Buch lesen: «This Strange Witchery»

Chapter 1

The key to disposing of a werewolf body was to get the flames burning quickly, yet to keep them as contained as possible. Torsten Rindle had been doing cleaner work for close to ten years. When a call came in about a dead paranormal found or deposited somewhere in Paris, he moved swiftly. Discreet cleanup was one of his many trades. Media spin was a talent he’d mastered for whenever he was too late to clean up and a human had stumbled upon the dead werewolf. He also dallied with protection work and the occasional vampire hunt.

It was good for a man to keep his business options fluid and to always expand his skills list. And if he had to choose a title for what he did, he’d go with Secret Keeper.

But some days...

Tor shook his head as the blue-red flames burned the furry body to ash before him. The use of eucalyptus in the mix masked the smell of burning dog. For the most part. The creature had been rabid, eluding the slayer until it had gotten trapped down a narrow alleyway that had ended in a brick wall. The slayer had taken it out not twenty minutes earlier, and then had immediately called Tor.

Those in the know carried Tor’s number. He was always the first choice when it came to keeping secrets from humans.

Thankful this had been an old wolf—werewolves shifted back to human form after death; the older ones took much longer, sometimes hours—so he hadn’t needed to deal with it in human form, Tor swiped a rubber-gloved hand over an itch on his cheek. Then he remembered the werewolf blood he’d touched.

Bollocks.

He was getting tired of this routine: receive a frantic call from someone in the know regarding a rabid werewolf who may be seen by humans. Dash to the scene. Assess the situation. Clean up the mess (if extinguishing the problem was essential), or talk to the police and/or media using one of his many alter-ego names and titles, such as Ichabod Sneed from the Fire Department’s Personal Relations. Then return home to his empty loft.

Eat. Crash. Repeat.

Tor knew... He knew too much. Monsters existed. Vampires, werewolves, witches, faeries, harpies, mermaids. They all existed. And yes, dragons were known to be real assholes if you could find one of them. A regular human guy like him shouldn’t have such knowledge. That was why, over the years, he had striven to keep such information from the public. Because knowing so much? It fucked with a man’s mental state.

And then there were some days he wanted to walk away from it all. Like today.

This morning he’d been woken and called to assist with media contacts while a minor graveyard at the edge of the city had been blocked off from public access. Routine cosmetic repairs, he’d explained to the news reporters. The truth? A demonic ritual had roused a cavalcade of vicious entities from Daemonia. Slayers had taken care of the immediate threat, but that had left the graveyard covered in black tar-like demon blood. And the stench!

Tor had spent the better part of this afternoon arguing with a group of muses about their need to “come out” to the public regarding their oppressive attraction to angels who only wanted to impregnate them. Something to do with the #metoo movement. Sexual harassment or not, the public wasn’t ready for the truth about fallen angels and their muses. But, being a feminist himself, he had directed the muses to the Council, who had recently put together a Morals and Ethics Committee.

“I want normal,” he muttered. He grabbed the fire extinguisher to douse the flames. He refilled the canister at the local fire station monthly. “It’s time I had it.”

It took ten minutes to clean up the sludgy ash pile and shovel it into a medium black body bag. Fortunately, this werewolf had been tracked to the edge of the 13th arrondissement not far from the ring road that circled Paris. It was a tight little neighborhood, mostly industry that had closed during regular business hours, leaving the streets abandoned and the dusty windows dark. Tor hadn’t noticed anyone nearby, nor had he worried about discovery as he made haste cleaning up the evidence. His van was parked down the street.

He hefted the body bag over a shoulder, picked up the extinguisher and his toolbox filled with all the accoutrements a guy like him should ever need on a job like this, and wandered down the street. His rubber boots made squidgy noises on the tarmac. After dousing the flames, he’d rolled down the white polyethylene hazmat suit to his hips. With shirtsleeves rolled up, his tweed vest still neatly buttoned, yet tie slightly loosened, he could breathe now.

“Normal,” he repeated.

He’d scheduled a Skype interview early tomorrow afternoon. The job he had applied for was assistant to Human Relations and Resources at an up-and-coming accounting firm in la Defense district. About as mundane and normal as a man could hope for. He’d never actually worked a regular “human” job.

It was about time he gave it a go.

