Witch Hunt, A Paranormal/Urban Fantasy (The Maurin Kincaide Series) (8 page)

8

I cursed as I reached the front door of the three- level converted Victorian that I called home. I didn’t have my keys to the entrance door or to my third-floor walk-up apartment. Just as I was contemplating kicking the door down, Ms. Costa, the widow in the second floor apartment, came out to walk her dog.

“Hi, Ms. Costa,” I said as I squeezed past her out of the cold and into the stairway leading up to my apartment and its hot water.

“Maur-,” The rest of my name came out in a gasp as she caught a good look at me on my way past her.

I didn’t stop to explain, taking the stairs two at a time despite my body screaming at me to slow down.
Healing this fast had its advantages, but it was also exhausting. Sure I’d feel better tomorrow, but right now I needed food and sleep. But first and foremost I needed a shower.

I hit the landing on the third floor and came to an abrupt stop.
Guess I wouldn’t need the key that I kept hidden in the little light fixture beside the door. My door wasn’t damaged, except for the knob and locking mechanism. They must have bumped the lock. I pushed the door open slowly and hit the light switch on the wall. I waited a minute before going all the way inside. I didn’t hear or see anyone. Nothing seemed to be out of place. In fact, the place looked exactly the same as it had when I’d left it. What kind of burglar busts into a place and doesn’t take anything? Or maybe it wasn’t a thing that they were after. Maybe they had been looking for a person. Maybe the Inquisitors had planned a good old-fashioned snatch and grab. Just one problem with that - I hadn’t come home yet. I had still been at Mahalia’s. So, they had camped outside for an ambush in the parking lot instead.

Deciding that the immediate threat was gone now, I closed the door and slid the chain lock in place to keep it that way.
I’d have to pick up a new doorknob and a deadbolt from the hardware store as soon as possible. Or maybe I should just get out of my lease. If this shit kept up, I’d probably get evicted anyway.

I started undressing as I walked to the bathroom, adding to the trail that I had left the night before.
Damn! Had it really only been a little over twenty-four hours since Mahalia had awakened me with the news of another murder? It felt like a month. My heart sank as I thought about Matthison laying in the I.C.U. Those bastards were going to pay for what they had done to him.

I turned the shower on, waiting until the water was hot enough to melt skin b
efore climbing in. I jumped when the water hit the brand on my neck and turned the heat back a little. I adjusted the showerhead setting to jet and stood under the water as it beat the grime off of my body. The water swirled pink around my feet for a long time as I scrubbed away the dried blood; some was the Butcher’s, but most of it was mine. Not that it mattered; he was the one who was dead. I washed my hair twice (lather, rinse, repeat), and then stood under the water until it ran cold and clear.

I grabbed a towel off the rod, dried off and slipped into my fuzzy purple robe.
I wrapped my hair up in a towel turban and opened the bathroom door. I walked out of the bathroom just in time to see a hand slip through my front door and try to undo the chain.

I charged the door, slamming it on the intruding hand.
There wasn’t time for anything else. If whoever was on the other side was armed to the teeth, I was up shit’s creek without a paddle because all I had were my bare hands; my sword was in the bedroom.

“
Ow, Maurin, what the hell?”

“Amalie?
Is that you?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer from the sound of her voice.

“Yes! Are you going to get off of my hand and open the damned door or what?” she asked, sounding a lot less mad than I would have been if she’d had my hand smashed in a door.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” I said as I removed my weight from the door.

Amalie slipped her hand out and I closed the door so I could undo the chain lock.

“A little punchy, are we?” she asked when I opened the door. Her sarcasm faded when she caught a glimpse of the brand on my neck. “What the hell is that?”

My hand immediately went up to cover the scar that would be a permanent reminder of my run-in with the Inquisitors.
I was already getting tired of people asking me about it.

“Exactly what it looks like,” I said, already heading back to my kitchen to find something to eat.

“I brought you some breakfast. I’m no gourmet chef or anything, but I can manage pancakes and bacon. I even brought you a dirty chai latte. Luckily for you, I didn’t drop it when you decided to crush one of my hands in your door.” She set a paper bag and the coffee cup down on my table. “I know you don’t normally go for lattes or anything like that, but trust me, you’ll like it.”

I sat down at the table as she rooted through my kitchen.
“What are you looking for?”

“Syrup.
Found it. It’s real maple, too? Nice.” She handed me the syrup and a fork.

I opened the paper bag and pulled out a Styrofoam container.
“I thought that you said you made pancakes and bacon. You keep Styrofoam containers at your house?” I said, teasing her a little; it was more to lift my spirits than anything else.

“No, jackass.
I made them at the Daily Grind. My uncle’s usually there anyway to prep for the morning rush, so he let me use the kitchen,” she replied, sitting across from me at my little bistro-style table.

I opened the container.
“I thought that you said there was bacon.”

“It’s in the pancakes, so stop thinking and start eating,” she said.
“It’s good! You like pancakes; you like bacon. You’ll like them together. Now stop acting like a finicky toddler and eat the damned food.” she said, when she saw my hesitant look.

I realized that I was really too hungry to care, so I poured the syrup on top and dug in.
She was right, they were good. I made short order of the short stack and pounded the latte. She was right about that, too. I’d have to ask her later what exactly a dirty chai latte was. I felt really tired after finally putting something in my stomach and I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open.

“I thought for sure that the double shot of espresso in that
chai latte would have kept you up long enough to tell me what happened, but I guess not,” Amalie said, evidently a little disappointed.

“So that’s what makes it dirty.
I am impervious to caffeine. You of all people should know that,” I said, earning me a smile from her. “I appreciate you coming over here and bringing me food, really I do Amalie, but I’m about two minutes away from passing out right here at the table.”

