Deep magic second coll.., p.11
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 11
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
But she didn’t give her butt or the table much mind. Not when realization gripped her.
Oh no. Oh no.
This man, this great and powerful wizard, who would utterly hold her fate in the magical world . . .
“Let me . . . let me gather the books for you.”
Her voice broke. Cracked.
He needed adventure. Excitement. Dreams of the sort no respectable wizard could dare have.
He needed Dirk Pitt.
Blakenmage straightened from his bow. Stared at her. Curious. With that stupid strand of hair still playing along his cheek.
“What was it?” She blurted, even as she still saw the images of Dirk Pitt overlapping Blakenmage. Going on adventure after adventure. A smile lit in those dark, but now-serious eyes. “The great work you’re doing?”
“My father’s, actually. To protect our home. What little home we have left.”
Not sailing the high seas in search of fortune and glory.
She wanted to ask what his great work was. Not his father’s.
But didn’t.
Maybe that was why her magic had come to her. Again.
And why it’d get her in trouble. Again.
“Then I hope these will help.” Camille gave him a smile.
It wobbled and it was probably the most horrid smile the man had ever seen, but she lifted her hands, heavy and shaking, and willed all this man’s books, all of them, to come to her.
They came. Easily. As if the magic had always been there, in her, all along and completely under her control.
Ha. What a joke.
But the books stacked, one on top of the other, yet still hovering in the air for easy transport.
Blakenmage still watched her. His eyebrows rising in interest at her hands, at her control of the books as she ordered a second stack to be made. And how the books actually listened. Her face was probably as bright now as when he’d first seen her, but at least there were no more snot or sneezes forthcoming.
She didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. Not when she finally glimpsed the Cussler novel, hoping that he’d at least let her stay in the small run-down apartment she lived in, a home that breathed just inside the Avenue.
Probably not, most likely.
Especially if he was anything like his father.
* * *
Camille pulled her knees to her chest, which made the aged office chair, with its stuffing poking out from around the seams, twist slightly. Her big toe wiggled out a particularly large hole from her wool sock.
Which was fine.
Mostly because Lily-Anne couldn’t see.
Not the socks she’d bought at Macy’s some years ago or the chair she’d found at a yard sale while wandering around the Normals’ nearby Torrance. Certainly not the rest of her one-bedroom apartment (really more of a closet), complete with a clunky big-box TV (now off because even Camille would have a hard time explaining the blue glow on her face) and row upon row of books stacked and thrown around the place.
Books that were most definitely not of the witch and magical sort.
Although, she could make a case for Nora Roberts if she tried . . .
“Why you didn’t you chime me? Immediately?” Lily-Anne’s face filled the entire magic mirror. “How was it that I had to find out from Isolda of all people? You are my sister. How could you do that to me?”
There was a reason Mistress Hazenfoul had referred to Camille as a Rowan daughter.
Not the first. Not the youngest.
One look at Lily-Anne, whose red-blond curls cascaded down her head, framing it oh so movie perfect, and those flawlessly pinkened cheeks and red lips . . .
Nothing at all like Camille.
She tugged her knees closer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was important.”
“Why are you slouching? You know it makes you look fatter. But never mind you. How about me? You filled an order for Alexander and you didn’t inform me?”
Camille shrugged. Couldn’t help thinking of the Cussler book and why she hadn’t told anyone from her family. “It’s no big deal. Not even that important—”
“This is important, you nitwit. Everyone who is anyone is talking about Lord Blakenmage. Don’t you follow Wizard Weekly? No, of course not. Your head’s so stuffed with books and mildew. The Board is most unhappy with their governing member dying, or disappearing, really, but they’re very unhappy with the untested son stepping into that coveted position. Don’t you see? They’re looking for any excuse to remove him, and if you do what you usually do—”
This time, Camille had had enough.
She scrunched her eyes and glared at her sister.
Felt the magic stir in her gut.
“Thanks,” Camille whispered, “but I’ve already gone and done what I usually do.”
A book flew out—ha, a Nora Roberts one at that—and smacked the back of the mirror. Made the whole thing fall flat, mirror side down, cutting off whatever her beautiful, horrible creature of a sister was going to say.
Which really meant all she had left to do was pack.
* * *
Camille stood at the same rickety table where yesterday she’d done her best to find that sneaky Cussler novel and keep Blakenmage’s books from toppling. She shouldn’t be there. It was silly. Stupid, actually. It was the first place Blakenmage would go once he discovered the Cussler novel.
Except, she was there.
And for whatever reason, the shop felt different. Dust and cobwebs and the ceiling-high stacks of books were all still accounted for and in abundance, but the relaxing, comforting feel of books and aged, cracking pages was different.
Changed.
Or maybe that was just her.
She glared at the cardboard box beside her, as if it was the answer—and the reason—for all her problems.
Duct tape was doing its best to keep the lid closed, but there was only so much duct tape could do. Especially when the books inside kept on quivering. Kept on lifting that top flap and trying to squeeze out.
