Heart Mates (7 page)

It was pulsing red. 911 emergency. She nearly cracked her cheekbone answering. “Daniel? What’s wrong?”

“The first knell has struck.” He intoned it, the solemn wizard prince frighteningly removed from the playboy she knew Daniel to be. “
You
have been chosen to carry the burden.”

“Burden? Me?” The words hit her with an almost physical blow. Then… “Wait. Are you talking about that crazy poem?”

Last October Daniel had discovered the Avignon Quatrain, fabled lost prophecy of Jean-Dion d’Avignon. Supposedly a sort of treasure map, they hadn’t been able to decipher it.

“But it’s been nearly a year,” Sophia sputtered. “We decided it’s a fake.”

“
You
decided it’s a fake,” Daniel said in his normal baritone. “Mostly because it named you first.”

“It doesn’t name
me
.” Why did everyone insist Blue meant her? She was hyperventilating. King yipped and licked her chin. “Total coincidence my last name is a color. And anyway, prophecies are all image and metaphor. Clear only in retrospect.”

“It’s a little more specific than you make out.” He recited the Quatrain.

HEART beats for a wolf and a Blue

MIND is focused by Light

SOUL belongs to those who are True

The KEY unlocks the Night.

“So there’s a wolf
too.”
Noah was a wolf.
Her body shimmered. She ignored it. “Big whoop.”

King gave a short yowl. She was squeezing him so tightly she was in danger of crushing his ribs. She let up immediately.

“Cousin Arianna had a vision. She says Heart, Mind and Soul are pieces of the Key. She’s adamant that you’re the Blue to find the heart piece, and she
is
the seer in the family. So I have to ask you…fall in love with any wolves lately?”

“That’s taboo.” Even and especially wolves with silver eyes and clever hands attached to all that was tall, dark and
umm-hmm
. “Maybe Aunt Linda met someone. She’s a Blue. Or Arianna. Can’t be me. I just got my life on track. I’m not messing it up with love.”

“I see.” His dry tone said he did see, too much. “Well, that’s a problem. Because if it’s not you, who is the Blue I need to warn?”

“
Warn
?” She screeched to a halt so fast she almost smoked her heels. “Warn about what?”

“Red script appeared beside the first line of the Quatrain. A warning.”

“About what?” she repeated.

“If you’re not the Blue in the prophecy, why should you care?”

Sophia wished for a smite button of her own. “Because it’s a warning. Everyone needs to heed a warning.” She waited.

His silence was a pregnant reply.

“
Arg
. All right, because it might—
might
, mind you—be about me.”

“Good enough.” His tone was smug, the bastard. “It says, ‘Beware the Hungry Ghost.’”

“Hungry Ghost? I don’t like the sound of that.” She started walking again, fast, trying to shake off the shivers. “What does it mean?”

“Not sure. In Buddhism the Hungry Ghost has the appetite of a mountain but the throat of a needle’s eye. A person who tries to fill an emotional need with physical possessions.”

“Why don’t you just say greedy?”

He sighed. “Being a banker has really dulled your sense of the dramatic. Can’t you just picture it, a huge growling empty stomach trying to suck empires through a drinking straw of a throat?”

“You’re a playboy, Daniel. You see nothing wrong with a big appetite.”

“I
was
a playboy.” He paused. “Look, just do me a favor, okay? Keep your eyes and ears open for the Heart.”

“Whatever it looks like.”

“Sophia…” His tone was a warning.

“Yes, all right.”

“It’s important. I think you’re right on top of it. If the wrong person gets their hands on that Key, the world as we know it will end.”

“Thank you, Mr. Apocalypse.”

“No joke, Sophia. The red script has ramped up the danger. Your competition is devouringly evil.”

“
All right
.” She hung up, shuddering.

King wiggled in her arms. The poor, brave dear. Hungry Ghosts and prophecies would have to wait until she knew how badly he was injured.

Chapter Seven

The sign on the pet store door was turned to Closed. Sophia’s chest shot with disappointment.

The “OPEN AT” plastic clock said nine. Her phone said seven. Right. What was the world coming to when stores weren’t open at dawn?

Okay, if not here, the vet. She thumbed up a search on her phone in case Matinsfield had gotten a new emergency clinic for animals since she was here last. But no, the closest was ten miles out of town. Could her car limp ten miles?

King yipped. He was shivering. Could he last ten miles?

A light snapped on inside the pet store. Hope surged. She peered in. Movement inside set her heart pumping. She tried the door.

It was open.
She eased inside and set King on the floor. “Hello?”

Light spilled from a small glassed-in area to her left, about the size of a vet’s examination room.

“Yip!” King barked the same sharp warning he’d used for Killer.

She stepped back just as a man glided from the darkness.