The olive green van, which had seen so many better days, sat thirty feet down from a streetlight that flickered and put out an annoying buzz. Humming a Sinatra tune, Tor opened the back of the van and tossed in the supplies. He’d dump the body bag at a landfill on the way home. He’d done his research; that landfill was plowed monthly and shipped directly to China for incineration.

“That’s my life,” he sang, altering the lyrics to suit him.

Sinatra was a swanky idol to him. Singing his songs put him in a different place from the weird one he usually occupied. Call it a sanity check. The Sultan of Swoon relaxed him in ways he could appreciate.

He peeled off the sweaty hazmat suit, hung it on a hanger and placed that on a hook near the van ceiling. At his belt hung a heavy quartz crystal fixed into a steel mount that clipped with a D ring onto a loop. He never went anywhere without the bespelled talisman. Another necessity for sanity. The rubber boots were placed in a tray on the van floor. He pulled out his bespoke Italian leather shoes from a cloth bag and slipped those on.

“Ahhh...” Almost better than a shower. But he couldn’t wait to wash off the werewolf blood. Odds were he had it in more places than the smear across his cheek.

Closing the back doors, he punched a code on the digital lock to secure it. While he sorted through his trouser pocket for the van key, he whistled the chorus to the song that demanded he accept life as it was...that’s life.

Maybe... No. Life didn’t have to be this way for him. He was all-in for a change of scenery.

Before he slid the key in the lock, he saw the driver’s door was unlocked. Had he forgotten? That wasn’t like him. He was always on top of the situation. Which only further contributed to his need to run from this life as if a flaming werewolf were chasing his ass.

Tor slid into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. Another crazy midnight job. His final one. He would stand firm on that decision. And after getting a whiff of the dead werewolf’s rangy scent—someone please show him the way to his new office cubicle.

Adjusting the radio to a forties’ swing station, he palmed the stick shift.

When the person in the passenger seat spoke, he startled. “Whoa!”

“Hey! Oops. Sorry.” The woman let out a bubbly nervous giggle. “Didn’t mean to surprise you. I’ve been waiting. And watching. You’ve quite the talent, you know that?”

“Who in bloody—” He squinted in the darkness of the cab, but could only see glints in her eyes and—above her eyes? Hmm... Must be some kind of sparkly makeup. “How did you...?”

“The door wasn’t locked. You really should lock your doors in this neighborhood. Anyone could steal your van. Not that it’s very steal-worthy. Kinda old, and there’s more rust than actual paint. But I’m guessing you have important stuff in the back. Like a dead werewolf!” she announced with more cheer than anyone ever should.

His eyes adjusting to the darkness, Tor could make out that she had long brown hair and big eyes. She smiled. A lot. He didn’t get a sense about her—was she paranormal or human? But then, he didn’t have any special means of determining whether a person was paranormal or not. Sometimes he didn’t know until it was too late. But he did pick up an overtly incautious happiness about her.

Without letting down his guard, he reached across the console to offer his hand. “Torsten Rindle.”

“I know!” She shook his hand eagerly. “I’ve been looking for you. And now I’ve found you.”

If she knew who he was, then she probably knew what he did for a living. Which still didn’t solve the issue of what she was. Humans hired him all the time to protect them from paranormals. But to find him, they had to be in the know, and also know someone who knew someone who knew him. Who, in turn, had his phone number.

He pulled back his hand and leaned an elbow on the steering wheel, keeping his body open, prepared to move to either defend or restrain. “Who are you, and why are you in my van?”

“It’s a rather beat-up old van, isn’t it?”

“So you’ve said.”

“Doesn’t really jibe with you in your fancy vest and trousers and designer watch.”

The watch in question showed it was well past midnight. This had been a hell of a long day.

“I don’t need to draw attention by driving a sports car,” Tor offered. “And the van is as utility as it gets. A requirement in my line of work. Now. Your name? And why are you sitting in my van?”

“Melissande Jones.” She fluttered her lashes as she pressed her fingers to her chest, where frilly red flowers made up the neckline of her blouse. “My friends call me Lissa, as does my family. I’m not sure I like the nickname, but I hate to argue with people. I’m a people pleaser. Sad, but true. And I’m here because I need your help. Your protection, actually.”

