Kelly Armstrong - Otherworld 3 - Dime Store Magic

Kelley Armstrong - Dime Store Magic

DIME STORE MAGIC

Women of Otherworld Book 3

By

Kelley Armstrong

CONTENTS

Prologue

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

Dime Store Magic

Smart, sexy, and supernatural:

meet the women of the Otherworld.

It's not just about vampires anymore…

Kelly

Armstrong

DON'T MISS

KELLEY ARMSTRONG'S

NEWEST BOOK IN

THE WOMEN OF THE

OTHERWORLD SERIES

INDUSTRIAL

MAGIC

Coming soon from

Bantam Books

And her other titles in this series featuring werewolf Elena Michaels

BANTAM BOOKS

BITTEN

STOLEN

Praise for Kelly Armstrong

BITTEN

"[T]his debut novel from a Canadian writer proves that solid storytelling and

confident craftsmanship can rejuvenate one of the hoariest of all horror

clichés… Armstrong's true achievement is her depiction of werewolf nature in

believably human context… The sensuality of Elena's transformations and the

viciousness of her kills mesh perfectly with her tough personality…

Filled with romance and supernatural intrigue, this book will surely remind

readers of Anne Rice's sophisticated refurbishings of the vampire story."

—Publishers Weekly

"It's terrific. The heroine is the most appealing I have come across in ages.

It's clever, quirky, hip and funny, skating between genres with style and

grace.

More, please!"

—Joanne Harris, author of Chocolat

"With a howl, Kelley Armstrong's Bitten plunges headlong into a murderous

plot

rife with violence, lust and intrigue… Armstrong has created a breathless,

sexy

story… gorgeous and grotesque in the best sense of the word. Rumors of a

sequel

have never been better news."

—Boulder Weekly

"Kelley Armstrong's debut novel, Bitten, combines hints of the strong

decadent

sexuality and cool-outsider mystique of Interview with the Vampire with the

creepy hominess of Stephen King… Realistic details… complement a convincing

portrait of werewolf society and its intricate codes of behavior… Bitten will

satisfy genre fans and those who like their thrills served up with literary

savvy."

—Quill & Quire

"It's as smooth as cream all the way, sure to gain fans."

—Kirkus Reviews

"There's nothing overtly gothic about this fast-paced, sexy thriller and its

model contemporary heroine—it's just that she's a werewolf who is trying to

make

a go of things among humans. When her pack is threatened by a new group of

violent psychotic werewolves she is drawn back into the old ways."

—Bookseller

"Brings a new brand of ferocity to horror literature… Bitten is a

lightning-paced, violent and completely readable entertainment that

entertains

loudly and abundantly."

—The Hamilton Spectator

"Wicked writing gets noticed, and first-time novelist Kelley Armstrong has

written a deliciously wicked book… This is no ordinary werewolf tale, but a

werewolf mystery with a huge dollop of romance thrown in."

—Toronto Star

"The plot of Bitten has echoes of the best crime thrillers… the story is fast

and entertaining. But what makes the novel so gripping is Armstrong's talent

for

vivid description and her interest in both the sensuality and psychology of

werewolfhood, a fascination that greatly enhances the world she creates while

never slowing down the break-neck plot. At every turn, her depiction of

physical

sensation is precise and compelling.... Surely one of the sexiest, most

energetic novels published in a long time… [A] Canadian mother of three who

hails from rural southwestern Ontario has created a smart, original thriller,

destined to keep people reading on into the night."

—The Gazette

"Armstrong has a definite talent for sensual descriptions. The wolf creatures

are vividly created in gestures and behaviour, and most of the sexual

encounters

would knock one's socks off (not to mention other things)."

—National Post

"Bitten is hip and postmodern___Those who enjoy the vampire books of Anne

Rice,

or Canadian vampire writer Nancy Kilpatrick, will love it."

—Globe and Mail

"A very contemporary, funky supernatural thriller with a particularly

provocative heroine."

—Hello

"A hair-raising story for the she-wolf in us all."

—Shannon Olson, author of Welcome to my Planet

"Entertaining new take on an old thriller story form. Makes Buffy look

fluffy."

—Daily Express

"A tasty confection of werewolves, sex and vendettas—After the first nibble

it's

quite hard to stop… Elena and her acid repartee successfully steal the show

throughout, she has bags of charm. Gory, sexy fun."

