Inked

text her a couple piddling lines. And that was just stupid. He usually texted instead of calling, especially about the little stuff, especially when she was on a case. He knew she kept her text alert on silent, so sending a text message didn’t interrupt her.
    What she really wanted was an apology. He was wrong, dammit. He shouldn’t have used her password. He’d crossed a line, and he needed to know that.
    But that had to wait until they were together. It couldn’t be discussed over the phone, and damn sure couldn’t be covered by a text. She checked her watch. Twelve twenty. Huh. Her inner Rule-compass, matched with the map she’d studied of the area, suggested he was still there. Either he hadn’t gotten to the scene right away after texting her, or he’d found enough of interest to keep him sniffing around awhile.
    Well, if he learned something significant—like, say, if he found Adele’s scent all over—he’d call. Pissed or not, he’d call if it mattered.
    There was a text from her sister—Beth had another boyfriend, and this one was hot—and one from Arjenie Fox: call me.
    She did. And then she called Croft and told him she was now officially investigating murder by magical means.
    The lacy choker tattooed around Steve Hilliard’s neck was a spell, all right. One that stopped his heart. That’s why there wasn’t much blood—his heart stopped pumping before his throat got cut.
    “The slashed throat was intended to throw off the locals, keep us from being called in,” Lily told Croft. “It could have worked. The chief here is a member of Humans First. He wouldn’t look too hard, and if the body hadn’t been found so quickly, there might not have been enough of him left for us to even know about the tattoo. I bet she was counting on that.”
    “She?” Croft said. “You’ve got a suspect already?”
    “I do, but right now it’s all motive and speculation.” Hunch, she might have said, or instinct. Whatever she called it, she knew she was on the right track, but she didn’t have proof. “She does fit the M.O. She’s a spell-caster, an eclectic, so she could have learned that spell someplace.”
    “You’ll need more than ‘could have.’”
    “I’ll call you when I have it.”
    As soon as she disconnected, she called Rule—and was shuffled off immediately to voice mail. Damn. Probably the mountains were interfering with reception.
    She left him a brief message, checked her notes, refused the refill on her Diet Coke Mrs. Gomez wanted to give her, and set off to plug the meter—the patrol car was still cruising by every so often. Then she headed for the gas station on the corner. She wanted badly to get into Practikal Magik and look for Adele’s tattoo equipment, but she didn’t have enough for a search warrant, not yet. So she’d go see the closest member of Adele’s little group, one of the few males.
    The pumps at the station were self-service, but there was a garage out back. That’s where she found Mannie Bouchard, scowling up at a Suburban raised high by the hydraulic lift.
    Early twenties, six feet even, weight maybe one-fifty, black and brown. His skin was dark enough to suggest that Mannie might be short for Manuel in spite of the French surname. Slim verging on skinny, but his arms were ropy with muscle. Ragged hair, grease-stained jeans, sleeves ripped out of his T-shirt. A tattoo on his right bicep, but she couldn’t see what it was from here. “Mannie Bouchard?”
    His head swung toward her, the scowl undisturbed—until someone flipped a switch and his thin face lit in a grin. “Hey! You’re Lily Yu, aren’t you?” He started toward her, pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. “I’m Mannie, yeah.” His voice dropped as he reached her. “And I’m ospi to Nokolai.” He held out a hand.
    Her eyebrows lifted. Ospi meant out-clan friend; used as he had, as introduction, it probably meant he was related to someone who was clan.
    She shook his hand. No furry magic, but a small bump of a Finding Gift. “Your mom’s Nokolai?”
    “Yeah. Dora Bouchard. You know her?”
    It took a second, but once Lily placed the name, she smiled. “Nice lady. There’s no nonsense to her.” Dora was the daughter of one of the Nokolai councilors, so was considered clan. Her children weren’t. “Would you be the wild child she blames for her gray hair?”
    “Sorry to say, but yeah. Though I’m getting my act together finally.” He grimaced. “I