Breaking angelina (Paranormal investigations # 1.5) Read online

  The VIP pass I purchased gives me the chance to

  look around before the performance, but it doesn’t

  give me much time. I need to find my target and

  get out. The map Spyder gave me included a few

  hotspots where Alistrad might stash something—

  his office, a secured dungeon, and a hidden

  compartment in a storage shed.

  Planning to check the storage shed first, I turn to

  find myself face to face with the youngest elf I’ve

  ever seen. Maybe eighty or eighty five. Elves don’t

  let their youths out in public before they are at

  least a hundred.

  “What is a kid like you doing here? Shouldn’t

  you be safe with your family,” I ask.

  “I’m a rebel.” He grins, looking as fierce as a

  baby bunny.

  I roll my eyes. “But why here?”

  “Isn’t that what the humans do when they are

  rebellious? They run away and join the circus.” His

  grin widens until I’m sure his thin face will crack in

  two.

  “Sure, kid. You’re a rebel.” I shake my head.

  Where did he get this crazy idea? “Your parents

  probably miss you. Why don’t you go home?”

  He waves a hand of dismissal. “They’re busy

  with their research. They probably haven’t even

  noticed I’m gone yet.”

  “How long have you been gone?”

  “A couple months. Isn’t this place awesome?”

  Somehow, his grin actually grows a little wider. “I

  heard humans like to use that word. It means

  something is cool or rad. You know what I mean,

  dude?”

  “Yeah, kid.” I sigh. “I bet you know this place

  pretty well. Think you could give me a back stage

  tour before the big performance?”

  “I’m not supposed to …”

  “Come on, you’re supposed to be a rebel,

  right?” I feel bad about getting the kid in trouble.

  He takes me around to see the menagerie of

  animals. I pass by cage after cage of wild fae and

  magical beast, all of them wearing black collars. My

  stomach churns and my blood boils.

  I want to tear the locks off these cages, rip the

  bars open, and let these creatures run free.

  Many of them are chimera, and the humans in

  the crowd stare at them like they’re animals at a

  zoo. Nauseated, I clench my hands into fists.

  Someone should do something about this.

  Unlike the elves with their family ties and

  storage rooms full of gold and jewels, the chimera

  are a simple people, living in tribes and dwelling in

  communion with nature, much like the Native

  Americans.

  Most chimera aren’t predators like me, and like

  the Native Americans, their simple life makes them

  easy prey.

  After I get a complete tour, a dwarf stops the elf

  kid. “You’re supposed to brush the unicorns. No

  one else can get near them.”

  “Esmie can. I’m showing our guest around.”

  The dwarf snorts. “You know Esmerelda won’t

  get her hands dirty.”

  I smirk. Everyone knows only virgins can touch a

  unicorn. With a bow, the elf apologizes to me and

  disappears into the crowd with the dwarf.

  Now free of the rebel without a clue, I wander

  toward the shed. A twinge inside me feels the

  target close by. I track by scent, but the reason I’m

  the best, the reason the Usurper wanted my

  services, is because I have something else inside me

  leading me straight to what I’m looking for. Like

  how a compass points north. It gets me close

  enough to find what I need.

  When I get near the shed, very few people are

  around. No patrons meander about, only a few

  workers who give me odd looks.

  The shed is an unassuming structure made of

  wood and looking like it will disintegrate if I should

  huff and puff and blow it down. Or if I merely

  unfurled my wings.

  The magical twinge inside me says it isn’t here.

  That leaves the office and the dungeon.

  A cough behind me catches my attention, and I

  turn to face a swamp hag, her stench stinging my

  nose. She stinks of snake and mildew and every

  foul thing that crawls in the earth.

  She smiles, showing the gaps in her teeth. “The

  Ring Master would not want you here. This area is

  not for visitors. Come into my parlor—” She

  gestures toward a tent. “—and let Ellafarsia tell

  your future.”

  “No thanks. I already know my future. Just point

  me back to the main area.” I already know my way

  back—every inch of the map is burned into my

  memory—but it doesn’t hurt to play my role as

  sightseer.

  I head back into the crowd and weave my way

  toward the office, located in a tower at the far end

  of the compound. The closer I get, the stronger I

  feel my target. This has got to be it.

  Standing at the base of the tower, I look up at

  the windows of the upper floor. A man with dark

  hair stares out at the crowd, his pale skin stretching

  over a gaunt face.

  The king overlooking his empire.

  My blood boils with my hatred.

  All these caged creatures—many of them my

  own people—and here the culprit stands. I want to

  wrap my hands around his neck and watch the light

  die out of his eyes.

  But no, I’ve got a job to do.

  I can’t stop this evil. All I can do is survive from

  one day to the next.

