Magical Midlife Battle （Leveling Up, #8）(63)

The mage sitting there said, “Elliot Graves,” in an accusatory voice.

When said by a mage, so often in that way, the name acted like a trigger. Sebastian’s spine straightened of its own accord, his shoulders rolling back and a little smirk taking over his expression. His arm came up, as though he had a watch, and he posed in that humble, dirty garage like he was wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit.

“Oops, you’ve caught me,” he said, his speech a little lilted and his tone filled with sardonic humor. “I’d ask what brings you to this sprawling shifter pack, but we both know the answer, don’t we?”

The mage, an unremarkable middle-aged man with brown eyes and thin lips, didn’t strain against the ropes. He didn’t try to twist his arms to the sides to use his fingers for magic, which meant he probably couldn’t pull off the more complex spells that would require such steps. His body was athletic, though, slim and fit. He was a field guy. A spy or a runner. A guy with a decent amount of magic who’d proven he was great at getting himself out of tight spots. A guy with a sixth sense, mages would say, able to detect the unseen.

Well, sixth senses and intuition wouldn’t protect anyone from an attack-flower-planting vampire who never did as he was told.

“You’re the mage backing the female gargoyle?” The mage sneered. “You think a bunch of altruistic shifters and weird magical creatures are going to help you regain your perch as the king of mages? You’re going to need a lot more than that to take on Momar.”

“Hello, hello.” Nessa walked in with black stiletto boots up past her knee, a miniskirt, and fishnet stockings. Black eyeliner had been hastily drawn around her eyes and her hair was pulled up into a sort of messy punk-rock bun. She must’ve heard Sebastian being outed as Elliot and thus rushed to don her own alter ego. “Sorry I’m late—I was preparing for the info extraction.”

“And the Captain.” The mage looked her over. “Prettier than I’d heard. Tell me, honey, do you do anything besides blow your boss?”

A swell of power filled the room, and a shadow started to emanate from Tristan, who’d been standing idle in the corner. His form seemed bigger, somehow, broader, more intense, things that weren’t necessary, given he was already such a colossal creature. Tendrils curled like claws from his suddenly thick aura, climbing up the wall and across the floor.

Sebastian blinked rapidly, wanting to rub his eyes. Wanting more Red Bull. He couldn’t tell if this was a fatigue-and fear-induced hallucination or if this was another layer of Tristan’s magic that the large gargoyle-slash-monster hadn’t yet exposed.

The mage looked that way nervously, licking his lips. His body started to tremble, probably plagued with the sort of fear his brain hardly understood. A primal fear that said, Run, get away, you’re gonna die!

“What…” The mage’s voice was wispy. “What is it?”

“I bet Momar doesn’t have one of those, huh?” Nessa laughed. “He’s not a cuddly teddy bear

inside, either. He’s every bit the nightmare he looks.” She surveyed the shelves in the garage. “Look at all these rusty…tools and things. We might go old school with this session.” She picked up a pair of pliers that had been left to the elements for too long and glanced the mage’s way. “Get a little medieval with it, shall we?” She winked. “I don’t blow him, no. He’s not into that sort of thing. I wish I weren’t. It’s so often an unwanted distraction. Alas, I do like a little pump and grind some of the time.”

She walked toward the mage with a sultry sway of her hips before straddling the ends of his knees and resting the pliers on the his privates.

“I can make it so you won’t ever think about that particular distraction ever again.” She smirked and leaned toward him, showing him a little cleavage he didn’t even glance at. His eyes were still wide, terror making them shine. He knew what the Captain and Elliot Graves were capable of. That knowledge would be playing on his courage, but add in the threat of a foreign monster… thing, and this poor mage was suddenly vastly out of his depth.

Sebastian chuckled as Nessa trailed the pliers up the mage’s stomach and rested them against his chin.

“My, what pretty teeth you have, grandmother,” she said softly, tilting her head as she surveyed him. She skimmed the tool along his cheek. “What pretty eyes you have. I might like them for my collection.”

“Should we offer him a deal first, Captain?” Sebastian said as Edgar slunk in, scampering to the corner across from Tristan. “We do love a good mole, don’t we?”

“Oh yes we do.” She thunked the tool onto the mage’s chest, making him flinch, before pushing off his lap. “I don’t see how we could, though. If he let slip that Elliot Graves is mixed up in this shifter’s humble territory, it would cause all sorts of changes to our plan, don’t you think? Delays”—she picked up a wrench—“spies, assassins. It would be a whole thing.”

“I won’t mention anything, I swear,” the mage said, trembling. “I can get you great intel. I really can. I know some of the higher-ups. They trust me. They trust the information I give them.”

“Three-minus T minutes,” Edgar announced.

Nessa paused in her perusal of the garage as the mage continued to babble. She was the only one who could understand Edgar’s countdowns, probably because she was the one who’d taught him how to incorrectly use them.