tremendous, waiting as a massive fireball ready to explode. Justus had never encountered more raw talent.
Except for one.
Without conscious thought, Justus rubbed his throat and walked into his shop, his thoughts grim.
Chapter Six
B ert leaned back in the office chair and rolled the pencil between his fingers, his face scrunched in concentration.
“So, you are the ass—”
“Bert.”
“—coward,” Bert said without missing a beat, “who didn’t come to the lady’s rescue, and she is really pissed about it.”
Justus rubbed his face, wearily thinking of the turn his life had taken.
In the days that had followed, Justus watched the McIntyres become more confused as he treated Sable with indifference and she looked at him with distaste. It fixed the problem, but it still didn’t fit his sense of integrity, and it rankled. The barrier between them gave him the excuse to hold her at a distance. And the booming Internet business allowed her to stay as a valued employee. Any attempt on her part to mend their crappy relationship met with his cold, frozen expression. After a few days, she didn’t try to be friendly and ignored him.
It appeared to be an excellent solution all around.
So why did he feel so irritated?
The signature of the hunters had disappeared. He figured as far as they knew, their quarry was gone, vanished into the throng of humans. Justus made excuses to bump into Sable, touch her hand, or brush her shoulder. It was similar to what he did to relieve Maggie’s pain, but with a big difference. With every touch, he extended his safety net and ward stone effects, covering Sable with obscurity. Justus warded the area around the McIntyre house, infusing a patio bench with fixed magic. In slow draughts, it released the magic to cover her and the area around her. He visited the McIntyres often and refreshed the warding, sneaking out to the garden when he was alone.
He felt secure enough to leave, and several road trips later, he had enough junk from estate auctions to build up his inventory and satisfy client lists. The last auction was especially productive, with purchases of blue and mint-green Depression glass, a creamer and sugar bowl of a china pattern requested by a buyer, several unique pieces of dragonware or moriage , and many boxes of potential treasures.
And one smooth oval moonstone.
Justus dug into his pocket. “Here,” he said. He flipped the rock at Bert, who dropped the pencil to make a fumbling catch.
Bert turned the stone over, looking for markings. It was dull gray-blue, unpolished and unmarked. His wide, expectant smile turned into a frown as he flipped the rock over again, and then he looked at Justus. “So? Looks like another fuc—”
“Bert,” Justus warned.
“—rock to me,” Bert continued smoothly. He handed it back to Justus.
“It was in a box of rocks advertised as collectibles, a box of mica, quartz, granite, and”—Justus held the oval rock up—“one moonstone with an attitude.”
Bert whistled and held his hand out. Justus flipped the stone into his waiting hands again.
“No kidding. What did it do?”
“It told me to get the fuc—”
Bert’s mouth twitched.
“—the hell away. Then it threatened to, I don’t know, eat my fingers or something.”
The boy froze and stopped rubbing the smooth surface of the stone.
Justus held his grin. “Don’t worry, I took care of it.”
It had snarled evil things, promising dire consequences if he touched it. Well, boy, howdy, how could he resist checking out an invitation like that?
It was a nasty little bugger. Around a human, it could cause subtle fits of depression, infecting them for its entertainment. When Justus wasn’t impressed and even snickered at the threats, it spread its nasty influence into the crowd, inciting a bidding war for the mostly worthless box of rocks. After allowing it to escalate to three-times its worth, Justus shrugged and threw a shield around the box. It negated the
Except for one.
Without conscious thought, Justus rubbed his throat and walked into his shop, his thoughts grim.
Chapter Six
B ert leaned back in the office chair and rolled the pencil between his fingers, his face scrunched in concentration.
“So, you are the ass—”
“Bert.”
“—coward,” Bert said without missing a beat, “who didn’t come to the lady’s rescue, and she is really pissed about it.”
Justus rubbed his face, wearily thinking of the turn his life had taken.
In the days that had followed, Justus watched the McIntyres become more confused as he treated Sable with indifference and she looked at him with distaste. It fixed the problem, but it still didn’t fit his sense of integrity, and it rankled. The barrier between them gave him the excuse to hold her at a distance. And the booming Internet business allowed her to stay as a valued employee. Any attempt on her part to mend their crappy relationship met with his cold, frozen expression. After a few days, she didn’t try to be friendly and ignored him.
It appeared to be an excellent solution all around.
So why did he feel so irritated?
The signature of the hunters had disappeared. He figured as far as they knew, their quarry was gone, vanished into the throng of humans. Justus made excuses to bump into Sable, touch her hand, or brush her shoulder. It was similar to what he did to relieve Maggie’s pain, but with a big difference. With every touch, he extended his safety net and ward stone effects, covering Sable with obscurity. Justus warded the area around the McIntyre house, infusing a patio bench with fixed magic. In slow draughts, it released the magic to cover her and the area around her. He visited the McIntyres often and refreshed the warding, sneaking out to the garden when he was alone.
He felt secure enough to leave, and several road trips later, he had enough junk from estate auctions to build up his inventory and satisfy client lists. The last auction was especially productive, with purchases of blue and mint-green Depression glass, a creamer and sugar bowl of a china pattern requested by a buyer, several unique pieces of dragonware or moriage , and many boxes of potential treasures.
And one smooth oval moonstone.
Justus dug into his pocket. “Here,” he said. He flipped the rock at Bert, who dropped the pencil to make a fumbling catch.
Bert turned the stone over, looking for markings. It was dull gray-blue, unpolished and unmarked. His wide, expectant smile turned into a frown as he flipped the rock over again, and then he looked at Justus. “So? Looks like another fuc—”
“Bert,” Justus warned.
“—rock to me,” Bert continued smoothly. He handed it back to Justus.
“It was in a box of rocks advertised as collectibles, a box of mica, quartz, granite, and”—Justus held the oval rock up—“one moonstone with an attitude.”
Bert whistled and held his hand out. Justus flipped the stone into his waiting hands again.
“No kidding. What did it do?”
“It told me to get the fuc—”
Bert’s mouth twitched.
“—the hell away. Then it threatened to, I don’t know, eat my fingers or something.”
The boy froze and stopped rubbing the smooth surface of the stone.
Justus held his grin. “Don’t worry, I took care of it.”
It had snarled evil things, promising dire consequences if he touched it. Well, boy, howdy, how could he resist checking out an invitation like that?
It was a nasty little bugger. Around a human, it could cause subtle fits of depression, infecting them for its entertainment. When Justus wasn’t impressed and even snickered at the threats, it spread its nasty influence into the crowd, inciting a bidding war for the mostly worthless box of rocks. After allowing it to escalate to three-times its worth, Justus shrugged and threw a shield around the box. It negated the
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