Page 3 of Hex and the City
An old standard, its effect perfected through repetition. Rote. Routine. Robotic, some might say of my methods. But I always got results. I wasn’t one of the top finders in Dos Lunas for nothing. I didn’t care that others called me brusque, or gruff, sometimes even rude. What they thought of me was none of my business.
I just wanted to do my job. And that bag of dust was as good as mine.
Someone sneezed.
My heart jumped up my throat. I pressed myself against the nearest wall, hoping I could melt into the darkness, except that was never one of my talents. All that exclusive tutoring, and I never did get the hang of shadow magic. Good thing I had something nearly as good.
“Dissipate,” I whispered.
Magic rippled throughout my body. My flesh turned crystalline and cold, but most importantly, transparent. Biologically, nothing had actually changed about me, muscles, bones, and blood. But to an onlooker, I was only a shape wavering in reality.
A mirage. A ghost. Like the clearest of gemstones. It was the guiding principle of most of my work, to aspire to a diamond’s perfection. To act with clarity of thought. To cut with precision. To perform with sharpness, hardness, and brilliance.
I examined the room for the source of the sneeze. Ah. There he was, cursing around the corner, rubbing vigorously at his face. The air smelled sweeter all of a sudden. Artificial, too. One of those automatic air fresheners, maybe. Too sickly sweet for my taste, but very efficient. Set and forget.
Wait. This was the guy who left the door open. It wasn’t the father after all. Sloppy work. Another finder? Either that or a vagrant. Truth be told, it was often hard to tell. A threadbare backpack slung over his shoulder, ripped jeans, the worn sneakers. I couldn’t decide if he was going for shabby or hipster chic. But hey, it was California. Probably both.
Best to approach with caution, in any case. You could never tell in the arcane underground. That guy sitting on the park bench feeding pigeons and picking breadcrumbs out of his beard could be a powerful wizard. Or he could just be some guy. It always paid to be prepared, to be ready for any outcome. Respect the routine. All part of the program.
He was slinking toward the kitchen, taking the long way around the large island counter. Maybe he was thinking of slipping out the back — the same door he’d left unlocked, just for me. Or was he actually heading for the stairs to the second floor?
The man paced backward, fingers tracing the marble countertop as he searched the house for signs of life. I positioned myself squarely in his way, blocking his retreat with my body. My dissipation spell wore off exactly as I stepped into place. He turned around, prepared to bolt for it, but he saw me first. He yelped, then covered his mouth with both hands.
“Hold it right there,” I said.
“No, you hold it,” he replied, glancing around. “Who are you, anyway? You’re not supposed to be here.”
I held out my hand, signaling him to stop. “Funny. You don’t belong here, either.”
The quirk of his mouth matched the cock of his eyebrow. Impressive, actually, how quickly he’d recovered.
“And what makes you say that?” He sauntered closer, tugging on either end of his jacket. “Maybe I’m fully dressed because I just got home from an exciting night out. Or maybe I’m even more exciting than that and I’m just about to go out. Right now. This late. You don’t know me.”
Sure, I didn’t know him. That was the point. I narrowed my eyes at him, studying our surroundings, studying him.
Fine, mostly him.
He simply didn’t belong. I’d done my homework, scoped the joint, and knew for a fact that a family of three lived there, oblivious normals who didn’t know they were sitting on something magically valuable. A cocky twenty-something boy with a razor smile and too much charisma wasn’t on the menu.
Dossier. I meant dossier.
“Or maybe you were just hoping to catch me in something a little comfier.” He waggled his eyebrows, took another step forward, standing a little too close for comfort. “Something slightly more appropriate for lounging. That can be arranged, too.”
This little shit and his swagger. I glowered, countering with my own swaggering step, which could have been a mistake, because now we were basically pressed up against each other.
No. I had to keep it together. Maximilian Drake didn’t back down, not from a fight, and certainly not from an encounter with a rival relic hunter. He was shorter than me, too. Only by a couple inches, it looked like, but he was also skinnier.
Not to underestimate him, though. From the low cut of his shirt I could see the deep divide between the planes of his chest. The sleeves of his jacket were pulled up nearly to the elbows, the better to sift through drawers with. But it also showed off the tight cords of his forearms, the veins in his slender yet strong hands.
This little asshole, whoever he was, had clearly put some time in the gym himself. Not that I couldn’t take him, of course. I could overpower him, easy. Bench press him even. Rush him, wrestle him down, pick him up, and — and then what?
I frowned even harder, angry at the upsettingly tantalizing situation that my brain had cooked up, even angrier at myself for liking it a little. No. I was Max Drake, a consummate professional. Tough as nails, hard as a rock. I balled my fists up, reminding myself to stop thinking of rock-hard anythings.
“You’re not one of the Smiths,” I said, jabbing him in the chest, ignoring the rock-hardness of what my finger found there. Very lean. Maybe not the gym. Calisthenics? Some good old pushups?
I clenched my teeth, drew my lips back. No. This was a job. I had to concentrate on securing the bag, not the boy who was presumably holding it somewhere on his person.
“How do you know I’m not a Smith? Is it because I’m not white?” He rolled his eyes. “Maybe we’re a mixed family. Maybe I got my last name from my dad.”
