by Jade Alters
When we finish up, we find ourselves hitting our break time. Which is enough of an excuse that I tell Mitch I want to browse the books a bit. Victoria goes home and we send a cruiser to patrol her place. That’s always something that makes people feel better. Truthfully, it’s not as if we can stakeout every block where somebody feels like there’s going to be trouble. We just don’t have the manpower. But if you send a cruiser over to drive around the block a few times, people appreciate it.
“Are you pretending you like to read, Ian?” Mitch says as I browse the biography sections.
I thwack his shoulder with a copy of a biography on FDR. “Shut the hell up. I read plenty.”
“What’s the last book you read?” Mitch asks, leaning on the shelf beside me.
“I don’t know...I think it was The Great Gatsby?”
“Oh sure, you read that when it came out, right?” Mitch says, smug as ever. “1925?”
“Ass!” I thwack his head with the book, messing up his hair. He chuckles. “Seriously though, did you feel like… With that girl…?”
“Did I feel like she’s super important to me and I have no idea why and am I intensely attracted to her?” Mitch says without missing a beat. “Yeah, I sure did and I sure am. Weird as fuck. You too?”
“Yeah…” I shake my head. “There’s something at work there. I think she’s a witch too.”
“Definitely. Smelled magic on her like too much perfume.”
“Right.” I nod gravely. “I feel like I want her to meet Darren and Bren. Just...in case it comes up. See if they feel that way too. Feelings like that don’t just happen every day for me.”
“Long as we can keep her safe,” Mitch says, shrugging. “I’m happy.”
“You’re happy if you get sweet and sour sauce with your egg rolls,” I say wryly.
“Hey, man. Sometimes they forget!”
“C’mon. Enough jawing,” I say, motioning to the door. “If we hurry we can grab some coffee at Kitty before break is over.”
The rest of the day passes like any other. We get a couple of civil disturbance calls and one from a guy who just seems to be having a “bad day” and thinks aliens have crash-landed in his backyard. We get a lot of calls like that. They always put me in kind of a sad mood. Sometimes I take things too much to heart. Empathetic, I guess. I’ve found that my sense of empathy only gets deeper the older I get too. When I see somebody in pain, I truly want to help them. It’s frustrating when I can’t.
That makes me think of Victoria again.
It’s inordinately difficult to get rid of “creepy” men who are obviously harassing women and freaking them out. But being as old as I am, and having seen as much of the world as I have, I really don’t have a problem going beyond the law if necessary.
Which is to say that this Derek “Creeper” Hardhum better watch his ass.
Foxes like us can pack a pretty mean bite.
Victoria
I do not know what the hell is wrong with me.
There is no way I should have been so flustered around a couple of hot guys after the last couple of days and all the awfulness from men that I’ve been dealing with. My inclination is to swear them off altogether. But...but damn. Ian and Mitch are pretty scalding hot. They’re so hot, I was mad at myself for dressing down today, all messy with my stupid old camp shirt while the two of them look like they just stepped out of an action movie.
It’s the arms, I swear to God. I’ve never been into cops as a fetish or anything, but put a nice pair of biceps inside a cop uniform? Those tight black sleeves cutting right across the upper arm? Muscles bulging? Yes, please.
They were also very sweet and nice as they spoke to me. They seemed to understand how freaked out I must be, and that helped a lot. They even seemed to be a bit funny. Ian winked at me and said he would personally look out for my safety because Mitch was a lightweight. And then Mitch rolled his eyes and ribbed him back. I get the sense that the two of them are very close, even if they’re not brothers. They must share some kind of relation though, sharing the same last name and all. I can’t help my curiosity. I also can’t help but wonder if I’ll be seeing them again. In a way, I really don’t want to. Because that means Creeper is bothering me again. But...I wouldn’t mind running into them on the street, that’s for sure. Preferably when I’ve had a chance to do my hair and put on my face a little bit. And maybe wear something more fetching than a camp shirt.
I’m not even sure which one of them I’d pick if given the option.
