This Strange Witchery. Michele Hauf
“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.
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