Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,4
the hum of a supernatural being. If I had to guess… Warlock, based on the familiarity.
Damn it. I’d never been in a serious duel before. Never fought with other supers, never been forced to defend myself unless I was sparring with my dad or my brothers. Besides that, I preferred to do any serious casting with my wand; although I’d been cultivating my magic for the last twenty-nine years, it had a tendency to do whatever it wanted without something to channel it. My hands were unstable when casting, sad as it was for an adult witch to admit, and I’d always wondered if I’d be less of a mess if I had the backing of a coven. At least more senior witches and warlocks could have helped train me after Dad finally passed on. Instead, I stagnated, needing a wand for anything beyond the basics just to keep things neat and tidy and not accidentally set on fire.
But my wand was in my office, tucked securely in my desk. Rowan wood, griffin feather core, eight inches—described by the wandmaker as, quote, elegant.
Right now, I’d go with untested.
Two more books crashed to the ground, distinct, falling like thunder. The crack of their spines set my teeth on edge, and I hesitated, scanning the stacks for the best approach to this—to a very real person in here, screwing with me.
“This is Lloyd Guthrie’s doing.” Dad’s raspy voice rattled deep in the darker parts of my mind, a memory of him on his deathbed flashing yet again tonight. His withered body, his bulbous knuckles, his wispy grey hair littering the pillow—ravaged by disease. My mom had died giving birth to me. My brothers died, one right after the other, in freak accidents that had some in our community dubbing the Fox coven cursed. All his life, Dad had been capital-O obsessed with a warlock mobster in New York City named Lloyd Guthrie. Supposedly, that guy had it out for our family… In Dad’s mind, anyway.
Before he died, I’d thought it was just paranoia, that he was looking for someone to blame for all the tragedy in our family. But he had been so sincere when he whispered it to me, using his final breaths to warn me—to make me swear I wouldn’t take any extraordinary risks, would never draw too much attention to myself.
“If you ever see him, hear from him, sense anything out of the ordinary…” He’d struggled to say that much in a single go, fighting, clinging to my hand with both of his, with papery skin and frail fingers. “Kitten, don’t hesitate… You just run.”
In that moment, I’d experienced real terror. I had believed him, just that once, because he had sounded so passionate. So desperate. And looking into my brother’s accidents, they were suspect. No one could explain Dad’s sudden and violent illness that ripped him away from me long before I was ready to say goodbye.
For five years, I had Lloyd Guthrie on the brain—all because of my dad. Never seen the mobster. Never heard of the warlock in social circles. Never experienced anything unusual…
Until tonight.
It couldn’t be.
Lloyd Guthrie was like the Fox coven boogeyman… He wasn’t real. And if he was, why would I even matter to him? Successful as the business was these days, personally I was inconsequential. A simple witch with simple dreams.
And a missing familiar.
More footsteps tromped down the stacks.
Run, kitten.
Tossing my head side to side, I cracked my neck. This wasn’t my dad’s worst nightmare. If anything, this was a warlock trying to rob a supernatural-run business when it looked like it was closed. Nothing more, nothing less.
My hands buzzed with offensive magic, an immobilizing hex on the tip of my tongue as I stalked back into the bookshelves. I let my heels click, wanting to draw him to me, wanting him to think my black stilettos and my flouncy skirt meant I couldn’t fight. That my lipstick wasn’t war paint. Let him underestimate me, this little witch charging headlong into the darkness.
Let him think I hadn’t done this before.
I mean.
I hadn’t.
But I had a lexicon of spells in my head—and I’d sparred with friendlies at the academy. So. Bring it.
Halfway down an aisle, I stopped, listening, waiting. My blood ran cold when a figure drifted down the aisle beside mine, footsteps slow and steady, a black shadow ghosting along in the corner of my eye. A soft exhale behind me had my palms burning. I licked my lips. Now or never.