  Damn, I could use a drink about now.

  Now that I know where the item is, I need to

  determine the guards schedule and the best way to

  cause a distraction. With the teleportation coin, I

  have no need to worry about an escape route, but I

  plan one out anyway.

  An ogre and a hill giant patrol the grounds. I

  watch their movements, but I can’t detect any kind

  of set pattern to their rounds. However, the giant

  frequently visits one of the cages near the front of

  the complex. The next time he stops, I meander

  behind him.

  “Pretty,” he says, stopping to stare into a cage.

  After several minutes, he looks around, guilt

  written clearly on his simple, guileless face. The

  milling people of various races scramble out of his

  way.

  Typical hill giant subtlety. They’re known for

  being the shortest and also the dumbest of the

  giant races, kind of the inbred cousins.

  I move to see what fascinated him. Peering into

  the cage, I see a gorgeous woman with green hair

  against pale skin and eyes filled with sorrow. The

  sign on the cage says:

  A siren — one of three sisters cursed by a jealous

  sorceress to sing forever. Known for seducing sailors

  to their deaths.

  Cursed never to enjoy love or companionship.

  It’s a story every good mother tells her children

  to warn them of the dangers of attracting attention

  from those more powerfu
l than themselves.

  It’s a lesson I wish I had learned.

  Perched on a rock, she combs her long silky

  green hair. She wears nothing but a collar and

  wears it well, her ample bosom drawing the

  attention of every man there and a few of the

  women too. I look away, the sight of her filling me

  with sorrow. I had perfection and lost it.

  I wonder who she was before she became

  cursed. I can’t help but feel sorry for her. Always

  alone. Always hurting. Just like me.

  Of course, she and her sisters also caused the

  death of thousands, as the men could not resist

  their call and followed them starving or fighting

  each other to get closer, and if they managed to

  reach them, they drowned.

  Yet, this one is silent. This sorcerer is not to be

  taken lightly. It takes a lot of guts to bring a siren so

  close to a city.

  I think I’ve found my distraction.

  I finger one of the devices Jasper gave me, now

  hidden in my pocket. According to Jasper once the

  device activates any, active spell within twenty feet

  should be toast.

  Should being the operative word.

  Magic doesn’t always do what we expect it to.

  Especially when tied to a physical object. Granted, a

  one shot is less likely to decide to liquefy you than

  an ancient artifact, but there’s always a first. Since

  I’m not a wizard, I have to hope and pray Jasper

  really is as good as our community claims.

  The device is on a five minute delay. Activating

  it, I casually drop it near the siren’s cage and walk

  purposefully toward the tower. My senses tell me

  my target is still straight ahead.

  I stop at the last tent, and staring up at the

  tower, I wait for the siren to sing. The windows are

  now dark and empty.

  A few moments later, the siren screeches, the

  sound raking at my ears even from this far away,

  and the gaunt man leaves.

  This is almost too easy.

  His wards are impressive. Even though I can’t

  see them, I can smell the magical layers. They

  would fry me to a crisp if I touch them.

  Fortunately, Jasper designed a ring to make me

  invisible to wards. There is always the chance some

  magic user can cut through it with the right spells,

  but in the eight years I’ve had it, I have yet to have

  it fail. I activate it and head inside.

  The tower is much larger on the inside. A large

  summoning circle, consisting of four rings of glyphs,

  intricately wrought in silver, gold, platinum, and

  electrum, fills the center of the room. To the left,

  an old coin operated carnival booth boasts the

  name of Zoltar the Fortune Teller. Darkness

  congeals around it, shifting and hungry.

  A golden staircase circles the room as it leads up

  to an upper balcony. I sniff the air. The sting of

  magic burns my nose, and I catch the whiff of the

  sorcerer. He stinks of demons and blood. And

  something else tickles my senses, but I can’t quite

  catch what it is.

  I take another whiff. I smell the bracelet I came

  for and overwhelming power, like a deep reservoir

  of magic.

  This feels like a trap, but I climb the stairs

  anyway. Finish the job. Go home; get a drink.

  Something to take the edge off.

  At the top of the stairs, I inspect the golden door

  for traps, but I find none. Lewd and disturbing

  pictures of demons and young women cover the

  door like the walls of a pharaoh’s tomb.

  I feel sick. The sooner I can get out of here the

  better.

  An intricately carved mahogany desk dominates

  the room. Behind it, I find a modern electronic safe.

  Unusual but not really unexpected. I get to work,

  hacking into it. I figure I have about three more

  minutes before they have the siren under control.

  That will be cutting it close.

  Two minutes later the safe opens, and within it,

  I find a more traditional arcane safe, about the size

  of a jewelry box. Now this is more what I expected.

