Mindbreaker (A Cassidy Edwards Novel Book 3) Page 5

  Clamping the blender lid securely in place, I faced Lucian and dropped suspicious eyes on the injured hand he’d tucked back into his pocket. “Are you spelled again?” I asked bluntly.

  He arched a wicked-looking brow at me. “This?” he asked, sounding somewhat bemused. Slowly removing his hand, he held it out. The white lines tracing his veins had faded somewhat. “Think of it as a mild burn. Nothing to worry about. My powers are … unaffected.” Raising a brow at my apartment, he added, “Shall we?”

  De-spelling the place took longer than I’d expected, but at last, it was done. I didn’t consume many of Samuel’s spells. His brand of mana made me nauseous. Instead, I began pointing them out in proper, spellfinder-fashion to Lucian, and he worked his own magic over them, making them useless.

  “So, that’s it,” I announced with a yawn, dusting my hands on my pants as we defused the last one. “Spells are gone.”

  The sky outside had blossomed into a pink display of swirling color.

  “Right. We’re finished,” Lucian agreed.

  A sudden thought struck me. “All that I can smell, anyway,” I amended with suspicion. “Probably can’t tell if you’ve spelled the place now, can I?”

  He lifted a sardonic brow. “And why would I bother?”

  He stood there, close behind me. Yeah, I was aware of every hot, sexy inch of the man. But I was also exhausted. And right now, I didn’t know how to gauge him. Was he bluffing? What game was he playing with me? Hex it. My head ached.

  “Fine then.” It was my turn to adopt a half werewolf growl. “Goodbye. You know where the door is.” I had several hours before 10:00AM and I planned on spending them sleeping.

  Lucian didn’t budge. Crossing his arms, he leaned casually against the black-granite kitchen countertop. “You said once … in Venice …” he began almost hesitantly before finishing strong with, “You mentioned that Lady Elizabeth spoke to you from portraits. Can you explain that statement?”

  I blinked, a little surprised at his turn of thought. “Just what I said,” I obliged, albeit somewhat grumpily. “A voice from the portraits, telling me to run and warning me about the Terzi warlock. She appeared in another painting too, but Ricky saw only fruit.”

  His dark brows furrowed into a puzzled line. “And tonight?” he prompted. “Even I didn’t detect the spell of an experienced Grand White Witch from my own line. How did you find it on the swing?”

  I cocked a curious brow. “Grand White Witch?” I glanced at his hand again.

  “The spell was Elizabeth’s,” he admitted softly, his ice-blue eyes bright with emotion. “A blast from the past, but a blast that I shouldn’t have experienced. Spells do not survive a witch’s death. White witch. Black witch. Blood witch. It doesn’t matter. Spells are tied to the mana of the caster. When the caster dies, so does the spell.”

  Blood witch? I filed it away to ask about later. “Interesting,” I said instead, smiling with a shrug. “So your great-to-the-something grandma was a white witch, huh? And you’re black?”

  “Midnight black, sweetheart,” he replied, the words leaving his thinned lips were barely audible.

  “Not sure she’d approve.” I teased. “You know, her being of the white magic persuasion.”

  “You merely encountered a complex spell in Venice, one programmed to respond in certain ways,” he said, his voice riddled with disdain. “She’s dead and not capable of approving anything—”

  “Hmmmmm, don’t think so,” I interrupted. She’d told me he was her favorite descendant. “Something doesn’t add up. How can she like you the best if she’s dead? You know, you being her ‘beloved Lucian’ and all. She knew your name. How could a medieval spell know that and hang around for so long?”

  He listened as I recounted the conversation I’d had with her in Venice, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of shock and disbelief. When I finished, he just stood there, an arm’s length away, all distant, touchy, and quiet.

  “Well, I’m tired,” I announced. “Think I’ll crash for a bit. You can let yourself out.”

  He jerked as if I’d startled him. “Right,” he murmured, bowing his head politely in my direction. “10:00AM sharp.”

  Yawning, I watched him vanish into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind him.

  “Bedtime,” I said to no one in particular.

  Leaving Ricky snoring in the blender, I threw myself headlong onto the couch and let out a long, loud breath. I was beyond exhausted.

