Hollywood Witch Hunter

by Valerie Tejeda

  “On business,” Knox interrupted. “And you know he calls constantly to check in. So for now, what he says still goes.”

  Iris was thrilled when her father left for Wales and put Knox in charge. Not that she didn’t miss her father, because she did. But Iris and her brother had always been in sync and she was hoping things in the witch-hunting world would change for the better with Knox as their fearless leader. But they hadn’t, at least not yet anyway.

  Iris let out an exasperated sigh and flicked off the safety with an audible click. She steadied her frustrations, taking in a deep whiff of California air filled with exhaust, honeysuckle, and sea salt.

  Knox grinned and returned to his binoculars. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asked with a playful tone, peering into the city’s darkness.

  “Knox, I swear to God, if you don’t leave me alone—”

  “You’ll what?”

  Iris growled but maintained her position, catching her brother crack a smile out of the corner of her eye. She was used to Knox being a dick and she had learned he didn’t mean a thing by it. Behind his tough-as-nails persona and intimidating brawn, there was a big soft teddy bear waiting to come out and shower people with hugs and kisses. He just preferred to keep his fluffy side in chains and let the devil on his shoulder reign free.

  Pretty much every woman at the Bently Fortress made a point to constantly remind Knox he looked like a Spanish god, or a Thor-meets-Bond remix. And because he spoke with actions and not words, he was mysterious too. Girls literally fell at his feet. It was disgusting. But despite the constant bumps to his ego, Knox was completely levelheaded and constantly knew what to do.

  Iris always thought she looked like Knox in a girl-suit. Her dark wavy hair fell past her shoulders and her coffee-colored eyes burned with fiery intensity. They both had a smattering of freckles atop their creamy pecan skin and their athletic physiques were perfect for intimidating people, something Iris liked to do whenever she had the chance.

  She peered through the lens of her thermal scope. Anything with a high heat signature showed up white against the flickering green background. The hotter the object, the more intensely it glowed. But there was still no sign of their mark. Iris was starting to feel uneasy.

  “It’s been over half an hour.” Knox checked his watch. “Maybe our intel was bad.”

  Iris, still lying on her stomach with her rifle pressed firmly against her shoulder, looked up with a snarl. “Well, Dex said she’d be here and his intel is never wrong, so …” She paused. “She’ll be here.”

  Another minute passed and Iris wondered if she was on the right rooftop. She desperately hoped she was. Her stomach wrapped itself in knots and her heart thrummed like a well-tuned racecar engine.

  “I’m not so sure about that, kiddo,” Knox said, still scanning the streets below with his binoculars. “But for your sake, I hope she is. I don’t want to have to tell Dad we didn’t get her.”

  Iris agreed. The last thing she wanted to do was to be forced to go through the grueling training course again.

  “Hey, guys,” a voice crackled in their inner ear coms. It was their cousin Dex, who was also a Hunter, and a good one at that. Like Knox, Dex was tall, dark, and terrifying. Definitely someone you don’t want to mess with.

  “Dex. Hey,” Iris quickly replied. “Please tell me our intel wasn’t bad.”

  “Well,” Dex started, “it wasn’t bad per se. But it was planted there for us to find. It looks like we may have ourselves a mole.”

  “What?” Iris jumped to her feet. “Are you serious?”

  “That’s not even the worst part,” Dex said, his voice slightly unsteady. His voice was never unsteady. Iris swallowed hard.

  “Dex, just tell us what’s going on already,” Knox demanded.

  “Well … a huge celebrity was murdered this afternoon. And I mean huge. We’re talking a twenty-two-year-old Oscar winner here. And it looks like it was the work of the witches.”

  Iris’s body went numb. The ground beneath her was spinning. “No. That can’t be right,” Iris said, almost pleadingly. “We had protection details in place all day.”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you,” Dex said. He paused. Iris could hear him breathing heavily through the com. The anticipation set her nerves on fire.

  “Iris.” He paused again and took a long breath. “She was killed on your watch.”

