Damned and Cursed (Book 8): Witch Trial

by Bullion, Glenn

  "No way. We'll call you a consultant. And you at least earned a new dress," he said, regarding her clothes. "You did awesome."

  "I was scared shitless out of my mind. Almost as much as…."

  She didn't continue, not wanting to relive the kidnapping. Alex nodded and put a hand on her shoulder.

  "You ready to head home?" he asked. "I'll follow you. We'll stop and grab something to eat on the way."

  "That sounds good. You're buying."

  "Damn right. I'll expense it. We, uh, might have to lie to Cindy a little. I want to keep the part out where you rushed a woman with a loaded gun."

  Leese pushed herself away from the car. Her legs felt like jelly. Unlike her brother, she probably would call out from work.

  "Yeah. I won't tell if you don't."

  CHAPTER 12

  Michael Tavers adjusted his suit as he parked outside the office building. He'd spent the entire afternoon in meetings in downtown Baltimore. He hated meetings, but understood they were a necessary evil. He hated Baltimore, although unsure how necessary the dirty city was. Relief washed over him as he stepped into the familiar lobby. Tonya, the latest in a long line of revolving receptionists, tapped at her keyboard. Her eyes lit up with panic as he approached, her cheeks turning red. He was curious enough to wonder what was on her computer monitor, but not so much that he bothered to check.

  "Mr. Tavers," she said, stuttering. "I didn't think you were in today?"

  "And why is that?"

  She worked at the computer a moment, pulling up a calendar. Michael could tell he intimidated the young woman, which wasn't his goal.

  "Your schedule has you booked through the rest of the day."

  "Just got out of the last meeting twenty minutes ago." He added a smile, to put her at ease. "City traffic is terrible."

  "I…have you here for a meeting with Marschcom Chemical in an hour."

  "Shit," he muttered, glaring at the floor.

  Marschcom Chemical. He'd completely forgotten. Small business, two hundred employees. They were having trouble making ends meet, in prime position to buy. Whether he would save the company, invest and rebuild, or liquefy and sell off the pieces, he wasn't sure yet.

  "I have a lot on my mind lately," he said, not that he needed to explain himself to the receptionist.

  "I'm sure."

  He said nothing else. Turning his back to Tonya, he crossed the floor and headed for the elevator. Tonya called after him, but he wasn't listening. He waited patiently for the elevator, and several of his employees left when it opened. Some smiles faded, the conversation went quiet. There were a few polite nods as Michael stepped inside. No one expected him, and that fact annoyed him, only because it was his fault. He didn't normally forget things, especially where money was concerned.

  He stopped at the fifth floor and walked through the maze of cubicles and desks. Typical office chatter filled his ears. Keyboards tapping, printers working, phones ringing. The sounds of work, of money being made. He stopped in his corner office to grab the Marschcom file, still sitting on his desk. As he passed back through the office, he saw Jamie, his personal assistant, with her legs crossed, spinning in her chair. She wore a Bluetooth headset, on an animated phone call. He had to stop a moment to watch her. He'd always liked Jamie. Her enthusiasm was catching, always an asset. The last two assistants had inspired nothing but jealousy and contempt in the office. Jamie was friends with everyone, and employees had no problem with her as the gateway to him.

  Jamie spotted him and smiled. Michael returned the gesture, shaking his head in amusement. He continued through the office, but heard Jamie end her call, followed by the sound of high-heels on carpet catching up to him.

  "Sir," she said, walking next to him. "I didn't know you'd be in today."

  "Yeah," he said, trying to hide irritation. "I forgot Marschcom."

  "You…forgot?"

  He stopped and turned to face her, watching her carefully. Surprise, a hint of amusement, a twitch of a smile. Jamie had more leeway than most, including the luxury of the occasional joke at his expense.

  "Yeah. Forgot." He resumed his pace. "It does happen."

  "Not to you, it doesn't."

  "Call them. Make up something. I'm not going back out today."

