Read Online A Shot in the Dark by K. A. Stewart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: K. A. Stewart
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doorway, the hairs on my arms standing at attention. I waved my hand back and forth through the open space once or twice, feeling a distinct barrier glide up and down my arm. I recognized that sensation; I felt it every day when I went in and out of my own house. It was the feeling of magical wards, a protective spell set up to keep the bad things out and the good things safe.
Trying to be casual, I bent down to tie my boot and rubbed a finger across the floor. It felt faintly gritty. Salt, maybe? Mira used salt sometimes. Or it could have been just plain old street dirt. Only one way to be sure, and in this neighborhood, there was no way I was gonna taste it. It could just as easily be meth or rat poison, too.
If Cameron noticed my sudden distraction, he didn’t say, only gathering up his stuff with quiet efficiency. “How long a drive is it going to be?”
“Um . . . normally, about ten hours. But Marty had to bring his dog, so I imagine we’ll be stopping more often.”
There was no way to tell who set those wards. They could have been left by the previous owner, for all I knew. Once you knew what to look for, it’s actually amazing how many people manifest some basic magical ability without truly realizing it. And Mira had said that thresholds were the easiest things in the world to ward. Granted, without someone to keep them up, they’d fade away eventually, but if the previous owner hadn’t been gone very long . . . maybe . . .
Still, maybe I needed to pay more attention to my new “friend.” I stood up and turned a critical eye on the man, and his apartment.
Cameron himself looked obsessively neat. His dark hair was gelled into very fashionable (I’m sure) spikes. He had on jeans that were obviously brand-new, and a pair of hiking boots that probably just came straight out of the box. That was going to cost him some blisters on this hike. His shirt was still a button-up, but in plaid this time. Next to my I LIKE YOU, I’LL KILL YOU LAST T-shirt, he looked positively refined.
Aside from him, there wasn’t much to see. The apartment was largely empty, even for a bachelor’s pad. The carpet was typical renter brown, worn and matted from years of foot traffic. The linoleum at the front door was some generic shade of hide-the-dirt.
There was a lawn chair in what passed for the living room, and one of those do-it-yourself coffee tables. That small piece of furniture was covered in neat piles of books, but the only one I could see well was the enormous Bible on the top of the stack.
There was no TV, and I couldn’t see into the tiny kitchen to see if there were any dishes in the sink. Through what I assumed was the bedroom door, I could see an inflatable air mattress, bare of any sheets. No posters. No pictures. No half-broken beer light on the wall. No smell. Every lived-in place has its own smell, the scent of the person who lives there, of their food and their cologne and the mustiness of their books. This place was sterile, untouched except for the faint aroma of whatever cleaner they’d scrubbed the place down with between tenants.
This wasn’t a bachelor’s apartment. This was the apartment of someone who expected to bail on short notice.
“Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?” Cam shouldered his backpack, and apparently noticed my critique of his home. “Right before I moved, there was a fire. Lost everything.”
“That sucks, man. A car wreck, then a fire? What universal power did you piss off?” It didn’t . . . feel right. I had no reason to think the man was lying to me, and yet . . .
“I know, right? But hey, it saved me on moving costs.” He grinned and shrugged. It was charming, disarming . . . and something cold slithered across the back of my neck. Not quite my danger sense blaring, but it was at least perking up and taking notice. Hm.
“Always look on the bright side, I guess.” I led the way back out the door, watching as Cam stopped to lock it behind us.
There was no pause
Trying to be casual, I bent down to tie my boot and rubbed a finger across the floor. It felt faintly gritty. Salt, maybe? Mira used salt sometimes. Or it could have been just plain old street dirt. Only one way to be sure, and in this neighborhood, there was no way I was gonna taste it. It could just as easily be meth or rat poison, too.
If Cameron noticed my sudden distraction, he didn’t say, only gathering up his stuff with quiet efficiency. “How long a drive is it going to be?”
“Um . . . normally, about ten hours. But Marty had to bring his dog, so I imagine we’ll be stopping more often.”
There was no way to tell who set those wards. They could have been left by the previous owner, for all I knew. Once you knew what to look for, it’s actually amazing how many people manifest some basic magical ability without truly realizing it. And Mira had said that thresholds were the easiest things in the world to ward. Granted, without someone to keep them up, they’d fade away eventually, but if the previous owner hadn’t been gone very long . . . maybe . . .
Still, maybe I needed to pay more attention to my new “friend.” I stood up and turned a critical eye on the man, and his apartment.
Cameron himself looked obsessively neat. His dark hair was gelled into very fashionable (I’m sure) spikes. He had on jeans that were obviously brand-new, and a pair of hiking boots that probably just came straight out of the box. That was going to cost him some blisters on this hike. His shirt was still a button-up, but in plaid this time. Next to my I LIKE YOU, I’LL KILL YOU LAST T-shirt, he looked positively refined.
Aside from him, there wasn’t much to see. The apartment was largely empty, even for a bachelor’s pad. The carpet was typical renter brown, worn and matted from years of foot traffic. The linoleum at the front door was some generic shade of hide-the-dirt.
There was a lawn chair in what passed for the living room, and one of those do-it-yourself coffee tables. That small piece of furniture was covered in neat piles of books, but the only one I could see well was the enormous Bible on the top of the stack.
There was no TV, and I couldn’t see into the tiny kitchen to see if there were any dishes in the sink. Through what I assumed was the bedroom door, I could see an inflatable air mattress, bare of any sheets. No posters. No pictures. No half-broken beer light on the wall. No smell. Every lived-in place has its own smell, the scent of the person who lives there, of their food and their cologne and the mustiness of their books. This place was sterile, untouched except for the faint aroma of whatever cleaner they’d scrubbed the place down with between tenants.
This wasn’t a bachelor’s apartment. This was the apartment of someone who expected to bail on short notice.
“Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?” Cam shouldered his backpack, and apparently noticed my critique of his home. “Right before I moved, there was a fire. Lost everything.”
“That sucks, man. A car wreck, then a fire? What universal power did you piss off?” It didn’t . . . feel right. I had no reason to think the man was lying to me, and yet . . .
“I know, right? But hey, it saved me on moving costs.” He grinned and shrugged. It was charming, disarming . . . and something cold slithered across the back of my neck. Not quite my danger sense blaring, but it was at least perking up and taking notice. Hm.
“Always look on the bright side, I guess.” I led the way back out the door, watching as Cam stopped to lock it behind us.
There was no pause
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