Witch's Diary: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Tale (Lost Library Book 4) (16 page)

“If they’re still that way, my mom wouldn’t be cool with that. But—Marianne lived hundreds of years ago. They have to have changed.”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Lizzie covered her face. “Shit.” The muffled sound escaped through her fingers.

“Since you’re about as profane as a kindergarten teacher, I’m guessing you’re upset?” Kenna asked.

“That’s a huge exaggeration.” Lizzie waved her hand in the air. “Pursuit of knowledge with no limits.” Lizzie looked at Kenna expectantly.

“Sure, that’s what this sounds like. Just another way of saying let the little people—those without magic, in this case—suffer, and the witches prosper.”

“Right. But even more interesting, that’s something your mom told us about the Coven. A while ago. I just completely forgot until now. If that’s their basic credo, if that concept underpins their entire organization…” Distaste showed plainly on Lizzie’s face. “I’m having flashbacks to history class, the bad bits.”

“If our girl Marianne was starting to question too much, the Coven could have been concerned about her setting a precedent. Ask your book what it was about the villagers that was a problem.”

“Well, shit.” Lizzie escalated from distaste to being flat-out appalled. “The Coven used them in ceremonies. It sounds like they were tinkering with death magic of some kind. I have to tell Harrington. He’ll need to reprioritize this book.”

“Sweetie, you sound exhausted.” Kenna took in Lizzie’s pale complexion and the slashes of purple under her eyes. “John would guilt you into getting some rest. Maybe you should consider it.” Kenna definitely wanted to help her mom, but she also didn’t want her best friend to collapse from exhaustion.

“Yes. I’ll drop in on Harrington and then head to bed to catch a few hours of sleep.” Lizzie squinted and added, “If a person can sleep after consuming the caffeine equivalent of four pots of coffee.” She yanked her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and sent a text. “If Marianne had such a problem with the murder and mayhem parts, I doubt she was included in the rituals sufficient to learn much of death magic. But until we know for sure what’s in the book, we’ll have to limit access.”

“I’m guessing Elin is fired, then.”

Lizzie nodded in response, checking her phone when it beeped at her. “She’s not qualified and doesn’t have clearance—and Harrington sent her home this afternoon, after the incident. But Pilar is definitely cleared, and she’s on her way down to relieve me. Hopefully we can convince this finicky little book that Pilar is as witch-friendly as I am—or mimic whatever it is about me that triggered its sensing ward.”

“That would be great, but isn’t she working on your dead-not-dead problem, too?”

“Yep. We’ll make do. For Gwen.” She rolled her shoulders and then picked up the book again. “Let’s see if we can get a location for this Coven prison before I head out. Chances are pretty crappy it still exists, let alone that it’s the same place they’re keeping Gwen—but we should check.”

Something had been niggling at the back of Kenna’s mind for a while, and suddenly she realized what it was. “Lizzie, where is Matylda?”

Lizzie pressed her lips together. “Not supposed to say—but she’s okay. We’re trying to make sure she stays as far from all of the…”

“Dead-not-dead stuff?” Kenna guessed. If she hadn’t been so distracted by her own problems, she would have realized something hinky was going on with Matylda long before now. Kenna liked Matylda. She seemed to be intent on keeping Lizzie safe from the crazies—a mission Kenna could fully support. “I’m not sure how a ghost plays into your undead problem, but let her know I’m thinking about her.”

Lizzie gave her a grim smile. “I will.”

Ohmygod. Kenna realized Matylda’s body was still buried somewhere close by. The undead problem may have more impact on Matylda’s body than her spirit self. Crap. Kenna would not ask Lizzie about Matylda’s preserved remains and what might happen to them. She would not. Thankfully, Lizzie pulled Kenna back into the search for prison locations. Otherwise, she might have dwelled on what exactly was happening to poor Matylda’s remains.

By the time Pilar joined them, they had a great description of how a witch cell was constructed, and they knew why the book existed.

“What have I missed? You two look like you’ve discovered something fabulous.” Pilar, even in a moment of chaos and duress, looked unruffled. Her dark hair was smoothly twisted into a casual chignon, the style emphasizing her elegant neck and the diamond studs in her ears. Her clothes were well fitted and crisp, despite a long day.

Kenna looked at Lizzie, her shirt rumpled and sporting a tiny spot of mustard, a few wild curls escaping her ponytail. Kenna wiggled her sock-covered toes, free of her tennis shoes for at least the last half-hour. Not everyone could be Pilar.

