Cupcakes, Trinkets, and Other Deadly Magic (Dowser Series) (6 page)

The driver nodded, though his companions looked a little unconvinced. The car slowly pulled away.

I took a few hesitant steps. A show of independent movement for their rear view mirror. Plus, I wasn’t interested in continuing to stare at my own puke.

I wiped my hand across my face, and my stomach spasmed at the remembrance of the sickly magic that had emanated from the burned trinket. “What the hell was that?” I said. I tried to snap, but my protest sounded a lot more like a pitiful moan.

“Black magic,” the vampire answered easily enough. He certainly was chatty now that I was practically incapacitated and trapped.

“The trinket was used to kill someone? That can’t be … can it?”

The vampire shrugged. “I’m not a black witch.”

“Well, neither am I.”

“I can see that. Your reaction was rather extreme. Unexpectedly.”

“Is that an apology?”

The vampire fixed his icy eyes on me and didn’t answer further. It seemed he only stayed in human mode for short periods.

“I’m not some interesting bug!” I spat.

“I’m not the collector here,” he answered. He meant the trinkets. It was true that I was a collector — the proverbial magpie — but somehow that smug observation pissed me off further.

As I tried to soothe my rage, I realized how surreal it was to be standing in the middle of a four-lane bridge in the early morning — in the slight breeze, underneath starlight — having just puked up black magic, while being stalked by a vampire who believed that my little trinket could kill someone.

“The trinkets have no power —”

“They are magical.”

“No, the items I collect have some glimmer of magic. That is what you feel.”

“I’m not a sensitive like you. I would not be able to feel a glimmer.”

“Then someone else has somehow harnessed this tiny bit of magic and turned it.”

“Yes, but it should not be possible to harness minor glimmers — as you call them — this way. The trinkets must be far more magical than you let on. Why do you make them? For profit? Do you tailor them to certain spells? Who are your customers?”

I just stared at him, mouth wide open and everything. What he was suggesting was ridiculous. That I could make objects of any power … the trinkets were worthless decorations, wind chimes —
 

“Answer me,” the vampire said, more inflection in his voice than before.

I eased away from him, looking over my shoulders both ways. A few cars were on the bridge, but I wasn’t about to get anyone killed. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about. If you would just wait until my grandmother —”

“I know who your grandmother is —”

“Well, then you know she’d be better equipped to help you —”

“I have no need of help. I just want answers. Give them to me now or wait until I get the clearance for the blood-truth letting.”

“Are you going to kill me, then, for making trinkets?” I sneered.

“What’s the fun in that?” He didn’t leer, but his tone was just as obvious. He planned on getting pleasure with his blood. One-sided pleasure, I was certain.

I had my knife out and an inch away from his right eye almost before I made the decision to draw. He looked as surprised by my action as I was. I’d never drawn the knife in self-defense before; I’d never needed to. I knew I had to be prepared to use it once I drew … so I never had.

“You think that blade will cut me?” he asked, cool and collected now, looking at me rather than the knife.

My hand was steady. My stomach settled as if the knife soothed it. “Hand hewn in jade by me. Took me a year to shape it. And another year of strengthening, sharpening, and accuracy spells. It will cut you. It will take out your eye.”

“You made this?”

“God, you really need to get your hearing checked, old man.” I sneered, then quickly learned that sneering at a vampire was a bad idea. Or maybe it was the age slur.

A sheen of red rolled over the vampire’s eyes. He knocked my knife hand away with the side of his arm and stepped into me. I shuffled back a panicked half step and found myself pressed against the concrete wall. I had a brief moment of contemplating the suicidal bridge jump when he brought his hands down on either side of me on to the concrete wall. His eyes were squeezed shut, but whether in rage or in an attempt to control himself, I didn’t know.

I moaned in fear, as he sucked in a breath through his teeth — I’m not sure he’d even been breathing before — and turned toward the space between my ear and my neck.

“You will not bite me without permission,” I spat, and my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in — finally. I thrust the knife I still clenched in my right hand into his stomach.

