Witch Hunt

by Layla Nash

  Iskander either didn’t notice or was great at pretending. “This one says you are in need of assistance.”

  Right to the point. A man after his own preference. Evershaw nodded and gripped the arm of his chair until his knuckles ached. “My mate is a witch, the one who helped release Smith and you from where you were trapped. Another witch…did something to her and severed our connection. She is not there, in herself. It’s like her spirit or soul or personality is just gone. The witches are not able to help her, and neither is Smith. He thought you might be able to do something.”

  The man didn’t seem to blink. Ever. He just watched Evershaw and breathed, as if he waited for something, but no one else moved or spoke. Finally, the corner of the djinn’s mouth twitched and twisted into a dark smile. “I was waiting for the command. It has been many years since anyone asked me to do anything. I fear I may be... socially awkward.”

  “We don’t mind,” Mercy blurted out. She blinked too much, as if to make up for all the eye movement the djinn lacked, and sat forward as she practically elbowed Evershaw out of the way. “We’re kind of quirky. All of us. Our whole pack, really. We’re the oddballs. But no one bothers us because we’re stronger together and Evershaw is a great boss and—”

  “Mercy,” Evershaw said quietly, wanting to smile a touch himself, and ran his hands through his hair. “Breathe, girl.”

  She flushed crimson and sat back, pouring a glass of iced tea to thrust into the djinn’s hands. He watched her with detached interest, like studying a species he’d never seen before in a zoo, and peered at the tea for some time before he lifted the glass to drink. Evershaw wanted to stomp his feet and demand an answer or drag the dude inside to show him Deirdre so they could fix everything. But the quiet certainty that settled over his soul that morning, knowing that he was a different guy and didn’t have to be an asshole, evaporated the impatience.

  He wouldn’t get anywhere with the djinn by shouting. He got the impression Iskander had spent centuries, maybe longer, being yelled at and controlled and tormented by crueler bastards than even BadCreek, if some of the stories were close to true. They all waited in silence, though Evershaw almost vibrated with the need to move or speak or fly apart.

  Iskander took a deep breath and another deeeeeeeep chug of tea, then handed the glass to Mercy and folded his hands formally at his stomach. “She freed me and set the stage for me to be... entirely free. It is an unfamiliar situation. I find myself adrift in a world I know nothing about and surrounded by people I do not know if I can trust. You understand this is an overwhelming situation.”

  “I do,” Evershaw said. His gaze drifted to the front yard and a large, ornate birdbath that Mercy found in some hoity-toity “up-cycling” place—which meant a garage sale that charged fucking outrageous prices for crap covered in questionable coats of paint and gaudy knobs. But it drew all the birds in and Cricket liked it, so he knew Deirdre would like it. His heart ached a little more. Maybe he was more like Iskander than he cared to admit: adrift in a world he didn’t understand, where he—Miles fucking Evershaw—fell in love with a woman and she loved him back. He’d been rendered powerless by a magical spell he didn’t understand and couldn’t fight.

  He leaned forward slowly as the weight of his future without Deirdre pushed him down, gravity itself dragging at him, and rested his elbows on his knees. “I do, man. Regardless of whether you’re able to help Deirdre, you’re welcome to stay here, to join the pack. Or just crash here as long as you need to. I vouch for every person in my pack. They’re good people. They’ve lost and been lost and fought tooth and nail for everything we’ve got. We have a building in the city but we purchased this city block and we’re building it up. There’s the garden here and a bunch of extra rooms in this house, Deirdre’s house. It’s calm as hell and…relaxing. Healing. I don’t know where you’re staying now, but if you want to crash here, you’re always welcome. Even if you can’t help Deirdre or don’t want to or whatever.”

  Smith’s eyebrows rose and Mercy turned even darker red. Iskander didn’t react for long enough that Evershaw wondered if maybe the dude hadn’t understood, but eventually the djinn nodded. “That is a generous offer.”

