Defensive Magic: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Tale (Lost Library Book 3) (12 page)

She groaned. “Okay. But I’ve changed my mind—not Logan.”

Three more tries and she was ready to give up. “I’m sore. Let’s give it a rest for now. And my brain is strained.”

“It’s late,” Logan said; then he winked at her. That sneaky turkey.

“That’s right,” Max chimed in. “It’s that time. Thanks for a lovely evening.”

After a few more rounds of good night, Max, Ben, and Logan were out the door on their way home.

“I know it’s late, but do you mind if we—”

John interrupted her, two fingers hooked on the waistband of her shorts pulling her slowly closer. “Get naked? Not at all.”

Lizzie chuckled. “Like I’d ask. No, I was thinking about the book. I’d like to have another look. I’m sure there’s something significant to learn about Clara. Well, I’m not sure actually—but I
am
dying of curiosity.”

“What did Pilar say about the trance—” He seemed to search for the right word. “Or whatever it’s called when you lose yourself in one of the books. What did she have to say about it?”

What the heck—how could she have forgotten? She grimaced in guilt. “I didn’t call. But it’s a little strange that she hasn’t phoned me. I’ll call her first thing in the morning. But for now, just pinch me if I get starry-eyed and look like I’m lost in la-la land.”

He raised an eyebrow. “La-la land? That’s technical.”

Lizzie snorted. “Fair enough. How about, if I don’t respond to your voice after two or three tries?”

He agreed, so she pulled out the book from the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

“You’re keeping the pack book in my sock drawer?”

“It’s handy there—and that’s better than your underwear drawer,” she said. She chewed on her lower lip and stared at the worn green leather cover as she thought about her last question. Looking up suddenly, she asked, “What do you know about Clara?”

“Not very much,” John replied slowly. “Why? Or at least, what kind of information?”

“Hmm. Maybe more information about Clara would help narrow the focus of my questions. I was bombarded by information last time. Not surprising, I guess, since my question was broad. But if there was less information, it could be easier to decipher. Even if it’s all still a jumble of thoughts and feelings.”

“Well—what little I know is from Logan. I was too young to remember much.” He sat down on the bed next to her, bumping his hip against hers to make more room near the end of the bed. “You know he had a thing for her?”

“Yep, you said he did.”

He scrubbed his hand across his face. “She wasn’t eighteen yet, so maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. Her father was Lycan but her mother wasn’t.”

“Wait—I thought she was Lycan.”

“Not known yet, if I remember correctly. Lycan experience their first change at some point during puberty. It’s not exact. Considering her human mother and her age, I’d guess she wasn’t Lycan—but it’s not impossible.”

Lizzie grabbed his hand, stopping him. She could feel the worry lines furrowing her brow. “So if we have kids, will they be spell caster or Lycan?”

She could tell he was holding back a smile. “Either, or, in rare instances, both. That’s what Harrington says. And Harry, actually.”

Wow. He’d already talked to Harry
and
Harrington about kids. She wasn’t ready to process the reality of kids yet. Or even John researching the idea of kids. But they’d need to talk about it at some point.

“So she’s young, maybe Lycan but maybe not, and the very bad Alpha’s brother is in love with her.”

He looked discomfited by her summary—the Alpha was his dad, after all—but he just shrugged. “That’s about it. I don’t know much about her.”

“Maybe I should focus on her connection to Logan?” She sighed. “I’m not sure—but at least it’s a start.”

John nodded encouragingly.

So Lizzie both narrowed and simplified the question. Clara and Logan, connected. Then she gave the thought a tiny push. The response was swift and certain: sadness. A deep, painful, dark emotion. And regret. Lizzie blinked as her eyes welled up, and the movement pushed a slow trickle of tears down her face.

“Lizzie?” John’s voice sounded worried.

“I can hear you. I’m fine.” And oddly, she was. She could feel the depth of the depression Clara felt, but she knew the feelings weren’t her own. There was a clear separation between herself and the emotions.

She pushed a little more and she got an image of Logan. Not the Logan of today, but a much younger, fiercer Logan. And so incredibly handsome.

Lizzie laughed. That last thought was certainly not her own.

“Still good?”

