Fly by Midnight

Fly By Midnight

Copyright © 2013 by Lauren Quick. All rights reserved.

First Kindle Edition: 2013

Cover and Formatting:
Streetlight Graphics

This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

1

T
he midnight sky was cloudless and flecked with stars. Honora Mayhem stood on the cement window ledge of her loft apartment and stared out over a blanket of winking city lights. The wind was still, as if the vast, clear sky were holding its breath. It was a flyer’s sky, the kind witches like her lived for. Clad in a brand-new flying suit, Honora zipped up her jacket, adjusted her goggles, and stepped off the safety of the ledge. Instinctively, she raised her chest, pulling on an invisible thread, lifting her whole body upward, hovering in the open air, light as stardust, effortless and free.

One of the advantages of being a natural-born flyer was that Honora wasn’t afraid of heights—in fact, the higher above the world, the better she liked it. Living on the twenty-seventh floor of a trendy apartment building in Stargazer City made her feel like a bird in a nest. She arched her back, kicked her legs, and lowered her head just enough to propel her body forward, jackknifing through the labyrinth of glass and steel buildings. Flying felt like she was skimming a pool of water, the wind rushing over her face as she glided high above the city streets.

Honora streamlined her movements. She’d given herself just enough time to meet up with friends at a local hangout and didn’t want to be late for her own party.

In the witching world of Everland, magic was everywhere. Growing up, every young witch and wizard attended Haven Academy to learn the fundamentals of spellcasting, potion making, charm crafting, and wandwork, but what really made a witch special was her
persuasion
—the magical power she was born with.
Persuasions
were as individual as the witch or wizard. Honora’s sister Clover’s
persuasion
was creativity. She was a word witch and wrote a bestselling magical romance series, while her other sister, Vivi, had hidden her true
persuasion
as a seer behind her successful potion shop, The Potion Garden.

From a very young age, Honora realized her magical
persuasion
was different. She felt it in her bones and, with every step she took, knew she didn’t belong on the ground. The sky called to her, beckoning her higher and higher. In centuries past, witches used the iconic and highly uncomfortable enchanted object—the broomstick—to fly on, but in the modern age of witchcraft, the brooms of yore were replaced with enchanted hovercrafts. Honora, on the other hand, was part of a select group of witches and wizards who had developed the magical
persuasion
of flying with the force of their own will—no broomsticks needed.

Within minutes, she approached her destination, pulled up, and lowered her body to the ground. Her high-heeled boots clipped across the cement as she crossed the street, headed for a wooden sign shaped like a giant owl. A lone illuma lamp on the corner cast the sidewalk in shadow. With a quickened pace, she reached the door to the bar at the same time as a hulking wizard dressed in battered brown flying leathers touched down behind her, so close, she could hear his breathing. She steadied her nerves, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of flinching.

He draped his arm casually over her shoulder. “Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?” His voice was deep and a little wheezy.

Honora clenched her teeth but couldn’t hold back a burst of laughter. She gave up playing it cool and rested her head on his shoulder. All the tension was released from her body. “You sure can, big boy.” She spun around to give her friend Slader a hug. Instantly, she was engulfed in his massive arms as he gently lifted her off her feet in a warm embrace.

As far as wizards went, Slader was a big guy, standing well over six and a half feet tall. He wore an old-school aviator cap. His thick brown beard was shot through with gray, and when he smiled, it was impossible not to notice his cracked front tooth, caused from a back-alley brawl. Visible through clear plastic goggles, his left eye was bright gold and the right iris was black. He was experimenting with night-vision magic, again.

Honora had never known her father. Growing up in a house full of witches, she had craved the guidance of a real dad, and when she met the older wizard while getting her butt kicked on one of her first investigations, she practically inducted him into the role of surrogate father almost immediately. Since then, he kept her from getting into
too
much trouble, taught her how to defend herself in a fight, drilled flying techniques into her stubborn head, and watched her back.

But being imposing didn’t mean Slader wasn’t a gentleman. He opened the door to the bar and gave her a polite bow. “After you. We’ve got a birthday party to attend,” he said with a wink.

