A Lying Witch

by Odette C. Bell

  Usually, I didn’t go for men like Max. I didn’t go for those big, burly types. I went for personality. Who cared if a guy could pump iron – could he actually hold a conversation?

  But like I’d already said – from the day dot, I’d always had this type in my mind. This perfect guy. And, like it or not, Max fitted him to a T. And right now? I was pressed flat against that perfect man. His chest pushed up against mine, torn flaps of fabric and scraps of buttons snagging against the smooth fabric of his gray T-shirt. But hey, what did I care about the fabric of my top, or his, for that matter? What struck me were the bodies beneath. The curve of his chest, the hard angle of his pelvis. All of it. It all slammed into my mind, pulsed through my veins until I felt my cheeks redden and my fingertips and lips tingle.

  The moment – if this was a moment – didn’t last. Though I swore Max took the time to stare right into my eyes, he then pressed forward, looped an arm underneath my knees, and picked me up for the second time in half an hour.

  He walked over to the couch and unceremoniously dumped me on it.

  Any lingering tingles dancing across my lips extinguished like sparks thrown into the ocean.

  “Hey,” I protested.

  “You’re safer on the couch,” he responded as he took a step back and crossed his arms. Why did he cross his arms so much? Was he trying to keep his heart from bursting out of his chest? Was he worried I’d see right through him if he didn’t take up that default defensive position?

  Though a second before I’d been completely distracted by Max’s perfect, sculpted body, now I scowled. “You don’t get to control the conversation by picking me up and throwing me on the couch.”

  “Oh, we’re having a conversation now, are we? How refreshing. Ready to start asking questions rather than running?”

  I stiffened. “Yeah, I ran. Because any sane person would run. I have no idea what’s going on. Murderers and monsters and fricking clairvoyants? None of this makes sense—”

  “I told you this would happen,” his voice dropped again, and that unmistakable disappointed look flitted through his dark gaze.

  Again, it forced me to take a swallow. A hard one. One that distracted me from my anger long enough for me to realize just how disappointed he looked. And no, though my mind wanted to tell me his disappointment was coming from hatred, it seemed to be coming from something far softer.

  “You have any idea what would have happened if that pixie had kidnapped you? Do you have any idea where it would have taken you?” he asked.

  I parted my lips to scream at him once more that he could have saved me rather than standing around watching, but I didn’t.

  Because I started to feel overcome again. I felt sweat slick across my brow, felt the beat of my heart rev up.

  “I should have seen this coming. One look at you and it’s obvious you aren’t willing to accept responsibility.”

  “Responsibility?” I stuttered. “Why exactly is this my responsibility? Why should I be responsible for the sins of my forefathers? I don’t care if one of my great great great grandmother’s did something wrong and got cursed. Why exactly should it affect me?”

  “You’re such a child,” he commented. “You’re not going to argue your way out of the situation. Saying it isn’t fair isn’t going to change anything. Only accepting responsibility for the curse will.”

  “Piss off,” I answered, showing just how much of a child I was.

  He scowled. “You can fight me all you want, but you cannot disappoint Detective Coulson. He requires your assistance with this murder, and you will give it to him. For, if you don’t, not only will you aggravate the curse and more monsters will come after you – but you will let a murderer ago. And he will murder again. How much blood do you want on your hands until you take this seriously?”

  My lips were open, but I couldn’t move them. I couldn’t speak. Heck, I couldn’t breathe. Because what he’d just said had burrowed through my heart.

  Blood on my hands. A murderer who would kill again….

  I was seriously good at dodging responsibility. I’d been doing it my entire life.

  But there were small responsibilities like not taking out the trash or handing out little white lies to desperate people for cash. Then there were big responsibilities – like ensuring someone didn’t get murdered.

  My head started to spin. “I… I don’t even know how to find this murderer. I’m not a clairvoyant—”

  “You saw the future when that pixie attacked you. It’s the only reason you’re alive.”

