Read What's a Witch to Do?: A Midnight Magic Mystery Online
Authors: Jennifer Harlow
Tags: #North Carolina, #Soft-boiled, #Paranormal, #Mysery, #Witch, #Werewolf
“I bet he’d say yes.”
“Well, I will think about it.” And I more or less run away from my niece after those words. Do not think about him.
Don’t.
Keep busy. Never a problem for me. Cora is in the bathtub when I step in. “You okay? Keeping your hand dry?”
“Yes, Aunt Mona,” she says, showing it off to me. “It itches.”
“It will for a couple of days,” I say. “Need help shampooing your hair?” She nods. I set my snack and the scissors on the counter before pouring water on her long, almost white hair and adding shampoo. In a couple of years it’ll be brown like mine and Sophie’s, but for now she can enjoy being a blonde. “And what have we learned today?”
“Don’t use scissors unless you’re there,” she says in that chipmunk voice.
“No, don’t use adult scissors period. You ask me, okay?”
“Okay.”
After the bath, I detangle and brush her hair before leading her into my office so Sophie can shower. It’s the smallest room, with sage-colored walls, bookcases along a whole wall, my oak table covered with herbs, an iron cauldron, and other altar items. Cora likes watching me mix potions. She and my fat old Russian Blue cat, Captain Wentworth (named after the hero from my favorite Jane Austen book,
Persuasion
),
keep me company as I mix a fertility potion and anoint a gambler’s charm before it’s time for the frog and princess. I tuck the girls into their beds, switch on the electronic babysitter, and shut off the light. They’ll be asleep before the happy ending.
The majority of our orders come from non-practitioners who stumbled onto the site looking for a love or luck charm. Love potions and charms are strictly forbidden per Wiccan law, so I just use a luck spell in its place. I can spot the real, genetic witches from their orders. A regular person would never want a “creating a familiar” spell or “opening new worlds” potion. I usually send those people a note inviting them to check out the coven website. Another one of my brain children. There are about fifty official covens in America, and we’re linked to forty of them. We all share spells, concerns, or we just chat. It’s hard to make friends when you have to pretend not to exist.
I finish eight of the thirteen orders before the smell of burning herbs and exhaustion get to me, and I can barely see. I’ll finish the rest tomorrow. I clean up before picking up the Captain and checking on the girls a second time. Both have caught the train to the land of Nod. They really are good girls. We had some growing pains in the beginning but dealt with them soon enough. Once they realized I wasn’t going to beat or abandon them, we got along great. From the little I could get out of them, I know they were dragged around Europe. Sophie speaks fluent French and Cora once mentioned the Piazza Navona in Rome. Goddess knows what my sister was involved with and with whom. I don’t even know if the girls have the same father. I’ve tried to draw more out of them, but it’s like they’re scared to tell me. When Ivy showed up she seemed skittish, emaciated, and pale as a junkie. We didn’t get a chance to talk before she vanished, leaving me with two shy, frightened children. Now I hope she stays gone.
I toss the Captain on my white fluffy bed, peel off my reeking clothes, and jump in the shower. I have a special scrub of my own making to remove the stench of potions. That bat guano for the banishment spell really gets into my pores. By the time I shower, exfoliate, put on my pajamas, and do my final check of the house, it’s almost eleven. I climb into bed with a sigh. If I fall asleep this instant I can get seven hours before the Captain wakes me for breakfast. He curls up in his spot next to me on the other pillow. Always nice to have a male in bed. On a normal night I would plan for tomorrow, but tonight I close my eyes and pass out …
But not for long.
I don’t even have time to start a dream when the doorbell downstairs jolts me awake. It rings continuously, with a pound or two against the door thrown in for good measure. I sit up, my brain instantly booting up. This can’t be good. The Captain meows as I hurl off the covers. I glance at the clock. 11:59. Who on earth would come at this hour?
That instinct single women living alone have takes over. Rushing over to my closet, I pull out my gun safe and punch in the code. My .38 special comes out. This is a safe town, but a gal can never be too careful. I sprint out of the bedroom into the hallway toward the girls’ room. Sophie holds Cora in bed, petting her hair in an attempt to be brave for her sister. “You two stay here and lock the door.”
“Okay,” Sophie says as she leaps out of bed.