—SFX

"Good slick fun; expect the television series soon."

—Guardian

Praise for Kelley Armstrong's

STOLEN

"Elena Michaels, the only known female werewolf, cavorts on a more fully

cultivated supernatural playing field in this sure-footed sequel to Bitten…

[Stolen is] a prison-break story spiffed up with magic.... Armstrong leavens

the

narrative with brisk action and intriguing dollops of werewolf culture that

suggest a complex and richly imagined anthropologic back story. The sassy,

pumped-up Elena makes a perfect hardboiled horror heroine.... This novel will

please not only horror fans but also mainstream readers who like strong

female

characters."

—Publishers Weekly

"In Stolen, Kelley Armstrong delivers a taut, sensual thriller that grips

from

the first page.

Elena Michaels is at once sublime and sympathetic, a modern heroine who shows

that real women bite back."

—Karin Slaughter, New York Times bestselling author of Blindsighted and

Kisscut

"Like Bitten, Stolen paints a perfectly convincing portrait of a woman who

quite

literally runs with the wolves… Armstrong has created a persuasive, finely

detailed otherworldly cosmology—featuring sorcery, astral projection, spells,

telepathy and teleportation—that meshes perfectly with the more humdrum world

of

interstate highways and cable news bulletins… More than just a thriller with

extra teeth, Stolen is for anyone who has ever longed to leap over an SUV in

a

single bound, or to rip an evil security force to shreds, or even just to

growl

convincingly."

—Quill & Quire

"The narrative veers between clever, scholarly distinctions among different

sorts of magical powers, and a lot of action movie-style sex and violence…

What's interesting are the twists and turns along the way, boosted by bits of

philosophy and arcane knowledge Armstrong adds to her strange brew… We meet

enough truly entertaining creatures along the way to make us wish that this

will

not be the last romp for Elena and her pack."

—The Toronto Star

"Armstrong is a clever writer… [and Stolen] grabs you at the outset."

—Winnipeg Free Press

"Stolen is a delicious cocktail of testosterone and wicked humour… Too

earnest

to attempt parody, [Armstrong's] take on the well-travelled world of

supernatural beings is witty and original. She's at her best when examining

the

all-too-human dilemmas of being superhuman… [Stolen] bubbles with the kind of

dramatic invention that bodes well for a long and engrossing series…

This can only be good news for the growing Michaels fan club."

—The Globe and Mail

"Mesmerizing… the 'other-worldly' atmosphere conjured up by Armstrong begins

to

seem strangely real. Armstrong is a talented and original writer whose

inventiveness and sense of the bizarre is arresting."

—London Free Press

Also by Kelley Armstrong

Stolen

Bitten

DIME STORE MAGIC

KELLEY ARMSTRONG

BANTAM BOOKS

SPECTRA TM

DIME STORE MAGIC

A Bantam Book / May 2004

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

Cover illustration © Michael Gesinger / Photonica

Cover design by Jamie Warren You'll

Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random

House,

Inc.

ISBN 0-553-58706-4

Manufactured in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

To my father, for all his support and encouragement

Acknowledgments

With thanks…

To Helen Heller, my agent, without whom there would be no Women of the

Otherworld series.

To Anne Groell, my editor at Bantam US, for taking an interest in this book,

and

making the switch to Bantam absolutely painless.

To Anne Collins, my editor at Random House Canada, who knew just the solution

for all my manuscript crises.

To Antonia Hodgson, my editor at Warner UK, for her continued enthusiasm and

great editing advice.

Finally, to every reader who has emailed me with praise for the series. Your

notes made a writer's day a whole lot brighter, and a day of writing a whole

lot

easier!

DIME STORE MAGIC

Prologue

TODD ADJUSTED HIS LEATHER POWER SEAT AND SMILED. Now, this was the good life.

Driving along the California coast, road stretching empty before him, cruise

control set at fifty, climate control at 68° F, Brazilian coffee keeping warm

in

its heated cup holder. Some might say it'd be even better to be the guy

lounging

in the backseat instead of his driver, but Todd liked being where he was.

Better

to be the bodyguard than the guy who needed one.

