In moments, Lionel, in his light gray winter wool suit and matching dress shirt stood in the office of Hugh Murphy in his jeans, Aran sweater and sandals. Neither was a happy camper. Far from being the aged clergyman Lionel had expected, Hugh was maybe twenty-three, bearded, and had shaggy hair. In the space of one sentence, he’d managed to refer to Lionel as “dude" twice.
"I've never worked with a Unitarian before,” Lionel grumbled, intending it to sound like an accusation, which it was.
Amused, Hugh looked through his eyebrows at Lionel. "Yeah,” he said, taking a seat behind the desk.
Lionel smoothed his suit jacket as he took a seat in the guest chair opposite the desk and was comforted to see the crucifix which peeked out of the collar of Hugh's sweater. He was able to let go of the flask of holy water in his left pocket.
“You seem to have an unusual number of witches in your congregation,” Lionel said.
"A few,” Hugh said smiling. "Mostly it’s teenagers playing around. A few untutored who have no interest in pursuing magic. Best place to keep an eye on them." He spread his hands out in a wide welcome. "Our doors are open to all."
“What use is an untutored? They have no knowledge and do not associate with other Wiccans. Why has no one been sent for?”
“You’re here.”
“Untutored Wiccans are outside my current mission. If I get bored or have extra time, maybe. I assume you can perform the necessary functions required. Do you have holy water?"
"Yeah, I can hook you up. Except the waterboarding thing, I'm not down with that.” Hugh leaned back in the office chair with his fingers laced behind his head. The chair’s springs groaned under the stress of the extreme angle. “You know holy water doesn't work on witches, that's vampires."
Lionel's features hardened, teeth grinding as he glared at the near prone Hugh. "Do you have the water?”
"Sure." He shrugged one shoulder as he looked down his nose at Lionel.
"Are you ready?" Lionel said, jumping up.
The sooner this meeting ended the sooner he could report that Hugh Murphy needed to be re-evaluated before being allowed contact with other members of the Templar Order.
"For what?"
There are so many parts to play, which one am I today?
"For the show and tell,” he snapped, the sharp edge of exasperation in his voice.
Since beginning this assignment eight months ago, the ability to mask his emotions had been destroyed. Every unintentional slip further embittered him, each a reminder he was not the same man he had been before the assignment began.
"The ride along thing? Sure, just give me a minute. We're having an aromatherapy and essential oils class in the annex, and I need to make sure there is nothing on fire before we can take off."
CHAPTER SIX
AMANDA SAT ACROSS from Vincent at a booth in Drogo's Coffeehouse. Through the window she could see the four-lane feeder road and the dark and empty parking lot that the salon shared with a taco stand, a chain bookstore, a tattoo parlor and a knock-off dollar store. None of it was as interesting as Vincent.
"I am a special investigator for the Magus Corps. Have you heard of them?"
"No,” Amanda said, without a touch of sarcasm. “What do you investigate?"
She remembered that Vincent had always been a bit of a storyteller, but he was fun, so she played along.
"This," he unsnapped a silver tie tack of two interlocked pentacles and handed it to her, "is–"
"Oh, you're a Wiccan, too."
Vincent's eyebrows raised, and he leaned toward her across the booth. Over the coffee, she caught just a hint of his cologne, musky and sweet.
“You know you’re a Wiccan?” he asked, his voice low.
She’d been staring at his lips but caught herself.
"Full-on Wiccan might be a bit of a stretch for me,” she said. “But I agree with the principles. Living in harmony with nature, acknowledging the inner and outer worlds, to live without harm to others, natural healing. I've tried casting spells. Nothing has worked, but," she shrugged, "I keep trying."
"There's a bit more to it than that. What I do is find witches who are not in compliance with Corps codes. Like," Vincent's eyes glanced around the room, "not being in a coven."
