How To Be A Badass Witch: Book Three

by Michael Anderle

  Almeida chortled and hefted his Benelli M4 semiautomatic shotgun. “If anyone gets hurt, it’s going to be those scumbags trying to turn a bar into a fuckin’ crater. I knew one of them would spin out someday. Just glad I’m one of the ones who gets to be there.”

  “Yeah,” Agent Barker added. He had a Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun. “This ought to be wild, kids. The kind of thing I signed up for.”

  “Roger,” Richardson said and smiled, glad the two new agents had left behind glum stoicism for humor. It made for better energy going into the fight.

  He left them momentarily behind to duck into the bathroom, where he examined himself in the mirror. After safety-checking his rifle and the positions of everyone else in the building, he held it one-handed, pointing it toward the ceiling while puffing out his chest in his vest and tilting his head in a way that emphasized the vaguely macho sneer on his face and the strong set of his jaw.

  “Oh, yeah,” he commented in a low, breathy voice. “Badass motherfucker right here.” He tapped the Glock 17M, his usual service weapon, at his side, and lamented inwardly that he didn’t have a big, scary combat knife to go with the guns and black armor.

  He walked back out to see if everyone else was ready. They were standing with a quiet tension that suggested the time had come to rendezvous with the other feds and their contacts in the LAPD.

  “Let’s head out,” he told everyone.

  “Would you like a dramatic montage of music?” MacDonald asked. There was a twinkle in her eye that suggested she might have overheard his words.

  He maintained as much dignity as he could while he answered, “Yes, please. That would be excellent.”

  James and LeBlanc discussed their options as they prepared. It was clear they had to head off Motorcycle Man before he—or she—got to the Mermaid. The question was how best to do that.

  “So, yeah,” said James, “there are all kinds of ways this could go wrong, especially if—”

  Something in the scrying bowl glowed green. Both pairs of eyes snapped toward it.

  “That’s different,” LeBlanc pointed out. “Faint but steady. An example of far more disciplined magic than what we have seen prior.”

  James chewed his lower lip as he examined the map. The phosphorescence was coming from someplace a mile or so to the east of their current location, so not the Mermaid.

  He acceded, “More disciplined, yeah, but also more dangerous. Do you feel it? It’s ominous. I can’t put my finger on why.”

  Frowning, LeBlanc settled into a deep focus. “Yes. There is, as we postulated earlier, an element at work here that we do not fully understand. I think we need to move at once, James. But to where? The site of that, whatever it is?”

  “Yes,” James said after a moment. “It’s our best guess at this point.”

  “Excellent.” LeBlanc put a hand out to him. “James. All we can do now is our best. We will keep this person from setting off more than they can handle at the bar. Whether we do that by bringing them on as an apprentice or by shutting down their power is up to them.”

  James nodded. He couldn’t resist a little humorous jab, however. “Okay, but let’s not pretend I’m the only one who’s nervous here.”

  “You’re most certainly not,” LeBlanc said. “This person has more power than most thaumaturges I’ve seen, and I have seen quite a few. If we want to shut their power down, we’ll have to be quick and decisive.”

  Cevin parked his truck in its usual space behind the Mermaid. When he climbed out, he carried his new shirt on a hanger to avoid it getting rumpled. With one hand, he opened the back door and then hung the shirt in his office, leaving it there as he went through the motions of getting the bar ready for the evening.

  Once the essential stuff was done, Cevin went back, redressed, and looked in the office mirror.

  Despite the weird, borderline metrosexual color, the cut of the shirt was flattering. It made his shoulders look broader and his posture straighter, and when he rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, it looked sort of...cool. Semi-formal and snappy-casual all at once.

  “Huh,” he commented in a low voice, hoping the staff couldn’t hear him. “Does this actually look decent on me, or am I going crazy? Or was I crazy all along, and this is the beginning of sanity? Ugh, it’s hard to say.”

  His mind drifted to his impending attempt to ask Nadine out on a date.

