Kept by Shawntelle Madison Page A

the office and into the area where he stored tools. While he sorted through one of the larger storage compartments, I noticed something gleaming along the opposite wall. Underneath the shelves with parts in boxes, another metallic object glinted. It was blurry, as if my vision had been smudged with grease, but eventually it cleared more and more, since I was familiar with this type of magic.
    What I finally saw was a set of cages. Two of them, stinking of burnt cinnamon from binding magic, were a few inches shorter than my height and were barely wide enough to lie down inside. The beginnings of fury stirred in my blood. That piece-of-shit goblin had planned to keep and sell whatever he’d caught. Namely, us. The dark magic in the cages was the sort spellcasters used to entrap werewolves.
    Based on what I’d learned from Nick, warlocks used black magic for nefarious spells. Wizards like Nick wererestricted to white magic—which meant we might need to watch for a warlock in this area.
    Scabbard turned to us, holding an object that appeared far older than the fake compact. This piece had all the signs of fine workmanship: It was a nearly flawless silver case with embellishments like seashells along the surface. I was almost afraid to pick it up, it appeared that delicate, but I had to fulfill the debt. We hadn’t been captured—nor would we be tonight.
    “Is everything okay?” Thorn asked. He gave me that look that said he knew something was troubling me.
    “We’re good,” I managed to say. “Let’s take the compact and get the hell out of here.”
    We left the garage, Thorn taking up the rear. The goblin limped ahead of us and remained silent. As soon as we reached the car, Scabbard stood to the side with a frown.
    Before I got in the SUV, he asked, “Can Scabbard have his knife back?”
    Why not just give him the knife back so he can stab and cage others? Against my better judgment I replied, “Check your mail in a couple days.”
    I might’ve wanted to tear the goblin apart, but I refused to lower myself to his level.

Chapter 6
    W e reached the Atlantic City limits before I fell apart. The nagging pain from the wounds Scabbard had given me didn’t help either. I tried to focus on what I had to do next, but my mind clung to the web of deceit I’d fallen into. If Thorn hadn’t saved us, I would have been caged right now. And all the blame fell to Roscoe. He’d set a trap for us .
    It was all there in front of me. Why would Dad be given such an easy task for the first part of his debt? And if fetching the heirloom was the only task, we shouldn’t have been able to get it from Scabbard as easily as we did. The facts swirled through my mind: the cages, the warning beforehand from Roscoe to Scabbard. All of this stank of trickery to get us either captured or shoved out of the way. But for what reason?
    Another question suddenly came to me, but the very thought of it stole my breath. If this was all a wild-goose chase, then what was the real task my father had been asked to do? One that would be suited to a man like Dad—a skilled killer? My frown deepened. Whatever it was, it had to be something so wrong that perhaps my father didn’t want any part of it. Which meant Roscoe was hiding something very important from my brother and me about our dad.
    “I want to kill, Roscoe,” I breathed.
    Thank goodness Thorn was driving. Rage stirred inside of me and I wanted to lash out. To lash out at anyone who tried to contain the wolf.
    How long had it been since I’d vented properly? The battle with the Long Island werewolves? I’d waited far too long to give in to my desire to tear something apart.
    With a man like Roscoe, should I be surprised that something bad like this happened? After seeing his place and meeting Scabbard, this whole situation would only get worse.
    I swept my fingers over the heirloom—a fancy piece of shit meant to bait us into going to see that goblin. My boss at The Bends—even with his