Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  Time to bite the bullet and mingle with silk-and-diamond-wearing socialites who had so much money they threw parties to determine how to spend it.

  Grumbling all the way home, I tossed empty coffee cups into the trash and grabbed a ready-made protein shake. I wasn't even going to shower. Screw them. I pissed, unloaded my pockets at the sink, and brushed my teeth. Good enough. Made another pass with a stick of deodorant and went to find clothing. Threw the closet door open and stared at ratty jeans and faded cotton shirts.

  Pantsuit it was.

  The simple three piece black suit was cut in a style I hoped was timeless. Plus, it easily accommodated my gun holster. I undressed down to my undies and heard my phone ring. Maybe it was an emergency! Maybe I didn't have to go tonight!

  I sprinted to my phone.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Zelda said.

  “What warrants a rare phone call?”

  “I have company over, and I wondered if you'd like to join us for the Sabbat.”

  “Oh, uh, gosh. I'm wrapped up in a benefit dinner. I'll be busy all night.”

  “That's good, dearie. Actually, I had more of a favor to ask.”

  “Really?” What could she possibly want from me?

  “In about an hour, I'm going to be skyclad in the garden.”

  “Skyclad?” I blinked. “You mean naked?”

  “Of course. I was wondering if you might have a way of making sure no one calls the police. My friends are a mite shy and I don't have the tallest fence.”

  “Zelda, you should not be doing outdoor rites. The good townsfolk of Cincinnati drowned a trio of witches last month.”

  “But I have close, devoted friends who are hoping to commune tonight.”

  “Does it have to be your garden?” I sighed. If fences make good neighbors, then I was a great neighbor. My backyard was enclosed by peek-proof fencing. “You can use my yard. There shouldn't be any camera or neighbor visibility on account of my super high fence. You'll be fine unless a helicopter or drone passes overhead.”

  Witches dancing naked on my property. Perfect.

  “I suppose,” she said. “The area will have to be cleansed, of course. No offense, Kaidlyn, but you have a sooty aura.”

  “No offense taken.” I didn't give any credence to auras, but if they existed, mine wouldn't be a beam of sunshine.

  “I'll come over to prepare.”

  “You're not skyclad now, are you?”

  She had already hung up. The idea of naked old ladies parading around my house gave me a headache. I didn't want to know how she planned to cleanse the area.

  I was naked save a pair of boy shorts. One glance in the mirror revealed why I owned only one mirror and a small one at that. Scars like jungle vines wrapped around me. Patchwork grafts. Frankenstein's monster's bride. I was used to the damage, its weight and cinch, but the sight remained shocking. When a mutt's claws were as big as bananas, they left fearsome tracks. Teeth were worse.

  I remembered my recent one night stand and Dimples' outburst at feeling the knot-work on my spine. Not the first time something like that happened to me.

  Jesus, Durant, drop the pity party. So you don't want to go out, whatever. You don't have a viable choice.

  I returned to the bedroom and dressed before the ladies arrived. A few scars showed at my neckline, but it was the best I could do. I didn't have a scarf to go with the suit. A Jericho tucked into the small of my back, a tagged Glock went on my ankle. My nicest boots didn't have a heel because I didn't need to be any taller or off balance.

  The doorbell chimed a peppy greeting. I went to answer, worried at what I might find. Zelda arrived first, straining to carry two three-gallon glass jars. I took one from her.

  “Thanks, luv. Alright, ladies, through the dining room to the back.”

  A swell of women in rain jackets trampled through my house, carrying a folded table and food for potluck, homemade ale, candles, and other Wiccan-related things. I suspected they were naked underneath those jackets. Some hid behind big hoods, so I tried not to look them in the eyes. They probably didn't want me to know who they were. Wouldn't want anyone to burn crosses in their yard.

  A coven of witches dancing and feasting. Naked. Unprotected. If someone heard a ruckus and investigated, Zelda was risking her life. I carried the glass jugs outside and set them on the porch.

  “Are you sure this is worth the risk?” I whispered.

  “Of course,” Zelda said.

  “If I left you a firearm for protection, would you use it?”

