How To Be A Badass Witch: Book Two

by Michael Anderle

  In the car closest behind her, meanwhile, an argument raged.

  “It’s a guy,” the driver insisted. “Everyone calls him ‘Motorcycle Man’ for a reason, okay? Besides, I’m all for gender equality and shit, but what woman can rip a burning car to pieces with her bare hands.”

  “Do you know any guys that can?” the front passenger shot back. “Besides, no guy has an ass that looks that good in leather.”

  Christian had detoured toward the southwestern part of downtown. He still had enough time to get in another couple of hours of driving before heading home for dinner. Hopefully, tomorrow would go better.

  He did feel like he was getting the hang of it, and even today, he was doing okay. He still had to concentrate on shifting and could not allow his mind to wander, but there had been no major screw-ups.

  There didn’t seem to be any cops around, and for the sake of testing himself further, he picked up speed, trying to do exactly six miles per hour over the limit. Seven was when he got a point on his license if he recalled.

  He shifted again, focused on the lanes ahead to keep the Jeep from swerving, and saw a motorcyclist turn onto the street beside him. He gaped. It couldn’t be, but…

  “That ass,” he burst out. “I know that ass. I’d know it anywhere.”

  Christian glanced over his shoulder, but the biker was only a vague dark shape behind a headlight. He couldn’t identify anything about them, but the rider’s posterior as they stood to gain better control while negotiating the curves was too familiar to be a coincidence.

  Two or three cars had just pulled around the same corner, cars that seemed to be chasing her. The biker took a turn, and on a whim, Christian also pulled a U-turn.

  “Whoa!” he exclaimed as the vehicle rattled around him and he lurched in his seat. He braked but then hit the gas again once he was pointed in the right direction, ignoring the honking of other motorists and turning into the street where the motorcyclist had gone.

  The other drivers had pulled U-turns as well, but Christian had accelerated faster than they had. He slipped into line just ahead of the three cars in hot pursuit. One of them honked furiously and tried to pass him, but he pretended to veer drunkenly to the side, blocking them, then hit the gas to outpace them.

  Who were they? He looked into his rearview mirror. Whether or not that was Kera in front of him, did he have any idea what he was doing?

  He exhaled loudly and continued after the dark shape up ahead. There was only one way to find out.

  Kera whipped through the U-turn and accelerated. She was staying a good distance ahead of her pursuers, and to give her a little bit of breathing room, a Jeep had cut them off, giving her a slight edge for the moment.

  She glanced behind her, did a quick double-take, and studied the Jeep’s windshield in her rearview mirror. She sucked a breath through her teeth.

  “Christian?” she marveled. “You gotta be shitting me.”

  She maintained her speed rather than trying to push it faster and noticed that he seemed to be trying to keep the other cars from passing him. How did he know, she wondered, that she was being chased? Or was it a coincidence?

  Either way, with his help, this could go well. It was only a question of how to signal to him and convey the necessary information.

  On the other hand, he might get hurt.

  Fuck.

  Kera started by raising a hand to wave to him while looking over her shoulder. She was pretty sure there was a spell to convey thoughts or sounds anywhere she could see, but her mind was blanking on the details.

  Christian was watching her, trying to get a better look. He must be uncertain of who she was, though he obviously suspected.

  Kera pulled up her visor and turned to make brief eye contact with him, then nodded. It’s me. His mouth formed into a perfect circle, and his eyes got wider. She beckoned again, then scanned for a place they could temporarily lose the cars.

  They were approaching a footbridge near a park that led to a long mass of broad, low, shallow stairs leading up to a higher path. A small and nimble vehicle like a motorcycle could probably navigate those steps, she decided, as could an overpowered Jeep. Cars might have more trouble.

  Kera pointed at the stairs, inhaled, and swerved toward their base, increasing her speed and pulling up on the handlebars as she hit the first step.

  Though the tire cleared it, the impact practically knocked her out of her seat, and she clung with white-knuckled hands as the bike rattled and rumbled its way up the stairs.

  A glance into her mirror showed Chris, sweating and with his mouth working furiously around what she assumed was a stream of profanity, braking and steering onto the steps behind her while one hand grasped for the stick shift. The wide Jeep could barely fit between the metal handrail in the center of the staircase and the low concrete wall on the side.

  Kera slowed down as she crested the first landing, then sped up again to give herself the momentum to get up the second flight of steps.

  Ugh, this might have been a really bad idea, she thought. At last, she arrived at the top. Sorry, Zee. I’ll get you looked at when this is all over to make sure you’re okay. I promise.

  The Jeep’s engine growled, and its frame scraped and rattled as it followed her. Behind it, the three cars in pursuit screeched to a halt on the road at irregular angles, drawing angry honking from passing motorists.

  Good. They would probably swerve around the other side of the building, attempting to catch her again.

  But by then, she would hopefully have hidden Christian.

  Rather than bother with the footbridge, Kera went past it to a narrow single-lane street that descended toward a cul-de-sac. It would take the three cars a long time to find a way in here from elsewhere in the neighborhood, she realized. They’d have a little time to confer, then a little time for her to go out and catch the cars’ attention again.

