Demons and DNA (Amplifier 1) Read online

  Instead, I had chatted with the locals, and now I was wandering home, soaking up the late-summer sun and thinking about a completely impractical teacup.

  Because it was just … that I wanted. I wanted the teacup. I wanted it to be mine. To exist in my house.

  And damn it if I didn’t want the sorcerer and all the danger that came with him too.

  But I wasn’t just making decisions for me. I was responsible for Christopher and Paisley. They kept me anchored and focused, and I kept them safe. It was an even trade.

  The sidewalk disappeared as I passed beyond the core of the town. I kept to the gravel edge of the road, picking up my pace.

  About five minutes away from the house, a truck roared up behind me. Its speed increased as it neared.

  I glanced back. A rising wind caught my hair, spreading it like a great red sail.

  An older-model blue Ford.

  Peter Grant’s vehicle.

  He’d been waiting for me. I varied my schedule enough that he didn’t manage to drive by every time I went into town, but he had shown up far too regularly over the previous three months for it to be a chance encounter.

  Even though Hannah hadn’t pressed charges in the end, Peter Grant wasn’t pleased that I’d gone into the woods beside his property and come out with her, beaten and broken. The beating had been courtesy of his son, Tyler, who had fled town after getting hit on the head with a rock and losing track of Hannah. She’d broken her ankle during her flight into the forest.

  As far as anyone but me and Jenni Raymond knew, Tyler had never returned to Lake Cowichan.

  His father blamed me. And he was right, of course. Tyler would regret it if he ever came near Hannah again — a fact I’d made abundantly clear when I literally scared the piss out of him after he’d finally resurfaced, begging for Hannah’s forgiveness. Hannah had thankfully been out of town at the time, and the perimeter spell Christopher and I had set up at her apartment and the thrift shop had done its job. I had put the fear into Tyler, and then the shapeshifter had run him out of town.

  It could have gone worse for him.

  I had no idea whether Tyler had told his father what happened, though I suspected he wasn’t keen to mention having been intimidated by two women to anyone. As such, it seemed most likely that Peter Grant was simply responding to my role in the initial events, and the fact that he wasn’t similarly fixated on Christopher spoke volumes.

  Peter Grant hated me because I was a woman. He’d instilled the same prejudice in his son. For three months, he’d been contemplating killing me, running me down in his old blue Ford pickup, because I needed to be shown my place.

  I turned my back to the approaching vehicle, slowly angling my path to allow more of the gravel shoulder to lie between me and the road. I’d hear the crunch as soon as the truck dipped off the pavement.

  This was Peter’s fifth try at running me down.

  But he didn’t have the courage to actually go through with it.

  I couldn’t survive a direct hit from a large truck going sixty or more kilometers an hour. I could, however, dodge if I saw it coming.

  And I wanted him to try.

  I really, really wanted him to try.

  I wanted to leap out of the path of the vehicle — or better still, fake being hit. I wanted him to stop, to see if I was dead. And then I’d chase him into the woods myself.

  That was fair, wasn’t it?

  If he tried to kill me, I could kill him?

  That seemed logical. Though it would draw far too much attention. And I couldn’t really claim that I’d killed him without magic, because the only reason that I — a so-called amplifier — was strong enough that I could get sideswiped by a car, then beat a large man to death in the aftermath, was because of the magic I’d drained from others. Magic I had permanently taken for myself, for my own use. Under orders. But that still made me a murderer. Or —

  The Ford blew by me, tires right at the edge of the road. My hair and dress were buffeted by the wind as it passed.

  Coward.

  The truck continued up the road.

  I would have to deal with Peter Grant eventually.

  Or at least I would if I was staying.

  But I wasn’t.

  I couldn’t.

  The fence at the edge of our property came into view. The grass, long and brown from the hot, dry summer, stretched back toward the drive, the barn, and the house. The fence needed to be repaired. That was on my list. The house to-do list. But a fence wouldn’t keep out whatever the appearance of the sorcerer heralded. If I ran, it wouldn’t get fixed.