When his gaze returned to her, he seemed to fixate on her forehead. She looked quizzically at him until he reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. If she hadn’t been sitting, she might have fallen. His touch was at once something bold and incredibly caring.
"If I were a witch not in a coven, what would you do?" In a wild moment of courage, she leaned over the table. "Can you arrest me? Tie me up and throw me in a dungeon? Handcuff me in the back of your car?”
His eyes seemed lit from within, the fire from them heating her skin. Amanda’s eyes glazed over as she stared at his mouth.
“I’m here to protect you,” he said.
Though she knew he’d said something, she didn’t hear what. She watched his mouth move, red tongue gliding over perfect white teeth. His tongue looked like it would taste good.
She sat back, a little surprised at the thought. Being this comfortable with a man didn’t usually come so easily. Then again, it had been a while. It also didn’t help that he was drop-dead, good looking. His silver hair shone over the deepest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Eve now, she could feel the ghost of the brush of his fingers on her skin, that single spark of sensation, a teasing taste of the possibilities.
“How long are you here for?” she whispered.
“Don’t worry. I’m not leaving town without you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE "SHOW-AND-tell" had gotten off to a rocky start after Lionel insisted they take his heated Porsche rather than Hugh’s Civic with the missing passenger’s side window. He steered the Porsche through the narrow streets around The Strand, weaving between potholes and parked cars, careful to avoid the abandoned trolley tracks that striped the cobblestone streets. He fought the car as the tires slipped, and the steering wheel pulled with each new surface. The car was built for highways and race tracks, not cobblestone and steel.
"What is that?" Lionel asked.
Hugh turned to look through the back glass over his left shoulder. It was the third shop on the left with the blacked-out windows. "Coven Tree" painted in white script across the glass.
"That's where we get a lot of the herbs and essential oils for the aromatherapy classes." The vein at Lionel's temple throbbed, but Hugh continued to talk. "Not everything is black and white in this town. A lot of gray, man, a lot of gray."
The sound of Lionel’s grinding teeth filled the car.
"Just so I understand, you have places like that," he said, pointing at Coven Tree as they passed it for the third time, "as neutral ground because," mocking Hugh, "a lot of gray, man."
Hugh shrugged. "Yeah."
His grip was tight on the steering wheel, the seams in the leather digging into his palms.
"And you're fine with that?"
"Look, this is a really small town. Someone is seen with me and turns up dead, I am going to get away with that,” he held up his right hand, fingers forming a zero, "number of times. The police force we have doesn't care what you believe as long as the same number of people wake up as went to bed the night before, ya' know? We show up missing people, everyone better have a serious alibi."
“As far as alibis, we can buy–” Hugh's laughter interrupted Lionel, and came close to getting him punched in the face. "What?"
"Loyalty you pay for is no loyalty at all, man. You’re gonna end up in the clink for trying to bribe an officer. Ya’ know, think about it. Why not find a way for the problem to disappear? But try something here? The cops will have the two bridges blocked and the airport shut down before you can say, 'twenty-five to life.’” He paused. “But there are bonuses."
Lionel’s clenched jaw clicked as he said, "Like what?"
"Because we have to parlay e
very so often, I have the name of every witch on the island. Where they live, work, you know, that sort of thing."
"Now we are getting somewhere."
"Paulina, the coven leader, and I have coffee every other Wednesday. It's part of the truce."
The car skid to a stop in the middle of the intersection.
"Truce?"
"Yeah. It's this ceasing of hostilities thing we've worked out, not that there were really a hostilities to cease." Hugh saw the angry drivers piling up in the intersection around them. "We should probably move. This is not cool."
"You can't..." Lionel took his foot off the brake and pulled out of the intersection while taking a deep breath. "There cannot be a truce. They stand for everything we are against."
"Actually, that's not entirely true. And, maybe it's the island culture or something, people just get on with it. They worry about hurricanes a lot more than which symbol is hanging around someone’s neck.”
Lionel stole a glance at the shaggy-haired man-boy sitting in his passenger's seat.