Chunks of concrete snapped — yes, just snapped — off in his hands as he stumbled away from me. He looked confused by this for a moment, staring down at the concrete in his palms. Red still tinged the edges of his eyes, and he didn’t seem remotely bothered that he’d just been stabbed.

And me … well, I ran.

He let me go.

∞

I wasn’t a runner. I baked cupcakes for a living, tried to not eat too many, and took a yoga class once in a while. But, nevertheless, I ran.

I could feel muscles I never used lengthening and stretching as I sprinted the second half of the bridge. Thank God it was downhill. I tried to block everything, every thought between me and the next step. My right foot hit the sidewalk, while my left foot flung forward. I was airborne for a moment as the right foot rolled forward and off the concrete, just before the left foot landed. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

Ignore the enraged and most likely impossibly fast vampire behind me. Ignore the fact that my heartbeat was pounding in my head — possible oxygen deprivation … oh, God, I was going to suffocate before the vampire had a chance to rip out my throat ...

If I’d had a moment to think beyond my terror — it had been a hell of a night, who could blame me? — while breathing, or attempting to breathe, I would have noted I was faster, stronger than I would have thought of myself. Maybe dancing for three or four hours every couple of weeks was more cardio building than I thought.

The sound of a bus broke through the terror relentlessly scrambling my brain. I chanced a look back — yep, a bus was coming over the bridge. I looked ahead. The bridge joined the main road, curving right or leftish a few feet ahead. I picked right, heading for the bus stop nestled underneath a street lamp. I flung my arm up just as the bus passed, desperately hoping that the driver had seen me fleeing for my life and mistaken it for a dash to the stop.

The amber light of the bus’s righthand indicator flashing and the squeal of its brakes were the most beautiful things I’d seen and heard in the past two hours. Well, almost … Hudson the werewolf really had been something else.

I flung myself at the bus, attempting to not simply collapse on the stairs inside the open door. I worried I wasn’t going to manage the couple of stairs to get fully inside. I was becoming uncomfortably aware of the yawning darkness of the vampire-filled night behind me. Okay, so it was just one vampire. He was one too many. I lifted my left foot and it thankfully rose on command. I clutched the railing, practically pulling myself into a seat behind the driver. These spaces were reserved for the disabled, but he didn’t seem to care as he closed the door and pulled away from the curb.

I couldn’t breathe. The driver didn’t find this particularly charming. I tried a smile, though, and got one in return. Though I think he might have also just noticed my heaving chest. Good. Maybe that would distract him from the fact that I had no fare.

“Hi …” I managed to speak between gasps. “Thank you for stopping.”

“It’s my job,” the driver answered, but his smile indicated how much he liked his job at this particular moment.

I flashed him another smile, vaguely getting my breathing under control. His smile widened in response. “I don’t have fare.” I thought it best to be as upfront as possible.

“Public transportation is free after 2:00 a.m. It’s a city-wide drinking-driving initiative.”

“It’s my lucky night.”

“Mine too.”
 

I laughed, but I was seriously distracted by my suddenly shaky legs and didn’t attempt to continue the conversation. The driver seemed content to simply have me in his rearview mirror.

I pressed my hands on my shaking knees. It was one thing to look drunk, but another thing entirely to look like a junkie coming down off a bad trip … I didn’t need an intervention right now.
 

I tried to peer out the back of the bus, but the interior lights blacked out the windows so much that I couldn’t see beyond the passing cars and streetlights. Most of the other singles on the bus looked as if they were heading home after a long evening of work rather than play; their once freshly ironed, white dress shirts wrinkled and stained. Though a young couple were getting cuddly in the back seat. Her make-up had seen better days, and I imagined so had mine.

I prayed — to whoever might be listening — that I wasn’t wrong to involve the bus and the few souls just looking to get home to their beds. The vampire wouldn’t lose it so badly that he’d slaughter humans, would he?

I mean, I knew vampires needed blood to live, but the red that had rolled over the vampire’s eyes was the scariest thing I had ever witnessed … scarier than McGrowly at the club. If vampires supposedly policed themselves and had a code of ethics, why were there any rogues at all? Was it a choice on the individual vampire’s part to go rogue or did they just suddenly snap?

