50 Ways to Hex Your Lover

by Linda Wisdom

  “Oh, yes. All Creatures Limo Service.” Irma made a face. “I’m sure your mother would be so proud that you grew up to be a taxi driver.”

  “Stuff it, Irma,” Jazz snapped and headed for the freeway.

  “I swear, curse elimination always puts you in a bad mood, so let me guess.” Irma sniffed, staring up at the freeway signs that whipped past. “We’re going to see that alcoholic.”

  “Nooo,” Jazz said. “I am going to see my friend Murphy. You are going to sit in the car, which you’ve been doing for the last …,” Jazz did the math in her head, “fifty-odd years.”

  “Then let me go in with you sometimes when you do your work,” Irma said. “I could help, you know.”

  “I eliminate curses, Irma, not add to them,” Jazz said with a laugh, “You haven’t been able to leave the car in fifty years as it is. Plus what would you do in there? Find a bed sheet and wander around flapping your arms?”

  “If you gave me a chance, you could find out just what I could do.”

  Irma stuck her nose in the air and turned her head to look out the side window. A cigarette smoldered between her white-gloved fingers. Jazz had never been able to figure out how a fifty-year-old ghost managed to obtain Lucky Strikes on a regular basis.

  Twenty minutes later, Jazz whipped the T-Bird into a parking spot in front of Murphy’s Pub. The one-story weathered building near the waterfront had a faded, gilt-lettered sign over the door. No ambiance here. She could hear tinny music coming from the nearby pier, where the amusement park’s Ferris wheel glittered with multi-colored lights.

  “This is a No Parking zone,” Irma announced, a fresh Lucky Strike appearing between her fingers. She sighed and made it disappear when Jazz shot her a warning look.

  “Relax, Irma.” Jazz pushed her door open. “I’m not lucky enough to have you towed away to a nasty, dirty impound lot.” Instead of using a car alarm, she set an illusion spell that allowed anyone without magickal sight to see the car only as a rusting Pontiac instead of the snazzy T-Bird. And anyone who happened to stumble past the spell and still try to steal the car would be in for a nasty surprise. When it last happened in 1980, the hysterical car thief babbled on about the car being filled with snakes. No wonder the police thought he was flying high on drugs.

  Fiddles playing Morrison’s Jig engulfed Jazz as she stepped inside the pub. The music swept her back in time to the little Irish village where she was born. Memories were so strong, she swore she could almost smell peat burning on the hearth. Seven hundred years ago there had been no pubs, but there were meeting places for the men to gather, drink ale and brag. She was the little girl sent to fetch Da home, cuffed for her efforts as often as not. She shook off the memory as Murphy caught her eye and raised his hand in greeting. She returned the gesture and wove her way between the maze of tables and chairs. The patrons of Murphy’s Pub cheerfully ignored the statewide restaurant smoking ban. The two local cops sitting at the end of the bar weren’t about to enforce the law when they each had a cigarette in their hands.

  “Don’t you look like a hot and sexy lady of the night?” Murphy said as she slid into her usual place near the beer taps. He pushed a basket of pretzels toward her and rested his elbows on the bar’s surface.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” Jazz said, letting a hint of Old Ireland creep into her voice.

  “So tell me, darlin’, you have any whips and chains hiding under that scrap of a jacket?” He leaned across the space between them as if to get a better look.

  She picked up the mug and sipped the warm, yeasty ale with a grateful sigh. “You’re such a flatterer, Murphy. Is that why the boys in blue are showing up here instead of heading over to one of their usual hangouts?”

  His gaze momentarily shifted toward the cops, then came back to Jazz. “Some vamps have come up missing lately, so they’re checking all the bars in the area. I told them vamps don’t tend to come in here. We don’t serve the right kind of refreshment.” He chuckled.

  “I bet they chose this place because they knew no vamp would come in here. They just wanted a place where they could kick back and drink,” she replied, picking up a handful of pretzels and munching away. In seconds the basket was empty. Murphy replaced it with a filled one.

  “They’ve sure been doing that.” He winked at Jazz. “And what brings you to my establishment wearing a hot outfit like that?”

  “Getting even with a client who tried to cheat me out of my fee.”