Tor played her name over in his brain. The last name was familiar. And in Paris, it wasn’t so common as, say, in the United States or London. He made it a point to know who all the paranormal families in the city were, and had good knowledge of most across the world. Blame it on his penchant for getting lost in research. And for needing to know everything.

Recall brought to mind a local family of witches. The two elders were twin brothers. And he knew the one brother had twin sons, so that left the other...

“Thoroughly Jones’s daughter? A dark witch?”

“Yes, and mostly.” She turned on the seat so her body faced him. Her bright red lipstick caught the pale glow from the distant streetlight. Her lips were shaped like a bow. And combined with those big doe eyes and lush feathery lashes? “Can you help me?”

“I, uh...” Shaking himself out of his sudden admiration for her sensual assets, Tor assumed his usual emotionless facade, the one he wore for the public. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard about me, but I’m no longer in the business of providing personal protection.”

“You’re a cleaner.” She gestured toward the fire truck that was pulling up down the street where the werewolf had been burned. Someone must have witnessed the fire after all. “You also do spin for The Order of the Stake.”

Two things that most might know about him. If they were paranormal. And again, knew someone who knew someone who—

“And you own the Agency,” she said, interrupting his disturbed thoughts. “A group that protects us paranormals.”

That knowledge was more hush-hush. And not correct.

“Not exactly. The Agency seeks to put their hands to weapons, ephemera, and other objects that might fall into human hands and lead them to believe in you paranormals.”

“You paranormals,” she said mockingly and gestured with a flutter of her hand that made Tor suddenly nervous. A bloke never knew what witches could do with but a flick of finger or sweep of hand. “You’re human, right?”

“That I am.”

And she was a witch. A dark witch. Mostly? He had no idea what that meant. And...he wasn’t interested in finding out.

“Like I’ve said, I don’t do protection. And I’ve handed off the Agency reins to someone located in the States. But of most importance is, I really do not want to get involved with anyone from the Jones family. I respect your father and his brother. They are a pair of badass dark witches most would do well to walk a wide circle around.” He’d come this close to stepping into that dangerous circle a few years back. And he wasn’t a stupid man. Lesson learned. “If you need someone—”

“But your Agency protects paranormal objects, yes?”

“It does. The Agency always will, but I’m not doing that sort of—”

“Then you can help me.” She bent over and reached into a big flowered purse on the floor and pulled out something that blinded Tor with its brilliance. “I have a paranormal object.”

Tor put up a hand to block the pulsating red glow. It was so bright. Like the sun but in a shade of red. He couldn’t see the shape or the size, yet knew that she held it with one hand. “Put that away! What the hell is that?”

She set the thing on her lap and placed a palm over it, which quieted the glow to a smoldering simmer. “It’s Hecate’s heart.”

Tor didn’t recognize it as a volatile object from any lists he had read or compiled, but that didn’t mean anything. There were so many weapons, objects, tools, even creatures that were considered a danger to humans and paranormals alike. The most dangerous had to be contained, or Very Bad Things could happen in the mortal realm.

“What does it do besides blind a man?” he asked.

“Hecate was the first witch.”

“I know that. But she’s long dead. Is that her actual heart?”

“Yes.” Melissande patted it gently. The object pulsed with each touch. “It’s said that should her heart ever stop beating, all the witches’ hearts in this realm would suddenly cease to beat. Ominous, right?” The red glow softened her features and gave them an enchanting cast. Her lashes were so thick, they granted her eyes a glamorous come-and-touch-me appeal. “But it’s pretty indestructible. I dropped it earlier. Got a little dirt on it. No big deal. Though it looks like glass, it’s not. It’s sort of a solid gel substance.”

“You dropped it? Wait.” Tor took a moment to inhale and center himself. And to remember his goal: normal. “I’m not doing this. I’m no longer in the protection business.”

Melissande’s jaw dropped open. And those eyes. Why couldn’t he stop staring at those gorgeous eyes? Was it the sparkly makeup that made them glitter, or did they really twinkle like stars? Maybe she’d cast an attraction spell on herself before finding him. Witches were sneaky like that. And how had she found him? Tor prided himself on his ability to blend in, to be the classic everyman. That she had been able to track him down without a phone call...

He wasn’t going to worry about this. He’d made his decision. Normal it was.

“I need to get on the road and dispose of the remains,” he said, turning on the seat and gripping the steering wheel. “You can leave now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Did you decide just now you’re not doing the protection thing anymore?”