  At the entrance to the cul-de-sac, Kera rolled to a halt, parked her bike, and dismounted, turning to face the Jeep. Chris grimaced as he wrestled with the stick shift, but after five or ten seconds, he put it where he wanted it and parked the Jeep. He left the engine running as he opened the door and stepped out.

  “Kera, that’s seriously you?”

  “I was going to ask the same thing, minus the ‘Kera’ part,” she replied. “Oof. Um…”

  He looked her over, his brow furrowed with worry.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She flipped up her visor and rubbed her eyes. “More or less. Look, I don’t have time to explain, but can you wait here for me? I don’t know how long it will be. I just need to get those cars someplace else before I come back to get you. And…well, it might take a while.”

  Christian stared at her and took a breath. “So, like last week, then,” he said finally.

  Kera winced. “I’m sorry,” she told him. There wasn’t time for anything more. She came over to squeeze his hand, then jogged back to the bike. “Please, Christian. I’ll be fine, I promise. Just stay here and I’ll be back, okay?”

  She couldn’t wait for an answer. She swung her leg over the bike and revved the engine, then pulled back out into the maze of residential streets. Nearby, she thought she heard someone yell as they caught the sound of her bike.

  She was close to the warehouse.

  “All right, fuckers,” she said under her breath. “Come find me. I’m here. I’m ready to…oh, shit.”

  The two cars that had been chasing her had been joined by three others. Whether they were the same three that had been at the textile factory, she didn’t know.

  But the coming fight had just gotten a lot more complicated.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  James Lovecraft and Mother LeBlanc stood side by side, channeling power against their adversary: the squat, abrasive man who was obviously the leader of the robbers. His five comrades had already gone down.

  Streams of power, most of them invisible, flowed from the two near the front doors to clash wit
h other streams summoned by the man near the vault. He had enough power to hold his own, but he lacked experience.

  Gage grunted and sweated as the magic produced colored sparks and flames. He stood in front of a large parcel box he’d been protecting; presumably, it contained the loot he’d meant to make off with. Veins stood out on his neck and forehead, and his hands contorted with the effort of trying to cast multiple spells at once.

  James said, “Not enough skill. Or wisdom.” He raised his right hand higher.

  LeBlanc echoed, “Too dangerous. That’s enough, sir.” She mimicked her partner’s motion.

  Both of them brought their hands down at once.

  A thunderclap erupted in the lobby, and Gage let out a strangled cry as he was blasted into the vault he’d looted. He crashed into the far wall and slumped to the floor, unconscious. Wisps of smoke rose from his ears and fingertips.

  He would never channel magic again. Not like this. The two elder thaumaturgists had cut off his power forever.

  James sighed and dusted his hands off. “That’s a wrap. I think we can allow the cops and feds to do their part now, though ideally, they ought to let us pass without getting involved. Don’t you think, Mother?”

  “Hmm,” she responded. “Yes, though wiping their memories might impede their ability to do their duty. They could forget why they’re here or why a couple of their men are wounded.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, thinking about the best way to make their escape without causing undue problems for the forces of law and order.

  The lobby they stood in had been pretty thoroughly destroyed. They didn’t envy how much the Wells Fargo people would have to spend on renovating and repairing it, though the cost would still be less than what they’d have lost if the thieves had pulled off their heist.

  In the silence, a large chunk of material detached from the wall and crashed to the floor in a cloud of dust and debris.

  James snapped his fingers. “Invisibility. We’ll sneak out the back. Simple but effective.”

  “Perhaps,” LeBlanc conceded, “though we could also attempt to disguise ourselves as—”

  “Hello!” a man’s voice interrupted her. “The SWAT commander says the coast is clear, so we’re coming in.”

  A woman’s voice chimed in as well. “Assuming it’s you two who set up that green shield-thing around the perimeter of the bank, we’d appreciate a little conversation on the subject. We’re with the FBI.”

  Mother LeBlanc looked at her partner. “I’ve never heard of the FBI saying they would ‘appreciate’ a friendly chat. How odd.”

  James rubbed his chin. “Yes, usually it’s ‘demand’ or ‘require’ or ‘insist’ and so forth, never ‘appreciate.’” He looked through the blasted-out doors. “Think we should turn them into frogs?”

  “Why would we do that, James? What have they done to us?”

  He shrugged. “General principle. But okay, fine, we’ll play nice.”

  “Besides,” LeBlanc added, “we can always turn them into frogs if they upset us enough to deserve it. But they haven’t yet.”

  James smirked. “I’m holding you to that.”

  She waved a hand and waited for their visitors to approach.

  Two silhouettes appeared beyond the green light mass, and with slow, hesitant movements, the pair of agents walked through it and entered the shattered, smoking lobby.

  James flicked his hand, and the green shield disappeared.

  The agents squinted to confirm what had happened, then continued their advance. They couldn’t see the people within the bank yet.

  Richardson noted, “That’s impressive. It lets organic matter through but stops non-organic? The green thing, I mean.”

  The woman looked at him. “It wouldn’t have permitted our clothes if that was the case. It must be something to do with velocity or temperature. Bullets are too fast and hot to get through.”