  And again everyone lapsed into silence. Evershaw expected that he’d be as high-strung as Mercy, waiting for someone to immediately fix Deirdre, but instead that eerie calm settled over him and everything else slowed down. He was a glacier. He could drift as long as necessary if it meant eventually getting Deirdre back. He’d waited weeks already. A few minutes, a few hours... was just the last few steps of the marathon.

  Cricket gave up on stalking the birds in the birdbath and sauntered across the sunny lawn to hop up the steps of the porch. He ignored Evershaw, of course, but instead of heading straight to Mercy—the one person most likely to have treats of some kind on her—and went to stare up at Iskander.

  Evershaw held his breath. No telling what the cat would do—although Evershaw sincerely doubted the beast would do anything to jeopardize getting help for Deirdre. It just wasn’t clear that the feline knew the djinn could help. Cricket typically didn’t welcome any new males into his domain. Which made Evershaw want to snort at himself with laughter, since it was a hundred and eighty fucking degrees from where he’d been only a month ago. He’d have booted the cat off the porch and pissed on every corner of the house to establish his own territory.

  Iskander’s head tilted as he studied the cat, unmoving, and Cricket stared back at him. The cat’s tail twitched, the tip flicking back and forth, then Cricket’s eyes half-closed and he started to purr. Evershaw held his breath.

  The djinn smiled just faintly, raising his eyes to Evershaw once more. “The beast does not think highly of you.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” Evershaw said.

  Mercy muttered under her breath about stubborn males but otherwise kept her cool when Iskander glanced at her, and Smith chuckled as he stroked the hint of beard on his chin. “The beast is... unique.”

  “Indeed. He thinks very highly of the witch who waits inside. He would like her healed as well.”

  Evershaw nodded. “He’s her familiar, or something like. Have you…seen a familiar like that before?”

  “Not quite.” Iskander finally blinked, like his eyelids weighed a metric fuck-ton. “Although it has been many years since... Well.”

  Smith smiled and studied Cricket’s serene indifference. “It would be accurate to say there is no familiar quite like a feline familiar.”

  Evershaw snorted, shaking his head. “No fucking kidding.”

  Mercy was about to jump in and defend the cat, but Iskander heaved a sigh and started talking instead. “I do not know if I can do anything. Normally the granting of wishes is contingent on me being owned or captured or held by the one with the wishes. I cannot remember a time when I might have done something for someone without being compelled to.”

  “That’s so sad,” Mercy whispered.

  Evershaw held his breath, uncertain how the djinn would respond.

  Iskander’s head tilted as he looked at her, nothing in his expression. “Is it?”

  “Yes,” she said. And her eyes shone as she held back tears.

  The djinn made a thoughtful noise and returned to his calm consideration of the cat sitting on his feet. “Interesting.”

  Evershaw shook his head and figured it would be a long slog to figuring out whether the djinn could help Deirdre, and wondered if he should just get them all inside so they could figure out what the fuck to have for dinner—or maybe put the djinn to work in the garden, since the dude looked like he could bench-press the entire shed on his own.

  But Iskander slid to his feet like he had ball bearings in his joints, all fluid and disconcerting, and turned his attention to the door that led inside. “Then let us determine whether we can do anything to right it.”

  Smith blinked and Mercy bolted to her feet but Evershaw felt that intense calm move over him once more. He’d either get a step clos
er to getting Deirdre back or have one other avenue closed off. Knowing would make the difference. Knowing would help focus his efforts. He steeled himself for the bad news, resisted the urge to roll Cricket off the porch with his foot, and led the way into the house.

  Chapter 75

  Miles

  Henry got to his feet as soon as they stepped through the door. He stood next to Deirdre’s silent, complacent figure as she sat in a comfortable chair near the window, watching the garden and the side yard as birds and butterflies floated through the warm afternoon air.

  Iskander looked around at everything but her, his mouth slightly ajar as he studied the walls and furniture and hardwood floors. The djinn wandered into the room, not touching anything, as he took in every detail. Evershaw hung back, wondering what the guy saw. He hadn’t realized that the djinn had spent his entire life basically enslaved by various people, being forced to grant wishes and serve the whims of whoever managed to trap him. What a fucked-up way to live. Not even to live— to survive. How could someone live like that?

