by L. A. Boruff
I move away from her laptop and head to find Hank and James. They might have thought all we had to worry about was impressing the girl next door, but now we had some real shit to worry about. Keeping her alive.
As soon as we finish her door alarms, I take one last long look at the blonde beauty, then tell her we have to get going like I can’t wait to be away from her. Everyone else looks ticked as we head for the door, but I don’t care. The sooner I let the guys know what I found, the better.
It’s a good thing we don’t get off duty until tomorrow morning because we’ve got to keep an eye on her.
Back at the firehouse, we make dinner while Sugar rattles on. All three of us seem to be in a strange mood because we don’t seem to have much to say. I wonder if the other guys are as confused about Callie as I am.
It takes a little while before Sugar gives up trying to figure out what we thought of the new girl and heads to bed. I’m more than a little relieved when she goes. It’s not like we can talk about this stuff in front of our very human coworker. And we need to talk about it, soon.
"Guys," I say.
They’re both too busy scrambling to start our nighttime routine to respond. Hank jumps over our beat-up couch and fires up our gaming system. James rushes into the kitchen, then out of it, with a bag of chips and an armload full of soda.
"Let’s talk strategy," James says, setting everything on the coffee table and grabbing his controller. "I won’t let those jerk teenagers beat us again."
Hank has already put on his headset. "We don’t need strategy, we just need to ruthlessly destroy them."
My irritation grows. They might want to strategize a game, but we have to make some real-life plans.
Moving around the couch, I switch off our game system.
Hank leaps to his feet. "What the hell?"
"We need to talk," I say.
Hank frowns, sits down, and opens his soda. "Is this about how bad your game was with Callie?"
"My game wasn’t bad," I grit out.
James looks at Hank. "Did he really strike out?"
"It was embarrassing," Hank says, grinning like an idiot.
"I did not strike out! There’s something wrong with her." I hate that even I can hear the defensiveness in my voice.
Both the guys start laughing. Idiots.
James opens his soda, smirking as he drinks it. "Maybe this means you finally like a girl."
The teasing note to his voice makes me want to punch him. "I do not like her! Hell, this isn’t what I want to talk about! It’s what I figured out over there."
Hank’s eyes fill with mischief. "Did you dig through her underwear drawer, player?"
"I fucking hate you guys!" I shout, then decide the hell with it and lower my voice. "Apparently our new neighbor is here hunting supernatural creatures."
The room grows silent.
After a minute, Hank sets his drink down. "Is this a joke?"
"Yeah, because I’m laughing so hard."
He glares at me.
James sighs and leans back on the couch. "Humans have always been fascinated by our kind. Especially after all the books and movies about sexy vampires and possessive werewolves. Like all humans, she won’t find anything, so this isn’t something to worry about."
I shake my head, my frustration growing. "No, this girl isn’t like most humans. She knows something real."
"Knows what?" Hank asked stupidly. "She can't know."
"I'm telling you. She knows. You know Richard Cockburn? The guy that won the lottery? We could smell the curse all over him. She'd been researching him, and she had a hand-drawn picture of a golem beside her laptop. And she writes a blog about paranormal creatures."
James shakes his head. "That doesn’t mean—"
"Then what does it mean?" I press.
They both stare off for a minute, then look at me, and then each other.
"Son of a bitch," Hank says. "She knows."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you!"
James rises to his feet. "A human who knows something real is here in Blackwater Falls. That’s not good. Not good for anyone, but especially her. I’ll make some tea, and we can figure this out."
I roll my eyes. "We don't need tea, we need to keep an eye on her. A human investigating a golem attack is bad news, no matter how you look at it."
No one responds, which drives me nuts. They’re supposed to be the smart ones. I thought they would be a little more useful with this.
Finally, James stands. "You may not need tea, but I do."
"Tea, now?"
He shakes his head and heads for the kitchen, ignoring me.
Which leaves me with Hank. Great.
I turn to him, waiting. Hoping he has an idea I haven’t thought of.
He catches my stare and shrugs. "What are we supposed to do? We can't admit anything to her. If we confirm her knowledge, she'll be more insistent that she should go searching for paranormal stuff."
"Helpful. Super helpful."
He grabs his soda and glares at me. "You don’t seem to have a better idea."
I rub my face and pace to the window, trying not to be irritated as he slurps his drink. But it’s not him I’m mad at. I’m mad at myself because he’s right, I don’t have a better idea. When push comes to shove, I’m not the guy who’s good at solving problems. And for the millionth time in my life, I wish I was.
But no one’s ever accused me of being too smart or too thoughtful. I’m...a screw-up. The muscle we need in this place. A pretty face that gets women grinning and falling over themselves.
Skills that aren’t the least bit helpful in saving someone from dangerous magic.
Looking out, I see her house and sense her inside. I don’t know this woman, and I don’t have any desire to get mixed up with her unless she wants to spend some time on her back in my bed.
But even as I think the words, they don’t ring true. Like a lie I’m trying to convince myself of. The thing is, I hate the witches. I hate them with every fiber of my being, but I’m smart enough to know how dangerous they are.
