Witches Protection Program

by Michael Phillip Cash

  “Shapeshifting,” Alastair told him as he observed the woman who had been helped into the backseat.

  “Take me to Queens,” Morgan demanded. She’d lose them when she’d jump into the subway, she thought quickly.

  “What, do you think I’m Uber?” Alastair asked.

  Morgan stared angrily out the window. “I don’t care what you do. I’m not answering any questions.”

  Sirens blared as cop cars raced toward the building behind them. They moved toward the east side, the traffic thinning. Here and there, another cop car raced past them.

  They slowed down. The danger had passed. Wes looked backward, confirming they weren’t being followed. He looked at Morgan, her hair streaming in her face, her clothes in disarray. She looked at him, her complexion drained of color.

  “What were you doing that caused all that?” he asked.

  Alastair watched the two younger people closely. He’d noticed the girl only had eyes for his partner. He stayed quiet.

  “I didn’t ask for your help,” she told them rudely.

  “You didn’t have to,” Wes responded hotly. “I don’t know where those things came from, but they could have killed you.”

  Morgan swallowed hard, then shook her head. Alistair could see the gleam of unshed tears on her lashes. “No, they wouldn’t. You don’t know the first thing about them. They wanted something…They just wanted to take something back from me. They would never hurt me.”

  Wes looked to Alistair for confirmation. The older man shrugged. He looked back at Morgan as if Alistair’s doubt confirmed his own feelings. “It didn’t look that way to me.”

  Morgan ignored him, staring angrily out the window.

  “You’re not going to let her go?” Wes demanded.

  “Not right here and now, but as soon as we are safe, I will,” Alastair told him.

  “This makes no sense! She’s in danger. They attacked me and would have torn her to ribbons if I didn’t step in the way.”

  “You can’t protect a witch that doesn’t want interference. Right, Morgan?” Alastair looked at her in the rearview mirror, their eyes meeting. “It’s one of the tenets of their belief; it is based on freedom.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I know,” Alastair said quietly, but his eyes never left the girl’s.

  They approached the Fifty-Ninth Street bridge, easing between buses and sleek limousines. Morgan perked up. They were heading for Queens.

  “Don’t get too excited. We’re not stopping there. This is to make sure we’re not followed.” Alastair turned to Wes, who was examining his foot. “How bad?”

  “A puncture wound. Do you think I need a rabies shot?”

  “Nah,” Alastair responded. “She was harmless, right, Morgan? You should see what Bernadette can do.”

  “My aunt doesn’t shapeshift.” She handed Wes a rag she found on the backseat. Their fingers touched. A sizzle jumped from his fingertip to hers. Morgan pulled back her hand, noticing there was blood. She wiped it on the seat, but it didn’t come off.

  “Yeah,” Wes said hotly. “I’ll bet she’s a Davina too.”

  Morgan turned to the window, ignoring him.

  “We want to know about Pendragon Glow,” Wes demanded. “You owe us that.”

  “Get in line at Macy’s,” Morgan said flatly. While she didn’t agree with her aunt, she would handle this on her own.

  They stopped at a light. The car was silent, and the entrance to the bridge yawned before them. A cop lazily waved her arms, admitting the cars one at a time. Morgan sat up, feeling her back pocket for her phone. She gasped, searching her front pockets. It must have been in her jacket. The jacket caught by the revolving door.

  “Lose something?” Wes asked calmly.

  “None of your business.”

  Before he could respond, the back window was hit, rocking the car with force. The hawk slammed its head against the glass, breaking though. Morgan screamed. Alistair looked for room to move forward fast. There was none. The hawk battered the back window, the tinkle of breaking glass filling the interior. Wes turned with the rifle, screaming, “Get down!” Morgan threw herself on the floor as a stream of the green liquid flew over her. Drops of condensation from the trigger leaked, and Wes heard Morgan gasp as they plopped onto her shoulder, burning her shirt. The hawk screamed like its raptor ancestor and moved so its body hung over the rear window, away from the frothing weapon. Wes smelled the sizzle of burning feathers. He pressed on, half out of his seat, but the hawk was now above them, gripping the shattered window frame with its fierce talons. Alastair pressed the accelerator, making the car jerk forward, then slammed hard on the brakes, forcing the hawk to lose its hold. It flew up and over the front of the truck, smashing into the police woman, taking them both down to the pavement in a frenzy of smoking feathers. Alastair careened past them, taking the outer bridge crossing and making it across in record time. He pulled into a parking garage on the other side of the bridge, entering what seemed to be a black hole. They drove five levels down. Alastair moved the car into a space in the corner. Exiting, he looked back into the darkened interior, saying, “Well, come on. We haven’t got all day.”

