Vincent: Her Warlock Protector Book 5

by Hunter, Hazel

  There was a loud and put-upon sigh.

  "How did the Templar come to the attention of the local authorities?"

  "Engaged a Magus Corps officer in broad daylight in the parking lot of a beauty salon."

  "Name of the Templar?"

  "Lionel Stone."

  Several seconds ticked by. It sounded as though a muffled conversation was taking place.

  "Offer Templar Stone any and all assistance. Do not interfere with his mission. Do not engage the Magus Corps officer. Protect your cover identity and proceed as directed. What is your current report?"

  Now it was Hugh’s turn to sigh. It wasn’t the directive he’d been hoping for. He called up his report from memory.

  "Known Wiccan 246 flying to Portland to see her sister. Will be there through the end of the month.”

  There was a click on the other end of the line, and Hugh set his phone down. The telephone was Hugh’s assigned weapon. With it he had ordered the deaths of more Wiccans than any three Templars combined had managed to achieve. Only twenty-three more to go before his quota was made and he was free.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  VINCENT WAS COVERED in blood and dirt, coated in that sticky-sour feeling that comes after not showering for a day. The cell door slid shut with an ear splitting clang, the iron bars vibrating when the electronic lock engaged. Vincent winced, his swollen left eye spasmed as his right rapidly blinked in the blinding light. He had to hand it to Galveston PD, the conditions might be austere, but the cell had recently been hosed out and every light had a bright new bulb in it.

  Bolted to the cinder block wall in front of him was a stainless steel bench. On the bench sat Lionel with his eyes closed against the bright light and the back of his head resting against the wall. He looked no better than Vincent felt. Vincent shifted in place, trying to get more comfortable.

  At the sound, Lionel cracked an eye open. A mirthless laugh escaped from between his busted lips.

  Vincent's jaw clenched. "Where is Sarah?"

  Lionel quickly sat forward and fixed him with a gaze that said he’d been expecting the question.

  "I don't know,” he said simply.

  Vincent took two quick strides toward Lionel. "Bullshit."

  Lionel’s eyes remained soft, fingers clasped together where his hands hung between his knees.

  "I don't know. I kept to that part of our agreement. The last time I saw her, she was very much alive."

  Lionel's face remained impassive. For once he betrayed nothing. It was infuriating.

  "You've killed–”

  "No!”

  "Why should I believe you?"

  “What choice do you have?”

  They glared at each other in the silence. This was pointless. Vincent went back to his bench and sat down.

  "Why did you leave me in that warehouse in St. Louis?" Lionel finally ventured.

  "We were combatants with a common enemy.”

  “Exactly,” Lionel said. “Think of all the people, not just witches, but the normal people you could help. You are wasted with the Magus Corps. Demons are everywhere and you are a natural exorcist. God has touched you with an amazing gift and you choose to squander it."

  Vincent ignored that. "What did you do with her? After the exorcism, you left with Sarah. If you didn't kill her, what did you do?"

  "Turned her over to the church."

  Vincent’s fingers gripped the front end of the bench. Lionel glanced at him.

  "Don't give me that look. She's a Wiccan and she has met demons. She has valuable information to share with those who have to learn exorcism and maintain a lifetime of faith to even have a hope of ending the suffering of the normals you could free with a snap of your fingers."

  "It is not as simple as that."

  "I was there. I know what I saw. St. Louis was…” Lionel studied the floor for a moment. “…unusual.” He paused. "We could still work together."

  "No," Vincent said, shaking his head. "We've chosen our sides." He stared at Lionel’s pallid skin, the color of death. “Are you here for Amanda?"

  "I don't care about your little witch. The possibility of destroying a coven is a bonus, but not why I came. Eventually you will join me. Don’t worry, you won't have been the first."

  The solid door at the end of the hall opened. A thickly built normal walked toward their cell, a gold shield clipped to his belt, a gold Masonic ring on the detective's right hand.

  "Do you know what I am?" Lionel asked the man, obviously recognizing the same ring that Vincent had.

  "I know what both of you are. That's why I am here."

  Vincent arched his eyebrows, as did Lionel.

  "I don't care if you are Magus Corps, Templar or Shinto Buddhist,” the detective continued. “We have a good thing going with everyone pretty much leaving everyone else alone. You two shitbirds aren't going to fuck it up with all your ancient rivalry horseshit. I don't give a good goddamn what you think the rules are. Here the rules are simple: kill someone, anyone, of any denomination you can think of, and I will personally stamp your ticket to Huntsville. Any questions?"

  "Traditionally,” Lionel began, “templars and masons–"

  "Do I have to repeat myself? I wake-up tomorrow short a citizen under the age of 90 and your heads are the ones I'll be coming for. I got no fears about dragging you both through long, public trials. Even if I lose, I win. Get me?” He glanced at Vincent. “Don't look so smug. I show up dead from unnatural causes in the next twenty years," he pointed to the security camera hung in a corner of the ceiling, "there's a record of which two fuckwits to come looking for. The booking officer will be here to release you both, pending your court appearances."

  Without another word or a glance back, the detective walked out and the door closed behind him.

