Defensive Magic: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy Tale (Lost Library Book 3) (7 page)

“He is,” John agreed with a cheeky grin. “Although no one in the Pack would ever dare to actually call me a douche. Max summarized and added a little flair.”

“Same difference,” she replied staunchly.

His grin broadened. “I love you.”

“I know,” she replied smugly.

And he was okay. He’d show up, kick the crap out of Evan so he’d think twice about publicly disrespecting him again—but not so badly he was humiliated. He’d speak with the Council to affirm their support and discuss the offer he’d made to David. He’d get his plan rolling for rooting out the origin of the rumor mill. And he’d look into the possibility that spell casters could promote some type of altered state in Lycan similar to alcohol intoxication. But all in all, everything was okay.

Chapter 9

“L
izzie, meet Ben Emmerson, one of the Pack’s enforcers and a good friend of mine.” Lizzie squinted up at the towering, redheaded man John was introducing. Ben recognized her dilemma and immediately took several steps to his right so that the last of the setting sun wasn’t directly behind him.

They’d pulled into the parking lot of a diner that looked retro-chic and seemed to be affiliated with an old two-story house next door with a B&B sign hung in the front yard. Ben had been chatting on the diner’s front porch with another man as they’d arrived, but the other man had already shaken hands with Ben and left by the time they’d parked.

“Kenna told me about you.” Lizzie thrust her hand out. Ben’s hand engulfed hers as they exchanged a quick, not too firm, greeting.

Ben smiled politely, but clearly had no idea how Kenna—whom he’d never met—could be relaying details about him to Lizzie.

“She said the Idaho guys were terrified of Max because they thought he was you, so you’re apparently scary. To other Lycan,” she clarified. “That’s what enforcers do, right?” She grinned, pleased with her analysis.

Ben flashed her a broad, easy smile. “That’s the general gist. Sometimes there’s arm wrestling, and maybe a bloody nose on occasion.”

She’d heard Ben was quiet, but she could see that he certainly wasn’t shy.

“Come on in. We can sit in the kitchen at the chef’s table.” Seeing Lizzie’s confusion, Ben explained. “In the kitchen, so we can avoid any late night diners. I’ve got another hour before close.”

“You run the diner? John didn’t say.”

Ben shrugged. “Family business. I cook a few times a week, but my mom runs the place.”

“And his sister Tanya runs the B&B next door,” John added. “Ben’s an amazing chef. Modest—but his food’s great.”

Ben didn’t acknowledge the compliment, just opened the front door for them and tipped his head toward the back of the diner. The interior was a combination of pastel booths, black-and-white checkered flooring, and stamped tin ceiling. The booths were soft leather, the floor sparkled, and the detail on the ceiling was quite fine. Overall the look was retro and trendy but casual.

As they headed to the back kitchen area, Lizzie heard humming and running water. It wasn’t until she stepped a few feet into the kitchen that she realized the source was Max. Kitted out in an apron and expertly prewashing dishes with the sink sprayer, Max presented an entirely different side to an already multi-faceted personality. Gadgets and guns expert, pilot, and now, dishwasher. Max was generally a badass kind of guy and incredibly likeable. She could see why Kenna might have been attracted to him. Theoretically, at least.

As soon as he saw them, Max shut the water off and wiped his hands on his apron. He called out a greeting to the guys, and then he turned and gave her a brilliant smile. He finished drying his hands on his apron and then gave Lizzie a huge hug that lifted her off her feet.

Laughing, she hugged him back. Once he put her back down on the ground, she said, “Good to see you too.”

As she smiled up at Max, the image of him in Freiburg—his chest and stomach clawed bloody by John—came back to her in a rush. Max had carried John to safety when he’d been in his wolf form and injured badly enough that he hadn’t been entirely in his right mind. Without Max, John might not have made it out of Worth’s compound. Impulsively, she reached up and kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear, “Thank you.”

Max shrugged. “No worries.”

As casually as he accepted her thanks, Lizzie knew that he’d do the same again in a heartbeat. Max was a good man.

Looking pointedly at his apron, she asked, “Is there anything you don’t do?”

Max looked down at his apron as if he’d forgotten he was wearing it. “Ah. This is a punishment—I think. I actually
like
washing dishes.” He smirked at Ben, then turned back to Lizzie. “I don’t think they guessed that, though.”

