This Strange Witchery

In the flash of a streetlight, he cast her a look. It admonished while also judged. Such a look made him fall a notch on her attraction-level meter.

“You’re not very nice,” she offered.

Tor turned his attention back to the street, shaking his head.

“I’ll pay you,” she tried. “I would never expect you to work for free.”

“What’s the address?” he asked.

Obstinate bit of...sexy. If he weren’t so handsome, she would ask him to stop and she’d catch a cab. She was not a woman to hang around where she wasn’t wanted.

After a reluctant sigh, Melissande gave him the street address and muddled over how to convince him to protect her. She didn’t know who else to contact. She’d overheard her dad and his brother one evening talking about the various humans in the city whom they trusted. The list had been short. And while they’d both agreed that Torsten Rindle was definitely not on their side, they’d also agreed that he was a man of honor and integrity who could get the job done, and who had a concern for keeping all things paranormal hush-hush without resorting to senseless violence or assuming all nonhumans walked around with a target on their foreheads.

At the time, Melissande had known if she’d ever need help, he was her man. And then, when the whole conversation earlier with the cicada had occurred—well. She never overlooked a chat with a bug.

She hadn’t told her dad, Thoroughly Jones, this part of the plan, though he did know her ultimate goal. She’d agreed to take on this task because she knew how much of an emotional toll it would take on her father. And she intended to handle every detail on her own, so he could focus on taking care of her mother, Star, when she really needed the attention.

Poor Mom—she had only just been reborn a few weeks ago after a fall from a sixth-floor rooftop, and this life was not treating her well.

Melissande’s neighborhood was quiet and quaint and filled with old buildings that had stood for centuries. The Montparnasse Cemetery wasn’t far away, and often tourists wandered down her street, but were always respectful of the private gates and entrances. She loved it because she had a decent-sized yard behind the house, fenced in with black wrought iron, in which she grew herbs and medicinal flowers. It served her earth magic. Her two-story Victorian, painted a deep, dusty violet, held memories of ages past. But no ghosts. Which bummed her out a little, because she wouldn’t mind a ghost or two, so long as they were friendly.

Tor parked the van before her property. The front gate and fence boasted a healthy climbing vine with night-blooming white moonflowers. Opening the van door, she breathed in the flowers’ intoxicating scent. “Blessed goddess Luna.” Soon the moon would reach fullness. And then Melissande would be faced with her greatest challenge.

Tor swung around the front of the van before she’d even gotten her first foot on the ground. “I’ll walk you up,” he said as he rolled down his sleeves.

She dashed her finger over the cut on his neck and was satisfied it was just a nick.

“I’ll live.” He offered her his arm.

Startled by such a chivalrous move, Melissande linked her arm with his, and with a push of her hand forward and a focus of her magic, she opened the gate before them without touching it.

She’d been born with kinetic magic. Sometimes the things she needed moved did so before she even had the thought.

“Witches,” Tor muttered as he witnessed the motion.

“What about witches?” she challenged. The narrow sidewalk forced them to walk closely, and she did not release his arm when she felt his tug to make her step a little faster. “You got a problem with witches?”

“I have little problem with any person who occupies this realm. Unless they intend, or actually do, harm to others. Then that person will not like me very much.”

“I know your reputation. It’s why I came to you. But you’re not a vampire slayer, so why the stake to fight the zombie?”

“Revenant.” They stopped before the stoop, and she allowed him back his arm. Tor pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “I like to keep my arsenal varied. The stake was a gift from an Order knight. I also carry a silent chain saw and a variety of pistols equipped with wood, iron and UV bullets. And at any given moment I might also be wielding a machete. Gotta mix it up. Keep things fresh.”

“You don’t use spells, do you?”

“Not with any luck.”

“Good. That’s my expertise. Do you want to come in for some tea before you abandon me to be attacked by all the vile denizens that seek the heart?”

“No, I’m good.” He winked.

Melissande’s heart performed a shiver and then a squeezing hug. Surely the heat rising in her neck was a blush, but she couldn’t remember a time when she’d blushed before.

“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.