  "I've never been called a fuckwit before,” Lionel said.

  "It's a day of firsts."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE CAR DOOR on Hugh’s Civic had not yet closed when Lionel started talking.

  "Did you take care of the Porsche?"

  "I called a tow truck for it,” Hugh said. “They're going to put it in your parking space at the loft."

  "How much for your car?"

  Hugh scowled. "Not for sale."

  It was Lionel’s turn to frown, a vertical wrinkle between his white blond brows. "You can have the Porsche."

  "I'm not a televangelist. I can't roll up in a Porsche and maintain any credibility. You want a new car, no problem, but you're not getting this one."

  Though Lionel seemed as though he were going to make some pointed retort, he didn’t.

  "Just drop me at the nearest rental place."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  AMANDA HADN’T ANSWERED his calls, but as he paid the taxi driver, Vincent was glad to see her car in the lot. As the taxi drove off, he also took note of the Porsche being gone. Though his shirt was glued to his back, and his trousers ought to be dumped in the trash, he needed to see Amanda.

  In spite of the cold, his palms were covered in a nervous sweat. She had to have seen what happened, and she was obviously upset. His slick palm slid against the cold metal of the door pull as several pairs of eyes under rollers, hair dryers, and plastic caps stared at the spectacle of Vincent Harcourt, Magus Corps Captain.

  "Well, someone had their Wheaties this morning,” Aimee said.

  But seeing the shiner around Vincent's left eye, Aimee nearly shouted, pointing a hair-pick at him.

  "Police brutality! I blow an attorney who can help with that."

  Amanda came out of the back, mouth dropping open at the sight of a sweat covered Vincent. She held a small bin of pink rollers that she nearly dropped.

  "What in the hell were you thinking?" she asked, her voice strained.

  "It's a long story,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “And I would love to explain it to you." He looked down at himself. "After I burn my clothes and scrub down to the second layer of skin. Maybe at dinner?”
<
br />   Amanda’s incredulous look pinned him in place. "What? After that display this morning?"

  "Which one?" he said, trying for humor.

  Amanda shot a glare at him that could have melted steel. Some of the patrons leaned their heads to one another, whispering.

  "You two are better than television,” Aimee said.

  Amanda strode across the shop, hooked Vincent by the elbow and lead him back outside. Once they were on the sidewalk, with the door closed behind them, she let him go—to his disappointment.

  "What do you want?" she demanded.

  "You,” he said, honestly, “and a chance to explain."

  There were faces pressed to the glass inside the shop, including Aimee's.

  “Go away,” Amanda said, shooing them off with a wave of her hand.

  Vincent smiled a little at them, as though they were in his corner.

  “You think this is funny?” Amanda said, bringing his attention around.

  He dropped the false bravado and the smile from his face. “No I don’t. Please let me explain."

  "I have customers,” she said, though her demeanor had softened, and she was looking at his eye.

  "I can pick you up after the shop closes."

  She thought about it longer than he liked.

  "You can pick me up at the house at seven if you swear to God nothing like that is ever going to happen again." She looked him up and down. "And that you'll set fire to everything you're wearing."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  He waited for her to go back inside, but she was apparently waiting for him to leave.

  "You can go now." She gave him the same shooing motion she had given the ladies in the window, but he got a smile with his, and he felt a sudden lightness in his chest.

  "Okay. Yeah, I'll just…” he pointed to his car as he backed toward it, grinning madly despite how it made his eye twinge.

  She watched him for a moment more and then headed back into the salon.

  From inside he could hear her say, "Mrs. Bartley, your hair is never going to set if you don't get back under the dryer."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE SHRILL RING of the phone rattled the office windows. Hugh snatched it up with the usual greeting.

  "St. Walpurgis Universal Contemplative Center, how can we welcome you?"

  "Templar dispatched to receive known witch 246 has reported number 246 did not arrive as promised,” said the deep voice.

  A cold sweat burst from Hugh's pores. He felt like he had been punched in the stomach and doubled-over in his office chair, forehead cradled in his hand.

  “What?” he whispered in a dry throat. How could that be?

  "This is unacceptable. A replacement is required to fulfill your contract." There was a pause. “Now.”

  Hugh rocked forward in his chair. There was no replacement, no Wiccan he could confirm. A second failure would not be tolerated. His life for the life of a stranger?

  "You have ten seconds before the call terminates."

  And we terminate you. Bile rose to Hugh's throat, the taste sour in his mouth.

  "Amanda Kirkus,” he blurted out. “No number. Citizen of Galveston. Known associate of Magus Corps officer, Vincent Harcourt."

  "Has she been confirmed Wiccan?"

  "Templar Lionel Stone has confirmed. Rogue. Would not be a violation of the truce."

  There was a pause and a muffled voice.

  "Maintain your mission. New report due in two days."

  The loud buzz of the dead line in Hugh's ear felt like cool water washing over him on a hot summer's day. Dizzy with relief, for a moment he did not care if he had traded his life for that of an innocent woman.

  This was not the job he had envisioned last year when his campus religious studies advisor had said he knew a way to fix all of Hugh’s problems. The debt, the inability to find a job, the constant hunger—all of it. All he had to do was fulfill a one year contract for a special church. At the time, he had thought he could do anything for one year.

