Page 39 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)

Avery

Glamours were deceptively simple spells that every creature was required to learn before passing through the Twilight realm to this one.

Most were small, such as changing features.

Avery’s natural features—being inhuman but only mildly fantastical—had never really required her to learn more than that, but she had.

She liked the level of focus and detail that required making a stable one.

Once one knew the basic foundation of a truly substantial glamour, the rules to what it could be were rather limitless, especially when coupled with other magics.

And as such, a glamour could make someone appear glamorous just as easily as it could make them nothing at all.

Not intangible, of course, but something most eyes simply did not see.

Combining a glamour with the technique of shadow work resulted in a form that reflected her surroundings, and at a glance she was barely more than a vague penumbra.

Cloaked as the unseen, Avery stepped through the shadows that littered the parking lot, skipping large patches of light between with the ease of hopping stepping stones.

Each was a door to the next visible collection of darkness, leaving only a momentary ripple in the gloom.

At last it brought her to the shadow of the stone archway where the large wrought iron gate beneath had been closed for the night.

Just beyond the gate, there were shadows, but nothing in sight was casting one large enough for her to be able to travel through.

Iron had always been favored in construction, not simply because of its strength but because of the strange rumor turned unquestionable belief that a variety of supernatural creatures abhorred the mineral and it caused them harm, fey being among them.

As such, it had become incredibly common to utilize it in protecting sacred spaces, or even in keeping spirits contained within the grounds where their bodies were buried.

This theory was flawed for a number of reasons, but chiefly because beings who had left the mortal plane had very little care for objects that could only exist within it.

And it was because this belief was flawed, false, and ridiculous that Avery did not hesitate to reach out and press her hand against the iron gate, gently testing its movement.

Nothing. It was locked. She supposed her host couldn’t have made it easier for her.

Still, the lock, while new, appeared rather simple.

She splayed her fingers as if gathering up the shadow cast by the arch and in her hand formed two thin tools, one like a flat key and the other resembling a dental pick.

She dropped to her knee and set to work picking the lock.

It was still mostly light out, and there were still a few cars in the lot—likely groundskeepers and guides finishing up for the day. It was not the sort of time one would suspect a break-in.

And so no one did.

Avery was quickly inside, and when one of the employees found the door unlocked later, it was attributed to forgetfulness, and then, jokingly, to ghosts.

The graveyard was old by mortal standards, but to Avery’s knowledge, it had been an estate when she’d last walked the streets of London.

There were some markers that had to have been left in better care than others.

She wasn’t entirely sure if it was because of the age of the cemetery or if it was now custom to forget the dead once they’d been buried.

The search did indeed take time—nearly two hours—even knowing that she was looking for a mausoleum and not a single grave. Thankfully it did not take seeking out all seventeen acres of the west end of the cemetery in order to find it.

Surprisingly, its upkeep had been seen to—that much was clear even before she was able to read the large carved letters atop the building.

“Irregular.” It was larger than she thought it’d be—a small room with a bench.

Stepping inside, she let her concealment drop and conjured a soft flame-like light in her hand to read the inscriptions.

In loving Memory of Thomas Wild on the other, having a dragon tell you they disliked you specifically was not a comfort.

“Have you finished?” Fiore gestured around the mausoleum far too casually.

“I don’t wish to be unkind, but I believe I may have the information you were looking for, and it is a time-sensitive delivery.

” The dragon stepped out of the mausoleum and down the path to the main road that had been originally built for carriages but had managed to be mildly retrofitted for modern funeral processions.

A black town car, identical to the one Gideon used, sat idling as if it were meant to be there.

As if no one would question its presence.

Avery stumbled down the worn path and turned a bewildered stare to Fiore. “The car?”

“He is in the back seat,” said Fiore. “You have ten minutes.”

“Why only ten?”

“Why not five?” Fiore countered, gold eyes flashing.

Avery swallowed. While the meandering mythology on dragons had missed the mark in many ways, on one point, humans had hit the heart: You would be an idiot to anger one. “Meeting in the graveyard, time limits, don’t you think this feels like something out of a penny dreadful?”

“We never met tonight, Hemlock.” It was a threat.

“We never saw each other, and we never spoke. You will not mention to anyone, least of all your half brother, that you had a talk with Bimo Shinwell. Bimo Shinwell never left his protective custody at Blackthorn. Why, if the guard checks on him, they’ll find he’s sitting there now. ”

Dragons were old. They had helped create various aspects of the mortal plane, and it was said there were facets of their magic even the Aos Sí39 might not fully grasp. Yet Avery could not help herself from asking, “How did you manage this?”

Fiore turned those gold eyes on the car and exhaled again, this time through pursed lips. The barest hint of smoke intermingled with steam, a flicker of flame escaping as they exhaled. “Don’t waste ten minutes on questions you know I will not answer.”

Curiosity left lingering, Avery climbed into the back of the car.