How To Be A Badass Witch: Book Three

by Michael Anderle

  Kera realized the other girl had some martial arts training, probably Jiu-jitsu, Hapkido, or perhaps Krav Maga. The two grappled fiercely, each trying to catch the other with a wristlock or joint break between attempts at clawing at one another’s eyes or kneeing groin and stomach.

  The Asian woman screamed continuously as if she were trying to unnerve Kera.

  “What is wrong with you?” she demanded, her hands tearing at Kera’s helmet and arms, then wrenching the faceplate up. “You moron! She’s only making us do this because you couldn’t back off and had to be queen bitch of all the gangs. I knew you were a chick!”

  Kera, though tired, had adjusted to the woman’s fighting style, and she was still running high on her thaumaturgic infusions. She saw a gap in her foe’s defenses and struck her in the side of the head with an elbow.

  Lia fell back, gasping and thrashing, and Kera stepped in to simultaneously trip and shove her. She crashed into the wall with twice the force most normal humans would have been able to muster. The woman crumpled, alive but battered, and probably out of the fight.

  Kera looked up as a door clicked ahead of her. The blonde woman, Pauline, leaned through the doorway of her office, aiming her freshly reloaded rifle.

  “You lose,” the blonde woman said simply. “And I’m still going to take down your precious Mermaid.”

  A barrage of hot lead spat from the barrel of her gun, and Kera ran to the side, not only to protect herself but to draw fire away from the collapsed Asian girl. Bullets sparked off her shield as she ducked behind the table the two women had used for their own protection.

  And that’s it, Kera’s mind acknowledged. I’m dizzy and exhausted. I used too much magic too quickly without bringing a backup energy source, and now this Russian corporate wannabe is going to kill me with Soviet-era military surplus hardware. My faceplate is gone, and I think my other pistol fell out while I was doing cartwheels back there. Maybe I’m not such a badass witch after all.

  She turned and ran, managing to rush, crawl, leap, and stumble her way back to the corridor and into the lobby of the office. It took too long, and she was certain Pauline would appear and put a couple dozen holes through her at any moment.

  But she didn’t...yet. In fact, it sounded like the other woman had climbed out a window or left through an exit that Kera hadn’t noticed. If that were the case, she might get away, burst into the Mermaid, and shoot as many people as she could rather than bombing the place.

  And Kera was out of extra energy. Not only would any more magic wipe her out, but she didn’t know how long the effects of the Kims’ relic would last. She might draw more trouble on herself if she attempted further channeling at this point.

  I have to pull through. One way or another, I have to end this now. Tonight.

  She looked around, and the first thing her eyes fell on was the office’s coffee station. With the desperate hunger of a dog waiting beside the dinner table, Kera pulled herself toward it, grabbed a cup, and pushed the lever.

  Only a tiny trickle of blackish liquid came out, barely an ounce.

  “Goddammit,” Kera raged. “Cheap bastards.” She seized sugar packets—there were only two, barely enough—and dumped them into the cup. Otherwise, there was only one option remaining.

  Kera pinched the creamer packs and her mouth puckered. “Fuck. This is one of the grossest things I have ever done. I hate French Vanilla.” Swallowing a sudden bulge in her throat, she tore open the paper and added them to her half-assed beverage.

  Next, she went to the sink, filled the cup with water, and stirred it with her finger. It was better than nothing.

  Outside, shadows were moving. Kera looked up. She couldn’t see much of anything, certainly not enough to know if Pauline had come back for Round Two.

  Kera tilted her head back and poured the thin, sweet mixture into her mouth. She gulped it fast to minimize the weird taste and shuddered, but she felt the effects within seconds. Calories and cheap carbs were exactly what she needed for a vitality boost.

  The outer door Kera had opened earlier crashed inward and Pauline stomped in. Her face, which might have been attractive under other circumstances, was horribly contorted with vicious hate, and her bleached hair was coming loose. Her red-nailed hands clutched the carbine to her shoulder in a way suggesting she was familiar with weapons.