That night after work, I have my hackles up like usual. Or at least for what’s starting to feel like usual. Creeper seems to have disappeared since he saw the cops coming. But I fully expect him to show up again. I’ve got pepper spray on my keychain for just such an occasion.
But I don’t see his car and I don’t see him and I feel a little better when I get home, having just come from the cops. My phone seems to have calmed down but every time it buzzes only for it to end up being Shea or somebody else, I feel a sense of panic. God knows when that’s going to go away.
I cuddle up on the couch with my laptop, a bowl of pasta, and an old movie on the TV. When I go to check my email, I immediately regret it.
Big mistake, apparently.
All those gross guys who have been sending me texts and calling me? Well, now they’re in my email. There are about twenty emails in my inbox. When I check my spam folder, I find more. They’re all vulgar and they’re also threatening, more so than the phone calls have been. I feel like it’s some combination of Creeper and the spell. I’m starting to wonder if Derek Hardhum has some magic ability himself. That’s assuming it’s possible to “smell” the magic on people, but it’s not something I’ve ever been able to do myself. For all I know, the guy is a total Voldemort.
It’s even worse when I check my social media. My Instagram and Facebook have been hacked, and somebody’s posting the most disgusting stuff that’s definitely about to get me kicked off my accounts. A few of my friends seem to realize that it’s obviously a hack and are posting angry comments directed at the perpetrator. My poor Aunt Stella, however, has no idea, and I’ve apparently shocked her. She’s talking about calling my parents to see what’s become of me. Before things can get out of hand, I send my parents a message to let them know that I’ve just been hacked and apologize for the gross posts, but everything is fine. Even though everything really isn’t fine at all.
Thanks a lot for the benefit of the doubt though, Aunt Stella.
It’s all so absurd that it would also be funny except that it’s absolutely terrifying and I can’t stop the tears that come as I shut my laptop and set my food aside, sinking my head into my hands. I can tell the cops about this, sure, but it feels as though it’s just going to keep happening. It’s like my entire life is spiraling out of control all because one gross dude thinks he’s entitled to a shot at me.
I’m so upset, I can’t stop crying. Even my cat seems overly concerned. I get up and go to the bathroom to take a hot shower and I cry the entire time. It’s as if my tear ducts are disconnected from my body. Even as I’m thinking about what I need to do next, the tears keep flowing. Officer Ian (I can’t call them both Officer Love, it would just be confusing) gave me a card for his work number if I had any concerns or updates on information. I guess I should call them and tell them about the internet shit. And I have to call Shea because this is out of control and I think it has something to do with that spell. I need to figure out how to reverse it.
I call Shea first and she’s so worried about me, I start to worry about her.
“I’m coming over there,” Shea announces. “We’re going to figure out that fucking spell and then I’m sleeping on your couch.”
There’s no use arguing with her, and I really don’t want to. When Shea makes up her mind to do something, it’s as good as done.
All I can say is, “Thank you.”
Then, I call the number for Officer Ian. He doesn’t pick up, but I’m able
to leave a voicemail. It’s a terrible voicemail. The entire time I’m talking, I just keep picturing those flaming hotties in their tight little uniforms and the way their asses looked in those pants. Indecent is what it is. And thank God for indecency.
It’s crazy to me that I’m even thinking of them this way now. But I would climb them both like trees if I could, and then I’d remove those uniforms with my teeth.
“I can’t believe you’re this horny after all this shit,” Shea says later in disbelief.
We’ve each had some drinks and we’re sprawled on the couch. We poured over my spell books, her spell books, and the internet for hours. We couldn’t find anything about what spell I had accidentally brewed, much less how to reverse it. The closest we came to any kind of epiphany was finding out that sorrel can often reverse repulsion spells. Which pretty much explains some of this bullshit. The thing is, I don’t know how to reverse the repulsion or...re-reverse it, I guess. There are herbs for reversals, but you have to use specific kinds for specific things and...it’s complicated.