  No doubt, I’d fall asleep within seconds.

  It’s always dangerous when you think that. It’s just tempting your brain to serve up a platter of delicious mind treats that send it into overdrive.

  And that’s just what happened.

  It began with Emilio. No doubt, he gave me the apartment to keep track of me. But why have Samuel spell it? And just what was up with that swing or ring or both? What did it mean to him? It was something much more than a mere ‘memento of love’. But then I remembered the sketchbook in his room, the one I’d found with Gloria’s face drawn all over its pages and the ring depicted on the back. In Venice, I’d seen that same ring drawn in a book filled with an unintelligible script.

  Priority one: rifle through Emilio’s books in that room and search for more clues.

  Priority two: Gloria was tied to this—maybe I could squeeze the information out of her somehow.

  Nah, scratch that. That was pretty doubtful. Gloria had hated me from day one, fearing my specter abilities. She’d not volunteer one bit of information before trying to kill me again, that was for certain.

  But none of that mattered right now. I had a priority zero to worry about: saving my butt from Tabitha in a few hours.

  What evidence had I left in that graveyard? Any? As I’d broken the puppet strings, they’d vanished, disappearing in a spate of sparks. What would a David Caruso’s Horatio Caine detect? Had I left tracks, or had I stayed on the gravel path? I couldn’t remember. And witnesses? More than one Night Terror saw me walking up the stairs with Dorian’s suitcase. Somehow, I didn’t doubt the tall, gaunt True’s loyalty. He kept his share of secrets as Keeper of the Old Wisdom. But what about the rest of the Night Terrors?

  Anyone could have spied on me. I hadn’t paid much attention. I’d been pretty dang lucky, come to think of it.

  And what about what I’d witnessed? Yeah, I’d seen the mysterious hooded form meeting the Fallen One and swallowing the Ping-Pong ball of light, some sort of offering. I hadn’t smelled any mana. That was strange. If Lucian hadn’t been dying below my feet in a crypt right then, I’d have thought he’d had something to do with it.

  It was a pretty big mess. And at the moment, I couldn’t do anything about it. Tabitha would just love to catch me red-handed, bolting to the cemetery to clean up evidence right before she got there. If there was one thing I knew, it was that she was either watching me or having me watched.

  It was nearly 8:00AM when I crossed an arm over my face, cutting the glare of the morning sun, and finally felt my eyes close.

  Caught Before Even Starting

  Symbols. Celtic Mindbreaker symbols danced around in my head in various neon colors, glowing in that retina-burning bright way.

  A voice whispered my name, “Cassidy, talk with me…”

  I woke up to a whirring sound coming from the kitchen.

  Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Whirrrrr. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

  What a weird dream. Fishing my phone out from underneath me, I slanted a groggy eye at the display.

  9:00AM.

  I scowled. An hour? I’d slept a freaking hour?

  Whirrrrrrrrrrr. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

  Abruptly, it registered: the blender.

  The instant I thought his name, Ricky piped from the kitchen, “I say, cheeriooooooooooo!”

  Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

  I stumbled into the kitchen to see him whirl around the blender’s glass carafe, holding onto his toes and squealing with delight. The instant the blades stoppe
d, he stretched one, long smoky finger out from under the lid and aimed for the ‘puree’ button again.

  “No!” I snapped. “Out! I’m trying to sleep. It’s a blender, not a kiddy fun-ride.”

  Too late. The metallic whirring started again. What did I expect? Smoky demons, not puppies. Scowling back at Ricky’s insane grin spinning around in glee, I reached for the power plug and yanked it out of the wall.

  “Not a toy,” I underscored the statement with a frown.

  “Hoighty-toighty, are you talking to me or chewing a brick?” my wayward puff of smoke retorted. Climbing out of the blender to perch on top of the lid, he added spitefully, “Can’t a chap have a bit of fun, doll? I’m on me Tod, out front, all alone, and—”

  “Oh, be quiet,” I said, shushing him with a wave of my hand. My head hurt. I needed mana. And sleep. Dining exclusively on spell snippets had basically given me a hangover.

  “No need to get your knickers in a wad,” Ricky sniffed. “I’ll just sit in the cupboard and count the bottles.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” I grated, heading back to the couch and plopping myself down onto my stomach.

