A Fistful of Charms th-4

by Ким Харрисон

  "Matalina won't mind," I said, then wondered. "Will she?"

  His eighteen-year-old features scrunched into relief. "No. I didn't want to assume—"

  "Good Lord, Jenks," I said, weight shifting when we stopped. "It's no big deal."

  Brett's eyes were bright in speculation at the exchange, and he made us remain seated until everyone else got out. The Were in wolf 's clothing was last, and as soon as Jenks and my feet hit the parking lot, Brett directed us to head to the lake. The people who saw us were curious, but the only ones stopping to watch wore either bright flamboyant clothes or casual business attire, both of which looked out of place among the predominant fatigues. Clearly they were not military, and I wondered what they were doing there. Everyone was on two feet, which wasn't surprising since it seemed there were two or possibly three packs on the island—three big packs—and when packs mixed, fur flew if they didn't stay people.

  It was highly unusual to have Were packs mixing like this. Indeed, I could see it in the thinly veiled disdain that the Weres in fatigues showed the street Weres, and the belligerent why-should-I-care-what-you-think attitude of the colorfully dressed pack in response.

  Chickadees called in the chill spring air, and the sun was dappled through the pale green leaves of the saplings. It was a nice spot, but something smelled rank. Literally. And it wasn't the breath of the Were padding on four feet to my right.

  My worried gaze followed Jenks's to the lake. Logs were arranged in a circle around a large defunct bonfire, and I could faintly smell the acidic odor of hurt and pain over the scent of old ash. All of a sudden I did not want to go over there.

  Jenks stiffened, nostrils flaring. He dug in his heels with a defiant clench to his jaw. Tension slammed into me, and every man with a weapon tightened his grip as we came to a collective halt. The Were on four feet growled, ears flat and his lip curled to show white teeth.

  "Now y'all just ease down," Brett said softly, cautiously evaluating Jenks's resolve and rocking back. "We aren't going to the pit. Mr. Vincent will want to see you." He cocked his head at the driver. "Put them in the living room, get them a med kit, and back off."

  My eyebrows rose, and the men surrounding us with their matching fatigues and cute caps looked among themselves, their grips on their weapons shifting. "Sir?" the driver stammered, clearly not wanting to, and Brett's eyes narrowed.

  "You got a problem?" he said, his slow drawl making twice as many syllables as was warranted. "Or is security for a witch and a—whatever he is—beyond you?"

  "I can't leave them alone in Mr. Vincent's living room," the driver said, clearly worried.

  A Jeep with a milky-white tank and coiled hose was leaving, and Brett smiled, squinting in the sun. "Deal with it," he said. "And next time, don't start to Were 'less I tell you. Besides, he looks smart," he added, indicating Jenks, "and right quiet. A gentleman. So I'm willing to wager he won't be doing anything rash." His amiable demeanor fell away to leave a hardened will. "Capiche?" he said to Jenks, every drop of casual country boy gone.

  Jenks nodded, his face both serious and scared. I didn't care if this was their standard good cop/bad cop ploy as long as I didn't have to go to the lake. Relieved, I smiled at Brett, not having to fake my gratitude. In the brighter light at the outskirts of the parking lot, I could tell that his hair was silver with age, not sunlight, putting him closer to forty than thirty. Brett's answering smile made his face wrinkle, his eyes amused as he clearly realized I was playing the grateful captive and not as helpless as I let on.

  "Randy?" he said, and the Were on four feet pricked his ears. "You're with me." Turning on a heel, he strode to the second largest building off the lot, the pony-sized Were trotting beside him. The driver watched them go, his lips moving in an unheard curse. With obvious anger he jerked his weapon, indicating we should take an alternate path. Jenks and I fell into step before they could touch us. Time for a little bad cop?

  We were headed away from the pit, but I didn't feel much better. The walkway was made of flat slate, and Jenks's running shoes were silent beside mine. The Weres scuffed in their boots behind us. The building we were headed for looked like it had been built in the seventies, low-slung and made out of a salmon-colored stone, with high small windows that overlooked the lake. The middle section was taller, and I imagined it had vaulted ceilings since it wasn't quite high enough for a full second story. I slowed as I approached the entryway, thinking the massive wood and steel door looked like it belonged to a vault.

