Read Online Spellbound by Kelley Armstrong - Free Book Online Page B

cheeks flushed faintly, like she hoped that was true, but hadn’t dared presume. But Holly had been as close to a “friend” as my mom got. As a child I’d met very few of my mother’s associates. She kept that part of her life private to protect me. Every time we passed through Vegas, though, we’d stop in to visit Holly. When she’d reached out a couple of years ago, I’d been genuinely happy to hear from her.
    â€œAnd Wanda was your friend,” I said. “When she died, you sent a message to the council, saying you thought she’d been killed by a witch-hunter.”
    Holly’s blue eyes snapped at the memory. The council had been polite, but they’d refused to investigate. That’s when Paige’s mother had been in charge.
    The council record of Wanda’s death was barely a paragraph long, noting the date, the complainant, the nature of the complaint, and the grounds for refusal, namely that witch-hunters didn’t exist.
    Now I got the full story.
    Wanda had been living in Tucson. She was a dark witch who’d dabbled in the black market. The kind of supernatural that the council wouldn’t harass, but wouldn’t be particularly sorry to hear had passed.
    In the week before she died, Wanda complained to Holly that she was being followed. No proof. Just a feeling. Then Holly came home to a message on her answering machine from Wanda, who said she’d finally caught a glimpse of her stalker. It was a girl, barely out of her teens. Wanda snapped a picture and faxed it to Holly, to pass around her network, see if anyone recognized the girl.
    Holly called back to discuss it with Wanda. No reply. When Wanda didn’t return messages for two days, Holly sent her ayumi to Tucson, where he discovered Wanda dead in her bathtub, the victim of an apparent slip and fall.
    â€œWhich was ridiculous,” Holly said. “She had osteoarthritis. Bending her knees for a bath was torture. She’d had a fancy separate shower installed.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you still have the photo she faxed you?” Adam said.
    She did.

    If the mousy girl in the photo wasn’t related to my witch-hunter, I’d . . . well, I’d say I’d give up my spells, but it was a little late for that.
    The original picture quality wasn’t great—technology has come a long way in fifteen years—but it was decent enough for me to scan onto my laptop. As we drove the rental car to Arizona, I fussed with the photo, making it sharper, then sent it to our phones.
    â€œIt’s getting too late to make any headway in Phoenix,” Adam said. “I say we swing over to New Mexico instead and pay Walter Alston a visit tonight.”
    I looked over at him. He changed lanes to pass a truck, his gaze fixed on the highway.
    â€œThank you.”
    He shrugged. “We need to check out this ‘Free the Supernaturals’ movement, and we’re in the area already . . .”
    â€œWhich is not why we’re going.”
    He drove another mile in silence, then said, “I want to find out what happened to your powers, Savannah. It’s not my top priority right now but . . .”
    He glanced over, then away, shrugging again.
    But it’s yours. That was the part he didn’t say.
    I knew his top priority was keeping me safe. There was a weird sort of comfort in that.
    â€œThink you can drive for a while?” he asked.
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œI could use a break. Let’s grab some burgers, then you can drive to Albuquerque if you’re up to it.”
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    I pulled off the interstate in Albuquerque and followed the GPS directions to Walter Alston’s address. I’d bought a navigation app for Adam’s iPhone last Christmas, after we’d had one too many arguments over directions. Now we could argue with the GPS instead.
    â€œSo are you going to call your dad and tell him we’re visiting his