Aunt Stella is the one who trained me to be a witch in the first place and she knows more than me. But she tends to go overboard sometimes. I’m a little afraid that if I tell her what’s going on, she will hex all of Pasadena as a solution. She’s also horribly annoying. She’s likely to try to move in with me as a form of “protection.” No thank you.
“I’m not horny,” I say, taking another sip of my margarita. “But you didn’t see them. I’m not even into cops, but holy shitballs. So hot.” I groan and slap my forehead. “I can’t believe I looked like such a dumpster fire when they showed up.”
“I’m sure you didn’t look like a dumpster fire,” Shea says, patting my arm.
Easy for Shea to say. Shea is thin and petite and also looks fashionable all the time. She has a sleek bob of black hair. Despite her witchy ways, she works in a bank. Her nails are always perfect and painted blood red. Her winged eyeliner is sharp enough to kill a man. I’ll never be as put together as Shea.
“You’re totally ridiculous,” Shea says, sloshing her drink. “You weren’t supposed to be picking up guys. Why would you want to, right now?”
“No, I know,” I say, my mouth twisting up because I’m just a little bit drunk. “I didn’t want to pick them up...I want to have my way with them and, ya know, make them pleasure me until none of us can stand. And have them follow my every order.” I grin, wiggling my eyebrows, and Shea cackles at me.
“Holy shit, you know what you want, I guess,” Shea says. “I mean that makes sense. Like you want to be in control and in charge because these other gross guys are harassing you and making you miserable…”
“Okay, okay,” I say, before draining the rest of my drink. “I don’t need the whole psychoanalysis thing, Dr. Shea.”
“I mean it’s pretty easy to figure out,” Shea says dryly.
“Shut up. Besides, you didn’t see them. They were mouthwatering. Officer Love indeed.”
The next day, I’m off work and so is Shea. It’s nice to wake up with somebody in the house who isn’t the cat. Shea and I chat, discussing whatever stupid thing is happening on Twitter while we drink our coffee at the kitchen table. And then, she insists on making us omelets.
She does have a boyfriend, however, and they do have plans. We eat breakfast and then she has to leave, and I’m feeling like a ridiculous, needy little bitch when she says goodbye. I can’t help choking up a little, I’m just so freaked out by this whole thing. Shea seems to sense my emotional turmoil and rubs my back. She leaves me with a hug and makes me promise to call her if anything happens.
After she leaves, I freak out a little for no new reasons. I suppose it’s partly because Officer Ian hasn’t called me back. I managed to change the passwords on my social media accounts at least, so there haven’t been any new posts. Maybe that’s not the kind of thing that would require any action on the cops’ part, just another little puzzle piece in this awful debacle.
I put on loud music and a podcast. I pace around and try to keep busy, cleaning the house. I actually wish I was working today. I’m a little afraid to go out by myself. It’s just awful.
I check the locks multiple times. I change the passwords on all my social media accounts again. I draw all the curtains and blinds. I’m tempted to try another protection spell, but I don’t dare considering how much my fumbling fucked things up last time. I go so far as to barricade the door with my couch (which totally confuses the cat) and when there are noises outside, I keep jumping with fear. I end up jumping a lot because my street is always pretty busy.
My panic gets so bad that I find myself walking from room to room with my pepper spray in hand. I feel as if I’m a prisoner in my own house. I wish Shea hadn’t left.
By the evening, I feel as if Creeper may as well have murdered me already because this is no kind of life. This is no kind of anything.
Plus, I really have nothing to eat for dinner, and I don’t have any booze left either. I’m in desperate need of both. This close to summer, it’s still not quite dark yet. If I hurry, I might be able to run to the store and back before it does get dark.
I change out of the old baggy t-shirt I’ve been wearing all day and put on a lip balm before grabbing my purse, keys, and phone. I have to move the couch back out of the way, feeling completely ridiculous the entire time. But at the door, I still hesitate. I hate how afraid Creeper has made me, but I can’t help myself. Finally, I pluck up my courage and head out, locking up behind me. I grip the little pepper spray on my keychain, and I walk down the narrow hallways, feeling like I’m strung as tight as a live wire.