  “That's entirely unnecessary.”

  Cats streaked past their feet. If my house smelled like cat piss when I got back, there would be some more cleansing going on, right after I shot the furry bastards. The evil orange tomcat stopped to howl at me before sauntering into the yard like he owned the place. Ladies began smudging the fence with smoldering white sage.

  I set my arms akimbo and worried.

  “Button your jacket, dear, you look like you're working security,” Zelda said. “Such a smart suit. Darling, don't you have a spot of lipstick?”

  I blinked at her.

  A witch with a compass found true north, another pulled debris from my fire pit, and others arranged food on the picnic table. Two carried a box like a treasure chest with a female figure on it—Venus in a half shell.

  “Zelda, lock the doors,” I said. “Don't answer the phone. Are you sure you don't want a gun? I've got a twelve gauge pump action that is so easy to handle it is like breathing. You scarcely have to aim, you simply point it in the bad guy's generally abhorrent direction.”

  “No one is coming for us.”

  “Call me if they do.”

  “Enjoy your evening, luv.”

  Dismissed.

  “I'll unlock the other half of the duplex if anyone needs a place to sleep.”

  Zelda kissed my cheek. Startling. Soft. Then she went to help her coven wave incense smoke and splash salt water. Witchcraft wasn't technically illegal, but no one had been arrested for witch-oriented hate crimes or assaults. The killers of the Cincinnati witches were never found. In fact, when the police discovered the women were witches, the coroner changed his verdict to accidental drowning.

  Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  If anyone came for my elderly witch, I'd kill them and burn their bodies on the side of the road. And I would make sure they had suffered.

  I left, locked the door behind me, and drove in a haze of loud music and troubled thoughts.

  The charity event was held at a secure private mansion. I showed my invitation at the enormous gate and again to the parking supervisor and two armed guards. I sneered at the valet who tried to take my keys, parked myself, and handed the invitation to the final security man at the door.

  “Miss, we can't allow you in with a weapon,” he said before I even got to the scanner. Good for him that he spotted my holster. He felt ex-military with a low bullshit tolerance.

  “I'm a federal agent,” I explained, pulling my tag from under my vest.

  “This is a benefit dinner aimed toward world peace.”

  “Hope for peace, prepare for war.”

  “You aren't taking the firearm inside. Relinquish the weapon or be escorted from the premises.”

  He crossed his arms. An Odin Rune decorated his hand, but I'd bet dollars to doughnuts he wasn't Wiccan. I'd had my fill of supremacists recently and didn't try to rein in my temper. At all.

  “Look, you arrogant pinko, I'm a sixth tier federal agent and I can take a weapon anywhere I damned well please, be it a confessional or a children's hospital or a goddamn peace convention.”

  “Don't get belligerent with me.”

  His face changed colors. I think it was the 'pinko' comment. Everyone hates being called what they are. I should have shut up and gone home.

  “Oooooh, belligerent. That's a big word,” I mocked.

  Like I was hoping for a fist fight, even though he'd surely take me. Tad appeared, a sna
ke with a charming head of hair and an exquisite suit.

  “I understand your concern, Matthew. Can I call you Matthew? Good. I can see that you're simply trying to do your job and keep people safe, right? Well, that's precisely what Ms. Durant does, only she's impossibly annoying about it. Since security is her first concern—it is called the Federal Bureau of Human Safety after all—surely you can let a comrade-in-arms tend to her business as she's accustomed. Why, only recently she saved a child from a vicious mutt—three year-old Theresa, wasn't it? Pretty as a blond button, all safe and sound in a new home because of Ms. Durant and her necessary but unpleasant hardware. I assure you, Ms. Durant is both licensed to carry the weapon and is an extremely good marks-person. Since she's practically a war hero, I'm sure you can overlook such a flexible rule.”

  Tad took my elbow. The steering-a-woman maneuver won him additional points with Matthew, who begrudgingly stepped aside.

  “I'll keep a special eye on her,” Tad promised, ushering me inside.

  “Douche nozzle,” I hissed and jerked my elbow from his grip.

  “Did you have to wear that awful suit?”

