Natural Mage (Magical Mayhem #2)(81)

Hunch, you idiot! You’re Captain Skulks-a-Lot, not a super fighter like Reagan or Emery. Own your mantle.

I bowed my back, but it was too late. Two guys had turned toward me with lopsided grins and puffed-out chests. Farther down, a woman had narrowed her eyes at me, and it clearly wasn’t because of the two non-magical tourists with too much alcohol in their system. A pair of middle-aged men met my eyes with sparkles of menace before slowly turning around to their drinks, not saying a word or looking at each other.

The Guild was in this bar. But they were far from the only magical people present. A row of rough-and-tumble men and women had bristled into a state of readiness.

Ready to help me, I gathered.

I could feel it like I had with Jimmy. Their power surged up around them, stuffing the air with territorialism and vicious intent. They felt threatened by the mages, and planned to do anything in their power to extinguish that threat.

I was the thing that could help them, and whatever magical feelers I’d put out had them convinced I could help them.

Which was good, because there was no way I could make a stand alone, but I was also attracting way too much attention.

Beside the table in the corner was a small hollow, visually cut off from the live band on the other side, which was why it was empty, even though the table a few paces from it was full of people.

As I made my way to the empty table, a man I didn’t know with dirty-blond hair falling to his shoulders in a wave nodded at me, his eyes glimmering with violence and kindness at the same time. He didn’t mean me harm. His companions had already looked away, studying their drinks.

Across the bar, Reagan was sitting next to a youngish guy with a goofy grin. She cradled a tumbler half-full of brown liquid, probably whiskey. Apparently she was the type to drink on the job. The bartender, Trixie from the other night, took Reagan’s money with a flat expression and headed to the till. Her posture screamed wary. She was uncomfortable with something in the bar, and based on how she’d handled Reagan’s violence the other night, it wasn’t her.

Guild.

Anger wobbled my balanced bubble, but Emery strutted into the bar behind me, his posture loose and relaxed, confident and in charge. He surveyed the crowd, letting his gaze linger on a few of the male patrons, probably magical people, before drifting out of my view, toward the area of the bar nearest the band. He’d go deaf on this stakeout.

In the far corner, Reagan glanced up at me before shifting her attention back to the crowd in the bar. I couldn’t tell who interested her most, because one of the lopsided grinners from the bar cut off my view, his lean pronounced and his eyes slightly glazed.

The dirty-blond man who’d nodded at me stood up, pushing his chair back as he did so. Just over six feet tall with a powerful frame, he turned toward the bar with a loose body that almost looked like it was lounging. Like he was getting in a good stretch before he attacked.

“What do you want?” he growled out to Drunk Guy, and a spicy elixir tickled my magic, like a wind-swept prairie in the hot moonlight.

“I got no beef with you, bro,” Drunk Guy said, the words slurring and jumbled together. “I’m just heading over there.” He pointed in my direction, and I shrank back without meaning to.

The shifter stepped into the path between me and Drunk Guy. “Does she look like a ringmaster, mate?” he asked.

Drunk Guy frowned and swayed. Confusion turned to anger, and alcohol erased the desire for self-preservation. He bristled and stepped toward the shifter. “Why don’t you get out of the way, bro.”

“I said, does she look like a ringmaster?” the shifter said, not moving. The change in his body was slight, but I could feel raw power and brutal grace exude from him. “Because if not, she has no need of clowns.”

“Get him out of here, Steve,” Trixie yelled across the bar. “He’s had enough.”

“With pleasure, love.” Steve, the shifter, grabbed the man by the shirt with both hands, lifted him without effort, and muscled him toward the door.

As soon as they left, I caught another glimpse of Reagan, downing her whiskey and staring toward the corner that Jimmy had pointed out.

She nodded to Trixie and slapped another five on the bar, now staring straight ahead.

Steve wandered back in, seemingly without a care in the world. He nodded at me as he passed, then shrugged at my muttered thanks. He took his seat without a word, and the others around him shifted and adjusted their positions. Certain figures stilled, their hands in front of them, close together. Others straightened up, ready for action. Still more shifted and fidgeted, looking around uncomfortably. It felt like we were all in a pressure cooker, waiting for something to blow.

My attention was drawn to one of the middle booths in the bar. The occupants were studying each other intently, silent communication in their eyes.

I edged farther out of my nook so I could see better.

Magic wisps rose feebly from the hands of the man nearest the bar, his hands clasped next to his empty glass. Another mage had her hands below the table, magic rolling into a messy sort of weave intended for destruction.

“This is about to kick off,” I told Steve absently, edging still farther out.

“It was about to kick off when these maggots wandered into the wrong part of town. We’re just waiting for the go-ahead.”

“No, I mean, it is about to kick off right now. They are creating shitty spells that will get Reagan riled up, which will get Emery riled up, which will make me do something stupid. You might want to walk out now.”