  Three

  “That’s impossible!” Iris shouted, clinching her fists.

  “I wish that was the case. I really do,” Dex said over the com. His voice cracked. “You know I always have your back, chica.”

  Iris looked at Knox, hoping he had some answers. Knox stared blankly back at her, furrowing his brows and scratching his chin. His silence was driving her crazy.

  She took a moment to retrace her steps: Iris had spent the entire day slogging through the typical assignments—responding to a possible sighting at the Dolby Theatre, (AKA the Kodak), keeping watch at a rom-com movie premiere which was teeming with Hollywood A-listers, and then, the protection detail at the young actress’s home.

  She was a part of a team of four, led by one of the best Hunters in the business, Gerald Wexler. After the perimeter around the home was secure, Gerald left and did the unthinkable—he put Iris in charge. She was ecstatic, of course. Especially since she’d never been in charge of anything. And even though it was just for a few hours, Iris led her team with pride. She was certain a witch couldn’t have gotten past her. This had to be a mistake.

  “Knox, you know this can’t be right,” she said with a stark tone.

  “Let’s just go to the crime scene and check it,” he suggested. “I’m sure there’s some way to explain this.”

  The knot in Iris’s stomach loosened slightly. She quickly disassembled her rifle and stuffed the pieces into her backpack before slinging it over her shoulder. Without looking, she leaped backward off the rooftop, grabbing hold of a section of pipe on the side of the building and nimbly sliding her way to street level. A moment later Knox followed suit, jumping from the rooftop and plummeting nearly twenty feet. He landed with an audible thud.

  “Show-off,” Iris said snidely.

  Knox shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Her brother was never one to hide that he was a superior being. Hence, jumping off a four-story building like it was merely a sidewalk.

  The siblings marched back to their car parked several blocks away on Hollywood Boulevard. Known to the Hunters as “The Armada,” their custom Hummer was black with accents of gold on the door handles, the front bumper, and even around the wheels. Both the driver’s and passengers’ doors were inked with the Witch Hunter symbol—a gold circle with WH fused together inside the loop as if they were one letter. Just on top of the W was a small star representing their sector’s city—Hollywood.

  Iris settled in the passenger seat as Knox turned the keys. The engine let out a quiet rumble before roaring to life. Glowing buttons cut through the darkness, filling the cabin with a soft, amber glow. Each light represented a deadly Hunter weapon or countermeasure. The Armada was completely decked out and protected with spells making it undetectable to the human eye.

  Knox stabbed the gas and the tires let out a high-pitched chirp. The beast of a vehicle lurched forward and sped toward the house of the murdered Hollywood A-lister.

  Iris nervously tapped her foot. She was anxious to get the star’s home. She wouldn’t believe she was dead until she saw the body for herself.

  “So what do you think we’re in for?” Knox asked, keeping his eyes on the road. “What kind of spell do you think they used to kill her?”

  “I don’t know.” Iris let out a heavy sigh as tension danced in her stomach. “I’m hoping it wasn’t any spell and this was all just some big mistake.”

  “You and me both.”

  They pulled up to the mansion to find the area swarming with cops, paparazzi, and bystanders. The outside of the home was elegant and chic, with brick
walls and large doors reminiscent of an old storybook. The front lawn was a deep green and lined with cherry blossom trees that seemed more pink than usual, even in the evening light. The crime scene was already cordoned off by yellow tape. Iris felt a jolt of nausea.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said, peering out the window. She was just here a few hours ago, and was absolutely certain the coast was clear. Apparently, it was not.

  “Here,” Knox said, handing her their usual faux IDs. These tend to come in handy when you’re a teenage Hunter trying to protect humanity. No big deal or anything.

  “Thanks.” Iris slipped the badge around her neck and put on her aviator sunglasses, even though it was night. “Hopefully we won’t get the ‘Aren’t you too young to be FBI agents?’ or ‘I’ve never heard of your branch before,’ crap again. Not being questioned for once would be nice. But at least they’ll forget about us once we leave,” Iris said, motioning to her glasses.

