Trace of Magic by Diana Pharaoh Francis Page A

that way,” I said, pointing out what he already should have known. “Whoever took him knocked out Josh’s house wards and hid their trace on the way out.”
    “Then we’ll follow him backward and try to figure out who might have taken him. We know he’s involved with something.”
    “Do we? Just because the FBI thinks so, doesn’t make it true.”
    “We do because he’s been tortured and kidnapped, and because he broke his engagement with your sister even though he was still in love with her.”
    “He might just be using her. A convenient sex buddy.” I didn’t believe it, but I had to see what Price would say. After all, he was a detective; reading suspects, reading people, was what he did.
    “He had pictures of her all over his apartment, including his bedroom,” Price said, as if that settled the matter.
    Maybe it did. What sort of player kept pictures of his ex-fiancée everywhere if he wasn’t still in love with her?
    “All right. I’m in. One small problem, how do we get there?”
    “Snowmobiles.”
    I lifted a brow. “Keep a pair of those in your pocket, do you? Or maybe you’ve got them stashed in your trunk.”
    “I called the precinct. There are a couple sleds registered nearby. We’ll go borrow one on police authority.”
    “The owners will be thrilled, I’m sure.”
    “I don’t particularly care how they feel. The faster we find Josh, the faster you can get back on my case. Don’t think, by the way, that this diversion will come off my bill.”
    Ah, back to practical matters. Thank whatever gods might have a hand in it. This Price made it a lot easier not to want to screw him senseless. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
    I wrote a note for Taylor, who wasn’t awake when we left. I’d managed to get a fair amount of wine into her last night. I laced on my now-dry boots. At some point Taylor—ever the good hostess—had slid them onto a pair of dryers. I was more than grateful. Nothing worse than stuffing your feet into wet boots. I thought of the blood splashed around Josh’s floor. Okay, there was a lot worse. Perspective is a useful thing.
    I dug my jacket out of the coat closet—one of those light as air things that will keep you warm on Everest—a gift from Taylor. I checked my pockets, taking inventory. I had nulls tucked into various pockets, along with my lockpicks, some lip balm, sunglasses, my house keys, my wallet, my pocketknife, and my phone. I took my baton off the hall table and shoved it up my sleeve before tucking my holstered gun in my rear waistband.
    Price led the way out the door and down the steps. We slogged through the snow. In some places it had drifted over my head. That’s the way it snows here. One day it’s bare ground, the next you’re drowning in the stuff. Before I’d gone fifty yards, I was panting.
    “You could come back and pick me up,” I suggested to Price, who was ahead. Even with him breaking the trail, I wasn’t keeping up. “I don’t mind waiting.”
    He looked over his shoulder, then reached back and grabbed my hand, towing me along. He didn’t slow down. Pretty soon my arm felt like it was going to fall off. I didn’t complain. If Josh was alive, hurrying was imperative.
    Price was following the GPS on his phone. It took us up a few blocks and then had us zigzagging through various odd-sized lots to find the right house. It was a take on a log cabin, if Paul Bunyan had built a house for his entire giant family and maybe half a town besides. It was anchored by one central building that reminded me of a church, with three or four wings prodding outward. Wood smoke curled from at least five chimneys pricking from a slate roof.
    I sucked in a deep breath. “I love that smell. Gas fireplaces seem so pointless.”
    Price looked at me. “The point is that they put out heat.”
    I gave him a disgusted look. “Some people just don’t get it.”
    Someone had attacked the sidewalks and driveway with a snowblower, but another four or five