Witch Wanted

by Mina Carter

  She was too stunned to say anything, her gaze traveling down his ripped-as-fuck body. Oh my, he even had those little V-thingies leading down the sides of his hips toward his happy trail...

  He moved, snatching up a shawl off the back of her chair to wrap around his lean hips like a sarong. A blush pink crocheted sarong.

  Normally she’d have made some smart-ass comment, but all she could do was look up at him in stupefaction. Had he said…?

  “Get some rest, Lo-Livvy,” he seemed to correct himself, leaving her wondering what he had been about to say. Reaching out, he tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear gently.

  “Look after her,” he ordered Fuzzy, who snapped to attention like a furry little soldier. “Fetch me if you need me.”

  “Yesyesyes!” The little dog wagged his tail so much, he turned in circles on the spot. “I will! I will!”

  “Good boy,” Brock leaned down and gave the familiar a quick scratch behind the ear on his way out.

  “I like him,” Fuzzy said as the big bear sheriff let himself out the door, a large hand holding his makeshift sarong in place. “He’s good people.”

  “Yeah…” Livvy said in a low voice, watching the door thoughtfully for a long time. “He is. Isn’t he?”

  Livvy had gone to bed early after the sunflower incident, Fuzzy insisting on joining her. After the unexpected excitement of the day, even the little dog’s horrendous snoring couldn’t keep her awake. She slept soundly and woke the next morning refreshed and ready for the day.

  Which was somewhat uneventful. A few townsfolk popped by to either pay their respects or ask for a remedy for some ailment or other. Nothing too taxing, and nothing outside the reach of her fledgling witchy knowledge. Fuzzy spent most of the day sleeping in his basket, all four paws in the air, or asleep on the table next to where she was working.

  Halfway through the day one of the younger town bears dropped off an urn from Mr. Pressley. There was a note taped to the side telling her it contained the ashes of the sunflowers for her to dispose of.

  She put them to one side as she trawled through books looking for answers—both to her own questions on her own previously non-existent magical abilities as well as why sunflowers had suddenly become sentient and homicidal. But… Nothing doing. She couldn’t dig up answers on either subject in any of Briony Burdock’s books.

  By the time the house supplied dinner, she was fading fast, her eyes burning and her shoulders aching from where she’d been stooped over the books. So when a covered tray appeared on the table by her elbow, she sighed and pushed the books away. How bloody difficult was it to find a bloody simple answer without trawling through so much “harm ye none”? Those plants had tried to fucking kill them… there had to be an explanation.

  She also hadn’t seen Brock all day. Which wasn’t a problem, she told herself firmly, wrinkling her nose as she lifted the lid on the tray and applied herself to dinner. She could manage a day without seeing Sheriff Sex-on-Legs for Sabbath’s sake! It wasn’t like they were joined at the hip or anything.

  But his words to her last night rolled around her brain as she ate. What had he meant by them? He said he was worried about her as a man. And he hadn’t been joking, the expression in his eyes had been the most serious she’d seen him.

  But what kind of serious were they talking? One human (okay werebear, not human if they were being pedantic about it) to another serious? Or man and woman romantic relationship type serious?

  Shiva hit and slid down her spine as a sudden image of a naked Sheriff Brock filled her mind. She wouldn’t kick him out of bed, that was for sure. And with that deep, growly voice of his that gave her butterflies in her stomach as well? She might even let him talk.

  He smelled so good too. She only had to close her eyes and the memory of the smell of warm summer days and honeysuckle surrounded her. She bit her lip, opening her eyes as the invisible servants whisked the tray away.

  She watched them from the corner of her eye, curiosity rolling through her, but she didn’t move or get in their way. She’d tried to talk to one carrying a stack of towels up the stairs yesterday. It had stopped in confusion at the sound of her voice, but before it could answer or do anything, her familiar had barreled down the stairs like a furry cannonball, yelling all the way.

  “NONONO! No talkie! Just thank them!” he urged, landing in her arms with a thud. He was shaking and scared, his eyes wide on hers.

  “Bad things happen when you talk to them,” he whispered as the stack of towels resumed its journey up the stairs. “Baaaaad things.”

  O…kay. Don’t piss off the invisible servants. She’d reassured Fuzzy she wouldn’t talk to them again, kissed him on top of the head, and hadn’t spoken directly to the servants since. The most she offered was a murmured thank you and watched them from the corner of her eye as she wondered what the hell they were.

  The letterbox clinked, announcing the mail. Not the regular mail—she still had to walk down to the end of the dirt track for that—but the magical stuff. Three scrolls bound in different colored ribbons floated across the room to line up on the table in a neat row, ready and waiting for her to attend to them. She could practically feel the anticipation rising from the parchments.

  She thought that was it, but the letterbox rattled again. Looking up she spotted another letter wriggling through. It had gotten halfway but then used paper “hands” to push against the metal of the flap. It strained up, like a yogi doing the backward cat or something. Livvy was about to get up and free it, when it slithered through and snapped free with a pop.