  She pulled out her phone to take notes.

  "Sure." She tapped for a moment. "Your next open day is this coming Monday."

  "Fine."

  "For the rest of the week, you've got…the benefit downtown, the fundraiser, and the Governor's party."

  He raised an eyebrow as they approached the elevator.

  "The Governor's party?"

  "My word, not his. The ball, affair, event, whatever you want to call it. I call it a party."

  Michael sighed at the thought.

  "I'll need a clean suit. And…a date."

  "The same service as last time?"

  "Yeah. They were fine."

  Jamie followed him into the elevator, her eyes on her phone the entire time. It always amazed Michael how people had learned to navigate a phone and the real world at the same time.

  "Sir, I could go with you, if you want."

  He regarded her quietly, watching the lines in her face. The silence finally pulled her attention away from the technology, and their eyes met.

  "No! Not like that!" she said. "It's my job. I should be there, to help you. With contacts, information, that sort of thing. Not like a date. I mean, I know I don't look like those women from the service, but—"

  "Jamie," Michael said, hiding a smile. "That's a great idea. Make the arrangements."

  "Yes, sir."

  The elevator stopped at the top floor, the sixth floor, but Michael halted the doors before they could open. He leaned against the wall for a moment, staring at the floor. There certainly were people waiting to use the elevator, but Michael didn't care. They had a stairwell in the building, and half his employees could use a few extra steps.

  "Is there anything else?" Jamie asked.

  "Tonya, downstairs. How is she working out?"

  Jamie had to think a moment to remember who she was.

  "The front desk? Just fine, from what I hear. The occasional misplaced call, but the phone system is new. We're all doing that. Do we need to make a change?"

  "No, no. It's just…she seems so scared of me."

  "Most of us here are. Except me."

  "Really?"

  "Well, yeah. You're the big boss, power suits, always so serious."

  Memories flooded back that Michael wasn't expecting. An empty house. His parents gone for months. Alone in the corner of the playground.

  Then the horrifying memories that only returned to him the past few years. The priests, the hospitals, the white rooms. Screaming, shouting, violence.

  He felt a hand on his arm. A voice. His senses returned. He wasn't in a nightmare. He was working, at the business he built.

  "Sir? Michael," Jamie said. "Are you okay?"

  "Oh, yes. Yes, I'm fine. Just some vertigo. I'm alright."

  "Maybe you should lie down."

  "I think I will. Oh, Jamie, send the staff home a little early tonight. No overtime. I want the place to myself."

  "Certainly."

  The elevator doors opened. Michael had one foot out when Jamie spoke again.

  "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  A simple question, one Jamie had asked countless times. But there was something different in her tone. He turned to face her.

  She stood with a slight smile, her hand on her hip. She waited patiently for a response, her eyes almost playful. Michael thought he knew people, despite his upbringing, but he'd made mistakes before. Those mistakes had led to lawsuits and out-of-court settlements. He risked a quick glance, his gaze drifting across her figure. That only brightened her smile. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman. Even longer with one that wanted to be with him, and didn't charge by the hour. A sudden sadness overwhelmed him, a realization of how lone
ly his life was.

  Jamie was so beautiful.

  "Uh, n-no. No, thank you," Michael said.

  Jamie shifted back to business.

  "Okay." She waved her phone. "I'll take care of everything. Don't worry." One last flirty smile. "You know where I am if you need me."

  "And I'll be here," he said, gesturing behind him. "Home, sweet home."

  She leaned over, probably more than necessary, to hit the appropriate button.

  "You have a nice night, sir."

  The doors closed, and Michael continued to stare ahead a moment. His mind drifted to an alternate universe. One that, at that very moment, he was leading Jamie by the hand into his loft. Removing her clothes, easing her into bed.

  He forced those thoughts aside.