  “Where are we going?” Morgan asked, following him to a small four-door Fiat.

  “I’m taking you home,” Alastair told her.

  Morgan shook her head. “It won’t be safe. I’ll find my way back on my own.”

  Wes held her arm, a frisson going through the two of them. He shook his head. “Come with us.”

  “No, no thanks,” she said grudgingly. “I have a safe place. Take me to Ninth Avenue.”

  Alastair nodded, opening the door to the little black car. In thirty minutes, Wes watched Morgan get out of the car. She moved to the front window, looking deeply at them both. She opened her mouth to say something, then appeared to change her mind. Wes glanced at Alastair, and when he turned back to her, she was gone.

  “This isn’t police work. This isn’t protection!” he shouted to Alastair.

  “It certainly looks that way, but looks can be deceiving,” Alastair said calmly. “Every journey takes you somewhere. You won’t see your destination until you get there.”

  Wes shook his head, his foot throbbing like a sore tooth, and muttered, “First I’m a chew toy, and now I’m stuck with Gandalf and Yoda’s prison child as a partner. Help.”

  “Indeed. I’m taking you to Baby Fat to fix that foot of yours,” Alastair told him.

  Wes leaned his hot head against the window, wordlessly mouthing, “Help…”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bernadette stalked her office, Jasmine looking small in the chair opposite her. Scarlett walked in, her face tight. “They’ve lost her.”

  Bernadette spun, her face twisted. “How could you have let this happen?” She pointed to a monitor over the seating area. “Look, you idiot. I told you no shapeshifting! It’s going to be all over the news.”

  Jasmine’s tear-stained face turned up to the two women as she repeated, “Shapeshifting?” in a hushed tone.

  Scarlett looked at her, sneering. “Oh, shut up.” She turned to her seething boss. “I told them to be discreet!” she said defensively. “Don’t blame me. Blame your precious niece; she’s working with the feds.”

  “Morgan is not working with them,” Bernadette told her firmly. “She wouldn’t betray me.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Scarlett responded. She looked at the quaking assistant with disdain. “She shouldn’t be hearing any of this.”

  “Like it’s going to make a difference now,” Bernadette said, her gray eyes glued on the news broadcast of the images of animals attacking the SUV. “It looks like they missed the transition.”

  “It probably happened too fast. Nobody will believe the few that did see it.”

  “No thanks to you. I
need just a few more weeks. Is that too much to ask? First Morgan, then Washington, now this…” She sighed, sitting down. “And Jasmine, what am I going to do about you? Where did you put the papers I asked for?”

  “I…I…” Jasmine stuttered.

  “Out with it. Where are the papers Morgan signed?”

  “She didn’t,” Jasmine blurted. “She was there, and then…I don’t know. She was gone, and so were the files. I’m so sorry, Bernadette.”

  “I detest tears, Jasmine,” Bernadette said icily.

  “Fire her.” Scarlett shrugged.

  “I put too much training into her.”

  Jasmine fearfully watched the two women talk about her as though she wasn’t there.

  “At this point, she knows too much,” Scarlett offered. “You could kill her.”

  Jasmine’s quick intake of breath alerted them to her rush for the door. Scarlett stayed her by raising her hand and squeezing her thumb and forefinger together. Energy shot from her fingertips to the girl, freezing her in her tracks. Jasmine rose off the floor, immobile and encased in a green fog. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed.