As I glide down the stairs, I hear their door shut and lock. The pounding starts again, weaker this time. My heart is racing as I approach the door, my grip on the gun tightening. I really need to install a peephole. “Who is it?” I ask.
“A—Adam Blue,” the man says through the door.
Adam Blue? Who the … the name’s familiar. Come on, brain. Adam … oh, Jason Dahl’s Adam Blue. “Adam?” I ask, unlocking the door. When it opens, I gasp. I wouldn’t recognize him. His face is a swollen mess of bruises and cuts. His clothes are torn, smudged with dirt and blood, and he has no shoes on. He holds his right arm against his chest. I think it’s broken. “What … ”
“Help me.” And with that, the werewolf collapses to my foyer floor.
Hell’s bells.
Sunday To Do:
Miracle of miracles he
hasn’t woken any of my neighbors. That’d be all I needed. After sticking the gun in my purse, I help Adam off the floor, throwing his one good arm over my shoulders. I kick the door shut with my foot. He’s almost dead weight and is not a small man. Short yes, maybe an inch or two taller than my five six, but muscular like a boxer. I lose my balance on the stairs and fall against the banister. I hoist him up and continue on.
When we reach the hallway, both girls stand at their door, mouths agape and eyes bulging. “Who is that?” Sophie asks, shielding her sister who pokes her head around the side anyway.
“A friend,” I say for lack of a better word.
Acquaintance
is more accurate.
“Is he dying?” Cora asks, almost elated with excitement.
“No. Sophie, go get me a big bowl of warm water, okay? Take your sister.”
I lead the bleeding man into the spare bedroom across from mine. He falls onto the bed, and I flick on the lights before rushing to the bathroom for the first-aid kit underneath the sink. I get a damp towel and some extra gauze as well. The girls come in the bathroom as I stand. “What happened to him?” Sophie asks.
“I don’t know, but he’ll be fine. Thank you for the water, but now go back to bed. Now!” I holler. As I have more pressing concerns, I don’t wait to see if they listen.
Adam lies face—well, what’s left of it—up on the bed, breathing heavily with his eyes closed. I close the door before rushing over to him to survey the damage. He is a hot mess. His blood is already seeping into the bedspread. His right eye is swollen, a nasty gash at the hairline is still bleeding, and bruises discolor his entire face. His wrists are raw and blistering from, I’d guess, silver restraints. Nasty, but nothing compared to his swollen right arm, broken without a doubt. My biggest concern is the huge red wet spot on his left side. I pull up his shirt and remove his makeshift bandage made from soaked napkins. Sure enough there’s a gaping wound. “Someone stabbed you?” I ask in shock as I press the towel against the gash.
“It’s shallow,” he says through the pain. “Didn’t hit anything major.”
“Will you be able to heal this?” Vampires and werewolves have super-healing, but I’m not entirely sure how much damage that encompasses.
“N—no,” he stammers. “Used silver. Gave me something. Can’t shift.”
“A potion? Who? Who did this to you? They didn’t follow you here, did they?”
“No. I made sure of it.”
Well, at this point if they come, they come. We’ll cross that bridge later. “Adam, you need a doctor. I’m calling Jason. He—”
Adam grabs my arm to stop me. “No! He can’t know I’m here!”
Jason Dahl is the Alpha, or head werewolf, of the Eastern Pack up in Maryland with, at last count, twenty-four werewolves under his protection. He’s also a member of the P.C.O., or Preternatural Co-Op, which is having its annual meeting a week from today. And guess who pulled the short straw for hosting duty?
The P.C.O. was the brainchild of the head of the preternatural police (the F.R.E.A.K.S., or Federal Something for Extra-Sensory and Kindred Spirits), Dr. George Black, after the Goodnight Massacre and Vampire/Werewolf War in the early eighties. He recruited Granny soon after. Since all of us preternaturals don’t “exist,” we tend to stick to our own kind, thus the co-op. We meet once a year to talk about potential threats, concerns, or needs. This way if a Lord vampire (the ruler of a vampire territory) needs a spell or advice, he knows a witch to call. It’s probably why Adam chose my doorstep. But I thought Adam was Jason’s Beta, or second-in-command. He must be in a whole heap of trouble to not want his Alpha to know he’s here.
“Adam you might bleed to death. Whatever you did—”
“No! No,” he says with enough force to knock over a mountain. “I just need to change.”