Lizzie didn’t appear fazed by Pilar’s ever-present but low-key glamour. She blurted out their findings in a rush. “The Coven of Light were holding Marianne, the witch whose life is detailed in this book, but she managed to escape from their high-security prison. Marianne fled the country, but she was sure they would come after her and kill her. So her lover, conveniently a spell caster, records everything in a warded book just in case the Coven finds them.”

“Leverage,” Kenna added. “If they find her and kill her, then this book full of Coven secrets gets released into the world. The construction of the Coven’s holding cell was a highly prized secret, and we think it’s only one of the juicy pieces of information revealed in the book.”

“The construction was certainly a hot topic.” Lizzie beamed. “But even better, our girl Marianne figured out how to bust out of their very best prison.”

“Honestly, I think she was a little paranoid to think they’d come after her in England. Witches are concentrated almost exclusively in the States, and it looks like that was true then, as well. Leaving the US was probably the best thing she could do.” Kenna started to tidy the piles of scrap paper with notes.

“You got all of this in”—Pilar pulled her cell phone out of her purse and tapped the screen a few times—“in twelve minutes?”

Lizzie’s grin was contagious, because Kenna couldn’t swallow the smile spreading across her face. “We finally asked the right questions.” Ever practical, Kenna pointed out the remaining dilemma. “This doesn’t solve the location problem. Marianne’s cell was in Philadelphia, but we don’t know the specific location in Philly. And from the description, there have to be quite a few places that meet the requirements for building one of these holding cells, which means the cell could be at any of them.”

“But once the location is known, this little how-to guide will make it possible to breach the Coven’s security,” Lizzie said. “And Harrington is working on finding the location.”

Lizzie’s faith in Harrington wasn’t misplaced, but Kenna hated that they were relying on him.

Pilar raised a finely arched eyebrow. “If they’ve updated and improved their security, your break-in manual might not work.”

“We’ll prepare as best we can, and then deal with the rest.” Lizzie was vibrating with enthusiasm. A significant improvement from a few minutes earlier, when she was about to fall asleep clutching the book in her arms. “You know this is a huge advantage. The Coven can’t know that something like this book even exists. What are the chances? A witch working with a spell caster, who happens to have book-warding skills? They can’t know their secret super cell has a decoder ring.”

“If I agree to be very, very excited, will you go to bed now?” Pilar asked.

Lizzie nodded eagerly. Grinning like a madwoman, she said, “I’m totally going to crash and burn in, like, twenty seconds. Please make me leave.”

Pilar laughed. Helping Lizzie to her feet, she ushered her out the door of the library. She closed the door firmly behind her slightly manic, overtired colleague. Pilar joined Kenna at the table and briskly organized the notes scattered across the surface. “If we’re going to have an outline for this holding cell, we better get started. First things first: let’s see if our friendly book will talk to me.”

“Oh, Lizzie meant to stay for that part.” Seeing Pilar’s expression, Kenna said, “Right. She’s about three hours past sanity right now. Sleep was definitely more important.”

Pilar had taken the seat next to Kenna. She reached over and took Kenna’s hand. With her free hand, she took the tapered candle—still stuck to the table with its tiny dab of wax—and handed it to Kenna. “Hang on to this.”

After she placed her hand on top of the book, Pilar told Kenna to light the candle.

Kenna hesitated as a wash of cold followed by nausea passed through her.

Pilar gently squeezed her fingers. The warm, dry feel of Pilar’s fingers grounded her. She could do this. She imagined a small, steady flame atop the thin candle—and it was lit.

“Good girl.” Pilar ran her hand across the book’s surface, softly, as if she felt some hint of an impression on the cover. She smiled and let go of Kenna’s hand. “All good. I think our clever little book’s ward has decided I’m a witch-friendly caster. Let see if we can sort out this cell.”

“And how to break out of it.” Kenna blew out the candle.

“Yes—that, most importantly of all,” Pilar said.

Chapter 13

Fuck, his arm hurt. Max would rather be in bed, but he had another healing session with Frank. And before that, the meeting with Harrington. Where he was headed now, reluctantly. He knocked on Harrington’s study door.

“Enter.”

Opening the door, he found Harrington and his security chief Ewan sitting down in a small grouping of chairs off to the side of Harrington’s office, each with a drink in hand.

