The bald man picked up the phone and barked out a few orders, then shot Cassandra a sheepish smile. “So pork chops on Sunday? And the boat…?”
“Not sure you want me making food for you right now, Aaron. Or loaning you the boat. Call me tomorrow when I’ve had time to settle down.”
He nodded. “That temper, Cassie…you need to mind that. It’s not appropriate for a defense attorney to have such a short fuse, especially someone with your…talents.”
I hid a grin, hoping that I got to see some of her talents before I left town.
“Witch. Bitch. There’s a reason those words rhyme, Aaron.” She winked at the man, clearly her volatile temper the type that burned hot and fast, just as quickly receding.
“Just stay away from Marcus, okay? Otherwise the son of Satan won’t be the only one in an ankle monitor.”
A slow grin curled her lips. “Now Aaron. You know it takes more than a piece of metal to restrain me, even metal crafted by my very skilled sister.”
The man flushed red, quickly looking down at the paperwork he was stacking with fumbling hands. “Oversharing, Cassie. I don’t want to hear about your kinky stuff. Just don’t kill Marcus. Perkins or not, we’ll have to haul you in if you do.”
That grin remained. “Yes, sir.”
And those two words were just as much of a turn-on as the magic still snaking around her arms and hands.
Chapter 5
Cassandra
Lucien had been strangely silent throughout the whole exchange with the district court commissioner. Yes, I’d told him to let me do the talking, but I hadn’t really expected him to comply. Mentally ill with delusions? Possibly. Or maybe he really was some sort of lesser demon. Either way the man stared at me the whole time as if he were undressing me with his eyes, as if he wanted to do a whole lot more than undress me, whether my third cousin was watching or not.
Aaron was an anomaly in our family. Ever since Temperance escaped the stake in Salem and dragged her paramour through the wilderness to found our town, we Perkins women had been the unofficial government here. Women, because only the female descendants of Temperance could inherit the “gift”. Thankfully girls accounted for ninety percent of the births in our family line, with boys a mere ten percent and many of them not surviving past infancy.
That meant that any surviving boy children were doted on and spoiled. For their entire lives. Aaron was my third cousin, but we had him over for our family dinner on a weekly basis, and treated him as if he were an overindulged younger brother. The man was seven years older than me, and I couldn’t help but baby him. And in all honesty, he enjoyed it. It was probably one of the reasons he wasn’t married at the age of forty.
There were other reasons, but those were personal and not mine to divulge.
Deputy Hollaran brought the box and sat it on the desk in front of me, backing away. I’d have the privilege of being the one to open the box and attach the ankle monitor. There was a key that Sheriff Oakes had, and I was pretty sure Aaron had access to it, but when it came to magical items, if there was a witch in the room, handling them defaulted to her. Part of that was as a form of respect. Part of it was due to safety.
Most of our magic was fairly predictable, but Bronwyn wasn’t known for her light touch when it came to enchanted objects, and these anklets were crafted to keep a giant from leaving the city limits, so they weren’t exactly mundane objects as far as magical energy went.
“What is that?” Lucien’s voice cracked like a whip, startling me a bit.
“An ankle monitor. It restricts you to the town limits until your hearing, which if I can’t get the charges dropped, I will make every attempt to schedule for Monday. Tuesday at the latest. You won’t be able to leave town while you’re wearing it.”
“Or what? I blow up? Sargent Handy here comes out with a stick and shoots fireworks at me?”
“No, you just can’t leave the town limits.” I bent down and snapped the silver band around his lower leg, feeling a jolt of electricity as I touched him that had nothing to do with the magical device. When I looked up, I saw a rather calculating look in his eyes.
“It’s Friday,” he said. “I have to stay in your town for three to four nights with no money? Where am I supposed to stay?”