“Um-hm. Clara thinks Logan is hot.” And then it was as if she heard her own words, actually processed what she was saying. “Oh my god. These are Clara’s feelings.”

Lizzie set the book on the bed next to her. A physical connection made reading spelled books easier for her. She wasn’t sure if everyone was that way—but she always held the book when she asked a question. Correspondingly, she found it easier to break the connection when she was no longer touching the book.

John looked confused. “That’s not possible. She would have to be a Record Keeper—a spell caster—to be able to record anything in the book.”

“Right,” Lizzie said. “And what were the odds? Although, her mom was human. So maybe there’s some long forgotten spell caster in her family’s history. Or maybe there’s a way for a spell caster to attach a ward to a book that records someone else’s feeling and emotions. Maybe that’s why it was so chaotic.”

“That makes more sense than her being a Record Keeper.” He started moving toward his side of the bed.

“Wait a minute, I’m not done.” Lizzie knew her voice sounded forlorn—but they were just getting to some good stuff. They couldn’t stop now.

Kicking his shoes off, John stretched out on the bed, shoved a few pillows behind his back, and closed his eyes. “Hmm. Just getting comfortable. I figure we’ll be here a while.”

Lizzie didn’t reply, she just grinned and hopped on the bed. Cracking one eye open when the bed dipped, John threw a few pillows her way. Settled in and comfortable, Lizzie grabbed the book from the nightstand.

“What’s next?” he asked.

“I think Logan would like to know where she is. He didn’t actually ask—but that seems reasonable, right?” She remembered having a distinct impression that he expected—if anything—bad news about her. That made sense based on what John had told her.

John sighed. “I’m sure he thinks she’s dead. I really thought that was what you’d found when you first looked for her in the book. I thought you were seeing her death.”

“Hmm. I don’t think so. Why is everyone so convinced she’s dead?”

“That’s simple. Because Richard was a fuck, and Logan showed some interest in her.” He rolled over onto his side, propping his head up on his arm. “He was a horrible person.”

Lizzie cringed for the little boy who’d grown up thinking of his dad in such a way. He didn’t seem to have a single fond memory or positive thought about his father. It was sad. And when she compared John’s experience with her own, it made her that much sadder. Her parents, as annoying, overprotective, and meddlesome as they could be, were wonderful people. They had been and still were great parents. Most importantly, they loved her without condition. And John never had that from his father.

John poked her in the ribs.

“Ow. What was that for?”

“For being maudlin and wallowing over something that happened forever ago. Logan was more than enough—and much better than many have.”

“You’re annoyingly perceptive at times. Are you sure Lycan aren’t psychic? Or maybe you have some long lost relative who was psychic.”

“Uh—no. You’re just that predictable. And that sentimental.”

She huffed a little. “It’s not sentimental—it’s a rational response.”

Lizzie frowned as a thought occurred. “Has anyone ever actually looked for her? Hired a PI or done any real research?”

“Not that I know.” John ducked the pillow she tossed at him. “What? What did I do?”

“In over thirty years? A young girl goes missing and you never in thirty years think to look for her—that’s what you did.” She could feel the scowl pulling at her forehead, but she couldn’t seem to stop it. That poor girl.

“I was
four
when she left.”

Lizzie interrupted him. “You’re not four now.”

“I get it. You feel bad for her. But you need to consider that if she hasn’t come back yet, maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

Lizzie gnawed nervously on her lip.
Maybe.

John added gently, “And she’s not seventeen now.” He shifted so he was sitting up a bit more. “Ask your next question before I fall asleep.”

How could she have forgotten? Today had been an incredibly long day. John had to be exhausted. She shook her head and tried to focus on location, on a place. “I don’t remember getting a sense of place before. So I’m not really sure where to start.”

“Here. Start in Smithville. Some of the Pack are scattered throughout Texas, but most are here. But back then”—his tone turned grim—“back then, everyone lived within twenty miles of Smithville. Start here.”

Lizzie nodded. Smithville, Pack, Clara, and then she gave a tiny, almost tentative, push.

Fear. Smithville meant fear. And Logan, love for Logan. And, finally, sadness mingled inextricably with relief.

