The Werewolf's Wife. Michele Hauf
give a gift was always fun. He was going to flip when he opened the Nintendo game system. He’d wanted one for over a year, and though his birthday was in the spring, he deserved it for his straight-A report card.
Flipping off the lights in his room, Abigail strolled through the living room, patting Swell Cat on his big black head as she passed the pink velvet couch. He meowed a feline approval and stretched along the back of the couch, his tail curling tightly before it tucked along his plump body.
Life was about as perfect as a contented cat, she mused. Her reputation as one of the baddest witches in the States had taken a nosedive, but that was for the best considering she now had a son. Despite her fears over the years, nothing had come to harm her little family, thanks to the protection measures she had instituted. And she would remain vigilant on that front.
Wandering into her bedroom, she sorted through the dresses and tops in the walk-in closet without touching them. She stood in the center and with a flick of her finger, magically slid the hangers side to side. Citrus and clove tickled the air, wafting from the fresh orange balls she kept tucked here and there throughout the house. She stuck cloves into the orange peel and they lasted weeks, dispersing their fresh scent. It was a brutal eleven degrees below zero this fine January day, so she aimed for a sweater.
She’d come to Minnesota at the turn of the twentieth century. It had seemed a nice, quiet place after Europe, domestic and unassuming, yet hardy. Deeply grounded in their Scandinavian heritage, the people had been welcoming and had never suspected a witch had moved into their quaint Lake Harriet neighborhood.
She’d needed that anonymity. It was easy enough to get along when your neighbors didn’t believe in all the silly nonsense mortal minds conjured when they thought the word witch. It was never accurate, and always involved the devil, black robes and dancing naked under the full moon. Ridiculous.
Well, the devil and robes part. There was nothing whatsoever wrong with dancing naked once in a while. Skyclad had been her preferred casual dress, until she’d become a mother.
And back then after her move, she’d been recruited to serve on the Witches’ Greater Midwest Council, which had a base in Minneapolis, so living here had been a no-brainer. She no longer served on that council, made up exclusively of witches, but now instead served on the Council, which oversaw all the paranormal nations, except the sidhe.
Some days she wondered how long she could stick it out here in the Midwest, home of plaid shirts, gas-guzzling SUVs and tater tot hot dishes drenched in cream of mushroom soup. The bad girl inside her would never completely be put down. And Minnesota winters were enough to send her up a wall clambering for spring sunshine and fresh lilacs.
She was in the mood for Venice, perhaps even Mumbai. Someplace warm, and center of the city, tucked within the cosmopolitan and the haut couture. A place where, at the snap of a finger, she could buy fresh seafood and decadent five-star chocolate desserts. And that wasn’t a magical finger snap. She wanted to go someplace where a man knew how to please a woman, and wouldn’t stop until he got things right.
Wasn’t easy getting dates when your tween-age inquisitive son always tagged along to the bookstores and coffee shops. She could conjure a love spell, but that was cheating. And besides, men under the influence of a spell were not true to themselves, and thus, could never be true to her, either.
Despite giving up on the need for a serious relationship over a decade ago, she did favor having a lover. No woman should be without a sexual partner for too long. And her attachment issues were improving, so really, she was ready. Bring on the sexy man with a foreign accent and a focused need to please her.
Slipping on a white cotton sweater over her pink camisole, she checked her side view in the mirror and winked. Soft pink rabbit fur rimmed the collar and sleeve hems. She loved the sensual brush of fur over her skin, though the sensory trill did remind her she was quite loverless at the moment. Guess it was time to go out and see what she could shovel up from the slim pickings. There were yet a few gems buried in the area’s waist-high snow, she felt sure.
“You still got it, Abigail. Even after four and a half centuries.”
One advantage to immortality was her never-aging appearance, and the wicked resistance to gaining weight no matter how many times she treated herself to triple chocolate cake. Go, immortality!
“Now to find a man who is strong enough to take on this witch … and her son.”
Her smile dropped and she sighed. A man like that would truly be one in a million, but she was up for the hunt. So long as he didn’t wear plaid, didn’t mind she liked to play Mozart louder than Ryan played his heavy metal, liked to eat things such as foie gras and truffles, and oh yes, could please her in every way imaginable in the bedroom—and anywhere else the mood struck them.
Out in the kitchen, with a flick of her fingers, her purse and the Smart car keys floated into her grasp. She touched the garage doorknob, when the phone rang. Glancing over a shoulder to check the caller ID—because if it was anyone on the Council, she’d let it ring to message—she noted it was a foreign number.
“Switzerland?” She’d checked in with Ryan last night to make sure he was ready. “I wonder if the flight was delayed. Hello?”
A metallic click sounded, and then a voice, obviously altered because it sounded robotic, said, “Getting ready to pick up your son, Ms. Rowan?”
“Who is this?” She stared into the receiver, as if that would produce an image of the caller, but she had no such magic. “Tell me your name, or I’m hanging up right now.”
“You hang up, your son will hate you for it.”
“You’re lying. What’s going on?”
The voice buzzed metallically and Abigail heard someone crying in the background. That sound had not been mechanically altered.
“Ryan?” Her hands began to shake, and her heartbeats stuttered against her ribs. The scent of burning electronics pierced the air. She clenched the plastic receiver. “Ryan, is that you?”
“That was your son. A little jet lag, I’m sure, is the reason for the emotions. Now listen. I’ll only say this once.”
She nodded, her fingers growing white about the phone.
“Your son did get on the plane from Switzerland to Detroit this morning. We managed to get him an earlier flight, and notified his school and they were very cooperative getting him to the airport on time. One of my associates has picked him up at the Detroit airport, much to the little kicker’s protests.”
Ryan had struggled against his kidnappers? Abigail gasped and a mournful moan escaped. “Where is he?”
“He is in our custody in an undisclosed location somewhere in the United States. We are keeping him in protective custody, for his sake and yours.”
“Protective? You’ve kidnapped him! Who are you?”
Her fingers clenched and she felt the heat burgeon in her palms until her fingertips turned red. The electrical outlet next to the oven began to glow.
“I can alleviate your concerns by telling you we are allied with the Light.”
The Light was what the witches called themselves, though a few did practice dark magic. Witches had taken her son?
“I don’t understand this. What do you want? Who are you? I can give you money.”
“We don’t want money, Ms. Rowan. And we don’t want you running to the Council to tattle on us.”
They knew about the Council? That confirmed the caller must be from the paranormal nations. But it didn’t confirm they were actually of the Light.
“Tell me what you want. I’ll decide myself if it’s something I should keep from the Council. You know I do sit on the Council, so in essence, they already know.”
“You won’t bring this to them if you want to see your son alive.”
Abigail