  "You want me to just walk in?" I asked, hesitating.

  He sneered, clearly not happy about his boss reprimanding him by giving him an awkward task that, if we ran, he would be punished for. Not to mention Brett had taken with him the only member of his team that might have a chance of catching us.

  Taking that as a yes, Jenks reached in front of me to pull the door open, leaving his blood behind on it. It would be a good marker of where we were for someone looking if they forgot to clean it off. I don't think anyone even noticed, and we slipped inside.

  "Down the hall and to the left," the driver said, gesturing with the butt of his weapon.

  I was tired of his attitude; it wasn't my fault Brett was mad at him. I took Jenks's elbow—apparently the sight of his blood was making him woozy again—and led the way past sterile walls to a bright spot at the end of the hall. It was clearly a living room, and I evaluated it for possibilities while the driver had a hushed conversation with the armed sentry in the archway. More weapons, but no face paint or insignia on them this time apart from the tattoo.

  The low ceilings of the hallway gave rise to that story and a half I had noticed from outside. To my right a bank of windows opened onto an enclosed courtyard landscaped with shrubs and a formal fountain. To my left was the exterior wall facing the lake, a catwalk tucked under the high windows. Defense was written all over the sunken room, and my mind pinged on my first idea—that this was a survivalist's group. I was willing to bet that when they left us alone, someone would still be watching, so it was no surprise when Jenks muttered, "There are six cameras in here. I can't place them all, but I can hear their different frequencies."

  "No kidding," I said, eyes roving but seeing nothing in the plush sunken living room with two opposing couches, a coffee table, two chairs by the windows, and what I thought was a modest entertainment center until I realized it held two huge flat screen TV's, three satellite boxes, and a computer that would have made Ivy salivate.

  I followed Jenks down the shallow step to sit at the couch, farthest in, barking out a derisive, "Hurry up with that first-aid kit," when the driver hustled everyone out.

  He hefted his rifle in a show of aggression, and I gave him a simpering smile. "Right," I said, flopping on the couch and stretching my arms out along the top of it. "You're going to plug me in your boss's living room and get blood all over his carpet because I was snippy. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of carpet? Be a good little pup and do what you're told."

  Jenks fidgeted, and the man flashed red, his jaw muscles clenching. "You keep backing into your corner," he said as he lowered his weapon. "When it comes to it, I'll be there."

  "Whatever." I looked at the ceiling, baring my already bruised throat to him though my gut twisted. With Weres, your rank determined how you were treated, and I wanted to be treated well. So I was going to be a bitch in more than one definition of the word.

  I never heard him leave, but I let out my held breath when Jenks relaxed. "He's gone?" I whispered, and he made an exasperated face.

  "Tink's panties, Rache," he said, sitting on the edge of the couch beside me and putting his elbow on his knee. "That was rash even for you."

  I brought my head back down to look at him. Surrounded by carpet and walls, I could smell the lake on me, and I ran a hand through my tangled damp curls, getting my fingers stuck. I thought about pushing his elbow off his knee, but didn't since he was still bleeding. Instead I sat up and reached for the bandage pressed agains
t his head.

  "Don't," he said, sounding frantic as he drew back.

  Lips pursed, I glared about the room at the unseen cameras. "Where's my damn first-aid kit!" I shouted. "Someone better bring me my kit, or I'm going to get pissed!"

  "Rache," Jenks protested. "I don't want to see the pit. It smelled awful."

  Seeing his worry, I tried to smile. "Believe me, I'm trying to stay out of it. But if we act like prey, they'll treat us like a wounded antelope. You've watched Animal Planet, right?"

  We both looked up when a small girl dressed in jeans and a sweater came in from the room's only door. She had a tackle box in her hand, and she silently set it on the table before Jenks and me. Not meeting our eyes, she backed three steps away before turning around.

  "Thank you," I said. Never stopping, she looked over her shoulder, clearly surprised.

  "You're welcome," she said, stumbling on the step up out of the sunken area. Her ears went red, and I guessed she was no more than thirteen. Life was good in a traditional Were pack if you were on top, crap if you were on the bottom, and I wondered where she fit in.

  Jenks made a rude sound, and I opened it up to find the usual stuff—minus anything sharp and pointy. "So why were you nice to her?" he asked.