Last time I tried to keep a woman safe from them, I failed. For some reason, I can’t let myself fail again. This woman isn’t like my ex. She doesn’t understand how little the witches will care. They’ll snuff out her life without a thought.
So, we have to keep her safe. No matter what we have to do. Even if right now I don’t have a plan. Other than to make sure her safety doesn’t solely rely on me. I tried that once. I wouldn’t count only on myself ever again.
Glancing at the house, my chest feels tight. "I guess we keep an eye on her."
"Brilliant," Hank says sarcastically.
But I don’t bother looking at him. I keep staring at the little house and thinking about the irritating woman. Who, for some reason, I can’t seem to stop thinking about.
I hope the idea of her getting hurt bothers me because of my past, and not because I’ve let her get under my skin. A long time ago I promised myself that I wouldn’t be that dumb again, and that was a promise I planned to keep.
Even with a beautiful, sleepwalking blonde.
Chapter Five
Callie
My finger scrolls listlessly through the links about golems. I'm six pages deep in internet search crap, and I still can’t find anything with the smallest grain of truth to it. Part of me feels like I’m wasting time, but the other part of me hopes to find something useful, in case my Plan A falls through. Because if my seemingly legitimate book gets delivered and ends up being crap, I don’t want to find myself without a lead.
But if there’s any truthful information about golems on the internet, it's buried. Or obscure. Or, like my blog, hard to find for reasons of safety. I've got that blog buried under so many layers of security it's not funny. I probably spent more time researching how to redirect my location online than I do researching paranormal creatures.
And I’m guessing anyone else like me is doing the same. So I keep scrolling.
>
Nothing, nothing, nothing. Damn it! Frustrated, I get up and check the window one more time. How long does it take a mailman in this tiny town? I'd paid for the book to be overnighted.
And it better be.
Every minute I'm not focusing on the golem, my mind drifts next door. When I'd woken up and seen the half-naked man, it had almost distracted me from the fact that I was naked.
Almost.
It's certainly on my mind now. On repeat. Like a stuck record. I picture Hank smiling at me from his bed. His tousled brown hair, his stunning hazel eyes. Everything about that moment feels unreal. How many men wake up to a naked woman, grin at her, and offer her a blanket? None that I know of.
I want to think of Hank as all sweet, so sweet he makes my teeth hurt. But his muscles? Yum, there was nothing sweet about that.
Like Will’s. Angrily, I push the thought of his delicious muscles straining under his tight uniform out of my mind. But again, the image lingers.
I don’t like bad boys. I don’t! I’ve always been drawn to the sweet guys. But when Will leaned on my door and looked at me with those pale green eyes, I’d felt like all I wanted to do was have him grab me, throw me against that door, and do wild, nasty things to me.
The worst part of it all is that I could see it in his eyes. That’s exactly what he wanted to do to me too. And for a long minute, I’d had trouble remembering that bad boys aren’t my type.
A treacherous thought leaps into my mind. I wouldn’t have to marry him or anything.
I picture us in my bed and heat prickles over my flesh.
Damn it, where is that book? If I had the book, I’d be thinking about my mission. About figuring out who made the golem, and hopefully moving one step closer to finding out who cursed me. Not thinking about sexy firefighters.
I need a break. Heading downstairs, I make a beeline for the coffee maker and decide that drinking several cups might be the thing to get me thinking clearer.
As I'm pouring my third cup of coffee and contemplating the advisability of drinking said cup when my legs are already jiggling, I hear the telltale creak of the mailbox on my front porch.
"Yes," I squeak, gulping the piping hot coffee as I scurry to the front door. I'm already showered, dressed, fed, and caffeinated. When that book gives me the information I need, I’ll be ready to hit the road and find that damn witch.
As soon as I'm in proximity of the front door I realize the mailman is still standing on the porch. I sidle up to the window beside the door and peek out of the tiniest crack I can make in the blinds, then jump back, sloshing coffee all over the hardwood floors.
"Son of a bitch," I whisper. Can't leave that there. So I set the coffee on the little table under the window, and return to the kitchen for paper towels and the spray cleaner. After I clean up the coffee, I peek out the window again. He's moved farther away and is now standing on my walkway, mail in-hand, sorting.
"Dude," I hiss. "Get on with it!"
As if he heard me, he turns and looks at the house for a couple of seconds before moving on down my walkway and up the street. I angle myself until I can see him go around the corner, one leg cocked up in the air, bent over the stupid little table. Of course, I lose my balance, falling against the table, sloshing more coffee out of the mug I'd left there.
A low growl rumbles in my throat as I clean up the coffee and swig the rest of the unspilled coffee before I fool around and dump it, too. When I’m done, I yank the front door open, reach one hand out and around, and snag the package sticking out of the ancient, metal mailbox.
My sleeve catches on the edge of the mailbox, and I hear a ripping sound as I pull my arm and the book into the house.
With a sigh of defeat, I close and lock the door. "Can I get a do-over? Go to bed and restart this day?" I look around as if someone is going to answer me, then remember what's in my hand.
I finally have my book, and I don’t want to wait another second to open it. Hurrying up the stairs, I yank off my soaked shirt and toss it in the laundry basket before putting on a clean one. Then I tear open the standard manila envelope.
