“If you’re both quite done having fun at the expense of my short legs, shall we move on?” When both of the hooligans had blandly attentive looks on their faces, I gave a thankful nod to Exit, despite his boorish behavior. “I accept your offer, but not because I’m afraid. I respect the unknown too much for that, and I think you deserve to be involved.”
Exit inclined his head in thanks, and we got down to the business of planning several hours in the elements. “You’re going to need winter clothes, and I don’t have anything to fit you that doesn’t belong to Wulfric. Something tells me you’ll need your own things, so we’re going shopping.”
He looked down at his worn shirt and pants, grimacing. “I have a problem.”
“No, you don’t. We have money, and I won’t hear of it.” Gran’s decision was swift and final, nipping his protests in the bud. Gran stood and picked up her purse from the counter. She withdrew her keys and jangled them once. “I’m in the mood to spend a little money. Come along, dears.”
“Where are we going?” Exit asked.
Gran and I answered at once. “Robertson’s, of course.”
Chapter Eighteen: Salt in the Wound
“So, it’s an Army and Navy store, but they sell to regular citizens?” Exit was asking as we parked.
“It’s just a name, like a general store. They started out selling surplus items in the 1950s, but now they sell camping gear, outdoor stuff, boots, clothes,” I explained.
“Fishing and hunting, too,” Gran added.
“Right, pretty much everything you need to be outside. I’ve been shopping here since I was little; mom and dad would bring me for my ice skates and skis every year. That was winter, but in spring I’d get new boots. Or a fishing pole.” I loved Robertson’s. As we opened the door, the acrid scents of new leather and pine greeted us; they were as much a part of the store as the staff, who wore red and blue striped rugby jerseys with white rubber buttons. That was one detail that hadn’t changed since before I was born.
Exit sized up the interior with an approving eye. “Now this is my kind of place.” He began to walk directly to the gun counters, but I grabbed him to redirect. “We’ll get there, but not for a gun. You’ll need a good knife, and a belt. First, though—boots. Then clothes.” He looked faintly deflated, but brightened as we wove our way to the back wall, where a myriad of footwear awaited him. He was nearly giddy at the lightweight winter hiking boots we found, marveling at the ripstop construction and generally impervious nature. In quick succession, we found heavy pants, then jeans, then socks, flannel shirts, and even underwear, which resulted in him blushing a shade of crimson I’d only seen on people with severe sunburns.
“Jacket, heavy coat, gloves—” Gran began.
“Scarf, canteen. Oh, and a pack.” I was shouting from a few rows away. Exit looked bewildered, as if a small but determined army had hijacked his mission and would not stop until he was clad head to toe in winter gear.
The employee helping us served to run armloads of merchandise up to the front registers as we kept going. “Sunglasses, sunscreen, beef jerky, and then I think we’re ready to get a knife.” I beamed at Exit, whose features went into a childlike state of euphoria when he saw the knife counter.
“They have mineral hammers!” He fairly bounced up to the counter with excitement.
“Do you need one?” Gran peered at the simple tool, wondering what he might need to mine, given that we were clearly above ground.
He grinned while expertly spinning a wicked looking rock pick hammer around his hand. “It’s my tool of choice. I’ve had one in my hand since I was a boy.” His eyes drifted over the knife case, and he selected a seriously menacing blade that looked like it could skewer a rhino. It had a saw-toothed back edge and came with its own black leather case; I didn’t even look at the price, but by the balance I could tell it was expensive. The hammer was a different story entirely. At thirty-two ounces, it felt to me like something you’d use for demolition rather than delicate rock work, but in Exit’s hand, he wielded it like something made of Styrofoam. I felt my charms jungle against my wrist and realized that we all have our chosen tools.
Checking out was an experience all its own. When the guy running the register calmly mentioned a total well over a thousand dollars, I thought Exit was going to take a header right there.
