Sixpence & Whiskey

by Heather R. Blair

  When the spell is complete, I stomp away from the boardwalk without looking back. He follows me all the way to Amazing Grace. I know because my spine tingles with every step I take through the parking lot, across the street, down the steps and into the warm, heavenly smelling bakery. I get in line. So does Jack. I’m so hyperaware of him, I swear the fine hairs on the back of my neck are quivering. Damn the man.

  His voice is quiet in my ear, rich, with that touch of a rasp that makes me shiver. “I had to do it, Seph.”

  I don’t get why he’s even here. Since when does Jack give a shit what I think of him? It unsettles me.

  He unsettles me.

  “Whatever, Jack. It hardly comes as a surprise that you’d sell me off to be kidnapped, and god knows what else.” Bad enough he pops back in after years and years, but to sell me off to Georg? Jack hates Georg. Georg hates Jack. They have a mutual hate thing going on. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve whipped out their dicks at some point and had a literal pissing contest.

  It stings he’d breach that to hand me over. My eyes burn and I clench my jaw. I promised myself a long time ago, no more tears over Jack and his bullshit. When had I reverted back to such an emotional pussy?

  Oh, yeah, the second he turned up in that stupid train yard.

  I know he’s Jack Frost and all, but the coldness of his next words nearly coat my ear in hoar frost. “Georg would never hurt you. I know you’re lovers, Seph. I’ve known for a while now.” My fingers tighten on the counter as his words settle like a hard fist in my gut. It should’ve been obvious, but for the first time it really sinks in that Jack must’ve heard about Georg and me. I wonder who told him. I wonder how he felt.

  I wonder why the hell it bothers me. Stomping on the urge to tell him Georg and I’ve been over for almost a year, I place my order before turning to whisper viciously, “Here’s a news flash, Jack—lovers can do all sorts of horrible things to each other.”

  “Yes, they can. I taught you that, didn’t I, princess?” Those beautiful lips press together as he looks down at me. “But Georg is far more honorable than I am, and he believes himself in love. He’d never truly harm you.” Icy green eyes rake my body from the fuzzy black beanie on my head to the bright-pink Uggs on my feet. “And if he had…”

  His words trail off as the barista hands me my coffee and muffin. Jack takes two sweeteners from the counter, one pink and one white, and hands them to me absently as he pulls me aside. I look down at the tiny envelopes in my hand.

  An inexplicable warmth bubbles and froths inside me that no coffee invented could duplicate.

  In a flash, I am back here, ten years ago, sitting at one of the little tables by the door with Jack. Watching him laugh and ask me if I’d like one of the blue packets, too, just so I can poison myself across the board. The spring sun is dancing over his hair, playing off the ice of his eyes as he leans forward to brush a few sugary grains from my lips. The warm roughness of his thumb makes me suck in a breath, but it’s nothing to the heat of his lips as he kisses me.

  Our first real kiss.

  But what is real with Jack?

  I shiver and with a blink, I’m back in the now. Jack remembers how I take my goddamn coffee. So fucking what?

  I remind myself who I’m dealing with here.

  King of winter, Son of winds.

  Bastard of godlike proportions.

  I open the lid and dump my sweetener and sugar in, stirring briskly with one of those little swizzle sticks, before licking it clean. I do my best to ignore Jack, but as he’s looming, that’s impossible. Finally I bite.

  “So, if he had, then what?” Jack blinks at the question, looking somewhat distracted as I pull the swizzle stick from my mouth and toss it in the trash. I try again. “If Georg had hurt me, what, Jack?”

  “Oh.” He runs a hand through that thick hair of his as his eyes trail slowly from my lips back to my eyes. “I’d have fucking killed him.”

  My mouth falls open.

  Jack’s brows draw together. For a second I wonder if he meant to say that, but then he gives me a cool look, those chestnut waves ruffling back down over his forehead. “Surprised, princess?”

  Not really, because I think get it. Probably better than he does.

  Swallowing, I push the cobweb of memories aside to focus on that smile. The smile that broke my goddamn heart. “Nope. I understand perfectly.”

  I wrap my now icy fingers around the to-go cup and push past him. Quick as the son of winds that he is, Jack grabs my wrist.

