by Kevin Hearne
The widow was in the bathroom, waiting for me with a gold chain. I closed the door and locked it, then explained what was happening as I strung the amulet on her chain and clasped it about her neck. The pounding on the front door began as I spoke.
“There are two German witches out there who want us both dead. They can kill you with a word without this protection. It’s a talisman, and it’ll punch you in the chest if they sling their spell at you, but don’t take it off, because that just means it’s working, okay?”
“Okay, but why do they want to kill us?”
“The short version is that one of them’s having a bad hair day,” I said. “I’ll have to give you the long version later.”
Big front windows with panes in them don’t shatter all at once, like the sugar glass you see in movies. They can take an impact or two with loud whumps, and maybe a crack, before they completely shatter. After the first impact, the cats yowled and scattered somewhere to hide. It sounded like the witches were using the widow’s patio chairs to batter away at the windows. I compartmentalized it and concentrated on activating the widow’s talisman. Even when the glass shattered and I heard them cursing in German as they climbed into the living room, I kept focused on my task. I finished up just as someone rattled the locked bathroom door.
“Sie sind hier drinnen!” one called to the other.
“Get down into the bathtub and pull the curtain,” I whispered to the widow. “I’m going to take care of this.”
They began to kick at the door, which would not stand the punishment for long. Those courtesy locks on residential bathrooms are there to prevent your family members from walking in on you while you’re exercising your colon; they’re not designed to keep out homicidal hexen. If I waited for them to bust through, I’d lose the initiative and give them a shot at the widow. So I didn’t wait.
Concentrating on the locking mechanism, already buckling after a couple of kicks, I began to whisper an unbinding on the metal as I waited for kick number three. After it came—quite nearly shattering the lock anyway—I completed the unbinding and let the stressed metal relax. Then I yanked the door open, the steel crumbling like a day-old muffin, catching the kicker off balance and back on her heels. It was the brunette. I rammed my fist into her surprised schnoz, and she cracked her head painfully on the wall of the hallway, her knees failing after a moment and dragging her to the floor. The blonde, standing to my right outside the doorway, shouted “Gewebetod!” at me, and my amulet promptly punched me back into the bathroom. My towel came loose and I decided to take advantage of it, as the blond one encouraged the other one to get up and fight. I noticed that she didn’t pursue me; she just yelled at her companion to stop fooling around.
Pulling the towel taut between my hands, I twirled it locker-room fashion until it was coiled tightly lengthwise.
“Nice bum,” the widow said softly as I approached the doorway, and I almost laughed. But the blond witch had the drop on me outside that door, and I had to nullify her advantage; laughing would unwisely give her a proximity warning.
The brunette wasn’t even looking at the door; she had designs on hauling herself back into the living room, and I saw her reach up to the other witch, out of my view, for a helping hand. The direction of her eyes told me precisely where her partner was. Bingo.
I lunged forward, shot my right arm out, and whipped the towel up to head height. I heard it snap satisfyingly against something, and a sharp cry of pain followed from the blond witch immediately afterward. Douglas Adams was right: There is nothing so massively useful in the universe as a towel.
Dropping the towel and somersaulting into the hallway, I came up to see both witches retreating into the living room to regroup. The blonde had a hand raised to her right eye, and the brunette looked shell-shocked by the amount of blood streaming down her face.
“Vielleicht sollten wir ihn später erledigen,” the brunette said. Perhaps we should finish him later.
“Nein!” the blonde objected, moving into the kitchen. “Er ist allein und unbewaffnet. Wir machen es jetzt.” He is alone and unarmed. We do this now.
Of course I was alone. Did she think I had a posse or something? But it was also true that I was unarmed, and she was heading for the butcher knives. I shouldn’t have dropped my towel. I was considering going back for it, when our collective attention was drawn to the squealing of tires outside the house. A blue BMW Z4 convertible switched off and Hal leapt out, his nostrils already flaring with the scent of blood in the air.
