How To Be A Badass Witch: Book Three

by Michael Anderle

  “Who hired you?” Kera ground out.

  The man gave a tiny shake of his head.

  “Who?”

  “We don’t—no one knows.” He was scrabbling away, his voice far too loud. “New group!”

  “Why are you fucking yelling everything?” Kera demanded. Then she saw the earplugs. She came over, grabbed his chin, and pulled one of the earplugs out, then held it up. “What are these for?”

  “They said you used mind tricks!” He was trying to scrabble backward again.

  She looked around and cursed. The others, the ones who hadn’t been as badly injured, were looking like they were thinking of taking another shot while she was confused.

  Dammit. She stood up and threw the man away from her and looked around at all of them.

  “Tell whoever the fuck sent you,” she told all of them, “that they have two choices. They can give up and leave town, or they can deal with me.”

  Then she raised her arms, called upon the powers that be, and brought down a fog of memory interference on them all. A relatively weak one; she wanted them to remember her warning and that they’d gotten the shit kicked out of them but to be unable to recall many of the details.

  They groaned, squirmed, or simply breathed in response. Sirens were getting closer and louder, and it looked like a couple groups of bystanders were moving in to check things out.

  As Kera went back to Zee, an object on the ground caught her eye, and she picked it up mid-stride. Another earplug.

  She shook her head and tossed it aside as she mounted her bike. “Cute. I mean, I guess they get points for trying something new, but it takes more than dense foam to stop my spells.”

  On the other hand, it reminded her that she’d begun to get tinnitus again when there were gunshots or other loud noises close to her. She’d had it when she was shooting with her father due to the poor-quality earplugs they’d had then. Grimacing, she sped off down the darkened street.

  Chapter Seven

  James was annoyed.

  He had succeeded in getting the agents to let him drive himself and Mother LeBlanc to LA in his car. What he hadn’t considered, though, was that they would claim not to have a car of their own.

  Heidi MacDonald had smirked a little when she’d explained that. “We’d planned to fly, as I told you earlier. There wasn’t time to make arrangements for us to procure a motor vehicle. The SUVs we had earlier had to be returned for other agents’ use.”

  Thom Richardson had broken into a big fat grin, meanwhile. “So, looks like you guys will have to give us a ride. Sorry! It’s okay, though, we can give you money for gas. That one always gets reimbursed.”

  The one saving grace was that the drive from Sin City to the City of Angels took only about five hours. Having to babysit two representatives of the FBI for multiple days would have driven James completely mad.

  “Okay,” he announced as they sped through Rancho Cucamonga on the 210, “we’re almost there. Anyone want to pull over and get something to eat? It might be easier now before the notorious L.A. traffic hits us full-force.”

  Everyone agreed, and they took a short detour to pick up sub sandwiches for them all. To James’ chagrin, though, the place didn’t provide either picnic tables or trays that could be mounted on windows.

  He turned to glare at LeBlanc, then moved on to Richardson and MacDonald. “Rule. Do not spill anything on my seats. In case you had failed to notice, this is a beautiful, much-beloved Rolls Royce. It’s not a Honda Civic. You break it, you buy it.”

  MacDonald scowled. “We’re capable of eating neatly, Mr. Lovecraft.”

  LeBlanc caught her partner’s attention. “It’s nothing to fret over, James,” she reminded him. “After all, you have access to rather better cleaning methods than most people.”

  James took a careful bite of his steak-and-onion sub. “Just because I can clean the seats that way, Mother, it doesn’t mean I want to. I thought we’d agreed that magic is best saved as the last resort.”

  “Too true,” she conceded.

  The agents both perked up. The two groups had settled into a strange stalemate, where the agents kept asking questions and trying to induce the thaumaturgists to give demonstrations of their power, while James and LeBlanc found increasingly creative ways to avoid doing so without saying no outright.

  James suspected that LeBlanc had been teasing the two agents with her remark.

  Once they finished eating, James carefully gathered the trash before tossing it.

