Which Witch is Wicked? (The Witches of Port Townsend Book 2)

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Intrigued, the little animal pranced across the grass toward the gardens, rhythmic little toots accompanying his happy gait.

  That ought to keep him busy for a while.

  When she turned back to the fence, Julian was nowhere to be seen, but she could feel him out there in the copse of trees that lined the property. He had an emotional signature like no one else she’d come across. It was an eternal stillness in a ruffling wind. A black smudge among a riot of color. Peace and patience amongst chaos. In a way, his lack of intensity made him very intense.

  Closing the gate behind her, only pausing for a moment’s hesitation, she stepped beyond the house’s wards and plunged into the trees, the heavy ax secure in both hands.

  Summer sunlight made the shadows dance beneath the tall trees, this particular swath of forest a collaboration of species. Oak, elm, pine, beech, and ash trees crowded around each other like gossiping neighbors, their boughs heavy with greenery and age. Aerin liked to think that the trees didn’t have to compete for moisture here in the Northwest, and so they might be friendlier to each other in these plentiful groves. Underbrush and shrubberies that were foreign to her played at the ancient roots of the trees like unruly children. Tierra would be able to name them. Aerin avoided them.

  She found Julian standing in the middle of a small break in the foliage with his back to her, the sunlight filtering down to shine off the silver strands in his otherwise ebony hair. He wore a thick black coat and leather gloves on his hands which were clasped behind him, even though the temperature topped the eighties. Wilting, dying leaves dropped to the earth around him like a rainstorm, and Aerin felt as though she could sense the trees throwing them at him, making it clear in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t welcome among their summer bloom.

  Famine. Desolation. Pestilence. It wasn’t only humans he killed with his poisonous touch.

  Aerin formed a breeze with her will, blowing the dead leaves away from him in a wild puff, uncovering the lush moss and grasses.

  A small circle of brown and gray spread amongst the grass beneath his glossy shoes.

  He turned to her, his sharp, masculine chin rasping against the high wool collar of his coat. In a forest of light and shadow, of greens and browns and tones of the earth, his brilliant blue eyes seemed to glow. A web of lines appeared at their corners as he smiled, and Aerin had to catch her breath. Those lines kept him from looking truly young. They whispered of a life harshly lived, like he’d been weathered on a sea where the clouds never broke. Where the sun never kissed him like it did in this grove. Sometime in a past so distant, it was unimaginable.

  Even his fucking smile was inscrutable. Beautiful. There had never been formed in heaven or on earth a man more beautiful than this.

  “If that weapon is meant for me, I surrender.” He lifted his hands in a mock gesture of fear.

  Aerin looked down at the ax in her grip, stunned to find out that she’d lifted it in a defensive gesture, as though to protect herself.

  “It’s not.” She lowered it, trying to recover her wits.

  “Then am I to assume you are going to use it on a tree, even in an Alexander McQueen cashmere suit?” Dark brows lifted in surprise.

  “If I feel like it.” She inspected the elm, which was closest, her neck craned to see if she could find a limb low enough to hack at. Which tree would be the most magical, she wondered. Which branch wanted to fly?

  “Might I inquire as to your reasons for playing lumberjack?” He fell into step behind her, his hands still clasped tightly behind his back.

  “We weren’t supposed to meet until midnight.” Aerin retreated from him a bit, unexpectedly uncertain, and pretended to consider the ash tree.

  He was suddenly closer, his breath warm on her ear. “What is that intoxicating scent?” he queried.

  “That, I believe, is a brined tofu soy pig fart.” She slipped away from him. Or rather he allowed it as he paused.

  “I—beg your pardon?” His voice colored with confusion, as though he thought he’d misheard her.

  “It’s your brother Bane who should be begging our pardon. He’s the one that slipped it to my sister without using protection. Now she’s pregnant and poisoning the atmosphere with dastardly consequences of a household fed on fuck-all but cruciferous vegetables.” Aerin bitched. “Of which there are many.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and Aerin moved on to a pine tree, then dismissed it out of hand.

