Neon Blue by E Frost (best big ereader .TXT) 📕

front of the Omni Parker House. “Rumor says it’s haunted.”

“I’ve heard that, too.” But I’ve never investigated. I don’t do random ghosts.

“Have you ever been inside?”

I shake my head. Way too rich for my wallet.

“Shall we?”

I glance dubiously at the glass façade. “Borders is just down the street.”

Timmi laughs. “Another time then.”

I follow her past the fancy hotel, dodging around a couple coming through the revolving front door. The woman is toting a fluffy beige thing under her arm, which on first glance I take for a fur hand-muff. I’m about to hiss “fur is murder” at her, when the freaking thing’s head turns. It’s a dog. With a fox face and little tufty ears. The woman’s carrying a goddamn Pomeranian in a little bag under her arm, while the man on her other arm talks a thousand miles a minute into his cell phone. Ugh.

Timmi suddenly links her arm in mine and rolls her eyes conspiratorially. “Canis familiaris make such vulgar accessories, don’t you think?” She whispers.

I giggle.

Timmi follows the couple with her eyes. “And her shoes clash with the pooch. Someone should tell her.”

She’s right. The woman’s wearing leopard-print high heels that don’t quite work with the beige fluff under her arm. “Mixing genuses?”

“Taxonomically appalling.”

I laugh so loud the woman turns her head to look at me. I duck and hurry down the street, not wanting to cause a scene.

At Borders, we order coffee and at Timmi’s urging, double-chocolate muffins, and find a table in the sun. I’m about to fish my moldavite out of my handbag, when Timmi opens hers and takes out a shell that she sets carefully on the plastic tray between us.

I brush my finger over the smooth, white curve of the cowrie shell. Feel the gentle tingle of a charm. I smile. “Mine’s moldavite.”

“May I?” Timmi holds out her hand. I rummage through my bag until I find the little gem flower and drop it onto her palm. “Ooo, that’s a lovely piece.”

“Ebay,” I say.

Timmi smiles. “I meant the charm. Very strong and, mmm, tidy. I like the structure of your magic very much, Tsara. Isn’t it liberating to be able to speak freely?”

I nod and accept the moldavite when she passes it back to me. Take my cup of vanilla mocha and blow on it before I take a sip. Yum.

Timmi does the same and smiles appreciatively at her dark roast. “What shall we talk about then?”

What she wants from me. “Anything you like.”

“Well, we’ve covered the weather and politics and our respective occupations. I guess that just leaves men and magic.” Her infectious grin widens.

“Let’s skip men.” Too raw a topic right now.

She rubs her hands together. “Magic it is.”

“Are you just a collector or do you still practice?”

She arches one white eyebrow. “Just a collector?”

“Sorry, that didn’t come out the way I meant it to.”

“You’re forgiven.” How can her eyes twinkle so merrily? Is it glamour? I tilt my head so I can use my peripheral vision. She’s not glittering. “Not everyone shares my passion, I realize. I did practice, but these days I find it exhausting. I’m content now to preserve our magical history. And occasionally to mentor the younger generation, if they’re deserving.”

Is that what she wants? An apprentice? Should I be flattered? “Are they?”

She shrugs one shoulder and takes a sip of her coffee. “Not often. I’ve had some spectacular disappointments, particularly of late. Forgive me for saying so, but the young can be so single-minded. So incapable of seeing the bigger picture. Especially young men. Don’t you find?”

“I thought we were skipping men.” The demon’s pretty darn single-minded, and he doesn’t even have the excuse of youth.

“Yes, of course. Disappointments are best forgotten anyway. Shall we talk of possibilities, instead?”

“Sure.”

She leans forward and says conspiratorially. “What possibilities do you think we might discuss?”

I shrug. “I’m not really sure.”

“Tsara, are you playing coy with me?”

Am I? I wasn’t trying to. I’ve never been approached by anyone wanting to mentor me before. I already have a house-full of ghosts who are more than happy to offer me advice, usually when I don’t want it. “Sorry. Are you offering to teach me?”

“Would you like that?”

“I . . . might.” My voice still sounds cautious, even to me, but inside, I’m warming to the idea. I was never happier than I was at Bevvy, and it wasn’t just being in an environment where my talents were nurtured. It was learning. I love to learn. And I promised myself I would keep it up after I graduated. But I’ve been so busy doing the work that pays the bills that I haven’t done anything about keeping that promise. There are whole realms of magical knowledge that I barely touched on at college. Demon-lore, for example. “I’d always understood that the different Elements couldn’t offer each other much.”

“Who told you that?” She dismisses the idea with a wave. “I might struggle to teach a water witch, but Fire and Earth are kindred spheres.”

“This is . . . it’s very kind of you, Timmi. You barely know me.”

She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I like the little I know. And, forgive me for saying so, but you’re leaking power like a sieve, my dear. I could feel it as soon as I picked up the ring. There was nothing left of the Great Seal.” I hang my head and she gives my hand another squeeze. “But your magic . . . overpowering. It smelled like Christmas, to tell you the truth.”

I chuckle. “Holly. Other people have told me my magic smells like holly or mistletoe.”

“Yes, quite.” She releases my hand, breaks off a bit of her muffin and nibbles it. Washes it down with a sip of coffee. “And woodsmoke. I caught a hint of woodsmoke in your office, too.”

Probably the charred carpet. Or maybe eau de demon. “I’m not very good at smelling magic. I don’t smell anything off you.” I can smell the demon’s magic sometimes, though. That hot spice that makes my whole body tight.

“Well, that’s