  He would do it tonight, assuming she came in. Jenn and Stephanie and Kera had ruthlessly browbeaten him into submission.

  He wondered if he was excited. Generally speaking, excitement was not an emotion he associated with himself, but he had been known to be wrong about such things from time to time.

  Of course, part of the problem with excitement was that it was frequently paired with anxiety. The two went together like peanut butter and jelly.

  He took a deep breath, then spoke to himself while staring into the mirror.

  “Nadine isn’t interested in you, you know. Dumbass. A woman like her couldn’t possibly be attracted to a dork like you. I mean, did you see her, man? Talking to you was just something she was doing out of boredom. Tonight, you’ll ask her out, and she’ll say no. Which is a good thing. The charade will be over. Right?”

  On the other hand, the conversation had been lively. She had seemed enthusiastic. According to the girls, a woman didn’t behave that way unless she was sincere.

  Cevin attempted not to groan, but a faint guttural sound escaped his throat anyway. Of course part of him wanted to believe that Nadine really did want to get to know him better, among other things, but if, against all odds and common sense, that turned out to be true, his life would become exceedingly complicated.

  He would be held to a higher standard. He would have something to lose instead of being able to relax in a consistent state of comfortable mediocrity. It scared the hell out of him.

  But that might be a good thing. Maybe. Possibly.

  “Whatever,” he mumbled. “I’ll ask her on a date and, uh, see how it goes. It will be fun. I made a good first impression, according to Jenn, so if I can make a good second impression, I’m golden.”

  He smiled into the mirror, then the smile inverted.

  “Unless something goes wrong. Unless it’s another one of those nights, and that rubs off and screws everything else up.”

  He cursed himself mentally for thinking about that and hoped he hadn’t also cursed his chances.

  It was true, he had been on edge lately, and things had been strange ever since that bizarre incident where someone had shot up Kera’s bike. That had been the beginning of all his woes. There was also the bar’s growing notoriety, its unwanted reputation as a sleazy establishment that attracted a rough and questionable clientele.

  Footsteps approached and then stopped outside the office door. Cevin spun, forcing his face back into a neutral expression so it wouldn’t look like he’d been caught doing something ridiculous.

  Jenn was standing in the office doorway. “Hey, boss-man. That shirt was worth it. Looks good!” She went on toward the break room.

  Cevin breathed in, then out. “Okay, yeah. Maybe they’re right, and all will be well. Yes. Everything will be fine.”

  He adjusted his collar and walked out to check on the floor. “I should relax. It’s going to be a great night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Zee,” Kera said, resting a hand on her bike’s shoulder, “we’re about to do the right thing, but it’s going to be dangerous. Still, I only need you to get me there and probably get me out afterward. You can sit out the worst of it. Okay?”

  She took his silence as agreement.

  Satisfied, she jumped into the seat, started the engine, and left her warehouse behind. The pack on her back was heavier than usual as she zipped into the dense, noisy traffic of Los Angeles, heading not for the Mermaid, but for the downtown headquarters of what she guessed to be the Startup.

  It was twilight. Night would fall in a matter of minutes; she
had to hope it wasn’t too late, but she doubted it. Somehow, for whatever reason, she felt certain that her enemies’ masterstroke would come around “prime time” or later, but likely not after midnight. Peak bar hours.

  “Hey!” Kera bellowed through her helmet as some douchebag in a red lifted truck cut her off at the intersection. “Christ, I can see under your fucking vehicle. Is your ladder secured? Presumably you need one. Cops ought to pull that guy over for excessive liftage.”

  Of course, no one could hear her over the noise of her motorcycle and all the other vehicles on the road.

  At home, she had inhaled every item of food she had available, some awful packaged snack cakes, a cheeseburger, and a nice sugary can of carbonated caffeine. She’d then spent a good half-hour warming up and running through quick drills of every martial arts move she could think of—anything that might help her.

