Boundary Lines (Boundary Magic Book 2) Page 12

  “No, that’s a great idea!” Simon said enthusiastically. “I know where the first pellet was found; we could wait there and see if it reappears.”

  “Simon, this thing is hostile,” I objected. “And we don’t know how to kill it.”

  “Maybe not, but at least we can learn more about it,” he argued. “And technically, we don’t know that it’s hostile. It could just be unaware of humans as a sentient species.”

  That wasn’t possible . . . right? Killing and eating a human being didn’t seem like the kind of thing you could do by mistake, but then again, Simon was the biologist, not me. “I don’t know,” I said dubiously. “No offense, Simon, but you can’t even run yet.”

  There was a long pause before Simon spat, “I’m still a goddamned witch, Lex. I’ve got a few other tricks up my sleeve before I’d resort to running away.”

  Whoops. I’d hit a soft spot. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Look, you can call Quinn, get him to come, too. Best-case scenario, you guys get a shot at the thing. Worst-case scenario, I get some more information we can use to track it.”

  I thought it over. I was getting really sick of playing defense on this case. I was more than ready for some action. “Okay, I’m in. You bring the coffee, I’ll bring the weapons.”

  “Why do I feel like you’ve said that before?” he teased.

  We arranged to meet half an hour after sunset, to give Quinn enough time to arrive. Then I hung up with Simon and called Ryan, Maven’s human errand boy, at Magic Beans. He promised to start working on the Las Vegas witch’s travel plans, and swore up and down that he would have Maven and/or Quinn call me the second they “arrived” at the coffee shop that night.

  It was an unseasonably warm day for early November, so when I was done on the phone I took Chip and Lady for a run outside, enjoying the sunshine. I had learned (the hard way) that it was difficult to run with more than two dogs at once, so poor Cody was stuck at home this time. As usual, we took the path that veered the hell away from the small fishing pond where I’d accidentally sucked the life out of all the fish the month before. When we got home, I waded through the jealous animals weaving around my ankles and headed for the shower.

  By the time I got out and dressed in khaki pants and my work polo, Ryan had called back: the Las Vegas thaumaturge was booked on the first flight the next morning. I’d kind of hoped she’d arrive sooner so we could get started, but I couldn’t exactly blame the woman for needing a day to get her affairs in order. At least she was coming. And at least Maven was paying for it.

  At ten, I drove into town, to the Flatiron Depot. I used to be the full-time night shift manager, and the store manager, Big Scott, liked me enough to keep me on despite the sudden unpredictability of my schedule now that I was working for Maven. It was a paycheck job, but I’d come to kind of appreciate the mind-numbing customer-service drudgery after all the supernatural drama that had tangled up my life over the last few weeks. I did miss the night shift, though, where my main responsibility had been organizing displays and straightening up the store. Customer interaction wasn’t my strongest suit.

  A couple of hours into my shift, I was just returning from the back room, where I had organized the list for our next greeting card shipment—so fun—when I was paged over the intercom. I sped up to the front, expecting to see a sudden long line of customers, but instead, my cashier was staring with nervous awe at a single person. Lily.

  She was wearing a skintight white tank top that set off the intricate tattoos on her brown arms, and a dark green skirt that clung to her skin at the top and flared out at her knees like a mermaid tail. When she saw me her eyes flicked over to my cashier, saying Can you get rid of this guy?

  “Thanks, Random Todd,” I told the cashier. “Would you go check on the photo printer? The overnight manager said it was making spitting noises.”

  He nodded and wandered off. “Hey,” Lily said to me. “Did you just say that guy’s name is Random Todd?”

  I shrugged. “That’s what it says on his name tag.”

  Lily just arched an eyebrow, demanding more information. “He rushed a frat,” I explained, “and there were three Todds in his pledge class: Gay Todd, German Todd, who is actually from the country of Germany, and him. And now he insists on using the full name.”

  “Couldn’t he just have called himself Todd?” she demanded. “And isn’t he like, twenty-five? He can’t still be in the frat.”