Gran waved off his concerns and began calmly peeling off bills from her stash. I call it her stash, because she always carries enough money to squash a small rebellion. It’s a generational thing, I think. If I have more than fifty cents in my pocket, it’s because I’m wearing pants for the third time without washing them.
“Don’t you like your gear?” I asked. I knew he did, but I wanted him to explain why he looked a bit glassy eyed from the whole experience.
“That’s enough money to build a house.” He frowned in thought as we loaded up the loot.
“It was. Now, it’s enough to protect you from the winter.” I looked pointedly at the knife and hammer, which he had in his lap, studying. “And do a little damage, too, if things ever get uncomfortable.”
He twirled the hammer in his hand like a drumstick. It fairly blurred, then he stopped it, let it fall to his lap, and grinned. “They’re good for rocks, and for people with heads like rocks, too. It may surprise you to know that not all miners are church deacons, so I’ve always found it best to be prepared.”
We were loading our groaning bags when I got the sensation of being watched. It was a fleeting thing, like a rumor, but it had been there. My witchmark wasn’t radiating a warning of any kind, but there was an uncomfortable itch at the base of my spine. There are few things that can mask their magical nature without me discerning their true purpose. Standing there near the doors, I let my senses roam, thinking that on occasion it was best to use the most simple skills.
After a meaningful glance at Gran, I heard his voice asking if there were any more bottles of solution to be had, or was that all they had in stock? It was a reedy voice—oily, British, and gratuitously mannerly in the way that only first class creeps can be.
“Wait here.” I stalked off toward the farm goods counters, which were on the other side of the store. That was where the voice was coming from, and I wanted to be closer. My height was my friend, as I ducked easily behind the spinning racks of coveralls and foul weather gear to edge closer to the man who was talking to the employee in front of the horse feed and other things that weren’t sharp and shiny.
I didn’t need a witchmark to see what he was, but it didn’t hurt. A tendril of magical awareness crept into my senses just as my eyes settled on the warlock. He was an oily, gross creature with thin hair, plump smooth hands, and the look of an oversized infant with hunger in his eyes. His hair was combed to one side with something shiny, and dark eyes swam in a round face where emotions squirmed with ripening deceit. His clothes were tailored, dark, and bland. As I looked on, he took two boxes from the salesman at the counter, thanking him with something close to a leer. I watched him totter off with a smug gait, and I hung back until he was safely ensconced in the back of the store where the boots were displayed.
As I approached, the salesman was wiping his hands on his pants as if he’d just brushed up against something foul. Little did he know, that was the utter truth.
“Sir? What did that gentleman just purchase?”
He was middle aged, capable looking, and wearing a faint grimace. He startled a bit at my question. “I—oh, hello. Sorry, may I help you?”
I repeated my question and saw his face open up. He was glad to unload the burden of an encounter with the warlock; it created a kind of turmoil within him, even if he didn’t know why, and I represented an outlet, a friendly face. Even people who know nothing off the Everafter can sense when evil is present, and like a ticking bomb, they seek, instinctively, to offload the experience and resume the normalcy of their lives.
“You’re not with him, are you?” His eyes narrowed slightly, though I knew he re
cognized me from the diner.
“Nope, just wondering what he bought.” I stood calmly, adopting a neutral smile.
He ran a hand over his hair, and I realized he was scared, even if it wasn’t registering that way in his own mind. “He, ah, bought both of the kits we had, and asked if I had a couple more. Odd, since we’re so far out of season, but he doesn’t look like a poacher. Told me if I had any more, I could send a delivery over to the Limberlost cabins, number six. Yeah, like I’d go out of my way for that guy. Even his name sounds like something made up. Roderick Plimsoll? Right, whatever.” There was naked disgust in his voice now as his good sense began to reassert itself. I’m telling you, warlocks give people the willies, even in a casual setting.
I let him speak until he was calm, and then I smiled again. He’d given me a lot of information, but I needed just one more thing.
“What kind of kits?” I needed to confirm my suspicions.