  “What do you understand?”

  I lift my eyes to his. “That you don’t want anyone else stepping on your toes. Because hurting me is your prerogative, isn’t it, Jack?”

  His eyes widen. His grip tightens, then just as quickly he drops my hand. Jack doesn’t follow me this time, but the ring of the bells on the door isn’t quite loud enough to drown the low reply that does.

  “That’s right, princess. And don’t ever forget it.”

  Twenty minutes later I pull in front of another coffee shop on the other side of town. Not for more caffeine, but because my bestie works here. She scowls at me over the bar as I walk in, giving my cup and paper bag the stink eye. “You keep bringing the competition in here and I’m gonna get fired.”

  “Nah. Beaner’s and Amazing Grace aren’t in competition, Sy. Beaner’s has the best coffee, but Amazing’s got the best muffins, so sometimes I gotta hit that. Simple facts.” I give her a salute with my cup before taking a sip. “Mm-mmm. Their coffee ain’t half bad, either.”

  Syana Norgaard and me have been friends since our freshman year of high school. She’s the nicest person I know—except when it comes to me. She lives to give me shit and I like it. Letting loose her inner bitch on me seems to give Sy the ability to rain sunshine on everyone else.

  Like I’m her metaphorical whipping girl or something.

  She flicks a towel at me over the counter, knocking my beanie lopsided and making me yelp. Okay, maybe not so metaphorical. I rub at my smarting ear and stick my tongue out at her. It’s weird relationship, I grant you. But it works for us. I eye her as I sip my coffee. Sy and Seph. The dynamic duo. We couldn’t look more different if we tried. I’m low to the ground, with a backside that begs to be slapped with a wide-load sticker. A blond, four-eyed sexpot librarian-type. Sy is slim, tall and graceful. Brunette with a chin-length cut that highlights her perfect jawline, elegant neck and delicate little ears. There’s something earnest about her beauty. Earnest and otherworldly. She looks like an elf by way of the Peace Corps. She’s full-on human, though. There’s no such thing as elves. At least I’m pretty sure.

  “Jack’s back.”

  She’s buffing the counter with the rag she hit me with, doing a little shimmy to the music on the radio. “Isn’t that a horror flick? Nineties? Fairly awful. James Spader. Who was pretty yum back in the day, but—” Then her face pales. “Oh, you mean, that Jack. Your Jack.” In an instant, she’s around the counter, but she doesn’t reach for me, and she doesn’t ask if I’m ok.

  Because, duh, not okay, and we’re not exactly an over-emoting pair.

  Sy just gives me a look—one look—but it settles the swirling Jell-O of fear and worry inside of me enough that I take my first deep breath since Jack showed up.

  “He’s not my Jack.” But of course, I think of him that way, too. Just shows we’re both mental.

  “Holy Hannah. It’s been ages, Seph—”

  Almost four years since his last appearance, in fact. Sy doesn’t know that—no one does. She thinks it’s been at least eight since I saw him last.

  “—what does he want?”

  “How the hell should I know?” I take off my beanie and run a hand through my hair, which clings to my fingers like corn silk, full of static.

  “Is he still, you know, hot as fuck all?”

  “He’s a freaking FTC, Sy. Of course he’s still hot. He looks exactly the same.” Jack is perpetually stuck in his prime, the son of a
bitch.

  I scowl, which Sy returns with interest, snapping me again with her towel. This time on the ass. Of course, she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “Quit pouting. You’re hot as fuck all, too. Maybe you’re not seventeen anymore, but you got it going on. Enough to make that SOB suffer every time he looks at you.” Her fierceness for me turns my frown upside down, even if she’s dead wrong about Jack doing any kind of suffering over me. “And once your b-day gets here, you’ll be officially FTC, too.”

  Twenty-seven is the magic number in the magical world. Even for elementals, that’s the age when they stop growing older. And for witches, natural werewolves and others that are born mortal, that’s the birthday when near-immortality kicks in. I say near, because there’s always a way to die—just degrees of how easily you do it. And FTCs are a violent, creative lot. Population control is never gonna be an issue, believe me.