  I dug until I found a good-sized bandage and a packet of antiseptic wipes. "Because she was nice to me." Pushing the tackle box aside to make room on the table, I sat sideways. "Now, are you going to be nice to me, or am I going to have to get bitchy?"

  He took a deep breath, astonishing me when he went solemn and worried. "Okay," he said, slowly peeling the bandage away. Eyes fixed to the blood on it, he started to breathe fast. I almost smiled, seeing that it was little more than a scratch. Maybe if he was four inches tall and had a thimbleful of blood it might be a problem, but this was nothing. It was still bleeding, though, and I tore open the antiseptic wipes.

  "Hold still," I said, pulling away when he fidgeted. "Darn it, Jenks. Hold still. It's not going to hurt that bad. It's just a scrape. The way you're acting, you'd think it was a knife wound that was going to need stitches."

  His jerked his gaze from the bloodstained bandage to mine. The light coming in from the courtyard made his eyes very green. "It's not that," he said, reminding me that we were being watched. "No one but Matalina has ever tended me before. Except my mother."

  I set my hands on my lap, remembering hearing somewhere that pixies bonded for life. A trickle of blood headed for his eyes, and I reached for it. "You miss Matalina?" I said softly.

  Jenks nodded, his gaze going to the rag as I dabbed at his forehead, gently brushing aside his yellow curls. His hair was dry, like straw. "I've never been away from her this long before," he said. "Ten years, and we've never been apart for more than a day."

  I couldn't help my twinge of envy. Here I was, tending an eighteen-year-old ready to die and missing his wife. "You're lucky, Jenks," I said softly. "I'd be ecstatic if I could manage a year with the same guy."

  "It's hormonal," he said, and I drew away, affronted.

  "I think I saw some alcohol in here," I muttered, flipping the tackle box back open.

  "I meant between Matalina and me," he said, the rims of his ears reddening. "I feel bad for you, stumbling about searching for love. With Matalina, I just knew."

  Making a sour face, I teased out another antiseptic wipe and carefully dabbed his scrape to pick out a leaf chip. "Yeah? Well witches aren't that lucky."

  I threw the bloodied pad on the table, and Jenks slumped, going soft and misty-eyed. "I remember the first time I saw her," he said, and I made a mmmm of encouragement, seeing that he'd finally quit fidgeting. "I had just left home. I was a country boy. Did you know that?"

  "Really?" The bandage I had pulled out was too big, and I rummaged for something smaller. Spotting a Handi Wipe, I gave it to him to clean his fingers with.

  "Too much rain and not enough sun," he said as he set his rag aside and opened the package as if it held gossamer. Carefully, he unfolded the cloth. "The garden was bad. I could either fend for myself or take the food out of my sibling's mouth. So I left. Hitched a ride on a produce truck and ended in Cincinnati's farmers' market. I got beat up the first time I trespassed in the streets. I didn't know crap."

  "Sorry," I said, deciding that Jenks might take offense at the Barbie Band-Aid and shuffled through until I found a He-Man one. Just who were they giving first aid to? Kindergarteners?

  "It was just plain luck Matalina found me sleeping under that bluebell plant and not one of her brothers. Luckily she found me, woke me, and tried to kill me in that order. I was even luckier when she let me stay the night, breaking her family's first rule."

  I looked up, my tension easing at the love in his eyes. It was shocking to see it there, honest and raw in so young a face.

  He gave me a weak smile. "I left before sunup, but when I heard a new housing development was going in near Eden Park, I went to look over the plans. They were putting in lots of landscaping. I asked Matalina to help me, and when the trucks came, we were there. One person can't hold anything, but two can have the world, Rache."

  I had a feeling he was trying to tell me more than his words were saying, but I didn't want to listen. "Hold still," I said, pushing his hair out of the way and putting the bandage on. I leaned back, and his bloodied hair fell to hide it. Turning to the table, I gathered my mess into a pile, not knowing what to do with it.

  "Thank you," Jenks said softly, and I flicked a glance at him.

  "No prob. Matalina stitched me up right nice, so I'm glad to return the favor."