“You—I have to wait eight hours to add the last ingredient in a transmogrification potion. I don’t know if you have eight hours.”
“It looks worse than it is, I swear it to you,” he pleads with both his tone and blue eyes. “You cannot call him. No one can know I’m here.
No one.
Promise me. Please.
Please.”
“Adam, I have two small children in this house. Whatever trouble you’re in—”
“Mona, I swear on my pack, you won’t be in more trouble by having me here. I would never put your life in danger.
Never.
I swear it.”
And the weird thing is, I believe him. I trust him. Don’t know why, but I do. What I do know is this is a bad idea. Very bad. I’ll be in the center of a shit storm if I’m not already. If Adam’s going against his leader and I assist, Jason might never forgive me, and he’s not the warmest of men in the best of circumstances. In fact he’s downright scary. His posture, the hard angles of his face, and especially the ice blue eyes that are always sizing you up as potential prey still freak me out. I’ve known him—we’ll I’ve known them both—for eighteen years, and I wouldn’t call either a friend. I only speak to Jason twice a year, once at the pack Christmas party and the other time at the summit, and that is more than enough. But Adam’s his best friend; whatever he did, Jason will forgive him. And me.
Yeah. Right.
“I won’t call Jason,” I say. “I’ll fix you up as best I can, you can stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning I’ll help you shift, okay?”
“Thank you,” he says, finally releasing my arm and falling onto the bed. “Thank you.”
“Welcome. I’ll be right back.” When I swing the door open and step into the hall, the girls pop out of their room. “Didn’t I tell you—ugh, never mind. Sophie, go upstairs to the attic. By the dressmaker’s doll there should be boxes labeled ‘Roman.’ Get me some clothes out of them. Cora, go downstairs to the kitchen and get me the silver duct tape out of the drawer.”
The girls obey, and I go next door into my office. In a wooden holder are the vials of potions I made tonight. Two are to relieve pain and I take them both, plus the sturdiest birch branch I have before returning to my patient. “Who’s Roman?” Adam asks, I suppose to make conversation.
“My daddy,” I say.
Cora runs in with the duct tape. “This it?”
“Yeah, thanks sweetie.”
She hands it to me, then looks at Adam, studying him. “Hi.”
Though I’m sure it kills him, he smiles at her. “Hi.”
Mother’s daughter, no question. “Cora, bed.
Now.”
With a bright smile, she waves goodbye, and he does the same. “Thanks for helping,” he calls as she leaves.
I pull the stopper out of the potion vial. “This is a sedative and pain reliever. It should work.” I help raise his head, feeling soft hair under my fingers, and pour it down. Then the other. “I don’t know how long it will take with your metabolism.”
“Thank you.” He watches as I amass my tools for repair, eyes narrowing in confusion as I pull out streams of duct tape. “What’s that for?”
“I need to immobilize your arm so the bones don’t shift. It’ll heal wrong, right?”
“Yeah.”
Sophie walks in, arms full of clothes, staring at Adam apprehensively. “Where should I put them?”
“Top of the dresser.”
She doesn’t want to come in, and when she does, her eyes never leave the interloper. He’s smiling though. “Thanks for the clothes. Sorry if I scared you guys.”
She sets her bundle on the dresser. “I don’t get scared,” she says, face affixed with a scowl. She crosses her arms across her chest. “What happened to you?”
“Sophie, go to bed and stay there this time or no TV for three days. I mean it.” Still glaring at Adam, she stalks out, shutting the door behind her. “Is the pain waning?”
“A little.” He blinks slowly. Yeah, it’s working. “Don’t … don’t you want to know what happened too? You haven’t asked.”
“I have enough troubles of my own without taking yours on. Sorry. I want to be involved as little as possible, okay?”
“But you—” and he passes out. Score one for a super-fast meta-
bolism.
First I set his arm with the branch and tape, then snip off his shirt. Though this isn’t the right time or place, I can’t help but notice that he has a nice chest in spite of the blood and bruises. Muscular and compact. After I wash the knife wound, I see he wasn’t lying; it’s not that deep but still oozes blood. I pack it with gauze, use all of my butterfly Band-Aids to close it, and cover it with a bandage. Hope it’ll keep until morning. When that’s over with, I rub burn cream onto his blistered wrists and wrap those too. He was held captive by a brutal bastard. If he finds us …
no.