  Warming up her mind, as well. Getting into fighting mode, which meant setting the blood to pumping and the brain to blotting out distractions, with the divine powers of the universe on standby for when she would need their help.

  Up ahead, there was a miniature traffic jam caused by that worst of all possible road conditions, a red light. When she was halfway down the street, the light turned green, so Kera didn’t slow down too much.

  However, the other drivers didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.

  “Hey!” Kera bellowed. “Did all of you people fall asleep at the wheel or get sudden ‘Dear John’ texts or something? For God’s sake!”

  She slowed the bike to a crawl just as the constipated traffic started flowing again.

  The ride went smoothly for the next couple of minutes, and Kera’s thoughts turned to what the Kims had said, as well as the unspoken implications that underlaid it.

  It’s like they could see into my head. I feel as though someone saw me naked or something, she brooded. How did they know? Did they go through the same thing when they were younger? I had assumed that they wanted to live together and be happy. The Kims never had any reason to reach the same conclusions I did. If I can’t live a normal life and be with someone, why shouldn’t I sacrifice myself and my happiness for the greater good?

  There was something else too, but she didn’t want to admit it. If she wasn’t the only one, then someone had stolen her thunder. She wanted to be the sole thaumaturgist who was willing to die for others because she couldn’t live for herself. There was something romantic about the idea in a tragic way.

  But it was nice not to be alone, either. Others had felt her pain.

  Fuck. I was getting used to the idea of eventually being killed in the line of duty or whatever you call it. Now that I’m not sure about that anymore—now that I swore an oath to my friends not to get myself murdered if I could help it—it makes everything complicated again. I’m going to have to re-figure out my whole existence.

  First, though—

  “Hey!” Kera screamed as the idiot next to her swerved out of his lane toward her before lurching back. “It’s barely dark! If you’re drunk already, the first step is admitting you have a problem. There is help, okay?”

  Taking a deep breath, she drove on. Apparently, when she got stressed, she let it out as road rage.

  Less of that, MacDonagh. If you get arrested, you won’t make it downtown in time.

  Inhaling and steeling herself, Kera turned east toward the Financial District and cast a combination cloaking and glamour spell on herself. She was wearing her studded jacket, which, she hoped, would suppress the obvious signature of her magic in case the other thaumaturgists were still looking for her. She needed a disguise.

  The enchantment played itself out. Anyone who glanced toward her would see a tourist of South Asian descent in a tiny metro-sized car with a rental license plate, driving confusedly in circles while looking for the Convention Center.

  A moment later, she saw the place again. It was the sort of older decently maintained office building that had been converted from something else—a bank, perhaps, or an ornately-decorated factory, much like Kera’s home. This one, however, had corporate signage all over the front.

  That’s it.

  She drove slowly past, noting that most of the windows were dark. Hopefully, that would help her narrow down who she was going for. Once she was out of sight of the building, she pulled onto a side street, then parked in an empty lot.

  Kera looked down at her handlebars. “You ready, Zee?” She dismounted, breathed deeply, and wheeled him into the shadows, where he would hopefully be safe.

  Her hand clutched the small disk in her coat pocket—the relic from the Kims. Believe in it, they had said. Kera had seen and done too much lately to disbelieve, so all that was necessary was to have faith in her friends.

  As she moved quietly toward the offices, she cast one last spell. It might not work, but it was worth a shot.

  A calming spell as widespread and as powerful as she dared invoke, intended to act on anyone she had used the enchantment on before. With luck, some of her foes would be too chilled out to offer much resistance.

  She would have to cross the street to reach the building. There wasn’t much cover.

  Here goes nothing.

  Johnny Torrez was thinking. He was also working, though not as fast as he was capable of. They had enough time to get away with a mild delay, provided Pauline didn’t scrutinize their timetable too hard.

  Sven asked, “Toss me another line of wires, okay?”

