I Buried a Witch

by Josh Lanyon

  I murmured, “Turn around, knock him—”

  Before I could finish the spell, Chris hurled the hammer at my head. The speed and vicious accuracy of that move were totally unexpected. Not his first witch murder, after all.

  I ducked, barely in time, and the hammer hit the wall, denting it. At the same instant, Pyewacket, crouching atop the armoire, sprang down, hissing, claws extended, landing on Chris’s head and shoulders.

  Chris screamed, grabbed the spitting, wriggling cat, and hurled him against the armoire.

  “No!”

  Pye thumped against the doors, yowled, and went limp.

  I chanted, “Ejecerunt foras, removere illud de sphaera! Huius terminus—”

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones,” Chris sneered, and tackled me.

  This is the problem with theory versus practical application. When practicing spellcasting, the focus is on getting the spells right. In an actual fight for your life, it comes down to speed and aim.

  We crashed through the open doorway and landed in the unlit hall. Chris punched me in the face, which immobilized me for precious seconds with shock and pain.

  No one expects the Spanish Inquisition…

  It wasn’t that I wasn’t trained in self-defense. I had trained since childhood. But it was months since I’d attended a class, and I was out of shape. I was also jet lagged, and I’d had a hella rough weekend. My reaction times were slow, my responses disorganized.

  He let go of me, scrambled back on all fours to grab his hammer—and I jackknifed up and turned to run. He grabbed my leg, hurled me back from the top of the staircase, and I let the momentum carry me a few feet down the hall, away from him. I came down hard, the breath knocked out of my lungs and my twisted knee throbbing painfully.

  I had the dim impression that a light went on downstairs. Had the cops in the patrol car been alerted by the sounds of our brawl? I stumbled up, limping, careened into the wall, kept going, and found myself heading straight into the dead end of the second guestroom.

  As I staggered past the Louis XVI rococo mirror, I saw shadowy motion in its silvery depths.

  “Uncle,” I gasped.

  “There is no uncle in this game,” Chris said from right behind me. He was literally on my heels, and I tripped and went down as he swung his hammer again. It was a two-handed swing—he was dead-set on killing me that time—and the head of the hammer smashed into the mirror.

  An explosion of glittering glass, burning my face and bare chest, and a blaze of white light that turned the scene in the hallway into a frozen negative.

  Everything dark was bright. Everything bright was dark. I saw Chris sprawled on the floor, his hammer a few inches from his hand, as he blinked up at… Great-great-great-uncle Arnold.

  Yes. Great-great-great-uncle Arnold was finally free of his prison.

  He looked at Chris, looked at me, looked at Chris—and smiled.

  It was a terrible smile. He pointed at Chris and said in an unnerving singsong,

  “Here we have a little worm

  Let us see him laugh and squirm

  If we let him crawl away

  Let his brain forget this day.”

  Chris began to shriek with laughter and writhe on the floor.

  Great-great-great-uncle Arnold turned his attention to me. “Good evening, Nephew.”

  “Good evening, Uncle,” I whispered.

  He opened his mouth…and I realized that someone was pounding up the staircase.

  John shouted, “Cos? Cosmo?”

  Great-great-great-uncle Arnold nodded his head graciously. “Another time perhaps.”

  He faded from sight as John rounded the corner, skidding to a stop at the sight of Chris shrieking with laughter and wriggling on the floor. His horrified gaze traveled to me, back against the wall, staring at him.

  “Cos? You okay?” All at once his voice was easy, calm. He walked toward me, crunching glass underfoot, stepping past Chris. He kicked the hammer away and then reached his hand out to me. “All right, sweetheart?”

  I took his hand, and he pulled me to my feet. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” He still sounded weirdly conversational.

  I opened my mouth. No words came. “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  John made a smothered sound and pulled me into his arms.

  Chapter Twenty

  The moon had faded and the sun was rising by the time John saw the last uniformed officers to the door.

  Jinx was in the kitchen. I could hear the kettle whistling and the chink of pottery as she fixed tea.

  “Seven lives left,” I murmured to Pyewacket, stroking his silky fur. He was curled on my lap as I sat on the sofa in the sunken living room. “You have to be more careful.”

  He gave a squeaky little mew.

  “Yeah, but I had it under control,” I told him.

  Pye sneezed, though it was probably supposed to be a snort.

  I glanced up as John came down the steps. He still looked weary, grim, but there was something in his eyes I hadn’t seen for what felt like a very long time. Warmth. Light. He took his place on the sofa beside me, tugging me over so that I could rest comfortably against his shoulder. Pye meowed in protest but chose not to move.

  I closed my eyes, listening to the steady pound of John’s heart beneath my ear.

  “Thank you for coming,” I whispered.

  His response was quiet, wry. “I didn’t do anything.”

  I nodded. “Yes. You did.”

  I jumped at the crash of pottery. John sighed.

  He threw back his head, called, “Everything okay in there?”

  “Got it,” Jinx called back.

  Pyewacket made a muttery sound and tried to make himself more comfortable.