  Drawing a long breath, I closed my eyes in bliss.

  I got about twenty seconds of sleep before I heard the first giggle. It took me another few seconds to connect the dots.

  “Bottles?” I repeated, slowly lifting my head.

  Alarm shot through me, and I bolted into the kitchen, throwing the cupboards open wide, but it was too late.

  Turmeric.

  Yep. Someone had planted turmeric. Samuel, most likely. Six bottles of the stuff.

  Ricky had already gorged himself on half of one, diving in headfirst with his feet sprouting out the top like a bouquet of flowers.

  What followed was a battle of nightmare proportions. Prying the imp away from the turmeric proved nearly impossible. No matter what part of him I succeeded in decoupling from the spice bottle, his remaining body parts returned to glom on harder like an octopus’s suckers. And most surprisingly, it appeared any part of his body could absorb the stuff—his impish mouth wasn’t required.

  I swore and wrenched the bottle away from his fingers.

  He jammed his feet inside, vacuuming the yellow powder up through his toes.

  I swore and pulled him out. Who knew imps had teeth? Sharp ones. Gasping, I dropped him, giving him the opportunity to clamp his lips back over the bottle and suck.

  Cursing even more, I began winding him around my wrist like a winch cable. He stretched like a leech. Eventually, he’d have to let go, right? It took a bit, and he finally did, but he’d coiled so tightly around my wrist, the moment he unlatched from the bottle, he shot off my arm, faster than a bullet.

  Shrieking “Tallyhoooo,” he ricocheted off the ceiling and zinged back into the bottle squealing, “Bull’s eye!”

  “Fine,” I growled. “What’s the opposite of fire?”

  Grabbing the imp and bottle, I held them both under the kitchen faucet and turned the water on. Ice cold.

  It worked far better than I’d planned.

  Ricky shot out of the bottle with a genuine scream of terror. I barely caught him before he slipped down the drain after the melting turmeric.

  I mean, I kinda felt bad—at first. He collapsed into a black puddle on the equally black countertop and wailed in pain. I ran my hands over the countertop to find him.

  “Sorry, didn’t know super cold water would hurt so bad,” I apologized, feeling oddly guilty.

  He rose from his puddle, sobbing his heart out and wringing his smoky fingers. “A waste of perfectly good spice! Washing all that loverly turmeric right into the New York City sewer system!”

  I arched a brow. “You’re not … hurt?” I asked.

  He pinned his ears down to the back of his neck. “You’re a pinch-faced prune,” he snarled back at me, baring his teeth.

  “What did you just say?” My mouth dropped open. “You better change your tune or you’ll be toast, buddy!”

  The words didn’t produce the desired effect.

  He calmed down immediately and cracked a smile. “Have a two or four-slicer?” he enquired eagerly, his eyes beginning to widen under the effect of all that turmeric he’d downed. “Hee-hee, you can be the dippy egg & I’ll be the soldiers! I’ll give it a go. Where is it, love?”

  I should have known imps considered toasters an even greater treat than blenders. Of course, mini-demons would enjoy whirling, slicing blades and red hot elements.

  “How about we play freeze tag instead?” I countered, pointing to the Sub-Zero. “About as opposite of hell as I can imagine, huh?”

  He hissed.

  “Right, now we’re getting somewhere,” I said, snagging the remaining turmeric bottles and stuffing them into the ice box of the fancy freezer that I suddenly had a use for. “We’ve got work to do and I need you sober.”

  “Oh, oopsie, hee-hee,” he giggled in chagrin. “That barn has left the horse!”

  Oopsie? I wanted to throttle him. “So what’s it going to take to jolt you out of this? An ice-cube bath?”

  He collapsed into a fit of nasal-sounding giggles and began babbling his head off. It was like trying to converse with a Furby. Somewhere in the middle of the chatter, he accidentally dropped a gem. “Nothin’ short of hangin’ me by me toes, duck!”

  “Piece of shortcake,” I spat.

  One blender cord and two chip-clips later, I had him hanging upside down, dripping over the sink.

  “Sober yet?” I groused, staring into his dilated, befuddled eyes.

  He swung, back and forth, slapping his palms over his face, his giggling only intensifying. “What a rushhhhhh.”