  The djinn finally collected himself and turned his attention to Deirdre. Henry tensed, like he would spring at the djinn if Iskander did anything, but the guy just studied her. He eased to sit on his heels in front of Deirdre, peering at her face as she looked blankly out the window. Then Iskander glanced back at Evershaw, a frown drawn between his eyebrows, before studying the empty section of floor that connected them.

  Then he did the same with Smith. Iskander straightened and went on wandering around, following a trail, before ending up in front of Evershaw once more. “She was connected to you strongly, and to you,” nodding at Smith, “less so. It is both bonds that should be resurrected?”

  “No,” Evershaw said. “Just me.”

  Iskander waited for Smith’s agreement before his attention drifted back to Deirdre. “And—you are certain she also wants this connection? This is something she would ask for, if she were able?”

  Evershaw wanted to answer immediately, to shout that of course Deirdre wanted to be his mate and connected to him forever. Obviously she’d want to be with him.

  But in the back of his head was the remaining hint of doubt, the wiggle of uncertainty. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she wouldn’t have chosen to be his mate, but had been going along with it because there weren’t any other options. Without the mate bond in place, there wasn’t much to keep them together—except for his undying, unwavering certainty that his universe wasn’t complete without her. Could she feel the same for him? Did she?

  His throat tied itself into a knot and he couldn’t breathe. “I don’t…don’t know. I believe so, but I cannot say with total certainty.”

  “No,” Mercy whispered. She jumped forward and grabbed his wrist, wrenching on his arm to try and turn him back toward Deirdre. “Of course she loves you and wants to be with you. She did! She did, damn it. Don’t be stubborn and stupid and awful. She’s your mate. That’s it. She’s your mate.”

  Henry tugged her away and hugged her, keeping Mercy restrained within the circle of his arms, and the younger wolf had a mournful look on his face. He knew the doubts that Evershaw wrestled.

  Smith folded his arms over his chest. “It would be best if we could ask Deirdre, of course. But since we cannot... We thought the bond would be a way to bring her soul back to her.”

  Iskander made a thoughtful noise, studying Deirdre, and didn’t look down as Cricket wound his way through the furniture and their legs to bump his head against the djinn’s ankle. Evershaw gritted his teeth against irritation that the fucking cat would suddenly make friends with a goddamn stranger the first day the guy showed up and still hissed at Evershaw whenever the fuck he wanted. Typical.

  Although Deirdre would point out that Evershaw still pushed Cricket off the bed when he didn’t want to share the fluffy pillows. Or her.

  The djinn squinted at her once more. “Perhaps there is a way to show her back that does not require the bond. Then you can ask, and if she is amenable, then we can rebuild it. Perhaps. I cannot make a guarantee. Inshallah, as we say.”

  “Right. Inshlah.” Evershaw would have said anything if it meant the chance to see her again. He crossed his fingers and toes, wanting to bounce and squirm like a restless little kid, and held his breath too.

  Henry moved uneasily, his wolf wary of the stranger and his unfamiliar magic, but Mercy drew him back. Smith waited calmly, unmoving and ancient, at the edge of the living room. Evershaw focused everything he had on Deirdre. He didn’t give a shit what Iskander did. If the djinn pulled some fast moves or meant to cause her harm, Henry and Mercy would know. Evershaw would save his mate. She was all that mattered.

  Iskander murmured under his breath and the air grew heavy and dense around them, more like a faint blue-green mist. It didn’t feel as threatening as Smith’s magic, but it definitely felt as old. His wolf side bristled but didn’t want to attack the djinn like he had with Smith, though the back of his neck prickled in anticipation.

  But as Evershaw was starting to learn, most big magic didn’t look like much. Just like Deirdre worked her way into his home and into his heart, the blue-green djinn magic worked through the air and into her and then out again, in an intricate dance that was more beautiful than almost anything Evershaw had ever seen. Almost more beautiful than Deirdre.