  But the aviators were more than just fashionable, they were embedded with a powerful Idas spell, courtesy of a rogue witch that was captured and interrogated some years ago.

  Iris took a steadying breath and followed her brother as they paced toward the officer guarding the home. The cop had massive arms, a shiny, bald head, and stood tall even though he was just about the same height as Iris.

  The brother and sister flashed their badges in unison and Knox cleared his throat. “I’m John Richardson and this is my partner Kelly Graves. We’re with FBI Sector Eight.”

  “FBI Sector Eight?” the cop said, his eyebrow shooting up. “Never heard of that branch before.” The officer scratched his face. “Hey, aren’t you a little young to be working for the bureau?”

  “Unbelievable,” Iris muttered, pursing her lips into a hard line. She silenced a giggle before putting her game face back on.

  “Well, looks can certainly be deceiving,” Knox said with an air of condescension. “So. What’ve you guys got so far?”

  “What is this, some kinda joke?” the cop snapped at Knox. A large vein popped out on his forehead and his cheeks started to turn pink. “You kids better get the hell out of here before I charge you for interfering with a police investigation.”

  Iris looked at her brother. He nodded. It was time for her to step in.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Iris said with an inviting smirk. “Would you mind looking at me for just a second?”

  The cop ignored Iris and instead waved over another officer, who took out his handcuffs and was approaching fast.

  “All right. I warned you two,” the cop said, turning his gaze to Iris.

  “Gotcha.” Iris tapped the side of her aviators and the cop went mute and couldn’t move a muscle.

  Finally.

  “Okay, so you remember us: John Richardson and Kelly Graves from Sector Eight. We go way back. And you’re going to let us go in the house and do whatever we need to do. Got it?”

  The cop blinked twice and slowly nodded before returning to reality. He threw up his hand and dismissed the other officer, who let out an exasperated sigh as he put his handcuffs away and returned to his post.

  “Hey, John. Kelly. How are you guys?” the officer said, reaching out to shake their hands. His smug demeanor softened to warm and inviting.

  The Idas spells never fail.

  Iris smiled. “We’re great. Thanks for asking.” She wanted to laugh, but that wouldn’t have been professional.

  “Can you tell us what’s going on here?” Knox interjected, getting back to business.

  “Well, I couldn’t believe my eyes, you know?” The cop scrunched his forehead as he recollected the events. “She was so young and talented and seemed to be healthy, but it looks like she had a stroke. From what I can gather from the cleaning staff, the actress just dropped dead as she was walking down the stairs. No injuries we can see, and no suspects. Nothing stolen either.”

  “Well, where’s the cleaning staff?” Knox inquired.

  “Inside. You’re welcome to go check it out.” The cop motioned toward the door.

  “Thanks, man,” Knox said with a smirk. “I appreciate it.”

  Iris exhaled slowly before walking through the front door. The luxurious home was filled with a wispy haze that crept along the hardwood floor and slithered beside the walls before making its way up to the high ceilings.

  “Great,” Iris said as the bruma brushed over her face. She couldn’t deny it to anyone—there was magic here.

  She slowly knelt down beside the actress’s lifeless body. The corpse lay motionless at the foot of the stairs, the cheeks stained crimson as if she’d cried blood. Adjacent to the steps was an ornate glass case displaying an Academy Award, two Golden Globes, a couple of SAG Awards, and a handful of MTV Movie Awards. The case also contained an autographed book from a bestselling author whose movie the actress starred in last year—a movie that launched her career.

  Iris felt the injustice deep within her bones. She was devastated. This young actress should be preparing for her next film, not lying dead on the ground because of a scum-of-the-earth witch.

  “You gonna do it or should I?” Iris groaned. She always hated this part.

  “I’ll do it,” her brother said. “But try to shield me a little so these cops don’t see me and think I’m some perv.”

  “You mean find out you’re a perv,” Iris said with snark, scooting in closer to conceal the body.