  “You don’t smell like a…” He cut himself off, and Aerin smiled as her back was to him. She knew he couldn’t bring himself to say something so ridiculously vulgar. “I was referring to an aroma, not a stench. Your scent, it’s changed to something warmer than when I saw you last. You smell…expensive.”

  “That’s because I am expensive,” she said, marveling at the fact that only Julian Roarke could discuss perfumes and still manage to sound masculine. How many men noticed when a woman changed her perfume?

  “No doubt,” he muttered.

  I will not be charmed. I will not be impressed.

  “What are you doing here, Julian? Did you learn something about the zombies that couldn’t wait until tonight?”

  He turned toward her then. Slowly stalking the handful of yards between him and the beech tree beneath which she now stood. His hands were still behind him, as though bound, but it provided little comfort to her. His shoulders were so wide, his movements so impious and unapologetically predatory. The paradox of his placid features with the sinful intent in his blue eyes was astonishing. No, scratch that, terrifying.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she threatened, cringing at the note of hesitation that escaped her usually dynamic tone. “You shouldn’t come to the house.”

  If he tried to seduce her, how could she resist him?

  If he tried to kill her, how could she resist him?

  He reached her, his towering height dwarfing her, even in her three inch heels, causing Aerin to do something she’d never done before in her entire life.

  She retreated a step. Then another. Then another. Until her back was up against the solid trunk of the beech tree.

  “I came to warn you,” he said in a voice that was ironically empty of warning and full of wickedness. Dark hair shot with silver fell over his face as he lowered it within inches of hers, placing his lips once again against her ear. “The undead… I have reason to believe they’ll come for you, with the intent to do you harm.”

  He had yet to touch her, but their cheeks were so close she could almost feel the sharp rasp of the dark stubble there. Molecules vibrated on a more frenetic frequency in anticipation of their physical connection.

  “For me?” she breathed, gasping as his hair caressed her collarbone.

  “For you all.”

  “Yeah, well, they’ll have to get in line.” Her fingers tightened on the ax between them, but she didn’t move.

  “I urge you and your sisters to ward the house against them. To seek answers within the Grimoire on how to defeat them.”

  Aerin grunted. “In all the spare time we have in between consulting it on how to defeat you?”

  His sound of amusement was a puff of warmth against her neck. “You’re not frightened are you, Aerin de Moray?”

  More like petrified. “I wouldn’t tell you if I was.”

  “No, I don’t expect you would.” His hands finally came unlatched from behind him and landed on either side of her head against the tree trunk. The beech gave a great shudder of protest, or was that her own shudder as his body pressed closer?

  “What—what other information do you have for me?”

  “Not anything solid, as of yet. I promise to have more tonight.” His lips skimmed the curve where her neck met her shoulder, light as a whisper. “I still can’t believe…”

  “Aerin?” Moira’s bellow permeated the thick, seductive moment with some harsh reality. “Aerin, goddamnit, where did you get off to? You were supposed to be watching Cheeto.”

  “Fuck. Shit. F
uck.” Aerin swore, ducking away from Julian. “I have to go. You have to go. I have to… leave.” Why in the ninth circle of hell did she allow this man the power to seduce her like this? He was the damn virgin. Who the fuck did he think he was, emptying her head of thoughts?

  “I’ll wait until tonight then,” he said with more than a little regret. “Though I would beg the answer, just what were you planning on doing with that ax?”

  “Mother of all fucks,” she cursed again. “I was supposed to chop a fucking tree branch big enough to make a broom.” She’d never get it before Moira found her to chew her ass out.

  “Allow me.” Julian held his hand out, and Aerin surrendered the ax.

  He pointed to a branch almost eye level with him and about the circumference of Aerin’s wrist. She nodded and moved out of the way, expecting several hacks before the thing came down.

  He swatted at it with one hand, the ax moving faster than the eye could see.

  Aerin’s mouth dropped open as he handed the ax back to her and stripped the limb of any sharp branches.

  Holy fuck was he the sexiest thing that walked on two legs.

  “I have to go,” she repeated dumbly.

  “As you say.” He made no move away from her.

  “I have lunch in the dryer. I mean—laundry in the fridge.”

