Krampus’s child-whipping helpers.
Huh. Maybe Shaw was on to something with the Christmas-fascination thing.
“I will do no such thing.” The creature straightened his vest. “This is my home.”
Uh-oh. House spirits were crazy territorial and—all-key or no all-key—we had trespassed. “What are you?”
“A boggart.” He sniffed. “I hope that wet-dog scent washes out.”
My jaw clenched. “Listen here, buddy—”
“I am not your buddy .” He flicked his wrist, and mist crawled across the ground and slithered up my torso. It trapped my legs and clutched my shoulders. Another flick and his rancid fog slung me across the room. My head bounced off the wall. “I must ask you to leave before the mistress arrives.”
I pushed upright, wincing as I put weight on my sore hand. “Mistress?”
A boggart could infest a house and terrorize the owners like this one was gunning for me, creating what humans considered a haunting. But the one word said it all, didn’t it? Mistress . She owned him.
So much for the Richardsons being uninitiated.
The spirit pinched his lips together.
I braced on the wall until I got my feet under me. “We haven’t been formally introduced.” I showed him my left palm, let him wonder at the soft light pooling on the glossy oak floorboards between us as I gathered power in my hand. “I’m Marshal Thackeray with the Southwestern Conclave’s Special Operations Division.” His hands went to his vest, smoothing the fabric while he ignored me. “Your mistress is under investigation for poaching.” I tagged the bloody bed with my gaze. “And the list is growing.”
Hammering at the bedroom door sent relief coursing through me. My hand was a last resort. My power didn’t come with an off switch. Every time magic pulsed through my runes, it meant kill or be killed. Right now I was lit up, glowing, and I wasn’t sure I could diffuse the energy without feeding.
“Thierry,” Shaw called. “Are you all right in there?”
“I’m fine.” I jerked my head at the boggart. “Step away from the door so my partner can enter.”
“What is that smell? Dirt and oranges?” The spirit sniffed. “What is he?”
Species was up to Shaw to disclose or not. “A conclave marshal, just like me.”
Beady eyes darted to my hand then to the air vent overhead. “That is not an answer.”
I snorted. “And here you’ve been so forthcoming.”
The boggart straightened his shoulders. “I will speak to you only with my mistress present.”
Great, he had just pulled the boggart equivalent of asking for a lawyer. Before I could bluff him into a corner, he turned to vapor and drifted into the vent. At least the stink dissipated once the twerp went airborne.
“The door’s locked.” The wood muffled Shaw’s voice. “Do I need to open it or can you?”
“Give me a minute.” I shouldered aside the mattress and twisted the lock with my right hand. “I was just wrapping up an interview with the help.” When he glanced around the empty room, I said, “Mrs. Richardson enslaved a boggart.”
He brushed past me on his way inside the bedroom. “So the Richardsons are initiated after all.”
“Bethany is at least. With their separate living situation, I’m not sure how much the husband knows about what his wife is up to.” I circled him. “Also? We have a tiny problem.”
He frowned at my hand, at the shine encasing it. “Turn it off.”
“You know it’s not that easy.” I flexed my fingers. “It’s all charged up with nowhere to go.”
“No one said it was easy. Learning to use my lure was a pain in the ass, but I did it and you will too.” He stepped closer. “Slow your breathing. Shake off the residual energy. Release it into the air.”
I shut my eyes, focused on each inhale and exhale. Power fizzled in my palm.
“That’s it,” he soothed. “Relax. Let it go.”
His nearness, the soft rumble of his voice, distracted me.
“I can’t.” Magical residue clung to
Learning to Kill: Stories