He was all sculpted cheekbones, brilliant black eyes, black hair and sexy mouth begging for a nibble… Her breath caught. If she hadn’t met Noah, she’d have been drooling. As it was she felt uncomfortably hot.

King’s yip turned distinctly cross.

“One moment.” The gorgeous man tossed a shopkeeper’s logoed apron over his head.

Instantly the tug of attraction was gone. As if, by donning the apron, he’d put on an asexual envelope. He became, not a man, but a dog groomer in ordinary jeans and open-collared Oxford shirt, a means to taking care of King.

Almost magically.

Sophia frowned at the man. Still the same chiseled face, twinkling eyes and thick lustrous hair. He didn’t appear magical, but the only way she could be sure was with her third eye. The witch’s eye wasn’t magic, so she could still do it, but it was uncomfortable. She’d only used it a couple times in the four years she’d been mundane.

“Welcome to Do Doggie ’Do.” The man’s voice was deep and sure. “How can I help you?”

She decided the eye wasn’t worth the bother. “I thought this was the Matinsfield Happy Tails pet store.”

“It is. Currently merging with the Do Doggie ’Do chain of in-store pet grooming boutiques. I’m here to get the franchise off the ground.” He pointed at King. “Cute little puppy. Serious
aw
factor.”

King growled.

“King isn’t a puppy,” she said. “He’s a brave warrior. In fact, he injured himself defending me from a much bigger, um, dog. I was hoping you could see if he needs medical care.”

The groomer’s lips curved in an almost-smile. “Normally we tell owners to take injured pets directly to a veterinarian. But for you, I’ll wash him down. Feel free to browse while you’re waiting.” He reached for King.

The dog’s growl turned distinctly chilling. Braced on four paws, his fur rose straight up and his lips pulled back to expose his fangs.

Apprehensive prickles raised her skin. Did he sense bad things about the man? She cleared her throat. “I’d better come with him.”

“Certainly.” The groomer’s smile changed, as if secretly pleased. “This way, then.”

He led them to the glassed-in grooming booth. Just outside it, King balked. Sophia cajoled him and scolded him and finally picked him up and carried him. He stopped fighting at that. He really seemed to like it when she hugged him to her breasts. The sweetie.

The grooming table was metal topped with grooved vinyl. Clamped to one corner was a tall pole, a short crossarm at the top making a half-T. A leash hung from the arm. It swung uncomfortably like a hangman’s noose.

The groomer unhooked the loop from the table’s arm. “Let’s just get your little man secured.”

King growled at the leash and tried to squirm out of Sophia’s arms. He wouldn’t let the man put the loop over his head. She finally had to threaten the dog with leaving him at the store while she searched for Aunt Linda to get him to cooperate.

Yes, he probably couldn’t understand her. But it worked.

The groomer dropped the loop over King’s head and tightened it, two fingers between the leash and fur for space. “We’ll leave it a little loose for him,” the man said. Then he led Sophia into an attached room smelling of shampoo where he clipped the leash to a wall hook beside a sink. “Set him in here.” While the groomer washed and rinsed the dog, he adopted a sugary voice. “Who’s a good puppy? Is Kingy-wingy a good boy?”

A low thrum threaded the air, King growling again.

The man laughed. “Good news. Just scrapes under the blood. I can treat them.”

“That’d be great.”

He unclipped the loop from the wall and indicated Sophia should take King back into the grooming booth and set the dog on the table. The groomer used a foot pedal to raise the table’s height. Then he turned to a selection of bottles on the nearby counter top and picked up an amber one. “Then I’ll give this little fella a trim.”

King’s low growl developed a distinct knife-edge.

Sophia tapped his nose. “King, be nice. He’s helping you.”

Casting a doleful eye at her, the dog quieted.

Her mind wandered as the man applied antiseptic. Where was Noah? What was he doing? Why wasn’t he the one protecting her from the wolves? Was he thinking about her as much as she was thinking about him?

She shook her head. Enough mooning over a man she’d just met. She was here to find Aunt Linda. Having exhausted her purely mundane options, there was just one thing left. She’d have to use Witch’s Sight.

The groomer finished treating King’s scrapes and turned the dog around on the table. “My my, this little man has a quite a big package.”

King shot him a look that would’ve frozen fire.

The groomer simply smiled as he toweled, blow-dried and brushed out, then thumbed on the clipper, releasing a burnt dust scent. King’s low growl promised serious mayhem. The groomer laughed. “Just a trim, little man. No big deal.”

With a grumpy yip, King turned forward.

The man pursed his lips as he worked. He had gorgeous lips, very kissable.

The groomer shot Sophia a look out of the corner of his eye. Somehow she forgot about lips.

As the clippers buzzed and growled, her mind turned back to Noah. He hadn’t wanted her to interview Marlowe, concerned about his brother Killer. It occurred to her that anybody who concerned Noah Blackwood had to be pretty damned dangerous. Was Killer behind the walls weeping blood?