  “One of Dweezil’s clients or a cursed client?”

  “Cursed,” she replied

  “The world was saner before creatures came out of the woodwork,” Murphy muttered, nodding acknowledgement at someone’s shout for another Guinness. “And according to the boys in blue at the end of the bar, a lot safer.”

  “But not as exciting.” Jazz winked back. “Live and let live, Murphy.” She started to say more when she felt a faint stroke of cold trail across the back of her neck. She lifted the mug to her lips and tilted her head back just enough to look in the gilt edged mirror behind the bar. That’s when she saw him, sitting at the rear corner table, ready to intercept her gaze in the mirror. Proof positive that a vampire without a reflection is nothing more than an old Bela Lugosi tale.

  Nikolai Gregorivich. Tall, dark, and arrogant. Eyes the color of the Irish Sea. Features cold as ice. And a vampire.

  Jazz had not seen him in over thirty years. What was he doing here?

  White-hot anger settled deep inside and flowed through her veins like lava.

  Focus, Jazz, focus.

  What in Fate’s sake was he doing here? Why wasn’t he hanging out at The Crypt down in the warehouse district? There the undead found everything from O Positive to A Negative on tap.

  He sure as hell wasn’t here to see her. Maybe he was here for the same reason as the two mortal cops were. Nikolai worked as an investigator and enforcer for a vampire security agency. From experience, Jazz knew that vampire cops and mortal cops in the same place didn’t always play well together, even if Nikolai seemed to get along better with mortal law enforcement than most of his kind did. A quick glance at the end of the bar assured her the two cops had no idea a vampire was even in the bar.

  “Uh, Jazz.”

  She tore her eyes away from the mirror and saw the mug of ale bubbling in her hand—bubbling like, well, like a witch’s cauldron.

  “Is there something wrong?” Murphy asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Jazz snuffed her temper and smiled, watching the bubbles recede. “Not a thing.”

  He frowned as he wiped up the liquid and then glanced up at a rumbling sound overhead. “What was that?”

  “Probably a low-flying jet,” she lied, dialing her temper back a few more notches. At this rate, she’d be sent to witchy anger management. She pushed the mug away. She knew any ale that reached her stomach now would only turn sour. “It’s been a long night. I think I’ll head on home, Murphy.”

  “It’s not that late,” he said with a hint of invitation in his voice.

  She smiled and shook her head as she pulled out a twenty and left it on the bar, ignoring Murphy’s attempt to push it back toward her. She turned away and headed for the door.

  Another boom of thunder rattled the windows as she reached the exit.

  “Damn it,” Jazz muttered, hurrying outside before her witchy tantrum drew the two cops’ attention. “And damn him for invading my territory.”

  “Jazz.”

  She had barely stepped onto the sidewalk to walk toward her car, which meant there’d been no time for her temper to abate. She spun on her heel. Her watcher blended with the shadows on the edge of the alley next to the pub. She didn’t bother wondering how he’d gotten outside before her. She only reacted.

  “Nikolai Gregorivich, you bloody son of a whore!” She pushed enough power through her hands to send him flying deeper into the alley’s gloom. She stalked after him, her fingertips glowing a bright orange-red. Strands of hair flew around her head, crackli
ng with energy. A furious witch could generate enough power to light up an entire city. Jazz was rapidly moving past furious. “You are so dead!”

  He landed on his ass, but bounded back onto his feet in a flash. His elongated canines flashed white in the darkness. “Yes, I am.”

  His wry comment momentarily threw her off balance and stopped her in her tracks. He had an uncanny knack for being able to do that to her: infuriate her and tease her at the same time, so she could not decide whether she was coming or going. For sure she wanted to kill him, but whether quickly or slowly was always at issue.

  Gathering her sidetracked senses, she shot a fireball straight at him. He leapt out of the way just in time. The fireball struck the side of the building, leaving a large scorch mark on the faded bricks.

  “I see you’ve added something new to your skill set.” He looked up at the sky where clouds appeared overhead streaked with lightning. Thunder rumbled, and the air snapped from the energy of her rising temper. “I don’t think Mother Nature will be too happy to find you stepping onto her turf.”