  Tumbling arse over tit in the air twice, it stopped and righted itself. Then it shivered for all the world like it was brushing itself off and turned to glare at the flap. After a brief, hateful glance, it turned around and spotted her. She had never seen a letter march through midair before but this one managed it. It came to a stop right in front of her, looked her up and down, and then stuck its nose in the air.

  Snooty little bastard.

  “Well, out with it if you’re going to,” she told it shortly, in no mood to be judged by a piece of stationery.

  It unwrapped itself with a flourish and then spoke. The voice was female, high-pitched, and as irritating as fuck.

  “From the office of the Baba Yaga. Legal department, Salem, Massachusetts.

  * * *

  To the witch known as Olivia La Fay, bright blessings be upon you. However, it is on a matter of some considerable legal weight that I contact you today. It has come to the attention of the legal department of the office of the Baba Yaga that you recently relocated from England to the town of Bottomslick, West Virginia. However, after your relocation there does not seem to have been any application for a magical user’s Visa for the United States of America. As such, and because we have also received reports of your performing magic for profit whilst in Bottomslick, I am afraid I must inform you that you have broken several laws regarding the permitted use of magic within the United States.

  Had you been a US citizen, we would have required you to present yourself for admittance to cellblock D, Salem prison, Massachusetts. However, as you are not, I would like to inform you that you have twenty-four hours to conclude your business in Bottomslick, at which point, officers from the legal department will arrive to deport you from the country back to your country of origin. Because we have had to take the step of deporting you, any further application for admittance to the United States as a magical user will be immediately denied.

  No further correspondence will be entered into on this matter.

  Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again.

  Signed,

  Nigela Webbsbottom

  (on behalf of the office of the Baba Yaga)”

  * * *

  As soon as the voice finished speaking, the letter fold itself up sharply and landed on the table in front of Livvy with a smart rap. She looked at it for a long moment, digesting the words.

  She was being fucking de
ported? What the fuck was all that about?

  “Nononono!” Fuzzy whimpered, his big eyes wide and full of tears as he looked at her, at the letter, and then back at her. “They can’t deport you. I only just found you.”

  She sighed. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about legal and government departments, Fuzzy, it’s that they’re all complete and utter arseholes and they generally do as they want.”

  Standing up, she crossed over to the bookcase. During her reading earlier, she’d spotted an old bottle of rum hidden behind some of the bigger tomes. No doubt Briony’s secret stash. Pulling it free, she shook it and grinned in satisfaction. More than half full.

  “That should do,” she announced, turning to find that the servants had placed a heavy tumbler on the table. Cool. Even they knew she needed to get drunk. She tickled Fuzzy under the chin as she pulled the cork out of the rum bottle with her teeth and poured a healthy measure. Then she added more, just for good luck.

  “Don’t worry, Fuzzy. I’m sure we can get you into England. You’re my familiar, right? I’ve never heard of any immigration department splitting up a witch and her familiar.”

  Just last year, back home, old Witch Stepanov who read tea leaves at the back of Camden market had arrived back home from a visit to Russia with a big black forest cat. No one had stopped her (although Livvy was fairly sure the cat would have eaten anybody who argued) so chances were, they wouldn’t argue about her bringing one tiny, nondescript dog back into the country.

  And if they did, well… she already had MI:18 on her tail. She might as well add immigration to the list as well. Perhaps she could flee to Scotland? Plenty of mysticism and legend up there. She’d even heard tell of some reports of time travel. Now that would be one way to escape eighteen… Just fuck off to a different time period before they’d been formed.

  With her knowledge of herbs and magic, she could set herself up in some Medieval village somewhere and make a nice little living.

  “We’ll be good. Don’t you worry.” She smiled at Fuzzy and then downed the rum in one go. She hissed as it burned its way down to her stomach.

  “Whoa, Briony… You go girl!” She grinned. It was fucking good rum.

  Pouring herself another glass, she settled down to get rip-roaring drunk. Nigela Webbsbottom and her fucking letter could just get fucking screwed until tomorrow.

  11

  All shifters, Brock included, spent their lives looking for that one perfect scent. The one that called to them like no other and one that, once they’d found it, they couldn’t live without.

  For some, it led to unhealthy obsession and possible legal action for invasion of personal space (especially for the more… rural wolf shifters who’d never been taught that sniffing at a woman’s butt was not an acceptable greeting, not in human form anyway) as they searched for that one special scent that marked their soulmate.

  Brock himself had been looking since he’d figured out the difference between little boys and little girls. Of course, back then his drives had been way more innocent, fueled by ideas of courtly love and knightly honor from the old films he’d loved to watch. King Arthur and all that… he’d loved them. Ironic that his mate should end up with the last name of La Faye.

  But then he’d grown up, figured out the birds and the bees and how little bears were made, and his search had taken on a different meaning and flavor. He’d assumed though that he would have to travel out of town to find that one special lady. Visit other bear towns. Or, and he shuddered at the thought, attend one of the midsummer mating meets. Flesh markets where Shifters, male and female, were paraded before potential mates.

  His smile broadened as he pulled his truck to a stop at the end of Witches Lane… he didn’t have to now. His lovely little purple-haired mate had found him, right here in Bottomslick.

