This Strange Witchery

by Michele Hauf

  “I’m beat,” Tor said. “It’s been a long day. Had to talk down a couple muses from going public with their life stories before that werewolf cleanup. Started the day with a demon mess. And capping it off with a revenant slaying put me over the edge as far as social contact.” He held out his hand for her to shake. “Good luck finding the person you need for protection.”

  Melissande stared at his hand for a few seconds, deciding it was the sexiest hand she’d ever seen. Wide and sure, and the fingers were long and strong. She’d like to feel them handle her as smoothly and as confidently as he had the stake.

  As she reluctantly lifted her hand in a send-off to her last best hope, she remembered something. “I forgot my bag in your van. It’s got the heart in it.”

  “I’ll get it for you—”

  They both turned when a growl in the vicinity of the van curdled the night air. Looming before the vehicle was a skeletal conglomeration of bones and smoke with a toothy maw.

  “Really?” Tor said. “A wraith demon? What the hell is up with that heart?”

  “I have no idea,” Melissande offered as she grabbed him by the arm and clung out of fear.

  “Go inside,” he ordered. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Good plan. I’ll start tea.” As Tor strode toward the growling demon, unafraid and shoulders back, Melissande called, “Don’t forget my bag!”

  * * *

  Tor’s strides took him right up to the wraith demon. The thing slashed its talons at him and hissed, “You have something I want, human.” It dragged its obsidian talons across the passenger door, cutting through the faded green paint to reveal the steel beneath.

  “If it’s a wish for a new paint job, you’re right, bloke,” Tor said.

  Not giving the thing a moment to think, he swung out and landed a solid right hook on the side of its head, just below the horn. That was a touchy spot where no bone covered whatever tender innards were contained within the thing. The demon howled in pain.

  Not wanting to wake the neighbors, Tor acted quickly. Taking out the stake from his pocket, he plunged it against the demon’s chest and compressed the paddles to release the spring-loaded pointed shaft. It wasn’t the first line of defense against demons, but it did slow them down just long enough.

  From his belt, he unhooked the vial of black Egyptian salt—that he purchased in bulk—and broke the glass outward so the contents sprayed the demon’s face. “Deus benedicat!” The god bless you wasn’t necessary for the kill, but he liked to toss that in. Those were the last words a demon wanted to hear as its face stretched wide in a dying scream.

  “Bastard!” the thing shouted before its horns dropped off. The wraith demon disintegrated to a pile of floaty black ash at Tor’s feet.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Tor scanned the neighborhood. No lights on in any nearby houses. And the altercation had occurred on the side of the van facing the witch’s house, so he’d been partially concealed. But he waited anyway.

  Curiosity always tended to come out in moments of fear. If any humans had witnessed this, he’d know about it soon.

  Checking his watch, he verified it was nearing 2:00 a.m. Too late. And like he’d told the witch: he’d had a day.

  “Normal,” he muttered, and shook the ash from the toe of his leather shoe.

  Sure the demon slaying had gone unnoticed, Tor opened the passenger door and grabbed the floral tapestry purse. It was so heavy he wondered if rocks were inside it, and red fringes dangled from the bottom. Girl stuff always gave him pause for a moment of genuine wonder. What was the purpose of so many fringes? And what did women put in their purses that made them heavier than an army rucksack? He’d like to take a look inside, but he knew that a wise man did not poke about in a witch’s personal things.

  He turned toward the house, then paused. He should take out Hecate’s heart and toss the purse on the step. That would solve a lot of problems he didn’t want to have. Namely, revenants and crazed demons.

  The purse had a zipper. He touched the metal pull—

  “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not nice to snoop in a woman’s bag?” Melissande called from the threshold.

  Tor rubbed the tattoo under his sleeve. No, his mother had not.

  With a resigned sigh, he strode up to the witch’s stoop and handed her the curious receptacle filled with marvels untold.

