The Slaughtered Lamb Bookstore and Bar (Sam Quinn Book 1)

by Seana Kelly

  His hand slid up my thigh, clutching my hip, fingers finding the hole in the back of my jeans, as he deepened the kiss, a growl in his throat. It was perfect and endless and over too soon.

  Something in the car buzzed in a relentless rhythm. Clive cursed and then pulled a phone from his pocket. He contemplated it for a moment and then squeezed. The tortured sounds of metal and circuits being crushed filled the car.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He turned over the engine and took off. Something to the right caught his eye, and his expression darkened.

  Exhaling slowly, I took advantage of the distraction to cool my blood. It was more than I’d ever dreamed. In private, unguarded moments, I’d fantasized about kissing Clive, something dark and yet chaste. He was gorgeous and thrilling and way out of my league. I’d never thought anything could happen. I mean, come on. A scarred book nerd in sagging clothes wasn’t anyone’s fantasy.

  And I’d have been okay with that. I’d contented myself to a quiet life of books and booze, with the occasional vampire-fueled daydream, but now everything had changed. The safe, predictable life I thought I’d lead had been upended. I was terrified, and yet felt little sorrow over watching that old life fade away.

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I have some business to take care of. If you hear I’ve wiped out the entire nocturne, it probably won’t be true.” Clive downshifted as he drove up a steep hill. He checked traffic in both directions, before gliding through the intersection and powering up the next hill.

  “It’s okay.” It’d take a few hours for my breathing to return to normal anyway.

  “It’s really not. I apologize for stopping the way I did.” He reached over and held my hand for a moment. “Some of my kind need to be beaten within an inch of true death.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Too many people feel they have a say in how I live my life. I am Master, not— Sorry. I’ve wanted to kiss you for quite some time. I wanted it to be perfect.”

  “It was.”

  Grinning, he shook his head. “Before the cursing and phone crushing?” His gaze darted to me and then the road. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  “Clive, you said you have someone who could trace a spell for the wolves. Why aren’t we using that person to trace the vision back to the source?”

  “He tried. I was talking about Dave,” he said, as he turned toward the Land’s End parking area.

  “My Dave? He can trace spells?”

  “Dave can do many things. I’ll send him out. If he has the same trouble with the pack lands that he does with you, they may be connected.” He pulled to a stop at the top of the stairs leading down to The Slaughtered Lamb.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. What if it’s all connected? What if the women we found in the bay were being tortured to feed the demon working with the sorcerer who keeps trapping me in visions?” What I didn’t understand, though, was why? I’m nobody, just a bookish bartender. Why would anyone put so much effort into killing me?

  “We’ll figure it out. Remember, no wandering off in the middle of the night. Lock your wards down tight. Don’t go out into the bay, no matter what the lure. Call me if anyone or anything tries to hurt you.”

  “How? You just crushed your phone.”

  He paused for a moment, considering the crushed metal. “I’ll have a replacement tonight.” Leaning over, he kissed me soundly before opening my door. “Off you get. I’ve got vampires to discipline.”

  Twenty

  In Which Sam Learns the Fastest Way to Piss Off a Wicche

  The following morning, Max, a crossword-challenged wicche, was sitting at a table in the bar and working on a new puzzle. He appeared to have cleared out the Philosophy section of the bookstore, looking for answers. Didn’t that count as cheating? Horus, who I was told was the Horus, Egyptian sky god, was sitting near the bookstore, drinking a black and tan. Don’t ask. I have no idea if he was the real Horus, or what he was doing in San Francisco. He kind of freaked me out, so I spoke with him as little as possible.

  When Owen came in, I hit him up for information, considering myself polite for letting him stow his backpack before I jumped on him.

  “What do you know about black wicches?” I asked.

  “Huh?” He poured himself a soda, while he looked at me like I was a crazy person. He probably had a point.

  “I spoke with the Alpha of the Bodega Bay Pack last night. He said they’d found spells in their territory. One of their young almost died. They think it’s a black wicche. Clive is sending Dave to go check, maybe trace the spell.” I dropped a cherry into his glass. “I wondered if maybe it was all connected, if whoever is spelling pack lands is also screwing with me.”