  Bernadette looked up at her floating assistant, dismissing her. “Oh, go do something with her already,” she told Scarlett. “Wipe her memory away. Make her as simple as she was before.” She threw her a look of warning. “I want her in working condition, Scarlett. Nothing devastating.”

  “I’ll give her something else to think about,” Scarlett said silkily, touching the fine skin of Jasmine’s face. “When I suck her memory dry.”

  Wu and Vincenza entered the door, interrupting the women. Vincenza was attracted to Scarlett and made no bones about it. Her smoky eyes took in Scarlett’s lush figure, and she purred like the panther she was not fifteen minutes ago.

  Wu sneered, still blaming Scarlett for her broken nail.

  “Where’s my niece?” Bernadette demanded.

  “She got away,” Wu said through gritted teeth.

  “You incompetent morons.” Bernadette leaned over the desk, her face white with rage. “You shapeshifted in public!” She pointed to the screen with fury. “By tonight, this place will be crawling with police and FBI, and every other agency will be breathing down our necks. If you’ve jeopardized the release of this cream, I will send you both back to the two-bit villages you came from!”

  Vincenza threw a cell phone onto the stone top of the table.

  “We found this,” Wu said with a triumphant sneer at Scarlett.

  Bernadette picked up Morgan’s phone, scrolling down the messages. “Who’s this Gabby?”

  Scarlett walked over. “Her best friend. Her only friend. Poor Morgan. Poor little witch girl,” she taunted.

  “I don’t think you’re funny. She says here that she’s on her way.” Bernadette tossed the phone to Wu, who caught it deftly. “Think you can bring her back?” she asked snidely.

  “I may have to shapeshift.”

  Bernadette nodded, her face closed. “Don’t screw it up this time.” With a wave, she dismissed her, then turned her gimlet eye on Scarlett. “You’re still here?” She looked Jasmine, considering her. “She has such pretty skin. Do something that will keep her occupied so she won’t be thinking about what happened tonight.”

  Scarlett nodded as she walked toward the exit. “Lovely skin, gone on a whim, and in its place, a pus-filled crater face.” She added as she left the room, “When you wake, we’ll commiserate, and in the end, you’ll see me as your only friend.”

  Bernadette smiled. She could trust Scarlett. She always followed orders.

  She held out a paper for Vincenza. “Go to public relations. I want a story of a photo shoot gone awry. Hire a bird and a cat.”

  Vincenza growled, earning her a tight-lipped look from her boss. “Stop it already. It may be fun for you, but the cleanup is a bitch. I don’t want to keep having these issues.”

  Vincenza slipped soundlessly from the room. Bernadette sat down, drained. Picking up the middle stone, she laid it on her chest, feeling the heat radiate into her cold heart.

  With a heavy sigh, she pulled out the ancient book from her bottom drawer. It had a metal clasp that fell open with a touch of her finger. Wetting her pointer finger, she fluttered the fragile parchment. Her lips moved rapidly, and she made a sound of disapproval. Holding her finger in that spot, she turned a few more pages, smiling with satisfaction. Her whispered words were fast and in a language not many could comprehend. Satisfied, she picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and punched in a number. “There’s been a problem,” she told the person on the other end softly. Her gray eyes never left the book.

  * * *

  Scarlett walked out of the office. Jasmine floated after her, her smooth, caramel skin breaking out in ulcerated pockmarks. Jasmine slept on, unaware of her changing appearance. Scarlett watched the two other women enter the outer elevators to search for Morgan. Twirling her blond locks, she whispered, “Make Morgan disappear, I don’t care, so that I’m the one and only—Bernadette’s heir.” Snickering, she snapped her fingers, bringing Jasmine back to herself.

  “Whew.” Jasmine smiled. “That was close. Thanks for saving my job.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I said, come on,” Alastair urged the younger man.

  “I want to go to a hospital.” They stood in the smelly hallway, Wes’s bloody foot leaving a trail of red footprints.

  Alastair shook his head. “What are you afraid of? Witches are synonymous with healers. Baby Fat’s practically a surgeon.”

  “What do you mean, practically?” Wes roared. “I’m not going in.” He limped after Alastair, who stood firm.