  Michael turned and stepped deeper into the sixth floor of his office building. The sixth floor was all his, converted into a living space. It was better than any home he'd ever lived in. The ridiculous, empty, cold mansions he was forced to call home in his youth paled in comparison to what he'd built. His loft was the perfect blend of home and work. Another office in the corner, with a TV on the wall. A bedroom not far away, a bathroom and living room. A wonderful library. He knew his employees thought him strange, literally living in the office. He thought they were equally strange, spending sometimes over half their day at work, only to go where they called home for a few hours, and then return. Who was truly strange?

  He worked for a while, returning phone calls, while enjoying his view of Philadelphia. The sun started to set, and he could see employees leaving, heading to their cars in the parking lot. He spent the evening enjoying one of his simple hobbies, touring his kingdom. Walking around the darkened offices, he studied his employees' workspaces, the things they left behind. Pictures of family and friends, of useless things on their desks that reflected their personality. He stopped by Jamie's desk. It was immaculate and clean, with only a picture of her dog near the monitor.

  A light turned on across the floor, followed by a vacuum cleaner. It was Walt, who cleaned up several times a week. Michael had forgotten to have Jamie cancel his service for the night.

  His chest tightened as yet another forgotten chore struck him. For someone who had a reputation for details, he was forgetting much lately.

  Being so close to his dream, he supposed he should go easier on himself.

  Michael ran through the office, passing a confused Walt in the process. He marched through his living room, into the library. Pulling back the appropriate books, he pushed the button concealed behind them. The door that was disguised as a bookshelf popped open.

  "It's okay," he said, keeping his voice even. "I didn't forget you." Which was a lie.

  There was quiet sobbing in the corner. That pathetic noise used to pull at his emotions, but he'd grown used to it. He shut the door behind him, stepping into his true library. Ancient books on the supernatural adorned the shelves. An old witch's cauldron sat on the floor. The TV mounted in the corner was still on. He passed the cauldron and approached the refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of water and a pre-wrapped ham and cheese sandwich. A deep sigh escaped, knowing feeding time was never fun.

  In a room full of priceless artifacts and books, he turned to face his real treasure.

  He didn't know how old she was. The human traffickers that sold her guessed she was in her thirties. The look in her eyes hinted at how much abuse she'd suffered. Michael didn't know where she was from. India, or maybe Pakistan. She would need a bath soon, another thing he dreaded. She bit him the last time, deep enough to need stitches. Michael knew he wasn't a knight in shining armor, but after years, maybe even decades of abuse, he would have thought she'd put together his intention wasn't to hurt her.

  She had a much greater purpose than slavery to fulfill.

  "Okay," he said. She didn't have a name, and he'd never given her one. The last thing he needed himself was to get attached. "It's time for dinner."

  It was the first time he'd seen her since the morning. She huddled in the corner of the custom-built cage. Michael shook his head in dismay when he saw the sweatpants and shirt he'd given her were ripped to pieces on the floor. He used to think her destruction of clothes was an act of defiance, but now he wondered if she truly hated the feel of fabric against her skin. She was almost an animal at times. How badly was her mind damaged? Apparently, her history as property was very long.

  His eyes traveled along her figure, but without lust. He almost winced.

  "You have to eat more," he said. "Do you understand?"

  She said nothing. She simply stood and walked to the edge of the cage. Her gait was slow and seductive. She tried to pop her hips, what little she had of them. Michael frowned in frustration. Terrible survival instincts were kicking in, instincts that told her sex and submission were the keys to getting what she wanted. Michael didn't know if she didn't understand English, or if she could communicate at all. She'd never said a word, in any language.

  "Listen, don't do that. I'm not one of those other people. I don't like it when…." He stopped. It was no use. He held up the sandwich. "This is for you—"

  She snapped, like a dog, at his hand, which had drifted a little close to the bars. Michael jumped back a step.

  "No! I told you not to do that!" He grabbed the leather gag from the side table, where he kept the various sets of locks and keys he needed. He hated using something that was no doubt instrumental in her abuse, but it was effective to prevent biting. "You don't want to wear this again. Right?"