  A sharp pain bloomed in my upper left chest. I gasped, pressing my hand against a nonexistent wound.

  What was that?

  Grief?

  I exhaled in a harsh hiss, shoving my useless thoughts away, along with my irrational reaction.

  I knew what I had to do. I always knew. There was no debate.

  The shadows cast by the tree line to my right shifted. A large pit bull stepped out, slipping across the ditch to pad alongside me.

  Well, she currently looked like a large pit bull.

  “Paisley.” I lightly brushed my fingers through the blue fur on the top of her broad, flat head, taking comfort in the contact. I allowed myself that comfort, let it shore up my resolve.

  Paisley pressed her nose into the palm of my hand, then hinged her massive maw open in a deadly smile filled with double rows of sharp teeth. Even when maintaining her large pit bull form, Paisley could swap out aspects of her demon half at will — the double teeth, the blazing red eyes, the mane of tentacles.

  Together, we approached the top of the gravel driveway, pausing at the white-painted, red-roofed farm stand. It was empty except for a single bouquet of red, pink, and orange dahlias. Christopher had put together over a dozen bouquets earlier that morning, setting them out alongside a dozen cartons of eggs and various containers of tomatoes and everbearing strawberries. The locals cleared out the stand daily, even though most of them had gardens and chickens themselves.

  Unable to stop myself from continuing to act like an idiot, I reached up and touched the carving of an owl on the sign above the stand. I hadn’t known it when the sign first appeared, but Hannah’s aunt had carved and painted it, naming the property White Owl Farm. Some of the locals had banded together and fixed up the old stand after Hannah’s rescue. Whatever Christopher set out in the mornings sold out before noon most days.

  I took the bouquet of flowers. Dialing the combination into the lock on the slotted cashbox, I took the money within, stuffing it into the pocket of my dress. Water from the flowers dripped down my hand and wrist. I let it.

  That ping of pain in my upper chest returned. I ignored it.

  Leaving the gate open so I didn’t have to get out once we had the car packed, I headed down the drive toward the house.

  I’d had all the repairs the house had needed done before we moved in, communicating with the various trades through the real estate agents, Mary and Brett Davis. The property had been for sale for seven years previously, the gardens fallow for five years, and the house empty for two years after the previous owners died. The lone resident had been the caretaker, who maintained a suite in the converted hayloft of the barn.

  The main residence and the suite had been repainted white, inside and out, and I’d had the roof of the house replaced with red metal. The fir flooring had been sanded and varnished. Most of the furniture had been left by the previous owners after being picked over by various relatives. I still hadn’t gotten around to filling all the rooms, except for new mattresses and bedding. Christopher had insisted on having all the bedrooms, including the suite, ready for guests. I had no intention of allowing anyone near the clairvoyant long enough to stay overnight, but it was easier to not fight over such things ahead of time. Especially if it made him happy.

  The kitchen had been fully renovated. For Christopher, who loved to cook.

  I’d never spent so much mo
ney so quickly, not since buying the 1967 light-blue Mustang convertible that was currently parked in the open barn.

  Christopher’s magic had returned about a year and a half after we’d destroyed the Collective’s compound. Up to that point, it had been easier to stay off the radar and find low-paying jobs in cities. But when his magic came back, it became apparent that Christopher didn’t do well surrounded by people. So I had risked raising my profile a bit to take on a number of magical contracts, quickly building a reputation as an amplifier who was willing to take any job as long as the pay was amenable.

  I had earned more on my first contract than Christopher and I had earned combined in three years of cleaning houses and washing dishes. My third and fourth contract jobs bought the property, paid for the renovations, and left us some money for extras. And the fifth contract meant that with the right investments, I shouldn’t have any need to work for at least another few years.