  The thaumaturgists didn’t respond, just stood and waited.

  MacDonald suggested, “Okay, so we can barge right up to you guys? Is that okay?”

  Richardson frowned at her. “You really want to be turned into a frog, eh? And yes, we heard that.”

  The woman shot back, “Stop joking around, Thom. They probably can do something like that, ridiculous as it sounds. You saw what I saw. Did their abilities look like anything we’d consider normal? Or natural, even?”

  “No,” he admitted. “Still, we’re the FBI. We don’t ‘appreciate’ conversations, we demand them. Insist on them.”

  MacDonald rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “There’s no drawback to politeness. And you need to be on your best behavior. If you get me turned into a frog, forgiveness will be an eternal impossibility. Is that clear?”

  “Oh, crystal clear.” Richardson took the first step, and glass crunched beneath his shoes. His partner was only a pace behind.

  As the smoke began to clear, light again filled the lobby, but this time it was a warm golden color. The man and woman were gone, but a voice whispered inside the agents’ heads: a direction and a location.

  The light and the voice both faded.

  MacDonald looked back to where the Vegas SWAT personnel had gathered beyond the front entrance, ready to move in if necessary. “Did you guys…hear anything?” she asked.

  The SWAT commander shook his head. “Where did they go?”

  “Shit,” Richardson muttered. “Well, shall we?”

  MacDonald nodded, and the two of them headed out past the SWAT team without a word. Officers called after them, but they kept walking. They couldn’t answer any questions even if they wanted to, and both of them cared far more about finding out what was waiting for them at the destination that had been mentioned.

  Neither of them noticed that along the sidewalk, tiny eddies of air wound around the invisible shapes of a man and a woman in a billowing dress.

  Chapter Thirty

  Kera pulled Zee around to the front of the warehouse and wheeled him in the door, slamming it behind her. She pushed him into an alcove in one corner and used her cloaking spell again, a tiny twist of power.

  She couldn’t afford to waste much, not with this many people after her.

  The doors burst open a few moments later, men and women tumbling into the warehouse with weapons drawn. Kera could hear more of them moving around the outside of the warehouse, hoping to cut her off from the other side.

  A good plan…if you didn’t know about the traps.

  She stayed where she was, hidden by the shadows, and watched as the people began to spread out. She was confident in her position, but there was a limit to how many people she or anyone could fight effectively at one time. She’d have to separate them from each other, only taking on one or two at a time, and whittle down their numbers.

  At the back of the warehouse, another door creaked open, and three more guys stepped inside. They began to move around the sides of the room, exchanging glances with the others.

  “Where are you, bitch?” one of the women called.

  Kera summoned all the knowledge and experience she had, and all the training and the focus and presence of mind. She needed to be strong and fast, but she also needed to endure. You practiced for this, she reminded herself. You know what you’re doing. You’ve used those tiny pieces of spells to enhance your fighting abilities. This is just more than that.

  Someone wandered close to her, and she decided it was time to strike.

  She tossed a weak confusion spell at him and his friends. They slowed down and blinked stupidly, trying to remember what was going on, and Kera went to work. She darted at the closest man, a tubby young dude in a flannel shirt, simultaneously punching him in the solar plexus and seizing and twisting his wrist so he dropped his knife. She kicked the blade aside, and it was lost in the shadows under a shelf.

  The other two, a skinny young man and another who was average-sized, moved to tackle her, but she sprang from spot to spot, always one step ahead of their attacks and th
eir grunted curses.

  Across the warehouse, there were shouts. People had now realized where she was, and they were coming to help their friends.

  End it quickly, Kera told herself. She tried to keep panic from hitting her. Stick to the plan.

  The skinny guy tried to punch her in the neck but he overextended, reaching out with his stiff arm while wobbling on his feet. Kera grabbed the arm, braced it, and threw the man around it. Bones cracked and he screamed horribly, crumpling to the floor and cradling his ruined limb.

  Two more of them piled in at her, approaching diagonally from two sides. Their team coordination was poor, so one of them got within range before the other.

  Kera saw him winding up a kick, and she struck first. Her boot crushed his shin as it crashed straight into her foot, and he yelped, hopped backward, and fell over. He didn’t bother to get back up, just dragged himself away over the dirty concrete.

  The other guy shoved her and punched her in the stomach—not as hard as she’d feared, but enough that she felt it. Magic and adrenaline kept her going, and she threw her head toward his face. The helmet crunched into his cheekbone and temple, and he spun in a slow circle before dropping.

  Then two more gangsters from the main group, a guy and a girl, were on her. Kera led them on a chase through shelves and tables, much as she’d done with her bike while they’d followed in their cars. When the moment was right, she pivoted around behind the first guy and kicked at his ankles while pushing his head forward, so he stumbled into a machine and knocked himself out, groaning as he slumped.

  The female banger produced a knife and slashed at Kera’s chest and throat. The witch took a shallow cut across the shoulder of her leather jacket, but she dodged the next blow, then planted a strong front kick in the girl’s stomach. The attacker let out an “oof” and doubled over, and Kera round-housed her in the side, cracking a rib and knocking her on her ass.