  “Tea?” she asked sweetly. As if he’d not just polished off a wraith demon in her front yard, and wasn’t wearing werewolf blood on his face like some kind of Scottish warrior.

  “Why not.” With weary resolution, Tor stepped up. Pressing his palms to the door frame and leaning forward, but not crossing the threshold, he asked, “Wards?”

  “None for you, but as soon as you step inside, I’ll reactivate them. Come on. I won’t bite, unlike some people.”

  Tor’s chuckle was unstoppable. He stepped inside and closed the door, then followed the witch down a hallway papered in cutout purple and gray velvet damask and into the kitchen, which smelled of candle wax and dried herbs.

  Two cups of tea sat on a serving tray, which she picked up before leading him into a living room filled with so much fringe, velvet and glitter, Tor closed his eyes against the overwhelming bling as he sat on the couch. And settled deep into the plushest, most comfortable piece of furniture his body had ever known.

  “Right?” Melissande offered in response to his satisfied groan. “I like to become one with my furniture. That’s my favorite spot. If you relax, you’ll be asleep in two sips.”

  Tor took a sip of the sweet tea. Not Earl Grey, but it was palatable. “I never sleep on the job.”

  The witch sat on an ottoman before him, which was upholstered in bright red velvet. “On the job? Does that mean...?”

  That meant that Tor had just fended off two crazed creatures who had wanted to get to the heart in the witch’s mysterious purse. There was something wrong with that. He couldn’t ignore that she was in some kind of trouble. Whether dire or merely mediocre, it didn’t matter. When bad things came at you, a person needed to defend themselves. And she didn’t seem like someone who knew how to protect herself, even if she did possess magic.

  He took another sip of the tea, and his eyelids fluttered. This was good stuff. He’d had a long day. And combined with his growing nerves for tomorrow’s interview, his body was shot. His tight muscles wanted to release and...

  Tor’s teacup clinked as it hit the saucer. He didn’t see the witch extend her magical influence to steady the porcelain set in midair, because sleep hit him like a troll’s fist to the skull.

  Chapter 3

  Melissande leaned over Tor, who was slowly coming awake on the couch. He was so cute. Not a high-school-crush-with-long-bangs-and-a-quirky-smile kind of cute (though there was nothing wrong with that), but rather in a grown-up male I-will-save-you-from-all-that-frightens-you manner. His glossy hair was cut short above his ears, growing to tousle-length at the top of his head. She restrained herself from dipping her fingers into those tempting strands. Didn’t want to freak him out and send him running when he’d only just agreed to help her.

  His face shape was somewhere between an oval and a rectangle, and essentially perfect. Even the remaining smudges of blood at his temple did little to mar his handsome angles. His nose was long yet not too wide or flat. A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, but she suspected he was a morning shaver and liked to keep as tidy as his knotted tie. The zombie debris smudged on his white shirtsleeves must be driving him batty.

  Her gaze traveled to his mouth, while she traced her upper lip with her tongue. The man’s lips were firm, and sprinkled with a burgeoning mustache on the skin above. That indent between nose and upper lip was something she wanted to press her finger to. It was called a philtrum, if she recalled her explorations in anatomy (for spellcraft, of course). Maybe, if she was really sneaky...


  Tor startled and Melissande quickly stood, tucking the offending finger behind her back. “Good morning!”

  She waited for him to fully register wakefulness. He shook his head, stretched out his arms and curled his fingers. Then he patted his chest as if to reassure himself of a heartbeat. His next move was grasping for the large crystal hooked at his belt—she figured it was a kind of talisman.

  The man looked around the living room, brightly lit by the duck-fluff sunshine beaming through the patio-door windows—and groaned. “What the hell did you put in that tea, witch?”

  “Chamomile and lavender. You had a long and trying day. And you said you were tired, so I knew those specific herbs would help you along.”

  “Help me along? To where? Oblivion? That stuff was hexed. It knocked me out like a prizefighter’s punch. It’s morning? Bloody hell. I have business—”

  “It’s only eleven.”

