Chapter 12
The next morning Blaze drove down to St. Johns. She took Skyline Drive across the top of the ridge, with its breathtaking glimpses of the entire Tualatin Valley, and then drove Germantown Road down through the towering, moss-laden trees that looked like a fairy-tale forest, to the St. Johns Bridge.
The delicate suspension bridge, with its arched supports like the windows of a cathedral, was her favorite of all of Portland’s bridges. Through the clear morning air she could see the huge, pointed, snow-capped peak of Mount Hood, a hundred miles to the southeast.
Once across the bridge, she followed her GPS to the address on the map and parked half a block away on the other side of the street, where she could keep the house in sight. There had been plenty of traffic on the main street, but here, in this residential neighborhood just a few blocks away, everything was quiet.
11435 was a small house, a bit shabby and run-down, with paint peeling on the front porch and stains down the siding where the gutters had overflowed. A battered Pontiac was parked in the driveway, faded blue with one mismatched green side door.
This didn’t make sense. Anyone who had the ability to get past Blaze’s security systems was a high-end operative. He probably made ten times as much money on one job as this house cost to rent for an entire year.
What was he doing here? Hiding out?
She took out her pendulum and whispered the words of the tracking spell. It immediately pulled toward the house.
He was in there. Or the idol was—or both of them. Time for phase two—finding out which. The quickest way to do that was ring the doorbell. If he was there, hopefully he’d answer, and she’d get the jump on him. If she got that close, she would sense the idol’s presence.
And if he wasn’t home, she’d go in and take her damn idol back.
Unless it was just him in there, and he’d already sold or hidden the idol somewhere else. Then she’d get the idol’s location if she had to tie him to the bed and…
Fragments of images from last night bombarded her brain. The two of them in a huge four-poster bed. The feel of his hands on her body, his mouth between her legs. His hard shaft inside her, stroking her core.
Her riding him as he lay on his back and thrust inside her, hot and hard as steel.
Things that had never really happened, but felt so real.
God. This was crazy. She had to get a grip, stop thinking these thoughts.
Although, tying him to the bed naked and making him beg would be one way to find out where the idol was.
Maybe she should keep that possibility on the table.
Smiling grimly, Blaze cast a glamour over herself, changing her appearance so that if her thief answered the door, he wouldn’t recognize her.
Nothing too different—just darkening her hair, making her eyes a bit of a different shape, muddying their color.
Just as she was about to get out of the car, the front door of the house opened and a woman came out, carrying a travel mug and slinging a leather messenger bag over her shoulder.
She was tall and lithe, moving with the grace of an athlete. Her dark curly hair looked like she habitually ran her fingers through it, and her ripped jeans and faded ‘Keep Portland Weird’ t-shirt said she didn’t give much thought to how she looked. She got into the beat-up Pontiac and drove off, not paying any attention to Blaze sitting in her car.
The damn thief lived with a woman. And he was going around kissing people and planting sex fantasies in their heads…
The pendulum in Blaze’s hand swung toward the receding vehicle, pulling hard.
Damn. That woman had the idol.
Blaze forgot about sex fantasies and hot masked thieves. She started the car, pulled a u-turn and went after the woman.
The pendulum led Blaze to the main street of St. Johns. It was lined with small mom-and-pop stores, nothing fancy, looking like they catered mostly to locals.
She spotted the Pontiac parked in front of a coffee shop, and parked a few spaces down. The pendulum was still pulling hard. Not toward the coffee shop, though.
Towards a tiny shop sandwiched between it and a TV repair shop. The Dragon’s Lair.
Blaze sat, staring at the shop, stifling the urge to groan. It was a wannabe witch’s shop, the front display window crammed with crystals, sage bundles, Tarot cards and crescent moon suncatchers.
And dragons. Fantasy dragons of all shapes, sizes and colors—some perched on faux mountains guarding faux treasure; some communing with cutesy fairies or unicorns; some wrapped around swords featured in various TV and movie franchises.
Blaze climbed out of the car and walked over to the window, pretending to study the display. The pendulum was concealed in her hand, the chain wrapped around her fingers so that it hung down barely an inch.
So. What was a woman carrying an ancient, deadly, solid-gold magical artifact doing in a cheap souvenir shop? Could it possibly be a front for dark sorcery?
She gazed at a statue of a goofy pink dragon baby popping its head out of its half-broken egg. Blaze couldn’t imagine any self-respecting dark sorcerer she’d ever met working out of a place like this.
Nonetheless, according to the pendulum, the woman and the idol were inside.
Blaze took a deep breath and walked into the shop.
The inside was as crowded as the window. Quartz crystals and inexpensive tumbled stones. Sparkly-winged fairies and ceramic unicorns. Books on past lives and astrology and Tarot cards and how to tell if your loved one is a vampire.
And dragons everywhere. Posters and tapestries and carved wooden plaques. Greeting cards and figurines and necklaces and bracelets. Even original paintings on the back wall—dragons with wizards; dragons with armor-clad maidens. Dragons fighting in the air over an erupting volcano.
