Thea Harrison - Dragon Bound

He growled, “I need a tracking spell put on a woman.”

The witch inclined her head. She said, “Certainly, my lord. Of course, no doubt you already know that the more information I can be given on a target, the better I can craft a tracking spell for it.”

“Her name is Pia Giovanni,” Dragos said. He handed her the stack of photos from the 7-Eleven security footage. “This is what she looks like.”

The witch went still, her eyes on the top photo. Her expression was a perfect blank, but something, some minuscule change in her posture or breathing, roused the predator in him. A smooth, fluid shift of his body brought him closer to her. He could sense her body heat and the pulse at her neck and wrists, which beat more rapid at his proximity. He scanned her with truthsense as he asked, “Do you know this woman?”

The witch’s dark gaze lifted to his. She said, “I have seen her in the Magic District. I didn’t know her name.”

Her face remained that perfect blank, revealing nothing. It was not, he thought, the blithe calm of innocence but one of educated discipline. Still, she did speak the truth. The predator in him eased back. He nodded at the photos. “Is her name and a photo enough for you?”

The witch said, “I could cast a spell with these things. But it would be more durable, and it would last longer, if you had something of hers that I could use as an anchor. A good tracking spell is more complicated than a finding. It must shift and move as the object changes direction.”

Unsurprised, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a Ziploc bag that held a battered receipt. “It just so happens I do have something we can use.”

Shaken by such a rude awakening, Pia rolled off the bed and lurched into the bathroom to take a shower. She hadn’t carried any toiletries in her backpack beyond hand lotion and Chap-Stick so she had to make do with the motel’s paper-wrapped sliver of plain soap. It took forever to work some through her long hair and lather a washcloth, but at least the water was hot and plentiful. The skin at the side of her neck felt tender as she scrubbed herself.

She paused and rubbed at the tender area. What was that?

After a quick final rinse, she wrapped her tangled hair in a towel, grabbed another towel to dry off and then wiped the fogged sink mirror to peer at her neck.

Bite. It was a bite mark. She fingered the area at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. The skin wasn’t broken but there was an impression of teeth, and a suck-bruise was already forming.

She whispered, “The bastard gave me a hickey?” In a dream?

Goose bumps rose on her skin. She rubbed her arms and avoided looking at her white face with the dark-circled eyes.

Somehow that horrible dream had been real. His magic had found her. He knew what she looked like. She told him her name.

Get out now.

Good thing she had three other names, with picture IDs that said so, because she had to hit delete on the one she’d lived with her whole life. Pia Alessandra Giovanni had to go. She felt another pang, another loss. Her mother had given her that name from long-held fondness for the time she had spent in medieval Florence. How much more did Pia have to lose? Apparently everything.

It was too much for her tired mind. She yanked a brush through her hair, miserable at how it had snarled without conditioner, and then she dressed in her dirty clothes.

When she started the Honda, the dashboard clock said 6:30 A.M. She had slept just under two hours.

She went through another drive-through and bought juice, more coffee and apple slices, although she could only choke down a few bites. She drove south as the sky grew pastel and brightened into full day. The temperature warmed the farther she went until she rolled down the windows and opened the Honda’s moon roof.

If she’d been making the trip for any other reason, she would have enjoyed herself. The sky was cloudless. The scenery in South Carolina was different from what she was used to. The foliage was a couple weeks farther along in bloom than in New York, and the land felt strange to her senses. She began to pass properties vivid with greenery and profuse with camellias, roses, azaleas, and magnolia trees blanketed in pink blossoms. Silvery Spanish moss draped along the branches of old oak trees like fashion stoles adorning beautiful women. Charleston and the surrounding area had a grace and beauty that was quite different from the brisk urban setting she had just left.

She had given an ironic chuckle when Quentin had handed her directions to a beach house in a place called Folly Beach. Folly. Ha. It was about twenty minutes south of Charleston. Most of the houses, he told her, were vacation rentals. He had owned his for over thirty years and kept it furnished and stocked with linens and kitchenware.

When she got close to her destination, she stopped at a superstore to buy clothing essentials and toiletries, aspirin, a prepaid cell phone and food supplies. When she reached the checkout lane by the liquor aisle, she caved and bought a bottle of scotch as well. A girl’s got to have priorities. If she didn’t deserve a drink after the nightmare week she had just suffered, she didn’t know who did.

She threw her purchases in the Honda’s trunk. Soon after, she drove at a slow pace down a small coastal road on Folly Beach. She stared at the glimpses of the Atlantic Ocean she could see between cottages. The smell of the ocean gusted into the car.

The sunlight was different here, clearer and thinner, and she got the sense of a nearby place drenched in magic. There was a dimensional passageway somewhere near to Other lands. She wasn’t surprised, given that the seat of the Elven Court was located either in or near Charleston.

Quentin’s house was at the end of the road, on the beach side. It was larger than many of the cottages she had passed, with its own short off-street driveway and garage. After parking, she shouldered her packages and entered the house, which had an empty feel to it, although thanks to a monthly cleaning service, it was at least fresh and clean.

There were three bedrooms to choose from. She put away the food and then picked the largest bedroom with an en suite bathroom. She threw the toiletries on the bathroom counter and piled her new clothes and underwear on top of a dresser. She found towels and bed linens and made the bed, moving slowly and methodically. As soon as the bed was made, she took off her jeans, climbed under the covers and curled up as she hugged a pillow.

Soon she would start thinking about her next steps and try to make a plan. Even if Cuelebre couldn’t come this deep into the Elven demesne, he had more money than God and probably more employees too. She didn’t dare stay too long.

She would close her eyes for just a little while.

She woke with a start several hours later. For several bleary moments she couldn’t remember where she was or why. Then memory flooded in, and she sagged back against the pillows.

Okay. Life sucked. But at least she didn’t have another freaky sex dream where she got bitten .

The room felt sticky and overwarm. Though the curtains were drawn, it seemed from the diffuse light that the sun was at a much lower angle than when she had first lain down. She pushed out of bed and dressed in some of her new clothes, lowhipped capris, sandals and a red tank with spaghetti straps. Her breasts were high, rather small and firm, so she didn’t bother with a bra.

She peered outside. It was early evening, maybe around five o’clock. She went to the bathroom to splash her face with cold water. After dragging a brush again through her recalcitrant hair, she pulled it back in another ponytail. Then she went to the kitchen/dining room area, which was separated by a counter and bar stools. The dining area had sliding glass doors that opened to a large deck with a few simple pieces of patio furniture. Stairs led to the beach.