  MacDonald seized the initiative. “Okay, what’s your plan for when we get into Los Angeles proper? We have one of our own well drawn out, and it might be best if you followed it for the sake of consistency and simplicity.”

  James turned the key in the ignition before he answered her.

  “Well, I thought we’d find a nice place to hunker down, say, a swanky hotel with the most excellent accommodations, available for—”

  “Good,” Richardson interrupted him. “We had the exact same idea, minus a couple of the details. Here, follow these instructions.” He handed his tablet up to the thaumaturgists in the front seat.

  They glanced at the route indicated on the GPS mapping app.

  “Where does this lead?” LeBlanc asked him.

  “To a place where we can hunker down,” Richardson said obliquely.

  His partner added, “Without anyone disturbing us.”

  James suspected he’d regret it, but he followed their route nonetheless. If they were collaborating, they might as well collaborate.

  The suburbs grew denser and more conventionally urbanized as they gradually worked their way into the city of Los Angeles. It was enormous; miles upon miles of sprawl, some of it beautiful and impressive, and a significant portion given over to urban blight. The contrasts of wealth versus poverty, often right next door to one another, were glaring. Still, the place had a certain character to it that James found growing on him as he drove deeper into town.

  Although the heavy traffic and slightly hazy air disturbed him.

  They reached the end of the route in an out-of-the-way residential neighborhood. No luxury hotels in sight.

  “Hey,” James demanded, squinting at the agents in the rearview mirror, “what the hell is this place?”

  Richardson shrugged. “An FBI safe house. What did you expect? And like I said, the details aren’t the same, especially the swanky part. But on the plus side, you’ll get to meet a real-life criminal informant we threatened, bribed, and extorted into showing up for the occasion. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

  Lovecraft parked in the driveway of the old bungalow, simmering as he thought about how ridiculous his Royce must look next to such a humble abode.

  “Yup,” he murmured, straightening his glasses, “I regret this.”

  Though definitely not a four- or five-star hotel, the feds’ safe house was cozy and clean. Richardson went so far as to make them all a nice mug of tea from the stores in the kitchen cabinet. To James’ surprise, the agent seemed to take this seriously, going so far as to steep each person’s tea for a different amount of time.

  Even LeBlanc looked impressed.

  Once all of them had a cup, they went to the living room. The thaumaturges sat on one couch, the FBI agents on another. Between them and off to the side was a big easy chair, which supposedly would soon be occupied.

  Richardson checked his phone. “Okay, good. Our informant is a guy named Lamar. He says he’ll be here inside of five minutes. He’s provided us with useful intel before, and presumably, he will again. He usually has his ear to the pulse of the streets. In return, we ensure that no one finds out what he’s doing. You know what they say about snitches.”

  James nodded.

  MacDonald added, “Lamar is, how should I put this, rather crass, but ignore his behavior and manners and focus on the meat of what he has to say. Also, it might help if you try to emphasize that our goal is simply to protect the good people of LA.”

  LeBlanc only
nodded enigmatically.

  Moments later, there was a knock on the door, and Richardson went to answer it. He returned with a thirtyish man, lean and rough-looking with a face that was simultaneously squinty with suspicion and calmly observant.

  “Hello,” James said.

  MacDonald interposed herself. “Hello, Lamar. Good to see you again.”

  The informant snorted. “Fuckin’ great, yeah, you assholes are really goddamn impressive with your expensive shades and your suits that you probably hired someone to iron this morning, am I right? Acting like you’re all bad with your fuckin’ black cars and your Glocks and the government covering your ass.”

  Richardson turned his head toward the thaumaturgists and put a hand beside his mouth as he spoke in a stage whisper loud enough that everyone could hear him with ease. “Lamar doesn’t like law enforcement much.”

  James nodded. “So I see.”

  LeBlanc leaned forward and extended a hand toward the young man. “Hello, Lamar. You may call me Mother LeBlanc. How do you do?”

