A bear claw? The coffee in Jazzlyn’s hand started to boil in its mug as her magic came unbidden. “Move on while you still can,” she snarled ferociously.
It would have been ironic to see a Shifter back away from a curvy little girl half her size, growling at her. But Jazzlyn Horn was a daughter of the Goddess. A Witch. And though she looked to be about twenty-two, the truth was she was about three times that age. And she was in a nasty mood and ready to southern hospitalize the unfortunate server. But she relented in her seething. It wasn’t the waitress’ fault. She had no idea that it wasn’t so long ago Jazzlyn would have loved a bear claw. Two bear claws, in fact, that belonged to one very specific WereBear, dragging none-too gently down her back in a moment of bliss. Damn Karl Woodsman to Hell! Jazzlyn sighed.
“I’m sorry, sissy. I will take a bear claw and more coffee when you get a chance,” Jazzlyn mumbled as she tapped her cup.
The poor girl dropped the pastry on Jazzlyn’s plate from a relatively safe distance and sprinted off. Jazzlyn had to get her shit together or she was going to hex some poor innocent into oblivion by accident. Any serious misfire and the high mucky-muck Barbie Yugo—one of the many names she called the Witch-of-Witches Baba Yaga, in her head of course—would strip her powers down so far, she couldn’t get a gig doing card tricks at kid’s parties. Of course, Baby Iago was the reason she was back in the sweaty, under-boob of America. But Weird Baba Yaga-vich wouldn’t tell her why she had to be here. And those who question The Baba occasionally wound up as wriggly little white things at the bottom of dumpsters, or worse, as greeters at Denny’s.
She sat shredding her bear claw wishing she was doing it to another part of Karl’s bear anatomy. A large, noisy bluebird flew in an open window and began divebombing the heads of several patrons, sending them under their tables. It then landed in front of Jazzlyn, opened its beak, and in a disturbingly whiskey-tinged female voice squawked, “Girl, your face is so long, you look like a deflated Macy’s float.” With that, the bluebird speared a piece of the jigsaw puzzled bear claw and began chowing down.
Jazzlyn couldn’t keep the smirk off her face. Skye was her familiar, a huge bluebird. Not the “Bluebird of Happiness”. More of a “Bluebird of Sassiness” with an extra-large side of attitude. She was a friend, an ally, a confidant, and a feathered pain in the ass. That last was because she was so often right. Skye had been right about Karl and that pissed Jazz off to no end. Especially since Jazz was a Snoop—a Witch who is extremely sensitive to magic and can sense it off others like a secretary smelling vodka on the boss after lunch. Jazzlyn used this quirk as an investigator for The Council of Witches. And Karl completely fooled her. Or she fooled herself.
“Maybe someone who’s inches from being pillow stuffing should be a little more complimentary,” Jazz said in a sulky tone.
“Maybe someone should get off her shapely ass and get over a certain furry-fuck-face who will not be named,” chirped Skye as she beaked another piece of pastry larger than her head.
Jazz swung a half-hearted swat as Skye hopped out of reach. “Just let me drown my sorrow in caffeine and sugar,” Jazz groused. She gulped down the rest of her coffee, gritty dregs, and all.
Skye bobbed up on to the napkin holder and piped, “Not gonna happen. Now, has the Almighty Booby Gogo deigned to let you know the reason she dragged you back to the last place on Earth you want to be?”
“I’m supposed to meet her here.”
“Then you best hike up your “girls” and rinse the coffee grounds out of your mouth ‘cause you look like you’ve been eating pepper straight from the shaker.”
As Jazzlyn ran her tongue over her teeth to clear them, she caught a beefy, be-mulleted, slab o’ man enjoying the process. He was filling out his too tight t-shirt and jeans in very pleasant ways and she felt a mild “zing to her thing”. But Jazz gave him the tight-lipped nod instead that said, “Maybe another day, tasty.” Her head and heart were still in a bear trap. One that she was no longer allowed into. Karl had said they had been destined to be mates. He said her scent had told him. His eyes had told her. Their bodies had told each other. Loudly. Repeatedly. In ways that would baffle a contortionist. He had made her happier than she’d ever been. Her heart leaped at the sight of him shifting into his human form and then feeling it press against her. She was ready to talk settling down and raising cubs. Turned out he already had cubs. And a wife. Skye had helped her escape a justifiably enraged Mamma Bear just trying to protect her cave and family. Jazz was so blind-sided she hadn’t raised a finger or cast a cantrip to defend herself. She felt that there was no defense. She had ignored every sign and shut out every warbling warning Sky trilled in her ear. And even worse, he hadn’t done the right thing and disappeared from her life. His attempts to get her back had made it impossible to move past the worst and most glorious relationship she’d ever had. So, she fled and swore never to darken Appalachia again. And yet here she was back in the land of soup beans and Ale 8. And she had no idea why.
