Malcolm and Ives 02 - Trouble With Air and Magic by Patricia Rice

laundry, hence the stacked sheets instead of snarled linen mountains.
    “Shower is to the left,” he gestured at another door. “The cleaning service leaves my stuff alone but keeps the bathrooms clean.”
    “If I don’t fire you, I’ll have to revise your contract to cover service beyond the call of duty. You really think someone could have followed us?” she asked anxiously, examining the limestone and granite bathroom with approval.
    No, he didn’t, but he didn’t want to send a helpless nutcase out on the streets either. “Let’s take no chances until we have some leads on your tire-slashing scuzzbucket. I’d rather spend my evening digging into your computers than digging you out of a ditch.”
    Conan knew his sister-in-law’s mother had ended up in a ditch, crippled for life, because scuzzbuckets thought she had some kind of weird ESP. Out of caution, he needed to check his genealogy charts to see if Dorothea Franklin was somehow related to Pippa’s weird family.
    “Thanks, I think,” she offered.
    She looked so defeated, Conan suffered another of those unlikely urges to reach out and hug the witch. In a family of men, punches were more likely to be thrown than hugs.
    “Do you need anything else? Shampoo, toothpaste, whatnot?” he asked, eager to escape back to the cold components of computers before she unhinged the well-oiled machinery of his mind.
    Almond-shaped eyes regarded him with curiosity. Maybe she could read minds. Whatever, she seemed satisfied with what she saw.
    “No, a place to lay my head is all I need, thank you. This was very generous of you. I apologize for my hysteria.”
    Oddly, Conan missed the fit-throwing drama queen. The enigmatic expression she hid behind might look natural, except he knew it was a mask, and he missed the spark of passion that lit her face when she was being real.
    He left her making the bed and took himself upstairs so he could rummage through her office computers over the phone lines.
    Settling into his desk chair, he swore when his cell rang and a text from the Librarian scrolled across his screen.
    Chinese cellar danger.
    Conan flung his phone where his futon should be. This time, he emailed Oz to warn him the Librarian was back and to keep his head down. He didn’t need a mysterious harpy messing with his well-ordered life.
    His semi-well-ordered life. Even as he sent the message, he felt the walls of his personal fortress crumbling like the cliff in his guest’s garden.
    He wanted Magnus to be alive bad enough that he would put up with the Librarian and crazed Chinese witches until he learned the truth.

Chapter 5
    After a miserable night’s sleep, Dorrie dragged out of bed Saturday morning when Toto began prancing anxiously, his nails clicking on the tile floor. The room needed a carpet. She’d tossed and turned half the night until she’d finally given up and rearranged the bed. The damned man had set every piece of furniture on the wrong wall.
    Being a human divining rod for energy was not all fun and games. Come to think of it, she only enjoyed her gift when she was decorating. Even then, creating harmony in a place like her father’s office was a lost cause. Too many conflicting energies gave her a headache, and if someone had just had a fight with their significant other, their negativity flooded the cubicle farm.
    If she had a thief who hated her on the staff, she could no more track him down by energy than she could by numbers. She wasn’t psychic.
    She knew Conan Oswin thought she was crazy. She’d learned to expect that. There were times when she doubted herself. After all, he had apparently been living happily in this house that she swore should have killed him. Yet she was the one facing the loss of her home.
    He could have at least painted the walls, she thought glumly, splashing water on her face to wake up. Everything was as beige as his limestone tile. Chi energy needed fire and light.
    Sometimes, only the memory of her mother’s