  Blinking, Lamar’s demeanor softened instantly. He shook her hand and replied, “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  MacDonald raised an eyebrow, her face quizzical.

  Lamar shrugged. “You never disrespect an auntie. That’s how it is.”

  “Well,” said LeBlanc, “it’s good to see that the younger generation still has some manners. Thank you for coming to talk to us, Lamar. We are here to help ensure that no innocent people get hurt. Is there anything you can tell us about the LA Witches? We have heard that they might be involved in some very bad things, and we want to look into it.”

  Reclining in the big empty chair, Lamar pursed his lips. “I mean, I only heard the rumors. There isn’t a lot of reliable shit about them. No one knows who they really are or where the hell they came from.”

  “Really?” James frowned. He hadn’t considered the possibility that even the gangs wouldn’t know what was going on. “That’s interesting. About when did they first turn up on the scene?”

  Lamar scratched his nose. “Dunno. Few weeks ago, maybe? Not that long. It doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense, man. We ought to know more about them by now. Zero sight or word of any recruiters, weapons buyers, or any connections they got to any other gang. How the hell does a full gang come right out the ass-end of nowhere with high-level members, a rep, tags, and everything?”

  Lovecraft and LeBlanc nodded at one another.

  The informant railed on. “Like, it’s different from what happens with most newer gangs that are making power plays all over the place. There’s this outfit; people are calling them ‘the Startup.’” He chuckled at that. “Word is they’re run by this Russian business chick people are calling ‘Catherine the Great,’ but nobody knows who she is. They’re doing the usual stuff: rubbing shoulders with high-end clients, buying up two-bit gangs to do their dirty work, shaking down local businesses, that kind of shit. With the LA Witches, it’s all different. Doesn’t make no sense.”

  Everyone else nodded, appreciating his words.

  LeBlanc caught his eyes again. “Lamar, we are curious. What have you heard about this person known as ‘Motorcycle Man’ in the media?”

  “Oh.” Lamar nodded. “Yeah, people been talking about him even more than the LA Witches. I mean, that’s because his shit’s all over the news, right? Most people don’t know about the Witches, but everyone gossips about him.” He shrugged. “I don’t know anything personally. Probably some crazy son of a bitch who thinks he’s goddamn Batman, just taking steroids, and then people who can’t remember what the fuck they actually saw. Like, people in a car crash? A burning building? Some dude bleeding out? Yeah, sure, I’ll believe those guys that Motorcycle Man actually flies.” He gave a huff and shook his head, then laughed. “That’s some witch shit, huh?”

  LeBlanc and James did not need to exchange glances, and James noticed that both FBI agents suddenly had the air of hunting dogs on point.

  “Wait a fuckin’ second,” Lamar said. “You think he’s one of them? Because the people fightin’ the witches do say they’re all leathered up.” He frowned at them. “You’re not tellin’ me…”

  “We have no idea,” LeBlanc said simply. James marveled at her ability to tell the truth without making it seem scandalous. “We came here to ask questions about the LA Witches, but it seemed unwise not to ask about something else that was so newsworthy.”

  She did not address the issue of magic, and James was willing to bet that Lamar would forget whatever suspicion he’d had as soon as it came time to leave.

  They spoke to him for another few minutes. He mentioned that multiple gangs had a hit out on the mysterious vigilante. Word was, they were drumming up muscle to kill him or otherwise take him out of the picture before he started intruding on their turf instead of just rescuing people from burning buildings.

  “It’d be somthin’ if he was in with the Witches,” Lamar mused, shaking his head. “It’d explain why the Startup is gunnin’ for him, too. They’re the ones the witches have fucked with the most.” He scratched his head.

  MacDonald asked James and LeBlanc, “Do you need anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Lamar echoed, “do you? I got stuff to do later.”

  LeBlanc smoothed her dress. “No, thank you. You have been very helpful, Lamar, and we appreciate your coming to talk to us. I believe everything will be all right.”

