This Strange Witchery. Michele Hauf
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