Lizzie opened her eyes and set the book away. “Several emotions all mixed together, but almost in layers. The strongest are sadness, or sorrow, and relief. I think they’re the most recent. Maybe she just ran away.” Lizzie took John’s hand. “What if she knew—that Richard was going to hurt her? She’d run, right?”

John shook his head. “She’d try, but I don’t know how she’d manage it.”

More firmly, Lizzie said, “She ran away.” She nodded. “Yes, she must have.”

John wisely didn’t comment further. He just squeezed her hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

Chapter 15

J
ohn stabbed the frying bacon with a fork and flipped it. If anything would put Lizzie in a good mood in the morning—other than the obvious—breakfast tea and bacon would do it. Easy enough to do, so he tried to make bacon a few times a week and tea every morning.

He smiled. She was so cute when she thought she was sneaking up on him. Her arms wrapped around him from behind, hugging his chest and pressing her body against his back. He stifled a chuckle. Even bacon couldn’t cover her scent, and she wasn’t nearly as stealthy as she liked to think she was.

“Sleep well?”

“Fabulously,” she murmured. “Waking up to the smell of bacon is pretty awesome, too.”

“Excellent.” As she turned away, he debated—tell her now or later? He kissed any chance at morning sex goodbye when he said, “We have an appointment to meet with the Council later this morning.”

She must have sat down at the breakfast table, because he could hear the thunk of her forehead hitting the table. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that her forearms had cushioned the fall.

“It won’t be that bad. And it has to happen sometime.” A quick glance showed that she still hadn’t lifted her head up. “Come on. It’s just a bunch of old guys drinking coffee at the B&B.” He flicked the bacon onto a paper towel-covered plate.

As he set the bacon down in front of her, a clear bribe, she finally lifted her head to give him a mournful look—but she did grab a piece of bacon and start nibbling. He sat down next to her, and he couldn’t help it—he laughed. But only a little. “If you can make nice with Logan, these guys will be easy.”

“Gah. It’s not the same at all.” Just as she finished her bacon, the teakettle started to whistle and her face brightened. Hopping up, she turned the stove off and poured the water for her tea.

“Well, can’t you do whatever you did with Logan?”

“Bond over our mutual affection for you? And commiserate that no one else is paranoid enough to see a highly improbable conspiracy to take down the Pack? Uh—no.”

“Really? That’s, um, okay, that’s a little”—he edited himself; he actually liked having sex—“creative.” He could see her eyes start to narrow slightly, like she was considering the underlying intent of his words. “And sweet. Definitely sweet. I’m glad you’re getting along. Do you want an egg?”

“Yes, please. Over hard.” She sat down at the breakfast table with her tea. “I think Clara is still alive.”

“You
hope
she is. Don’t confuse evidence and wishful thinking—you’ll be disappointed.” And if Clara was dead, as he strongly suspected, he didn’t want Lizzie hurt any more than necessary when she found out. If she believed Clara was alive and made a connection with her through the pack book, then it would be much more difficult for Lizzie.

Before she could respond, his phone rang. Looking at the caller ID screen, he said, “It’s David.”

“Braxton, here.”

“Hi. This is David Clark. I’ve got an update for you. Is now a good time?”

“Go ahead.”

“I tracked down the guy who provided my friend with the scent voiding trick,” David began. “He’s a witch.”

“Hold on. I’m going to put you on speaker. Lizzie’s here with me.” He tapped “speaker” and set his phone on the table.

“Hi, David. Lizzie, here.”

“You were saying something about a witch.” John kept an eye on Lizzie to gauge her reaction.

She just raised her eyebrows and shrugged in confusion.

“The pack member who gave me the scent void bean, he didn’t know much about it. He told me he got it from a local witch. The guy—the witch—said he thought it might come in handy.”

“And the witch’s name?” John asked.

“Bill or Will. Last name maybe Larsen. My friend can’t remember exactly.” David sighed. “I think he might have been drunk at the time.”

Lizzie bit her lip.

John held up his hand, just in case she was considering commenting. “What makes you say that?”

“A spotty memory. He was embarrassed when I asked him about it. And he finally said he thought there was a slim possibility he was intoxicated.”

“Did he eat or drink anything unusual?”

“Two bottles of tequila?” David sounded embarrassed for his friend.

“What the hell was he thinking?”