  “Shapeshifting witches sometimes release slow-acting hormones that can enter the bloodstream and wreak havoc on a person’s nervous system. It starts with an elevated temperature.”

  Wes felt sweat drip from his temple down his warm neck. His body shook with a tremor.

  “You’re looking a little flushed there.” Alastair reached up to press his cool hand against Wes’s overheated cheek. He tsked. Wes pulled away. “Listen, conventional medicine doesn’t have a clue…”

  “All right, already,” Wes said, giving in. He felt lightheaded. “I don’t know if I trust her.”

  “Do you trust me?” Alastair asked, his eyes boring into Wes’s. The younger man looked away.

  He was still protesting after Baby Fat had placed his foot on a dishtowel on her lime velvet couch. She ignored his complaints as she poked around the hole oozing blood, which she collected into a porcelain cup. “For later,” she advised Alastair, who nodded sagely. “Nothing like fresh blood.”

  “Fresh blood. Alastair, get me out of here!” Wes wailed.

  Luna pounced on his chest, walking down to his abused foot to look at the wound. She meowed loudly.

  Junie looked up, her bulbous eyes grossly enlarged by the thick glasses she wore.

  “I know. It does look Italian,” she commented back.

  “Italian, you say?” Alastair bent over to observe.

  “Mmm, see the teeth marks? These particular panthers come from the hills over Catanzaro.”

  “Catanzaro…I thought they only bred cougars,” Alastair commented.

  “Only the old ladies hunting young men in the bars.” Junie laughed. “No, no, this is definitely a panther bite. There’s a coven that roams the area. Nasty women, famous for their hot tempers.”

  Wes drifted, despite the conversation. Junie patted his rear, advising him that this was going to sting a bit.

  Hot needles stung his foot from toe to ankle as a boiling towel was placed on his abused limb. Wes reared off the couch, only to have strong hands hold him back. A rainbow of colors danced before his closed eyes before they rolled back in his head.

  “He’s out,” Alastair told Junie.

  “I can tell from hi
s aura,” she replied as she cleaned his wounds. “Better this way.”

  “He didn’t want to come. I told him some faradiddle about panther hormones.” Alastair held up a lamp for her to see better.

  “Good. It’s more believable than the truth.” Junie sliced open his foot, squeezing out the poison. “A few more hours, and he’d be dead meat.” She stood back, cracking her back, satisfied with her handiwork. Together they removed his shirt, then Junie dabbed the scratches on his shoulders. “Hmmm…nasty piece of work here.” She threw a fuzzy knitted blanket over him.

  “How long till he wakes?”

  Junie walked back into her tiny kitchen to return holding a lacy curtain of caul fat from a midsize animal. It was draped over her hands and smelled like rotten meat. “Hold his foot elevated.”

  “Sheep?” Alastair asked.

  “Goat.” Junie shrugged. “I read his leaves, and I got goats.”

  “Who’d have thunk it?” Alastair laughed.

  Baby Fat wrapped his foot with the thoughtful competency of a practiced nurse. “Don’t laugh. I don’t make these things up, I only treat.” She grabbed her willow branch from a side table and, bowing her head, hummed loudly. Alastair hastily moved to the other side of the room.

  “I don’t want it touching me,” he told her.

  “This ain’t my first rodeo.” She cleared her throat loudly. “Maaaaake him beeeetter, maaake it heeeeeal.” She sounded like a billy goat, and Alastair bit back a smile.

  “Meeeelt the faaaaat, into his heeeel. Faaaaaster, faaaaaaster and on this note, maaaaake the paaaanther lose to a gooooat.”

  An eerie blue light surrounded Wes. The animal fat sizzled on his foot. The room smelled like a Sunday barbecue. It turned liquid as it dissolved into his skin.

  “Well,” Baby Fat said as she put down her wand. “That should do it. Coffee?”

  “I need to see if anything made the news.”

  Baby Fat nodded, indicating Alastair should follow her. “I’ve got a small TV in the kitchen.”

  “So, how long will he sleep?”

  “Half hour, maybe an hour, and he’ll be kicking his heels in no time.”