“He’s guarding her. The Walker girl,” she said.
“Why?”
“He could want the house for himself.”
“Or the girl,” Robin said with a leer.
This should have been easy. Only two mortals in a simple house stood between her and the prize. Once she’d located the Storeroom, taking what she needed should have been easy. Three thousand years gone, and Zeus was still making life difficult for her. Leave it to him to plan so far ahead, placing obstacles for her to overcome. Maybe the Greek slave was part of that plan. Or maybe the man had his own agenda afoot. In either case, he was a nuisance.
“I’ll take care of him,” she said. “It will take only a moment. You stay and nurse your wounds.”
Robin glowered with a hint of ancient stories, of red caps and sharp teeth. “I’ll be ready for him next time. No one fools me twice.”
She pressed her lips into a mocking smile and opened the door.
The woman who stepped out
of the motel room was old, seventy or eighty, with white hair and soft, wrinkled skin. Dressed in a respectable skirt and blouse, she was tiny, but despite her short frame and thin bones, she managed to hold herself straight and walk with slow dignity as she crossed the parking lot to the motel office.
The proprietor sat behind the desk. He greeted her as the door opened. “Hi, Mrs. Basil. Is everything okay?”
“Hello, Mr. Alvarez. I’m not really sure.” Her wrinkles deepened in confusion, and she glanced over her shoulder, through the glass door to the parking lot. “I saw something rather disturbing on the street just now.” She checked, and the street itself wasn’t visible from the parking lot. She could tell him anything. “It may be nothing, but I thought I should tell someone.”
As she expected, Alvarez frowned, interested and concerned. “What is it?”
“There was a young woman, she had brown hair in a ponytail, a green army-looking jacket—”
“Evie Walker. She was just in here.”
“Yes, well, a man stopped her on the road just now.” She spoke carefully, as if she were trying very hard to remember and explain clearly, evoking sympathy for her age. “He pounded on the door, then got in the car. The poor girl looked frightened, and I think—I think he was holding a gun. Does that sort of thing happen here?”
Alvarez’s face paled. His hand was shaking when he picked up the phone. “I’ll call the police. I’ll call right now. Can you tell them what the man looked like?”
“Well, I think so. Oh, I hope she isn’t in danger.”
After he contacted the police, he handed the phone to her and she described the attacker in detail—short, slim, olive-skinned, in his early thirties, dark curling hair, wearing a navy blue felt coat. The police had the description and license plate number of Evie’s car on record from the checkpoint on the highway. Officer Brewster was sure they’d be found quickly, and he thanked Mrs. Basil very much for her help.
She insisted she was more than happy to be of service, and hoped the girl was safe.
Evie perched at the edge of her seat, leaning on the steering wheel while she drove. She didn’t know where she was going. Just away. Alex leaned against the passenger door and stared out the windshield.
After a mile, he said, “What’s your first question?”
She sat back and covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Or shrieking. When she realized she’d used the hand the stranger touched, she stared at it. The car hit a pothole. She was driving too fast and eased her foot off the gas pedal.
That guy at the motel had done something to her. Absently, she wiped her hand on her jeans.
“What was that you threw at him?” she said finally. “Rowan.”
“Rowan?”
“It’s a kind of tree,” he said.
“Yes, I know. Why did it hurt him like that?”
“Every magician has a weakness. Rowan is useful against that one’s brand of magic.”
“That one . . . who was he? Magic? What do you mean, ‘brand of magic’? What did he do to me? What do you mean, magic?”