“Homeless shelter?” I shot back. We didn’t have a homeless shelter. And as annoyed as I was with this whole situation, I couldn’t make this guy sleep in an alley or a field. Besides, the residents would complain, he’d get arrested, then I’d have even more work to do. “I’ll see if one of the hotels will put you up for the weekend.”
Hotel. Singular. We had one hotel, and I wasn’t sure Bernadette and Hollister were going to let someone stay there free of charge, especially someone who was wearing one of Bronwyn’s ankle monitors and was awaiting trial for assault charges and more. Although neither of them were fans of the Dickskin clan. I might be able to leverage that.
“I could stay at your house.” His voice was smooth as silk, with all the innuendo.
“No.”
“Sleep on the couch?”
“No.” I stood up, realizing I was far too close to him. Damn, he was taller than I’d thought. And he had a lean type of wiry strength that was sexy in an elegant, classy sort of way.
Classy. With blood-stained, torn, crumpled clothing, a black eye, and a puffy, cut lip. But he did come across as classy. Arrogant classy. Entitled classy. The privileged sort of classy that said he’d spent his whole life hearing nothing besides “Yes, Sir”. And here I thought Aaron was spoiled.
“You’re coming with me,” I told him. “To the only inn we’ve got here in Accident. I’ll get you a room there for four or five nights.”
And who knows what I’d have to promise Hollister to make that happen.
* * *
“No.” Hollister scowled. “We’re booked up.”
“You’re not booked up,” I scowled back. “Come on. Four or five nights. Just until the hearing.” Because after that, this guy would either be on his way out of town, or in a jail cell.
“No, we’re booked up. Lisa Morgan’s wedding is this weekend, and all her guests are staying here. And I don’t like the idea of some felon staying in my hotel.”
“Accused felon,” I shot back. “Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Accused, convicted, I don’t give a shit. If he’s so dangerous that he needs one of Bronwyn’s ankle monitors, then he’s not staying here.” Hollister shot the other man a quick glance. “What’s his deal anyway? He a fairy of something?”
Lucien grinned. I waved at him to keep quiet, but he ignored me.
“I’m a prince of darkness, the firstborn of—”
“He beat the crap out of the Dickskin boys.” I said, hoping that was enough to gain Hollister’s cooperation.
The older man’s eyebrows shot up. “Which ones?”
“Stanley and Clinton. Clinton’s not a good loser so he’s pressing charges.”
“Friday night. That’s all I’ve got. He needs to be out of here by noon tomorrow.”
I threw up my hands in exasperation. “Tomorrow is Saturday. His hearing won’t be until Monday at the earliest. Can’t you double up Lisa Morgan’s relatives or something?”
“Out by noon,” Hollister repeated. “And I won’t charge you on account of his whupping Clinton Dickskin hard enough that he went crying to the police.”
Crap. What the heck was I going to do with this guy after tomorrow noon? There was only one way out of this—I needed to go get Clinton to drop the charges. And Stanley to drop the charges. And Pistol Pete to drop the charges.
Out of those three, I dreaded the conversation with Clinton the most. I could barely keep my temper with that guy on a good day. How I was going to smooth talk him into letting this all go this was beyond me.
“Thanks. I’ll take it,” I told Hollister, figuring this was better than nothing. I grabbed the outstretched key, then motioned for Lucien to follow me.
“We
actually do have fairies in this town,” I told the man. Fairies were vicious little creatures, who liked to magically glamour themselves to appear full-sized vicious creatures. Although I was pretty sure Lucien thought that Hollister was questioning his sexual preferences.
“I know, remember? A group of them tried to pick me up outside that bar last night.” He laughed. “Would they have been the ones in jail if they’d chewed me to bits? Or do you all only incarcerate those you assume are human in this town?”
“Fae have their own laws, as do the shifters and the other creatures in town.” I shot him a quick glance. “Humans are off limits. That’s one of the rules everyone needs to abide to continue to live here.”
“Funny. No one seemed to let the werewolves know that little fact,” he commented. “So this town of yours, Accident, is a haven for supernatural beings? A place where they can let their serpent-hair down and be themselves?”