Not going to happen. He said I wouldn’t get into more trouble. Wait.
More
trouble? What the hell did he mean by that? Crap.
There’s little link between us. I mean, I didn’t even know he knew where I lived. I may have known him since I was seventeen, but we’ve barely spoken. He was always at the meetings or parties but off to the side in the background. In fact I noticed he’s always sort of avoided me. The few times I’d strike up a conversation, I’d either get a single-syllable answer or nervous smile. Hell, I accidently bumped into him one time and he tensed up and pulled away like I had a flesh-eating disease. I figured he was shy or didn’t like witches. But he did change my tire that one time.
It was two years ago the day after the pack Christmas party. I’d gotten up early to drive home, and of course I had a flat tire. It was cold, raining, I’d forgotten an umbrella, and I couldn’t get the bolts off. Just my luck. Everyone was still asleep, and I sure as hell didn’t want to wake them. I like the werewolves in the Eastern Pack, which is why I go to the party every year, but grumpy werewolves are never a good thing. Shivering and cursing at my car was a better option. After about ten minutes, Adam strolled out with an umbrella and blanket for me and changed my tire. I made small talk about the party but was once again treated to almost silence. He handed me the tire iron, gave a quick nod, and ran back inside without another word.
We are so even now.
When I’m confident he won’t bleed out, I toss a blanket over him and return to my office to start on the potion. Transmogrification, or shape-shifting, is one of the most complicated and dangerous potions. The ingredients have to be perfect in both proportion and freshness or it won’t work—or worse, will half work. Think Jeff Goldblum in
The Fly.
I’d do a simple counter-spell, but I don’t know which spell to counter.
It takes an hour to assemble the base, but I have to wait another eight hours for the concoction to simmer before adding the catalyst. By the time I canvass the house again, retrieve the gun, check on my three slumbering charges, change out of my bloodstained pajamas, and get back into bed, it’s two a.m. I pass out five seconds after my head hits the pillow.
The sound of voices and laughter draws me out of a dreamless sleep. Normally it’s the Captain meowing for his breakfast that gets me up, but he’s not in his usual spot. I check the clock. 8:47 a.m. Crap, it’s almost time to finish the potion. Oh, I really hope Adam didn’t die in the night. Way things are going, it wouldn’t surprise me.
Cora’s high-pitched giggle echoes through the house. Then another. I pull my tired body out of bed and shuffle into the hall. “My favorite is Sandy. She knows kung-fu,” Cora says.
I step into the guest bedroom, a little taken aback by the sight. A much-improved Adam sits up in bed, Cora right beside him, and Sophie in the rocking chair in the corner, all eating cereal and watching cartoons. “Morning,” I say.
“Aunt Mona, Adam watches SpongeBob too,” Cora says.
“Does he now?”
“It’s the one show all the kids in the pack agree on,” he says sheepishly.
“And he likes Lucky Charms,” Cora says. “I brought him breakfast in bed!”
“That’s very sweet of you,” I say.
“He’s feeling better,” Sophie says, lacking her sister’s enthusiasm.
“I can see that.”
“Pretty sure it was the Lucky Charms that did it,” he says to Cora, who giggles again.
Our guest is quite the lady charmer. “Okay girls, I gotta check his bandages. Why don’t you finish breakfast downstairs?”
Cora pouts but climbs off the bed, milk sloshing onto the bedspread. It’s a goner after the blood, so I don’t say anything. After they leave, I shut the door.
“They’re great girls,” Adam says.
I take the bowl off of his lap before lifting his shirt. “Thank you.” His bandage is soaked through with blood. “It hasn’t stopped bleeding.”
“When I change it should heal.”
I give him the once over, examining his face and chest as he watches me. His eye isn’t swollen anymore, the gash in his head is pink, and all the bruises are yellow. “You’re looking good. You’re damn lucky.” I stand from the bed. “The potion will be ready soon. I just need to get the final ingredient from you.” I take the scissors from the first-aid kit and clip off a few strands of his light brown hair from the tips. “You grew this before your last change, right? It should be untainted by the potion you were given.”
“Okay,” he says. “I need a safe place to shift though.”
“Already thought of that,” I say as I walk to the door. “I’m gonna get ready. Can you dress yourself?”
“I can manage.”
“Good. We’ll leave in half an hour.”
I’m about to walk out when he says, “Mona?”