Free Soul Hunt by Margaret Ronald Page A

my regards.”
    “Pay regards, my ass,” Wheelwright sneered. “You wanted to get your hands on her loci.”
    “While I will admit to a certain concern in that regard, I must point out that that is a regrettable falsehood.” Chatterji’s smile widened—it did that when he was embarrassed—and he bowed slightly to Wheelwright.“At least it is when applied to
my
circumstances.”
    “Are you accusing me of theft?” Wheelwright demanded.
    “Not in the least—” Chatterji began, in that tone that meant a long argument over semantics was about to follow.
    I cut him off, raising my hand between them. Chatterji actually flinched. “Which of you set the ward?”
    At that, Chatterji looked down at his feet. “It wasn’t his fault,” Wheelwright muttered. “He didn’t want our quarrel to bother anyone.”
    “Then don’t have the damn quarrel to begin with! Jesus, this is a hospital, not some back alley—you don’t throw magic around like that!”
    “You do when it is necessary,” Chatterji maintained, but he didn’t look up.
    “Anyway, if that moistened bint from her houseboat is here, it’s a wonder there aren’t more of us around.” Wheelwright jerked her head toward the front desk. “Only they’re not being cooperative. They tell me there’s no Miss Troyes here, and since Sonny Jim stopped by, I figured he must have pulled a fast one on their records—”
    “I protest,” Chatterji responded, again meekly. The man was made of meek.
    “She’s not here,” I said. If these two headed up to see Tessie, they’d drive her crazy in no time. “They moved her to Mount Auburn.”
    Chatterji nodded and seemed ready to walk off, but Wheelwright’s eyes narrowed. “Then what are you doing here, Hound?”
    “Blood test,” I lied equably. “Had to pick up my results. No, you don’t get to know what they were. Now dispel this damn thing and get out of here.”
    Wheelwright glared at me, working her lower lip between her teeth. Chatterji, however, straightened and whispered in her ear. I caught the words “Bright Brothers” and “just herself” and even if Wheelwrightstill looked skeptical, she nodded after a moment. “Fine. But you just watch yourself if you come down my way. I don’t like being bullied.”
    “And I don’t like bullying,” I said as she took a length of rowan wood about the size of a lipstick case from her purse and twiddled it between her fingers. “So we’re well matched.”
    Chatterji, meanwhile, had taken a long pull from his vile hip flask, then flicked a few droplets from it in the four directions, dispelling his part of the ward. He mistook my look of revulsion—again, I was glad my talent wasn’t picking up the scent of the flask—for reproof and gave me an apologetic shrug. “It seemed necessary. For precautions. You understand?”
    “Not really,” I said, but I followed them out. Precautions were wards in your home, not tossed down to hide an argument. Something was seriously wonky with the world if this sort of thing was becoming routine. Or perhaps something was just wrong with Chatterji and Wheelwright. I waited until they disappeared around the corner, then bent to unlock my bike.
    Maybe it was an aftereffect of that burst of anger, maybe it was the result of being nearby when Wheelwright and Chatterji dispelled their respective wards, but this time, I caught the scent before I saw the person. A thin trace of damp woodchuck and burnt-out matchsticks wove past me, and it was probably a sign of how bad it had gotten for me that I didn’t recognize it until I’d stood up again. “Deke?” I whispered, and turned around, the helmet in my hand whacking against the bike rack so hard it rebounded into my leg.
    No fires. No immediate sign of him—but there, coming out of one of the EMT bays on foot was a hulking figure in a leather bomber jacket dwarfing a little skittish shadow at his side. “Deke!” I yelled.
    The shadow spun like a cornered cat, but the