Spirit Trap: Spells for Hire, #3

By Stefon Mears

Heath Cyr, conjure man. A top talent among those who sell spells in that magical melting pot -- Portland, Oregon.

Heath, up too early to meet a client. Up far too early to deal with rival conjure man DeAndre McDaniels in a public place like Powell's City of Books.

But DeAndre offers a truce, for the last reason Heath would ever expect.

Spirit Trap, a page-turning, twisted urban fantasy novella full of magic and mystery. Fans of Grimm and Harry Dresden won't want to miss out on Heath Cyr! The third Spells for Hire book, from Stefon Mears, author of the Rise of Magic series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thousand Faces Publishing
• Release date: Sep 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386980469

Book preview

1

Far as Heath Cyr was concerned, nothing short of a natural disaster was a good reason to get out of bed before noon.

Right now it was not quite ten a.m.

Heath, by all rights, should have been fast asleep between the soft cotton sheets of his California king. Preferably with Nariko, his girlfriend, naked and curled up beside him. His tuxedo cat, Dr. John, tucked into a tight little purring ball on Heath’s chest.

Nariko, alas, was camping out at Mount Hood. Something to do with her Shugendō practice. Heath hadn’t quite followed the symbology of her explanation, though. Some things just must not translate right from Japanese.

Still, he understood that mountains played an important role in her magic, and he understood that this trip was important to her. It was also something she had to do alone.

Dr. John was outside, likely harassing field mice that had the misfortune of finding they’d left Forest Park for the surrounding neighborhoods.

And Heath, to his current dismay, was not in bed.

He was fully dressed. Leather boat shoes. Navy blue cargo shorts, with all the extra pockets stuffed full of little helpers he might need, depending on how the day went. A couple of them were mojo bags, but the others, supplies in ready-to-use packets.

For a shirt, he wore a pale blue, feather-light button-up, with short sleeves. Tucked into the breast pockets, a couple of things he hoped he wouldn’t need, but kept on his person whenever he was in public. Just in case.

Heath wasn’t expecting trouble, but his grandmother always said: "Trouble’s not a guest anyone invites."

And if he needed anything else, that was why he wore a black canvas backpack over one shoulder, containing just about any tools a conjure man like himself might need to deal with any uninvited trouble.

More than two solid hours before noon, and here Heath was entering Powell’s City of Books. Not because of a natural disaster, but for something that prove more personally significant.

Heath had to meet a client.

This particular client was a woman on the Trail Blazers’ stunt team. This went well, it could open up a whole new client base for Heath.

And if the Trail Blazers themselves started coming to him for readings or spells? Well, NBA players weren’t exactly hard up for cash.

Maybe Heath could even become the official root doctor for an NBA team…

Still. Powell’s was not the place he would have chosen to meet a client.

By preference, he would have liked someplace with a veneer of privacy. A table in a public park would have been good. Riverfront Park maybe, or Forest Park, or any of the little parks that dotted the little city. Sitting in the morning sunshine at a sidewalk bistro or café might have been even better. A ready source of caffeine, and a chance to enjoy some of the last clear days of the year.

It was September now, and in Portland, Oregon, that meant the rains would be back any day. If Heath had to be conscious and outside at this unholy hour, he might as well at least enjoy the weather.

But no. The client wanted Powell’s.

On the one hand, Heath could understand it. A woman, meeting a strange man for the first time. A man she only knew by reputation. The safe way to play was to meet him at one of the busiest places she could, without setting it up to have to buy him lunch or something.

But she could have at least agreed to a reasonable hour.

Heath was tired, and in crowded places that sometimes triggered his old Manhattan instincts.

Like right now.

Three steps inside the building, and already he felt the grimace start. The tension through his shoulders. His elbows jutting out a little more, ready to clear a path if he needed them to. His stride already tightened into the swift gait of the Manhattanite.

This was just the magazine section — a room bigger than a lot of other bookstores Heath could name — but it was near the checkout, where already dozens of tourists were pouring over the Powell’s branded merchandise.

They were inside one of the biggest bookstores in the western United States — if not in fact the western hemisphere — and instead of going through any one of the four floors of books available in the whole city block of floorspace, they were huddled by the cashiers. Looking at bags and tee shirts, drink bottles and more.