  She gnashed her teeth so hard it was amazing they didn’t grind down to nubs. Their eyes remained locked as she struggled to bring her temper under control. Clouds floated away, and thunder and lightning disappeared, but the sparks emanating from her body were still bright enough for a Fourth of July fireworks display.

  “You had me locked up,” she snarled, advancing on him with fury tight in every muscle. She did not worry about him flashing his fangs at her. No way he’d come near her neck or any other part of her body. Witches’ blood tended to give vampires heart-burn—or worse. “I was imprisoned in that small town jail for more than a month before the sheriff realized you had lied to him. For Fate’s sake, anything could have happened to me there! Didn’t you ever watch any of those old prison movies?”

  “I’m sure if you wanted out of there you could have cast a spell to get you out of there. Besides, it was for your own good.” He wrinkled his nose. “Do you mind if we step out of this alley? The smell of a drunken man’s piss never appealed to me.”

  She stood firm. Even if he could easily move her, his ingrained manners would prevent him. So why not make him suffer for another minute even if it was nothing more than screwing with his sense of smell.

  He hadn’t changed since she last saw him in 1972. Six-foot-two, slightly shaggy hair the color of her morning coffee, and eyes a blend of green, blue, and gray that always brought a shiver to her spine. So many vampires’ eyes turned black or a glowing cobalt blue when they were turned. The better to mesmerize their victims with, my dear. But Nikolai’s eyes had remained that uncommon blend of green, gray, and blue that she always compared to the Irish Sea at twilight. The same color eyes that had belonged to another man centuries ago. The memory of that man haunted Jazz still.

  The stink of the alley mixed with the subtle earthy scent that clung to his skin. She knew it to be a special blend from an exclusive chemist’s shop tucked away in London’s most elite shopping district. Nikolai might not care about amassing wealth the way so many of his kind had, but he didn’t purchase his toiletries at the neighborhood drugstore either. The scent brought back memories she swore were better off tucked away and forgotten.

  The strong attraction she felt for him didn’t stop her fingers from twitching for some witchflame. A very old soul resided in the sexy bod that didn’t look a day over thirty-five. But that didn’t mean she could stifle the instinct to drag out every piece of silver she had in her jewelry box and remind him it was a metal that didn’t like him.

  A dark intensity surrounded him that had nothing to do with his existence as a vampire for the past eight centuries. She always suspected that he had been a predator long before he became a never-ending night person. Although his black leather duster hung loose in perfect vampire fashion, his faded jeans and brick red t-shirt did not. They clung lovingly to him like a second skin.

  She pretended not to notice how good he looked. Damn him.

  “I need to talk to you,” Nikolai said, his voice barely above a whisper. His husky voice still sent trembles to her limbs and memories of nights when he had whispered words of desire in her ear as he made love to her.

  “We have nothing to say.” She turned and walked away, only to stop short when he flashed past and appeared in front of her.

  “It is important,” he persisted, but he made sure to keep his distance. Jazz packed quite a wallop when her temper was up. Right now her temper could send the Richter scale off the charts. He would survive, but a mortal would need a full body cast after being thrown against the building.

  She held up her hand. A glowing ball of orange-red fire danced in her palm. Her smile was not the least bit pleasant.

  “Get out of my way, Nikolai, or end up looking like a Roman candle.”

  But he was as stubborn as she was, and he refused to move. He silently dared her to throw the fireball at him. Her fingers twitched. Was it more effort not to throw it or to make sure it hit its mark? Jazz paused to consider.

  “Have you picked up any new tricks other than calling on thunder and conjuring up fireballs?”

  The witchflame disappeared as she moved closer in a blur of speed to jam one arm against his throat.

  “Like this?” She snapped her fingers and a sharpened stake appeared in her other hand. A breath later it was pointed at his heart. She gently tapped the area. “X marks the spot, darling,” she purred. Her green eyes flared with a witchy fire that echoed the witchflame she still held in her hand.

  He didn’t flinch from the imminent threat of ending up a pile of ash at her feet.