His predecessor, Russ, had been the more ambitious type, which may explain

why

Russ had been missing for two months. Odds around the office watercooler were

split fifty-fifty between those who assumed Kristof Nast finally tired of his

bodyguard's insubordination and those who thought Russ had fallen victim to

Todd's own ambitions. Bullshit, of course. Not that Todd wouldn't have killed

to

get this job, but Russ was a Ferratus. Todd wouldn't even know how to kill

him.

Todd figured the Nasts were behind Russ's sudden disappearance, but that

didn't

bother him. When you signed up with a Cabal, you had to know what to expect.

Give them your respect and your loyalty, and you had the cushiest gig in the

supernatural world. Double-cross them and they'd wreak their revenge right

into

your afterlife. At least the Nasts weren't as bad as the St. Clouds. If the

rumors were right, about what the St. Clouds did to that shaman? Todd

shivered.

Man, he was glad—

Lights flashed in the side mirror. Todd looked to see a state patrol car

behind

him. Christ, where had that come from? He checked his speedometer. Dead-on

fifty. He made this trip twice a month and knew the speed limit didn't change

along this stretch.

He slowed, expecting the police car to whiz past. It stayed on his tail. He

shook his head. How many cars had zoomed by in the last hour, going seventy

or

more? Oh, but they hadn't been custom-designed Mercedes limos. Better to pull

over someone who looks as if he might pass you a few twenties to avoid the

hassle of a ticket. If so, they'd picked the wrong car. Kristof Nast didn't

bribe mere highway patrolmen.

As Todd put on his signal and pulled over, he lowered the shield separating

him

from his passenger. Nast was on his cell phone. He said something into the

phone, then pulled it from his ear.

"We're being pulled over, sir. I had the cruise set at the speed limit."

Nast nodded. "It happens. We have plenty of time. Just take the ticket."

Todd raised the shield and put down his window. Through his side mirror he

watched the patrolman approach. No, make that patrolwoman. A cute one, too.

Slender, maybe thirty, with shoulder-length red hair and a California tan.

Her

uniform could fit better, though. It looked a couple of sizes too large,

probably a hand-me-down from a male colleague.

"Morning, Officer," he said, taking off his sunglasses.

"License and registration."

He handed them over with a smile. Her face stayed impassive, eyes and

expression

hidden behind her shades.

"Please step out of the vehicle."

Todd sighed, and opened his door. "What seems to be the problem, Officer?"

"Broken taillight."

"Aw, shit. Okay, then. Write me up and we'll get it fixed in San Fran."

As he stepped onto the empty road, the woman turned and marched to the rear

of

the vehicle.

"Can you explain this?" she asked.

"Explain what?"

As he walked toward her, his heart beat a little faster, but he reminded

himself

that there couldn't be a serious problem. The Nasts never used their family

cars

for anything illegal. Just in case, though, he flexed his hands, then

clenched

them. His fingertips burned hot against his palms.

He glanced at the patrol car, parked a mere two feet behind his. It was

empty.

Good. She didn't have a partner. If things went bad, he'd only have to worry

about the woman.

The officer stepped into the narrow gap between the cars, bent and checked

something just to the right of the left taillight. She frowned, eased out of

the

gap and waved at the bumper.

"Explain that," she said.

"Explain what?"

Her jaw tightened and she motioned for him to look for himself. He had to

turn

sideways to fit between the cars. Couldn't she have backed up? She could see

he

was a big guy. He bent over as much as he could and peered down at the bumper.

"I don't see anything."

"Underneath," she said curtly.

Bitch. Would it kill her to be polite? It wasn't like he was arguing with her.

He lowered himself to his knees. Christ, was this gap narrower than he'd

thought

or had he been packing on the pounds? The front bumper of the patrol car

pressed

against his mid-back.

"Ummm, do you think you could back your car up a little?" he said. "Please?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is this better?"

The patrol car pitched forward, pinning him. The air flew from his lungs. He

opened his mouth to yell for her to put it into reverse, then realized she

was

still standing beside the car… which wasn't running. He grabbed the limo's

bumper and pushed. The smell of burning rubber filled the air.

"Oh, come on," the woman said, leaning over him. "You can do better than

that.

Put some real firepower into it."

When he swiped at her, she backpedaled out of reach and laughed. He tried to

speak, but could only get enough air to grunt. Again he pushed against the

bumper. The rubber stripping melted against his fingers, but the car didn't

budge.