Heath practically growled.

Caffeine was not going to be enough. He’d need chocolate.

And if this client was late, he’d double his fee.

Heath made his way to the coffee shop — without needing to elbow anyone, which was probably for the best.

He didn’t need to hand over his backpack at the front counter, either, because of a little ignore-me charm that kept anyone in authority from noticing it.

Wasn’t as though Heath was going to steal anything.

The coffee shop at Powell’s was bigger than a number of the local bistros he could have named.

Maybe that was a good thing. More observers meant a better chance at more curiosity.

The coffee shop had some small, mismatched tables with two or four chairs, but more floor space was dedicated to great, long tables where groups would have to share space. And along the outside walls — glass, of course, so passersby could see all the fun people were having inside — a rail table with plenty of stools.

Support pillars and twelve-foot bookshelves separated tables and gave people the pretense of privacy. But the noise level belied it.

Only a few minutes before ten a.m., and already every table was in use by a diverse cross-section of humanity, from the students and hipster kids to the business-suit types through the old folks on their outings. All talking and laughing, debating and arguing, drinking and eating, using the wifi and working on laptops or tablets or phones.

Some of them even had books.

Yes, at least there’d be plenty of witnesses. Some of them might grow curious enough to ask questions, after the client left. Maybe even try a reading…

Excuse me, a contralto woman’s voice said, from behind Heath. Are you Heath Cyr?

Good. She wasn’t running late.

That little detail helped Heath plaster something close to a real smile on his face when he turned around.

And found himself looking right over the head of his client.

Heath was only about six feet tall, but this woman had to be more than a foot shorter than he was.

Fortunately for her, she had the looks and personality to make herself seem to take more space than she did.

Some people, they seem to shrink when they’re out in public. As though they take up less space than physics says is possible. But this woman, she was one of the opposite types. Even looking down to see her, Heath almost felt as though she was his height.

She had bright green, eyes. Almost Kelly green, and smiling. And the face surrounding them was spattered with more freckles than a body her size should have been able to hold. But then, the freckles went with the cascading red hair that hung down past her shoulders.

She wore a red halter top over black yoga pants, and she wore the outfit like a fitness model. Tiny black purse with a Trail Blazers logo hung off her shoulder.

I’m Heath, he said, holding out his hand to shake. You must be Cynthia.

She nodded with a smile, and her handshake showed a grip that Heath took to mean she was used to getting challenged.

Heath didn’t offer a challenge. If she had to win the handshake, he had no problem with that.

Didn’t think it would be this full before noon, she said with a grimace. Think we’ll be able to get a table?

Oh, Heath said with a wink, I think one will clear up for us.

Heath strode toward the four-top in the middle of the coffee shop. The best table. Solid wood, scuffed and lacquered, with initials carved into it and graffiti marking it. Good strong chairs around it.

As he started walking, the four suited businessmen currently occupying it suddenly all shook themselves out of their conversation. Like maybe they were all late for the same big meeting.

They grabbed their dishes and stepped away from the table…

…just exactly in time for Heath to sit down without breaking stride and sling his backpack onto an empty chair. Ahead of two other people who had jumped like they wanted to claim the table for themselves. Maybe had been waiting to do so.

Heath looked up to where Cynthia was still standing. Huge, self-satisfied smile on his face.

The businessmen never looked at Heath, nor he at them. He didn’t know them. Had no idea where they were off to. But they didn’t matter. What did matter was that, before Heath left his house, he’d worked a find-my-spot charm to ensure that the perfect table would open up for him just when he needed it.

Extravagant? Yes.

More effort than it was worth? Normally, yes.

But meeting a client someplace busy?

The slack-jawed surprise on her face made it worthwhile.

Heath had to shoo away two attempts to borrow chairs from his table while Cynthia was in line to get them coffee. But Heath planned on keeping this table after he was done with his client, and he wasn’t sure how many seats he’d need.

So he sat in the heavy wooden chair, warmed by the butt of the businessman who’d been sitting in it mere seconds before vacating it for Heath. And he wiped down the lacquered surface of the table.

And then he just