“Er ist ein Wolf! Das ändert die Sache,” the brunette said. He is a wolf! That changes things.
Damn right it does, witch.
Chapter 19
Dropping a werewolf into a witch fight is like dropping a tank into a snake pit. The snakes might have fangs, but the tank isn’t going to feel their bites. Likewise, the witches could cast spell after spell at Hal and he’d just say, “Stop, that tickles”—right before he tore out their throats. The hexen understood that their odds of survival had dipped severely with Hal’s arrival, and they wasted no time in beating a strategic retreat. I had to duck and dodge a couple of hastily thrown knives, so I couldn’t slow them down as they scrambled for the exit. Hal tensed and flashed his canines as the witches bolted through the window and across the lawn to the street, but he made no move to pursue them; he simply kept his eyes on their retreating forms.
I started to give chase, but I remembered my profound lack of clothes just before I leapt through the window. A naked man pursuing two curvaceous women down the street would probably be misinterpreted by the general public.
“Bloody curses,” I ground out softly. Then my voice rose in anger. “Curses in seventy dead languages, Hal! Why didn’t you stop them?”
He scowled but replied calmly, his eyes still tracking the witches. “Alpha’s orders, Atticus. You know I can’t get involved in your fights.”
He walked slowly toward the porch while keeping his eyes on the witches until they hopped into a Camaro and screeched away onto University Drive. Then he turned to look through the broken window and pulled up short.
“Great gods of seething darkness,” he said, putting his hands on his hips, “why the hell are you naked in the widow’s house?”
“What? Oh, shit.”
“And you’ve got a new set of scratches and scrapes all over you. So help me, if you tell me it’s from the rough sex again, I’ll deck you right now.”
“Wait, Hal, let me explain—”
“I’ve been calling and calling you on your cell, and now I guess I know why you didn’t answer.”
“No, that’s not it, you don’t understand—”
The widow chose that moment to emerge from the hallway—the hall that led to her bedroom—and loudly observe with a slightly flushed and smiling face, “Well, that was quite an exciting bit o’ fun, wasn’t it, me boy?” She gave me a smart slap on my rear and cackled.
“Aw, that is just sick,” Hal spat.
“Hal, please.”
“If this is what happens to a man’s tastes when he gets to be your age, then I hope I die before I get that old.”
“Damn it, I flew here as an owl, and right after that, those witches attacked us! That’s all! Mrs. MacDonagh, tell him!”
“That’s what happened, all right. Why are his panties in a twist, then? Who is he, anyway?”
“He’s my lawyer,” I explained, and then it occurred to me that he’d seemed in an awful hurry to find me. “Why are you here, Hal?”
“Well, I had to finally call Granuaile on her cell to find out where you were, since you weren’t answering either your cell or at your house. She’s got your alibi, don’t worry.”
“Alibi for what?”
He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Tell me you’ve at least heard the sirens in the neighborhood.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, all the cars those sirens belong to are currently parked a couple blocks away, in front of your shop. Your e
mployee is dead on the sidewalk.”
The widow and I both gasped. “Which one?” I asked. “I have two now, besides Granuaile.”
“Some boy,” Hal muttered. “I didn’t get his name. A customer called 911.”
“Perry?” I said. “Perry’s dead?”
“Unless your other employee is also male, then it’s Perry.”
“Gods Below,” I breathed, piecing together the recent chain of events. “The brunette must have killed him while the blonde hit me at my house. Simultaneous strike. And then she joined the blonde on Roosevelt here because that was their getaway car.… Manannan Mac Lir take me for a fool.”
“Well, I could probably track them if you’d like; they can’t be far,” Hal offered. “I can’t fight, but I can take you to them.”
“No, no, I’ve got them.” I waved a hand to put him at ease. “I got the blond one’s hair. There’s no escape for her now, and the brunette will be with her, and the rest of them besides.”
“The rest of who?”
“I’ll explain. Just let me go get a towel.”