  “Still think this was a great idea?” John asked softly.

  I smiled, closed my eyes again. “Yeah.”

  He kissed my forehead.

  So many things I wanted, needed, to ask him. Not just about what would happen now with Ciara. Surely the murder charges would be dropped? Surely she would at least be able to get bail? But also, who he thought at City Hall might possibly be a member of SPMMR.

  I had other questions too. Questions John would not be able to answer. Who had tried to kill Rex? Who had tried to drown me in Paris? How did Oliver know so many things about my private life that he shouldn’t know—and whose side was he on?

  And finally, most importantly, why had John—

  “Here we go!” Jinx said brightly. The tea tray wobbled alarmingly as she carried it down the short flight of steps.

  John hastily let go of me, rising to help her. I sat up, soothing Pye. John lowered the tray to the table.

  “You should be in bed, Cos,” Jinx said, taking the chair across from the sofa. “You look terrible.”

  I probably felt terrible too, but I was still pumped full of adrenaline. Not the adrenaline of fighting for my life. The adrenaline of John being near me. Of John taking his seat on the sofa once more, settling me against him. I smiled at him.

  He didn’t smile back, but his expression was still kind, still concerned. Some of my happiness faded.

  Jinx said, “It’s a good thing I’m staying here for a couple of days. You’re going to be stiff as a board in a few hours.”

  “Oh yeah,” John said. “You’ll be a great help to him.”

  “I will!”

  “Stop,” I said, and I wasn’t kidding.

  Jinx poured tea for the three of us, chattering all the while. “I still can’t believe Valenti’s stepbrother was the Witch Killer. This is going to be so terrible for her. What was he thinking? He could kill every witch in San Francisco?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “What will happen to him?”

  John said harshly, “He’ll be convicted of three homicides and two attempted homicides, and they’ll shut him up in a hospital for the criminally insane for the rest of his life. If I have a
nything to say about it.”

  No compassion there. But I wasn’t going to argue. Chris had been raving when they’d finally loaded him into the ambulance and driven off into the night.

  “Poor Valenti,” Jinx said again. She shuddered. “Even so, I’m glad I’m not staying there tonight. Thank you guys for letting me stay here. Although with the Witch Killer locked up, I’m looking forward to going home and sleeping in my own bed again.”

  “How did you get on with my mother?” I asked curiously.

  Jinx beamed. “I love her.”

  John choked on his tea.

  When Jinx finally went up to bed and Pye had departed to lick his emotional wounds in private, John and I sat for a few minutes in silence on the sofa. He still had his arm around me, and I was grateful for that comfort.

  I knew he probably wasn’t going to stay. That though he clearly did care for me, he probably still did not—could not—forgive me. I knew that once he made his mind up, that was pretty much that. And he had decided that both me and our marriage were a mistake.

  But somehow with his arm wrapped warmly around me, and his head leaning ever so slightly against mine, I was able to pretend that everything would be okay.

  The grandfather clock tolled the hour in five slow, silvery chimes.

  “Why did you come back here tonight?” I asked finally.

  “Because it’s killing me to be away from you.”

  He said it so calmly, so quietly, it took me a moment to realize the words were real.

  I sat up. Stared at him. “But I thought…”

  “Yes. I thought so too.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem to matter what I think. What I feel here is completely different.” He touched my fist to his chest. “I know you say there’s no love spell on me, but something happened. Something changed. The idea of living without you is…” He repeated, and his tone was pained, “It’s killing me.”

  “John, couldn’t we try again? It would be different now. It really would. And I promise—I’ll swear on anything you like—that I’ll never lie to you. Never use magic on you. Never…”

  In the face of his silence, I slowed to a stop.

  There were lines in his face I’d only seen once. When I’d nearly drowned in the Seine.

  “I want to believe you. I even do believe you. In some ways.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  When he didn’t answer, I said, “Why can’t you believe me? It wasn’t all lies between us. Mostly, the important parts, were all truth. Why is it so hard to trust me? Couldn’t you at least give me the benefit of the doubt?”

  He gave a slight shake of his head.

  I said tentatively, “Is it because of what happened in Somalia?”

  His face changed. For a second I saw the terrifying mask of the night he had discovered I was a witch. “What do you know about Somalia?” His voice didn’t sound like his own.

  “Nothing. Andi told me that Trace had confided in her about some things that happened during the war. She wondered—she said he wondered—if you had told me about it.”

  “No. Never. That’s something I’m never going to talk about. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I looked away. Nodded.

  He said nothing.

  I said, “I wasn’t prying. It’s just… I was hoping it might explain why you can’t…forgive me.”

  He drew in a sharp breath and hauled me back into his arms. My face was buried against him, so I couldn’t see or read his. He said against my ear, “It isn’t… It’s not something I can do.” I felt his swallow. “But you’re not… That’s not about you. I do not equate you with that.”

  For some reason, it brought tears to my eyes. I shook my head, didn’t try to speak.

