Neon Blue E Frost (speld decodable readers .TXT) 📖

of false advertising. In Hell, you get what’s on the label. Fiendyke’s got fiends in it. Soulfield’s got souls. Fuckin’ Ipanema Bourbon, probably comes from Wisconsin.

I don’t want to ask, because I’m not sure I want to know, but the same crazed impulse that’s driven me since the demon crashed into my life forces the thought to the front of my brain. Where are you?

Borders.

He’s invaded my bookstore. You’re downtown? About two blocks away if he’s at the Borders on School Street. My body tightens for absolutely no good reason.

Nope, Burlington. Parking downtown is Hell.

He would know. Why are you at the mall? No, wait. I don’t want to know.

His rich, wicked chuckle slides through my mind. Lotsa neglected housewives doin’ the retail therapy thing. Good huntin’.

Stop. I mean it.

Here comes one now. Fresh outta the salon. I can smell the acrylic. Let’s see what she does if I flash her the cover . . . oh, yeah, that got her attention. Here she comes.

Stop!

What’s the matter, sweet meat? I’m not gonna fuck her. I’m not even gonna feed off her. You stuffed me so full last night I got a pot belly this morning.

Unlikely. He’s got the tightest six-pack I’ve ever seen. I snort aloud, the sound echoing a little in the cavernous space of my hearth room.

Whaddo you think she wants? Huh, health, wealth and happiness. Fuckin’ predictable. You humans need to come up with some new desires. Those are so last century.

I rub my hands over my face and try to shake his thoughts out of my head. I’m brewing. Leave me alone.

Aww, c’mon, sweet meat, talk to me. I’m bored. Stealin’ souls off these mallrats wouldn’t challenge an imp. How ‘bout I drive into town for a quickie?

Absolutely not! But my breasts and belly tighten crazily at the thought.

Yeah, you’re right. I’m too full to take any more without rupturin’ a gut and you taste too good when you’ve been doing your greenwitch thing for me to resist. Although . . . I could just bend you over your cauldron—

No!

Killjoy. I’ll spend the afternoon huntin’ smokers. That’ll use up a little charge. They’re so easy to find in this decade it’s almost not sporting, though. All I gotta do is check the nearest doorway.

I really don’t want to hear anymore. But that’s a lie. I’m fascinated. I knew he was feeding off me during sex, but I didn’t understand the dynamics of it. How often do you need to feed?

Depends on what I’m doin’. When I’m topside, every week or so. Why?

I’m just curious. And I am. There are moments when I think I’m beginning to understand him, and then there’s the rest of the time, when I feel like I don’t know anything at all. Certainly nothing that can help me.

You thinkin’ of holding out on me? Seein’ how long it takes me to starve? His thought goes flat and hard.

No. I wouldn’t do that. You know I wouldn’t do that.

Good. ‘Cause ‘no’ stopped meanin’ ‘no’ around the time you let me tie you up.

That spiderweb sense of constriction around my wrists. I shake my head. ‘No’ still means ‘no.’ I stopped saying it.

Yeah, you did. Let’s keep it that way. ‘No’s’ not my favorite word outta you. I like ‘yes, yes,’ and ‘harder, harder’ better . . . oop, Miss Acrylic here wants to talk business. Wealth an’ beauty. Ciao, sweet meat. See you at six.

I feel him slide away, the hot pressure of his presence receding to a dim awareness, like the body-memory of really great sex the morning after. I feel a warm surge between my legs at the thought.

I shake it off and return to my potion.

Chapter 29

There’s an intercom in my hearth-room, but it only works on the odd day. When the energies I’ve called don’t interfere with its temperamental electronics. Today either I’ve closed my casting circle better than usual or I’ve summoned less juice, because the intercom buzzes while I’m ladling the magic milk into containers.

I re-trace my circle widdershins. Once I’ve broken the circle, I walk over to the intercom and hold down the talk button.

“Tsara, there’s a Timmy Karr in reception asking for you.”

“New client?”

Evonne clears her throat audibly. “I don’t think so. She says she’s from the Column Museum.”

A nervous ruffle runs down my spine. I shrug it off. I don’t have anything to be nervous about. The Museum wanted King Solomon’s ring; they got King Solomon’s ring. It’s not my fault it was a little worse for wear. “If she’ll give me five minutes, I’d be happy to see her.”

Five minutes later, with the magic milk bottled and dated, I stand next to my desk while Evonne shows a short, smiling, older woman into my office. Her hands are too small and frail for the extremely firm handshake she gives me.

“Timothea Karr,” she says, her words precisely enunciated and slightly accented, although I can’t say right off where her accent’s from. “Please call me Timmi.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” I stumble over ‘Timmi’ and decide to give it a miss. She hands me a cream business card with a gold outline of a temple on it.

“Curator of Iconic Art and Late Antiquity,” I read off her business card. “Wow, I don’t really know what that is.”

“It’s not as impressive as it sounds, believe me.” Her smile crinkles the corners of her bright black eyes. “Your office is very harmonious, Tsara. May I call you Tsara?”

I nod. “My partner’s a feng shui practitioner. She designed the offices.”

“Very nicely balanced. Although I feel there should be a bit more Earth, if I may say so.”

I force myself not to flinch. My Element. And there’s no reason she would have named it unless she was testing me. Which means the good Curator is a practitioner and she’s sensitive enough to sense the source of my magic. That’s a talent I don’t have, and I didn’t even get a buzz off her when I shook her hand, so she shields better than I do, too.

I’m not