“It’s cool.
Get some sleep. I’ll get Cash to fill me in,” she said as she got up to leave.

“Thanks, I’ll call you when I - wait, what?” I said, as I tried to process what she’d just said.

“Cash. He’s outside. I’ll just get him to tell me what he knows, and then you can fill in the gaps later. No biggie,” she said.

“Why is Cash outside my apartment?” I asked, too tired to actually be upset.

“He went to the hospital to pick you up, but you were already leaving with that greasy detective, so he followed you. He’s been keeping an eye on you, on pack orders, since you got home. Geez, Maurin, you were taken by the Inquisitors! Don’t you think we’d have someone here to make sure that didn’t happen again?” she said, exasperated.

“Yeah, makes sense.
Just surprised it was Cash I guess,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“He agreed to do it; well, it was more like Roul told everyone else who volu
nteered that Cash was already doing it. I think Roul wants to keep Cash busy and away from the pack while he’s here. Oberon looked pretty pissed about it too, but Mahalia wouldn’t have let him come anyway. She’s got him working on a spell or something with Graive,” Amalie explained.

I closed my eyes and rested my head in my hands when she mentioned Oberon and Graive.
After everything that I’d just gone through, I really didn’t want to fall asleep thinking about the two of them together.

“Okay, you’re obviously exhausted.
I’m going to go keep watch with Cash. Can’t let you sleep too long, though. I’m supposed to bring you back to Mahalia’s in a few hours.” She started to leave, but stopped just before opening the door. “Hey, can I take a picture of your neck? I want to send it to Mahalia. I don’t have a clue what it means and it might be important.”

“Go ahead,” I yawned.

She took a quick picture on her phone and left. I slipped the chain lock back into place and dragged myself to bed. I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillows.

Sleep wasn’t the escape that I had hoped for.
I woke in a cold sweat three times. I would close my eyes and find the Butcher there, except in the dream I never got my hands free. The Ringleader had decided that I’d be more likely to talk after I’d played a few of the Butcher’s favorite games. The third time I woke up holding my stomach, certain that my insides were falling out. I just stayed up after that.

I ditched the robe and got a good look at all of the different shades of purple, blue, green and yellow covering my body from the varied stages of healing.
I was especially enamored with the ring of purple around my eyes from the boot that had landed there more than once. It accented my dark brown eyes nicely. I reminded myself again that the Butcher was dead and started picking through my closet for something to wear. I settled on my favorite pair of low-rise boot-cut jeans, a long-sleeved, black fitted hoodie and thick wool socks.

Back in the bathroom, I brushed my teeth and the knots out of my hair, sweeping it to one side so I could see the brand on my neck in the mirror.
It looked more like an algebra problem than an ominous symbol from the Inquisitors; it was a K cut across the middle by a line with three dots. There was one on each end of the line and one a little to the left of the K. I’d never seen anything like it and hadn’t the slightest idea what it meant. Hopefully, Mahalia had already looked at the picture of it that Amalie had on her phone and could tell me what it was, because I wasn’t doing anything else until she did.

I made a pot of coffee and was just about to fix my second cup when there was a knock at the door.
Amalie waved a white napkin through the opening from the door hanging on the chain. I opened the door to let her in and then headed back to my empty coffee mug.

“Great, you’re already dressed.
I let you sleep a little longer than I should have. Well, Cash kind of ordered me to let you get some more sleep, which we argued about for the last thirty minutes – oh, he’s good!” She laughed as she realized that Cash’s lengthy argument had given me the extra time to sleep anyway.

“Well, he argued a moot point, since I didn’t get much sleep in reality.
I’ve been up for the last hour or so,” I said, grabbing the creamer out of the fridge.

“Well, make that cup to go then.
Since you’re already dressed, we won’t be late,” Amalie said.

I put my mug in the sink and grabbed my Daily Grind travel mug out of the cabinet above the coffee pot.

“Here, let me fix that. You should probably pack a bag,” she said, grabbing my mug.

“Why do I need to pack a bag, Amalie?” I asked in a growl that would have made any wolf proud.

“They don’t want you staying here for awhile.
Hey, don’t kill the messenger, Maurin,” Amalie said.

“Who said that I couldn’t stay here?
This is my apartment!” I reminded her.

“Really, Maurin?
Your front door doesn’t even stay closed without the chain on and even if it did, it wouldn’t stop anyone. What about your neighbors?” she said, as if she’d won before I’d even had a chance to put up a fight.

“You could fix and ward my door if you wanted to.
Don’t act like you don’t know the spells,” I replied.

She was right, of course.
My broken door wasn’t really the issue. I didn’t want to bring trouble to my neighbors’ doorsteps. It had been a close enough call last night. Things could have been a lot worse. Between Matthison ready to shoot it up like the OK Corral and the Inquisitors throwing bolts of lightning around, it’s a miracle my neighbors hadn’t been caught in the crossfire already.

Without saying a word, I turned on my heel and stormed off to my room.
I dug out my old swap meet army bag from the bottom of my closet and filled it with enough clothes to last me a few days. I grabbed my brush, deodorant and toothbrush and threw them in my bag with the rest of my stuff. I picked up my sword, slinging it over my shoulder. After countless hours of practice over the last couple months, it had become an extension of my body. It was so much a part of the person that I was becoming that I almost felt naked without it. I’d have to invest in a whole lot of trench coats or get over the sword separation anxiety; I was pretty sure there wasn’t a permit to carry a broadsword. I looked around to see if there was anything else that I should take with me and couldn’t think of anything. It was just for a few days. I was coming back. So why did it feel so permanent?