Chapter 6: That's a Tall Order

Sebastian POV.

Beatrice Hathaway opens her mouth—closes it—opens it again only to close it once more. I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from grinning.

Right now does not seem like the right moment to tell her she’s adorable.

Glasses rattle on the bar to her right and the silver ice bucket levitates.

“That’s you, right Barbie?” Lucas’ eyes ping pong between her and the enchanted objects.

“I don’t like that name any more than you do yours,” she cuts.

That shuts him up. I raise an eyebrow in his direction. I can think of only one other woman who has that effect on him and that’s my sister Gigi.

“Beatrice, you’re safe here.” I take a step toward her.

Her head whips toward me and our eyes meet.

I swear I can feel her magic. It’s trembling like a broken wave. I root myself where I am. As much as I want to touch her elbow, to slip my hand into hers, and to offer reassurances I know that isn’t an option.

“Did you know who,” she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, “what I am that day at Canaries?”

I nod. I’m not going to tell her I recognized her as one of the thousands of people who work for me. That my eyes always find her in a room.

“I saw your magic…acting out.”

She wraps her arms around her waist.

“What do you want from me?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

Her eyes widen and behind her Lucas groans.

“No game whatsoever,” he mutters.

“A partnership,” I clarify. “I’d very much like to sit and explain myself. Are you hungry? Maybe you’d like something to drink?”

She shakes her head. “Just tell me now. I’ve got some place to be in an hour.”

That’s a lie. She’s spent the last two days holed up in a hotel. The only place she’s gone has been Central Park. I’ve had a man on her since I left Canaries. It took a single phone call to my security detail.

It’d been just as easy to figure out her last name. Myra, my assistant, pulled the employment records of any Beatrice on payroll, and I’d spotted her easily from her employee ID.

The difference between the woman in the picture and the one I’d met at Canaries is striking. Her photo, taken a year ago when she started at KingsGuard, emphasized the dark circles under her eyes and an overall gauntness compared to her healthy blush when I asked her to coffee.

In the photo, she appeared haunted by something. At Canaries, she struck me as…stronger. She’s most definitely spooked now, but there is no tinge of exhaustion. Now, she is conflicted.

“I don’t know if you know, but beyond my role as CEO I serve as the human Guardian for New York.”

“Why would I not know that? It’s like asking someone in Canada if they know who the American president is.” She shakes her head and her hair falls across her shoulders. It’s less straight than it’d been at Canaries. I like it better this way.

“Unless you thought a list of titles intimidates me?” Her eyes narrow.

Lucas chortles. I glare at him over her shoulder, and Beatrice Hathaway scowls.

“I’m not trying to intimidate you, coerce you, or cause you any distress,” I say, “I meant it when I said you are safe here.”

She tips her head up at the crystal chandelier above us, then the carved oak doors, and then heavy gilded furniture throughout my office. She lingers last on the granite topped desk that had belonged to my great-grandfather.

I tuck my chin, “Since taking over KingsGuard I haven’t bothered to redecorate. Lucas can attest. Ostentatious isn’t my style.”

Slipped between those sentences are other words: since my parents died, I can’t bring myself to change it, and this is my inheritance, not me.

I don’t imagine she picks up on any of that, but I find myself wishing she could. That she would because she knew more about me.

It’s a strange sensation. I can only describe it as the lure of a dare to leap from a high place.

I clear my throat, “Back to the matter on hand.”

“Me being a necromancer. You want something from me,” she says.

“As Guardian, I’ve been asked to ensure this spree of murders on both humans and witches ceases.”

“Isn’t that the police’s job?” She frowns.

“They’re a joke,” Lucas says.

“He’s correct. They are nowhere. The covens have made it clear they consider this a human problem.”

“But it’s a witch doing the killing.” Beatrice blurts out.

“How do you know that?”

She glances back at Lucas. He nods.

“Cause my magic steered me to the latest one,” she tells me. I listen as she accounts how she found the woman at the Bethesda Fountain.

“The kill was fresh, Bash,” Lucas says, “and I’d had Beatrice in sight for at least three hours. She isn’t responsible.”

The panic coursing through me isn’t about that. Not at all.

It’s about the fact that she had been so close to whoever murdered all of these women. I feel like my body is coming unglued at the seams.

My eyes flick to him, “I wasn’t concerned she might be.”

Beatrice is focused on an entirely different fact, “Three hours?”

Lucas nods and her nostrils flare. It’s endearing, but again—most definitely not the right time.

“You’ve got to stop doing that.” She whispers and touches that spot where her locket hangs below her shirt.