I laughed. “Exactly. And Accident has been like that since the seventeenth century when it was founded.”
“By a witch,” he said.
I stopped walking and turned to him. “How did you know that?”
His dark eyes met mine and he took a step closer. “You’re a witch. I can see the magic around you, feel the power of your energy. Only a witch of great power could manage to keep the peace with all these beings living here together. How did you survive the inquisition? The trials? The burning times? Was there a demon who protected you? One you bonded with?”
I took a step back, not understanding what he was talking about and a bit unnerved by it all. “I’m only thirty-three years old. My ancestor, Temperance Perkins, survived the burning times, but she died centuries ago. And as for the town…we have a human system of government now. There is no witch running things here.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Then what do you do here in Accident, Cassandra Perkins? What does a witch with your power do?”
Not magic, if that’s what he was implying. “I’m a lawyer. I’m a resident. I live here just like everyone else. I pay my taxes. I vote. And I don’t do magic.”
He frowned, clearly puzzled. “What do you mean you don’t do magic? I can see your energy. You’re a witch—a powerful witch. You should be running this town.”
I abruptly turned away and kept walking toward the room. “I have no desire to do magic, or to run this town. Right now the only thing I want to do is to get you settled into this hotel room, and try to get the charges against you dropped before everyone heads out to happy hour.”
“Judging by the fact that you’re holding a real key with a plastic tag saying number six on it, I’m going to assume this isn’t an upscale place,” Lucien commented drily as he followed me to room six.
“Not the Hilton,” I told him, unlocking the door and motioning for him to enter with a sweep of my hand.
He stepped inside and turned slowly around, taking in the room. “Not the Motel Six either.”
“It’s clean. No bugs or nasty stuff. Just a simple inn, and far better a choice than anything else you might have.”
“No so,” he told me with a grin.
“What, sleeping in a field or on a street corner is better than this?”
“I meant your house. That’s a much better option.”
I let out my breath in a frustrated whoosh, thinking that if I didn’t talk Clinton Dickskin into dropping the charges, that might be where this guy ended up after noon tomorrow. Why hadn’t I just let him stay in jail over the weekend? Why had I bothered to insist that he be released? And why in the hell had I personally guaranteed he’d show up at his hearing?”
Because he’d seemed so out of place there in that cell. It had seemed wrong somehow. And whether the guy was crazy or an actual demon, he’d still gotten the upper hand on Clinton Dickskin. That had to be worth more than a weekend in jail.
“Television remote is over there.” I pointed to the dresser. “Towels and linens are in the bathroom and that closet.”
“And the food?” He eyed me. “I’m assuming there’s no room service?”
Crap. Double crap. The guy had to eat, and even if I managed to get the charges dropped, he still probably hadn’t had any real food since last night.
“No, but I’ll call for a pizza delivery.” And have to pay for it out of my own pocket as well. This case was bringing a whole new meaning to the term pro bono.
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Will you be joining me for this pizza? Perhaps delivering it yourself?”
“Nope. Stay here. Watch TV. Eat your pizza. I’ll be back tomorrow before you need to check out.”
Hopefully I’d be back before then. Hopefully.
* * *
The pizza ended up costing me nothing. It seems Hollister wasn’t the only one thrilled that Lucien had pummeled our town bully. For assaulting a werewolf, the guy was getting a large hand-tossed with the works and extra cheese. I wondered how many freebies would be delivered to Lucien’s hotel room door once the word of his deeds spread throughout the town. He’d be a bit of a legend.
Maybe I could use that in getting the case dropped.
I took the winding road out of downtown, heading up Heartbreak Mountain and turning down a narrow private lane. Originally the wards had only encircled the town proper, but over the last two centuries, it became clear that as our population grew, the area we warded needed to as well. Any supernatural who lived outside the wards was vulnerable. Inside, their abilities and skills were blunted, but they were safe. Any human encountering them would find their memories altered once they were out of the town limits.