Ben just shook his head with a look of mingled disgust and amusement on his face.

John replied, “Not a punishment. Just an effort to keep you out of trouble for a few minutes. Worked, I see.”

More seriously, Max said, “Evan and his buddies left pretty quickly after we got into it. Did Ben tell you about how weird he was?”

“He mentioned it. What did you see?”

“His speech was slightly slurred. He moved deliberately, like walking in a straight line required serious concentration. And then there’s the inappropriate comments.” Max half shrugged. “If it walks like a duck, or a drunk, in this case, then maybe…”

John gave Max’s statement a great deal of consideration. After several seconds, Lizzie finally figured out she was missing some important piece of information. Her confusion evident, she said, “I don’t get it. Drunk people do stupid things. Decreased inhibition, impaired decision-making and coordination—that’s what alcohol does.” Then the light went on, and she shook her head in annoyance. “You guys don’t get drunk, do you?”

“It’s complicated,” John began.

Ben ushered them to a table. “Have a seat. I’ll hear the bell if anyone comes in before close.”

After settling herself in one of the comfortable chairs, Lizzie said, “I’m not sure there’s a polite way to say it, or a way that doesn’t make me sound like an envious twit, but”—she sighed—“seriously? You can’t get puking, stupid drunk?” She wrinkled her nose. “And that means no hangovers, right?”

John sat down in the chair next to hers. “Technically, it’s possible. But you’d have to be trying.”

“Really trying,” Ben added. “And, ah, no hangovers.”

Max gave Lizzie a commiserating look. “Don’t dwell. It just gets more annoying the more you think about it. But at least they miss out on that pleasantly warm and glowy feeling that happens
before
the shit-faced stage.”

John’s eyes narrowed, the muscles in his face tensing. “The point is—how could Evan have been intoxicated? There was no alcohol smell? No smell of chemicals?”

“None,” Ben replied.

“Chemicals,” Lizzie said, considering all of the implications on that particular tidbit. “Drugs don’t work on you either?” Lizzie couldn’t help but be sidetracked. It was weird, but fascinating.

“Not predictably,” John replied shortly. Lizzie could tell he was trying to stay on track—but if he’d told her this stuff when they weren’t in a crisis, she wouldn’t be asking now. Hmm. Their non-crisis time together had been fairly limited.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly. She cocked her head, thinking through the possibilities. “What are the options? Drunk—unlikely. Sick?”

“Equally unlikely. Most illnesses can be purged with a change.” Surprisingly, it was Max who offered that bit of information.

Lizzie gave him a look.

“What? I spend a lot of time with these guys.”

“Shit,” Lizzie finally said. “Magic.”

“Yeah. That’s my best guess.” John looked grim.

“What is it with all the magic?” she said, exasperated. “I’m guessing this isn’t something you’ve seen before?”

All three men agreed they hadn’t, and then the group lapsed into silence.

Apparently John had come to some kind of conclusion, because when he spoke, his tone was firm and decisive. “Lizzie, call Harrington tomorrow and see what information, if any, he has on drugging Lycan. Max, poke around discreetly and see if anyone else has noticed what might be altered behavior in other pack members.”

“No job for me?” Ben asked.

“Same as always: look intimidating, scare small children, keep the peace.”

Lizzie snorted. Then she noticed Ben hadn’t replied. She poked John in the ribs and said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“Sure.”

Huh. Before she had a chance to quiz John further, Max changed the subject.

“So how’s Kenna doing?”

He seemed casually curious.
Hmm.

“Good.” She tried to match his tone, to be nonchalant—but she couldn’t quite meet his eyes when she asked, “Have you talked to her recently?”

Ben coughed, obviously covering a laugh.

“Uh, no.” Max delivered the news with a wry grin. “I’m persona non grata for whatever reason.”

She winced. “Still? Sorry.”

He was such a nice guy. She’d really hoped that Max might stick around for a little longer. But maybe Kenna wasn’t like her. Maybe she was truly happier alone. She wouldn’t meddle. She sighed. She’d try really hard not to meddle.

Ben glanced at the clock on the wall. “Looks like I’m closed. Want to take anything home with you?”

She looked at John and shook her head.

John replied, “We’re good. We’ll talk again tomorrow after I’ve had a chance to contact the Council.”