  “Really? I mean about a black wicche laying curses on pack land? And Dave tracking spells? Well, that’s all mighty interesting.” Brow furrowed, Owen stared out the window, lost in thought.

  “They say so. The Alpha is anti-wicche, so maybe it’s not them, but the threat seemed real enough.”

  “Us,” he said.

  “Us, what?”

  “Wicches aren’t ‘them.’ We’re us. You’re a part of us.” Owen shook off the concern and lifted his glass in a salute.

  “We don’t know that yet for sure.” Maybe my mother was a wicche. Probably she was. But that didn’t mean that I was.

  “Trust me, we know. I can feel your magic building. It’s like a low hum in the air.” He finished his drink and then started twisting the bottles, so their labels were all facing forward.

  I didn’t want to think about whether or not I was emitting a magical buzz, so I changed the subject. “Do you know any black wicches? Any you know and trust? I have some questions.”

  Owen stared at me, disgust playing across his features. “No. I do not associate with black wicches. And before you ask, I don’t hang with sorcerers either.”

  I put up hands. “Sorry. Too ignorant to know that that was offensive.”

  He shrugged off my apology, but I could tell he was still annoyed with me.

  “Owen, I’m sorry. I’m trying to figure out who wants me dead, who’s dumping those poor women on my doorstep. Are they connected? It doesn’t seem possible that they’re not, and yet, what’s the connection?”

  “You.”

  Pretending I didn’t hear that, I continued, “I was in no way intending to cast aspersions on your character.” When he nodded a reluctant acceptance of my apology, I continued, “You said sorcerer like it was different from a wicche. I thought those terms were synonymous.”

  Owen looked around. “You better hope no one just heard you say that.” When no one rushed the bar to punch me, Owen explained. “I’m a wicche. All the wicches who come here use white magic, earth magic. We do no harm in our casting.

  “Black wicches use blood and death in their magic. Animal—even human—sacrifices are used to increase the power of their spells. It’s done at a very high cost to their souls. Each time they do black magic, they sully their souls. That’s why it’s referred to as black magic; the practitioner’s soul bears the mark of their work.”

  “You can see people’s souls?”

  “Their auras, yes. The aura’s a manifestation of the soul. When you do evil, your soul becomes more sooty or black. We can see the evil surrounding black wicches. We stay away from them, and they stay away from us.” Owen had switched to filling snack bowls and glancing around the room, uncomfortable with the topic.

  I lowered my voice even more. “Can you see my aura?”

  Owen smiled, the first since I brought up this topic. “Weres are almost impossible to read. We think the duality of your nature makes auras hard to perceive. Yours, however, is hard to miss. It’s a bright, shiny gold.” He gave me another grin. “It’s also why so many wicches come here. One look and they know you can be trusted.”

  “Is it just a wicche thing or can everybody see auras?” That would be a cool trick and damned helpful.

  “Wicches, some fae, not vampires or weres
. Anyway, you never let me finish. Black wicches use blood and sacrifice in their craft. Sorcerers use demons.” Owen must have noticed my confusion and continued to explain. “Sorcerers sell their souls for power and knowledge. A black wicche might slaughter a cow to power a spell. A sorcerer takes the farmer hostage, and calls up a demon to tear off the farmer’s skin, one strip at a time. He uses the pain, terror, and blood to feed the demon who then helps the sorcerer do magic.”

  I was feeling sick to my stomach and wishing I hadn’t asked. Clearing my throat, I said, “Okay, now I get why my question was offensive. Again, sorry. So, is that what happened to those women we found? You know, one strip of skin at a time. Were they being tortured to feed a demon and power a sorcerer?”

  Owen looked a little sick himself.

  “If I could find one, would a black wicche even talk to me?”

  “Doubtful. They’re secretive as hell. Maybe we can talk to Schuyler, though.”

  “Schuyler who owns the wicchey shop downtown?”