  “Rush?” My eyes widened. Had he played me for a fool?

  I reached over to open a chip-clip, intending to dump him into the freezer, when he burbled, “Cor Blimey, I’m too bladdered to help you out of your beastly spot, duck. Quite the cock up you’ve made. A real dog’s dinner.”

  I raised a brow.

  “Never trust Night Terrors.” He paused and shivered. “Those chaps’ll give you the collywobbles.”

  A ripple of unease traversed my spine. “Night Terrors?” I repeated in growing dread.

  “Quite the stunt,” he chirped, swinging back and forth from the makeshift clothesline. “You’d have to be either barmy or an ace of an Einstein to pull off freeing Dorian in Lucian’s own backyard, eh? I—”

  “What did you just say?” I interrupted with a gasp, searching my apartment involuntarily to make sure we hadn’t been overheard—like I’d even know what a Charmed bug might look like.

  My heart leapt into my throat.

  Crud. I was in over my head for sure. Well, Ricky knew. Great. A blabbermouth, turmeric-addicted puff of smoke knew my secret. I’d seen Esmeralda slinking around the graveyard, too. Doubtless, she was in on the secret as well and had probably already informed Lucian of my every move.

  I slammed my palms down on the countertop. “Just do me a favor and pull your lips over your head and swallow, Ricky,” I muttered. There was little real venom in my tone and a really big lump of fear rising in my throat. Time to wake up, Cassidy. Time to run. “Nice knowing you, imp, but I really have got to just get out of here. I’m thinking South America. Maybe Australia.”

  “What? What?” The imp swiveled his head in my direction. “No need to leg it, love. As long as you avoid the mana geometry, you’re safe. Perimancers don’t stand a chance with you, and those pesky nanoparticles as well—nasty blighters. They’re just harp strings and spaghetti. Harp strings and spaghetti. A snap. Easy-peasy.”

  Harp strings and spaghetti? I frowned at myself. Was I really going to try to make sense of that? Advice from a drugged-out addict of an imp? Nope. It was definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge. Lucian may not be someone I could run from, but I didn’t have any other option but to try.

  “Remember: harp strings. You’re a specter, doll, it’s all mana to you,” the imp blathered on. “Now
, chivvy along, love. You’re home free. Just make ‘em solve it before they try mana geometry. No way around that one, not with Nether Reach keepers involved.” With a nasal giggle, he broke out into song. It took me a moment to recognize it, a mangled version of a Taylor Swift hit. He stressed the line “Cause, darling, I’m a nightmare dressed like a daydream” over and over.

  Yeah, I was a specter stuck in a human body. I got the reference.

  “Bye, Ricky.” I scowled at him.

  He waved and sent me a particularly annoying, cheesy grin. The most utterly insincere one I’d ever seen split his smoky little face.

  Whatever.

  Armed with nothing but advice to play harp strings and eat spaghetti, I was convinced running now was the smartest move. Ricky would blurt out everything in his current state, and I’d be toast.

  Not even delaying long enough to get my two boxes of stuff upstairs, I bolted for the door.

  But as I wrenched it open, Lord Lucian Rowle, Warlock and Cursemaster of the Highest Order, loomed into my kitchen, stepping in from the hall and tapping his cellphone.

  “I said 10:00AM sharp, spellfinder,” his deep voice reverberated. “You’re three minutes late.”

  Too late.

  To Run or Not to Run

  Lucian hovered over me, all sexy in his faded jeans and white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, strategically exposing his Adam’s apple. He’d topped the combination with a weathered, brown leather pilot’s jacket. No doubt about it. The man was gorgeous, and the way his dark hair fell over his face as he peered down at me only added an extra measure of sensuality.

  Crud. I’d have to look for an opportunity to run later.

  Plastering a smile on my face, I opened my lips to make a snarky reply when I caught sight of his face more closely. Whoa. Something was strikingly off-kilter this morning. He appeared downright haggard and drawn. Pain haunted the crystal blue eyes searching mine.

  “You look awful,” I said with a concerned frown. I dropped my gaze, looking for his injured hand, but he’d thrust it into his pocket. “Thought you said it was just a burn and it would be over by now.”