Free Witch Fire by Anya Bast Page A

period.
    Decided, Mira whirled and headed back into the office. She searched through the desk drawers until she found a paperclip and returned to the door. Her lock-picking skills were based solely on rooting around and manipulating the pins until the door opened.
    It took awhile.
    Finally, the knob turned and the door opened. She pocketed the paper clip, stood, and flicked on the light.
    â€œOh, wow,” she breathed.
    Another surprise. She never would’ve taken Jack for an artsy kind of guy, even with the expensive Remington cowboy statues displayed in the living room, but it must have been Jack who’d taken the gorgeous photos that hung in this room.
    Both glossy black-and-whites and color portraits hung framed on the walls and were pinned haphazardly to easels scattered throughout the room. Mira walked around, studying them. She stopped at several photos of an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair. Perhaps it was his mother?
    There were pictures of snow-covered barns, long four-board fences shot at the height of summer, and other nature-related shots. There were pictures of children and older people, bright, shining young faces juxtaposed with knotted, wrinkled hands. They all seemed to make a statement about the beauty of life and its fleeting nature.
    Her brow wrinkled. Jack was capable of making deep philosophical statements through artwork?
    Shelves stood against another wall, filled with camera equipment and electronics. A desk sat beside it, holding what had to be fifty photo albums.
    She walked over and ran her finger over a black-bound album lying on his desk and opened it. A sensual photo of a beautiful blonde in a revealing negligee met her eyes and she quickly shut it.
    Really. She should’ve known better.
    This was Jack’s private room and if gorgeous, scantily clad women wanted Jack to take their picture, who was she to judge? Hell, women probably fell over themselves wanting attention like that from Jack McAllister. Unwelcome jealousy pricked for a moment before she forced it away.
    Abruptly, she grabbed another album, finding it filled with what looked to be surveillance photos of an older, heavyset man and a few of his cronies. Interesting. Jack took pictures of some of the witches or warlocks he was tasked with watching. She replaced the album and surveyed the others.
    She ran her finger back and forth over a pricey-looking leather-bound album sticking out a little from the rest. It was so pretty. Mira opened it and gasped.
    Her own face stared up at her.

SIX
    â€œN O, NO, NO, ” SHE CHANTED, FLIPPING THROUGH the pages. All of them were of her, shots taken while she’d been on her way to work or coming home. When she’d been on break or at the grocery store…
    She put her hand to her mouth. She’d never known Jack had been watching her so closely. He must’ve practically been her shadow for a good two weeks. He’d told her he’d been watching her, but taking pictures?
    That was kind of creepy.
    Except…
    She started from the beginning of the album once more. The first pictures were like a photo record of her day, unconcerned with lighting or her facial expression, just documentation of her daily activities. Midway through the pictures took on a personal quality.
    Mira stopped at one showing her about to get into her car. She’d drawn her coat around her against the frigid day, the cold, bright sun shining high above her head. Her car was in the middle of the badly plowed street in front of the diner. There was not one other vehicle on the entire stretch of road, not one other person. She didn’t know how she’d never noticed someone watching her. The road itself was shot so that it looked as though it stretched into infinity.
    And she was on it alone, wearing a forlorn expression on her face.
    Another showed her at a coffee shop down the street where she went sometimes for her lunch to get a change of scenery. He’d been in the