Devious Magic (#3 Stella Mayweather Paranormal Series) Read online

  I returned his smile just before he barrelled past, bags of dry cleaning slung over his arm, clearly in a hurry to get his chores over with on his only day off. It took every single bit of restraint for me not to turn my head and watch his fine figure retreat. Having never before finding two men attractive and having that interest returned, I didn’t really know what to make of my behaviour. Kitty would probably know the right thing to say. I decided I would ask her later.

  Catching sight of Annalise’s cinnamon French toast, sitting deliciously opposite me, I took another quick look out the window for Annalise, wondering what was holding her up when a shadow fell across my table. Looking up, I expected to see Darla or the pretty, redheaded waitress.

  Instead, I viewed a thickset man in a black suit and a shirt so pristinely white, it was like a fresh snowfall. He slid into the booth opposite me, as though I invited him there. I frowned at him, assuming he made a mistake and waited for him to leave. He didn’t.

  “Good morning, Miss Mayweather,” he said after a long pause, resting his wrists on the table and folding his hands together.

  I smiled hesitantly at him, in case I knew him while I tried to place his face. It was no good. I couldn’t think where I could possibly know him. “Do we know each other?” I asked, thinking I would apologise for my ignorance later after he’d jogged my memory.

  “You could say that,” he replied. Picking up the menu, he studied it for a moment, then flicked his eyes up at me. “What’s good here?”

  “Everything,” I said, which was true.

  He laughed, a short, sharp sound that didn’t have a lot of humour in it. “Unfortunately I’m not quite that hungry.” He signalled a waitress with a shake of the menu and she walked over quickly, notepad ready. “Coffee,” he said to her, his voice easy and melodic. “And... apple pie. Is the apple pie good, Miss Mayweather? It sounds good.”

  “Sure,” I said, now completely distracted from the pancakes I’d already started demolishing. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really can’t place you.” There was something off about him, something that made my nerves tingle. I couldn’t place him at all. His accent was English, in a very proper way that didn’t reveal his region, and that was what made him stand out the most. That, and the arrogant way he had taken over my table. This man was a long way from home and I had a bad feeling about him.

  “We haven’t met formally,” the man replied, his attention on me again, coolly assessing me, but not at all annoyed by my question. “But you met some friends of mine, almost a year ago now.”

  “Oh?” A year ago I’d been on the verge of leaving England, after being chased by a gang of men whom I now knew were murderous witch hunters. They were behind a string of merciless burnings across Europe. The night I left England, I had nearly fallen prey to them and it terrified me.

  The man smiled; his teeth a perfect row of white, expensive, dentistry. He could have been a businessman, a lawyer, anything. I was certain I’d never met him.

  “Miss Mayweather, you are of interest to my employer,” he said, “and my employer would very much like to meet you.”

  “Are you offering me... a job?” I asked, my brows knitting together as I became purposefully dense.

  He laughed. “No, no. My employer has, shall we say, an interest in you. He asked me to approach you, to introduce us to you. His last attempt to make contact with you was unsuccessful and he was most displeased.”

  “Who is your employer?” I asked.

  The man leant back in his seat while Aimee set a mug down, pouring it to the brim with coffee, then adding a plate of hot apple pie with a little flourish. The man dug his fork in and took a large bite, chewing on it. After a couple of mouthfuls, during which he made appreciative noises, he put his fork down. “First things first, let me introduce myself. My name is Mr. Jones.”

  “Really?” I blurted out and he laughed, the lines around his eyes creasing. He was probably somewhere in his forties, cheeks slightly puffy, but clean-shaven with dark brown hair, cut very short. I would be hard pressed to describe him later, he was so average.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. You know my name.”

  “That I do, Miss Mayweather. That I do.” He picked up his fork again, tapping the tines on the plate. “This really is good pie. Am I putting you off your pancakes? I do apologise. Don’t let me stop you from enjoying your breakfast.”