  “Don’t get me started.”

  Lily’s face broke out in a sudden grin, and I couldn’t help but smile back—until I remembered our fight the night before. “What can I do for you, Lily? Or are you here for toiletries?”

  She glanced toward the aisles. “Now that you mention it, I could use a new eyelash curler . . . but no, I’m here because I wasn’t happy about how we left things last night.”

  “Neither was I.” I realized that I had planted my feet, a defensive stance, and made a conscious effort to look more relaxed.

  Lily took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. At the Samhain party I told you that the witches’ bad opinion of boundary witches was archaic bullshit, which it is, but I let it get in my head too. I know you’re just looking out for your niece.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sorry that I upset you, and that bringing Simon back has created problems for him. You guys have been really good to me, and I don’t want to create problems for you . . . but I won’t apologize for my oath to Maven. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  “I know. And I know protecting Charlie is your way of honoring your sister.” I remembered the conversation I’d had with John the night before, and felt unexpected tears spring to my eyes. It irritated the hell out of me. I was at work, dammit. “I can’t imagine losing any of my siblings,” Lily went on. “I know we complain about Morgan and Sybil, but they mean well. Mostly.”

  “Lily—” I began, but just then the bell over the door rang, and she had to step back so I could deal with the customers who’d entered. I knew from experience that business was about to pick up, as people came in for their lunchtime errands.

  When we were alone again, Lily said in a rush, “Listen, speaking of my sisters, we’re having tea this afternoon. Bonding and shit. I think you should come. They said it was okay.”

  That caught me off guard. “Uhhhh . . .” All three Pellar sisters at once? “It definitely sounds like I’d be intruding.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. Really you’d be saving me from the horrors of facing the two of them on my own.” Seeing the look on my face, Lily rushed to add, “Listen, I heard what you said about how the clan hasn’t exactly welcomed you with open arms. Mom’s tried a little, but I thought if Morgan and Sybil could get on board . . .” She trailed off with a little shrug.

  “I don’t know, Lil,” I said, still dubious.

  “Look,” she said, “maybe it doesn’t have to be like this us-versus-them thing, with you stuck in the middle. Maybe you could be, like, an ambassador in a hostile country.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at that, even though I wasn’t sure which group represented the hostile country. “I get off at three,” I said reluctantly.

  Her face broke out in a grin. “Great. Four o’clock at the Teahouse. I’ll change the reservation to four people. Wear something nice.”

  “Wait, the Teahouse? Goddammit—Lily!” But she was already pirouetting away, throwing a smug grin over her shoulder on the way out.

  Chapter 19

  The idea of “town-twinning,” or creating a sort of cultural friendship between two cities that are often thousands of miles apart, has been around for a while—in fact, by now most decent-sized US towns have at least one “sister city” somewhere else in the world. It’s often just a kind of ceremonial/paperwork thing, with maybe the occasional push to send postcards or raise donations after a tragedy. In Boulder, however, we take our sister cities very seriously. We have seven of them, with murals and landmarks scattered around town in their h
onor. The city even built a special Sister Cities Plaza a few years ago to commemorate how awesome we are at international friendship.

  But our largest monument to town-twinning has got to be the Boulder Dushanbe Teahouse, which was a gift from the people of Dushanbe, Tajikistan, back in 1987. The idea is that the Teahouse represents a really, really expensive version of Tajikistan traditions, with gorgeous hand-carved and hand-painted art, a central pool with copper sculptures, delicate china, and the kind of menu where the waitstaff knows the exact humane method used to kill every animal that died for your meal.

  Basically, the moment you walk in there you have to start throwing around the word “artisanal” a lot.