  “I thought you said you’d step in…” I said as I took a rattling breath, as the situation began to mount and mount and crush me.

  “I would have,” he said, voice achieving that same shaking note of certainty that could convince even the most dedicated of doubters. “But the point remains. You saw the future and saved yourself. And you will do the same again. You will use your abilities to find that murderer.”

  I crammed a hand on my chest, tried to push my fingers right through my torso so I could clutch my heart and still it. “Or?”

  He didn’t answer at once. And goddamn, it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

  “Or?” I pushed again, voice still rattling like the chain of that pixie.

  “There is only so much I can do for you. If you turn away from your responsibility and go against the curse, you will….” He didn’t finish.

  “What?” My voice was far-off, strangely calm. It wasn’t because I was calm – it was because I was starting to disassociate. My brain had finally had enough. Too much stress, too much pain, too much crazy.

  “If the curse activates in full, your ability will not be able to save you. You will die. It will be painful. It will be excruciating. And you won’t deserve it,” he added.

  And I won’t deserve it…. Those little words were like a hook. A hook that snagged under my chin, pulled it up, and made me stare right into Max’s gaze.

  Though my first knee-jerk reaction was to label the guy a brute or a monster, I couldn’t do that now. Not when I was staring into his eyes. For a fraction of a second, I swore we aligned. I swore I reached right in and touched—

  He suddenly unhooked his arms from around his middle and took a rather dramatic step back. “You’re injured,” he commented, breath kind of short as he turned hard on his foot and headed towards the kitchen. “I will retrieve medicine. You will remain on the couch. It is not suggested that you use this opportunity to run. Because there’s nowhere left to go, Chi McLane.” With that, he walked out of the room.

  And me? Though maybe I should have ignored his ominous warning and run, I just lay there. In fact, I repositioned myself, plucked one of the cushions off the floor, and closed my eyes.

  It didn’t help with the spinning. My thoughts continued to twist around as if they’d been plunged into a vortex.

  I was a witch. I could tell the future. And if I didn’t solve this murder? Apparently, I’d be next.

  Chapter 7

  It took Max a while to rustle up the medication, as he put it. I expected him to lug back some kind of first-aid kit. You know, with bandages, ointments – sensible kinds of things.

  It’s not what I got. He came in, trailing mud over the carpet, a bunch of random plants in his arms.

  I frowned so hard, my lips could have dropped off my face. “Ah, what is that stuff? Where’s the first-aid kit?”

  “Here,” he said, lips curling into a shadow of a grin.

  I narrowed my eyes and stared at him cautiously. “Have you been mucking about in the garden? Do you know how much pain I’m in? Plus, now I pause to think about it, shouldn’t I go to the hospital? These are definitely third-degree burns.”

  Max arched an eyebrow. “They are relatively superficial, and once I’ve finished, you will heal quickly.”

  “Once you’re finished?” My stomach gave a kick. It wasn’t the promise – it was the fact that he slowly walked towards me, got down on on
e knee, and arranged the muddy herbs at the base of a couch.

  “Ah, what are you doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Unless you’re taking this opportunity to learn flower arrangement, then no, it isn’t obvious.”

  He shot me that look – that one that told me he wasn’t amused. It brought entirely too much attention to that perfect, chiseled jaw. “Perhaps you should lie back,” he suggested.

  My stomach kicked again. This time, it was a surprise it didn’t kick all the way out of my torso. “Why?” I gulped.

  “The magic works easier when you’re horizontal,” he said, tone neutral, expression giving nothing away.

  The magic works better when I’m horizontal? Oh boy.

  Before my imagination could become too active, Max began chanting something. It was low, it was rumbling, and I couldn’t catch a word. His voice dipped in and out, almost as if he were in a car driving away from me only to turn and speed back.

  He arranged the plants neatly all the way around the couch. Then, using the mud that was still trapped in the tracks of his boots, he dug two fingers into the tread, liberated some dirt, and started tracking it in a great big dirty circle around the couch.