  “What’s your first name?” I asked.

  He hesitated. “John.”

  “John Jones?”

  He smiled again. It didn’t reach his eyes, of course. They remained hard and cold, despite his easy smile. “No, I don’t believe it either, but, like I said, it hardly matters. Let’s be formal, Miss Mayweather. My employer demands formality.”

  “Who is your employer?” I asked slowly, my mind racing. I narrowed it down to a couple of unpalatable options. My first thought was the Council, who had returned to my life only a few months ago. It was after I’d gotten caught up in a very strange magical case that drew a lot of witches to Wilding. The Council were the governing body of witches, a secretive faction of the population. Part organisers, part regulators, they set the rules that witches lived by, and enforced them, imposing sanctions when things went awry, or when a witch turned rogue.

  The Council had been in disarray for several months when the last leader was murdered right in front of me. It was that disorganisation which left all the other witches vying for power. Council leadership would be a major coup for whoever got elected, be it legally obtained or by intimidating the competition.

  My second thought was the FBI or CIA; some big organisation that might want to harness a witch’s power even if they didn’t quite believe in it. But that still didn’t explain Jones’ accent. My final guess was the most unpalatable of them all.

  Mr Jones took his time eating another piece of pie before he answered. “My employer is known by many names, but I believe you know him as the head of the Brotherhood.”

  Two

  My fingers dug into the thick upholstery of the booth bench, my eyes searching for an exit, while I absorbed Mr. Jones’ revelation. From the booth’s location in the centre of the diner, I realised how isolated I was and my heart sank. Mr. Jones sat between the door and me. A plate glass window with “Darla’s Diner” in a thick red font stood between the street and me. To get to the rear exit that opened onto the rear alley would mean somehow traversing the counter before Jones could catch me. Then I would have to dart through the kitchens: all three completely impossible. Much as I hated to admit it, I was trapped.

  Mr. Jones barely glanced at me as he forked off a piece of pie, steering it into his mouth. He waved the fork at me as he swallowed. “There’s no way out, Miss Mayweather. Besides, we’re just having a friendly chat. I’d hate for it to be cut short,” he said, his fork already aimed for the last piece.

  “Your people tried to kill me,” I hissed, lowering my voice. The enticing aroma of my pancakes suddenly smelled cloyingly, sickeningly sweet.

  Mr. Jones shook his head, his eyes rolling just a fraction. “Not I. That’s a job for the minions.” Pushing his empty plate away, he reached for his mug and sipped the coffee, while riveting his cold eyes on me the whole time. “Do pay attention, Miss Mayweather, you can’t leave until we’ve finished our chat.”

  He was wrong. I could. I could shimmer out of there, even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it publicly. All I had to do was lean down, out of sight, so no one else noticed, and disappear. It didn’t matter if this Mr. Jones saw. He already knew who I was, so it stood to reason that he had some idea as to what I could do. In thirty seconds, I could be safe, away from his mild-mannered threats.

  “I know what you’re thinking and I advise you against it,” Jones warned.

  Playing the innocent, I asked, “Advise me against what?”

  He leant forward, closing the span of table between us. He hissed the word as if it were distasteful. “Disappearing.”


  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because I’ll kill every person in this place, Miss Mayweather, and that blood will be on your hands.” Mr. Jones arched his eyebrows as he leaned back against the red leather, one hand stroking it as if to remind me that the same colour could splatter every surface, if he so chose.

  I glanced around the diner, at the row of people who sat eating at the counter, talking amongst themselves; then at the table behind me where the family with the two little children, sucking their juice through straws sat giggling. Their little legs were kicking gleefully back and forth. As far as arguments went, he had a good one, and I wasn’t prepared to test it. I wasn’t even going to ask him how he could kill so many people without someone stopping him. It seemed wiser just to accept that he could, rather than encourage him into a demonstration. Instead, I just nodded, appearing somewhat defeated. “I thought that was for the minions.” Perhaps mocking him wasn’t the best idea, but it slipped out.

