I looked for my father among them-hells, I expected him to be leading the march. But I did not see him, did not recognize any of these people/ghosts/ illusions/whatever they were.
And then it wasn’t a march anymore. As if broken from a chain, the watercolor people sped forward, fast, faster than anything human, a blur of transparent colors anchored by bright, hollow eyes that were too far away and suddenly way too damn close.
I tried to yell, but they were on me. Hands grabbed and stroked, dug into my skin, and pulled misty tendrils of magic out of me. They stuffed fistfuls of magic into their mouths, moaned, and slapped at me for more.
Everywhere they touched, magic rose and broke through my skin, like blood gushing free into their hands. I swayed, dizzy from the loss of magic, and pushed at their hands while I stumbled backward.
I yelled. The watercolor people followed me back until I was flat against the chain-link fence. Ghostly hands dug deeper for magic, burning down to my bones.
Then I did what I usually do in tight situations. I got angry.
No more Mr. Nice Girl. I had magic-magic they were pulling out of me, magic they were feeding on-and I was not about to be anyone’s all-you-can-eat buffet.
I let go of the magic bolstering my sight and smell, ending that flow of magic so I could recast something to protect myself. I needed to pull magic into a new spell, something that could kick watercolor ass-what the hells
The real world was the real world again. The watercolor people were gone.
“Allie?”
I traced a Hold glyph so fast, it was cocked and ready to fire before my heart had a chance to slam one more beat against my chest.
I didn’t pour magic into it.
Good thing too. Grant, the owner of Get Mugged, stood outside the door of the coffee shop in a T-shirt and flannel shirt, cowboy boots, and dark jeans tight enough to show he had bragging rights.
The only thing he was doing was getting rained on and looking worried.
I didn’t blame him. I’d be worried if a wild-eyed woman were pointing a Hold spell big enough to stop a rhino in midcharge at me too.
He slowly raised his hands to about chest high, while I stood there breathing hard, and blinking harder, and trying to think straighter.
“Easy, now. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
What I had seen-the glyphs and the watercolor people-was not here. Or at least they were not here anymore. I sniffed and couldn’t smell death. Couldn’t smell the leather and wintergreen of my dad, couldn’t smell anything except the city, coffee, and Grant’s cologne that hinted at vanilla and something deeper, like bourbon and sex.
Grant didn’t do anything else, didn’t move any closer.
I pushed off the chain-link fence and was happy that my legs held me. I ached in my joints, ached where Trager had stuck a needle in my thigh, and my skin felt tight and sunburned.
“You’re shaking,” he said. “How about a cup of coffee to warm you up? Come on inside. It will be okay.”
I lowered my hand, breaking the Hold glyph as I did so. Magic seemed a little dimmer in me, a little smaller. And my heart was still pumping too hard, like I’d been running or had just come out of a fight.
No surprise there.
But other than that, everything was fine. Normal. Fine. I was fine. Normal. Fine.
Oh, who was I kidding?
“I’ve had a really bad morning,” I said, my voice catching at the end.
Grant nodded, like maybe he already had that figured out. He strolled over to me, all sweet and brotherly-if I had a brother who was a hot-looking cowboy coffee roaster-and put one large, warm, coffee-scented hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get you inside. You can tell me all about it.”
When all I did was stand there and shake, he slid over next to me and rested his arm across my shoulders. Then he gently propelled me forward toward the doors of Get Mugged.
Chapter Six
The smell of hot coffee and baked scones wrapped around me like a hug as we walked into Get Mugged. Grant’s employee, Jula, was behind the counter, moving scones out of the oven and into the glass case below the counter.
There were about a dozen people seated at the mismatched wood tables and chairs, reading papers, their laptops, phones, handhelds. Get Mugged was bigger than it looked from the outside, and open up to the second- floor ceiling, with an overlooking loft at the back half of the shop. Ceiling-to-floor windows and strings of track lighting on the pipes across the rafters lit up the place, while the brick and wood walls made that light feel warm.
“Hey, Jula,” Grant called out. “Get me a Shot in the Dark, would ya? And a towel?”
She looked up, the piercing in her eyebrow flashing blue and then pink as she looked from Grant to me. “Oh. Sure.” She put down the tray of scones and reached for a big mug from the shelf behind her.
Grant, his arm still over my shoulder, steered me farther into the shop, back to a table nestled against a narrow window on the other side of the counter. It was far away from the door and out of sight from most of the people in the shop but close enough to the counter that Grant or Jula could keep an eye on whoever sat there.
I had the distinct impression Grant didn’t think I was doing so hot.
“Here now,” he said. “Best seat in the house.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m okay.” The heat of the place was working wonders for me, easing some of the ache. Even the intense sunburn sting from the watercolor people touching me was fading some. I was soaked through my coat, but still cold enough that I didn’t want to take it off. Once I got home I really would have to wring out my underwear.
I tugged my hat off and ran my gloved fingers through my hair. Another good thing about short hair is it handles the wet pretty well. I tucked it back behind my left ear, but kept it loose on the right so it would swing forward and cover the whorls of colors that licked beneath my jaw and up to the corner of my right eye. I was feeling a little touchy about the whole marked-by-magic thing at the moment.
Grant sat across the small table from me.
“Rough morning, huh?” he asked.
“I’ve had better,” I said.
Jula stopped by the table. “Here you go.” She placed a mug of coffee and a plate with a hot scone in front of me. “The towel?” she asked.
Grant pointed to me.
She handed me the towel. “Anything else I can get you?”
“No,” I said. “Thanks.”
She looked over at Grant again. He was leaning back in his chair, his own short hair wet enough that it looked as black as mine instead of the light brown I knew it was. Drips of rain caught on the edge of his spiky bangs and ran a wet line down his temple and jaw. Grant had dark, dark blue eyes and that sort of rough and ready look that always made me imagine him in a cowboy hat.
Even though all I wanted to do was dive into that cup of coffee, I took the towel, pulled off my gloves, and