  “Hey, that’s going to be a nightmare to clean—” I began.

  “Relax,” he commanded.

  “What? This carpet is cream, and that mud—”

  “Is less important than your hand. Now, for the first time in your life, Chi McLane, shut it.”

  A surge of indignation climbed my throat, and yet, for some reason, I pressed my lips closed.

  That’s when I started to hear it. The weirdest noise. It was kind of like a radio that had been switched to the wrong channel. Static, but static that half sounded like it was a crackling fire, too.

  Once Max was done dirtying the carpet, he stopped, right in front of me.

  “Close your eyes,” he commanded.

  I complied. For like half a second. Then I blinked one of my eyes a fraction of the way open.

  “Close your eyes,” he demanded once more.

  “All right, all right.” I closed my eyes.

  Suddenly, I could hear it louder. That static. I started to be able to discern voices amongst it, too. It was honestly like a radio station, now. One we were tuning into until we got a better signal.

  Though Max was still chanting, I became less and less aware of it as I concentrated on those indistinct voices.

  I started to smell things, too. Incense, burning candles, melting wax, roaring fires, a clean hearth, chopped grass, driving rain.

  It was such an assault on my senses, I wanted to spring from the couch.

  Max didn’t exactly give me that opportunity. He weighed a hand gently on my shoulder. “Keep your eyes closed,” he warned.

  I didn’t bother to snap at him this time. Because I swore I couldn’t feel the couch underneath me, anymore. It felt like I was lying down in pastureland. There was long grass beneath me, soft, slightly damp with dew. And the air smelt of fresh rain. I could even feel sunshine playing across my feet and hands and cheeks. “What… what is this—”

  “Keep still,” Max snapped once more.

  “No, wait, what's happening?” I couldn't deny the sensations anymore. I wasn't in the lounge room. I was on some pastureland, in full sunshine.

  Problem was, I didn’t remember walking here.

  Fear started to twist its way around my gut once more.

  “Calm down, Chi,” Max's voice changed – becoming soft, becoming genuine.

  I let myself be led along by his voice, let it soothe me, calm me like a gentle caress running from my shoulders down my back.

  It must have distracted me long enough, because a second later, I started to hear crackles. That indistinct static sharpened, and I heard a voice – deep, rumbling, powerful. It took me a second to realize it was Max's voice. But Max was still chanting. Yet somehow, there were now two of him.

  I seriously wanted to open my eyes now, but Max did not give me that chance. Suddenly, I felt him leap forward and clap a hand over my eyes. The move wasn't exactly hard, and yet his determined grip gave me the distinct impression that he had no intention of removing his hand until this was done.

  “What are you—” I began.

  “Just trust me,” he said.

  … Trust, ha? That was a hell of an ask coming from him. Or at least, that's what my cynical mind pointed out. The rest of me? It allowed itself to be lulled by that rumbling tone, by that soft pressure around my face and forehead.

  I started to feel magic. Which was saying something, as before several days ago, I hadn't known magic existed. But the distinct sensations now rushing through my body could not be mistaken for anything else. They were wholly different to ordinary feelings. Hotter, faster, more powerful. And so goddamn invigorating. They pressed down from Max's hand, darting into my jaw, rushing over my lips, gushing down my throat, and sinking through my chest until they made it to my shoulder and poured down my arm to my hand.

  If Max hadn't been there, I would have sprung to my feet. Heck, I would have rocketed into the air.

  Instead, I shunted back against the cushion, overwhelmed by what I was feeling.

  And yet, I could not be distracted from the distinct sense of a grassy meadow beneath me, a beautiful blue sky above.

  So this was Max's magic, ha? His home?

  Far away on the edge of hearing, I swear I heard something – hoof beats. Someone calling. Someone shouting. Someone—

  Suddenly, Max jerked his hand back. He cleared his throat, and I heard him take several steps back.

  I didn't dare opened my eyes.