  There was a scuffing at the open archway and we turned. A small man in slacks and a red polo shirt had come in, his pace quick and confident—busy, was the impression I got. Two men in fatigues were right behind him. They had pistols in leg holsters, and I stood. Jenks was quick to follow, tossing his stained curls out of his way.

  The man's hair was cut close to his head, military style, with a whiteness that stood out in sharp contrast to his deep tan and wind-roughened features. There was no beard or mustache, which didn't surprise me. Presence flowed from him like cologne as he stepped down into the living room, but it wasn't Trent Kalamack's confidence based on manipulation. No, it was a confidence born from knowing he could pin you to the floor and hurt you. He was in his early fifties, I guessed, and I'd dare call him squat and compact. None of it was flab.

  "Boss man, I presume?" I whispered, and he came to a jerky halt four feet away, the table between us. His intelligence was obvious as he looked Jenks and me over, fingers fumbling at his shirt pocket for a pair of glasses while we stood there in our thief-black outfits.

  The man took a breath and let it out. "Hell," he said to Jenks, his voice rough, as if he smoked a lot. "I've been watching you the last five minutes, and I don't know what you are."

  Jenks looked at me and I shrugged, surprised to find him that open and honest. "I'm a pixy," Jenks said, tucking his hand behind his back so the man wouldn't try to shake it.

  "By God, a pixy?" he blurted, brown eyes wide. Glancing at me, he put his glasses on, took a breath, and added, "Your work?"

  "Yup," I said, reaching out to shake his hand.

  My breath hissed and I jerked back when the two men that had come in with him cocked their weapons. I hadn't even seen them pull them.

  "Stand down!" the man bellowed, and Jenks jumped. It was shockingly loud and deep, carrying the crack of a whip. I watched, heart pounding until the two men lowered their sights. They didn't put the guns away, though. I was starting to hate those little hats of theirs.

  "Walter Vincent," the man said, hitting the t's sharp and crisp.

  I glanced at the men behind him, then extended my hand again. "Rachel Morgan," I said more confidently than I felt. "And this is Jenks, my partner." This was weird, civilized. Yes, I've come to rob you, sir. / How delightful; won't you have some tea before you do?

  The Were before me pursed his lips, his white eyebrows going high. I could see hi
s thoughts jumping and I found myself thinking he had a rugged attractiveness despite his age, and that he was likely going to have someone hurt me. I was a sucker for a smart man, especially when the brains came packaged in a body that was carefully maintained.

  "Rachel Morgan," he said, his voice rising and falling in amazement. "I've heard of you, if you can believe it. Though Mr. Sparagmos is of the belief that you're dead."

  My heart gave one hard beat. Nick was here. He was alive. I licked my lips, suddenly nervous. "It was only a bad hair day, but try telling that to the media." I exhaled, never looking away, knowing I was challenging him but feeling I had to. "I'm not leaving without him."

  Head bobbing, Walter backed up two quick steps. The men behind him had a better shot at me, and my heart found a faster pace. Jenks didn't move, but I heard his breathing quicken.

  "Truer words may never have been spoken," Walter said. It was a threat, and I didn't like the complete unconcern in his voice. Jenks moved to stand beside me, and the tension rose.

  A small man in fatigues silently came in with a sheet of paper, distracting him. Walter's eyes slowly slid from me, and my pent-up shudder broke free. My lips pressed together in annoyance that he had gotten to me. Walter stood by the wide window, light spilling in over him and his paper as he squinted at it. While reading, he pointed to the first-aid kit, and silently the man collected it all and left.

  "Rachel Morgan, independent runner and equal third holder in Vampiric Charms," Walter said. "Broke from the I.S. last June and survived?" His attention came back to me. Curiosity high in his rugged, tanned face, he sat in an over-stuffed chair and let the paper fall to the floor. No one picked it up. I glanced at it, seeing a blurry shot of me with my hair all over the place and my lips parted like I was on Brimstone. I frowned, not remembering it being taken.

  Walter put an ankle on one knee, and I pulled my gaze up, waiting.

  "Only someone very smart or very wealthy survives an I.S. death threat," he said, thick powerful fingers steepled. "You aren't smart, seeing as we caught you, and you clearly work for your bread and butter. Being from Cincinnati, you're logically one of Kalamack's more attractive sacrificial sheep."