Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus Beginnings Read online

  Sebastian’s lips thinned to a hard line. “Short, scrawny guy? Kinda shifty looking?”

  The shop owner straightened and closed his ring case, coming to loom over Sebastian across the counter. “Maybe. What’s it to you?” He had that I’m-not-threatening-you-yet-but-just-give-me-a-reason look on his face.

  Sebastian put both hands in his pockets and shrugged, attempting to seem less threatening. “Just curious. Did the guy bring in anything else?” As he asked, he curled his fingers around his truth coin—an intricately carved disk of silver the size of a half-dollar that he’d inherited from his father. The coin grew warm whenever someone lied.

  “Na. Just that piece,” the burly man said, crossing his arms. “You lookin’ for somethin’?”

  Truth. Sebastian raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to scowl. This was the only thing of his he’d found after a whole week trawling Atlanta’s pawnshops. He’d already tapped his contacts, none of whom had fish as small as Cory on their radar. He’d figured Cory would have run to the first pawnshop he could find and unloaded his loot, but the little git had had more sense than that. And now Sebastian had to buy back his own watch, which left an extremely sour taste in his mouth. “Yeah,” he finally replied, “how much for it?” He pointed again at his father’s watch. As he did, he concentrated, hiding a smile of satisfaction when a slight shimmer, visible only to him, appeared on the watch.

  The shop owner eyed him. “Two hundred.”

  Sebastian snorted. “Yeah, right. That piece of junk is a fake. You can tell from the discoloration on all the wear points. And check out those scratches. Nobody would touch this for more than fifty, and only then if they liked beat-up swag.”

  The man glanced down at the watch and did a double take, staring as if he’d never seen it before. When he looked back up, he attempted a poker face but was only partially successful. Sebastian could still see the confusion in his eyes. “My guy checks every piece that comes in here,” he said, as if reassuring himself. “We don’t take fakes.”

  Sebastian’s coin was cool in his hand. The man was telling the truth, which Sebastian already knew because the watch was his in the first place, and most certainly real. Yet, his illusion had shaken the man. Made him unsure.

  Sebastian leaned in close. “Look. I get it. You’re just trying to make a living. But we both know there are always fakes. Why not? Most schmucks can’t tell the difference, ignorance is bliss and all that. But anybody can see how beat up this thing is. How about I give you fifty cash and you won’t have to worry about someone callin’ you on it.”

  “I can do hundred-fifty cash, but that’s highway robbery,” the man said, glancing back down at the watch as if to check that it still looked worn.

  “Yeah, highway robbery of me! Come on, seventy-five, let’s shake on it,” Sebastian said, extending his hand.

  The store owner stared at him, torn. “Hundred even. And don’t show your ugly mug in here again. At this rate you’ll run me outta business.”

  “Will do,” Sebastian replied, grim, and handed over the cash. He was still mad as a hornet at having to pay for his own belongings, so he didn’t feel any guilt at using fae glamour on the man. The fact that he himself wasn’t fae, only using borrowed skills, meant his illusions had to be small and the changes subtle. But it was a useful trick. Which, unfortunately, was no help in figuring out where Cory had sold his artifact. At this point, there was only one more lead to try before he called in the cavalry. He hoped it worked, since he would be exceedingly annoyed if he had to resort to using Grimmold.

  * * *

  Sebastian knocked, then took a step back to let the flimsy screen door swing shut. He stood on the crumbling concrete steps of a house in south Atlanta that belonged to a mutual “friend” of his and Cory’s, Fester Jones. When he said friend, he actually meant enabling low-life, but then Cory was an adult and had every right to choose his own associates. The only thing he and Fester had in common was that they both tried to keep Cory alive: he because he’d once known a decent guy named Cory and felt obligated to that memory; Fester because Cory made a good drinking buddy. Once upon a time, Cory had been one of those rich kids too naive to recognize danger and too stupid to stay away from it when it was pointed out. As a thrill-seeking teenager, he’d gotten hooked on gambling and alcohol. That was the beginning of the end. Family fortune went down the drain and he became a shadow of himself.