  “Okay.” He stood, shook the thaumaturgists’ hands, and gave a barely polite nod to the FBI agents before Richardson escorted him out.

  Once they were alone again, the feds looked at their guests, waiting to hear their assessment.

  James cleared his throat and smiled. “Well, that was helpful, wasn’t it? We found out exactly what we needed to know.”

  “Namely,” LeBlanc finished for him, “that Motorcycle Man is almost certainly the sole member of the LA Witches.”

  MacDonald’s eyes widened with growing eagerness. “You’re sure?”

  LeBlanc smiled. “Once you accept the reality of miracles, it’s the only logical explanation.”

  Richardson and MacDonald left soon after Lamar, telling the thaumaturgists that they would be gone for about two hours, coordinating surveillance activities with other FBI agents across the city.

  James and LeBlanc did not need to confer to agree that they were likely being surveilled within the house. They began a synchronized cloaking spell to ensure that the feds would not be able to hear them, regardless of what sorts of bugs or other technology they might have had planted in the safe house. After a moment’s effort, a magical buffer formed around them, invisible to most but obvious to masters of thaumaturgy.

  “There,” James stated, dusting his hands off. “Much better.”

  Mother LeBlanc wasted no time. “It is clear to me what we must do, James. Are we in agreement?”

  He frowned and reclined on the couch, folding his hands behind his head. “It’s less clear to me, I’m afraid. Which, I suppose, suggests we’re not necessarily in agreement yet. Let’s hear it.”

  She had seated herself on the big chair where Lamar had been earlier and now crossed her legs, the colorful skirts swishing in the air.

  “You know the answer. It is clearer than before. We must blot out this person’s power. They are a loose cannon, more dangerous than any other we’ve encountered on this trip. Not only is the so-called Motorcycle Man clearly someone with exceptional ability, and therefore the ability to do greater harm, but they’ve drawn so much attention to themselves that everyone in the second-largest city in the United States is talking about their exploits.”

  James was more surprised than he had expected to be. “Are you certain? This is your healer.”

  “Not my healer,” she said quietly. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at him. “James, I do not suggest this idly.”

  “I know,” he hastened to assure her. He did know, after all. He could see the pain in her eyes. “A person this powerful, however
…shouldn’t we try to get through to them?” When she had no ready answer, he pressed his point. “This person is doing good things with their power, aren’t they? Helping people? Not to mention, they’re strong. A true prodigy. It would be a shame to waste talent like that, wouldn’t it?”

  “Better a waste of talent,” LeBlanc retorted, “than our kind being exposed. James, we saw the magicians at that bank. The more people know about magic, the more will use it, and many will use it badly.”

  He sighed and sat up. “I knew you’d say something like that. Yes, traditionally, caution is to be prioritized over everything else. But…”

  LeBlanc ran a finger over the smooth lines of her chin. “I don’t think that this person is evil, James, but they are likely to be foolish and ignorant. Most people don’t have organized crime trying to assassinate them, do they? That bespeaks a certain flaunting of prudence.”

  “I will concede that no matter what else happens, we cannot allow another assassination attempt to occur. If it does, then the way things are going, things will spin out of control beyond our ability to contain them. So, what we ought to do is—”

  “Shut them down,” LeBlanc interrupted.

  James coughed. “What we ought to do is get them clear of the current mess they’re in. As I said, it would be sad to waste all that potential. Have you considered what might happen if we were to rehabilitate them? Allow them to keep their power, but ensure that they know better than to use it unwisely?”

  “That,” said the woman, “is easier said than done. Most of what we have heard suggests that this individual is under a great deal of strain, much of it self-inflicted by their own foolish decisions. If a person with that much magical talent cracks, the results will be disastrous for everyone.”

  “Yes, so we remove the strain,” James protested. He wanted to tear out his hair. “Bring them into the fold, and we can avoid them cracking. Recruit them for an internship under our close supervision and experienced guidance. Wasn’t that the goal from the beginning? Wouldn’t it better to salvage something from this experiment?”