She shook herself. Not thinking about Noah anymore.

Or any less.

She sighed.

“All done. What do you think?”

Sophia looked up. The groomer had given King an adorable, fluffy trim, complete with a pink froufrou of a bow clipped between his perky ears. She smiled. “Cute.”

“What do you think, puppy?” The groomer picked up a mirror and held it before King’s face.

Sophia thought it odd that the man would show the dog his image, like a hairstylist to a client. Then King’s eyes fastened on the bright pink bow.

Dead silence.

The dog went ballistic, snarling and snapping, the loop lead whipping.

The man danced back, barely keeping body parts out of teeth-stapling range. Sophia alternately shouted and soothed, but the dog refused to calm down.

King’s paroxysms loosened the table noose. He slipped free, jumped off the table, slid past their frantic outstretched hands, and ran directly to a file cabinet. With a hump and twist, he used the cabinet handle to pry off the bow.

Sophia’s jaw dropped. The dog was amazingly facile about it, as if he’d planned the whole series of maneuvers. Cool once he was loose. No wasted motion.

Just like a certain alpha.

Damn it, she had Noah on the brain, a fever, and the only cure was more Noah. Or cowbell, she wasn’t sure.

She rested her forehead in her palm and sighed.

As they left the pet store, King strode ahead of Sophia, a gait which should have been impossible with his short little legs, but he managed it. He also managed to keep perfect tension on his new black leather leash while completely ignoring her. Yes, he was a dog and couldn’t talk. She knew from his stride and the way his nose pointed in the air that he was ignoring her in offended dignity.

“I don’t see why you didn’t like the bow. It was cute.”

King walked on, his tail waving like a warning flag and an extra swing to his male parts. She smiled.

As they walked, her smile faded. Killer, an unknown Heart and the Hungry Ghost. Killer hadn’t followed her to the bookstore and there was no reason to think he’d know she was staying there—except for the fact that Matinsfield was a small town. It wouldn’t take much digging to find her.

But she still needed to locate her aunt, so she headed back to the Uncommon Night Owl to do her duty. Besides, that was where her suitcase was, and she was smelling a little ripe.

Inside the store was cool and dark, but her gut was churning. Worried about Killer, but also avoiding using the Sight. Frankly, she’d rather pet a porcupine. She shut the door. Locked it. Removed King’s leash. Fed the animals. Put fresh water down. Answered all her emails and updated her social statuses in three places before she knocked the phone between her eyes.

Procrastination. Such a lovely word for crap-herself scared.

She shut her eyes and reached mentally for the etheric.

Witch’s Sight rode a gray line: while mundanes could do Sight, it took a whisper of power. So when she opened her third eye, because of the way she’d sealed off her magic, her head tingled unpleasantly. She gritted her teeth and pushed through it. It’d only get worse.

With her third eye focused, she lifted her physical lids and scanned the store.

A red ring pulsed where the mushroom had been, Aunt Linda’s version of a theft-reporting device. Too bad Auntie hadn’t put a locater spell on the thing—or on herself.

The doorway was tinged bright yellow-red. Someone had gotten an extreme shock here, enough for the emotion to bleed onto the etheric. The thief? Or Auntie?

Sophia’s head started throbbing. The eye was taking its toll. She didn’t have all day. She started walking the store.

Jagged skid marks lit the air, evidence of a cast spell. Frowning, she stopped.

Magic potential couldn’t be seen, which was why even a witch couldn’t reliably tell another witch on sight. But actual magic was visible, both in a thing like an amulet, or as it was cast. A thrown spell left traces of its path.

This skid was from a spell—and it was fresh. Last night or night before. Strange. Auntie was single-element. She didn’t often throw spells because of the fast power drain, preferring potions and amulets which drew over time.

So who had thrown the spell? And who was the victim?

Sophia narrowed her focus. It gave her a headache, like squinting too long, but she was able to tell by the jagged nature of the skids that the spell was a hex. Not good.

Her hands started aching, bone-deep. She followed the skids. Before the hex hit the victim, it had hit a glass case of pictures. She bent and peered inside. Scratch that. It had hit
her
picture.

Her heart started misfiring. She knocked a fist into it. It hiccupped and caught. Her time was running out. The skid made a V. She followed the trace to a cloth-draped piece of furniture—from the shape, a freestanding full-length oval mirror.

She reached for the cloth to uncover it.

An etheric eye as big as a house zoomed in on her.
One searches for Noah
.

Her heart stuttered. A second eye, behind the first, lanced into her.
One hunts him
.

She clamped her third eye shut and completely cut her connection to the etheric.

Too late. She fell to her knees, dizzy, gasping, hands clutched to her chest. Her whole body felt weak and fluttery.

Her last impression before she lost consciousness was King, yapping frantically and licking her face.