  “Yeah. Most wicches come here now for grimoires, but we still go to her for spell ingredients. She sees just about all the wicches in the area so she might be able to help us. I’ll call and check if she’s working this evening. We can go when Dave gets here.”

  “Us? You’ll go with me?” Thank goodness. I doubted she’d be willing to tell a werewolf anything.

  Owen gave me an assessing look before smiling. “Yeah. You’re benefiting from my being giddy in love. George makes me too happy to be annoyed by you for long.”

  “I’ll take it!”

  When Dave arrived, I broke it to him that he’d be on his own again tonight.

  “How am I supposed to cook and serve drinks and sell books? This job was better before you decided to get a life.” Dave shooed me out of his kitchen.

  Trying to hold my own, I said, “Someone’s trying to kill me!”

  “At least you’re not boring as fuck anymore.” He gave me a shove that sent me sailing through the swinging kitchen doors. “And stay out,” he muttered.

  I ducked my head back through. “I mean it, Dave. You have to come out here while Owen and I are gone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Go!” He roared.

  Owen was leaning against the bar, smirking. “You really told him.”

  “Shaddup, you.” I checked my pocket for cash, in case I found something cool at the wicchey shop.

  “Come on. The bookstore’s empty. I just refilled everyone’s drinks, and Horus said he’d keep an eye on things when Dave is in the back.” Owen grabbed his backpack and headed for the stairs.

  “Uh, thanks, Horus.” A chill ran down my spine, saying his name.

  He looked up from his book, nodded imperiously, and went back to reading. Good enough.

  On the drive downtown, Owen asked about the nightclub.

  “We went to the Crypt. Apparently, the vampires own it.”

  “I didn’t realize that, although it makes total sense. Who else would crave the ambiance of a skeleton-filled catacomb? Vampires, gawd. I don’t know any other supernatural group that works so hard to stay on message. Just once, I’d like to see a sunny vampire named Petey who wears pastels and enjoys watching the Great British Baking Show.”

  Laughing, I tried picturing Clive in a pink shirt, sitting on my couch, and watching TV with me. It was remarkably easy. Maybe it was just thinking about Clive that was easy.

  Owen battled through downtown traffic while I daydreamed. “Did you do any dancing?”

  “Yeah. I danced with the Alpha and Clive.”

  “Reeeeally,” Owen said, drawing out the word. “And how is Clive on the dance floor?”

  “Good. Nice. It was—I liked it.”

  Owen turned to stare at me when he stopped at a light. “I see.”

  “No. I just—It was nice.” Stop talking now.

  Nodding slowly, he drove on. “Not touching that.” He turned onto a one-way street. “George said he heard the vampires were all up in arms about something. Did everything seem okay last night?”

  “There was definitely something going on. Clive cut our dance short and was pissed off, saying something about needing to discipline some of them.”

  “Hmm, I wonder if they’re upset about him slumming with a werewolf.”

  Slumming? Oh. Was that it? I replayed the evening in my head. Clive had told Russel he wouldn’t give something up because of bigotry, that gnats were buzzing in his ears. Was all that rage really about me? My stomach cramped.

  Owen squeezed my knee. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. The vampires look down on all of us. I can just imagine how some of them would react to Clive willingly touching a wolf.” Owen snagged a street space a block down from the store.

  He threw the car into park and turned to me. “I hear there’s unrest among the vamps, so it may have absolutely nothing to do with you. I guess there are some high-ranking vamp and his entourage visiting right now. It could be a power play to wrestle San Francisco away from Clive, or it could be a visit to pay respects. From the little bit of vamp gossip I’ve heard over the years, Clive is scary powerful to other vamps, too.”

  I stared out the window, remembering. I used to think of Clive as scary, too. Then I spent time with him and realized I felt safer with him than with anyone else. I’d need to think about the reasons for that. Later.

  Owen patted my leg. “You know, it may have nothing to do with you being a were. They could still be pissed off about him killing one of his own for you. Don’t let it get to you, though. They’re a snooty lot.”