I can see the faint outline of the jewelry. I have to inhale to stem the image of it warmed from her skin, swinging there along the pale of her throat.

“Doing what exactly?” I ask.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she says. “It’s my magic. It likes allowing people to sneak up on me as of late.”

I file that away as something to circle back to later, and instead press on the fact that seems much more important.

“You said your magic nudged you toward that woman?”

“Yes, it’s been…more vocal lately. But that’s irrelevant.” She dismisses with a wave of her hand.

It doesn’t seem irrelevant to me, but again—timing is going to be important to winning her over—so I set it aside.

“What’s important is where she was,” she says. “The Bethesda Fountain. It was designed by Emma Stebbins.”

Beatrice watches for awareness to dawn on Lucas and me, but when it doesn’t happen she heaves.

“Do they bother to teach anything about witch history in the pointless years of education they force upon all of you?”

“I attended the humble public school,” Lucas pipes up, “he’s the one who had the most pointless and expensive education possible.”

I glare at him.

Beatrice bypasses me to pluck my tablet off my desk. She holds out the lock screen for me to press my thumb to the screen.

“You should have better security on your tech than that,” she mutters. “You’ve got the money to pay for top-grade spell work.”

I know explaining to her that my family has never allowed our tech to mix with magic will not be helpful.

“Emma Stebbins was a witch,” Beatrice continues. “It’s one of the nicer pieces of our history in the city, actually. She was the first woman to be awarded a public commission for a large piece of artwork in New York. She modeled the angel on her wife.”

She taps on my tablet, head bent, seemingly having forgotten Lucas and I were in the room. Lucas sighs and wanders over to the bar to pour himself a drink. I shove my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels.

I want to pile up the details of her: how her hair won’t stay tucked neatly behind her ear, how her lips purse when she’s thinking quickly, and how she would line up to my body if I could pull her close.

“F*ck,” Beatrice closes her eyes.

“What is it?”

“There’s a pattern. The murders are organized by where the bodies are left and when the crime takes place.”

She hands me the tablet.

“I’m sure the police have already done this,” I protest. Lucas peers over my shoulder, chomping on something. We both stare at him.

“A little space, bro?” I say.

“Where’d you get a sandwich?” Beatrice chimes in.

“Myragotitforme.” Lucas garbles through a full mouth.

We both look at him.

“I’llgoputinanorder,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Probablyshouldhaveaskedyouguysifyouwantedanything.”

“We’re still working on manners,” I quip. “He’ll get there someday.”

She huffs a short almost laugh and triumph rings in my chest.

“The police may have already done this,” she nudges the tablet closer, “but they probably looked at the murders in chronological order. A witch knows to look past the obvious. We see by what is below the simplest, easier explanation.”

“Occam’s razor would say all things being equal, the simplest explanation is the correct one,” I counter.

“Well, that dead white guy wasn’t a witch so I don’t care.”

It’s my turn to huff a laugh, and I swear it tugs a smile out of her. I don’t think I’ve charmed her to overcome her obvious distrust of me, but solving this mystery is enough for her to get past it.

It’s exactly what I hope will happen between humans and witches through her agreeing to work with me.

Well, that and I can’t get her out of my d*mn head. I want to know what she’s running from and what she looks like first thing in the morning. What her coffee order is. What she loves about coding. What constitutes a perfect day? What her magic can do. What kind of sense of humor does she have? I want to tell her she is safe and for her to believe me. I want to know her story and be in it.

When the hell had that happened?

I don’t know this woman.

Well, besides the fact that she stands up to bullies and takes no sh*t.

That she’s not good at flirting and amazing at drawing a smile out from me without even trying.

I know she is powerful, and I know that power is connected to why she is hiding among humans.

I know she is important to me, already, even if it isn’t logical or typical.

I know there is a magic at work between us that is alchemical. It can’t be human—made. I just know.

“The location of every murder has historical significance for witches,” Beatrice says.

I drag my thoughts back to the present with a shake of my head. Thankfully she doesn’t seem to notice.

“That’s definitely not something the police have figured out.”

“Further, the murders are linked by when they happen.” She presses on. “Not the order in which they happen. Three on a new moon. Three on a first quarter. So far two on the second quarter. If you add the one from tonight—two on a full moon.”

“What does that mean?”

Beatrice shakes her head, “I don’t know. But it’s obvious there will be two more, and we know when they’ll occur.”

“We could actually stop this,” I breathe.

“We could.”

“Does this mean you’re in?”

The warmth drains from her face and she steps away from me, “No. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”