John walked at a brisk pace through the parking lot to the truck.

“What’s the rush?” Lizzie asked.

In reply, John slowed slightly but kept walking. Once they were in the truck, he said, “I think we should make it an early night. It’s been a long day already, and we still have to unpack.”

“What are you not saying? What did I miss?”

John sighed. Looking straight ahead at the diner, he said. “I just thought it was a good time to head to the house. Don’t you want to check out my house—our house?”

“Of course.” She squirmed, settling herself into her seat. “But what aren’t you telling me?”

He tipped his chin toward her but didn’t turn. “Are you sure you want to know?”

She just raised her eyebrows.

“I’m tired. Some days Pack responsibilities weigh heavier than others.”

He wouldn’t look at her, just kept his gaze forward. So she asked very quietly and cautiously, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

She leaned across the center console and kissed his cheek. “Okay.”

Chapter 10

L
izzie wiggled her entire body, reveling in the feel of soft sheets against her skin—possibly the softest sheets she’d ever slept on. John’s house, his furniture, his stuff, all of it was like the sheets—good quality and well worn. She cracked an eye experimentally. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark. Hmm—she could sleep a little longer. Then both her eyes popped wide open as she remembered the previous night. John had been quiet and worried the entire drive home. And now he wasn’t in bed. She thumped the empty spot next to her. Cold. He hadn’t been in bed for some time. Her glorious experience with the sheets met an unfortunate demise. It was hard to wallow in bliss when she was worried about John.

As she debated the merits of a shower versus the unlikelihood of a few more minutes of sleep, the scent of bacon reached her. Before her stomach could protest in hunger, John appeared at the bedroom door with a breakfast tray in hand. Tall, muscular, short dark hair, bright blue eyes, smart, successful, powerful, considerate, loving, sexy. Perfect.

Somewhere in the depths of her mushy brain, she’d been harboring the thought that John was too perfect. Too perfect to be real. Too perfect for her. Too perfect to last. Which was complete bullshit. He had bad days, problems, responsibilities—all the stuff every other person had. He wasn’t perfect.

She gave him a brilliant smile. “Breakfast in bed—I’m a lucky girl.”

He stopped in his tracks. “You’re never this chipper in the morning. What’s up?”

She smiled contentedly. “I’ve decided you’re not perfect.”

“Who says this is for you?” He nudged her over and sat down with the tray in his lap. “And I’m not sure whatever gave you the idea I might be. I figured any pedestal you’d imagined had long ago crumbled under the massive weight of the baggage I’m toting around.” His tone was wry, but there were serious undertones she couldn’t miss.

And not an egomaniac. Damn. He was perfect. Well, perfect for her, at least.

“I assume this has something to do with last night?”

“Hmm. Don’t worry about it,” she said as she patted his hand.

Eyeing her askance, although surely happy to have escaped a loaded conversation, he said, “Logan’s swinging by for a bit so I can catch a quick run. I figured you wouldn’t mind since you guys parted on such friendly terms yesterday.”

“Nope. That’s fine. Although, I really would like to develop some kind of offensive spell casting, so I don’t actually need a babysitter. I’m supposed to be badass, so it would be nice to actually
be
badass.” She really needed to get on that.

He didn’t even bother to deny the babysitter comment. “What’s stopping you?”

“Excellent question, sir, and I accept your challenge.” She didn’t point out the obvious answer—time. More accurately, lack of time. She could make time.

“Just don’t blow yourself up,” he said and tapped the tip of her nose. As he stood up to leave, he paused and added, “And maybe talk to Pilar before you dig around in the book for more information on Clara?”

“Will do,” she promised. She could hear a car door slam, so Logan must have arrived. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

And right on cue, the doorbell rang.

A superfast shower, clothes from her bag, and a quick brush of her teeth and Lizzie was ready to face Logan. She found him puttering around the kitchen, making coffee and a midmorning snack.

“Did John tell you I tried to pull information on Clara?” She had hoped for some indication of his feelings for Clara when she mentioned her name—but she couldn’t see anything significant. It sure would be handy to have the Lycan ability to smell emotions.

Logan nodded. “He did. And that it didn’t go well, and that he’d break a few fingers if I rushed you into poking around right away. You have a mentor you can talk to?”