Which meant when Lucien left, the knowledge that Clinton wasn’t human, that the anklet he wore was magical, or that the girl delivering the pizza was a banshee would fade away. Accident would just be a small mountain town where he’d gotten drunk and fought some guy, luckily escaping with only one night in jail and all his beautiful teeth still intact.
If he was human. If he was actually a demon, he’d remember it all. I shivered wondering about the implications of that. We’d never had demons in Accident and until now I’d not questioned that fact. Maybe foundational wards kept demons out, and that portion of the spell had degraded? As much as I hated the thought of dragging those books down from the attic, I might just have to do some research.
Actually, I didn’t hate the thought. Something in me thrilled at the thought of going through those books, of crafting spells as I’d done all through my childhood. I remembered my mother helping me with my first charms, standing beside my grandmother as we reinforced the wards, sabbat in our back yard every week. A part of me missed that.
And a part of me resented that I’d never been given a choice in all of this.
But there was possibly a demon in our town, and that might mean I’d need to get over my sulk-fest and put on my pointed hat—hopefully temporarily.
Was he a demon? The other supernaturals had blunted powers, but his seemed to be far more than blunted. It was as if he’d been nulled by the wards. Did they affect demons more than the others who called Accident their home? Or was he in fact just a human who’d had some sort of psychotic break and thought he was a demon? Perhaps the werewolves had hit him a bit too hard in the head and this was a result of some concussion.
Either way, I hoped the sheriff had at the very least given Clinton a stern lecture. I’ll admit I was more than a bit pissed that he hadn’t hauled the werewolf in along with Lucien. Yes, the Dickskin family lawyer usually got Clinton out of jail so fast that I doubted the werewolf had spent more than five minutes total in a cell the last year, but there really needed to be some sort of consequences for this sort of thing. Clinton Dickskin, all of the Dickskin pack actually, had taken to behaving as if this town was their own. They threatened the locals, squeezing some of them with a protection racket. They fought with visitors and townsfolk alike. They got angry when they didn’t get their way and keyed cars or peed on people’s shrubberies. And let me tell you, nothing kills a shrubbery de
ad like a healthy dose of werewolf pee.
Something had to be done about these Dickskin werewolves, and I wasn’t sure our sheriff was the one to do it. There were plenty of supernaturals in this town, including other shifter packs, but no one wanted to challenge the Dickskins.
Which meant this was eventually going to fall in my lap. I swallowed hard, thinking of any possible way out of this. Seven prime witches lived in Accident—all of us descendants of our founder. Seven sisters. We were close. We were all of a generation. And the responsibility for the town had fallen to us.
And we’d done nothing. Actually, I’d done nothing.
In our defense, this wasn’t the same town or country it was back when Temperance and her lover set the first wards around a tiny cluster of houses. We had a democratically elected mayor. We had a sheriff. The Perkins witches only needed to make sure the wards held, not go around policing the behavior of the residents.
Or did we? Because if we didn’t, who’s to say one day there wouldn’t be a murder, or something more serious than a drunk-and-disorderly? Who’s to say one of the Dickskin pack might decide they wanted more than just some spare change, free beers, and to always win at poker? We’d been just fine in Accident the last three generations, but there was an unsettled feeling in my gut that our peace might be ending. That it might already have ended. And my intuition told me the first step to reversing this was to put the fear of God into Clinton Dickskin and his family, and get that newbie holed up at Hollister’s out of town. And to do it before nightfall.
Chapter 6
Cassandra
Clinton’s father, Dallas, answered the door. I’m pretty sure he would have slammed it in my face had I been some random person there selling magazines or soliciting donations for the local volunteer fire department, but I had two things going in my favor—I was a witch, and I was female.
Brimstone and Broomsticks: Accidental Witches Book 1 Page 4
