My old Mini sat alone in the parking area, its red-and-white paintwork vivid against the surrounding greenery. I threw the pack onto the passenger seat, then dug out a couple of largish plastic bags from the trunk, using one to cover my seat and the other to dump my coat into. While I’d never be using it again, I wasn’t about to leave it behind. Not when the shredded sleeve probably had remnants of skin and blood on it. I might be immune to outside magic, but dark-path witches had long used skin, blood, or even hair as a “spoor” for demons to hunt.
Someone—or something—had wanted me to walk away from the sword. That same someone or something might now decide they’d be better off if I was dead. I had no idea why that might be so, but I certainly wasn’t about to risk having another encounter with that red demon or more of his crew.
I jumped into the driver’s seat and started the Mini. The engine rumbled sweetly, and I couldn’t help grinning. Max could keep his shiny electric sports car; for me, there was nothing better than the sound of an old petrol engine—even if they were damn expensive to run these days.
I shifted gear and left, winding my way out of the peninsula park and onto the main highway that ran around Ainslyn’s more modern city center and on to the old walled town. By the time I arrived, my left arm was aching, thanks to constant gear changes.
I carefully drove through the Petergate Gatehouse and wound my way through the tiny streets until I reached Fossgate Road, where our book and healing store—Healing Words—was located. Long-term parking wasn’t allowed along the street, but Mo had purchased the remnants of the smithy opposite, simply because it came with enough land to park three cars. Not that many people used vehicles to get around the old town—there were so many car-unfriendly lanes it was generally easier to walk. And for those who didn’t want to—or actually couldn’t—walk, tourist buses ran around the perimeter of the entire city, and there were also electric two- and three-wheel bikes for tourists to hire.
I reversed into the parking area, noting that while Mo’s Nissan Leaf was here, Max’s Jag wasn’t. It was rather unusual for him to be out of bed at this hour, but maybe he’d already left for the airport.
I grabbed all my gear and climbed out of the Mini. This area was mainly retail, so the cobblestone street was empty and quiet and—given it was the first day of the new year and most of the retail stores and museums were closed—would remain that way until tomorrow.
Healing Words was situated in a three-story, single-fronted building squeezed in between two larger terraces. Its red brick was darkened by years of grime, but the heritage green-and-gold woodwork surrounding the front window and inset, half-glass door had been repainted last year, and subsequently stood out against the classic black-and-white detailing of the shops on either side. The front window display was jam-packed with books, healing potions and charms, and pretty soaps. The latter three were aimed at all the tourists who wandered along this street on their way to the nearby Shambles—an area that contained some of the oldest timber-framed buildings remaining in England. The various snickelways that led off the Shambles had once contained the retail bases of five of the witch houses, but none of us remained there now.
The Valeriun, Okoro, and Chens had moved their business headquarters across to the relocated city center over a century ago in order to be closer to the new port. The Lancasters still retained a major retail presence in the old city, but they, like us, had basically been forced out of the Shambles after the other three witch houses had gifted the area to the heritage council. They still owned much of the surrounding area, however, and made a good living from rents. Mo, Max, and I weren’t exactly poor either—we owned quite a number of residential and retail buildings within the old city—but we were the only De Montforts living here now, and there were maybe a dozen left across the entire UK. The only three I actually knew were my cousins in London, but they didn’t venture down to Ainslyn much these days. In fact, the last time I’d seen Ada, Gareth, or Henry, I’d been three years old and both my parents and theirs had still been alive.
I unlocked the front door, and the small bell above it chimed, the sound echoing cheerfully through the stillness.
“That you, Gwen?”
The voice was rich and melodious and brought a smile to my lips. “Yep. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“Good. You can cook me breakfast.” Mo paused. “I’m getting a faint whiff of demon—did you strike some trouble?”
“You could say that. Hang on while I go dump some clothes in the burner.”
“I’ll put the kettle on while you do, then.” A soft thumping followed the comment as she hobbled across to the small kitchen. Guilt stirred, although in truth there was little I could do about the length of time it would take her leg to heal. I was a healer-free zone, Max had inherited Mom’s storm-control powers rather than De Montfort healing ability and, for some weird reason no one had ever been able to explain, healers weren’t able to heal themselves.
I walked through the shelves containing books and other oddities, heading for the sectioned-off rear of the store. There were a number of smaller rooms here—an office, a storeroom, and, in a separate, magically shielded rear room, an old boiler and laundry. It had once provided the hot water for the building, but these days we basically just used it to get rid of the occasional spell paraphernalia that couldn’t be thrown out with regular rubbish.
I stripped off and chucked everything—including my bagged coat and my shoes—into the boiler, then lit it. Once I’d cleansed my daggers, I grabbed a towel from the nearby stack, wrapped it around me, and padded barefoot upstairs.
The first floor had been split into two areas—Mo’s bedroom was at the rear of the building, and an open kitchen-living area lay to the front. Richly colored tapestries hung on roughly plastered walls, and rugs far older than my grandmother covered the wooden floorboards. The furniture was a mismatch of centuries—new sofas and a big-screen TV juxtaposed against a midcentury teak table and a Regency sideboard. The kitchen was filled with a colorful array of art-deco cabinetry, and the upright stove came straight out of the sixties. It was a mix that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did.
Mo glanced around as I appeared. She was a tall, thin woman with plaited gray hair that hung down to her ass and merry blue eyes whose irises were ringed with gold—a feature of all De Montforts and something else I hadn’t inherited. Her clothing style could only be described as bohemian—this morning she’d donned patchwork harem trousers and a loose-fitting embroidered top. She didn’t look much older than fifty, and I could only hope I looked that good when I hit that age—a mere twenty years from now—let alone when I reached her actual age, which was ninety-five.
She sniffed loudly and then grimaced. “Move right on up to the shower, my girl, because you—” She stopped, her expression concerned. “What the fuck have you done to your arm?”
“Got swiped by a demon. I sterilized it and put your goop on, though.”
“It’s still looking a little too red around the edges for my liking. Go get clean—and make sure you use the nullifying soap, because I’m not healing anything when you stink worse than a demon left too long in the sun.”