  Which was good, because for that fifth contract, I had nearly sacrificed my freedom and exposed both of us.

  The Mustang might have been a completely frivolous purchase. But I had seen it and I had wanted it, though I had no idea why. It simply looked like freedom to me. The property wasn’t frivolous, though. It was completely and utterly practical.

  The long gravel drive was lined with flowers — once-overgrown dahlias and roses, all brought back to health by Christopher. I paused three-quarters of the way down the drive, casting my gaze to the left, beyond the barn and beside the house.

  I could see Christopher moving among the tall tomato plants, his pale-blond hair a beacon among all the green.

  I felt rooted to the spot, when I should have been striding across the yard and into the gardens. I should have been telling Christopher that we needed to leave.

  Paisley wandered ahead of me, skulking around the house in the hopes of startling the chickens because she wasn’t allowed to eat them. Or perhaps she was simply intent on stealing eggs.

  I walked to the house instead of the garden, climbing the front stairs, crossing the patio, and stepping inside. I closed the wooden door behind me, feeling the cool of the house slide over me.

  I crossed back through the long hall into the kitchen.

  I emptied my pockets of the money, leaving it in a tidy pile on the corner of the gray-speckled white quartz counter of the kitchen island. I set the shirts from Hannah and the pastries from Melissa there as well.

  I put the flowers in a clear mason jar from the batch that Christopher had slowly been filling with canned tomatoes, adding water. The pantry was full of his meticulously preserved bounty. The plums had started to ripen, and the apples would be next.

  With the jar in hand and dripping water on the white tile floor, I crossed through the kitchen, past the eating area. I opened the French-paned doors onto the back patio. I stood there, still one step inside the house, and looked out. At the brown grass and the garden that Christopher had created from dirt and seeds.

  I stepped forward, setting the flowers on the wide railing. Their color was a sharp contrast to the white of the house’s exterior, made even sharper by the vibrant green of the garden behind. Photo worthy.

  Except … I didn’t collect photos of my life.

  That wasn’t because magic could sometimes adversely affect technology, because my magic didn’t. I didn’t have any photos because nothing … nothing until this point in my life had ever been a memory I wanted to collect. Because I’d spent the previous six years running. And before that, I hadn’t been a real person, with wants and needs. I’d been a tool. Bred to follow orders, to lead a team of four other magically potent, genetically enhanced people to do the same. Together, we were simply known as the Five, an unrelentingly vicious arm of the Collective.

  I hadn’t even had a name. Just a designation.

  Amp5.

  Christopher had been Cla5.

  The other three were Nul5, Tel5, and Tek5.

  Paisley had just been a genetic experiment, a combination of demon and dog, bound to the Five by blood.

  But that wasn’t who or what we were anymore.

  “It could just be a coincidence,” I said, voicing the improbability out loud. “A conversation couldn’t hurt.”

  It would eat into our head start. But if the sorcerer had intended to flush me out, he’d already found me. And he was no match for me, no match even for Paisley or Christopher alone. A single sorcerer was no match for the likes of any of us, especially not as drained as he was.

  I spun back into the kitchen, jogging through the house.

  The Mustang was parked by the front steps with its top down. Christopher, anticipating me, had already pulled it out from the barn. Paisley was seated in the passenger seat. The clairvoyant, feet bare, dressed in dirty jeans and T-shirt, leaned against the front bumper.

  I slowed, gently clicking the door shut behind me.

  Christopher raised his head. The white of his magic rimmed his eyes, simmering but not full-blown.

  “I don’t want to go,” he said.

  I traversed the steps slowly, giving him time to elaborate. To tell me what he’d seen of my immediate future.

  He didn’t.

  “Go where?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Into one of the five contingency plans I’m certain you have ready. By land, sea, or air. Though we’re running out of west coast.”

  I had picked west as a direction to flee in when the Five parted ways, knowing we’d draw more attention together than apart. But Christopher had needed to come with one of us. His clairvoyance was unpredictable, even debilitating. It would consume him one day. He and Paisley had chosen to come with me.