I’m surprised when a note flutters out. Frowning, I unfold it and scan the words.
Dear Reader,
A spell of intent is done before every book of mine is shipped. If the spirits were against you owning my tome, I would have refunded your money. As it is, the spirits are in your favor, so I've included a website that is password-protected so that you may browse my other volumes should you need them. I wish you luck in your search, whatever it is, and may the spirits be your guides. If you find yourself in trouble, remember they are there.
May the light of goodness always protect you,
Francine Martin
Holy freaking crap on a cracker. Either the author of this book is a complete crackpot, or I’ve found the lead I’ve been looking for. Holding my breath, I put the note on my desk and look at the book. The cover is basic. Dark blue, no dust jacket. The title and author name on the spine is the only sign of what sort of book it is. Golems. Basic title, basic cover.
Taking a breath, I will myself not to feel too disappointed if it isn’t what I’m looking for. But I already know that it will be. This is my only lead. If it ends up being crap, I’m back to square one.
As soon as I open the book, I discover it's anything but a basic book. The picture inside the cover is a golem that looks exactly like the one I'd seen but drawn by someone with far more artistic talent than I have.
And then there’s the actual writing. It has everything I can imagine. The history and mythology surrounding golems, golems in popular culture, but I skip those areas as I come to the last section. Creating and maintaining your golem. Bingo.
The writer has given specific warnings about using a golem for dark magic and the repercussions of doing so. She warns that the old adage, "Everything comes back tenfold," is very true. I skip ahead of the warnings and discover the spell. Most of the ingredients make no sense to me. But one thing makes me pause. It requires a misplaced soul?
The golem had a soul inside it. Fucking shit. How can that not be dark magic even under the best circumstances?
Not for the first time, I wish I had someone that could explain all this stuff to me without me having to fight for every morsel of knowledge. But all I have is this book, and it’s better than nothing, so I keep reading.
Finally, I find something simple that makes sense to me. Every golem has a piece of paper inside its chest with a spell of intent, a lot of incantations I don't understand, and the golem's specific mission. As soon as the mission is complete, the golem disintegrates into a pile of whatever substance it's made from. Usually mud or clay.
The paper makes the spell more powerful if it's ripped from the pages of the witch's grimoire.
If I can find that paper, maybe I can somehow track it to the witch, then force her to figure out how and why I'm cursed with shifting into a cat.
My plan has holes. I don't know how I'll force a probably powerful witch into helping me, and I don't know how I'll use the paper to track her, but it's a lead and more than I've ever gotten before.
I grab my messenger bag and tuck the book inside. Locking my front door, I hurry across the street. It's a short walk to the beach from my house. I can follow the shore down to the spot where the golem dissolved. Hoping that, by some miracle, the paper will still be there.
The beach hasn't even had time to shift under my feet before I realize someone is following me. I've always had a bit of a sixth sense about being watched or followed. I figure it's the cat in me. Or the me in the cat, whatever. But if I was in my fur at the moment, it would be standing on end.
The people in this town like their privacy. Will’s warning rings through me. The firefighter might have thought the rich people here were dangerous, but he doesn’t know about the magic and the golem.
Whoever’s following me, they might know what I suspect.
Which means I could be in a lot of trouble.
<
br /> I pick up my step, knowing I’m exposed on the open beach. The area I need to go to has dunes I can hide behind, but it's still a good quarter mile before I'll get there. There are beach houses to my left, and nothing but open water to my right.
Should I run for the beach houses? If someone or something wants to hurt me, I doubt it’d do it with an audience. Right?
I pick up my pace again, just shy of running. Without looking behind me, I have no idea if the person or creature is close to me or if I'm freaking myself out.
My instincts tingle again, and goosebumps break out all over my body. Someone is following me. The dunes grow closer, and the first one is big enough for me to slip behind. If I can get the person behind me to go on past, I can attack them at an advantage. And if they follow, I can circle back around and run for the houses.
It's the best plan I've got, especially if I want to figure out who it is and why they'd follow me.
I slow down slightly, trying to seem like I'm in a hurry and not running from someone. I walk casually behind the sand and grass mound, then duck and press myself against it as much as I can. If I'm lucky, they'll move on past.
C'mon, cut me a break here.
Hell, yes! The person who was following me passes me by. It's a man, and he's so focused on looking forward he doesn't see me at all. Run or attack?
But I already know my answer. If I want to get rid of my curse, I need to know who this man is. And running away? Well, that won’t accomplish anything.
So let’s do this! I leap forward with a deep-throated yell, jumping straight onto his back.
He twists around, his hands going to my arms. "What the hell, Callie?"
I've got one of my daggers pulled and at his throat before I realize it's one of the damn firemen. Of course, it is!
Scrambling down, I end up on my ass in the sand, dagger beside me. Smooth.
Will’s eyes are wide as he looks at me. "Did you attack me?
"Were you following me?" I challenge right back.
He sighs, like I’m irritating him, then holds out his hand, offering to help me up.
Reluctantly, I take his hand, trying to preserve whatever dignity I still have. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you or I wouldn't have pulled my weapon."