twenty. “And it’s not for sale. I tried, but the guy said a friend of his had painted it and it was only for display. Sorry.”
 
TEN MINUTES LATER, I walked into the shop. It stank of cheap suntan lotion, not quite masking a smell that reminded me of Gran’s attic, of dirt and dust and disuse. Most tourists probably never veered from the path between the door to the cash register, lined with T-shirt racks and baskets of cheap shells.
There was no bell over the door, but the clerk’s head shot up as I walked in, setting off his spell. Middle-aged with blond shoulder-length hair, he wore a tank top, his flaccid triceps swaying as he moved to the counter.
Behind him was the conch shell.
I made it two more steps before the vision hit. A deep voice chanted in my ear. Disembodied hands appeared, pale against the black. Fog swirled from the hands.
A sorcerer. My gaze went to his hands, which were safely folded on the counter. Sorcerer magic is cast by a combination of words and gestures, but the security spell suggested he might also know some witch magic. Better to keep an eye on his lips then, and duck if he started muttering.
I extended my hand. “Marietta Khan, special aide to the council. I work with Paige Winterbourne.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You know who she is, then. Good. It has come to the council’s attention that you’re under surveillance by the Cortez Cabal, following reports of spellcasting in this neighborhood.”
He paled, then straightened. “I’ve been broken into six times in the past year. I have the right to defend my property as long as I don’t use excessive force.”
“You’re right.”
“And if you people think—” He stopped. “I’m right?”
“I’m from the council, not the Cabal. Our job is not only to watch you, but to protect you against ungrounded Cabal prosecution. What I need from you is the paperwork.”
“The…?”
“Proof that you needed to cast the spells. I’ll need incident numbers for the break-ins, insurance claims and a list of the spells you’re casting. We’ll take this to the Cabal, and unless they can prove you’ve cast something stronger, you’re off the hook. In fact, if you have those papers and a copier here, I can take care of this right now.”
“They’re in the back.”
“I’ll watch the store while you get them.”
 
 
I HIGHTAILED IT across the street, darting around slow-moving carloads of tourist gawkers, past the soda fountain, past the motel, past the empty shop. I ducked inside an alley and stopped, clutching my prize. My eyelids fluttered as I savored the chaos. Having caused it myself made it twice as potent. I closed my eyes, replaying the ruse and the theft—the perfect high: better than booze, better than drugs, better than sex. Well, better than average sex. A potent mix. And an addictive one.
That thought sobered me. I had the shell. If I wanted more chaos vibes, I’d have to wait until I handed it to Romeo. I opened my beach bag, wrapped the shell in a towel, then—