“Kits? Oh, right. He bought the last hide tanning kits we had from deer season. When I asked him if it was for a doe or a buck, he just smiled and said one of each.”
Chapter Nineteen: Totally Tammy
Exit went with Gran for an impromptu lesson on the finer points of using, wearing, and operating all of the things we bought him. It was a fairly serious task, given that he’d been born in a world without Velcro or nylon. While she walked him forward in time over tea and patient explanations, I went back to my house to do some work.
I’ve always thought that you don’t need to talk yourself into good ideas, which left me feeling bereft of hope as I sat staring at the open pages of my grimoire. There was something missing from the spell that might bring Wulfric home, and it was right in front of me, but beyond my senses or logic. I balled up my fists and stood radiating anger in the cool of my cellar. The simple words mocked me, swimming on the broad expanse that should be crammed with brilliant magical solutions. Instead, the three words squatted in quiet judgment of my failings as a witch. Purity. Well, I hadn’t gone over to the evil side yet, and I didn’t think Gus would let me even if I tried. That meant that as it stood, my presence would work as the elements of purity in any spell I used to repel Wulfric’s darkness.
Blood. That simple word sent a coil of dread spiraling up my spine, and I shivered in the chill, earthy air around me. Blood magic is sort of like being dropped into a volcano; it’s one hundred percent fatal, and there’s never anything left except a puff of smoke and regret. The simple fact that I’d written such a dangerous word into my grimoire told me that somewhere in the recesses of my heart, I was willing to give anything for Wulfric. Vertigo swept through me at that thought, like when you lean back in a chair and begin falling, but catch yourself at the last possible instant. That was the power of blood magic; even thinking about it left me disoriented and at risk.
Time. I thought about that, tapping my nail against a front tooth while the very thing I needed to control ticked by in quiet seconds. Time was—well, it was bigger than me. It was bigger than everything, in a way, so attempting to control time as a single stream was simply impossible. Now, seizing the reins of a small bubble of time? That could be done, or at least I had to believe it was so. I couldn’t ask Gran because that isn’t how magic works. As my teacher, she could give me the tools, but as a witch, I had to build my own spells. Otherwise, it was the magical equivalent of a cheap knockoff. In a time of need, spells like that would invariably fail, and Wulfric was worth only my finest efforts, no matter what the cost. Love is worth my best, but Wulfric is worth my all.
Somewhere, either in my own mind or nearby, the solution to this problem waited for me to wake up and grab it. Time. That was going to be the problem. I couldn’t unspool the past months of Wulfric’s time in the cold as a vampire. My will is powerful, but that alone cannot change the flow of history.
I needed help. I needed divine intervention, and when there were three loud booms on my front door, I knew that something better had arrived. Instead of a spell, or a flash of inspiration, I closed my spellbook and ran upstairs to greet Tammy Cincotti; because when you get right down to it, the universe is hilarious.
“Hi, kitten!” Tammy bubbled as I opened the front door and waved her in. Despite the freezing temperature outside, her trademark wave of flowery perfume pushed its way into my house. It wasn’t unwelcome, and it was quickly followed by Tammy’s enormous breasts, and then the rest of her, dressed in her delivery uniform and holding a small brown box.
Naturally, her hair and makeup were pageant ready.
She turns the job of a delivery driver into a day-long fashion show, hurling heavy boxes and lewd comments with equal ease, and she does it all without chipping a nail. Tammy is wonderful, and she’s also an apex predator when it comes to hunting men for sport. To date, not one of her prey has escaped once she turns on what I lovingly refer to as The Full Cincotti. She had a curiously slender, flat body, great legs that she would reveal as soon as the temperature hit somewhere north of freezing, and, on this day, dark blonde hair that offset her brown eyes. The deep winter meant she couldn’t reveal any cleavage, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by every male on her route. “Got a little something for ya.” She hefted the box, appraising its contents with an expert eye. “It’s technically large enough to hold new shoes in your size, but—”
“Et tu, Tammy?” I glared at her as she popped her chewing gum and grinned.