Honora beamed. A flutter of excitement filled her.

The Owl Bar was one of her favorite haunts, and took up three floors of an old bank. The entire interior was detailed in different kinds of wood, giving it a warm and traditional feeling, like an ancient forest, creating an old-world contrast to the modern city just steps outside the front door. The actual bar top was made of oak. The floors were constructed from dark mahogany, as were the multiple staircases leading to the second and third floors, which were all visible due to the open atrium that exposed a huge barrel-vaulted ceiling. Nooks, cubbies, and wooden shelves filled the place. Another feature unique to the bar was the dozens of carved wooden perches positioned around the perimeter of the room. The bar was friendly to feathered familiars, another reason Honora liked it so much. Her owl familiar, Barnaby, was welcome, too.

Honora and Slader made their way through the crowded bar. Being a weekend, the place was packed, but since they were regulars, their usual table on the third-floor atrium was reserved. It was a cozy corner booth that looked out over the floors below, giving them a panoramic view.

She charged up the stairs, took the corner, and noticed a witch and wizard were already sitting at the table. Harper was petite, with bright inquisitive eyes and wheat-colored hair woven into two long braids that poked out the bottom of her white flying cap, which she yanked off and playfully threw at the wizard sitting next to her. Jonas was lanky and handsome in a boyish way, with a splash of freckles on his nose and a mane of reddish-brown hair that was rarely combed and skimmed his angular shoulders.

Their faces brightened when Honora and Slader slid into the booth with them. The gang of misfit witches and wizards made up their beloved flying club. Harper, Slader, Jonas, and Honora had formed the club about four years ago and had developed a tight bond ever since. They met once a week for midnight flying sessions, including hunts, games, races, and other aerial activities intended to sharpen their skills and blow off steam.

Growing up a flyer had its downside. It had been difficult for Honora to make friends among the other witches, since flying was a coveted
persuasion
and caused resentment, even jealousy, from some of her classmates. Rifts had formed, especially when she’d left her friends standing on the ground as she took to the skies. Because of how they were perceived, flyers tended to flock together and formed flying clubs. No one besides other flyers could understand what it was like.

Checking the interior pocket of her jacket, Honora pulled out her wallet and cringed when she peered inside. She’d forgotten to go to the bank (like it would have mattered, since her gold card was maxed out), and she only had one emergency gold coin wedged in between the leather folds. Not even her birthday party was an excuse to waste that money.

“Hey, we’ve got this,” Jonas said, waving for her to put her wallet away.

She blushed, embarrassed, but also grateful to have such understanding and generous friends. Slader fished a wooden box out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the table, out of Honora’s reach. She raised her brow, gaze glued to the package. “What’s that?” she asked coyly, as if she didn’t know.

“A present.”

“You shouldn’t have.” She fought the smile creeping across her face, failing to pretend the gift hadn’t made her night.

“Cake first, present later,” Slader snorted gruffly, rubbing his bearded chin, and they all burst out laughing at his tough act.

Within minutes of their arrival, the faithful bartender, Tommy, made his way to their table with a tray of glasses and a bottle of sparkling champagne. A waitress followed behind him and placed a towering chocolate cake, a stack of plates, and a handful of silverware on the table before heading off.

“Someone’s been a good witch,” Harper said.

Honora swiped her finger across the delectable frosting surface and licked it off.

Tommy popped the cork of the champagne bottle and a spout of bubbly liquid cascaded down his hand and into the flutes. Dressed all in black, his muscular shoulders and arms strained against a tight T-shirt. His head was shaved bald, setting off his brilliant blue eyes, and though he was built like a brick house, he was one of the sweetest wizards Honora knew. Just don’t tell any of his customers. He had a badass reputation to protect.

“On the house,” he said. “It’s the least I could do, considering how often you four frequent this place.”

“Finally, we’re considered regulars. I always wanted to be a regular somewhere,” Harper said, primly sipping her champagne with her pinky raised.

“Before you guys get into party mode, Honora, can I have a word?” Tommy asked, and motioned over his shoulder.

