strip of glass beveled in such a way as to control the flow of blood. I had no idea how this blade had been made, but it was clear exactly what its purpose was-to cast magic. Blood magic.
Zayvion Jones just got stranger and stranger.
Other than a couple minor spells, like Truth, I had no idea how to actually cast blood magic. I sure as hell had never used a dagger to uncast a spell on myself. And, yes, that worried me. But not enough to leave the dagger behind.
I put on my leather coat, tucked the sheathed knife into the deep pocket, and put on my gloves, scarf, and hat. I walked over to the table and drew the pink rose up beneath my nose, inhaling the sweet innocence of spring.
What kind of crazy did I have to be to kick out a man who brought me strawberries and roses and a big honkin’ magic glyphed dagger?
I put the rose in a glass of water in my kitchen, grabbed my notebook and nonfunctioning cell phone, and locked the door behind me. I took the stairs down and pushed through the main doors. I paused before hitting the sidewalk. It was still early enough to be dark, but a silvery light reflected from everything around me. A light that had nothing to do with magic.
The stairs, the sidewalk, and every single twig on the trees were covered in a thin coating of ice. The rain had frozen last night, turning the world into something alien and beautiful. And slippery.
I stepped outside. The wind whipped down the street, biting at my exposed skin and shooting painful shivers through me. My fever and headache weren’t gone yet. And sure enough, I’d forgotten to put the bottle of aspirin in my pocket.
Tree branches up and down my street clattered and chimed, a rattle of glass. I put my hands out to the side to keep my balance against the wind and carefully made my way over to the curb, hoping a cab would show up.
The city didn’t get enough frigid weather to warrant the Proxy cost of permanent Deicing spells, so Portland relied on sand trucks to keep the hilly streets passable. A truck must have already made a run down my street, because cars were easing by.
I narrowed my eyes against the row of headlights and spotted a cab coming down the hill. I stepped out and waved it down.
The driver braked and slid to a stop. I got in.
“Have to be half penguin to be out in this weather.” The driver was a big man who sounded like he’d had a bowl of extraperky for breakfast.
“Or just stupid,” I said. “Kickin’ Cakes, please.”
The cab was warm and smelled soapy, like it’d just gone through a car wash with the windows open. The smell turned my stomach, but for the heat, I’d deal with the stink. I tucked my nose in my scarf and closed my eyes.
The cab eased to a top, and Mr. Cheery called back, “Here you go.”
I opened my eyes.
“Thanks.” I dug in my pocket-the one with my blank notebook, not the dagger-and pulled out some cash. I paid him and made my way carefully up the walk to the restaurant.
Kickin’ Cakes was a bar turned breakfast joint, and it still hadn’t quite shed its former identity. A long row of tables down one side of the single story building sat opposite the curved black marble bar to the left. All cooking was done behind that bar, and the restaurant had an art deco feel: tables in chrome and black linoleum, booth and chair seats in turquoise and maroon.
I walked through the front door, and the smell of butter, onions, sausage, and coffee, along with the nutmeg-sweet scent of the signature dish, Kicking Pancakes, greeted me. They were good smells that got through my pain and made me hungry. The restaurant was nice and warm.
And busy, even with the icy roads. I scanned the room for Violet. I spotted a pretty young redhead. Next to her, sitting so he faced the front door, was an unassumingly plain-looking bodyguard wearing a henley shirt rucked up at the elbows. His name, I think, was Kevin. I knew of him, but if I had met him before, I could not remember it.
Kevin watched me walk in, held my gaze, and nodded to me. I took it as an invitation.
Violet glanced over at me, and since I was nearly at their table, I had to work on not letting my shock show. She was so young, we could have been sisters if she weren’t my father’s wife. And I was pretty sure I’d be the big sister.
Yes, I’d seen her in photos in the papers since my dad’s death, and my friend Nola said Violet and I had met during the time I could not remember. She thought we had gotten along too, which was weird. I had never gotten along with any of my father’s wives.
Violet had a petite build, wore simple but fashionable glasses, and had great cheekbones and a smattering of freckles. She wore a loose sweater, jeans, and sneakers. Put her in a lineup, and I would not point her out as a billionaire widow. She looked radiant, her face glowing and happy despite the dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
“Allie,” she said warmly. “Sit, sit.” She pointed to the chair opposite where she sat on the booth bench against the wall. It put my back to the bar. I could see behind Kevin, and the windows and front door were at the corner of my eye.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Good.” I hadn’t seen her since the coma that had knocked me out. “Better. Thanks. How’s the coffee?”
Kevin was already pouring me a cup out of the carafe from the center of the table. Violet shrugged. “No coffee for me. I’m an herbal tea girl right now.”
“Stress?” I thought about the pressure she must be under now that the duties of running my father’s multibillion-dollar magic and tech integration company had fallen largely into her hands.
“Pregnant,” she said.
The whole restaurant swirled under my feet. “Preg-what? Who?” I looked over at Kevin. He quietly picked up his cup and took a drink. He watched Violet across the cup’s rim, and his gaze carried something-sadness? Jealousy? Then he tipped the cup down and smiled at me. Smiled at me for Violet, I realized.
Oh. I might be fevered, headachy, and struck dumb, but I could see a man who was in love and hadn’t admitted it to himself. Or to Violet.
“Whose?” I repeated, looking at Violet.
She took a sip of her tea. “Mine. And your father’s.”
Wow.
At my expression she said, “I’m four months along. We had, well, just before he was killed.” She didn’t say any more, which was good. I was having a hard time sorting this out, and picturing her in bed with my father wasn’t helping any.
Kevin had the right idea. I picked up my coffee cup and took a drink. Hot, bitter. I wished it were something stronger.
Violet, who was about my age, was pregnant with my father’s child.
One part of me hoped maybe she was wrong-that it wasn’t my father’s child. That maybe it was Kevin’s or some one-night stand she’d had. But Violet was a smart woman-the brains behind most of the newest tech coming out from my dad’s company. If she believed it was my father’s child, then I was certain it was.
“Wow,” I said. “Are you happy?”
“I am. It was a… shock. I didn’t find out until after. He never knew.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I am. Happy.”
“You and my dad were okay together?”
“Allie, I loved your father. Despite the age difference. I was the one who chased him.”
It didn’t take magic for me to know she was telling the truth. I didn’t know what she had seen in him. My father was a controlling, driven, frequently angry man. But maybe this-the child-was what she had wanted.
“Congratulations?” I offered.
She laughed, a short, happy sound. “I’m sorry. Just… the look on your face is hilarious. Haven’t you ever wanted a little brother or sister?”
