gently took hold of her forearm to guide her around a street sign.
“Something wrong?” he asked her. He smelled fear roiling off her in waves. He grabbed the stone from her. It was blank. He knew anyone could see into a scrying stone—if there was anything to see. “Did you just erase this?” he demanded suspiciously.
She shook her head. Her braids flipped against her clavicles. “There was nothing there.” She grabbed it back from him. “It’s very rude to touch a witch’s arcana,” she informed him. “It’s tuned to my vibrations.”
“Forgive me,” he said, but he had the sense that she had blotted something out rather than let him see it.
“It was just family stuff.” Her voice was tight, nervous. “Father Juan said to go past the falafel stand next to the rug shop. Do you see a rug shop?”
Holgar spotted a small pull cart decorated with a dark blue awning. A deep fryer popped with grease as a dusky-skinned girl in vintage embroidered jeans dropped falafel nuggets in to cook. She had purple streaks in her raven-black hair, and she looked supremely bored.
“Is she the one?” Holgar asked.
“Let me check,” Skye said, murmuring an incantation as she held the stone closer to her eyes. She paused, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I didn’t do anything to your stone,” he said, feeling testy.
The falafel girl looked over at them and then inclined her head. She pulled up the mesh section of the fryer, allowing the falafel patties to begin draining.
“I think she is the one,” he told Skye. “Let’s introduce ourselves.”
Holgar and Skye approached. “The cherry blossoms are beautiful this time of year,” Holgar said in Spanish, waggling his eyebrows up and down. “The eagle has landed. The spy has come in from the cold.”
The girl frowned. “I beg your pardon?” she asked in French.
“Bonjour,” Skye said, elbowing Holgar. “He’s trying to be funny. We’re from Salamanca.”
The girl smiled. “Welcome to Toulouse,” she said in English. “We’ve been waiting for you.” She looked questioningly at Holgar. “I didn’t know there was a code.”
He sighed. “I’ve been to too many spy movies. I thought this was my big chance to say something like that. I’m very new to the spy business.”
The girl scratched her nose. “That’s our code,” she informed him. “Someone else will watch the cart. I’ll take you to the meeting.”
Holgar mimicked the way she had scratched her nose. “Don’t you want to check our passports, see some ID? What if we’re imposters?”
She slid her glance to the left. Across the street, on the second floor of an old stone building, a window opened and a stern fellow about Holgar’s age stared down at them.
“We’ve already checked you out,” she said. “Let’s go.”
The girl walked across the street. Holgar and Skye trailed after her. Skye murmured in Latin, and Holgar raised an inquisitive brow. She had cast another safety spell, he guessed.
They entered the building and went straight through a dingy foyer crammed with bicycles and with flyers papering the walls, then out the back door. A little greenhouse stood within twenty feet of the rear of the building. The supports were wooden and painted green, and the large plates of glass were cracked. Holgar saw six or seven people milling inside. The piquant smell of French roast coffee filled his nostrils. It was laden with a heavy layer of garlic and someone’s rose-scented perfume. A tinge of fear wafted off someone. He’d have to figure out who that was, and see if they were simply afraid of being caught conspiring against the fangy overlords, or if they were spying for the enemy.
Heads turned as they entered the greenhouse. It was clear that they all knew one another well.
“People of Earth, we send greetings,” Holgar continued.
Skye elbowed him. “Holgar, give it up. You are not funny.”
A couple who had been unfolding chairs flapped two more open and
“Something wrong?” he asked her. He smelled fear roiling off her in waves. He grabbed the stone from her. It was blank. He knew anyone could see into a scrying stone—if there was anything to see. “Did you just erase this?” he demanded suspiciously.
She shook her head. Her braids flipped against her clavicles. “There was nothing there.” She grabbed it back from him. “It’s very rude to touch a witch’s arcana,” she informed him. “It’s tuned to my vibrations.”
“Forgive me,” he said, but he had the sense that she had blotted something out rather than let him see it.
“It was just family stuff.” Her voice was tight, nervous. “Father Juan said to go past the falafel stand next to the rug shop. Do you see a rug shop?”
Holgar spotted a small pull cart decorated with a dark blue awning. A deep fryer popped with grease as a dusky-skinned girl in vintage embroidered jeans dropped falafel nuggets in to cook. She had purple streaks in her raven-black hair, and she looked supremely bored.
“Is she the one?” Holgar asked.
“Let me check,” Skye said, murmuring an incantation as she held the stone closer to her eyes. She paused, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I didn’t do anything to your stone,” he said, feeling testy.
The falafel girl looked over at them and then inclined her head. She pulled up the mesh section of the fryer, allowing the falafel patties to begin draining.
“I think she is the one,” he told Skye. “Let’s introduce ourselves.”
Holgar and Skye approached. “The cherry blossoms are beautiful this time of year,” Holgar said in Spanish, waggling his eyebrows up and down. “The eagle has landed. The spy has come in from the cold.”
The girl frowned. “I beg your pardon?” she asked in French.
“Bonjour,” Skye said, elbowing Holgar. “He’s trying to be funny. We’re from Salamanca.”
The girl smiled. “Welcome to Toulouse,” she said in English. “We’ve been waiting for you.” She looked questioningly at Holgar. “I didn’t know there was a code.”
He sighed. “I’ve been to too many spy movies. I thought this was my big chance to say something like that. I’m very new to the spy business.”
The girl scratched her nose. “That’s our code,” she informed him. “Someone else will watch the cart. I’ll take you to the meeting.”
Holgar mimicked the way she had scratched her nose. “Don’t you want to check our passports, see some ID? What if we’re imposters?”
She slid her glance to the left. Across the street, on the second floor of an old stone building, a window opened and a stern fellow about Holgar’s age stared down at them.
“We’ve already checked you out,” she said. “Let’s go.”
The girl walked across the street. Holgar and Skye trailed after her. Skye murmured in Latin, and Holgar raised an inquisitive brow. She had cast another safety spell, he guessed.
They entered the building and went straight through a dingy foyer crammed with bicycles and with flyers papering the walls, then out the back door. A little greenhouse stood within twenty feet of the rear of the building. The supports were wooden and painted green, and the large plates of glass were cracked. Holgar saw six or seven people milling inside. The piquant smell of French roast coffee filled his nostrils. It was laden with a heavy layer of garlic and someone’s rose-scented perfume. A tinge of fear wafted off someone. He’d have to figure out who that was, and see if they were simply afraid of being caught conspiring against the fangy overlords, or if they were spying for the enemy.
Heads turned as they entered the greenhouse. It was clear that they all knew one another well.
“People of Earth, we send greetings,” Holgar continued.
Skye elbowed him. “Holgar, give it up. You are not funny.”
A couple who had been unfolding chairs flapped two more open and
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