  Kera dove behind the reception desk as her nemesis opened fire again, and once more, the agonizing loudness of the gun was made worse by the enclosed space. As her ears rang and debris flew, a single thought filled her mind.

  It’s her, the creepy woman from the Mermaid who showed up as Mustang Man’s date. She was disguised as a basic bimbo, but she’s the leader of this whole operation. Mustang Man is just her lackey. I can tell. None of them seem like great people, but I don’t think they want to blow up my bar. This bitch is making them do it.

  That knowledge, combined with the slight boost from her horrible coffee, brought her back from the brink.

  Kera stood up and lunged out from behind the desk as Pauline’s AK exhausted its magazine. The Russian tried to reload but dropped the gun after a second, realizing there was no time. Instead, she directed a solid punch at Kera.

  It was easy to duck under it, but Kera was too off-balance to counterattack with her own fists, so she swept her leg upward behind her, bending it so it rose past shoulder level. The sole of her boot crashed into Pauline’s face.

  The woman cried out and hit the wall, then scrabbled at a sheath on her thigh and pulled a knife. Her face looked even more livid with a nasty red mark forming on her cheek. “You lose. I said so before, and I’ll say it again. There was only one of you this whole time, wasn’t there? You don’t have a gang! You’re nothing! All you want is to break down the world I’m trying to build—”

  Kera fell into a battle stance and raised her hands. The knife made everything more complicated, but some of her augmented speed and strength remained, not to mention everything she had learned from her sessions in the dojang with Mrs. Kim.

  “You’re crazy is what you are,” Kera observed.

  Shrieking, Pauline lashed out at her with the blade, feinting at her face before making a lower strike at her gut.

  Kera raised her arms to protect herself but did not flinch. When the knife went low, she hopped out of range and swept her foot hard at the side of Pauline’s knee. The blow connected, but not with much force because Pauline was charging into the next strike.

  Still, her knee wobbled, and her thrust at Kera’s heart went wide and slashed her lightly along the lower side instead. The blade was terrifyingly sharp, and it cut through the leather jacket to draw blood.

  Kera hit Pauline in the jaw with the heel of her hand. The Russian blonde reeled back, which gave the witch enough time to circle into the most open part of the lobby while forcing Pauline toward the corner.

  Kera grabbed the only thing at hand, which happened to be a potted plant, and half-bashed, half-threw it at her enemy’s arm and shoulder. Pauline fell to her knees but retained her hold on the knife and surprised Kera with a sudden slash at her legs.

  Stumbling, Kera narrowly avoided taking the blade in her kneecap. Pauline pounced on her, bending her back over the low part of the desk, the knife poised to stab her in the face.

  Kera caught Pauline’s wrist, and their eyes locked as the blade trembled.

  “I’m still burning down the Mermaid after you’re dead,” Pauline promised.

  Fear and anger and adrenaline were blotting out Kera’s ability to think, and Pauline had pinned her in a way that she could do almost nothing except hold the knife at bay, but something occurred to her.

  I could let her stab me and bash her head on the desk. Then she wouldn’t be able to do jack shit to Cevin or Jenn or Stephanie or anyone else. But I promised the Kims not only victory but survival.

  Kera was strong. She had worked out, trained, and prepared for moments like this. The two women were of the same moderate height and slender bui
ld, but Kera was more athletic and a better fighter. She strained against her attacker, pushing upward.

  Pauline moved back, and so did the knife. Her bloodshot eyes widened in fear. Kera calmed, focusing everything on the determination—the certainty—that she would leave this building alive and walk into a peaceful, intact bar the next time she went to work.

  Pauline was no longer in control. She tried to fling herself against Kera one last time, using both hands to attempt to push the knife down, but by now, Kera had moved them both past Pauline’s point of advantage. She pivoted and used the Russian’s motions against her, directing the knife down and to the side. The blade hit the desk’s surface and fell to the floor.

  Kera ducked in a counterintuitive swooping motion, just as Mrs. Kim had taught her, then came back up, her foot striking true. It caught Pauline full in the face with all the disciplined force her body could muster.

