Free A Plain-Dealing Villain by Craig Schaefer Page A

briefing—”
    “I’m calling it in.” Zeke looked at me and puffed out his chest. “I’m
calling it in
.”
    He stomped off to find a quiet corner of the food court, and I weighed my options. Obviously I wasn’t letting them take me anywhere. As far as I understood it, I occupied a strange and unfortunate niche in the infernal courts. It was no secret that Caitlin and I were an item, and that made me an obvious target for anyone wanting to put a hurt on her. At the same time, since I didn’t actually work for her prince, I couldn’t claim diplomatic rights or any of the good stuff that came with being one of hell’s made men.
    All the danger, none of the reward. Or as I like to call it, Tuesday.
    A fight, then? Two against one was a sucker bet. Mack had a good six inches of height and fifty pounds of muscle over me, at least, and Zeke was quick with a knife. I didn’t have anything in my pocket but a deck of cards, and I wasn’t about to show off my special tricks in front of all these civilians.
    For that matter, I had to think about collateral damage. I knew Mack and Zeke were crazy. Crazy enough to pull a piece and start blasting away in the middle of a crowded airport? Zeke might have been, and I wasn’t going to risk innocent lives to find out. No, fighting my way clear was a bad play. I needed something smarter. Evasive action.
    I pushed back my chair and stood up. Mack’s eyes went wide.
    “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
    “To get a cup of coffee. It was a long flight.”
    He jogged around the table to catch up as I walked away. “You can’t leave!”
    I nodded toward the Starbucks kiosk, twenty feet away. “I’m not leaving. I’m getting a cup of coffee. You want one? Maybe a blueberry scone or something?”
    He squinted at me.
    “Yeah…maybe a scone.”
    I ordered a double shot of espresso macchiato and told Mack to pick out anything he wanted. I wasn’t paying attention as I handed a twenty to the cashier and took my cup, the cardboard hot against my palm. I was already working on my spell.
    Magic was strong in places of purpose. The longer people gathered someplace for a common goal, the more the essence of their work seeped into the foundations. It was what gave a place its “soul,” like the way you could walk through a stock exchange long after closing and still hear the ringing of the bells and feel the money sliding through your fingertips. It was why old libraries felt like temples.
    O’Hare International was one of the biggest and busiest airports in the world. The essence of travel and all that came with it—speed, flight, freedom—saturated its steel pores. Lying dormant, waiting to be tapped.
    I called on that power now, with one hand on my cup and the other in my pocket, fingertips resting on the glossy face of my boarding pass. An unused ticket would have made the bond stronger, but it was good enough to open the tap and let the energy flow. I reached out and gathered up the surface hopes and tensions of the minds around us.
Going on vacation getting away from it all getting away
…
    Zeke came back, holding up his phone.
    “We’re supposed to take him straight to the hound.”
    Mack nudged my shoulder. “You heard him. Get moving.”
    Now I was a plane on the tarmac, a 747 loaded with high-octane jet fuel. I walked between Mack and Zeke, turning down the concourse like it was a runway. The flow of energy coursed through my body like gasoline through a hose, running from the boarding pass up my arm, pumping through my heart, across and down my other arm, and pouring full-strength into the cardboard cup. I felt slow, so painfully slow, held to the ground. I ached for flight.
    Zeke frowned at me. “You look weird.”
    A people mover lay just ahead, a hundred-foot-long treadmill track that quietly hummed along between a pair of glass railings, inviting tired commuters to put their bags down and ride for a minute or two.
    “What are you doing?” Zeke looked at