  Sure, he hadn’t expected a witch. He’d always thought he would mate another bear. Or a shifter at the very least. He’d never considered that fate and the great mother goddess would have other plans and bond him to a witch instead.

  He had no complaints, though, as an image of Livvy filled his mind’s eye. Tiny and delicate with curves that made the male animal within growl in approval, she was also intelligent and kind. The perfect mother for his young.

  His lips quirked. He’d just have to hope they didn’t inherit her waspish tongue…

  Well maybe… the little voice in the back of his head remarked as it presented him with an image of a strong alpha bearess with his hair and Livvy’s eyes. Such a daughter would make an awesome pack leader.

  Rumbling with happiness at such a possible future, Brock leaned over and retrieved a bouquet of flowers from the passenger’s seat of his truck. No sunflowers (he didn’t think he’d ever be able to look one in the face ever again) but roses and other flowers. He had no idea what they were called but they looked pretty. Smelled good as well. But not as good as his new mate.

  Walking down the dirt path, he stopped at the door and smoothed his shirt down. Since he was on a charm offensive after the rocky start to their relationship, he’d made an effort. Smartly pressed shirt, clean jeans. Fresh out of the shower, he’d even tamed his hair, combing the wayward blond curls into some order. He’d broken two combs doing it, but it was well worth it.

  Livvy was bound to be impressed, he told himself. She’d fall into his arms and they could get on with making those cubs with his hair and her eyes.

  His grin widened. After a lot of practice first.

  Satisfied that he was presentable, he knocked on the door and waited.

  Then he waited some more.

  A frown creased his brow when she didn’t answer on the second round of louder knocking. Had she gone out maybe?

  No. Impossible, he told himself. She didn’t know anyone in town and it wasn’t exactly a hopping nightspot anyway. Not like London, which apparently never slept. That worried him actually. Would she be content to settle in a small town in the ass-end of nowhere like Bottomslick, or would she eventually get bored and want to return home?

  Not that he didn’t like cities, but he couldn’t see himself settling down in one. His bear needed wide open spaces and the ability to roam free. Besides, who would look after the pack with him gone? He had no successor and without an alpha, the pack would dwindle into nothing. He couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let that happen.

  On his third set of knocking the door swung open. He blinked as Livvy appeared in the doorway suddenly.

  “Brock! Hey! I was just thinking of you!” she said chirpily. Too chirpily. Her eyes were over-bright and she swayed slightly. He caught her quickly before she could stumble and fall.

  Rather than straighten up and step away as he expected her to, she leaned into him with a soft murmur of pleasure. It was the sort of sound that bypassed all his higher brain functions and went directly to the little head south of his belt. Little Brock was ready for action in a heartbeat, pushed up close and personal against his jeans zipper as it tried to punch free.

  “My, my, Sheriff… is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” she murmured huskily.

  Brock froze as her hands smoothed over his broad chest, her lips whispering over his neck. “Do bear sheriffs use guns or do you use your claws?”

  “I don’t need a gun,” he replied, unable to stop the edge of a growl coloring his voice. His hands tightened on her waist, the need to drag her up against him almost overriding all else. His nose twitched.

  “Livvy, have you been drinking?”

  “Oh, only a little. What’s wrong? Don’t you want to have a little fun?”

  He didn’t get the chance to argue as she chose that moment to kiss him. As soon as her lips touched his, he was lost. The need to claim his mate surged and he growled as he pulled her closer, lips crushing hers beneath his.

  She kissed him back with equal passion, one that stole his breath and tested the zipper on his fly even more. He should pull away, talk to her. Perhaps suggest a dinner date
or two before—

  Her hand stole down and cupped him boldly through his jeans and he lost his train of thought.

  “Oh my,” she breathed. “Bit of a trouser python going on there. How about we play free the snake upstairs?”

  He growled again, all his plans for a slow seduction going out of the window as he bent down and scooped her up into his arms. “Sounds like a plan to me. Which way?”

  “Up the stairs, turn left,” she murmured, arms around his broad shoulders as he strode over to the stairs.

  Taking the steps two at a time, his heart leaped with emotion. He’d found his mate and she’d accepted him within the same day! Those cubs would be on their way soon. He just had to get her into bed and give her his bite… then they’d soon be a family.

  “You’re mine,” he growled as they reached the top of the stairs.

  She giggled in reply, “Yes, handsome. I’m yours… all night. Now get your ass into the bedroom.”

  * * *

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brock said, the roughness in his voice sending a delighted shiver along her spine. He carried her into the small bedroom, hooking a booted foot around the door to close it. “Anything you say, ma’am.”

  His eyes blazed as he slid her down the front of his body. Her own widened as she clocked the size of his erection pressed against her. Forget python. He had at least a boa constrictor trapped in there.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Livvy,” he growled as he backed up to haul his shirt off. “Or I’ll have you bent over that bed, my cock buried deep in your sweet heat and my teeth in your shoulder before you can blink.”

  His words stalled her hands where they’d been undoing the buttons on her summer dress. She looked up at him, her gaze direct.

  “No. No teeth.” She knew what biting during sex meant for a Shifter. “No mating. That’s not what this is about.” How could it be with her deportation hanging over her?