When I get to my car, I’m so shocked by what I see that, at first, I don’t react at all. Though, I do have an urge to pass out.
Some son of a bitch has slashed my tires. All four tires of my car are slashed to goddamn bits! The idea that somebody took the time to slash the tires on a ten-year-old Camry would be hilarious if I wasn’t literally shaking with fear right now. In fact, for a moment I actually burst out laughing. So long, sanity.
If Creeper really is out and about and watching me right now, his opportunity to attack me in the dark solitude of my building’s parking garage is wide open. For a couple of minutes, all I can do is just stand there and laugh, even as I’m quivering with fear.
When my laughter dies down, all I can hear is the echo of my own breath in the empty parking structure. My eyes tear up and I rub them, shaking my head and tittering softly to myself. Abruptly, I run back inside to my apartment. I lock the door and barricade it again. I recheck the locks and all the blinds and curtains, and then I call the cops. I just call 911 this time, forgoing the number on Ian’s card. I feel like if I get sent to a voicemail box at this point, I’m just going to fucking scream. But I tell the dispatcher all the details, and that I’ve spoken to the two Officer Loves (though apparently, she tells me, there are four of them in total).
“We’ll send somebody over right away, ma’am,” the dispatcher says. “Just stay in your house.”
“Okay, thank you.” My voice sounds so weak to me when I speak.
It sucks.
After that, I pull up an app and order some takeout for dinner because I’m not starving to death just because I can’t go to the stupid store.
Cops are generally really fast to show up, but time seems to crawl now. I curl up on the couch and hold the cat as I wait for them. It’s stupid, but I trust Ian and Mitch. Well, maybe that’s not stupid...they are cops, after all. On the other hand, there are plenty of shitty cops. But I think they’re the good kind. I have nothing to base this on other than thinking they both had kind eyes.
I might be biased due to their ridiculous arms and hot asses though.
When there’s a knock on the door and a low voice says it’s the cops, I practically leap out of my chair. I check the peephole to make sure they are actually police officers. Sure enough, it’s them...and they’ve brought two other guys with them too. I wonder if these
are the other two Officer Loves?
Mitch
When I was a little kid, I had a storybook written by a shifter author. It wasn’t traditionally published or anything. It was hand drawn and written, and bound with careful stitching. I think the author was a retired alpha who handmade books for shifter children. Shifter culture is a fragile thing. It’s passed down carefully through generations. It’s easy to miss and easy to destroy. The storybook was written a few hundred years ago. My grandmother gave the book to me when I was little. The book was called Amelia and the Three Bears.
A long time later, when I was an adult and had become more assimilated into the human world, I was shocked to find that humans seemed to have their own version of the same book. They called it Goldilocks and the Three Bears. In the end, though, it turned out the two stories were nothing alike.
Amelia and the Three Bears is about a little witch who makes friends with three male bear shifters from a pack. They all become very close friends and have little adventures together. They live in the same cottage and eat together. Sometimes though, the bears fall asleep shifted in the woods. Three giant lumps of fur all curled up by a couple of empty honey pots. Amelia would nap with them, snuggled up with her bear friends, kept warm by their fur. It wasn’t until I was a bit older that my mother told me the story was to introduce the idea of the “shared fated mate” to shifter children.
There are plenty of books about individual shifters finding their mates in traditional romantic ways. I remember countless stories about fox shifters using their cunning to save their lady fox love or even to save some human princess or maiden. But the “shared fated mate” is something else entirely. Certain shifters within their leash or pack, especially very small ones, will become so close to their companions that their love becomes a love that they must share with one woman. To give them each individual mates would split them up from each other. The mates in such a clan would feel no animosity or jealousy towards each other for sharing a woman. Rather, the romance would only make them love each other more, bringing them closer still. My mom had no trouble explaining that part. She did turn a bit red when she mentioned the sexual component. But by then, I had put two and two together. At the time though, I never thought I would be someone who would have a shared fated mate. It’s not exactly a common arrangement.