  “Do you have to be such an awful excuse for a human being?”

  “My, aren't we feisty.” He smiled. Tragically, the bastard was quite handsome if one liked the sold-my-soul variety of sleaze. “Try not to shoot anyone. I'd hate to prosecute Matthew for letting you in with a loaded firearm. Here's a list of folks you need to meet and greet.”

  Tad's list comprised two hours’ worth of handshaking. My gut sank. “Santi said two shakes.”

  “The Bureau begins a new donation campaign in a month. Sweeten the fillies and grease the passage, so to speak. Bring home the money, doll.”

  “Dude.”

  “You should have worn lipstick,” he said.

  “I can shoot you.”

  “Don't embarrass yourself or make my job any harder.”

  I examined the list and one name snagged my gaze. The bad feeling roused from my gut and headed north to suffocate me. “Sigurd who?”

  Tad rolled his eyes. “The Chosen vampire, stupid.”

  If Tad wasn't so fiendish, I might have hidden behind him and let him network for me. Unfortunately, he was a caustic cumstain. I palmed the note and walked deeper into the enormous, opulent mansion. The decor was loaded with classic relief, ceiling murals, and gilded accents. Elegant. Stuffy as hell. Women modeled dresses which strategically revealed gleaming skin, all cosmetically enhanced, and not a scar or tattoo in sight. Men wore a dozen varieties of the classic black suit and all of them were classier than mine.

  A server offered a wine selection on a shining silver tray. I waved him off.

  Down to business. If Tad was as smart as he thought he was, the list would have included pictures. I scarcely recognized any names. Best to get the ones I knew out of the way. I scanned the crowd but didn't recognize any faces. Great. A clatter drew my attention to the open bar and all the shiny empty glasses waiting to be filled, a decade's worth of expensive, gleaming alcohol.

  I heaved a sigh. Depression shoved the temptation deeper into my heart. I wanted a drink, and they were driving me to it.

  They: the bastards who don't have common sense.

  They: the assholes who think I should apologize for surviving.

  They: the sheep who think a handshake and a benefit dinner will save them from the wolves.

  To hell with them all.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  I turned to see Chaz Greystone with gin on his breath. Perfect.

  “Chaz!” I grabbed his hand as if I knew him intimately. His skin retained all the softness of a baby's ass. “I’m from the Bureau. Lovely party. Hope you enjoy the evening. Do take care.”

  With a smile reminiscent of acid reflux, I escaped into the crowd like I had a hot destination. One down, two dozen to go. Problem was, a couple hundred people swarmed along with reporters, servers, butlers, attendants, and additional sycophants. I fired up my cellphone to research the people on my list when a man in a twenty thousand-dollar suit sidled up. He, too, offered a drink.

  I ignored the booze and shook his hand, ejaculating the first phrase that came to mind.

  “Come here often?”

  “This is my father's house,” he said, bewildered.

  “Of course, and what a lovely house it is. Which makes you...”

  “Griffin Callahan.”

  “Honored to meet you, and can I say, you take after your father.”

  “I'm adopted.”

  “Of course you were.” I felt callouses from weight lifting on his hand. Gym bunny, probably as smart as a tube sock. “Excuse me, I think I see a friend.”

  I strolled away.

  “You look like a tequila girl.” A flirty server offered a selection of silver and gold tequila.

  “Sod off,” I told him.

  I went to the bar to get a seltzer water so people would stop offering me booze and then consulted the list again. What luck, Griffin Callahan was on the list. Two down. Oh, yeah, baby, I was a superstar.

  “Dear Lord, is that a list?”

  My head jerked up. Her, I recognized. Rachel Drisbey. Dashing in skin-tight taupe strategically pleated to cuddle certain areas. I couldn't answer her question with anything but the truth.

  “And you're on it,” I said.

  “I'm flattered. What do I win?”

  “A terse handshake, a regurgitated and reluctant conversation, and a generally unsatisfying encounter.”

  “Oh, well, guess we better get it over with.”

  “Might as well.”

  Her hand felt as smooth as churned butter and not the least bit unpleasant. A spark lit her eye and her grip strengthened to match my pressure.