  “Not ’til May. A lot can happen in that amount of time, Sy. Especially with Jack back in town.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “C’mon, he wouldn’t actually hurt you.”

  I raise an eyebrow because what else did Jack target my magic for, if not some diabolical bullshit? Not that I’ve ever known his endgame. My mom had her suspicions, I think, but she never let me in on the details.

  Syana puts a hand to her throat, her eyes narrowing at my expression. “I’ll kill him.”

  “You’ll stay the hell away from him. Jack Frost is way more than you can handle, GI Jane.” I’m not teasing. Sy’s a bit cray-cray. She’s been hanging with me a long while, but she only figured out the truth of my life about five years ago. I use subterfuge like a boss and that—along with the amount of drinking we were prone to back in the day—had let me get away with a lot. Then a few werewolves crashed my twenty-first birthday bash, and one tried to eat her alive. So, that kind of let the cat out of the bag. Or the wolf.

  Whatever. I hate werewolves. Most of them. After that memorable episode, Syana decided that while the whole FTC thing was kinda cool, it was also a lot scary (duh). She doesn’t like being scared, so she got prepared. And how.

  Sy’s a black belt in karate now, among other things I can’t really pronounce, and has an arsenal of guns with all kinds of weird numerical and Russian names. All of which would do about fuck all against Jack. She’s tried to force her kung fu ways on me, but the patience I have not, young Grasshopper.

  She even joined the National Guard awhile back, a move that scared the shit out of me, but she loves it.

  Shaking my head at her mulish look, I finish my coffee and toss it in the trash. “I gotta get to work.”

  Her eyes get that look again. Jack being back in town is freaking me out way more than I can let on, even to myself. And Sy knows it.

  “You want me come to T&T after my shift?” she asks.

  We both know the answer to that, but I shrug. “Well, you know, if you’re in the mood.”

  Sy laughs and blows me a kiss with a little bump and grind shimmy that has two of the late-morning customers blinking and straightening in their seats. Sy doesn’t have much ass, but what she has, she uses to great advantage. “Darling,” she purrs. “I am forever in the mood for you.”

  One of the guys chokes on his coffee. Sy winks at me and I can’t help but laugh as I head out.

  Men.

  They’re too fucking easy.

  Well, most of them, anyway.

  I head back uptown, park my bubblegum pink Fiat in the alley and open my bar.

  Actually, Toil & Trouble is a bar-slash-Laundromat-slash-tattoo parlor. Jett owns the tattoo part, because needles….ewww. I like my skin just as it is, thanks. Unperforated.

  I’m not surprised to find the door locked. In fact, I’d be shocked if my sis were here already. She likes to roll out of bed around noon.

  Like Toby Keith, I love my bar. Making this place work is something I’m damn proud of. We have a real jukebox that takes quarters only; no fucking dollars or cards, just quarters, as God intended. And we have the best music this side of rock-and-roll heaven, because I custom loaded the tunes right. It’s a two-story building, tucked between Superior and Michigan Streets, one of the oldest ones in downtown Duluth.

  The laundry area is in the back, over which is an open-air loft with four pool tables, an air hockey table and a foosball table. It’s business savvy to be retro these days. We attract a lot of the UMD crowd, but, while it might look it at first glance, this isn’t just some hipster bar. A good deal of my clientele is rough around the edges, FTC and human alike.

  My boots squeak on the hardwood floors as I head to my office down the hall behind the bar. I snag a bottle of Jameson’s on the way.

  Yeah, I love alcohol, maybe a little too much. I love the way it tastes going down, the burn in my throat, the warmth in my belly. Hell, even the way the bottles look lined up in glittering rows behind the bar, jewel-like tones bright in the morning light. I love the way it smooths the rough edges, but even more, I love the way it doesn’t. It makes everything inside me that much more raw. It’s not so much that the walls come down—it’s that they don’t matter anymore.

  That’s what I crave. Because unlike my sisters, things matter too much to me. They always have.

  I kick open the door that always sticks, intent on having a little alone time to contemplate the last twenty-four hours.

  Turns out my office is already occupied.

  5

  Another bear. Holy horned one, why me? Georg’s second, Stephen, is in my chair. And he’s got his fucking boots on my desk.