  This house was where Sebastian, one night long ago, had dropped off a very drunk Cory after saving him from a couple of thugs he was mouthing off to. Cory told him, between vomits out the window, to take him to his ol’ pal Fester. Sebastian had helped a stumbling Cory to the door, handed him off to Fester, and hoped it was the last time he’d ever darken Fester’s door. It was not. Fast-forward many years, and, knowing Cory had long ago been estranged from the few family members he had left, this was the only place he could think of where Cory might go to ground.

  Fester, when he finally answered the door, looked sleepy, though it was already noon and the hot summer sun was high in the sky. His jersey and shorts hung off his wasted frame, showing the effects of drug and alcohol addiction. Clearly visible on flabby arms and legs were an assortment of tattoos. Fester peered at him through the screen, expression hovering between caution and annoyance. “What d’ya want?”

  Hand curled around his coin, Sebastian decided on a direct route. “I’m Sebastian. Remember me? Friend of Cory’s? I’m looking for him. You seen him recently?”

  Though it was hard to tell through the screen door, Fester’s body language seemed to shift from sleepy to alert as soon as the name “Cory” was mentioned.

  “Who’s askin’?” he hedged, not answering Sebastian’s question.

  “Just me,” Sebastian shrugged, keeping cool, though he was starting to get the impression Cory was caught up in more trouble than the idiot could handle. Again. “He borrowed something of mine I need back. Just trying to find him.”

  The man started stuttering nervously and tried to close the door. “You g—got the wrong house. I ain’t never hearda Cory. Never s—seen you before neither.”

  But Sebastian, hand smarting from the sudden blaze of heat such falsehoods caused in his coin, opened the screen in time to get his toe in the door, keeping it from closing. “Come on, man. You’re lying, I know you’re lying, and now you know I know you’re lying. I’m not out to hurt anyone, I just want my stuff back. If he’s not here, where could I find him?”

  Slowly, the door opened wide enough for Fester to peer at him from the darkness within, silently considering Sebastian’s words. Finally he said, “I ain’t s—seen him in a spell, but if he shows, I’ll tell him you came l—lookin’. Best bet for findin’ him is same as always.” Fester tried again to shut the door, obviously assuming Sebastian knew what he meant. Unfortunately, Sebastian knew all too well, and his coin was too ambiguously warm to give him an excuse to grill the man any more.

  “Just give me a call if you hear from him, okay?” Sebastian said, keeping his foot in the door and holding out a piece of paper with his number on it. As Fester hesitantly extended his hand to take it, Sebastian noticed a fresh tattoo on the inside of his wrist forming the stylized letters “SLB.”

  Great, just what he needed in his life. Gangs.

  * * *

  Four nights and twice as many illegal gambling rooms later, Sebastian was not sure he’d be able to resist choking Cory to death when he finally found the little wretch. From pawnshops to drug-infested neighborhoods to alcohol-ridden back rooms, he was going through an enormous amount of trouble to find one alcoholic gambling addict. At times he considered giving up, mostly because he could barely stand the sorry lowlives he had to rub elbows with to find all of Cory’s favorite spots. Pretending to be one of them grated on all his sensibilities—not that he had many, but there were a few. He had to employ every ounce of charm, wit, and skullduggery he possessed to stay one step ahead. A few witchy tricks didn’t hurt, but he generally
tried to save those for when he really needed them. Unlike high and mighty wizards, who had a bottomless pit of magic to call on—the Source or whatever impressive-sounding name they used—his resources were limited. When you lived off tricks and favors, you learned to make do.

  Good ol’ Lil was the only decent wizard he’d met. He’d long ago decided it was because she hadn’t grown up being taught she was better than mundanes. She hadn’t even known she was a wizard until a few years before he met her. She was just a normal, shy southern gal and that was fine with him, mostly because her naiveté was so adorable. He’d considered asking for her help to find Cory but couldn’t bring himself to involve her in all this. She was just so innocent.