As if on cue, through the door of Meemaw’s Café, dressed like she stepped off the cover of a Duran Duran album, wafted the Queen Bee herself—well, the Queen B-I-T-C-H; BeBe YoYo. She was surrounded by her gaggle of Warlocks as always. Every head in the place turned to watch her. Yaga-Googoo had that effect. Jazzlyn quickly stood to greet her.
“Jazzlyn Horn! Welcome back to the land of Bluegrass music and tight-assed men!” crowed Baba Yaga in a cloud of attitude and Liz Taylor’s White Diamonds. Her obsession with the nineteen-eighties was still in full swing.
Jazz’s mouth twisted into a pout. “Only here because you summoned me.” she groused as she bowed her head in respect.
“I don’t summon my sisters like dogs. I called on you. The Goddess has need of you and your particular talents. Plus, your legs look fabulous in that dress. But combat boots aren’t the icing on the cake for you. Maybe some Jimmy Choo heels to complete the look?” purred the uber-Witch herself. And with a twinkle of her nose, Jazzlyn suddenly tottered unsteadily on some serious stilettos. As she pitched backwards, the Mullet Master appeared at her elbow giving her some stability. She glared at Babs Yoko. As she turned to Captain Hairdo, Skye hovered behind him, nodding appreciatively at the view. Jazz said, “not now,” with a twitch of her eyebrows.
“Thanks. I’m fine,” murmured Jazz as she freed her arm from his very warm, strong grip. Damn, why did he have to smell good right now?
“Yes, you are, Darlin’. Hope I’ll get the pleasure again soon,” he said throatily. He tipped his head and strode to the door. Baba and Jazz watching appreciatively.
“Boys, it’s time for the girls to talk,” said Yaga. Her entourage exchanged surprised looks. “Privacy. Now,” she snapped. The menfolk fell over themselves to “poof” out of the room in a cloud of brimstone and Drakkar Noir. “Skye, darling. Help a gal out,” piped The Notorious B.B.Y. The bluebird familiar flew around them three times which, apparently, is “the charm.” A curtain of blue descended around Jazz and Baba Yaga sealing them off from the sights and sounds of the room. Skye did her best Disney impression and landed on Jazzlyn’s shoulder.
Jazz found none of this reassuring. Private time with Booboo YooHoo could quickly turn into Banished to Sheboygan time if the mood so struck her.
“Is this where I actually find out why I’ve been dragged back to the inner ring suburbs of Hell?” snarked Jazz.
Baba flicked a bejeweled finger and a lightly fizzing martini glass appeared in her hand. She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow as she sipped it and drawled, “Jazz, I’ve been to Hell. West Virginia isn’t even Hell adjacent. Don’t be dramatic. That’s my job.” Her drink fizzed ominously.
“I just have some bad baggage here and…” Jazz started. But BYOB—Bring Your Own Baba—cut her off.
“Whatever it was that happened, happened, you’ll live. A very, very long time. Because you’re a Witch. A good Witch. One who’s going to do some good by snooping around for little ol’ me,” stated Baba flatly.
Yaga was very persuasive when she chose to be.
“My nose isn’t what it’s supposed to be,” Jazzlyn murmured.
“Then blow it because that wasn’t a request.”
“Yes, ma’am,” gulped Jazz.
“We’ve been seeing a lot of unregulated charms and potions. Some of them are shit and they’re hurting my people. We’ve also found Shifters. Let me correct myself—parts of Shifters. Here. Near one of my towns,” said Baba Yaga, all playfulness gone from her.
“Here? Knowing you might be around?” gulped Jazz.
Skye whistled. “Someone’s got a slow, painful death wish.”
“Yes. Yes, they do. I want to know who, I want to know why, and I want them brought to me.”, growled Baba. Baba’s growl felt like an earthquake. But much scarier.