  I had to admit, from a thematic standpoint, the Teahouse was an appropriate place for me to mend some fences with the ladies of Clan Pellar. It was also, however, pretty damned swanky. Oh, you could get away with dressing casually, although Lily had specifically requested that I dress up, but the atmosphere was upscale and sophisticated. Which meant I’d be uncomfortable the whole time I was in there. I’m not a particularly clumsy person, but whenever my mother or Sam managed to drag me to the Teahouse in the past, I always ended up feeling like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

  After my shift, I raced home, let the dogs out, and unearthed a cocktail dress from the back of my closet: a sapphire-blue silk dress with a kicky skirt, small pockets, and a deep V-neck. I’d had it so long I couldn’t remember how I’d originally acquired it, but it was both flattering and comfortable. It would show off my large, intricate tattoos, which I wasn’t crazy about, but this was Boulder: it wasn’t like I’d be the only tattooed person on the block.

  The sports bra I was wearing actually had a low V-neck, so I was good there, and I put on some lipstick and a pair of simple hoop earrings. After a moment of hesitation, I tugged my hair out of its ponytail and shook it out, ignoring the slight wrinkle left by the elastic band. Then I stepped into a pair of flats—I wanted to make a good impression, but it took a lot more than tea to get me into heels—and even had the foresight to toss some street clothes into a gym bag for later, in case there wasn’t time to come home before my stakeout with Simon. Then, I headed into the spare bedroom where I kept both a cranky iguana and my firearms safe.

  I said hello to Mushu, dialed the combination, and swung open the safe door, looking over the contents. If we managed to find the creature and I had an actual shot at it, I would need stopping power and accuracy a hell of a lot more than I’d need to conceal my weapon, so I skipped over the Springfield in favor of the .357 Smith & Wesson revolver I’d bought at an estate sale shortly after returning from Iraq. I wanted a shotgun too, so I took out my favorite, an Ithaca Model 37 I’d inherited from my grandfather. Well, okay—my grandfather, a prolific hunter, had left it to my hippie father, who was extremely squeamish about firearms. He’d given me the Model 37 “and good riddance” in between my two tours. I owned a newer shotgun, but like my grandfather, I had a soft spot for the John Browning-designed weapon. This shotgun and I had done our part to combat the scourge of clay pigeons invading the skies of Boulder.

  Picking out weapons to kill the sandworm, I decided, was way more fun than picking out clothes to impress Lily’s sisters.

  I put the new pup back in her crate and carried both weapons out to the car. I locked the revolver in the glove box and circled around the car to stow the shotgun in the back. I had a permit to carry concealed, but I didn’t like to leave weapons in the car where someone could get them. I’ve had nightmares about punk kids stealing my car and using my weapons to shoot up a school or something. I couldn’t exactly bring them to the table with me, though, for so many, many reasons.

  When I opened the back, however, I was surprised to see a Post-it Note stuck to the spare-tire container. I picked it up.

  I took the liberty of installing this when you were in LA. Thought it might come in handy. —Q

  Underneath the note was a small key, which fit into a new lock that had been affixed to the spare-tire compartment. Puzzled, I unlocked it and pulled up the top, which is when I discovered that I no longer had a spare tire in there. Instead, the space had been enlarged and refitted with soft foam, the kind that’s cut in small squares you can remove so that something nestles perfectly inside. It was big enough for the shotgun I’d packed, and about four more weapons, if I’d felt so inclined.

  Quinn had built a weapons safe into my car for me.

  He’d also left another gift: the soft leather quick-draw holster I’d borrowed before we stormed Billy Atwood’s house looking for Charlie. It was a custom job that could be worn either right- or left-handed, and I suspected he’d bought it with me in mind. He’d even punched a new hole in the belt, so it would fit around my hips better. The Springfield would be too short for it, but the revolver fit perfectly. I grinned. Quinn was such a romantic.

  I loaded my shotgun into soft foam, relocked the little cabinet, and took off for downtown Boulder.

  The Teahouse itself is a brightly colored building just off Arapahoe Ave, a breathtaking oasis of color and exoticism that always takes me by surprise when I drive by it. I parked on the street, paid the meter, and walked through the front door at exactly 4:02. The hostess took me straight to the Pellars’ table, where Lily and her sisters were already waiting.