  She laughed, almost a pleasant sound. Holding her hand out, she waited patiently for the sandwich. There was intelligence there. Michael handed it over. She turned and walked away, giving him a full view of her naked body. Despite him never giving her a razor, her hair didn't grow. Her body was perfectly smooth, except for the dark hair that flowed just past her shoulders.

  Michael wondered what magic went into that.

  She pulled the crust off her sandwich and dropped it in the trashcan next to the toilet. She hated the crust. Michael shook his head as he watched her, thinking back to the day he bought her. Four hours of bidding, and six million dollars.

  It was all a drop in the bucket, very much worth it.

  Her owners didn't know what they had. But Michael did.

  She pointed at the bottle of water he still held. He passed it to her. She unscrewed the top and threw it across the room. Michael knew what was coming next, and his prize didn't disappoint.

  She stuck her pinky finger inside the bottle, laughing as the water turned blue. Michael laughed with her.

  The shared moment of levity didn't last. A frown crossed his face as he regarded the books in the library.

  He was going to need more magic soon.

  There was still so much work to be done. A few of the books he'd collected over his lifetime were spell-books, full of the written word of the witch. Their language was a strange one, and translation was slow. He'd need more ingredients. Some simple, some exotic.

  He'd need the magic touch of a witch, which she never gave without a struggle.

  He regarded the chair in the center of the room. Full of straps and restraints, Michael hated using it. It reclined to force the subject prone, and again, he imagined she'd been in such a thing before. It set his prize on edge, and she fought with everything she had whenever he pulled her from the cage. She never willingly touched the ingredients he mixed, never willingly created magic. The chair was a necessity.

  She smacked the cage behind him. Startled, Michael whirled around. She'd watched him, followed his eyes, and adopted a defensive stance for the fight she thought was coming.

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "No magic today."

  Her posture relaxed somewhat. He approached the cage and rested his arms on the bars, always a risky move.

  "If you would just behave, I'd let you out of here," he said, knowing she couldn't understand him. Or could she? "Believe me, I was in a cage once. Just a little different."r />
  She gingerly approached, keeping her head low. Reaching out carefully, she held his hand. Michael didn't pull away. She took his finger in her mouth, never breaking eye contact. She sucked gently, making her meaning quite clear.

  Michael wanted to back up, but his legs were frozen. His thoughts went to terrible places. She was his. He needed her for her magic, but would it be so bad? Just once? She was willing.

  He leaned in for a kiss. Her lips were so soft and gentle. He reached through the bars to hold her, feel her.

  His senses returned in a flash. Clenching his eyes shut, he pulled back quickly.

  "I'm sorry," he said, not looking at her. He could sense her gaze on him. "That was…sorry. Look, I've found someone stronger than you. He is the person we're after." He took a deep breath and again studied his collection of supernatural lore and trinkets. "We just need to prepare."

  CHAPTER 13

  Kevin was moving about the kitchen when Martha staggered her way to the dining room table. She had showered and dressed, but the morning routine did little to wake her. Kevin laughed as he worked. He flipped the eggs, stirred the hash browns, turned the bacon. Toast popped from the toaster. The grease from the pan sizzled and smacked him under the eye. A small price to pay for a delicious breakfast.

  "Morning," Kevin said.

  Martha yawned and blinked. Kevin gestured to the pot of coffee brewing. She prepared a cup and collapsed in her seat. He laughed. In the six weeks Kevin had been staying with Martha, he'd learned she wasn't much of a morning person. She spent most evenings at her convenience store, working late hours. Occasionally, she would visit the library. Martha was a busy woman, not usually home.

  Kevin used that time to work on his own projects.

  "That smells wonderful," she finally said. She eyed him carefully as he prepared two plates. "Who taught you to cook?"

  "No one, really. My sister worked her ass off while we were in school. Someone had to take care of the apartment."

  "Kristin. I miss her."

  He paused for a moment as he took a seat.

  "Yeah. Me, too."