"Only an Igneus?" she said. "The Cabals must really be hard up for

half-demons.

Maybe there's an opening for me after all. Sit tight now, and I'll be right

back."

Leah opened the driver's door and climbed into the limo's front seat. She

looked

across the rows of buttons on the dash. Talk about electronic overkill. Now,

which one—

The shield between the seats whirred. Well, that saved her the trouble.

"Did everything go—" Nast began.

He saw her and stopped. His hand lifted, just off his lap, fingers moving as

his

lips parted.

"Now, now," Leah said. "No spell-casting."

Nast's seat belt jerked tight, taking up the slack so fast he gasped.

"Hands out where I can see them," Leah said.

Nast's eyes blazed. His fingers flicked and Leah shot backward, hitting the

dash.

"Okay, I deserved that," she said, grinning as she righted herself. She

looked

at the seat belt. It loosened. "Better?"

"I'd suggest you seriously consider what you're doing," Nast said. He

adjusted

his suit jacket and eased back into his seat. "I doubt this is a road you

wish

to take."

"Hey, I'm not stupid or suicidal. I didn't come here to hurt you. Didn't even

hurt your bodyguard. Well, nothing a few weeks of bed rest won't cure. I came

here to make you a deal, Kristof—oops, sorry. Mr. Nast, I mean. It's about

your

daughter."

His chin jerked up, eyes meeting hers for the first time.

"And now that I have your attention…"

"What about Savannah?"

"Been looking for her, haven't you? Now that Eve's gone, there's no one to

stop

you from taking what's yours. And I'm just the person to help you do it. I

know

exactly where she is."

Nast shot his sleeve up and checked his watch, then looked at Leah.

"Is my driver in any shape to resume his duties?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Questionable."

"Then let's hope you can talk and drive at the same time."

Chapter 1

Bewitched. Bothered and Bewildered

I WAS IN TROUBLE WITH THE ELDERS. AGAIN.

I'd been a trial to them all my life and now, at twenty-three—no longer a

precocious child or a rebellious youth—they were running out of excuses for

me.

"Something must be done about Savannah." The speaker phone added a

not-inappropriate whine to Victoria Alden's voice.

"Uh-huh." My fingers flew across the keyboard, hammering out the next line of

code.

"I hear typing," Victoria said. "Are you typing, Paige?"

"Deadline," I said. "Enhancements to the Springfield Legal Services Web site.

Due in two days. And counting. Look, can we discuss this later? I'll be at

the

Coven meeting next week, and—"

"Next week? I don't think you're taking this seriously, Paige. Pick up the

telephone, stop working, and talk to me. Where did you ever learn such

manners?

Not from your mother, rest her soul."

I lifted the receiver, gripped it between my shoulder and ear and tried to

type

quietly.

"It's about Savannah," Victoria said.

Wasn't it always? One of the few perks of having custody of thirteen-year-old

Savannah Levine was that my rebellions paled in comparison.

"What's she done now?" I asked. I flipped to my file list of JavaScript

functions. I was sure I'd written a function for this last year. Damned if I

could find it now.

"Well, I was talking to Grace last night and she expressed concern over

something Savannah told Brittany. Now, Grace admits Brittany may have

misunderstood the details, which I can certainly see. We don't expose Coven

neophytes to this sort of thing, so I'd be shocked if Brittany did understand

what Savannah was talking about. It seems—" Victoria paused and inhaled

sharply,

as if it pained her to go on. "It seems Brittany is having trouble with a few

girls at school and Savannah offered to… to help her make a potion that would

result in these girls being unable to attend the school dance."

"Uh-huh." Ah, there was that function. A few hours of coding saved. "Then

what?"

"What do you mean, 'then what'? Savannah offered to show Brittany how to make

these girls sick!"

"She's thirteen. At her age, I would have liked to make a lot of people sick."

"But you didn't, did you?"

"Only because I didn't know the spells. Which was probably a good thing or

there'd have been some serious epidemics going on."

"See?" Victoria said. "This is exactly what I've been talking about. This

attitude of yours—"

"I thought we were talking about Savannah's attitude."

"That's it exactly. I'm trying to bring a serious matter to your attention

and

you brush it off with quips. This flippant attitude will never make you Coven

Leader."

