Kate Daniels 01 - Magic Bites

Guild representative present. I lost my patience forty-five minutes into our conversation and pretended to fall asleep, forcing them to leave.
    The next morning I was walking, not very well, but walking. Considering my rapid progress, I pulled the bandages off my hands. I had no nails, but other than that, my hands looked normal. Very pale, but normal. If it wasn’t for magic, they would’ve taken months to heal. But then if it wasn’t for magic, I wouldn’t have ended up in this mess.
    Anna called. We spoke and after a few minutes our conversation grew increasingly strained until she said, “You’ve changed.”
    “In what way?”
    “You sound like you’ve aged five years.”
    “A lot happened,” I said simply.
    “Will you tell me about it?”
    “Not right now. Later sometime.”
    “I see. Do you need help?”
    I did, but I didn’t want her there and I wasn’t sure why. “No, I’m fine.”
    She didn’t insist and I was grateful.
    The next evening brought another visit from Doolittle, who fussed until I let him in. He released my ribs from the bandages, revealing a long jagged scar snaking its way across my ribcage. He thought it might dissolve in time. I didn’t think so. Even if it did, the damage to my person was already done and no amount of magic would wipe it away.
    A week passed without any news. As soon as I was able to manipulate a pen to my satisfaction, I wrote a long report detailing the investigation, tied a pretty blue ribbon around it, addressed it to the Order including a request to forward a copy to the Guild, and left it for the mailman.
    My nails started to grow, for which I was grateful. My fingers had looked odd without them. The pile of unopened mail grew too, slowly building in the basket by my door. I ignored it. There were bound to be some bank notices in there, threatening to do horrible things to me unless I fixed my overdraft. I didn’t want to deal with them.
    I thought a lot while sitting in the sun drinking iced tea during the day, and coffee in the evenings, and read. Anna called again, but sensing that I didn’t want to talk, she kept the conversation embarrassingly short.
    During one of those sunshine-filled days, I raided the cabinet where I kept my wine and dumped it into the sink, leaving myself a single bottle of Boone’s Farm Sangria. For a special occasion.
    The next Sunday I awoke early, disturbed by a loud banging. It echoed through the house, ricocheting from the walls. I listened to it for a few moments, making sure it wasn’t a figment of my imagination, then grudgingly hauled myself out of the bed and went to investigate.
    A quick reconnaissance identified the sound’s point of origin, namely my roof, and I went into the yard to get a good look at it. The sun was already up and beginning to grill the ground. I looked at the top of the house and saw the Beast Lord in a torn T-shirt and paint-stained jeans. He held a hammer in a very businesslike manner and was applying it to my roof. Derek sat next to him, dutifully passing him shingles.
    The world had gone insane.
    “Can I ask you a question?” I called.
    Curran stopped hammering and looked at me. “Sure.”
    “What are you doing on my roof?”
    “I’m teaching the kid a valuable skill,” Curran said.
    Derek coughed. I chewed on that for a moment and opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, the phone rang.
    “Get off my roof,” I said and went to pick it up.
    “Ms. Daniels?” said an unfamiliar male voice into the receiver.
    “Kate.”
    The hole above my hallway was almost gone. Curran showed no signs of stopping.
    “Kate, this is Detective Gray with PAD.”
    “You would be which of the two bulldo . . . law enforcement professionals that came to my house?”
    “Neither.”
    The hammering gained new intensity as if Curran was trying to pound the house into the ground. I guessed he was trying to get the nails all the way in with one hit.
    “I’m here with Knight-protector Monahan. He informed me of your involvement with the Red Point Stalker murders.”
    Red Point Stalker. Ugh. Sounded like some half-baked made-for-TV mystery.
    The hammering had reached deafening levels.
    “We’re impressed. If you don’t mind me asking, what is that banging?”
    “Just a minute.” I put the receiver on the table and yelled, “Curran!”
    “What?”
    “Could you hold a minute? I’m on the phone with PAD.”
    He growled something, but the hammering ceased.
    “I’m sorry. You were