  “Eleven?” He stood and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve slept half the day.”

  “I’ve made breakfast. You have time to eat and get a grasp on the day.”

  He winced. The man really did have a hard time coming out of a chamomile-tea sleep. Sans spell. She hadn’t added anything to the tea leaves. Honest.

  “Appointment’s at—” he checked his watch “—one.”

  “Good, then you’ve time. This way!”

  She skipped into the kitchen, which gleamed from a cleaning with lemon juice and vinegar. It was the coziest place Melissande could imagine to create. The kitchen was a large circle that hugged the front corner of the house. A pepper-pot turret capped the room two stories up, giving it an airy, yet still cozy vibe. Everywhere hung tools of her trade such as dried herbs twisted into powerful protection sigils, a bucket of coal (all-purpose magical uses), abundance and peace spells carved into the wooden windowsills, and charm bags hung with bird feet, anise stars and such. Drying fruits and herbs hung before the windows and from the ceiling. Crystals suspended from thin red string dazzled in all the windows. And the curved, velvet-cushioned settee that hugged the front of the house and looked out on the yard glinted from the tangerine quartz that danced as if it were a fringe along the upper row of curtains.

  On the stretch of kitchen counter sat the fruit bowl she’d prepared while listening to Tor’s soft and infrequent snores. She had already eaten, because who can prepare a meal without tasting? And really, she’d risen with the sun to collect fading peony petals for a tincture.

  Stretching out his arms in a flex that bulged his muscles beneath the fitted shirt, Tor wandered into the kitchen and cast his gaze about. He took in the herbs hanging above and the sun catchers glinting in the windows, and then his eyes landed on the frog immediately to his left, at eye level.

  He jumped at the sight of the curious amphibian. “What the bloody—? A floating frog?”

  Melissande shooed the frog into the dining area where the table mimicked the curve of the windows and wall. The fat, squat amphibian slowly made its way forward, but not without a protesting croak. He did not care to be ordered about. “That’s Bruce, my familiar. And he does not float.”

  “Looks like it’s floating to me.” Tor sat before the counter, checking Bruce with another assessing glance.

  “He’s a levitating frog,” Melissande provided with authority.

  “I don’t think I understand the difference.”

  “Anyone, or any creature, can float. And a floater just, well...floats. But a frog who levitates? That implies he’s doing it of his free will. Not many can do that. Am I right?”

  Tor’s brow lifted in weird acceptance. He tugged at his tie.

  “I hope you like smoothie bowls.” She pushed the bowl of breakfast toward him and held up a spoon.

  Tor took the spoon, but his attention was all over the bowl of pureed kiwi and pear spotted with dragon fruit cut in the shape of stars and sprinkles of cacao and coconut. “It’s...blue?”

  “The algae powder makes it blue. Lots of good minerals in that. Do you like hemp seeds?”

  “I...don’t know.” He prodded a small pear sphere that she had cut out and added to the bowl arranged to look like a night sky filled with stars. “It’s so...decorative. I’m not sure I can eat it.”

  “Of course you can. Dig in. It’s super healthy, and the dragon fruit is only in season for a short time. I already ate. I have a tendency to graze more than sit down for official meals. When you’re finished we can discuss your payment plan.”

  “My payment plan?” He scooped a helping of the smoothie and tasted it. With an approving nod, he ate more.

  “You did say you were on the job last night. I took that to mean you were going to protect me.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes, knowing she had abnormally long lashes. The action was one of her well-honed man-catcher moves. Well, she hadn’t actually field-tested it as a kinetic magic, but surely it had some power.

  Tor sighed, and the spoon clinked the side of the bowl. “Really? Using the ole bat-your-lashes move on me?”

  “Did it work?” she asked gleefully.

  He shook his head and snickered. “I am impervious.”

  Standing on the opposite side of the counter from him, Melissande leaned onto her elbows and gave him another devastating flutter. “That’s very sad that a man has to make himself impervious to a harmless little thing like me.”