My tart rejoinder didn’t faze her in the slightest. Wiping bright lipstick from her tooth, she quirked a brow at me and leaned against my bannister. Even that gesture came off as sultry, and I made a note to have her apologize to my bannister for mild sexual harassment.
“As I was saying before you sassed me, it’s a small package, and that means you’ve ordered dried owl talons or some other disgusting thing from your weird internet sources.” She approved of my magic, but like any naturally suspicious delivery driver, she distrusted sources where the origin label was written in a language that looked more like hieroglyphics than letters. She looks out for me that way.
“This”—I waved the package with some menace—“is not owl talons. I have never used owl talons, because owls are terrifying, and if they find out I’m turning part of their cousin into a spell, they might attack me. Further”—I pointed skyward dramatically—“I would never use animal parts, unless it’s something that didn’t hurt the critter it came from.” I looked at her smugly, wrapped in my morally superior argument, while she chewed her gum and smirked.
“Right.” She dismissed my passionate defense with the wave of an expertly manicured hand. Her nails looked like red daggers, and I was fairly certain that she had alternating rhinestones of various colors on them too. It was an understated look for her. “So, what do you need from me?”
“Huh?” I didn’t recall asking her for anything. Short term memory loss would hardly be new for me. I spent ten minutes a day looking for my house keys.
“I said what. Do you need. From me? I could hear you calling as I pulled up.” She leaned further into my bannister, then waved a hand in the universal gesture of let’s move this along, shall we? She was a delivery driver, after all. Places to go, men to seduce, stuff like that. It was her bread and butter, and I was slowing her down.
“I didn’t call out to you, I was downstairs, umm, working.” I rewound the past moments and felt certain that I’d been standing in quiet contemplation. That was more or less the opposite of yelling. “Did you hear me from outside, or did you hear me in your truck?”
She spoke as her brow furrowed. “I heard you, Carlie. Clear as a bell.”
I let that tumble in my mind a few times. I had been in a heightened magical state. It was impossible for a witch to open their grimoire and not be immersed in power. Maybe I’d reached out to her and not known it, which begged the question: why?
“How long have we known each other?” I asked. I knew the answer, but I wanted to chase an idea.
She exhaled at a lock of hair, which didn’t move due
to being sprayed into place with a can of something industrial strength; most likely Aquanet on steroids. “I held you when I was twelve. Your mom and dad had me babysit you when I was thirteen. I pulled one of your teeth when you were eight or so, and I punched Ricky Lee in the face when he made fun of your seventh grade hairdo.”
“That was you? He had a shiner for a week. You were a grown woman!” I gasped. She’d just solved one of our town’s most heinous and long-lasting mysteries. Ricky Lee had been a holy terror until some unknown Samaritan had popped him a good one in the summer between seventh and eighth grade. He made more than one kid cry during his reign of terror as our school bully. I always wondered what happened, because the kid who came back to school for eighth grade was decidedly subdued.
She examined her nails, unimpressed with my pointing out she could have gone to jail for assaulting an admittedly horrible kid. “Remember Rose Kowalski? The girl with freckles, moved to Syracuse that summer?” She looked up over her nails, and her eyes sparkled with menace. It was a different side of Tammy, and I felt the feral intensity of her will. “Caught him putting his hand down her shirt out at the boat docks; I was dropping off lunch to my boyfriend at the time. I tolerated him bothering kids because I figured, eventually, someone would handle him. Then he went after you, and I was getting closer to stepping in and snatching the little turd bald-headed. But that day? He laughed at me when I told him to back off.” She shook her head, smiling in remembrance of a kid making a terrible mistake.” So, I put my Mustang in park, told Rose to go home, and knocked him out with one punch. Then I wiped the blood from his nose with a napkin and mentioned that if he ever acted that way toward anyone again, I’d save a spot for him in the choir. As a soprano.”
Halfway Hunted - Halfway Witchy Page 11
