Watching Sam, seeing the tension bunching up his features, I suddenly realized that this conversation was the longest we’d had in a year. In the past, we simply fought all the time. Even after our mother died five years ago, we hadn’t managed a civil conversation. But then last summer, his wife, Adele, and their unborn child died in a car crash. The kid that killed them had been confused, barely legal, and since their deaths Sam and my conversations had simply become short and to the point. But this was different.
“Has Ivy or his men been snooping around?” I’d held my breath after asking that question. Ivy Beckerman was Crimson Cove’s chief of police. We all suspected he wouldn’t blink twice if he caught any weres shifting into their animal forms or spirits haunting the edge of the cemetery, never mind any chance encounters with a wizard doing something beyond human comprehension. There was something about the man that made him different from the other mortals. They only saw what they wanted. But Ivy was smart, observant; he saw things that the others didn’t. So far, though, he’d kept his questions to himself.
“No, not so much,” Sam said, once again focusing on his phone when it beeped, offering only a glance my way when he spoke, “but he did come by asking who busted in the store window.” Sam waited for that to make an impact.
“What the hell happened to the store window?”
“Some asshole pissed off that we hadn’t done our best to hide whatever bullshit they didn’t want the mortals to see, we think. Thanks to Ronan, we got a sledgehammer through the front window.”
That was unnerving. My father had managed to keep up the façade of running a respectable antiques store for decades. It was a decent way to front his real business—making sure the mortals never caught wind that a good majority of the Cove’s residents weren’t mortal at all; Papa was what the supernatural community called a “fixer.”
“How bad is it really, Sam?” That question came in front of a small, silent prayer that I could help my family from the comfort of my fifth-floor walkup in Brooklyn.
I should have known better.
Another of Sam’s exhales came out slow, this one with a labored drag of frustration, maybe the small hint of defeat. “Carter Grant has pulled his coven’s contract with us. He doesn’t want to be involved in any accidents we can’t quite cover up.”
“Shit.” That revelation warranted another swig and another disapproving shake of my brother’s head. If the Grants, a founding family and one of the oldest covens—and the one family our ancestors had pledged fealty to generations before—cut ties with us, then things were about as bad as they could get.
“We’ve asked a couple of the other Finders to help out, Jani, but none are as good as you. Papa says you’re our last resort.”
Whatever I was ten years ago—Finder of Lost Things, twin of a mighty healer, daughter to a man who swept our lives away from mortal eyes—I’d packed up in a steamer trunk my father swindled from a Tulsa antiques dealer and hopped a bus to New York. I’d been eighteen and thought Crimson Cove had seen the back of me. I hated being wrong.
It probably was tearing Papa up to know Sam was going to ask me to come home. He’d always maintained that once you left, that was it. No need to drag up the past with a trip down memory lane. Besides, he’d always told me “nothing but heartache for you here, Janiver.” But after the bomb my brother dropped, I had little choice.
“I’ll take the red eye.”
“About that, Jani…” Another alert. This time Sam read the message then immediately snapped his gaze back up to the screen. “You don’t need to worry about getting a ticket.” My brother swallowed, shifting his attention away from the camera like he’d rather do anything than explain himself.
Damn it. This definitely required more bourbon.
“Thing is, someone is coming for you.”
“Who?”
“In a few minutes, actually.”
“Samedi, who?”
“Should be there. Now.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Please don’t let it be him, I prayed.
I wanted to handle this issue my family had and be done with it. I had no intention of reconnecting.
Please, please, don’t let it be him.
“He was already in the city.”
“What are you talking about, Sam?”
“Look, Jani, something happened, with the Elam.”
The Elam? The talisman through which all the magic in Crimson Cove converged, which kept us hidden from mortal eyes and in check?
“Someone attacked and took it…” Someone had stolen it?
“You don’t lead with that? My God, Sam…”
“I know…it’s just… Look…we really, well, we tried finding anyone else to help find it, but shit, sis, you’re the best and there is so little time and he was there in New York and…”
“Balls…” I said, already knowing what point my brother was skirting around.
This was bad. Very bad. No wonder my family was on the edge of panic. I emptied the bottle but kept it between my legs as Sam tried and failed to explain himself.
“I just hope you don’t—”
Three loud drums of a knock on my door had me almost jumping out of my skin. The temperature in the room suddenly shifted, and on the other side of the door I picked up two signatures: elemental magic that identifies a witch or wizard like a thumbprint. Unbidden, my pulse started racing, and I found it hard to breathe.
“Jani…” Sam’s warning was too little and way too late. Nothing would save him from the shit storm I’d level at him as soon as I landed back home.
“Not another damn word, big brother.”
One of the bodies out in the hallway radiated heat and a familiar spicy, rich smell that made my mouth water.
“Jani…let