In the corner stood a tall vase with gnarled handmade walking staffs, each topped with a fake dragon claw and a crystal sphere. From the ceiling dangled leaded stained glass and shiny stars, and painted dragons hanging from invisible threads.
There was so much glittery stuff assaulting her eyes that Blaze had a hard time finding the person behind the counter. Probably because her purple dragon-adorned caftan made her blend into the surroundings.
Her frizzy brown hair was held back on the sides with dragon-shaped clips, and there was even a tiny dragon painted on her face.
Yikes, Blaze thought. Obsessed much?
The woman looked up and said, “Good morning. Welcome to the Dragon’s Lair. Feel free to—”
She broke off and stared at Blaze, eyes wide, mouth dropping open slightly. Her hands began to twist nervously, and Blaze could see her breathing increase, almost as if she were about to hyperventilate.
Could this woman have something to do with the burglary? Did she somehow recognize Blaze, despite the glamour?
“Tempest?” Another voice came from behind the counter, out of sight. Blaze stepped forward and saw the woman from Maple Street sitting in a folding chair, leaning back with her feet braced on the edge of the counter, a magazine in her lap.
Now she let the front legs of the chair down with a thump. “Tempe?” The shop clerk didn’t answer. Instead she snatched up a pen and flipped open a notebook lying on the counter, scribbling madly.
The woman from Maple Street rose slowly to her feet, impaling Blaze with her gaze. Blaze felt… something… shiver down her spine. Power?
No. This woman was definitely not a trained witch. But there was still something…
“Feel free to look around,” was all the woman said. She sat back down in her chair, touching the other woman’s arm briefly, as if in comfort or support. The dragon-lover—Tempest—was still writing frantically in her notebook, ignoring both of them.
Something was not right there. But the dragon-obsessed wacko was not her problem. Her friend was.
Blaze wandered through the store, letting the pendulum dangle from her cupped fingers, keeping it out of sight of the two women at the counter. It pulled relentlessly towards them. Blaze wondered where the tall woman’s leather messenger bag was.
Blaze made her way gradually closer to the counter, fake-browsing shelves and picking up the occasional tchotchke as if checking the price. Now she could see an open door behind the counter, leading to a back room that seemed to be half storage room and half break room, with a fridge, sink and microwave. There was a small round table with two chairs in the middle. The bag had been tossed carelessly on one of the chairs.
Blaze gave the women her most disarming smile. “Excuse me,” she said. “Is there any chance I can use your bathroom?”
Surprisingly, it was the dragon woman who responded. She scribbled a few more words in her book, and then raised her head and looked directly at Blaze. Her eyes were a startling liquid silver, like a lake just before sunrise, fringed with dark lashes.
She stared for a moment, then cocked her head slightly, as if she were thinking. “Okay,” she said softly. “It’s back here.” She indicated the back room.
She stood aside as Blaze came around the counter. “Thank you so much.” Both Tempest and the woman from Maple Street watched her with identical speculative expressions.
She didn’t feel any overt power coming from them, but they still raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
Blaze walked through the back room and into the tiny bathroom, passing within inches of the chair that held the leather bag. She didn’t dare touch it while they were watching.
Locking herself in, she closed the lid of the toilet and sat down to think.
She hadn’t felt the idol’s presence when she passed the bag, or anywhere in the store. But the woman must have it here somewhere. Blaze opened her hand and let the pendulum dangle. It still pulled towards the break room—and the bag.
She had to check it out. If the idol somehow wasn’t there… well, there was always Plan B. She hoped that worked, because Plan C involved things she would really rather not have to do.
Not to this woman who might be innocent of everything but hiding a stolen object for her thieving asshole boyfriend.
She flushed the toilet and ran the water as if washing her hands, and then emerged. The tall woman was at the sink across the room, rinsing out her travel mug.
Blaze took two steps forward and deliberately tripped over the chair holding the messenger bag. It fell to the floor, flap open, and spilled its contents everywhere, helped by a little spell from Blaze.
“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry!”
Blaze immediately knelt down and picked up the bag. The idol wasn’t on the floor with the rest of the jumble from the bag, and it wasn’t inside the bag either. Damn. She hastily began gathering up the spilled items, until she saw the tall woman standing over her, only inches away.
“Just leave it.”
There was a note of command in her voice. Almost a threat. Blaze rose slowly to her feet. The woman didn’t back up, and Blaze wasn’t going to, so they ended up way too far into each other’s personal space.
The other woman spoke first. “You don’t look like someone who shops in places like this. What did you really come here for?”
Suspicious and paranoid. Oh, hell. Blaze went for Plan B.
Pretending embarrassment, she said, “Well, you’re right, I guess. I mean, it’s a cute store and everything, but all this woo-woo stuff isn’t really my thing. Truthfully, I’m looking for a guy who kind of scammed me. In that bar down the street? I’m trying to track him down.”
The woman’s eyebrows went up. “And you thought he might be hiding in my bag?”
