“You’ve been working on a thingee that shields tech from ambient magic. You thought you had it figured out, but the device didn’t work.”
“Oh, it works, aside from a little problem with sporadic discharge. Unfortunately, the side effects preclude using it.”
“Did you tell me about side effects? Because I don’t remember that. I remember you found out it had a problem when you did a demo for some bigwigs from a tech company.”
“The demo didn’t go well.” He brooded on that a moment. “T-Corp knew it wasn’t ready for production—I told them about the unpredictable discharge—but they wanted a demo anyway. I agreed. We’d tested it plenty here at Clanhome. How was I to know it would affect nulls that way?’
He definitely hadn’t told her this part. She’d have remembered. “What does it do to nulls?”
But she’d lost him. His head came up, alert and listening. Without a word, he spun and sprinted back down the slope, nimble as a deer or a cat—more like the cat, she thought sourly, since he could see in the dark. “Am I about to be blown up?” she asked the empty air.
“Merowitch gave the all clear,” David said from behind her—right behind her, though she hadn’t heard him approach. “I imagine that’s why Seabourne took off.”
Cullen might have taken two seconds to mention that. “I need to get down there before he tramples over any evidence the thief left.”
EIGHT
LILY had never been to Cullen’s workshop. He discouraged visitors of any sort, but especially her. That wasn’t personal. The minute trace of magic her touch siphoned off made no difference normally, but there were some spells and charms that were fragile enough during some stages that even the slightest alteration might affect the outcome.
On the outside, it wasn’t much to look at—a plain cinderblock rectangle with a shingled roof. There was no electricity, and water was supplied by a cistern that had been filled through a combination of magic and muscle. Eventually the building would be connected to Nokolai’s water supply, but that was delayed for now. Too much other construction going on.
On the inside, it was a cluttered visual cacophony. Aside from the intricate circle inscribed in the center of the cement floor, it looked like a junk room with a few odd outbreaks of order. And it smelled like…everything. The scents were too many and jumbled for her to sort—herbs, ashes, leather, ozone, coffee, all mixed in with stinks both organic and chemical.
No wonder it had taken Merowitch awhile to check the place.
Lily had wrested an agreement from Cullen: she’d stay in the doorway if he would refrain from touching things. The door where she stood was set precisely in the center of the north wall. She could see well enough; a pair of mage lights bobbed around on the ceiling. There were three windows placed with equal precision in the middle of each of the other walls. Two of the windows held window boxes where a few brave herbs struggled for survival. In addition to being a sorcerer—which meant he could see magic—Cullen was Fire Gifted. Not a good match for growing anything but flames. Cluttered shelves sprouted along the two longest walls, almost as miscellaneous as their contents—three of them wood, two metal, one plastic, and one an incongruously elegant glass étagère.
The corners of the room held a ratty old recliner, a woodstove, a sink, and a cage. On one side of the circle laid into the floor was a long table—counter height, not dining. On the side nearest Lily was a perfectly ordinary looking pair of filing cabinets and a desk. The top of the desk held a lizard—alive—three Nerf balls, an ornate spoon, a surprisingly healthy aloe plant, a litter of papers, two pencils, a paperback book by Douglas Adams, a broken clock, a bottle of ink, and a small cauldron. And Cullen’s grimoire.
It was large, covered in black leather, with a runic symbol of some kind on the front. Anyone looking at that would guess what it was. “Why didn’t he take your grimoire?” she asked.
Cullen was squatting in front of one set of shelves, frowning at its contents. Apparently that wasn’t enough. He leaned forward to sniff them, too. “He didn’t see it.”
“A lookaway spell?”
“Yeah. Though the one you’re looking at is a fake.” He rose to stand with his hands on his hips, scowling around at his invaded domain.
“I take it he didn’t find the real one, either.”
“I don’t keep it here.” He dropped to his haunches suddenly. “If that dung-begotten abortion of a thief got hold of my—” He started to reach under the table.
“No hands!” Lily reminded him firmly. “No touching.”
Cullen swung his scowl around at her. “And how the hell am I supposed to know if he found my copy of Czypsser’s grimoire if I don’t look?”
“Smell?”
“Shit, the whole place stinks of him!”
She frowned confused. “Does he have an unusually strong odor, then?” The perp couldn’t have been in here long. “Or did he touch a lot of things?”
“No.” Cullen grudged that answer. “Go investigate somewhere else for a while.” He turned away and stalked over to the glass étagère.
“Have you found anything else missing?”
“No.” Cullen bent to study one of those outbreaks of order: an empty shelf. His worn-to-a-thread jeans looked ready to give up the battle for intactness any moment. His running shoes were equally ragged, and his spice brown hair stood up in spikes. He was as pretty a bit of eye candy as any woman was likely to see, and he was in a rage.
Not just pissed off. He’d been that earlier. Maybe it was a lupi thing, set off by the smell of an intruder in his space? Whatever the reason, he all but vibrated with anger. “Not,” he added crisply as he stopped scrutinizing the barren shelf, “that I can tell for sure without touching things.”
She nodded. “Makes sense, if he’s a pro.”
“A pro?” Brilliant blue eyes focused on her. His lovely mouth sneered at her. “He left behind my copy of Czypsser’s grimoire! Do you know what that thing’s worth?”
“He came here for one thing, got it, and got out. Didn’t let greed make him linger because he knew he didn’t have much time.”
His eyes were even wilder than his hair, the blue flame-bright—and starting to darken. The pupils seemed to be growing as black ate into the irises. “If the rat bastard is a pro, he’d better be ready to be professionally eviscerated. When I—”
“Cullen.”
“—get my hands on him I’m going to ask real nicely how he got past the flare ward, and if I like his answer maybe I won’t—”
“Cullen!”
Cullen stopped midword. Closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ran both hands through his hair. Again. “I’m okay.”
The black had receded from his pupils, so she believed him. “Good. Let’s step outside. I need to call the CSI team in. While we wait for them, I’ve got some questions about your prototype.”
He fell into step beside her. “When I think about all the hours and hours of work I put into it, and then some—”
“Best if you don’t think about all those hours right now. Think about how you’re going to condense what you know about the prototype so you don’t drown me in explanations.” She paused on the other side of the doorway. David and one of his squad had taken up positions there. She checked her phone. No bars. She put the phone back and pulled out her flashlight. “Looks like I’ll have to head up out of this ditch your place is in to use my phone.” She glanced at David. “You’ll keep the scene secured until my CSI people get here?”
He nodded. “I checked with Pete. Until further notice, I’m under your orders.”
“Good. That includes keeping Cullen out.” She started for the trail she’d come down a few minutes ago. “Cullen?”