  In fact, I waited there until I heard him clear his throat. “It's done, you can open your eyes now. Get up, go have a shower, change your clothes, get something to eat,” he added.

  Wow. What a difference. He’d gone from gently placing his hand on my face, to snapping at me like I was an unruly teenager who needed to be brought into line.

  I opened my eyes and swiveled them towards him.

  Of course, he had his arms crossed. And of course, his expression was completely neutral with just a hint of mean. “I healed you,” he said.

  I was about to snap, “well done,” in a sarcastic voice, when I brought up my hand.

  My jaw dropped open. No, I hadn't suddenly transformed into one of those cartoon characters from the 50s. But yes, my jaw still did drop open.

  Because my hand? It was healed. I had caught several glances of it before I lay down. It had been completely blistered, red, charred. A sickening mess.

  Now? Sure, it was still a bit red, and there were still a few blisters, but as I experimentally opened and closed a fist, I realized it was almost completely healed.

  I was not the kind of person you could surprise easily. Because even if you managed to surprise me, I always kept my poker face. But my poker-faced suddenly took a back seat to my utter shock.

  “How,” I tried to struggle through a dry throat, “how the hell did you do that?”

  For a fraction of a second, a satisfied smile spread across Max's face – then he controlled it. “Magic. Do I really have to state the obvious?”

  I didn't snap back. Couldn't. Because, hello, I’d just been transported to some grassy pasture somewhere while the Scottish fairy had healed my third-degree burns.

  I sat there, staring at him.

  It took a while for it to become uncomfortable, took a while for him to snort. “What? This is all it takes to make you speechless. I'll have to remember that.”

  I’d never paused long enough around Max to assess his reactions. Even though my job as a fake fortuneteller pretty much required me to read people day in, day out.

  Now as I struggled to find the breath to put my surprised thoughts into words, I watched. And I realized he was being defensive. Not rude – okay, he was being rude. But he was only being rude because he was trying to hide something from me.

  I felt my eyebrows kno
t together and press hard on my eyes. “Just what are you exactly? What kind of magic was that? And what was with the pasture and hooves?”

  His eyes pulsed wide. He tried to hide it – and he managed to do it quickly. But it wasn’t quick enough.

  My eyebrows pressed even harder over my eyes. “It was kind of like,” I paused as I tried to ascertain what I was thinking, “It was kind of like I was back somewhere,” I said. Why I’d said the word back, I didn’t know. It wasn’t as if pastures and horses only existed in the past, and yet I had the impression that the scene I’d just felt had been old. Very old.

  If Max had looked defensive before, it was absolutely nothing to what happened to his face now. It stiffened, his lips drawing in until it looked as if he would swallow them. “You saw that?”

  “No, I felt it, heard it…. But what was it?” It was a testament to how surprised I was that I was checking my indignation and anger at the door.

  I suddenly blinked, the move so pronounced, it was like I was a theatrical actor.

  How the heck had I known that I’d just been transported back to Scotland? And I did know it – it wasn't some wild assumption, some ridiculous fantasy. Nope, that had been Scotland.

  “Max, where was that place?” I pressed once more.

  He put a hand up to his head. “I can’t remember what you’re talking about,” he answered in a flat tone.

  How convenient.

  I stared at him, trying to gauge if Max really had forgotten – an apparent consequence of using his magic to heal me.

  He simply held my gaze.

  He still hadn’t explained how his so-called forgetting worked. What exactly did he forget if he practiced magic, the immediate past? Or did it randomly take chunks out of his memory like a bird pecking at scattered grain?

  “How's your hand?” Max asked after a considerable pause where it was clear he was catching his cool once more.

  I wouldn’t be distracted. “I could hear horse hooves, someone shouting. They sounded angry,” I continued, not willing to let this go.

  Max cleared his throat, and by god did he clear it. It sounded like he was trying to cough himself a hole right through his trachea. “You're healed now. Go and have a shower. You smell,” he said, without pulling punches.