  “You, I suspect, are far from harmless.” He plucked out a star of white dragon fruit speckled with tiny black seeds and downed it. Stabbing the air in her direction with the spoon, he said, “I’m not buying the tea story. There was something in that brew. And you are a witch.”

  “Wow, you got that on the first guess.”

  “Don’t patronize me. I know my paranormals. All ilks, from shapeshifters to alchemists, to the feral and the half-breeds. And I know...” He set down the spoon and looked her straight in the eyes.

  And Melissande’s heart did a giddy dance as his brown irises glinted with such a promise she didn’t know how to describe it, only it made her know—just know—that he had been the right choice. In more ways than she could fully realize.

  “Fine.” He looked away from her gaze, clutching for the knot in his tie to ease at it self-consciously.

  “Fine?”

  He conceded with a headshake that was neither a yes nor a no. At least, he was trying hard not to make it an all-out yes. “To judge from the events that have taken place since we’ve met, it is obvious you need protection from—whatever that thing you have in your purse is attracting. And I would never refuse to defend anyone in need.”

  Melissande clasped her hands together.

  “But I would prefer you simply hand over the heart and let me place it in safekeeping.”

  “Can’t do that, because I know you won’t give it back.”

  “You are correct. The Agency takes containment and security very seriously. Once we obtain an item, there is no way in hell—or Beneath—we’ll let that thing out of hand or sight.”

  “Then that’s a big no way on the safekeeping suggestion. And I know you can’t take it from me because that would be stealing, and that’ll have magical repercussions.”

  “Yeah? Did you steal the heart?”

  “I...” She walked her fingers along the counter toward the dish towel and grabbed it, then turned to dust the front of the fridge.

  “As suspected. Guess that means I’m on the clock for the next handful of days, eh?”

  Melissande tossed the towel to the sink and clapped gleefully. “Oh, thank you! You won’t regret it. I won’t be trouble. I promise.”

  “That promise has already been broken. Twice over.” He scooped in more of the smoothie. “But this ornamental fruit thingy makes up for some of it.” He twisted his wrist to check his watch. “I didn’t expect to take on a protection job. I do have other plans, and an onlin
e appointment I need to make in less than two hours. I have to go home to clean up and prepare.”

  “Then you’ll come back?”

  He finished off the smoothie bowl and stood. “You’re coming with me. From this moment, I won’t let you out of my sight. Not until our contract is complete.”

  “We have a contract?”

  He held out his hand to shake, and Melissande slapped her palm against his. His wide, strong hand held hers firmly. And if she hadn’t been so excited for his acceptance, she would have swooned in utter bliss. Maybe she did a little of it anyway, but she gripped the counter to keep her knees from bending and sinking too far into the silly reaction.

  “Yes, now we have a gentleman’s contract,” he said. “Grab whatever you need for the day. We’ll discuss details and logistics later, after I’ve finished with the appointment. Do you think you can stay out of my hair while I do that?”

  “Of course. Although, you’ve some very nice hair. I almost ran my fingers through it while I was watching you sleep.”

  “You were watch—” Tor put up a palm. “Don’t want to know. Let’s head out.”

  “I’ll get my things!”

  “Uh...” Tor glanced toward the dining table. “The frog stays here.”

  “Of course he does,” Melissande said. With a snap of her fingers, the door leading out to the narrow side yard opened a few inches. “He’ll be going out for his noontime bug hunt, anyway!”

  * * *

  This was not how he’d intended his day to go.

  Tor liked to keep to a schedule, which could be significantly different from day to day. But that he planned in advance for the following day’s events was key. He was always prepared, even for surprises.

  Most surprises, anyway. A cute witch sitting in his van with a strange, glowing heart in her purse? That had been an unexpected one.

  He walked into his apartment, followed by the witch, who carried two big bags of—whatever it was witches felt the need to carry with them. Please, do not let it be rank and slithery spell supplies. He didn’t mind the creepy stuff, so long as it was on his terms.