  Now he wasn’t so sure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  LIONEL WAS EXHAUSTED. Through the window of his rented loft on the strand he could see the cruise ships docked in port, the tourists in their tropical vacation wear shivering as they wrestled hundred-pound suitcases from the shuttle to the terminal doors. He rested his feverish forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes. It was easier to think when he blocked out everything.

  He needed to call Hugh and find out what he had learned about Amanda. He needed to sleep. He needed to stop carrying around a bottle of holy water to throw on anyone who came too close. He needed to stop having nightmares about St. Louis.

  The mission had sounded simple: recruit the exorcist.

  He was on the private plane to St. Louis twenty-four hours later. Every moment of the next five days was etched in his mind in horrifying detail.

  Sarah Kennedy, thirty, single, and a devout, life-long Catholic, discovered her Wiccan channelling abilities while using a Ouija board at a friend's birthday party. The lone survivor of the incident reported to their parish priest that Sarah had looked up from the board, made a funny motion with her hands and said something that sounded like Latin. The incantation killed thirty-one people inside the house, as well as two neighbors who Sarah was known to dislike. The incident was blamed on a gas leak.

  She was just getting started.

  By the time the parish priest demanded an exorcist, one hundred forty-seven people were dead in "accidents" ranging from the purported gas leak to a twenty car pile-up on the freeway.

  Lionel had arrived first, put on a collar and put the word “witch” into every available ear. Then he’d waited for the Wiccan exorcist to come to him. A day later Vincent smooth-talked his way into the room posed as a priest and got to work.

  Lionel shook himself free of the memory. Seven months later his mission remained the same: recruit the exorcist at all costs, even if Lionel’s sanity was the ultimate cost.

  Vincent had doubts, not about being Wiccan of that Lionel was quite certain. No, the argument that chipped away at Vincent was about the greater good. What Lionel needed was a way to exploit those doubts. He need something—no someone—Vincent cared about, someone to make the argument personal. And Lionel knew who.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IT HAD TAKEN Lionel some digging around on the county clerk’s website to put together information Hugh had given him with Galveston property records to find the coven leader. This was not part of the mission, but for himself. He would both get the information he needed for the exorcist while proving he could still function as a Templar.

  Let the games begin.

  The F-150 was unremarkable, one of a half-dozen trucks sitting in the parking lot outside The Tree of Knowledge. On the passenger’s floor were the shredded remains of the packaging left from Lionel’s props: a composition notebook and a pen. With props in hand, he slipped into a mixed group of men and woman chatting as they made their way into the bright little cottage.

  The wait was agony, each of the forty-five minutes of the palmistry class was like a beating to be endured. The eager students filed out of the house in clumps, as chattering and oblivious as when they had arrived. Lionel lingered at the back of the room, a harmless, goofy grin painted on. An occasional shy glance at his feet, to draw Paulina to the part he played today: the student too embarrassed to speak.

  Lingering near the door that led to her personal residence, Lionel feigned confusion. Alone in the house, Paulina came to him as he shuffled in the open doorway. He smiled. He charmed. He went through the doorway into her home as if by accident. When she stepped through with a grin to ask him to come back into the classroom, he seized her by the hair, wrenching her off her feet. She struggled on her knees, clawing at his wrist with both of her hands as Lionel drug her into the bathroom and across the tile of the walk-in shower. With a brutal shove her head crashed into the white porcelain tile at the back of the shower, a poppy's b
loom of red left in the field of white at the impact site.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PAULINA USED THE wall to crawl to standing, then turned and faced Lionel, the sigil already half-formed while the words of ward poured off her tongue. But she was quickly slapped silent, her ears ringing as he threw holy water in her face.

  Lionel's smile was a horror which robbed the breath from her lungs.

  He was having fun.

  A knife was pulled out of his pocket. A glint of light bounced off the silver blade as he flicked it open with his right hand, the left busy pulling at the neck of her dress. She started the ward again, undeterred even as she felt the frigid steel of the blade slide against her skin as he cut down the front of her dress. The soft flick of the tool's vicious point severing her bra at the breastbone. The sharp blade dug painfully into the soft fold at the base of her right breast, his right hand tight in her hair.

  "I'm going to hold onto you just like this. How much do you think I'll take with me when the ward pulls me out of the house? A breast? A handful of hair? Maybe I'll be able to hold on tight enough to break your neck." His smile morphed into a vicious baring of teeth. "There are two things you can open your mouth for." With the hold on her hair, he forced her head down to look at his crotch. "Or you can answer my questions like a nice, little witch.”

  Tears on her cheeks, Paulina lowered her hands, the ward stopped seconds from being complete.

  "Good." The point of the knife was drawn in an agonizing circle around her exposed right breast. He stepped into the shower with her, his teeth scraping against her cheek as he spoke.

  "Now, tell me about Amanda Kirkus."

  It could have been twenty minutes or it could have been two days. Time stopped for Paulina, and ultimately she answered all of his questions.

  "Unzip my pants,” he growled, just when she’d thought they were done.