  Knox huffed and tugged at the actress’s collar, revealing the top portion of a bright red, lacy bra, and more importantly, the Cicatrix—a silver-gilded five-point star burned into the skin just above the actress’s right shoulder.

  “Yep. Definitely a witch,” Knox said flatly. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it in the actress’s open mouth before prying open one of her eyelids and flicking the beam across her pupils. “Moderate capillary damage. No postmortem reaction to light. What do you think, a Matas witch using one of their diseased bugs?”

  Iris shook her head. “Nope. Look at the burn pattern. See how it’s inconsistent? And how the points of the star are slightly blunted?” She traced her index finger over the raised mark. “Judging by the texture, I’d say it was a telepathy spell, and a rushed one at that, like she was interrupted. And since it’s telepathic, it looks like we’re dealing with a Protas witch.”

  Every witch used a unique spell to sacrifice their victims, and while most Hunters struggled to interpret the subtle differences, Iris had a knack for identifying them. It came easy to her.

  “It just looks like a star to me.” Knox shrugged his shoulders. “How can you tell all that?”

  Iris, lost in thought, ignored the question. “There hasn’t been a Protas sacrifice like this in years,” she mumbled. Sure, there’d been a few telepathic or telekinetic spells here and there; mainly witches ordering victims to kill themselves or giving them delusions to go mad. But other than that, nothing. Only a small number of Protas called Hollywood their home, though no one really knew why.

  “That’s a super high-level spell. I haven’t seen one since I started. But Dad said he dealt with a couple of high-level Protas back in the seventies.” Knox paused. “Maybe there’s a new witch in town?”

  Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Iris caught a glimpse of a Hispanic man and woman talking to the cops. She could hear them speaking Spanish and the officers didn’t seem to understand a word of what they were saying. But thanks to the many summers she spent traveling Colombia with her mom and grandma, Iris could. Knox missed these trips. He was usually on some secret excursion with their father. Iris was never allowed to go.

  “Hey, Knox, I think I found the cleaning crew,” Iris said, pointing to the man and woman.

  “Seriously, Iris?” Knox said, turning to look at them. “Why, just ’cause they’re Hispanic? That’s so racist.”

  “No, you idiot, I’ve been listening to their conversation.” She shook her head. “And besides, douche, we’re half-Colombian.”

  Knox laughed. �
��I’m just messing with you … jeez. Touchy much?”

  Iris clenched her fists. She usually enjoyed her brother’s humor, but today was not the day. Not when an actress was apparently killed on her watch. “Um, yeah. Thanks.”

  “All right, all right. I’m sorry. Okay?” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Why don’t you just go talk to them and figure out what they saw.”

  “Fine.”

  Iris could sense the fear of the man and the woman as she walked toward them. The man’s eyes were wide and the woman’s lower lip was quivering. She shot them a warm smile, explaining in Spanish they were not in trouble but that she needed to know what they saw.

  Both of them seemed to think the actress was murdered and when asked if they noticed any strange activity before the starlet died, they said they saw one of the most beautiful women they’d ever seen. They described her as tall and thin, yet possessing a curvaceous frame that was perfectly proportioned. This mysterious woman had long, golden locks that cascaded ever so gently down her face and back, perfectly illuminating her distinctly lavender eyes. The man commented on her alluring lips—plump and perky and the shade of the most delicate red rose—and the woman jabbed him in the side.

  Iris’s stomach dropped to her knees. There was only one witch she knew who matched that description: Belinda, the queen of the Hollywood Witch Coven.

  “Gracias,” Iris said abruptly. She returned to her brother, relaying the information. “It was Belinda. No question.”

  “And you’re sure?”

  “Did you hear what I just said? Who else do you know with lavender eyes, huge jugs, and a twenty-two inch waist?”

  “Unfortunately, no one,” Knox said, wryly. “Come on. Let’s head back.”

  Iris stole one last glance at the actress, lowering her head as she and Knox stepped outside. The sorrow hit her hard and her chest heaved as she walked down the driveway under a trail of cherry blossom petals.

  The once gruff cop guarding the door waved amicably as they walked back to The Armada.