Free Wild Hunt by Margaret Ronald

something that doesn’t involve the dead.” I waited till she was done, then countersigned the contract and ran it through the little machine that served as fax and printer and photocopier all in one. As an afterthought, I tucked one of Sarah’s flyers at the back of Abigail’s copy. What the hell; a slightly sane adept might be a good thing to have at this gathering.
    “You don’t have to do this,” Abigail said again as I handed flyer and contract back to her. “I’m perfectly willing to begin on my own.”
    “I don’t doubt it. But give me one day anyway, all right? You wouldn’t have gotten me to start work any earlier either way.” I paused. “What was your great-great-grandmother’s name?”
    “Abigail Huston.” Abigail smiled tightly. “Like me.”

Five
    I had just enough time to get to Sarah’s “community watch” gathering if I hurried. Trouble was, I didn’t want to hurry. I didn’t particularly want to be there at all. Abigail’s plans had left a bad taste in my mouth, even if I could find a way to work around them. I didn’t like the idea of jumping in to take the risk on my shoulders, but it was still preferable to letting her do it. And the whole situation, magic and guilt and all, made me that much less enthusiastic about spending my evening with another gaggle of magicians.
    But I’d promised Sarah. And I’d as much as promised the same to Woodfin, so that he could get a look at my gun. Even if it meant I had to wear the crappyass batik jacket that was the only thing that hid my shoulder holster. I slid gun into holster (unloaded—I was not about to tempt fate that way), holster onto my back (where it sat nicely against the sweaty spot from today’s work), and jacket on top of that. I shouldn’t have felt like I was wearing a costume, but I did. Everything but the mask.
    The office fan thrummed, and the fountain gurgled away at me, happily oblivious. “Fuck it,” I said finally, and turned over the stack of books, searching till I’d found the right one. “Sarah can wait,” I added, andstuffed a slim volume into my bag. If a side trip could save my sanity, then a side trip it would be.
     
    I can’t stand coffee shops. Don’t get me wrong: I love coffee, to the point where “love” is probably the wrong word. It’s more of a co-dependent relationship; if I leave, I regret it real fast. But I was raised to drink plain coffee, not the stuff with milk and sugar and whipped cream and jimmies on top. If I look at it objectively, I can almost see the point of it, but I’ll stick to my road tar, thank you very much.
    Sarah says this explains a lot about my aesthetics. I’m pretty sure the last time she said it I told her to cram her aesthetics up her filter.
    All this is a lengthy way of saying that it takes a lot to get me through the door of your basic coffee shop. Or at least it used to. These days, it seems like all it takes is Nate.
    He was finishing up a tutoring session as I walked in. His student was a young black girl with her hair up in multiple pigtails and an expression of deep concentration, about as different from Chuckles the Angry Undergrad as possible. I waited until she’d closed her brick-thick textbook and left, then went over to Nate’s table. “You all set?”
    “I’m almost done here,” he said without looking up. I waited a minute, and his pen stilled on the page before him as he connected voice and place. He blinked up at me, as if washing away a moment of sleep. “Evie?”
    “If you’re almost done, then come on.” I picked up his bag and headed for the door.
    He followed, scrambling for the last of his papers. “Everything all right?”
    “Just come on.” I took him by the wrist and led him out the door, glaring at the barista just on principle.
    Nate didn’t protest, and after a moment he caught up to me. I realized a little too late that I was no longer dragging him along and probably should let go of hisarm, but by that point I’d