This Strange Witchery

“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.”

Chapter 2

Melissande observed as Tor swung out of the driver’s seat and darted into the back of the van. Heavy metal objects clinked. The man swore. His British accent was more pronounced than her barely-there one. He again emerged in the cab with a wicked-looking weapon. Actually, she recognized that hand-sized titanium column as one of those fancy stakes the knights in The Order of the Stake used to slay vampires. Was that supposed to work with zombies, as well?

“Stay here,” he ordered. Tor exited through the driver’s door, slamming it behind him.

Crossing her arms and settling onto the seat, Melissande decided she was perfectly fine with staying inside the nice safe van while the hero fought the creepy thing outside. Zombies didn’t exist? The man obviously knew nothing about the dark arts.

A hand slapped the driver’s window, followed by the smeared, slimy face of something that could only be zombie. One eyeball was missing. From behind, Tor grabbed it by the collar and swung it away from the vehicle.

Melissande let out her breath in a gasp, then tucked the heart she still held into her bag on the floor. Growing up in a household with a dark witch for a dad and a cat-shifting familiar for a mom, she should be prepared for unusual situations like this, but it never got easier to witness. Dark magic was challenging. And sometimes downright gross. She was surprised she’d accomplished her task today, securing Hecate’s heart. But she hadn’t expected it to attract the unsavory sort like the one battling Tor right now. Earlier, that same creature had growled at her and swiped, but she’d been too fast, and had slipped down the street away from the thing in her quest to locate the one man she knew could help her.

Anticipating the dangers of possessing the heart, she had known she might need protection. She couldn’t ask her dad, or her uncle. And should she ask her cousins—the twins Laith and Vlas—they would have laughed at her, saying how she’d gotten herself into another wacky fix.

She did have a knack for the weird and wacky. It seemed to follow her around like a stray cat with a bent tail. She didn’t hate cats, but she’d never keep one as a pet or familiar. When one’s mother was a cat-shifter, a girl learned to respect felines and to never take them for granted.

The not-zombie’s shoulders slammed against the vehicle’s dented hood. Melissande leaned forward in time to watch Tor slam the stake against its chest. The zombie didn’t so much release ash as dechunk, falling apart in clumps, accompanied by a glugging protrusion of sludgy gray stuff from its core. Gross, but also interesting. She’d never witnessed a zombie death.

With a sweep of his arm, Tor brushed some chunks from the hood. He tucked the stake in a vest pocket, then smoothed out the tweed vest he wore. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows revealed a tattoo on his forearm, but she couldn’t make out what it was in the darkness.

He was a smart dresser, and much sexier than she’d expected for a jack-of-all-trades human—because she had expected something rather brute, stocky and plain. Probably even scarred and with a gimpy eye. Tor’s short dark hair was neatly styled (save for the blood smeared at his temple and into his hairline). Thick, dark brows topped serious eyes that now scanned the area for further danger. With every movement, a muscle, or twelve, flexed under his fitted white shirt, advertising his hard, honed physique. And those fingers wrapped about the stake...so long and graceful, yet skilled and determined...

Melissande’s heart thundered, and it wasn’t from fear of a vile creature. The man did things to her better judgment, like make her wonder why she had never dated a human before. Maybe it was time to stretch her potential boyfriend qualifications beyond their boundaries.

“Did you get him?” she yelled through the windshield.

Tor’s eyebrow lifted and he gave her a wonky head wobble, as if to say, Did you not see me battle that heinous creature then defeat it?

She offered him a double thumbs-up.

He strolled around the side of the van. The back doors opened, and he pulled out something, then came back to the front. A shovel proved convenient for scooping dead zombie into a body bag. He was certainly well prepared.

After the quick cleanup, he again walked to the back of the van. Melissande glanced over the seats into the van’s interior. When he tossed in the bag and slammed the door, she cringed. The driver’s door opened, and Tor slid inside. She noticed the blood at his neck that seeped onto his starched white collar. It looked like a scratch on his skin. If that thing had originally been a vampire, it could be bite marks. Tor slammed the door and turned on the ignition.

Melissande leaned over to touch his neck. He reacted, lifting an elbow to block her. But she did not relent, pressing her fingers against his neck. “I’m not going to bite,” she said. “I want to make sure you didn’t get bitten.”

“It’s just a scratch. The thing didn’t get close enough to nosh on my neck. Sit down and buckle up.” He pulled away from the curb as she tugged the seat belt across her torso.

“Was it a vampire?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Hard to determine with all the decay.”

“Zombie,” she declared.

“Not going to have that argument again. Probably a revenant vamp.”

“I’ve heard they’re rare. And don’t live in the city.”

“Dead vampires who live in coffins and have no heartbeat? Most definitely not common. And generally not found in any large city, including Paris.” He dusted off some debris from his forearm. “Though I didn’t notice fangs. And usually decapitation is required. Whatever it was, it’s dead now.”

“You’re driving with me in your van,” Melissande remarked cheerfully. “Does that mean you’re going to protect me?”

“No. That means I’m going to take you home and send you off with a pat on your head and well wishes. Where do you live?”

Pouting, she muttered, “The 6th.”

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.

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?”