  As they would if I ran now.

  As they would if I dragged them away from everything we’d tried to build.

  “Paisley agrees with me,” Christopher said. “We want to stay.”

  “I know. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  He snorted.

  “I’m just going to have a conversation,” I said.

  Christopher tossed the car keys up in the air, catching and tossing them again. “Yes, you are.”

  “And why is Paisley in the car?”

  A grin spread across Christopher’s face, more devious than his outwardly angelic appearance. The appearance that had beguiled Hannah Stewart so. “You aren’t that great with —”

  “People?”

  “Conversation.”

  “And Paisley is?”

  He laughed. “You’re going to need her, Socks.” He dangled the keys from his fingertips.

  I stepped forward, placing my open palm beneath them. He dropped the keys. They were warm.

  “I’m not packing,” he said. “I’m going to pick some zucchini and tomatoes, then I’m going to make us dinner.”

  “You should already be packed,” I said caustically.

  He shrugged again. “What would be the point of dragging any part of our lives with us? If we run now, after deciding to try to settle, we’ll always be running.”

  “And if we don’t run and the Collective is coming for us?”

  The white of his magic flooded across his eyes. The power prickled across my face, neck, and shoulders, but I refused to step back, to give way.

  He smiled. “Have your conversation, Socks. I’ll be setting a fourth plate for dinner.”

  “No one will be joining the three of us for dinner.”

  He laughed, pushed off the car, and wandered toward the gardens.

  I hissed, annoyed, but Christopher was choosy about what glimpses of the future he shared. Even after so many years, that was still a new thing for him — having a choice to speak rather than speaking at the expectation of his handlers.

  The future was in constant motion. Christopher could steer it, but sometimes he saw only pieces. He’d told me more than once that sometimes I moved left instead of the step right he’d seen. And then everything reorganized and reset around me, rendering whatever he’d seen moot, so there was no point in mentioning
it.

  I climbed into the car, eyeing Paisley. “Don’t eat anyone.”

  She blinked at me, feigning innocence.

  “Christopher,” I yelled after the clairvoyant’s retreating back. “Text Jenni Raymond. Tell her I’m coming for the sorcerer.”

  He waved over his shoulder, not turning back to question me. So he’d already seen the sorcerer, had seen the coming conversation. He’d alluded to as much, even though I actually had no idea what I was about to say.

  I looked at Paisley as I started the car. It came alive with a satisfying roar of power. I executed a three-point turn, heading up the drive to retrace my route back into town. Except I was going to the RCMP station this time.

  “I hope the fourth plate isn’t for Officer Raymond.”

  Paisley snorted her derision agreeably.

  Chapter 2

  I pulled into one of the three empty visitor spaces adjacent to the single level, brown-metal-sided RCMP building, parking as far back from the front doors as I could. The six-space parking lot at the side of the building held two cruisers — the SUV Jenni Raymond drove and a pickup. The station was situated one block south of the main thoroughfare of Cowichan Lake Road, but I could still see the slow-moving traffic cutting through town and the bus stop at the corner.

  I shut off the Mustang, then sat there for a while, running through all the questions I wanted to ask the sorcerer. All the questions I couldn’t really ask without exposing large chunks of my own past. I wasn’t clever enough. I wasn’t skilled enough in the manipulation that appeared to be common practice among other people. Word games, wordplay, innuendo.

  Even if the sorcerer hadn’t been dropped in Lake Cowichan to draw me out, he had no reason to keep my secrets. In fact, even with no connection to the Collective, he could only benefit — monetarily and magically — by outing me to them.

  And yes, I still believed the Collective existed. In some form. We might have destroyed the compound, along with all their research. We might have vanquished the black witch, Silver Pine, who had decided the Five were expendable for reasons that still weren’t fully clear to me. But —