  Not like him, not after what he’d done as a teenager; he’d never been the same after that. Not that it wasn’t entirely his own fault. He knew he’d never be rid of his past, so he just cleaned up his act as best he could. His goal was to be someone his parents could be proud of, even if they’d never have approved of his methods. So what if his ancestors were rolling in their graves at the thought of a Blackwell being a witch? If he used his abilities for good, what did it matter? And getting back that artifact was definitely good, if the stories he’d overheard his father telling were any indicator.

  And so he relied on his street smarts as much as possible, pushing on from back room to back room. Yet watching the greed—or worse, the deadness—behind every pair of eyes he faced was almost more than he could take. It was the slow and inevitable knowledge that alcohol, drugs, and poverty were grinding their lives into dust and they’d given up caring.

  The problem with quitting was that the sorry, low-life addict he was looking for had once been a friend. The other problem was that said erstwhile friend had stolen a treasured family heirloom. Even if Sebastian wasn’t sure what it was or what to do with it, he had to get it back.

  The picture that finally started to form indicated Cory had not been seen for several weeks, which was odd for an addict. People with those kinds of habits tended to stick to a certain turf, and the fact that Cory had abandoned his meant one of two things: he was dead or he was hiding out. The tough part was finding out which. It was a toss-up, what with the number of people he came across who scowled at Cory’s name, muttering angrily at all the money he owed them.

  Yet there was one person who didn’t scowl, and that got Sebastian’s attention.

  * * *

  He was sitting at yet another bar, nursing yet another cheap beer. It wasn’t that he didn’t like alcohol, he was just more of a bourbon and spiced rum kind of guy. But he needed his wits about him, so watered-down beer it was. Light in the bar was almost nonexistent, making the whole establishment a dark den of smoke and hopeless faces, there to drown their sorrows and forget how awful their lives were. This wasn’t one of the back-room gambling houses, just a normal bar. But it was in a neighborhood known for illegal gambling and, according to the last place he’d visited, Cory’s favorite drinking spot. Personally, Sebastian didn’t get what his friend saw in the place. Everything was either chipped, bent, wobbly, or simply cheap, and there wasn’t even a pool table.

  The patrons looked no better. Being late in the evening—early in the morning, rather—only the faithful alcoholics and newbies so plastered they couldn’t find their way out were still around. Sebastian was scoping the place out by examining everyone’s reflection in the bar’s mirror, allowing him to stare at each person in turn without raising suspicion. To get information, he’d found it worked best to pick the loneliest-looking sod and strike up a conversation, making friends before bringing up Cory’s name. Or, even better, get friendly with the bartender.

  This place’s bartender was the kind he liked to get friendly with. Short and cute, but not so pretty that every guy in the bar would be glowering at his back if he spoke to her. She might have been called plain by some, but Sebastian could see she still had a bit of life behind her eyes and that made her appearance shine in a way no amount of curves or makeup could. It was rare in these sorts of places.

  He watched her surreptitiously as she cleaned glasses nearby. Finally judging the moment was right, he opened his mouth to deliver an irresistible one-liner, but she beat him to the chase.

  “Save it for the girl over at table nine. Figure she needs it more’n me,” she said, not even looking at him.

  He glanced in the mirror, estimating the target of her comment by the angle of her chin thrust. The woman at table nine did indeed look like she needed a pickup line, or really any line at all. But he was no knight in shining armor here to save a damsel in distress—even the thought made him snort. No, he was on a mission. So he took a sip of beer, hid a grimace, and tried again.

  “She might need it more than you, but I wasn’t looking for someone who needed it. Those are dime a dozen. I was looking for someone who deserved it.” He showed her his best charming smile, making sure it leaned more toward sincerity than flattery. She obviously didn’t respond to the latter and her comment indicated a dearth in her life of the former.

  It worked. Or at least, it got her to look at him, a small smile twitching her lips. “Well, ain’t you a sweetie. I’d almost believe you, too, if it weren’t the same line I wager you put to every pretty lady you talk to.” She bent to put away the glasses she’d finished drying, then straightened to start on more.

  “Well, since you’re honest enough to admit you’re pretty, but humble enough to know you’re not the only one, I think you can tell the difference between truth and a lie,” he countered, grinning. Taking another swig of beer, he casually withdrew his silver coin from his pocket and started rolling it back and forth over his knuckles, waiting for a reply.

