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By Root 748 0

over the end of her bed. The bedroom was the smallest of the three rooms, holding the bed, an old mahogany dresser that belonged in a much nicer home, and a matching table by the head of the bed that held a beat-up lamp, an old-fashioned windup alarm clock, a bottle of aspirin, and a slender, worn volume of koans. The walls were painted a dark forest green, and the carpet underfoot was pale green. Her bra and socks made splashes of white lying on top of it. The one window had heavy dark-green velvet drapes that were held off to one side by a gold scarf. She tugged at the scarf, releasing the drapes and plunging the room into complete darkness, cut only by the red glow of the clock.

She turned on the lamp, then sat on the bed and pulled on a pair of cutoff sweatpants and a tank T-shirt. Bed looked damn inviting. But it was too early yet to call it a night. Sleep now would mean she was up at three in the morning, and while this might be the city that never slept, there were limits.

No, a nap was probably a bad idea. Now that she was more comfortable, she’d pour herself some coffee and head back to the computer. Maybe something new would have come in. And if not, maybe exhaustion would make something she had learned today stand out, jump out of her subconscious and tell her where the damn marble block masquerading as a spell was, so she could wrap it up and get some justified sleep.

But by 10:30, Wren had gotten her second wind, courtesy of a natural inclination to evening hours, and a carafe of fresh-brewed Jamaican blend. The office was covered in crumpled-up pieces of paper, and another half-dozen sheets were tacked to the wall, creating an odd mosaic of evidence and theories.

Of the thirteen names on her list, Max had seemed the most probable. He had the grudge and the mojo to pull off a stunt like this, even if his brain stem was a bit too jittery these days to do it clean. He’d only been a full-blown wiz for four, five years now, he might have been able to focus long enough. The energy she had picked up on-site hadn’t been all too stable either, a crackpot waiting to happen. Either the thief was borderline wizzing, or…

“Or,” she thought out loud, “the snatcher was being influenced by the client who hired the theft in the first place. Stable Talent, crazy client? And it would have to be a long-term-ish relationship, not a once-off deal.”

It was a theory, and a pretty wild one, but right now she was flying on theories alone. “I take it back, Lord. I don’t want challenges in my life. Nice, boring, easygoing retrievals, that’s what I’m after.”

She tapped the eraser end of a pencil against her current list, running through the remaining names one more time, beginning with the ones she had checked out today.

“Sandy Hall. Career snitch with the boost—” the ability to use a current of magic to move objects, otherwise known as telekinesis “—but not much in the way of brains.” His pattern would fit what she had felt, too. Not a bad fit, except for the fact that according to his wife he was probably dead, anyway. Not that being thrown into a working incinerator was an impossible hurdle to get over, but…

“Emilio Lawson. A better thief than Hall, currently AWOL.” Rumor had it an Appalachian cave-dragon had eaten him. If so, strike that name. What the cave-dragons took, they kept. Digested or not.

“Katya Arkady.” She had been tossed from the Council’s mage roster for conduct unbecoming. Wren snorted. Already she liked the woman. P.B.’s notes suggested she was the one who Frants weaseled out from under. If so, she’d have the grudge motive down cold. Unfortunately, she was currently in the hospital for surgery. While being incinerated might not stop someone really determined, open-heart surgery would probably slow them down considerably. With a sigh, Wren crossed her name off the list, pushing down so hard she broke the point of the pencil.

“Margery and Alexander Freiner. Last seen taking sanctuary from a seriously peeved gnome.” They’d be holed up at the Vatican for a while, if she knew anything about gnomes. And no magic