  But only almost.

  The djinn exhaled and the blue magic dissipated into nothingness, though Mercy sneezed and Evershaw felt some of the dust or mist settle on his skin. It anchored him and sat around his soul in a not-unpleasant way.

  He could see how the djinn would be his own kind of calming presence. Evershaw hoped—he actually hoped—the dude decided to stay for a while.

  But he only had eyes for Deirdre. She remained passive in the chair, and though it might have been his own wishful thinking, he thought she seemed relaxed. More at ease.

  Iskander straightened and exhaled, rotating his shoulders, and went back to studying the contents of the living room. “There.”

  “There?” Mercy crept forward a few steps, eyeing Deirdre like she was a hungry Cricket and Mercy held the chicken, then glanced at the djinn. “But she’s…the same?”

  “Is she?” Iskander frowned as he studied the witch, though he wandered over to a bookshelf and studied the titles contained therein. “Are you sure?”

  “Ye—” Mercy started, though she cut off and looked at Deirdre again. Then she faced Iskander. “—es. Yes.”

  The djinn smiled faintly and seemed to settle into the bones of the house, like he’d always belonged. “Perhaps you should look deeper.”

  Everyone else faced Deirdre. Evershaw’s patience started to wear thin with the Zen master djinn. “You could be a little more specific.”

  Iskander pressed his palms together at his chest and his eyes shaded closer to green than brown. “When she is ready, she will return. But now there is a path that she can take that will lead her here, to herself and to you. If you are worthy and she is willing, she will return.”

  Evershaw stared at him. If he was worthy and she was willing. Cricket chirped and paced across the worn but expensive-looking rug to press his paws against Deirdre’s knees, then heaved himself into her lap so he could head-butt her hands and purr loud enough to rattle Evershaw’s teeth in his head.

  He wasn’t about to put up with that bullshit. He didn’t take his eyes off Deirdre. “Mercy, Henry, why don’t you go in the kitchen and see about dinner?”

  They didn’t hesitate to move Smith and Iskander from the living room into the kitchen, talking loudly about the possible dishes that could be prepared, and the djinn began to ask questions about all the modern appliances. Evershaw had a spare second to pity the man, being so out of his depth in a modern world and completely free for maybe the first time in his existence, but then all his attention went to Deirdre.

  He pushed Cricket to the floor, ignoring the cat’s disgruntled mrow-ow-RAWR, and carefully helped Deirdre stand so he could walk her to the lov
eseat in the front window. The late afternoon sun slanted through the glass and highlighted a few motes of dust, or maybe they were whatever sprinkles lingered from Iskander’s magic. He made sure she looked comfortable against the cushions before he sat next to her. Evershaw brushed her hair back over her shoulder, studying the curve of her jaw and the delicate structures of her ear. She was more beautiful than he’d ever imagined. In all of his days, he couldn’t have imagined a better match for him.

  He took a shaky breath and bent his head to rest his forehead against hers. “Deirdre. You are…the heart of my heart. I don’t have words for how much joy you bring to my life, even with your terrible attitude and unwillingness to just let people help you. I love you. I love you more than I thought I could love anything—other than myself.”

  He wrapped his fingers through hers and lifted her hand to kiss, inhaling from her skin. “And you don’t seem to mind my jokes. Or telling me when I’m being stupid. I need you, Deirdre. I don’t know where you’ve been or what kept you there or how hard it is for you to come back, but please. Please. I need you to come back.”

  Evershaw held her tight to his side and closed his eyes. He didn’t think his crossed fingers had worked. He didn’t think the djinn’s magic, whatever it was, had worked. He exhaled and felt the burn of grief in his sinuses once more. His lips barely disturbed her hair as he murmured, “I need you, Deirdre. I need you so much I can’t breathe without you. You are the heart of my heart. My everything.”

  He focused on breathing; even the raspy motor of Cricket’s purr didn’t bother him as the cat settled on their shared laps and made himself comfortable.