  Pauline cried out as she was knocked off her feet. She fell hard, and the back of her head struck the corner of the fridge with an awful crunching sound. She flopped to the floor, a red pool spreading beneath her as her hate-filled eyes went glassy. Perhaps for the first time in years, she looked at peace.

  Everything was quiet for a moment, aside from the sound of a car passing by outside. Then Kera heard sirens approaching, since automatic gunfire would not go unnoticed for long.

  Kera stood, brushed herself off, and exhaled. She was sweating and shaking, hardly able to believe she was alive and Pauline was dead, but it had to be done.

  The cops would be here soon, and she had one more thing to do before she could leave.

  Kera stood and raised her hands, feeling the vibe-essence of Johnny, and Sven, and Lia, all of whom were unconscious or barely conscious but still susceptible to magical suggestion.

  First, she projected a mental image into their memories of her, the dreaded Motorcycle Woman, a figure of terror and aggression who mercilessly doled out retribution. They would remember her that way.

  She delivered her message, tying it to the image of her speaking in a deep, booming voice while her eyes glowed red.

  Consider this your ONLY FUCKING WARNING. You will not receive another. Like cowards, you went along with a plan that would have killed innocent people. I foiled that plan, and I also marked all three of you. I can hunt you down at will, and I’ll disembowel you with a blunt spork if you so much as think of getting involved with a person like Pauline ever again.

  As the spell faded, Kera could actually hear Lia moaning from the upper floor of the building. As she darted out the front door and across the street, she saw Johnny and Sven twitching like kids having nightmares beside the tree where she had left them.

  They would wake up soon, but if they had to deal with the cops right away, it might interfere with their ability to get the point of the night’s events. Kera summoned the last of her magic and wove a final ghost-sounds spell, combined with a minor memory-wipe. The cops would think the gunfire had happened two blocks down the street, and they’d spend enough time looking there that the other three could get out.

  She found Zee and gave him a pat. “Thanks for waiting. Sorry it took so long. One more stop before home—food.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  An hour earlier, Mr. Kim had waved as his son, with a fully loaded backpack of supplies, walked down the street toward his friend’s house. Once the boy was gone, his father shut the door and turned the sign out front to Sorry, We’re Closed despite it being an hour and a half earlier than usual.

  Mr. Kim stood and stared vacantly into space. There were forms of magic that could trace people to other people by following the ties of blood, emotion, and shared experience. He didn’t think whoever was coming for Kera would go after his child, but he refused to take any chances, and Ye-Jin had agreed.

  Tonight, it would only be the two of them, as it had been back in Korea so many years ago.

  His wife came down the stairs, feeling better after a nap, a meal, and some strong tea. She was still not as strong as either of them would like, but well enough to help make the preparations.

  “Ah, Ye-Jin.” He clapped his hands together. “We should have fun with this as long as we are at it, don’t you think? They probably have no goddamn idea what they’re dealing with here. We can throw them off with a bunch of bullshit stereotypes and theatrical stuff.”

  Mrs. Kim made a sour face. “What does that mean? We will distract them with stupid things they might have seen in movies?”

  His grin broadened. “Exactly. For all we know, one of them majored in East Asian Studies in college, but probably not. And a class like that would be full of horseshit and know nothing about the tradition we come from. Right? Ha, ha.”

  Though one was far more enthusiastic than the other, the spouses both contributed to turning their shop and home into a combination of an obstacle course, an amusement park ride, a museum exhibit, and as Mr. Kim put it, “A Home Alone meets Rambo V trap course.”

  Their presumed opponents were magicians of considerable power and knowledge, but since the secrets of the miraculous arts in Korea were quite closely guarded against outside scrutiny, the hunters would have to assume that anything unusual was a magical component of great significance or dangerous power.

  “So,” Mrs. Kim quipped as the nature of her husband’s fiendish plan became clear, “this was the real reason you sent Sam away, isn’t it? He would die of embarrassment if he saw this.”

  Mr. Kim cackled and continued to decorate.