  “Do you, indeed?” He gave her the branch, the perfect size and shape for a broom, with a knowing smile his lips.

  “Yup.” She backed away slowly, feeling wobbly on heels that had become like an extension of her own feet.

  “I’ll see you at midnight then, Aerin de Moray.” He said, turning to disappear into the storm of wilting leaves. “Remember to be vigilant. They’ll come for you.”

  Aerin retreated, trying not to think of the many meanings of the word come.

  Chapter Six

  A zombie “came for them” much sooner than Aerin expected.

  Like an hour after her tragically short conversation with Julian. Hell, her panties hadn’t even had time to cool off yet.

  Aerin sat on the covered porch off the parlor in the front yard, the afternoon sun warming her skin as she attempted to craft a broom. She felt at once peaceful and turbulent. For someone used to boardrooms and redeye flights, a quiet afternoon working with her hands was oddly peaceful. Her bare feet and discarded blazer were her only concessions to comfort. She’d never been the crafty type, magical or otherwise, but dammit she was determined.

  Moira was lurking about somewhere, still pissed that a neglected Cheeto had eaten nearly all Tierra’s peppermint. Silver lining: it had seemed to fix his gastrointestinal expulsions. Tierra had gone to the shop in search of warding materials and had taken Claire and Tommy with her. Ironically, the pregnant lady was the safest when she left the house, as Death had made it pretty clear that his baby mama was off limits. At least, for the moment.

  God, their lives were like a really bad reality TV show.

  Up next on Survivor: Apocalypse. Will the sisters find out that Aerin has been secretly meeting with Pestilence? Will Claire forgive War for stealing the Grimoire? Is Tierra’s baby the antichrist? Will Conquest seek revenge for a tidal wave?

  Who will get the final rose? Who will be the next to break a Seal? Who will be voted off the island? Who wins a custody battle with Death?

  Aerin pinched the bridge of her nose, a headache pricking behind her eyes. Probably from low blood sugar. What had the prophecy said?

  When the reckoning comes, who shall be able to stand?

  Who exactly would be the warring factions? Who were the enemies? Who would be left standing once the smoke cleared? The proverbial King of the Mountain. Or, more accurately, the entire world. A god, essentially. Or goddess?

  Goddesses? Maybe four?

  A scream interrupted her dangerous questions. It came from the direction of the backyard.

  Moira.

  The broom clattered to the floor as Aerin bolted through the house. Through the wall of brand new windows in the kitchen, she watched in horror as Moira drove the heel of one of the stilettos Aerin had discarded by the door into a man’s temple.

  “No!” Aerin cried, grabbing the ax she’d also left leaning against the porch rail in case she’d needed a different branch.

  Staggering back, the man, dressed in bell bottoms and a fringed vest the same brown as his stringy long hair, reached his hand up and tested the shoe sticking out of the side of his face. “Hey,” he protested in a thick monotone ubiquitous amongst pot heads and surfers. “Uncool, man.”

  Aerin wasn’t certain who she planned on using the ax on until she reached them. “Yeah, Moira,” she agreed with the walking corpse. “Un-fucking-cool. That’s my fucking shoe!”

  “Peckerhead tried to eat me!” Moira pointed, her aquamarine eyes wide with disbelief.

  “Who hasn’t?” Aerin said acerbically as she turned to the zombie hippie. “Give me my heel back or I’ll take it, along with your head.”

  “No need to be salty ‘bout it baby,” the man drawled with squinty-eyed passivity. “You seem like real fine chicks, and this sort of thing isn’t my usual bag, but the lady fascist gave me no choice. It’s like ‘Nam all over again, man.”

  “Who in the Sam hill you talkin’ about?” Moira demanded.

  The zombie ignored her. “Now which one of you groovy gals is the water witch? I’m a Scorpio, and I think I should stay with my sign, ya dig?”

  Aerin stepped in front of Moira. “I’ll dig your eyeballs out if you don’t answer the question,” she threatened, lifting the ax.

  “Hey, I’ll be the first cat to admit it’s a real bummer. But making a meal of you chicks is the only way to save my immortal soul. But if you’ve been good, yours’ll merge with the far out divine. Nothing more righteous than that.” He put his lanky arms out in front of him, evoking the image of the quintessential zombie. “Now do me a solid, and hold still.”