When the thick hard-back novels didn’t work, the mass markets gave it a shot.
A few had even snuck out on the walk over before she’d noticed.
Camille tried very, very hard not to think about that. At least no one (she dearly hoped) could tie those to her.
The box gave another shake.
One flap corner, having worked itself free, tapped the side of her legs and the rough fabric of her jeans (now carefully hidden behind the appropriate Enchantment Avenue robes).
She had packed last night. Every book she had written by Normals. Every traitorous one that would get her good and thrown out of Enchantment Avenue. And she’d managed quite a few boxes like this one, strapped down with duct tape.
This, of course, was not the magical way of doing things. Cardboard boxes and duct tape, that is, but since she still didn’t have her wand (maybe she had put it near the “Raging Unicorns” reference section?), it was the best she could do.
Except, she couldn’t throw the books away like she’d intended. No matter how much she’d tried to lift the box and toss the whole thing in a Dumpster (via magic, of course, the darn thing was too heavy otherwise), she couldn’t.
Her magic refused to budge.
Refused to give her even the slightest bit of spark.
Oh yes. She sure was a Rowan daughter of legend.
Camille’s shoulders shook. Like a laugh was trying to escape out her chest, except it sorta felt more like a sob. A box filled with Normals’ fiction novels had followed her to work.
Power slammed through the front of the shop.
Sharp. Electric.
Pissed.
Camille squeaked and tripped on her box. Because, really, there was no denying just who was stomping through the books. No question on who was sending book stack after book stack whizzing through the air. Snapping and cracking bindings into the ceiling. She couldn’t question it, not when her breath kicked up a notch. Spilled out from her lips faster than before. When her heart seemed to thud its way right up her throat.
Both from fear, and something else.
Camille forced her shaking, jelly-like legs to stand. To hold her.
She needed to face him. Needed to face what her actions, and her magic, had deliberately done . . . and this time, she’d allowed.
Blakenmage didn’t walk calmly and in control around the corner, side-stepping the leaning book tower on the secret histories of Pompeii. Nope. He walked through the tower, because the books just weren’t there anymore.
They flew out of his path. Slapped and bent into other aisles and stacks. Sent another wave topping, then another.
The whole store sounded like its own volcano erupting.
Thank god Hazenfoul was out to lunch with some visiting ghouls from Minnesota.
Camille’s sneakers shifted on the floor.
The floorboard gave a small groan.
Blakenmage snapped his gaze toward her. Glared. Eyes narrowed and even darker than before (how that was possible, she hadn’t a clue, but they were and—while really pissed—just as breathtaking). His hair wasn’t perfect this time, though, and for some reason the tension in Camille’s shoulders relaxed a tad.
Which was really stupid on her part.
He was pissed and just as radiant as before, perhaps even more so.
No wonder Lily-Anne wanted this man to herself.
Which wasn’t going to happen.
She swallowed that thought, and fast. Then didn’t think much at all because suddenly he was there.
Beside her.
Blakenmage crossed the distance in two strides. Kicked her very heavy box of Normals’ books to the side. Got right up to her.
Face a bare inch from hers.
A strand of dark wild hair licked the side of her cheek.
Sent a quiver through her. One she felt straight to her toes like she’d read numerous times in Nora’s novels. Hadn’t believed it was true, or even possible.
Except it was.
Smoke and ash lifted from him. Like he’d spent all night in front of a roaring fire to keep warm while she’d enjoyed her jury-rigged (and very illegal) gas heating.
“Camille Lillian Rowan.” His breath licked her lips. “You have deliberately defiled my home. My name. You snuck a Normals’ novel into my order. My order. An order for the governing mage of the Magical Regulatory Board.”
Her face heated with each word.
As if she hadn’t known exactly what she was doing.
Their breaths mingled.
He waited for a reply.
Which wasn’t needed since they both knew she’d done it. And she wasn’t about to speak, not with him so close. Not a single word would come out, she was sure.
So she nodded.
Kind of.
It was more of a shaky bob, but it seemed to count for him.
“You did this. On purpose.”
She’d have loved to deny it. To claim it wasn’t her fault but her screwy magic messing up her life again.
But not this time.
Camille straightened. Lifted her head and glared right back at the man. She was terrified. Of losing her home, her magic (though definitely not her family, that’d be the one bonus of getting kicked out of the magic world). But she was still terrified.
“I did. I slipped you the Clive Cussler novel.”
“Why?”
It was a growl.
Not a word. Not really even a question.
As if he’d already come up with some answer all on his own. Probably including his great and powerful Board setting him up to take the fall. To replace him with someone they approved of.
Either way, whatever answer it was, it just wouldn’t be the right one.
Camille stepped back from him, from his closeness. She felt colder all of a sudden, though the smoke and ash stayed with her. As if they didn’t want to let go.
She lifted her hand to her discarded, recently kicked box of Normals’ books. Couldn’t believe yet another Cussler book, Atlantis Found, this one an itsy paperback, had slipped free. Lay on top of the box, all innocent and shy-like. It even had a gray scoring along its cover from the duct tape, which had tried to keep the book in.