I orientated myself. The bus was closer to my grandmother’s house than my apartment. I pulled the cord to request a stop, trying to not worry about whether the vampire hunted by scent or sight. I could make it a few blocks, and no magical creature could get past the wards on the Godfrey house. Those wards were over a hundred years old and fortified by each new generation. In fact, despite my lack of spell casting ability, Gran had me reinforce the wards with her just last spring.

I flashed another smile at the driver — he deserved it, not only for stopping but for not harassing me with small talk afterward — and swung down off the bus. My shaky legs were happier to be moving.

I waited for the bus to drive away before I pulled out my knife. It was back in its sheath, though I couldn’t remember replacing it during my mad dash. I held the knife pressed against my right thigh and stepped quickly in the direction of Gran’s house. No need to inadvertently upset any neighbors being drowsily walked by the tiny bladders of their high-priced dogs. Plus, I’d grown up in this neighborhood — yes, silver spoon and all. Any bad behavior would be held against me and reported to a higher authority, namely Grandma Pearl.

I couldn’t walk down the middle of the street, like I would have preferred to do in order to be out of easy arm’s reach from anyone lurking among the ten-foot laurel and cedar hedges. Even after three in the morning, Cypress Street, now technically Point Grey Road, had a fair amount of traffic. It was the main thoroughfare running past the waterfront homes in Kitsilano.

I hurried, but didn’t run, the last three blocks to my Gran’s beachfront mansion, while a Porsche and then a BMW SUV sped by me. I practically dashed through the wrought iron gate that always stood open at the top of Gran’s driveway. A security light flicked on, and I felt the welcoming magic of the outer wards slide over my skin.

I waited a couple of heartbeats, but no one was being obvious about following me. No shadows detached from any of the houses across the street, no scents came on the sea-tinged breeze. But I knew … I knew the vampire was in no way finished with his interrogation.

I turned back to the dark house — Gran recently had its white-painted shutters and siding refreshed — and wished that I could open the door to the smell of chocolate chip cookies or homemade macaroni. But then I shook my head. I wasn’t a child. I could handle being alone in the home of my childhood. For one night, at least.

I jogged up the slate-tiled stairs — the slate was new enough that I hadn’t laid eyes on it yet — and grabbed the handle on the native-carved double door. I didn’t need a key. The house would recognize me.

I entered with a flush of relief and promptly kicked over a can. I scrambled for an overhead light, turning it on to see that I’d managed to dump a bucket of paint-filled brushes soaking in water across my Gran’s white marble entranceway. The gray paint water had sloshed everywhere. Delightful.

Gran was obviously having the house painted while she was away on her surfing trip. Could this evening get any worse? I didn’t want to jinx it, but probably not. I trudged into the kitchen to grab some rags to clean up the mess.

My cell phone alarm blared rudely in my left ear. I reached for it — suddenly aware that my neck was killing me — and managed to knock it off the desk. That didn’t stop the damn trill.

Desk?

Why was I lying on a desk?

Oh, hell. I’d fallen asleep poring over the
Magical Compendium
in my grandmother’s study. My cheek was currently stuck to the page opposite a blurb about verisimilitude, aka reveal, spells. Witches were a wordy and elitist bunch, or at least they wrote like they were … I hadn’t met many, myself. I must have finished reading the vampire entry before I collapsed. Not that I currently remembered any of it. Hopefully it would come back to me.

The alarm was being rather insistent. It was Sunday; why was the alarm even set?

I peeled my cheek off the seven-inch thick book. I couldn’t straighten my neck properly. I blinked my blurred eyes in the hope of calling up some moisture. It didn’t work. I tried rubbing them while I batted at the phone with my foot, but the screen didn’t recognize my toes’ right to shut off the alarm.

The sun was rising. Grandma’s den faced east. It was far too early … oh, damn. I was due at the bakery this morning to cover a shift for Bryn, who had just moved up from apprentice to a single — solo — baker shift on the weekends. Unfortunately, she had some sort of a wedding to go to today. Not her own … I remembered that much at least.