Magical Influence Book One Read Free Page B

categorized people into attractive or unattractive; being a
witch, I understood that both were meaningless categories. There
were attractive qualities about every single person, just as there
were unattractive. Models might have a suitably fine appearance,
but you could draw up an extensive list of their behavioral faults.
No package contained complete perfection.
    This man with his broad shoulders,
appealing build, and straight jaw would no doubt turn heads at any
bachelorette party, but from the exact look of concentrated
attention, and barely contained forcefulness, he was also a lot
more than just pretty.
    “Can I help you?” I asked
warily.
    We very, very rarely had people come
to the door. It was to do with the state of the house, the state of
the yard, and our particular reputations.
    Okay, I doubted that any of
our neighbors actually, genuinely thought we were witches; the
couple living to the left were dentists, and the couple to the
right wrote for a science magazine. They were what you would call
classically skeptical folk. But they would know, deep down, not to
knock on the door of the peculiar ladies in the peculiar house that
just so happened to be stereotypically witchy.
    The police, of course, would have no
such compunction.
    He cleared his throat. It was a
uniquely grating sound. It got my attention, hell, it would command
anyone's attention. It was the kind of move you could do in a
fantastically noisy bar and instantly get everybody to turn around,
quiet down, and stare your way.
    “Mrs. Sinclair?”
    My cheeks started to
pale .
“Yes?”
    “My name is Agent Fairweather,” he brought
his hand down to the badge that was lodged in his belt, and he
plucked it out neatly, bringing it up so I could see.
    At that exact moment I swear the
clouds parted, and a ray of sunlight came down, making the damn
badge glint like the edge of a sword.
    Agent Fairweather.
    Christ. This wasn't going to be good,
was it?
    “What's this about?” I still had my hand
on the door, and now my fingers dug into it for
purchase.
    “We need you to come in for
questioning.”
    “About what?”
    “About the kilo of cocaine you tried to
import into the country,” he replied easily.
    If I had paled before, it was nothing
compared to what my skin did now. I swear that every trickle of
blood drained from my peripheries. I felt cold in a snap, and
stopped breathing to boot.
    Kilo of cocaine?
    Dear God, what had my grandmother done
now?
    The man looked at me steadily and
very, very harshly. It was the kind of look that told me that if I
chose to close the door and run, he would chase, and he would most
definitely succeed in catching me.
    I finally had the presence of mind to
flick my gaze past the man, down the garden path, and out onto the
street.
    There were several squad
cars.
    Oh, this was fantastic, completely and
utterly fantastic.
    “Right,” I said, trying to stall for time,
bringing a hand up, latching it onto my chin, and letting the
fingers dig somewhat into my cheeks.
    My eyes probably grew wide in panic as
I tried to think.
    A kilo of cocaine? There probably
wasn't going to be anyway I could talk my way out of this one. I
wouldn't be able to sit down with the customs official, let him
know that my grandmother was a little demented, and assure him that
I would never let her try to import any restricted goods into the
country again.
    No, because cocaine wasn’t
restricted; it was bloody well illegal. And it was a kilo of the stuff. What
was my grandmother thinking? Had she decided we were so destitute
that she would start selling drugs on the street corner?
    No, of course not; she would have
simply found one of her ridiculous new spells on the Internet, and
she would have thought that it would be fun to try it. She would
not have thought at any time that importing a kilo of cocaine was
illegal, would get her caught, and would land her in
prison.
    “Come with me, you have the right to
remain silent,” he began.
    I tuned