  “Don’t look so cross. It doesn’t suit your pretty face.”

  His hand rested on the coffee cup and my already nervous magic began to spiral. I channelled it into the coffee until it reached boiling point, with little bubbles teasing the surface. Jones, staring at me the whole time with his vacant eyes, put it to his lips and sipped, only to shudder when it scalded him.

  “Cheap trick, Miss Mayweather,” he murmured, licking his lips, then dabbing them with a napkin. I didn’t feel bad, not one bit; I hoped it blistered his tongue.

  I waited, expecting him to do something to chastise me but Jones just sat there, staring, and panic rose inside me. My magic bubbled, unbidden once again, to the surface and I felt it tickling my skin as I struggled to restrain it for the sake of every person who could be injured from the fallout.

  Jones watched my inner conflict, his eyes boring into me as I tried to match his immovable demeanour despite the magic inside me looking for an outlet. I focused on my training, on neutralising my power. Whatever he had planned, I didn’t want to be a part of it but I was trapped. As time ticked past and I waited, I knew I needed to be ready to defend myself and anyone else I could.

  Most of all, I knew I needed help before Annalise came back, stumbling onto us, As soon as she slid in next to me, she would completely block my exit and put herself within arm’s reach of Jones. Like hell would I put my friend in any danger of the witch hunter sitting in front of me. Especially if there were even the remotest possibility that he knew what she was.

  On autopilot, I called silently, wordlessly yelling to my closest ally. Gage. I only wished he could hear me, as well as the desperation in my soundless plea. Mr. Jones waited, watching his coffee cup. I wished frantically that Gage would come back so I could get his attention somehow, so he could rescue me from the Brotherhood’s foot soldier. Jones’ gaze remained solid, his eyes threatening in a way that was so subtle, only I could see it. He was waiting to see what I would do.

  Thoughts spiralled through my head, but there was only one obvious route I could take. If I couldn’t escape, I would have to play along for a while, draw him out, and find out what the witch hunters wanted. So I did nothing. “What do you want?” I asked, simply.

  “That’s the right question, Miss Mayweather.” Jones’ thin lips curled at the edges into a smile but his body didn’t relax one bit. “My employer extends an invitation. He would like to meet with you at his home in England. He doesn’t travel much. The house is called Hawkscroft and is located in Yorkshire. Perhaps you’ve been there?”

  I shook my head, no, saying, “I can’t.” I left England almost a year ago, when my friend, Étoile, rescued me from the Brotherhood. They chased me out, and I stayed out. I even had the idiotic notion that the Brotherhood couldn’t find me, even though the occasional news of a murder could be attributed to them on this side of the Atlantic. They had been strangely, ominously, quiet of late, not that I’d been complacent in any way. I couldn’t afford to be.

  Mr. Jones arched an eyebrow at me again, his voice cajoling this time, “I’m sure you can. We’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find you.”

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say... a little birdie whispered your address in my employer’s ear.”

  Fear rippled through me, first as raging hot anger, then clamouring cold. I’d been warned that the concentration of power created by the witches who came to Wilding months ago would bring unwelcome attention. I couldn’t fathom, however, who would be cruel enough to pass my address onto the Brotherhood. As far as I knew, only witches and wolves attended our gathering. Oh, and a ghost, I remembered. But she had been forcibly returned to where she belonged and thereby prevented from causing more damage. I glanced at Mr. Jones, hoping some trace on his face would declare his revelation as a lie. I saw nothing. Nothing to indicate if it were true and nothing to say it was false.

  He pulled an envelope from his inside suit pocket and pushed it towards me where it rested in the middle of the table. Then he tapped it with his index finger. “Inside this envelope is a plane ticket and funds to cover any unexpected complications you might encounter. We will arrange for a driver to collect you from the airport and take you to Hawkscroft. You will stay as my employer’s guest.”