  They hung veils and tapestries and random prayer cloths everywhere and filled the store with cheap knick-knacks with varying degrees of “Asianness,” some of which had nothing to do with Korea: Vietnamese Buddha statues, a crappy reproduction katana they had bought for Sam on his seventh birthday, a poster of Bruce Lee, and some strings of Indian beads Mr. Kim had purchased from a street vendor on a whim last year.

  Most of it had zero magical potential, but it would all distract, confuse, and confound, especially in conjunction with the profusion of different types of slow-burning incense they’d ignited. Scents could have a significant effect on the performance of the obscure arts. Using too many or the wrong ones would make life difficult for those who were sensitive to such things.

  Further, they pulled apart the shelves and brought in boxes and crates and dollies from the back storeroom, littering the aisles of the shop as well as the hallways and the staircase to their living area with disorganized junk.

  “And,” Mr. Kim pointed out, holding up a particular box, “we will finally be able to use this ridiculous thing. Ha!” It was a smoke machine he had intended to save for Halloween. “It will probably hurt their eyes and lungs and screw with the scents even more.”

  Mrs. Kim finally managed a laugh. “We should have opened a party store instead of a grocery store. Business would not have been as consistent, but you are perfect for it. Or the circus.”

  Beaming with sudden pride, Mr. Kim hid speakers in locations where they were inconvenient to find and deactivate. They would soon blare a jangling profusion of spoken-word tapes in Korean, music of Sam’s, and a Halloween CD of scary sounds.

  Mr. Kim concluded that unless the people trying to find Kera were the best magicians on the planet, they would have a rough time concentrating on spells amidst this godawful mess.

  Mrs. Kim chided, “Careful with that candle. Making them lost and confused will be funny, but it won’t be so amusing if the veils get swept into the flames or the burning herbs and we end up with a pile of charcoal instead of a home and business.”

  “Oh, right,” he replied as though he’d just thought of that. He paused. “Are you sure we should not have told Kera about this, Ye-Jin? I don’t like withholding things from her.”

  His wife put a hand on his shoulder. “We did the right thing. She would never have agreed to it.”

  James and LeBlanc, both magically cloaked, stood on the sidewalk, taking in the convenience store. The sign said Closed, but there were
dim lights within.

  They had searched several times for the source of the magic, and the answer was this place every time. Apparently, Motorcycle Man was prepping for his mission in Kim’s Convenience.

  James turned to his friend. “Ready?”

  “Of course,” she replied. He held the door and she went in first, one hand in front of her to ward off anything the rogue channelers might throw at them.

  Nothing happened. James stepped in behind her and closed the door, and his eyes bulged.

  It didn’t look like a grocery store. It seemed to be a cross between a carnival haunted house and a makeshift Asian temple. It also looked like it had been ransacked, or maybe the proprietors had been doing inventory, only to be interrupted in the middle of the process.

  Sounds and scents wafted on the air, weird noises and chanting, and the smell of multiple types of incense and herbs. James’ brain put up a massive red flag.

  God-fucking-dammit. It’s not just one person, it’s multiple people, and they knew we were coming. They’re fucking with us. Were the Motorcycle Man and Mermaid things hoaxes to get the FBI out of the way? I can sense magic. It’s faint, but then again, they must have successfully cloaked how powerful they are since the beginning.

  They might very well have stumbled onto a coven, and a brief look at LeBlanc confirmed she was thinking much the same thing.

  “James,” she said softly, “let’s not split up. A quick roundabout of the store, then we find their living area and see what’s upstairs.”

  His eyes darted around. Veils and cloth had been hung everywhere, obscuring the dimensions of the place. “Yeah. Affirmative.”

  They circled to the left toward the rear part of the shop where the refrigerators were, pushing aside hangings as they went. James felt something catch his ankle, and he stumbled into a shelf, knocking about twenty bags of chips and cheese curls onto himself.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he hissed as LeBlanc helped him back to his feet. He’d stepped in an empty box that had been left in front of an overturned greeting card rack.