The widow offered to make us sandwiches, even though it was still midmorning. She offered us whiskey too, but we allowed that tea would be grand, since she clearly wanted so much to fix something for us. She busied herself in the kitchen while Hal and I sat in the living room to catch up. I knew Perry’s death would hit me hard later; right then I had to focus on making sure no one else got hurt because of me.
“I need to wrap this up tonight,” I said, once I’d recounted the events of the morning. “They’ve already killed Perry, and they tried to get Granuaile, and the widow—hell. I can’t let them keep taking shots at me and all my friends. And they’ve done other things to me, Hal; I ran into them decades ago. They need to go down. They deserve it, believe me.”
“I believe you,” he said. “What do you need from me?”
“Three things,” I said, ticking them off on my fingers. “First, I need the widow looked after until this is done. Do you think the Pack could keep an eye on her, since she knows about you all?”
Hal grimaced. “Gunnar won’t like it, but I’ll watch her myself if I have to,” he said.
“That’s going to be tough, because I need you for the second thing. Leif told me that the nonaggression treaty with the Sisters of the Three Auroras is ready to go. Could you do that with me now? Witness the signing?”
“Well, later this afternoon, certainly,” he said. “I’m due in court at one for a hearing with another client. And you should make a statement with the police in the meantime, because you can bet they’re going to want to talk to you about Perry.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Okay, we’ll do that next. Third thing is, arrange a better alibi for me tonight than killing time alone with Granuaile. I’ve been leaning on her too much, I think, and when the shit comes down tonight, I want something ironclad.”
Hal nodded. “All right. I’ll send a couple of reliable sorts over to kill time with her at your house. They’ll have a Lord of the Rings festival or something and testify you made the popcorn if necessary.”
“Oh, damn, that’s a good idea. I’d much rather do that than what I have to do.”
Hal made a couple of calls and arranged for one wolf to entertain the widow for the rest of the day and another three to join Granuaile at my house later that evening.
“Okay, let’s go talk to the cops,” I said, with a degree of insouciance I didn’t feel. I didn’t want to go at all, because the stark fact of Perry’s death was waiting for me there, and once I saw him I wouldn’t be able to compartmentalize his absence.
Hal flicked his eyes downward and raised his eyebrows. “In a towel?”
“I have a set of clothes and my cell phone on top of the shop. Just drive me up the alley and I’ll get them, no sweat.”
Hal rested his face in his hands. “Dare I ask why they’re up there?” he said through his fingers.
“I left them up there because I had to ditch that creepy Russian rabbi. Did you find anything out about him yet, by the way?”
“No.” Hal shook his head. “Still waiting to hear. We have someone good working on it, though.”
We waited until a member of Hal’s pack arrived to keep the widow company—it turned out to be Greta, who’d only just survived the fight in the Superstition Mountains. She looked askance at me standing there in nothing save a towel, but she made no comment.
“Take Mrs. MacDonagh for a nice drive out of town,” Hal suggested, pressing a hundred-dollar bill into Greta’s hand. “Bring her back in the morning, and we’ll have this window fixed up.”
“Oh, can we go to Flagstaff?” The widow clapped her hands in hopeful joy. “There’s a steak house up there what has singin’ waiters, and a fine wee wolf lady like yerself ought to be lovin’ some steak, am I right?”
Greta didn’t speak but looked meaningfully at Hal. He sighed and gave her more money, then beckoned me to come along to the car.
I bid farewell to the widow and assured her I’d have everything straightened out the next day.
“Oh, I know ye will, Atticus,” she said, and then a mischievous glint fired in her eyes. “Christmas isn’t all that far away, ye know. Would ye be likin’ a nice set of boxers this year?”
“Mrs. MacDonagh!” I said, embarrassed.
“What? Yer the sort that wears briefs, then? They make ’em in all sorts of fancy colors these days, y’know. When me Sean was alive ye got white or nothin’, but sure it breaks me heart t’see ye goin’ commando when ye don’t have to.”
“Going commando?” I exclaimed. Hal and Greta had tried at first to mask their amusement at this conversation, but now they were sniggering openly. “Where did you hear that?”