  I’ve known Stephen almost as long as Georg, but it’s been over a year since we were face to face.

  The night of Georg’s proposal, in fact. I haven’t seen any of the guys since then.

  Bears aren’t exactly pack animals, like wolves. (Thank god for enormous favors). They don’t live in large numbers, couldn’t even if they wanted to—and believe me, they don’t want to. The Den generally houses no more than three to six male bruins at a time and maybe half that many females. Only rarely do they see cubs. Bruins don’t breed often or well—sad for them, great for the world as a whole.

  Part of the reason I think Georg is so obsessed with the idea of me as his queen is that, as a witch, he thinks I’ll be more fertile or something. Get past that little hump, har har. Which, to be honest, is definitely within the realm of my magic, if I were so inclined. Fertility stuff comes easy to me, and I have a green thumb like you wouldn’t believe.

  But as previously stated, I am not so inclined.

  Being king of North America, and effectively South America, which only has one species of bruin, Georg Kivistö is the law unto his kind on this continent. He’s descended from the bear shifters of Russia and is the third of his family to be king here. There’s a reason for that. He may have a soft spot where I’m concerned, but make no mistake, Georg Kivistö is no fucking teddy bear.

  Neither is his second. Stephen Krueger. Shaggy, black hair. A heavy, but well-trimmed beard (I know, I know, but they’re bears, all that hair is kind of a thing). And very unusually for his kind—blue eyes, startling in all that darkness.

  He watches me give him a once-over, giving me right one back, a frown slowly creasing his brow.

  “What?” I huff in exasperation. “See anything green?”

  Stephen eyes me again. “Nah, it’s just—you’re cute and all, Seph—but I don’t see what Georg does. Your sister is smoking, though,” he ponders.

  I ponder setting his ass on fire to get it out of my spot, then decide it’s not fair to take Georg’s bull out of Stephen’s hide. Damn my sense of fairness anyway.

  “You mean the sister that kicked your bruin ass?” I say with a half grin.

  He bristles. “She didn’t exactly kick—”

  I roll my eyes and shove his massive legs off my desk with a grunt. “Whatever. I don’t care. Unless you’re here to re-attempt kidnapping for your not-so-noble leader, which I might add would be a serio
usly bad idea, get lost.”

  “Where’s Kivistö?”

  I shrug, feeling slightly uneasy that he doesn’t know but brushing it off. No way that fall actually hurt Georg. Bears can fucking swim. I should know. I’ve been skinny dipping with Georg more than once. The man practically has gills. He’s just off somewhere licking his metaphorical wounds. “No idea. What’s the matter, your mind mojo off-line or something?”

  Like all shifters, bears can communicate through a rudimentary type of telepathy that’s heavy on emotions and visuals.

  “He’s not picking up.”

  “Maybe he wants to be left alone then, Stephen.”

  He scowls. “He’s the king, he’s not allowed to be left alone. Would your sister know anything?”

  “She didn’t touch him.” At least I’m pretty sure.

  “She wouldn’t have to. Ajax and Dominic are still recuperating from tangling with her.”

  My smile is evil, because Stephen tangled with her, too.

  “I bet they’re not the only ones. Need a drink, handsome?” I offer the whiskey bottle, but he waves it away.

  “I wouldn’t say no to some tequila, though.”

  I’ve never meet a bruin who would.

  “Help yourself to a shot on the way out.” I nod at the door pointedly, but he doesn’t take the hint. I up the ante. “Hell, grab a bottle. I’ll put it on Jett’s tab.”

  He smiles at this and rubs a massive shoulder, but remains seated, looking at me. “What’s the story with her and bears anyway?”

  “Family secret.” I cross my arms and dial up my glare.

  Stephen sighs and slowly unfolds himself from my chair. I dangle the whiskey bottle from my fingers and stare up. Way up. Jesus, the man is huge. I know Georg is bigger as he’s grizzly to his second’s black bear, but standing next to Stephen it’s hard to remember that.

  He stares down and taps my nose. I wrinkle it like Samantha from Bewitched and watch him sigh again. I’ve always liked Stephen—all the bruins really. This bullshit with Georg has got to stop. He seems to be thinking along those same lines.