  “Merge with this, Daddy-o.” Aerin swung her ax like she’d seen in the Bronx when Horowitz, the bookie’s Shylock used to swing bats to break kneecaps. Horowitz was old school.

  It embedded in about half way into his neck with an oddly fibrous sound and stuck there. As in, Aerin couldn’t pull it out no matter how hard she tried.

  “Yeouch,” the Zombie wailed as he was yanked this way and that. In Aerin’s frenzy, she nearly knocked over Moira in their awkward, lethal tug of war.

  Thinking fast, Moira managed to grab onto her shoe and pry it out of his face.

  Arms slack with a bit of relief, Aerin didn’t realize the extent of the man’s strength until he gave a mighty tug and the handle of the ax was ripped out of her hands.

  “Catch!” Moira snapped as she tossed the shoe at Aerin and lunged for the anachronistic zombie. “I got this.”

  Grabbing the handle, Moira kicked out at the man and used his chest for leverage as she yanked the ax out of his throat.

  Aerin didn’t know what she expected, perhaps a bit more arterial spray, but all that oozed from the wound was a foamy goo of indeterminate color.

  She shuddered and swallowed some bile that threatened the back of her throat.

  “Not gonna work, lady,” the zombie taunted, his voice not at all affected by the fact that his vocal cords had been severed. “Can’t kill a cat who’s been dead forty years.”

  “Can’t eat a ‘chick’ if you have no head,” Moira volleyed back, swinging the ax one more time, her aim suggesting she’d done this before. Probably not with people, but one never knew.

  His head bounced twice off the grass and rolled to a stop against the gate. “You’re being a real drag about this, man,” he accused, spitting grass out of his mouth. His body, still dripping with fringe and goo, stumbled forward, arms out and bending to grope for the head.

  “Gitcha undead ass out of here or we’ll start hacking limbs,” Moira spat. Though Aerin could see that she was shaken. Or, rather, shaking.

  The corpse picked up his own head and jogged toward the gate. “Don’
t take it so personal,” he said as a parting shot. “This is our one chance.”

  “Your one chance to what?” Aerin started after him, but for a dead guy, his skinny legs ran pretty fast. “And who is the lady fascist?” she yelled.

  “Later, witches.” His answer was lost in the breeze that was picking up into a wind. Aerin took a moment to wonder if he’d meant witch as a slight or a title.

  Hippie ass clown.

  Moira stood on the grass, the ax dripping with blood, and… other.

  Aerin whirled on her, her blood singing with fear and violence with no outlet. “What have we learned?” she demanded.

  Moira blinked. Then blinked again. Her wild auburn hair ruffling across her face. “That…zombies are a damn sight harder to kill than they are on TV,” she panted.

  “No!” Aerin waved the shoe at her face, the heel stained with whatever resided inside a zombie’s skull. “No, we learned that you grab the fucking ax to fight zombies, not my several-hundred dollar shoes!”

  Moira wrinkled her nose at Aerin’s ruined sole, then shrugged. “They looked like any old high-heeled shoes to me, and I didn’t see the ax lying there, or I’d have grabbed for it first. I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly on account of the zombie in the backyard.”

  Aerin’s mouth dropped open. “Any…old…” That’s it, she was going to lose it. “These are Manolo Blahnik grey crocodile BB pumps. Their stitching is worth more than one of your backwater pontoons—”

  “That ain’t no crocodile skin,” Moira said skeptically. “I’d know.”

  “It’s crocodile print. People don’t wear crocodile skin anymore. It’s not in fashion to actually wear animals these days.”

  Moira’s eyes darkened from aquamarine to blueberry. “Excuse me, Yankee, but where I come from we’re smarter’n to let some store with a name no one can pronounce talk us into spending a ridiculous amount of money for a shoe that looks like something you can buy at Payless.”

  “Payless?” Aerin gasped, her head jerking like she’d been slapped as she hid the shoe behind her as though to protect it from one not worthy. “Take. That. Back.”