Free Magic Steals by Ilona Andrews Page A

magic?”
    â€œYes and no. Cursing is a pay-to-play magic. If there is a curse, there must be a sacrifice. My curses don’t always work, because the price I pay is small: special paper, special ink, special brush and the years I spent learning calligraphy. This”—I raised my index fingers and made a circle, encompassing the ruined shop—“this would take a real sacrifice. Blood or flesh or something.”
    Jim frowned. “What’s so important about the building that makes it worth that kind of sacrifice?”
    He read my mind. “Exactly. I don’t know. But whoever this person is, they are committed. This isn’t going to stop. There will be more. What is Brune afraid of?”
    â€œBrune!” Jim barked.
    The comic book owner stopped. “Yes?”
    â€œWhen you were a kid, what were you afraid of?”
    â€œBeing short.”
    â€œYou are short,” I blurted out.
    â€œYes, but I’m ripped.” Brune flexed behind Jim. “So I’m okay.”
    I had no idea how being short could kill you. My body still hurt all over as if someone had put me through a meat grinder and thinking about it made my head hurt.
    An imperceptible shift rolled over us, as if the planet somehow turned over in its bed. The magic vanished. The electric lights came on in the shop.
    Everyone exhaled.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I dropped Jim off near a Pack safe house. He wanted to take a shower and change clothes. I drove to the meat market andbought another big steak. And then I drove home. I needed to take a shower and make dinner.
    Magic always had a price, but in cursing that price was very clearly defined. Pay the right amount of the right commodity—the more precious, the better—and get desired result. And whoever was cursing the store owners knew exactly how far he or she could push it. The curser had cursed for their worst fears to manifest, trusting that the manifestations would kill them. He or she didn’t curse them to die. That would’ve required even greater sacrifice, his life or the life of a loved one. Just any life wouldn’t do. A sacrifice had to come at a real cost to the one casting the curse.
    All of this made me anxious. We’d stopped three attempts to murder the store owners. That meant three sacrifices wasted. The person would come after us. I had no idea what my worst fear was. Well, no, I knew. My worst fear was that I wasn’t good enough. That I wasn’t woman enough, sexy enough, hot enough. I’d analyzed myself to death. I had the kind of brain that refused to stay quiet, except when Jim was near. Then it shut up and let me bask in my quiet happiness.
    I got home, took a shower, and inspected the kitchen. My mother had been through it. There was cooked rice and a vegetable curry on the stove, and the fridge had been restocked with everything from tofu and cucumbers to apples and watermelon.
    I’ve learned that Jim, like most shapehsifters, didn’t care for overly spicy food. He would eat it heroically, but he preferred lighter seasoning. I filled a pot with water, unwrapped the steak and dropped it in.
    Blood. Ew. The scent drifted to me from the water. I got a wooden spoon and swished the steak around to get all of the blood and possible contaminants off. I pinned the steak witha spoon and poured the water off, then I got a clean towel, laid it on the counter, slid the steak onto it and patted it dry with the towel. So far so good.
    I transferred the steak to a cutting board; got some garlic, squeezed it through a press; added a little tiny bit of pepper, salt, and a little bit of olive oil; smushed it all with a spoon and spread it on the steak.
    I could still smell the meat.
    And now I reeked of garlic. Hi, Jim, I’m your sexy garlic-smelling date.
    I went to the phone to call my mother. My purifying magic came to me from my father’s line. But the curses, spells, and the systematic