“Hold it there, both of you,” a voice called from the porch that ran the full back of the place.
We froze. Val kept going though, strolling toward the porch and the woman there.
The woman—Crossroads, Ricky—leaned her broad shoulders against the porch post, resting at an angle that did nothing to disguise her height—six feet, two or so—or her strong, thick body.
Her pine cone-brown hair fell in a shaggy cut around a face with good cheekbones and dimples when she smiled, which she very much was not doing at the moment.
Today, she wore wide leg jeans and a denim shirt that she’d rolled up to the elbows, exposing the clash of colors and whorls of ink that flooded her skin.
I’d always known the tattoos were magic. I had seen them in action a few times when she was walking the perimeter of her property, walking the compass points of the old roads, setting guards and wards that flared bright, then sank into the ground, the concrete, or the dust, like summer rain.
She was careful about letting anyone see the magic she wielded, but right now, three of the tattoos—the Lapland Longspur on her left elbow, the wisteria vine coiled down that arm, and one of the runes that tumbled across her forearm—glowed with will-o’-the-wisp fire.
“Hello, Ricky,” Lu said. We weren’t moving. We both knew how powerful she was, especially here on her land.
“Lula,” she conceded with a nod. “Who’s the man?”
I felt my eyebrows rise. “All these years, and you don’t recognize me?”
Val winked out of existence, then appeared in front of Ricky on the porch, standing one step down from her, his wolf still merged with him, ears back, wary.
“What the hellareyou?” Val asked.
Ricky flinched and raised her arm with the Longspur. The bird’s wings flapped slowly as if it were underwater ready to launch into the clear air. Her hand cupped, like she was holding a ball, concentrating magic into it, and her gaze shifted to Val.
“Ghost,” Ricky said. “Not now.”
“You can hear—” Val said.
Ricky snapped her fingers.
The bird on Ricky’s arm flew through the wisteria vines, winging down to the back of her hand, her fingers, beak open in a call I could almost hear.
Then the bird disappeared. So did Val.
“Well, shit.” I turned to Lu. “I’m gonna need to get that tattoo.”
She grinned. “Why? What did she do?”
“She made Val disappear.” I raised my voice. “Oi, who’s your artist, and can they get me in next week? I’ll pay double.”
Lu shook her head. “Like we need to get mixed up in more magic.”
“Point,” I said, “but you don’t have to listen to him all day and all night.”
“We’ve only known him for two days.”
“Feels like a lifetime.”
Ricky had been watching all this, her cool gaze shifting from Lu, to me, and finally to our joined hands.
I saw the moment she put it all together. Her eyebrows went up, and the magic rolled through all the tattoos, flaring them in soft hues of starlit fire, one by one, from elbows to fingertips.
Then she smiled, revealing those knock-out dimples and a crooked eye tooth. “Brogan Gauge? Do I have the pleasure?”
She pushed away from the post andthunked down the stairs, her moccasined feet scuffing the old, creaky boards. She took the yard in powerful strides and stuck her hand out as soon as she was in range. “Brogan?”
I shook her hand—firm grip, but she didn’t turn it into a macho test of strength—her moss agate eyes curious.