"I don't understand,” Lionel ground out through clenched teeth. He shook, swallowing anger so bitter it twisted his mouth and closed his throat. “How can you be a member of the clergy elite while forming truces and shopping at Wiccan stores for your church?”
"Galveston is special, man. I'm hiding in plain sight. Don't get me wrong, I believe most of what I preach. Universal love, peace, natural healing, equality, that sort of thing, but I draw the line at witches. There's just no room in the goddamn universe for witches."
Lionel chose to ignore the irony of a clergyman using the phrases "universal love" and "goddamn witches" in the same sentence.
"That's the politics of living on a small island. If you’re here to meet some pissed off Texas Rangers and kill a few people, you’re in the right place. If that’s not the attention you are looking for, I would lay low. Strictly a recon mission.” Hugh huffed out a breath. “I’m thirsty. Do you want an organic chai tea? I know a place. It's owned by a church."
"A real church?"
"How do you feel about the Methodists?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
"WANT TO COME back to my place?" Amanda said.
The phrase tumbled out of her mouth, surprising them both. Amanda had been seeing her ex-husband for at least a month before she’d finally asked him back to her place. Sure there had been a few flings over the past two years, but no one she had taken back home.
“Lead the way,” he said, his voice a low rumble from across the table.
Her stomach jumped to her throat, the flush of excitement crashed against her embarrassment for being so bold. They stood up at the same time. He helped her slip her coat over her shoulders. Standing close as she turned to him, he pulled the garment tight around her shoulders and buttoned it. He’d started at the bottom button and, as he worked his way up, the blood began to pound in her ears. With a deft movement, he hooked his index finger over the neckline and gave it a gentle tug.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
It was more a breath than a word, barely escaping her lips.
He kissed her cheek then and stepped to the side to let her walk in front of him.
CHAPTER NINE
THIS IS A really bad idea, Vincent thought, not that it helped.
Walking a few steps behind Amanda as they headed to their cars, he noticed that not even the coat could hide the rounded curves of her figure. Though he ought to be convincing her to join a coven or leave with him, following her was irresistible.
Suddenly the hair on Vincent’s arms stood on end as a blinding white Porsche pulled into the drive-thru lane of the coffee shop. The last time he saw that car was in St. Louis as he lay half-conscious on a warehouse's cold cement floor, the taillights disappearing into the distance.
Templar Knight Lionel Stone at was the wheel.
Their eyes locked.
CHAPTER TEN
THOUGH THE HEATER had run for two hours straight, Lionel shivered as a slimy cold sweat crawled out of his overheated skin.
“Why are you waving at that witch?" Lionel demanded, as they drove by.
The only way back to the front of the building was to complete the drive-thru circuit. They were hemmed in by other cars and curbing, stuck.
"She's my stylist."
Lionel's eyebrows rose in doubt. His gaze laser focused on Hugh.
"What information do you have on her? What's her speciality?"
“Welcome to Drogo’s coffeehouse,” came a tinny voice from the speaker. “May I take your order?”
Lionel jabbed his finger down on the window button. He ordered a chai tea latte in a rapid fire staccato that the barista made him repeat twice.
"She's not a witch, man,” Hugh said. “She's just a stylist. All of the known witches are accounted for and, as far as I know, no one new has come along."
Lionel thumped his palms against the steering wheel.
"Dude, do you need to pee or something?"
Lionel passed too much money to the barista, handed the drink to Hugh then shot the Porsche back into the parking lot to find Vincent Harcourt pressing the witch against the driver's side door of a vintage Mini, his hands wound in her hair, his mouth on hers, but his blue eyes focused on Lionel.
“I want to know everything. What is her name?”
