Free Black Dust Mambo by Adrian Phoenix Page B

enhancing each other’s spells,” she said, a sad smile brushing her lips. “You were true brothers-in-magic.” She looked at Gage’s body. The smile vanished from her lips. “I won’t lose you too. Now go fetch me staff.”
    Layne bent and kissed the top of Mc Kenna’s head.
    “Thanks, buttercup, I appreciate it, but I ain’t leaving. Fetch your own damned staff.” He straightened.
    “Man-stupid.” Mc Kenna’s hand snapped up and caught a fistful of dreads. Yanked. Pain rippled across Layne’s scalp. She yanked again. Then once more. His eyes watered. Grip of steel, that woman, but he refused to give her any satisfaction.
    “Did you want something?” he asked, pleased at the levelness of his voice.
    “I wanna knock some sense into yer head, but since yer head seems to be lacking a brain, there’s no point in the knocking.” She gave his captured dreads one more eye-stinging yank before releasing them. “So I’ll settle fer keeping you alive and on yer path.”
    Curling his hands into fists in order to keep from rubbing at his scalp, Layne asked, “And what path is that, Kenn? Not many are laid out for a Vessel.”
    “You’ve already lived longer than most Vessels and, except for occasional bouts of man-stupidity, yer still sane.”
    “That’s me, breaking records all over the place. Spill—what path?”
    Mc Kenna walked away, pacing around to the opposite side of the bed, her fingers smoothing and twisting locks of nearly black hair into points along her temples and cheeks, a rakish and sexy habit that Layne still enjoyed watching. But right now, she was using it to distract him. Not going to work.
    “What path?” he repeated.
    Mc Kenna looked at him, her hand dropping to her side. Her lovely face held a careful neutrality that he recognized as the Teacher, and he knew he wouldn’t get his answer. Or he would, but his answer would be twisted into a riddle impossible to unwind.
    “Answer hazy,” she replied. “Try again later.”
    “Will I need to shake you first?” Layne growled.
    “Oh, what a rare pleasure, truly,” a female voice with a posh British accent cut in. “I’ve never met a human Magic 8 Ball before.”
    Layne spun around, automatically reaching for the gun normally tucked into his jeans, but it wasn’t there, and pain rippled hot and liquid through his chest with the movement. Vision peppered with black specks, he stumbled. “Shit.”
    Hands gripped his arms before he could fall—inquisitive, touchy-feely hands, sliding along his forearms and caressing his biceps—and guided him to a chair.
    “My, my, my, aren’t we well built and firm?” the British voice murmured. “Here. Please sit down and catch your breath.”
    Layne half fell, half sat in the chair, then leaned his forearms against his thighs, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. His heart hammered against his aching ribs.
    “Who the hell are you?” Mc Kenna asked the woman Layne still felt standing beside him, an energetic, hummingbird-busy presence.
    “Felicity Fields. I’m Lord Augustine’s assistant. And may I extend my condolences for your loss?”
    “You may, but are you kidding me?” McKenna asked, her tone dubious, but Layne heard the humor beneath her words. “Felicity Fields sounds like the name of a Bond babe. You a double-O spy?”
    “No, but—my, my, my—what a fascinating possibility. A spy. Me. But no, I’m here because Lord Augustine asked me to tidy up the situation.”
    Layne opened his eyes at the woman’s words and lifted his head. “A man was fucking murdered. That ain’t something you can just tidy up.”
    Felicity Fields—tall and curvaceous in a knee-length rose-colored skirt belted at the waist below a gauzy white sleeveless blouse—met his gaze. A rose-colored Bluetooth cupped her right ear. Strawberry-blonde hair fell sleek to the tops of her shoulders, framing a fair-skinned and freckled face. She regarded Layne with sympathetic hazel eyes. “I’m referring to