  As I approached I could pretty easily guess which Pellar sister was which: One of the two women was pleasantly plump, with glossy straightened hair, an easy smile, and a warm earth-mother confidence that exuded from her in waves. This could only be Morgan, the heir apparent. The other was a painfully thin woman with angular cheekbones, a pinched expression, and eyes that flicked around, suspicious and hungry at the same time. Obviously Sybil, and obviously unhappy.

  Lily, who was sitting on the near right of the four-person table, spotted me approaching and rose from her seat to give me a hug. She was still wearing the shirt and skirt from earlier, but she’d added a cropped fuchsia jacket. “Hi, Lex. Meet my sisters, Morgan and Sybil.”

  Morgan stood up to shake my hand. Lily stepped aside so Sybil could reach me, but the other woman gave me a cool nod instead, making no move to rise. Lily shrugged imperceptibly and motioned for me to sit in the empty chair next to Morgan.

  “Nice to meet you guys,” I said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “It’s nothing,” Morgan said.

  “Nice dress,” Sybil observed, her first words to me. “Is it vintage?”

  “I—No, I don’t think so,” I said, taken off guard. Was that a dig at how old the dress was, or a sincere compliment that I was overthinking?

  Before I could decide, Morgan said, “I’m so glad we could do this, Lex. I saw you at the party, of course, but we didn’t get a chance to visit. Have you come here for tea before?”

  “Yes, my mother is a fan,” I replied, trying to force myself to relax. “She’s probably here every other week.”

  “I brought my eldest daughter here for the first time last week,” Morgan began.

  We continued to make small talk through our tea order and the first wave of food: tiny sandwiches. Morgan was almost artificially warm and chatty, like she’d been trained on interpersonal relationships by a Southern debutante. Sybil was cool and unyielding, but she did ask a few questions about my niece that seemed genuine. I responded to as many as I felt comfortable answering. There was no point in trying to hide that Charlie was a null, and I couldn’t really blame Sybil for her curiosity. Nulls were very rare in the Old World.

  By the time the waiter served a second round of tea, I was more or less relaxed, and Lily seemed satisfied with how it was going. Then Morgan said in her warm, pleasant voice, “So, Lex. It sounds like you’ve been spending a lot of time with Simon and Lily these days.”

  I glanced at Lily, who shrugged. “Yes, they’ve been training me,” I replied. “I believe that’s what Maven wanted.”

  Sybil’s face hardened at the mention of Maven’s name, but Morgan just smiled. “Of course. But I swear,
every time I talk to one of them, they’ve either just finished visiting you or are on their way to see you. It’s putting a serious cramp in my free babysitting options.” She said the last part with exaggerated good humor, but I could feel Lily tense beside me. Where was this going?

  “I suppose that’s true. It’s really great to have friends in the new”—I glanced up at the waiter, who was setting out tiny pastries—“community,” I finished. “I don’t know how I would have handled everything without them.”

  “Well,” Sybil said, in a cool, knowing tone, like a teacher calling on a habitually poor student, “you didn’t entirely handle things, did you? Or we wouldn’t have needed to bail you out last month.”

  “Sybil,” Lily said under her breath. The waiter seemed relieved to scurry away.

  “You were there?” I asked both of them. “When I was . . . um . . . when Lily tattooed me?” I subconsciously pulled my arms into my lap, hiding the griffins.

  “We were.” Morgan blew across the surface of her tea, though if the temperature of my own cup was any indication, it hadn’t been hot in a while. “I’m not surprised that you don’t remember. You were pretty out of it.”

  Lily was looking back and forth between her sisters, apparently as confused about the subtext as I was. But she was also a lot more tolerant. “Is there something you two would like to say to me?” I said, keeping my tone level but firm. “Because I feel like there’s maybe some air that needs clearing.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Morgan said innocently, but Sybil broke in before she could finish.

  “You used to have a sister, right?” she said. “Wouldn’t you be a little anxious if she started hanging out with a boundary witch? The same person, in fact, who nearly got her killed?”

  I sat back as though she’d slapped me. You used to have a sister, right?