Harrington lifted his glass slightly. “Join us?”

“Hell yes.” Maybe this meeting wouldn’t be so bad.

Harrington got up and poured him a glass of whiskey. Handing Max the glass, he said, “A toast—to fatherhood.”

Max shifted uncomfortably in his chair when he realized both men had raised their glasses to him. He nodded, acknowledging the implied congratulations, and lifted his drink. He swallowed a sizeable amount, hoping it might dull the ache in his arm. A burn, but just enough to make his mouth and throat warm. Or maybe because he wanted to fortify himself for questions he had no desire to answer.

But no questions were forthcoming. The three men sipped their whiskey in silence for a few minutes.

“You guys have kids?” Max could have hit himself. The question slipped out before he could filter. He had questions, and he couldn’t talk to just anybody. Hell, none of his “normal” friends had a clue what was going on with his life these days. Once he befriended the Pack, it was like his entire life got sucked up into the magical community.

Harrington looked uncomfortable, but replied, decisively enough, “No.”

Ewan nodded grimly. “A daughter.”

Max waited for him to elaborate. Dads loved to talk about their kids, right? Looking at Ewan, he revised that thought.

Ewan sighed. “Ask Jack about her. She works for him.” He swallowed a hefty swig of whiskey, finishing his drink. He got up to refill his glass. “Anyone?” Ewan lifted his glass.

Harrington and Max declined, but that didn’t stop Ewan from pouring himself a hefty serving.

That was surprising. Shocking. Jack had a girl dragon, whose dad happened to be head of security for IPPC’s magical reference library, working for him. And Jack was a man-whore. That was a recipe for disaster.

Max considered his words. Ignorance should be safe… “I hadn’t heard he had any employees.”

Settling into his seat with his drink, Ewan said, “It’s a new thing. She’s…annoyed with me. I’m sure it won’t last long.”

Harrington hadn’t said a word. Glancing at him now, Max saw Harrington had known about Ewan’s daughter and Jack working together. Probably the source of his earlier discomfort.

“You spoke to Lizzie about what you saw this afternoon?” Harrington asked.

“Uh, yes,” Max muttered. Way better topic than Jack being a good candidate to bone Ewan’s daughter at the first opportunity. He cleared his throat. “That the courtyard was empty when I arrived. And that a Lycan reverse decomposed in front of me. Although where the decayed body came from, I have no idea.”

Harrington nodded, volunteering no additional information. “And have you and Ewan managed to come up with anything on Margot?”

“No location,” Ewan said. “But even if we had found something, that information would have limited value. Margot’s message was recorded on top of Gwen’s video. I doubt they’re in the same place.”

“And the witches might as well not exist.” Max clenched his right hand, unthinkingly, and a pain shot all the way up his arm. He waited impatiently for the wave of pain to subside. “The air witch Margot was hooked up with before is in the wind. And not just physically. Your tech folks can’t find a digital trace.”

“Whether he’s dead or just smart,” Ewan added, “he’s a dead lead.”

Harrington nodded. “Unfortunate news, but hardly surprising.”

“How are the negotiations progressing?” Max tried to ignore the growing ache in his arm.

“They’re progressing.” Harrington stood up and walked to his desk. “Let me have Frank come down and have a look at your arm.”

Before Max could object, Harrington was dialing.

“Don’t argue. Pain makes you tired and distracted. And being tired and distracted impairs decision-making.” Ewan tossed back the remaining contents of his glass. “As ex-military, you should know that.”

“But whiskey helps?” Max asked. He’d only had one, so Max wasn’t fearful he’d bare his soul. Or send them on any more of a dangerous tangent than they currently pursued. But Ewan was pounding them down.

Harrington covered the phone with his hand. “One won’t hurt you. And Ewan can drink a Lycan under the table.”

“Of course.” Max nodded. How could he forget? “You guys are like Lycan.”

“Lycan and dragons are not particularly similar, but yes—we do share a relative immunity to alcohol.” Before Max could reply, Ewan said, “It’s more irritating than anything else.”

Harrington hung up the phone and rejoined them. “Frank will be down in a few minutes.”

“It looks like we continue to move forward with your plan, Harrington.” Max hated the odds, but some chance of success was better than no attempt. Their job between now and the deadline was to increase those odds as much as they could, and then evaluate the feasibility.