  “I'm Kaidlyn,” I said.

  “Rache, and I know. I saw you come in. My father has that same look on his face every time he attends these banquets. A mixture of fear, irritation, and reluctance.”

  I chuckled. “Don't suppose you know a secret way out of this place?”

  “Actually,” she said, voice lowering intimately, “I do.”

  That wiped humor out of me and I remembered to take my hand back. She picked her wineglass off the bar and sipped at it. “What do you say, Papillon, wanna blow this joint?”

  I laughed. “I can't believe you know that book.”

  “How do you know I didn't watch the movie?”

  “I don't. Aren't you worried you'll miss an exciting party?”

  “If I say no, will you show me your gun?”

  I realized Rachel was hitting on me and possibly for no good reason. I wasn't sure if I wanted to put her off or not.

  “My gun?” I said. “How do you know I have one?”

  “Matthew told me to stay away from you. Said you were dangerous.”

  “Ah, yes, Matthew.” The security guy probably had a thing for Rachel. Probably infuriate him if I showed her my gun. This socialite was using me to flirt with danger. The pinko security portrayed me as the renegade bad girl. He might make a decent wing man.

  Rachel smiled. “Why don’t you show me what you're carrying and I'll help you through that list? You can be home eating ice cream within an hour.”

  “Oooh, tough play, Rachel.” At this stage, I wasn't going to say no.

  “Call me Rache.” She took my hand again, and the sensation of her skin sliding against mine coursed through my forearm. “C'mon, you can show me in the cellar. Unless you're afraid of the dark.”

  I couldn't resist her playful lilt. The fact that she might expedite my evening was a total bonus. Plus, she held my hand, and I couldn’t resist smiling, brown-eyed girls with mischievous ideas. She led me beyond the bar, away from the growing crowd. A light-hearted relief found me.

  Rache paused at the corner of the hall and placed a finger over her lips. She stood a head shorter than me. Her black hair smelled like fake lilies. When the coast was clear, we continued around the corner, beyond the bend, and down a flight of sta
irs.

  We slipped inside a loaded wine cellar. Hall light shone briefly across hundreds of bottles. Palms dampening, I felt tricked, like I'd walked into the lion's den. She pushed her full wine glass into my hand. The stem was warm from her touch, the glass bell was cool with wine. Her dress hugged tightly as she stretched for a switch. I blinked as the light illuminated a treasure trove of fine wines in climate-controlled cases. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  “Would you like some wine?” She leaned into me to reach for a dark bottle with an old wax seal and a foreign name. I breathed in her lily perfume, intoxicated by liquid temptation. Deliberate strands of hair dangled against her round pink cheeks.

  “No.” I pushed the wineglass back into her hand, ridding myself of half the problem. Her manicured nails lightly scraped the base of my thumb. Venus mound, it was called by palm readers. I was too close to booze and this girl.

  “Don't look so nervous.” She tried to tease despite my brashness. “Come on. Show me.”

  Ah, yes, the gun. I stared deeply into her eyes, past the eager glow, looking for the trap and trick. Not finding any, I decided she was only curious and younger than I first believed. Also, she began to blush. I took a step back, pulled the weapon, and checked the safety. The Jericho's matte black finish looked uncultured and unkempt in the golden glow of the wine cellar. I did not belong here.

  Certainly, this went far beyond the obligatory handshake.

  She reached and I flinched. My start ended her motion in midair.

  “Can I hold it?”

  “Not a chance, sugar.”

  She pouted, a supple thrust of her plush lip. This woman got her way a lot. I racked the slide and caught the ejected bullet. Her eyes widened at the simple trick. The silver bullet nestled in my palm like a gleaming bit of candy. When I offered, she took it like a toddler accepts a treat: entranced and entitled.

  “Wow,” she sighed.

  Nearly made me blush.

  Sure, the bullet looked glamorous. People thought agents were all gunslinger-heroes riding off into the sunset. Rache could worship the pretty illusion because she didn't have to live in the bloody ugliness. She didn't have to wade through the shit. Jealous scorn flared in me.