“No, I—”

“Or is it me? I get that my dad and his brother are a couple of big scary witches. Woo-woo dark witch stuff is imposing. But I’m not asking you to work with them.”

“I’ve been considering this decision for weeks. Months,” Tor protested. “And it’s final—”

“Oh, come on. One more job? I need your help, Tor. I’m just one tiny witch who has an ominous magical artifact stuffed in her purse that seems to attract strange things to it. In proof, on the way to finding you, I gave a zombie the slip.”

“Zombies do not exist,” Tor said sharply. “Revenants do. But the walking dead are a false assumption. It’s impossible to have a dead person walking around, decaying, and actually surviving more than a few minutes.”

“Is that so? That’s good to know. Still not sure I believe you. But revenants...” She cast her gaze out the passenger window.

And Tor couldn’t help but wonder what it was about revenants that gave her pause. Damn it! He didn’t care. He could not care. If he were going to make the transition to normal, he had to get rid of this annoyingly cute witch.

Yet the glow from the heart, seeping between her fingers, did intrigue him. Something like that should be under lock and key, kept far and safely away from humans. And should it fall into the hands of the Archives, whom her uncle Certainly Jones headed? The Archives wasn’t as beneficent as they were touted to be. The things they stored weren’t always left to sit and get dusty. Tor didn’t even want to think about all the nasty happenings that occurred because something the Archives had obtained had been used.

Yeah, so maybe he had stepped into that circle of danger with one of the Jones brothers. Whew! He knew far too much about the ominous power of dark magic. And yet he had lived to breathe another day.

“You want me to protect you and that thing?” he asked. “You know the Agency would take that heart in hand and put it under lock and key? In fact, if you want to hand it over, I guess I could take it right now—”

“No.” She lifted the heart possessively to her chest. Tor squinted at the maddening glow. “Can’t do that. I need it for a spell that I can’t invoke until the night of the full moon.”

Which was less than a week from now. Tor always kept the moon cycles in his head. It wasn’t wise to walk into any situation without knowing what phase the moon was in. Had tonight been a full moon? That werewolf would not have gone down so easily for the slayer. And burning it would have roused every bloody wolf in the city to howls.

Tor rubbed two fingers over his temple, sensing he wasn’t going to be rid of her as easily as he wished. “Why me? What or who directed you toward me and suggested I might want to help you?”

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m weird.”

“I already think you’re weird. I don’t think a person can get much weirder than stealing a dead witch’s beating heart and then breaking into a stranger’s van to beg for his help.”

“What makes you think I stole this?”

“I—I don’t know. Is it a family heirloom you dug out of a chest in the attic? Something dear old Granny bequeathed to you on her deathbed?”

“No.” She hugged it tightly to her chest. Guilty of theft, as he could only suspect. And he had locked the van doors. He never forgot.

“People only find me because someone has given them my name,” he said. “And I always know when someone is coming for me, because that’s how it works. I want to know how you learned about me.”

“Fine. This evening, after I’d gotten home with the heart and sat out on the patio to have a cup of tea—I like peppermint, by the way.”

“I’m an Earl Grey man, myself.” The woman did go off on tangents. And he had just followed her along on one! “You were saying what it was that led you to me?”

“Right. As I was sipping my tea, a cicada landed on my plate. It was blue.”

Now intensely interested, Tor lifted his gaze to hers.

“Cicadas always look like they’re wearing armor. Don’t you think? Anyway, I didn’t hear it speak to me,” she said. “Not out loud. More like in my head. I sensed what it had come to tell me. And that was to give me your name. Torsten Rindle. I’d heard the name before. My dad and uncle have mentioned you in conversation. Cautiously, of course. I know you stand in opposition to them. And they know it, too. But they also have a certain respect for you. Anyway, I knew you could help me.”

A cicada had told a witch to seek him out for help?

Tor’s sleeves were still rolled to the elbows. Had the light been brighter, it would reveal the tattoo of a cicada on his inner forearm. The insect meant something to him. Something personal and so private he’d never spoken about it to anyone.

“How did you know—”

A thump on the driver’s side window made Tor spin around on the seat. A bloody hand smeared the glass.

“That’s the zombie,” Melissande stated calmly. “The one you told me didn’t exist.”