  The girl grinned at his brashness and shook her head in amused disbelief but was called away by another customer before she could respond.

  Sebastian could wait. He sat patiently, playing with his coin and pretending to nurse his beer until she returned to cleaning glasses.

  Finally, she broke the silence. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  “Well, when your daddy owns the bar…” she trailed off, smiling at the slightly stricken look on Sebastian’s face. “Family’s all we got in these parts. Gotta be tighta than glue.”

  “You won that one,” he joked, holding up both hands in a sign of surrender and momentarily tucking his coin—still as cool as glass—between thumb and palm, before going back to walking it over his hand.

  “So you still ain’t answered my question. I’m curious now, ’cause only two kindsa people drink that stuff.” She indicated his beer bottle. “Poor folk an’ those too dumb to know betta. You don’t strike me as either.”

  Sebastian grinned. “What an astute mind you have. Since you ask, I’m looking for a friend. Not having much luck, either.”

  The girl lowered her eyes, focusing on the glass she was drying. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and careful. “Usually when people be looking for someone, they up to trouble. What kinda trouble you chasing down in my establishment?”

  Despite himself, Sebastian chuckled. “Ironically, you’re right in this case. The trouble I’m chasing down is called Cory, and if I ever get my hands on his sorry—” he stopped, seeing the girl glance up involuntarily at the sound of Cory’s name. But she immediately looked back down, hiding her expression. Changing tack, he sighed. “He’s caused me enough trouble I have every right to beat him black and blue. But if I could just know he’s safe and not lying in a ditch somewhere, I’d be happy.”

  “Sounds like y’all’ve had a rough time of it,” she said, probing cautiously.

  “You have no idea,” Sebastian said, about to lean back and drape his arm casually over the back of his chair before remembering he was on a barstool. He settled for leaning on one elbow, eyes on his marching coin while he watched the girl out of the corner of his eye. “We were high school buddies, but he’s done nothing but get himself into trouble si
nce then. We’re not real close, but I pull him out of the deep end now and then, if you know what I mean. Only, he’s gone missing and I’ve worried myself sick looking for him. Blond, scrawny guy who couldn’t punch through wet paper. Has a terrible gambling and drinking addiction.” Having had years to practice telling only the parts of the truth he wanted people to know, rather than outright lies, his coin stayed nice and cool as he recounted his woes to the pretty bartender.

  She seemed more interested in his story than was normal. Absentmindedly still drying the same glass over and over, she bit her lip. Her searching look made him even more certain she knew Cory, liked him, and was now trying to decide if it was safe to tell what she knew. What Cory could have done to gain the favor of a cute, smart girl in a tough place like this he had no idea. But it was nice to know he wasn’t the only person who cared if the idiot was alive or dead. He didn’t like the man, but he didn’t wish him harm. Well maybe a little harm, but nothing fatal.

  With deliberate motions, the girl finally put the thoroughly dry glass away and nodded. “I mighta seen a guy like that around. Not recently though. An’ that’s got me worried…” she paused, thinking. “Bar closes in thirty. Gimme a few after that to clean the place up, then meet me out front.”

  Though curious as to why they couldn’t talk then and there, he kept his mouth shut and nodded. Flipping his coin, he snatched it out of the air and stashed it back in his pocket. It had stayed cool through their entire conversation. So much truth was refreshing, but he liked what he heard less and less. The one person not angry with Cory was too nervous to talk about him in public. He wondered what Cory had gotten himself into.

  * * *

  At closing, Sebastian shuffled out with the rest of the sleepy or drunk patrons. While they dispersed up and down the sidewalk, he crossed the street and climbed into his car, locking the doors. With the closest street light unsurprisingly dark—the city had more important things to do than maintain streetlights, after all—Sebastian was able to slouch down in his seat and be confident no one looking at his car would see him. Usually an empty car in such a neighborhood would be in danger of a jacking. But Sebastian drove a beat-up clunker for that very reason. Keeping it full of trash and smelly pizza boxes helped too. Nobody wanted it but him, and that’s just the way he liked it.