"Amanda."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
VINCENT’S SHOULDERS RELAXED as he watched the taillights of Lionel's Porsche disappear. He’d quickly embraced Amanda in a kiss purely out of instinct, part ruse for Lionel’s benefit, part protection. Though he’d taken her by surprise, she’d given in quickly. Though the threat was gone, he found he didn’t want the ploy to end. He indulged in one more sweet slide of Amanda’s tongue along his before he pulled back from the kiss. He took a breath, then smiled down at her.
"Ready?"
“Oh gods, yes."
He noticed that her hands trembled as she fumbled with the keys in the lock, and quickly checked over his shoulder for the Porsche. The street was clear. As she climbed into the Mini, he held the door.
“I’ll be right behind you,” he said, closing it.
He heard the engine start as he trotted to his Charger, checking the street again. He jumped in, gunned the engine, and took off in pursuit. They were headed west on the seawall when his phone rang, the video screen on the dashboard flashing Louis's photograph. Vincent hit the switch on the steering wheel.
"Why didn’t you tell me that I went to High School with Amanda? I didn't recognize her."
"What do you mean you didn't recognize her?” Louis said, irritation in his voice. “It's on the first page of the file I sent you, which you obviously didn’t read.”
“Look,” Vincent said with a sigh, “ever since that exorcism in St. Louis–”
"Stop saying that." Louis did an unflattering impersonation of Vincent. “Ever since the exorcism, ever since the exorcism." He dropped the impersonation. "I get it. It was hard. Your hair turned even cooler looking.” He paused and softened his tone. “But you’re an exorcist. It’s in the job description. And whatever happened, it did not leave you illiterate."
"So I should look at the file or can you just give me a head’s up?”
Vincent thought he could hear keys being tapped.
“Divorced two years,” Louis said. “She has yet to reveal a talent, has recently introduced aromatherapy as part of the salon experience, and has a familiar.”
“What’s her familiar?”
“Uh, I think this is a misprint, but nothing vicious. Wait. Why do you want to know about her familiar?”
“Just being thorough.”
“Right. Where are you on this? About wrapped up?”
“May take a week.”
“A week? In Galveston?”
“I like the beach.” Vincent said dryly.
“It’s twenty-five degrees out. Is there a problem? I can come down there, if…”
“Lionel is here,” he
said abruptly.
Vincent listened to the engine whine in protest as he slowed down to avoid a turning car.
“You are the only reason for him to be there,” Louis said, biting off the words. “I don’t know what happened in St. Louis, but you need to figure out what he wants and end it. Forever is too long to spend playing cat and mouse. Do you need to come back in?”
“I'm fine,” Vincent said, checking the rear view mirror. The Porsche was nowhere in sight.
"The response of happy, healthy people everywhere,” Louis said.
Vincent darted around a pick-up truck and didn’t reply.
“All right,” Louis said. “Just be safe, brother.”
“Will do,” Vincent said and thumbed the button on the wheel.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AMANDA WAS KEENLY aware of Vincent following her up the stairs to the front door.
"That sheep statue is strange,” he said quietly.
The sheep was wedged into a tight corner of the picket fence that enclosed Amanda's small backyard.
"That's Dalya."
"Dalya, the sheep?" As she unlocked the door, she heard him pause. "Dalya the sheep is the–"
"Mine,” she said, pushing the door open.
From where he stood, they could see the entirety of the small beach house. Bathroom to the back left, kitchen to the right, bedroom dead ahead. There were hardwood floors, white walls, a short leather chesterfield sofa, a bed, a basket which contained a journal, and not much else.
Amanda kicked off her Chucks and turned toward him as he closed and locked the door. His broad back to her, Amanda only realized when he turned to her that she’d begun to reach for him. Startled, she dropped her hands.
“Why are you still wearing this?” he asked lowly, undoing the top button of her coat.
Again the rush of blood in her ears pounded so loudly, almost all sound was blotted out. Slowly he worked his way down, opening it and sliding it from her shoulders. He tossed it over the back of the sofa, followed quickly by his jacket.
Vincent: Her Warlock Protector Book 5 Page 2