I stifled the urge to remind her that, as of my mother's death, I was Coven

Leader. If I did, she'd "remind" me that I was Leader in name only, and this

discussion would turn from irritating to ugly in a heartbeat.

"Savannah is my responsibility," I said. "You Elders have made that very

clear."

"For good reason."

"Because her mother practiced dark magic. Oooh. Scary. Well, you know what?

The

only scary thing about Savannah is how fast she's outgrowing her clothes.

She's

a kid. A normal, rebellious teenager. Not a black witch. She told Brit she

could

make her a potion. Big deal. Ten to one she can't even do it. She was either

showing off or trying to shock us. That's what adolescents do."

"You're defending her."

"Of course I'm defending her. No one else will. The poor kid went through

hell

last summer. Before my mother died, she asked me to take care of Savannah—"

"Or so that woman told you."

"That woman is a friend of mine. You don't think my mother would have asked

me

to take Savannah? Of course she would. That's our job. To protect our

sisters."

"Not at the risk of endangering ourselves."

"Since when is it more important—"

"I don't have time to argue with you, Paige. Talk to Savannah or I will."

Click.

I slammed down the phone and stalked from my office, muttering everything I

wished I'd said to Victoria. I knew when to hold my tongue, though sometimes

knowing and doing were very different things. My mother was the political

one.

She'd spend years working to effect one small change to Coven Law, soothing

every rumpled feather and arguing her point with a smile.

Now she was gone. Murdered nine months ago. Nine months, three weeks, and two

days. My mind performed the calculation unbidden, springing open the

stoppered

well of grief. I slammed it shut. She wouldn't have wanted that.

I was brought into this world for one reason. At fifty-two, after a life too

busy for children, my mother looked around the Coven and saw no worthy

successor, so she found a suitable "genetic donor" and, using magic,

conceived

me. A daughter born and raised to lead the Coven. Now that she was gone, I

had

to honor her memory by fulfilling that purpose. And I would, whether the

Elders

wanted it or not.

I abandoned my computer. Victoria's call had chased all interest in

programming

from my brain. When I got like this, I needed to do something that reminded

me

of who I was, and what I wanted to accomplish. That meant practicing my

spells—not Coven-sanctioned spells, but the magic they forbade.

In my bedroom, I pulled back the area rug, unlocked the crawl space hatch,

and

tugged out a knapsack. Then, bending down and reaching farther into the hole,

I

undid a secret latch, opened a second compartment, and pulled out two books.

My

secret grimoires. After putting the books into my bag, I headed for the back

door.

I was slipping on my sandals when the front doorknob turned. I checked my

watch.

Three P.M. Savannah didn't get out of school until three forty-five, which is

why I figured I had nearly an hour to practice before making her after-school

snack. Yes, Savannah was too old for the milk-and-cookies routine, but I did

it

every day without fail. Let's be honest, at twenty-three I was ill equipped

to

parent a teenager. Being home for her after school was one thing I could

manage.

"What happened?" I asked, hurrying into the hall. "Is everything okay?"

Savannah backpedaled, as if fearing I might do something rash, like hug her.

"Teacher's meeting today. Early dismissal. Remember?"

"Did you tell me?"

She rubbed her nose, trying to decide whether she could get away with a lie.

"I

forgot. But I would have called if I had a cell phone."

"You'll get a cell phone when you can pay for the air-time."

"But I'm too young to get a job!"

"Then you're too young for a cell phone."

Old argument. We knew our lines, and never wavered from them. That was one

advantage to being a mere decade older than Savannah—I remembered pulling the

same crap with my mom, so I knew how to handle it. Maintain the routine. Give

no

sign of wearing down. Eventually she'd give up… not that I ever did.

Savannah peered over my shoulder to look down at my backpack, a feat she

could

easily manage, being two inches taller than my five feet two. Two inches

taller

and about thirty pounds lighter. I could have explained the weight difference

by

pointing out that Savannah was very slender, but to be truthful, I was about

fifteen pounds over what most women's magazines listed as the ideal weight

for

my height.

Savannah, by contrast, was very tall for her age: tall, thin, and coltish,

all

awkward angles and jutting limbs. I told her she'd grow into her body, as

she'd

grow into her oversized blue eyes. She didn't believe me. Like she didn't

believe me when I'd advised her that cutting off her waist-length black hair

would be a mistake. Now she had a straight, wispy bob that only made the

angles

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