Page 19 of Redeemed
“You got that right.” He scratches the back of his head, and I can’t tell if he’s still with me or if he’s about to tell me to take a powder. I give him time to think, and the smell of his magic grows stronger.
“See, I got my little shop, here, and I do spells on the side.” He’s looking at the floor so I can’t get a read on his expression. “And, you know, a place like Ventura Boulevard, we get just about every magical critter you can imagine coming through here.
“All but one. We don’t get vampires in here, and you know why?” He meets my gaze dead on.
“Nope.”
“I hate them undead fuckers worse than any other thing, living or dead. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this…” His voice trails off and I’m torn between prompting him and apologizing for taking him to such a dark place.
“So no, I ain’t going to help you mess with a vampire. It’s outside my line of work.”
Shit. “You know anyone else who might not have your issues? I’m kinda new in town.”
His gaze narrows. “I know three or four people who’ll charge you for the service, but I can’t guarantee any of their spells will work.”
A customer comes in, making the little bell over the door jingle. That reminds me. “If you can keep vampires out of here, you must be able to work a spell that’ll keep them away from wherever we’re staying.”
There’s a helping of sarcasm in his chuckle. “Oh yeah, I can do it all right. I just don’t want whatever you’re selling.”
His mouth is saying no but his eyes are asking what it’s worth to me. Welp, he’s the one who brought up money. “If a vampire wasn’t involved, how much would you charge for a portable ward?”
“A thousand dollars.”
I know damned well he’s picked a number out of his ass. “I’ll give you fifteen hundred.”
Something shifts in his face. “You’re cute, you know. You got that pretty twink thing going on with your painted-on jeans and your eyeliner and all, and you make me want to help you.” He’s gone back to looking at the floor. “But”—he looks up sharply—“I’m not for sale.”
He may be talking tough, but there’s a flicker of something like interest in his eyes. “All right, if you say so.” I take a pointed look around. “You could buy a lot of”—I nudge a stack of books with my toe—“merchandise with fifteen hundred dollars.”
“Nope.”
He’s lost some of his conviction. “What if I throw in a werewolf bodyguard for one night?”
“Now what the hell do I need a bodyguard for?”
“You tell me. You don’t spend all your time surrounded by tchotchkes.”
He doesn’t answer right away, although his only tell is the tension around his eyes. He’s interested, all right. Now I just need one more thing to tip him over the edge. “Wanna see something?”
“What?”
I poke my wolf. Hard. We used to do this kind of shit on the daily. “I’m not blowing smoke about the werewolf bodyguard. You’ll be protected by one of the best.”
“Who is it then? You can’t be talking about your own pretty ass.”
I point at him and reach for my wolf. The change is slower than it used to be and more painful than I remember, but instead of my human finger with its chartreuse painted nail, I’ve got a wolf’s claw.
And no, the chartreuse didn’t transfer to my wolf.
He’s too cool to act overtly impressed but his eyes are open wider than they were a minute ago. “What’s your name?” There’s a new gruffness to his voice.
I extend my human hand. “David Collins.”
We shake, but he’s blowing a low whistle. “You’rethatdude? Damn.”
It’s an act of will not to roll my eyes. “Tell me your name so I can start some gossip.”
“Albion Bird.”