Honora took a gulp of champagne and eyed the cake longingly, but Tommy was the serious type, so it was probably important. She slid out of the booth and followed him to the railing, where she eyed the crowd below like a hawk. “That sounded mysterious. What’s up?”

“There’s someone here to see you.” Tommy possessed some seriously deep-set, hooded eyes that gave him a smoldering “just rolled out of bed” look. “She’s been in every night this week and all day today, trying to get ahold of you. I told her to go by your office, but she refused and said she would just wait here until you came in so she could talk in private. She said it was
imperative
,” he snorted.

“Sounds like a well-educated stalker,” Honora said. Some clients avoided her office. They liked the privacy of meeting in an undisclosed location, usually a coffee shop, restaurant, or park bench, but no one had ever hunted her down at her beloved social sanctuary. How did this witch know where to find her?

“Uptight is more like it,” Tommy said. “I didn’t get any details from her. She’s the one down there sitting at the bar, nursing a
ginger ale
.”

Honora spotted the witch easily. She sat prim and proper with a straight back, hands folded delicately on the bar. Her outfit consisted of a jean skirt and sweater set in a pale shade of peach, and she was wearing little to no makeup or jewelry that Honora could see. The Owl Bar tended to attract an eccentric clientele, but this witch stood out for her
lack
of distinguishing features.

“Should I tell her you’re busy?” Tommy asked. “I can get rid of her. Just say the word.”

Honora really wanted to hang out with her friends and devour mounds of cake while sucking down free champagne, not to mention find out what was in the box. The last thing she wanted to do was work, but times had been lean, jobs fewer and far between in the winter months. She couldn’t afford to be picky, especially when someone was so eager to hire her. “I’ll talk to her for a second. Can’t hurt. Business is business, and I hate to turn down a job.” Honora returned to the table for a second. “Be right back. Don’t drink all the bubbly while I’m gone.”

She followed Tommy down to the main bar and hopped up on the stool next to the potential mystery client. “Hello, I’m Honora Mayhem. I hear you’ve been looking for me.” She smiled, trying to ooze courtesy and professionalism, even though she probably had champagne breath.

The witch’s eyes widened and a smile formed on her pretty but plain face. Her sweater was covered in embroidered flowers and birds. The witch followed Honora’s gaze. “I sewed it myself.” She smoothed her hand over the elaborately-depicted scene.

“Lovely,” Honora said. This was the kind of witch who owned a thimble. What could she possibly need a private investigator for? “What can I help you with?”

“Ms. Mayhem, I desperately need your help finding my husband.” Her calm demeanor dissolved as the words spilled from her trembling lips. “He’s gone, just gone.”

“I’m so sorry.” Honora gave her back a reassuring pat. As an investigator, she’d done her fair share of spouse-spying-on-spouse cases. From extramarital affairs to extramarital magical dealings, she’d seen it all. Every so often she was asked to find a missing person. The young and old disappeared the most, but this was her first missing husband. “Why don’t we start with your name?”

“Jane Rainer. My husband is Jonathan.” The distraught witch sniffed, gathering her composure.

“Are you sure this isn’t a case for the police? Have you at least filed a missing- wizard report? They might surprise you.”

“I don’t want the police involved anymore. They’re useless. They couldn’t find him and just assumed he’d run off with another witch.” Her face reddened. A tear trailed down her cheek. “He’s a good man. He would never cheat on me. He’s not the type.”

They never are.

That explained why she was looking for a private investigator. Jane had obviously lost faith that the police would turn up anything. “How long has your husband been gone?” Honora nudged the witch back on track. She was usually the last resort, not getting the case until the witch or wizard had been gone a while.

“Almost two months.” Jane held a balled-up cocktail napkin in her hand and bit her bottom lip. She was trying hard to keep herself together.

Sixty days was a bad number for a missing wizard. Two months was the slow-down for most investigations. If the police couldn’t find someone in that amount of time, there was a good possibility they never would. It was a tough case. “The police found nothing?” she asked.