  What? “Back up. What do you mean he’s killed for me?”

  “I thought everyone had heard the story.” At my growl, he continued. “Okay, don’t get furry. I guess six or seven years ago you were attacked by a kelpie when the bar was being built.”

  “Yes, I’m aware. I was there.”

  “Right, so this vamp had been assigned bodyguard duty. I guess he resented being forced to watch a wolf, so he took off and wasn’t there to protect you. The story goes, it was Clive himself who came tearing to the rescue. He later found the vamp—what was his name? It was something fancy and French—anyway, he tortured him to find out whether or not it had been done purposely to hurt you. I think if—Étienne?—had meant you harm, he’d still be hanging somewhere in pain. Since he hadn’t, Clive killed him quickly.”

  Damn kelpie was nothing but trouble.

  “Étienne’s mate—no, wait. Vampires don’t mate. Girlfriend? Lover? I don’t know what term they use. Anyway, she went a little bonkers. I hear it was a close one as to whether or not Clive would have to kill her, too.”

  Vampires didn’t mate? “Oh.”

  “Now let’s see if we can find a black wicche.”

  Twenty-One

  Eye of Newt

  The magic shop Owen brought me to was nothing like I was expecting. The walls were not dark purple with silver stars. There were no strings of beads serving as doors. There wasn’t even any creepy music. It looked like a spa. It was clean and bright, with light walls and serene photos. It was a real letdown.

  “Where’s the bubbling cauldron, the eye of newt, the jars of dark scary things floating in liquid? You call this a magic shop?” I whispered to Owen.

  He rolled his eyes and smirked. “No, I don’t. A magic shop is where little boys buy trick cards and finger traps. This is a wicchecraft supply store. And the eye of newt is on the back shelf.”

  “Seriously? I am so getting some of that.” I scampered off in search of other cool wicchey things. Ooh, wands. I totally needed one of those. I wondered where she kept—I’d only made it a few steps before I saw a display of grimoires, or spell books. I carried most of the ones here, but there were a couple that appeared ancient, with cracked leather covers and intricate metal bindings that locked the books closed. I reached for one and was repelled. It was as though the book had its own force field, one that didn’t want me to touch it. I reached out again and was pushed back
almost immediately. “Owen, come look at this!” I whispered.

  “Good evening. What can I do for you?”

  I turned at the woman’s voice. Like the shop, she defied the stereotype. Short ash blonde hair, pinched features, conservative clothes in neutral tones. She looked more like an accountant on casual Friday than a wicche.

  “Schuyler, it’s good to see you. Thanks for meeting us.” He turned to me. “This is Sam.”

  Walking back, I smiled and shook her hand. Pain. Intense, unbelievable pain. Her handshake was like getting hit with a taser. Assuming there was something horribly incompatible with our magic, I tried to tug my hand free. She gripped my wrist with her other hand, a hard glint in her eye, her smile turning knife-sharp.

  A growl vibrated in the back of my throat. No damn wicche was going to overpower a wolf. Yanking, I pulled her off-balance and sent her crashing into a display case, shattering glass and sending candles flying.

  Eyes wide and swimming with unshed tears, she made a production out of getting up, reaching out for Owen’s help.

  “Sam! What are you doing?” He looked at me as though I’d turned rabid.

  Cringing, she moved behind Owen, placing him between us, before she checked the shallow cuts on her palms. She looked to Owen, offering up her shaking hands.

  Owen took them in his own, worrying over her injuries, mouth moving in silent spells. “Do you have a first aid kit? A couple of these cuts look deep and you know it’s Lilah who has the gift of healing magic, not me.”

  Looking at me with shock and disappointment, Owen said, “You should wait outside. I need to take care of Schuyler, and she shouldn’t be afraid in her own shop.”

  “Why are you petting her? She’s the one who started it,” I said, glaring at the wicche.

  “She shook your hand, Sam. You’re the one who threw her into the glass.” He turned his back on me. “I need to stop the bleeding. Please leave.”

  “She tried to electrocute me!”