I gritted mine.
“One supposes that I am stranded in a tributary of feces without a rowing instrument?” I sighed.
It didn’t amuse her. She hummed in thought. “Well, we’re not going to ask you to get out and swim or use your hands, dear.”
“That’s reassuring.” I meant it.
“Don’t thank me. Best we can do is the intern, for now. We can see if he can file extensions to keep this floating untilDraevus can get onto your case.” She sighed. “Would that be okay?”
“As I keep meticulous records of my clients, work performed, and have them neatly stored and available—that should suffice.”
“Bless.” The first audible sigh of relief crossed her lips as her tone settled. “Doing the work of the old gods.”
“Beaurocracy?”
“Exactly. I’ll send someone over tomorrow morning. Is…eleven, okay?” She assumed it would be, by the way she began typing.
“Sounds wonderful. I’ll compensate him a meal for the trouble.”
“Interns live on free food. Good call. Have a nice day, Mage Hawthorne.” She hung up, and I rubbed a cold hand down my sweaty face.
Damn.
Chapter Two
Esmeray
The quaint shop on Hemming Way sported dark windows obfuscated by something too convenient to be dust. The way it perfectly gathered at all four corners, creating a vignette that peered through amber light and gauzy curtains loaded with interesting-looking jars, had a mesmerizing quality that I was certain could only be magically drawn curiosity.
I pulled a yellow legal notepad from my pocket and sketched a comment down onto paper. Spells for attention were, by technicality, spells cast onto unwilling bystanders and therefore not consented to.Not a good sign.
As I approached the door, I took in astringent aromas culminating from magical herbs, incense of some variety, and a distinct smell only old wood and ancient books gave off over time. Classy and understated. It made me long to procure one of the books from a shelf and find a cozy warm corner to snuggle up in. A nice little book-scented nest.
As I turned to glance at the counter, I caught sight of a singularly tall gentleman… No; it wasn’t that he wastall. I checked my notes. What I thought had been a misspelling was a wholly inappropriate HR violation waiting to happen. I scratched a note on my paperwork.Mage Greginald Hawthorne: NeckRomancer.I scratched through the K in the name and frowned. He was a hybrid of some shifter variety with a compromised form. That much was certain. Crossing the bloodlines when magic was in someone’s line often made children who had partial transformations or permanent animal features they felt the urge to stifle.
A strong, lean neck stretched high above a shelf, head tilted as his eyes followed a book floating at eye level. Below the necklay the body of a rather pleasing alpha. What he lacked in face was certainly made up for in presentation. His crisp dress shirt had the faint scent of starch on it, cuffs folded neatly as if he’d been working, and a pristine apron protecting an otherwise unsullied pair of pressed slacks. I tried my best not to stare. “Mage Hawthorne?”
The head of a giraffe sat atop his long neck, ears flicking, large doe eyes turning to me, an unusual gold sparkle to their amber hue. “Yes. May I help you?”
Long lashes fanned as he blinked, lips moving as he spoke.
“I’m Esmeray Faust. The Lowell Valley Coven scheduled me to meet with you regarding a pending case with Marlathe Lymmings? We have an appointment for eleven.” I checked my wrist, watch face turned to my inner arm so I could glance more discreetly. The minute hand and hour hand ticked at once. Eleven sharp. A clock somewhere chimed with a whimsical flutter of bells.
“Precisely on time. Your punctuality is much appreciated.” With a wave of a hand far too distant from his face, the book he was reading tilted in midair, a ribbon switching place to mark a spot before it closed with a nearly silent puff of air. It floated downward to lay on the counter as gently as a feather.
Magic had always enamored me. Such order in chaos. But, most mages drove me batty with a lack of organization and neatness. Mage Hawthorne didn’t appear to be any such slovenly mess.
“It’s good to see my efforts are appreciated.” I approached with a professional grimace of a smile. A nearby mirror shone my reflection back at me, and I avoided looking at my mirror-self staring at me with dark eyes and a roguish wink. From the corner of my eye, my mirror-self gave me the finger before going back to normal. Sliding away from my visage, my shadow pouredout of the mirror and spilled onto the floor, sulking as if he wanted to play.
This is neither the time nor place, shadow.
The shadow burst apart into a flock of crows and went all directions, snooping about the shop. I’m sure it’d whisper into my ear the secrets it found, at a later time. I couldn’t control it.
Mage Hawthorne’s eyes traversed his shop, the wide, golden expanse of them tracking the shadows as easily as one might words on a page. Face blank, he tilted his head down to me. I waited for the commentary, asking me what I was, making guesses. Asking if I was cursed, any number of things that drove me up a metaphorical wall.
Instead, he said nothing. With a gentle turn of his head and step of his body, his long neck rescinded and a rather plain but handsome face turned to greet me. A sweep of plain brown hair, high cheekbones, and a square jaw just this side of noticeable replaced the stretch of the form I saw before.
“Do you mind?” He gestured toward an errant shadow that had snaked its way up a bookshelf, a tendril prodding around inside of a small, locked box.