And failed.
Then again, she did believe it.
It was, after all, her magic.
She didn’t send the book scampering back inside with the others. She felt the swirl in her stomach, the magic within her, glow warm and bright. Answering her in a way it hadn’t since yesterday at this very same spot.
When she’d accepted her magic.
And who she was.
Not the dreams her family had of her for the great Rowan name, but her own.
Just like she’d seen his, and believed in them, even if he didn’t.
Camille held out her hand, bringing both the small Cussler book and the cardboard box into the air and toddle-walking to her.
Blakenmage still watched her. Fury quivering around him. Barely controlled magic sparked the air between them, made the dust and spiderwebs swirl like it had the first time.
At least she didn’t sneeze all over him, though her face still heated something fierce.
She held out the book.
He didn’t take it.
She hadn’t expected him to.
“This book is meant for you. Even if you don’t want it.”
“I don’t.”
She nodded. She’d felt that way a hundred times, a thousand times, about her strange and wayward magic.
“I understand,” she said. “And it doesn’t matter. See, everything they say about me, about the screw-up middle Rowan daughter, is true. And it isn’t. This is my magic. I see someone, see their dreams, the ones they aren’t even willing to see themselves, and the books come to me. I have no control over what I see. I don’t even have control of the books.”
She slapped the book to his chest.
His hand raised. Gripped hers. Hard. Warm.
It didn’t hurt. Didn’t even frighten her, even though his magic flew off him. Sparked along her fingers—and darn it, right to her toes.
Which wasn’t doing a lot of good for her focus right now.
“This book is yours. Meant for you and your dreams. Not your father’s.”
She pulled her hand back, leaving the book.
He didn’t drop it.
“You can try and run, but they’ll keep finding you. I’ve been trying to run, and it hasn’t worked for me.”
Camille slid out of her robe, the one that didn’t fit her and never had. Bunched it up, wrinkled and dusty, and tossed it onto the table. Hazenfoul would find another librarian, one probably a bit more qualified for the rigid rules of Enchantment Avenue.
Blakenmage didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. But his gaze trailed from her drab, gray, and very unflattering sweater, down her jeans with holes in the knees, to her scuffy sneakers and socks that had lost their elastic snap some time ago.
She shrugged. “Normals’ clothes are more comfortable than ours. And I wouldn’t trade a good bra for anything. Except maybe my magic.”
Even when it only got her into trouble.
She turned from him. Her stomach twisting and protesting, telling her she was making a mistake by walking away—even though the only sane thing to do was leave so to not end up a magically neutered witch.
“You haven’t used a wand.”
There was no growl in him this time.
This time, it was barely a whisper.
She glanced back. He hadn’t moved. Still even held the book, now clutched to his chest.
“I guess I don’t need it. Not once I finally started believing.”
She felt like throwing up. The loss in her heart, down to her soul, growing even wider. Deeper. But she slipped past the great wizard and her box of Normals’ books, which followed her out of the shop.
Though one stayed behind.
One Nora Roberts novel was left on Hazenfoul’s aged and wobbly chair.
Camille didn’t go home. Couldn’t. Not when her magic had a mind of its own. Took her to the border, the boundary separating the Avenue from the Redondo Beach Pier.
A pier that was all cement and shiny steel with the etched images of sharks and dolphins and kelp along its walkway.
Below her, the waves licked up, then back again as they crashed into the small cove, then slid through the shimmering barrier no Normal could see. To the Avenue where she stood. The part of the pier that had been there once and then had slipped into the ocean. A pier that was still there, but now older and of rotting wood planks, built by people’s hands and magic, and not machines.
Except where she stood, the two worlds mixed.
Overlapped.
Salted spray of foam and water crossed over, carrying with it the thick, super-heated frying grease from the hobbled food shacks and the high-screech zeeing of airplanes.
This very world, the one where both existed, was the one she’d tried to be a part of and had failed.
Soft thuds came up behind her, echoing on the both rough and wind-smooth wood.
Her breath caught. She knew immediately who it was. Could feel it down deep in her core, her heart.
She clutched her arms to her waist. Held them there. Blinked back tears as another cool wave of salt and grease slapped her face.
Blakenmage came up beside her. The sleeve of his robe brushing her sweater.
She shuddered.
Neither turned to the other. She didn’t dare. Didn’t even dare hope.
“I spent a lot of time hiding,” he said. “My father hated all things Normal, but I couldn’t help but be . . . curious. Even slipped over the barrier once and visited the most amazing park for kids and adults, with rides and popcorn. Just once. He never let me slip out again. But then after he died, I spent a lot of time hiding. My magic was faltering. Disappearing. Just like our world.”
Camille finally looked at him. Still tall, dark, sparking just as much power as he was radiance. This was a man who couldn’t hide even if he’d wanted.
Except, he’d needed to.
“You knew, though.” He still held the newest Cussler book. “And I hated you, cursed you. Then spent all night reading that stupid thing.”