  He said in that same almost deathly quiet, urgent voice, “I do forgive you, Cos. I do love you. I don’t know if I can—”

  I had to breathe, and it came out in a shuddery sigh. I pulled away from him, wiped hastily at my face.

  “Okay. I get it.”

  Which was the first lie I’d told him in a long time.

  We didn’t speak for what felt like hours. Then he said slowly, “In Paris, you said you were trying not to use magic. Not to live a magical life. Is that true?”

  I said huskily, “Yes.”

  His breath hitched, and he leaned forward, turning my face to his. “I know this probably isn’t fair to ask. But if you could do that, if you could commit to giving up magic—if you’ll promise never to use witchcraft again— Could you make that compromise?” His eyes were fiercely intent.

  It took me a moment to understand what he was saying, what he was asking. And I wanted to. I wanted to do anything that would make him love me again. I would gladly have given him anything within my power.

  But that was not within my power. That was asking me to give up who I was.

  I opened my mouth, saw the hope in his eyes, that he believed he had found the way for us.

  It took all my strength to shake my head. “No.”

  John sank back, the light dying out of his face.

  “That’s…too much.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He didn’t sound angry or bitter. Just tired.

  I put my hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at me.

  “It isn’t fair, John. What you’re saying is you can’t accept me as I am, don’t want me if I can’t become the person you say I should be.”

  His lips parted, but I knew I had to finish, or I’d never have the courage to get the words out. “You’re asking me to change my very nature, and the thing is, I feel so much for you, I want to agree. Even though I know you’re demanding too much, I still want to promise anything you want if it will make you love me again.”

  No gold glints in John’s eyes now. They were dark as night.

  I steadied my voice. “But if I agree, it will be a lie. However much I tried, I think I would eventually break my promise, and one thing I won’t do ever again is lie to you.” I managed a tremulous smile. “I did learn that lesson.”

  John nodded curtly, looked away. A muscle moved in his jaw.

  I let out a shaky breath. I can’t say I felt better for having rejected his “compromise.” In fact, my heart was breaking. But what he was asking was wrong, and while I was no expert at relationships, I knew enough to know that if John couldn’t love me as I was, there was no chance of saving our marriage anyway.

  The grandfather clocked ticktocked loud, long minutes into that empty silence.

  John turned to me. He said gruffly, “Could you at least promise to try not to use magic as a first option?”

  I stared, afraid to hope that he was saying what I so desperately longed to hear. “Yes,” I whispered. “Of course, I promise. I swear. I’ll only use magic as a last resort.” I added honestly, “Or if I forget.”

  His mouth twisted, he shook his head, and to my startled and abject relief, pulled me into his arms. “You’re wrong about not wanting you—not loving you—as you are. I don’t think it’s possible for me not to love you.”

  Much later, when we were lying upstairs in the brass four-poster, warmly wrapped in each other’s arms, he said, “Did you really tell Chief Morrisey’s wife you’re pregnant?”

  “Mm-hmm…”

  John snorted, brushed a strand of hair from my forehead. He said suddenly, “You’re not, are you?”

  I laughed, then said thoughtfully, “I don’t think so.”

  He half sat up. “Y-you don’t think so? You mean it’s possible?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “There are a few old legends about witch kings bearing children. They’re probably metaphors, don’t you think?”

  “Probably?”

  “Probably.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Well, I think I know.”

  “Let me see if I understand this. Are you saying— You’re saying a male
witch can become pregnant?”

  “I’ve never known it to happen.”

  He slowly lowered himself to the mattress. Drew me to him as cautiously as if I were a ticking time bomb.

  I said mildly, “Would it be so terrible if I were carrying your child?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Would it be so terrible if my husband were carrying my child?” And yet he sounded more bemused than outraged.

  I smiled blandly. “You have to admit it would be the détente to end all détentes: the child of the witch king and a witch hunter.”

  John’s gulp was so loud, Pyewacket, curled in his favorite outpost on the window seat, raised his head.

  John studied my face. He said slowly, dangerously, “You little… You’re yanking my chain, aren’t you?”

  I laughed. “Am I? Probably.”

  He put his hand around my throat and squeezed, but lightly, teasingly. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  I said, “Oh, I think you have some idea what to do with me…”

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  Bedknobs and Broomsticks 3

  Black Magic. Blackmail. Little Black Books.

  Must a witch break his vows to save his marriage?

  Cosmo Saville loves that his husband has finally accepted his witchy ways. And in return, his promise to stay out of police business guarantees them a happily ever after. At least, until he discovers he might be responsible for a dangerous game of blackmail…

  Police Commissioner John Joseph Galbraith feels relieved that his marriage is back on track. Especially since he has his hands full with a high-profile suicide and rumors of a city-wide extortion ring. But when he stumbles across Cosmo breaking his vow by playing cop, John agonizes over old wounds.

  With the commissioner’s badge and family in jeopardy, Cosmo has no choice but to put his life on the line…

  Can the witch expose a dark conspiracy, save John’s career, and return to love’s delicious spell?