“But if you don’t know who it is, how am I supposed to…” Jazz blurted.
Baba cut her short. “Whoever it is, knows when I’m around and has figured out some way to hide from even me.” The fury in Baba Yaga’s voice made the air in the Cone of Silence shimmer uncomfortably.
Jazzlyn was going to counter by explaining her broken heart, her loss of confidence and her apathy. As she opened her mouth, Skye jabbed her beak into Jazz’s ear and trilled, “Dumbass, the coach is putting you back in the game. You need this. Shut up and quote The Princess Bride.”
Jazz straightened up in her seat, looked Lady Yaga in the eye and said, “As you wish.”
Her Yaga-ness stood, snapped her fingers, and the world of sight and sound rushed back in on them. She crushed Jazz to her in arms that were velvet covered pythons and purred in her ear, “Fuck this up and you and your familiar can start filling out applications at Bush Gardens. And I mean the one in Florida.”
Chapter Three
“Please. Please! Tell Glower I‘ve been good. I’ve paid my fair share. I swear!”, cried the WereMink, clutching its ruined hand.
Tran “Psycho” Ward smiled. Fear saved so much time and energy. He liked fear. And the amazing thing was that those questioned did all the heavy lifting against themselves. True, he and that brute The Bastard had to crush a few bones to get the ball rolling. But once it started, that hill was steep and the ball rolled fast. Some loud noises from the dimwitted WereElk and a few dark smiles from Psycho and they would say anything. They would admit to stealing, to adultery, to faking the moon landing—anything to end the vicious, burning, terrifying pain which their own imaginations created.
“I tell Glower what I want. So, maybe you give us a little somethin’-somethin’, and maybe we tell him you’re square. If not, maybe…” cracked the Bastard. Then he cracked the WereMink’s final finger on its mangled hand.
There were times that The Bastard was bound and determined to earn his name.
“Pay the WereElk enough cash to keep your remaining paws intact, please. Regardless, Glower wants you to up your quota of Ajoite quartz,” purred Tran. He stroked the WereMink’s tangle of bones like the cheek of a lover and a glimmer of green traveled around the poor Shifter’s hand. A few of the twisted digits popped and mended into more finger-like shapes.
“I can’t,” exclaimed the poor Shifter. He used his one good hand to pull a wad of cash out of his pocket and tossed it to The Bastard and then quickly backed away. “There ain’t much more Ajoite in them mountains.”
“Crush up Chrysocolia and make up the weight. Plenty of that up there,” suggested Tran, oh so helpfully. The Bastard eyed him sideways as he counted the money.
“Make a charm with that shit. It’ll either not work or, worse, blow up in your face the minute you trigger the enchantment. That was why Glower skinned ol’ Thacker. He was so dang mad at him cuttin’ his good shit with that shit. But you already know that. Hell, you warned Thacker not to do it the month before he bit it,” moaned the WereMink. He was in pain and confused and couldn’t decide which one he hated more. Then his eyes went from Psycho to The Bastard and realization washed over The WereMink. “It was you, told him to do it, wasn’t it?”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” intoned Tran with mock mournfulness. “I was in a good mood until you said that. Bastien?”
The Psycho nodded to The Bastard.
The WereMink turned and was face-to-face with all eleven hundred pounds of the fully transformed WereElk. The Bastard hoisted the poor creature onto his full rack of antlers and threw him twenty feet across the clearing. He smashed into the trunk of a large pine tree. The poor Shifter tried to transform and made it about a third of the way through when huge hooves began crashing down on him over and over. Blood and gore covered the WereElk’s lower half. The Bastard didn’t stop until the WereMink was nothing but a muddy, red smear on the forest floor.
“A shame. We could have used his operation for at least another few months,” murmured Psycho.
The WereElk trotted over to where he had discarded his clothes before transforming. Psycho kicked a small pile of pinecones onto the smear of the remains. He called out to the night, “Anyone coming?”
A dark, leaf shape fell from a tree and flapped in a wide circle around the area. Kane, the bat, returned to the same tree and called out, “All clear, boss.”
“He was dead soon as he started working with Glower. Just a question of when,” growled The Bastard. He gathered his clothes, using his one hand not splattered with offal. Terrifyingly, he didn’t seem much smaller as a human than when he was an elk.
“You enjoy doing that, don’t you?”