  “Why does he want to meet me?”

  “That’s not for me to know.”

  With one finger, I pushed the envelope back. “I’m not coming.”

  I almost laughed when Mr. Jones pushed it towards me again; it seemed so comical. “I don’t think you understand, Miss Mayweather. It’s not so much an invitation, as a... summons. You will attend.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Mr. Jones looked around the diner, taking in the familiar faces of my adopted hometown’s residents. “Consequences,” he said in a low voice. “There will be consequences. I suggest you don’t test my employer. He’s not... pleasant when crossed.”

  “You can’t hurt me,” I retorted. He could, though. I knew that. But this employer of his was perhaps the only reason I’d survived this conversation so far. I could feel the fear slicing through my bones as he laid his cold gaze on me. In my head, I yelled for Gage again, the fear emanating from me even as I sat still, tense enough to stop the shaking that followed in its tracks. Of all the people who could help me, Gage was the closest. I knew he would defend me, or at least, offer some kind of backup. That might make this man think twice about threatening me not to mention all the people in the diner. Even without his wolf heritage, Gage was a tall, imposing man, someone to be reckoned with.

  “No?” Mr. Jones leant back in his seat, seemingly amused. “Are we negotiating? Or are we in denial?”

  I kept my voice low. “Tell your employer that I don’t care to meet him or have anything to do with the Brotherhood. I want to be left alone.”

  “Oh, Miss Mayweather.” Mr. Jones shook his head, doing his best to look sad. “You and I both know that’s never going to happen.” Standing up, he dabbed his mouth with a napkin, which he then laid over his plate. “Before I forget, happy birthday! I do apologise for not bringing a gift, but I hope you’ll think of me when you cut your cake.”

  “Go to hell.”

  The corners of his mouth flickered. “What makes you think we’re not already there?” He dropped enough bills on the table to cover his breakfast and mine and walked out. At the door, he turned and smiled, giving me a little salute. I thought about giving him a little salute of my own, but I resisted the urge.

  I was frozen with fear for a moment at Mr. Jones’ summons and the damn envelope resting on the table in front of me. It was strange how menacing I found it, how repulsive it was to see my name written across the front in flowing black ink, all curls and flourishes. Before I could really think about it, I slipped out of the booth and raced outside.

  For a moment, I stood on the sidewalk, right at the junction where I could see the whole intersection; but the man had gone, almost like he melted away, and was never here. A moment later, I felt
strong hands grabbing me and I barely stifled the shriek rising in my throat as they spun me around.

  Gage’s eyes searched mine as he held onto me, his hands clamped over my upper arms. “What happened?” he huffed, breathless, like he’d been running hard. “I heard you. I heard you in my head, calling me. What’s wrong?”

  “I... I was calling you. He was here, he was...” I gasped back a relieved, but frightened sob, looking wildly around me, expecting the man to come back at any moment.

  “Who, Stella?” Gage gripped me harder. “Did someone hurt you? Tell me!”

  My hair fell over my face as I shook my head. I brushed it back roughly with my hands, tucking the stray strands behind my ears. “The Brotherhood,” I gasped, at last, continuing to turn in a circle, scanning the landscape for Mr. Jones. “The Brotherhood was here. He sat at my table and he...” The tears were running freely down my cheeks now and Gage pulled me into his chest. He held me close to him, vaporising my fear with his safe embrace. I could hear his heartbeat in my ear where my head was pressed against him. Circling my arms around him, I let him hold me. As I hugged him, I felt so grateful for the comfort of someone safe and familiar. I tried not to think about the last time he had his arms wrapped around me, and how that had been so very different to the comfort he offered me now.

  “You’re okay,” he whispered, stroking my hair as I stiffened, momentarily feeling awkward in his arms. Gradually, he seemed to realise that, and reluctantly let me go, His hands were still wrapped around mine as he stared down at me. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe, sweetheart, you’re safe now,” he promised.