  “You can’t do it, can you? After all, you didn’t stake me in London,” he murmured in the voice that always warmed her blood and gave her hormones a healthy jumpstart. “Nor in Florence, New Orleans, or Boston. And then there was San Francisco.” A wealth of meaning stoked that last sentence. One she chose to ignore. She had felt the earth move in more ways than one during the predawn hours of that fateful April morning in 1906.

  “There’s always a first time.” The stake disappeared as quickly as it appeared, and she stepped back before she gave in to temptation and ran her tongue up the side of his neck, grazing the area where the carotid artery had not pulsed in centuries. She wanted to bury her nose in the curve of his shoulder, run her fingers down his spine to that slight curve at the base that brought a growl to his lips. She knew his heightened senses wouldn’t miss her quick indrawn breath or rapid heartbeat. She feared he could smell the pheromone rush in her blood and feel the increased heat along the surface of her skin. She knew that was the one thing Nikolai missed the most. His skin never felt any kind of warmth, even on hot summer nights. Many a night she had wrapped her body around his to give him the illusion of body heat, but he could never retain it for long.

  “Not this time.” That whiskey and velvet murmur followed her, trapped her within its selective intimacy—tumbled her desperately resisting psyche onto its back, legs spread, arms open wide in invitation. “No splinter, no toothpick, no stake, Jazz.”

  “Fire it is then,” Jazz agreed, keeping the raggedness out of her voice through superwoman effort. Forcing herself to focus, she rekindled the simple witchflame in her palm and thrust it into Nikolai’s face. He blanched instantly, rearing back.

  “Jazz…”

  “No.” She was harsh, determined. “Don’t even …” Deliberately she turned her back on him and—without extinguishing the witchflame—headed out of the alley. Toward what remained of her sanity—her car and …

  That damned ghost.

  “Jazz.” The vampire’s footsteps sounded behind her, an intentional effect by a being whose normal approach was more silent than fog. “Wait. I—we— need your help.”

  “Of course you do.” Jazz didn’t stop, didn’t turn, until she was within two feet of the T-Bird. She merely allowed the orange-red ball of flame in her palm to grow visibly. “There could be no other reason to come find me after thirty y
ears, could there?”

  “That was a generation ago, Jazz,” the vampire told her without emotion. “Needs must—then and now.”

  “Go f—” Jazz began, but a delighted, ghostly squeal interrupted her, putting an instant kibosh on the building tension between witch and vampire.

  “Is that Nikolai?” Irma chirped, leaning out of the car as far as she could go. “It is! Nicky, sweetie, it’s been so long since we’ve seen you. Come give your Auntie Irma a kiss!” She puckered up, her Tangeed lips almost glowing eerily under the dim streetlight.

  “Not now, Irma.” He concentrated on the glowing ball of fire dancing in Jazz’s palm. “Jazz, members of my kind have gone missing.”

  “And this is a bad thing?”

  “Don’t be petty. It’s not your style.” The shadowy anger in his eyes matched her temper perfectly. It had made them ideal as lovers. “If you wish to hold a grudge against me personally, so be it, but I need you to listen for ten minutes. Surely, you can give me that.”

  “Get staked,” Jazz advised, feeling behind her for the car door handle before her natural curiosity, Nikolai’s obvious attractions, and her traitorous libido got the better of her.

  “Tell me, pookie,” Irma invited. “When she’s not as cranky as she is now, I’ll make her understand why you need her help.”

  He darted a glance at the ghost, then gauged the diminished witchflame Jazz still controlled.

  “Back off,” Jazz snapped, climbing into her car and slamming the door behind her. With a quick twist of the key, she gunned the engine, taking off with a squeal and smell of burning rubber.

  “Merciful heavens, one day you’re going to get us both killed!” Irma’s protest echoed in the night.

  Nikolai shook his head in frustration as he watched his ex-lover race off. He knew it wasn’t retreat on her part. Jazz never retreated. She only regrouped. The world might change, but Jazz never did. And he thanked the Fates for that.

  He wasn’t surprised that she had displayed her temper the moment she saw him. That was the first thing he had noticed about her, the heated passion that seemed to fuel her soul. If he were a vampire who fed on emotions, he would have been well sated by her alone. Instead, Jazz had sustained him in other ways through the centuries.