“Sure do. Don’t you go forgettin’ it.”
“You are disgusting. Go clean yourself.”
The Bastard shrugged. “Fine. You clean this,” chuckled The Bastard indicating the pulpy remains. He strode naked through the clearing towards a stream up the mountain. He managed to do so while keeping one eye glued to Tran until he was out of sight.
Tran turned sourly. The elk was an oaf but a careful oaf. The Bastard knew Tran would have hexed the hairy beast straight to hell as he walked away then pissed on his corpse if he had the opportunity. Of course, The Bastard was a tough son of a bitch. If Tran had hit him but hadn’t killed him—or worse still, if he had missed—Tran would have been the next red-brown mudhole amidst the pines.
Sighing, Tran turned and piled more branches over the remains. Once he judged there was enough kindling, he muttered a quick spell. A half dozen pea-sized, glowing green pearls flew from his hand and set the remains ablaze. Tran walked the perimeter of the murder scene, making sure all outstanding evidence was burning. He then walked calmly to the black SUV parked near the dead WereMink’s truck. They were going to have to dispose of that, too. Wouldn’t be the first time. Tran was very careful to skim just enough magic from the djinn’s deflector spell to keep their side-dealings hidden from Glower. They were going to have to be more careful for a few weeks. He turned and stared at the smoking remains on the forest floor. If Glower caught them even thinking about grifting, that smoking pile would be a merciful end compared to what he’d do to them. Him and his goddess-be-damned djinn. Tran’s head swiveled. He realized—as he did more and more often as of late—that Glower could have set the djinn to watch them and they’d never know it because Tran couldn’t sense his magic. The Bastard couldn’t even smell him. Yet another reason why he needed to keep The Bastard around a while longer. He had no shot at taking down Glower without him. A voice snapped him out of his reverie.
“You’re smellin’ scared, Psycho,” mocked The Bastard as he emerged smirking from the woods fully clothed again.
“I was thinking about having to tell Glower his crystal supplier is gone.”
The Bastard’s smirk vanished. “Hmm. You gotta think up a lie for us then. You’re awful good at talkin’ outta both sides of your face, ya sneak,” clucked the Shifter.
“At least one of us can think,” murmured Psycho.
“I got other strengths,” growled The Bastard. And he flexed just the tiniest bit, causing the seams of his shirt to strain against his mass.
“Yeah. Enemy of my enemy, and all that shit,” harrumphed The Bastard.
“Meanwhile, Glower’s going to be mighty suspicious that he’s going to have to find another crystal supplier so soon after he had us kill the last one. Can you get rid of that idiot’s truck so it’ll never be found?” asked Tran. He opened the back of the SUV and handed The Bastard his backpack. With a whistle. Kane flew to him, climbed into his inside pocket, and climbed behind the wheel.
The Bastard unzipped the backpack and pulled out a beer. “These mountains don’t end. Lots of places to lose things. For good,” he chuckled as he popped the top off the beer and brought it quickly to his mouth as it erupted with foam.
Chapter Four
For Jazzlyn, shopping was the first step in any investigation. In order to find the kind of person who would buy contraband, she had to feel like that kind of person. And the key to feeling like that person was the shoes.
“What kind of shoe walks the aisles of the black market, Skye?” pondered Jazz with Skye perched on her shoulder.
“A shoe that likes to be heard coming. A serious, chunky heel. A designer name but at a knock-off price,” Skye said.
Jazz nodded. She relied on her familiar’s fashion sense almost as much as she relied on her counsel.
They headed into Jazzlyn’s preferred second-hand store. Jazz felt there was an energy about clothes that had a life before you get them. They let you get into someone else’s head in a way that new clothes didn’t. New clothes were a costume. Used clothes were a skin. In Assjacket, that meant a trip to the store with the finest in second-hand finery - Armoire And Piece.
The store was moderately full for a weekday afternoon. A mixed crowd of Shifters, Witches, and unsuspecting humans all pawing through other people’s castoffs in search of vintage gold. She and Skye drifted through racks of dresses, blouses, jeans, and other items. One of the goals of shopping in this environment was to not give any signals as to what you might be looking for. There were always lurkers in these stores. They waited until you showed interest in something then descended on the same rack or shelf like vultures. Jazz had the advantage of a bird’s eye view in addition to her own.
Djinn, Lose, or Draw Page 2