  Johnny grabbed the rubber-wrapped lengths of copper and threw them to his friend, who caught them and turned back to his work. Sven had experience making high-tech bombs, whereas Johnny was better with basic incendiary devices.

  At the other end of the set of offices, Pauline shouted something in that sharp, angry tone of hers, and Lia responded in a soft voice to try to calm her down.

  “Yeah,” Johnny muttered to himself. “Better to stay cool as we go into this.”

  But he wasn’t cool—or hot, for that matter. Kind of lukewarm. Mixed up.

  He liked the thought of the Mermaid no longer existing, given how much grief that fucking place had caused him. He liked the idea of Motorcycle Man trying to stop them and going out with a bang. The hood of Johnny’s Mustang would be avenged, they would gain a ton of street cred for taking Motorcycle Man out, and Pauline would stop bitching about it.

  On the other hand...

  What Lia and Sven had said made a lot of sense—that killing multiple civilians was more trouble than it was worth. That it would bring the wrath of God down upon them in the form of every alphabet-soup agency in America, which would only need to know their whereabouts before crushing them like bugs.

  That the feds might actually take gang violence seriously this time. They had issued a stay-away to the other gangs, which meant that no one should snitch.

  But there was always the possibility.

  There’d have to be a snitch, and the cops would have to believe them. Johnny didn’t think that was likely.

  He hoped not.

  Also, given Pauline’s total lack of interest in reconsidering, there was the other issue. Johnny suspected it had occurred to all three lieutenants, but it was too dangerous to say out loud.

  It was the possibility that Pauline was out to lunch. Two beers short of a six-pack. Ready to be committed. She’d lost her marbles, was loco en la cabeza, and other such expressions. Perhaps she had been sane once, but something had changed.

  That was a worrisome thought, especially when the two of them had finally been getting along.

  Doesn’t make me look good, Johnny thought. He had liked the new, bloodthirsty Pauline who said what she meant and solved problems the old-fashioned way, but it was possible that she’d gone overboard.

  As he stuffed various household items into canisters of gasoline, a stupid and ridiculous thought occurred to him.

  You can call it off. Think about it, Johnny. You’re allowed to say, “Nah, I quit,” and walk the fuck away. Tell her you conscienti
ously object or something.

  He blinked, and a shudder went over him. Cowardice, disloyalty, and lack of follow-through were not traits that helped a man rise in the streets. He hated himself for even thinking about that.

  There was a chance that he could get the hell away from the streets altogether. He’d go live in an apartment complex in the suburbs of Muncie, Indiana or someplace like that, go straight, and work a normal shitty job. It would probably suck, but he wouldn’t have to worry every waking minute of every day that someone would kill him if he seemed too weak to live.

  Except it’s not that simple, is it, Johnny? his inner voice went on. Oh, no. Pauline knows people, doesn’t she? Connections. Rich people. Whether they’re mobbed up or technically legit doesn’t make a difference because the law is just a suggestion for people who have enough money. And Pauline’s Russian. Did you ever find out if she was part of the fucking organizatsiya? No, you didn’t. And no matter how smart or tough you are, you’re not John Wick, and you’re not taking on the Russian Mob by yourself if they find out you left one of their princesses in the clutch.

  Sven looked up. “Did you say something?”

  “No,” Johnny shot back. “Might be my phone. Hold on.”

  He checked the device. There was a new text from one of his informants, but it wasn’t anything earth-shattering. The guy claimed to have seen a convoy of three or four police cars in the Little Tokyo area. Johnny made a mental note, but it didn’t necessarily mean the heat was on. The cops might have just stopped to shoot the shit and ended up racing each other to the donut shop.

  If they didn’t leave, then there might be a problem.

  He reported as much to Sven, who nodded and stood. “I’m gonna have a smoke. Care to join?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny answered, falling into step. “Sure.”

  Out the side door, near where the warehouse joined with the disused generic storefront, they stood in a pool of shadows and looked out at the patchwork of electric lights around the city. Sven lit a cigarette.