“The telly, o’course.” The widow looked up at me uncertainly, then glanced at the werewolves wiping tears from their eyes as they laughed. She got a little testy then, suspecting they might be laughing at her, and she explained with some heat, “I saw it on a rerun of Friends, when Joey wore Chandler’s clothes and did lunges while goin’ commando. Did I say it wrong?”
“No, you said it fine, but—oh, bugger.” It was becoming impossible to make myself heard over the howls of the werewolves. “Enjoy your time with Greta up in Flagstaff. Come on, Hal. And, hey, I’m not paying you to laugh at me.”
“Okay, okay, but you keep that thing on nice and tight,” he gasped, pointing at my towel. “I don’t want your naked ass sitting on my leather seats.”
Chapter 20
Hal navigated his slick Z4 down the back alleys until he was only a building away from my shop, and he parked it in someone’s private space.
“Hang out in the back and I’ll toss everything down to you,” I said. “The cell phone will be first, so don’t drop it.”
“My reflexes aren’t that bad, Atticus,” Hal reminded me.
“Right. Shield your eyes, then,” I said, stepping out of the car and dropping my towel. “Naked Irish guy.”
“Aggh! I’m snow-blind!” Hal said. I flipped him the bird and then transformed into one, lifting myself with a dozen strokes to the top of my shop, where my clothes and phone lay precisely where I’d left them. Perched on the back edge of my store, I couldn’t see any of the police cars in the front, which meant they couldn’t see me either.
When Hal hissed up at me that he was in position, I carefully dropped my phone, jeans, and shirt down to him, and then one sandal at a time. I saved my underwear for last, just to make a point, and Hal very pointedly did not catch them. Oh well. I’d just have to go commando.
After checking my many missed calls, I punched up Granuaile’s number.
“Hey, sensei. Is the widow okay?”
“Yes, she’s fine. But you’ve heard about Perry.”
“Yeah. It’s horrible. You’re going to get them back, though, right?”
“Yes, tonight. But right now I have to talk to the cops.”
“Okay, but before you do, can I just tell you one of t
he many reasons I love you?”
“Sure,” I said, recognizing her code for an incoming alibi.
“While we were watching Kill Bill: Two so that you could try to learn the Five-Point Palm Exploding-Heart Technique, your fly was open the entire time. It was adorable.”
“That’s right, ninjas don’t hold back, baby,” I said, trying and failing to impart some levity into my tone. I regretted the decision now to masquerade as a wannabe martial artist. It had been amusing at the time, but I didn’t feel like playing a part while trying to deal with Perry’s death.
“Thanks,” I said. “Some guys are coming over tonight for a Lord of the Rings festival.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s going to be great. You’d better get steaks out of the freezer, though. Big meat-eaters, those guys are.” We rang off and then I nodded to Hal. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s get this over with.”
Hal and I emerged from the alley next to my shop in time to see crime-scene photographers taking pictures of Perry’s body, sprawled faceup with one hand on his chest, a small pool of blood underneath his head where he’d cracked it on the cement.
I’ve seen a lot of dead people in my time. Looking at them gets easier when you’ve had as much practice as I’ve had. Kids still get to me, though—the innocent who never get a chance to choose whether they will take up swords or plowshares.
Perry had never been a swords kind of fella. The most violence he’d ever done was to his own earlobes, with those ridiculous silver gauges. But he’d never been a plowshares fella either; he never could remember the difference between chamomile and creosote, no matter how many times I explained that they were completely different plants.
She must have lured him outside somehow; she couldn’t have thrown that killing curse, whatever it was, inside my shop. Probably had no trouble either. Perry would have looked at the black leather and the bonanza of her bosom and stepped right out to ask how he could help.
I didn’t have to pretend to be upset when Detective Geffert spotted me. I should have seen this coming. The divination had even warned me that death approached one of my male friends, but I had interpreted that as Oberon rather than Perry.