Blaze gave a fake-nervous laugh. “Um, no. Of course not. That was just a stupid accident. I said I was sorry.”
The woman crossed her arms, staring at Blaze. Most people would have found her intimidating, but Blaze had faced down scarier people than her.
Some of them had been her teachers.
“So,” the tall woman said, “do you have a description of this guy? Or are you just wandering around asking everyone in St. Johns if they’ve seen anyone lately who looks like they might have a penis?”
Blaze kept her smile friendly. This woman either had something to hide, or she was just a class-A sarcastic bitch. “I have a sketch.”
She opened her slim briefbag and pulled out the sketch she’d made, based on what she’d seen of the burglar that wasn’t covered by his ski mask. Which was mostly eyes and that annoyingly sexy mouth, so the shape of the nose could be wrong. He could have a mustache, or even a beard. Hell, he could have a birthmark over half his face.
But she’d figured it was worth a shot. If she hadn’t found him or the idol at the house, she’d planned on canvassing the neighbors with a phony story about being a private investigator.
Now she really, really wanted to see this woman’s reaction when she saw her shady boyfriend in the sketch.
But Ms. Sarcastic Bitch was good—too good to give anything up. She just took the sketch, her expression unchanging, and studied it for a minute or two.
Blaze dropped her left hand to her side and let the pendulum dangle again. Damn. It was still pulling hard, right at this woman. But Blaze could see there was no way she could have the idol on her. There was nowhere in her clothing to hide it.
Was it somewhere else in the room? Behind her, maybe?
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know him.”
“Never seen him around? Coffee shop, maybe? Café? Grocery store?”
“Remind me to start taking pictures of everyone I see in the grocery store.”
Blaze’s ‘friendly’ smile thinned. Fucking attitude. Talk about people who normally wouldn’t hang around in a store selling unicorns and fairies.
“Can I see it, Rebel?” said a soft voice behind them. It was the woman who ran the shop. Blaze barely suppressed a snort. Rebel? If anyone’s name fit her, this one’s did. Tempest came into the back room and Rebel handed the sketch over.
The smaller woman looked over the sketch, gnawing at her upper lip as she concentrated. Rebel moved back toward the door to the shop.
The pendulum followed her. What the hell?
Tempest shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in person,” she said. Then she turned those strange, beautiful eyes on Blaze again. “But I can see you two are connected.”
Blaze didn’t know what to say to that. Was she a fake psychic, giving fake readings in her tchotchke store?
Or did she really know something? A dart of unease stabbed her, thinking of the fragments of ‘memories’ the man had planted in her mind. Wild sex by candlelight could definitely be termed a ‘connection’—if it had ever happened.
Rebel took the sketch back from Tempest, a faint frown between her eyebrows. “I’ll make a copy of it.” She didn’t wait for permission, just took it over to the tiny copy machine in a corner and ran it through. “Is there a way we can get in touch with you, if we see him?”
Hmm. That was interesting. Now she supposedly thought they might see him. Like, in her living room on Maple Street? Her bedroom?
Blaze fished a business card out of her purse. It had a fake name on it, and the number to a burner phone. Rebel took it. “Thanks. I’ll see you out.”
Her tone was firm, and Blaze had the feeling that she was leaving whether she wanted to or not.
Within moments she was out on the street. The shop door shut behind her with a jingling of bells. The ‘Open’ sign turned to ‘Closed.’
Blaze walked to her car, trying to figure out what had just happened. Her tracking dust had led her to Rebel, and to the house on Maple.
But Rebel didn’t have the idol.
And Blaze hadn’t found the man who’d kissed her and jumped out her window.
Was it possible this woman had also been in her vault last night? Were she and the sorcerer working as a team? If they’d both been hit by Blaze’s trap, it would explain why the tracking dust had led Blaze to her.
But not why it wasn’t leading to the sorcerer or the idol. None of this made sense. Because if the sorcerer had blocked or removed her tracking spell, why wouldn’t he have done it on the woman as well? Unless he was planning on her taking the fall.
Blaze had spells she could use to capture and question the woman, though she’d never used them. Even though she’d imagined stringing up the thief and making him talk, she’d at least known he was guilty. She’d seen him herself.
This woman might be innocent. She didn’t have the idol, and the fact that the tracking residue was on her and not on the male thief was suspicious.
Blaze’s teachers would have said she should go back in the shop and do whatever it took to get the information she needed.
She knew she might have to go dark side before all this was over, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it now—at least, not yet. It was the idol that was important. She had to find it. There was no way she could leave it out in the world, especially without knowing who had it or what they were going to do with it.
And this woman didn’t have it.
It was the man she had to find.
Blaze gazed at the closed door of the shop, then turned and walked back to her car. She’d keep an eye on the Maple Street house tonight—see if the man showed up there. If not, she had other resources—some of them highly placed in the black market magical antiquities business.
And one of them was throwing a party tomorrow night. She’d been undecided about attending, but now she knew she needed to go.
If anyone knew who her mysterious sorcerer was and where he might be found, it would be Jean-Claude D’Amboise.