  Jasper gave me tools for this too. It’s only

  another thirty seconds before I crack it using my

  artifacts, but I pause before opening the lid. This is

  all too easy.

  It feels like a trap.

  I look around the room, studying everything.

  Nothing out of place. No sounds of breathing or of

  a heartbeat. And I can feel the close proximity of

  the object I’m looking for, the magic inside me

  twinges in response, but I’m too close to pinpoint

  exactly where it is. It’s like sniffing out a single

  rose’s scent while standing in a rose garden.

  I grab Plan B out of my pocket—Jasper’s new

  toy, the spell shield—and activate it just in case. It’s

  nothing more than a freaking stone with a rune

  etched into it.

  Holding my breath, I swing the lid open.

  The stone grows hot and crumbles in my hand,

  and my arms go rigid as a binding curse wraps

  around me. So much for Jasper’s new supplier.

  The safe falls out of my hands; the shrunken

  head within tumbles to the floor and rolls.

  I hear clapping behind me, and I try to turn

  toward the sound. The more I struggle, the tighter

  the curse squeezes me.

  A gaunt, pale man, well over six feet tall, strolls

  forward into view, and with a gesture my body

  pivots to face him. “Most impressive, I have had

  many thieves attempt to steal what is mine, but

  few had your speed and talent. With the proper

  training … and motivation—” He smiles, and I

  shudder. “—I could use you.”

  Chapter 7

  ~ ANGELINA ~

  Sitting on the top shelf, the black cat licks her

  paws. “You want to give someone pimples or a bad

  hair day? Nobody is creative any more. Nobody

  wants to turn someone into a frog or a tasty

  mouse.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything like that to anybody.”

  Hearing voices wasn’t enough; now I’m arguing

  with cats. All the symptoms of a paranoid schizo.

  Next, I’ll have delusions of super powers and

  believe helicopters are spying in my windows.

  She leaps down, landing precariously on a

  wobbly pile of books, before jumping down to the

  floor, the books slipping down behind her. “Cows

  are more useful. You can get milk from them.

  Wonderful for making cheese and chocolate

  fudge.”

  “I’m lactose intolerant. And I have no place to

  keep a cow.”

  “More’s the pity.” Her shape shimmers and

  warps, stretching and growing, until a squat old

  lady scowls at me. Her back is bent and her gray

  hair sticks up everywhere as if she stuck her finger

  in a light socket. “Aren’t you an odd looking girl?

  Does your mother let you dress like that? Those

  pants are too tight, and your hair is too straight.”

&nbs
p; “There’s nothing wrong with the way I dress.”

  “If you want to look like a pelican …” She shrugs.

  I turn on my heel and head toward the door. I

  don’t have to put up with this kind of abuse.

  She cackles, and suddenly, she blocks my way,

  giving me a toothless smile. “So sensitive. Let’s find

  something special for you. A special book to solve a

  special problem, yes?”

  Yesss, the voices whisper.

  “Yes,” I croak out.

  Mumbling to herself, she moves to a book shelf

  and runs her hands along the spines. Some of the

  books are upside down, some backwards, and

  others piled in stacks rather than neatly arranged in

  the usual upright manner.

  The bookstore is a mess—cobwebs clinging to

  the corners, dust covering everything, books piled

  everywhere. I pick up a few books. Moonlight

  Potions by A. A. Alcott. 1001 Uses for Mushrooms

  by Alex Longthews.

  No rhyme or order to the placing of these

  books. Someone needs to come in here with a

  broom and a bucket of soapy, hot water and give

  this place a good scrubbing. The books should be

  shelved by topic and organized by author’s last

  name. How does anybody find anything here?

  “So what problem do you need fixing?” She

  holds up a glass bottle. “Cough into this.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugs. “You never know when a spell needs

  a good cough.”

  I give a little cough.

  “No, that’s too small. Don’t be so ladylike.”

  I cough louder.

  She slams the lid down on top of the jar and

  peers inside. “That will have to do.”

  She shoves the jar onto a shelf with books,

  colored bottles, and what looks like mouse

  droppings. A cloud of dust billows up.

  “So what about this one, dearie?” She holds up

  a ragged book with faded lettering. Something

  green stains the cover, and I can barely make out

  the title— Original Book of Curses by…

  I squint at the letters. “Who is Abba Yoga?”

  “Do you children never read your fairy tales?

  Baba Yaga is a friend of mine. She knows all the

  best curses—except for me, of course. I taught her

  a thing or two.”

  No idea who this Baba Yaga is. “I really should

  be going. My friends are probably looking for me.”

  “I have potions for everything, to change your

  hair or eye color, to make you invisible, to cure

  warts or athlete’s foot.” She looks me up and