Halfway Hunted
By
Terry Maggert
First published in USA in 2016 by
Terry Maggert
Portland
Tennessee
Copyright © Terry Maggert 2016
Formatted by LionheART Publishing House
All rights reserved.
The right of Terry Maggert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review —without written permission from the author.
Dedication
To my wonderful Mother in Law Gwen, without whom my life would be perilously bereft of roast beef and potatoes. We all know that's no way to live.
Contents
Chapter One: Silent Night
Chapter Two: Let Them Eat Cake
Chapter Three: No Thanks, I’ll Walk
Chapter Four: Like a Bear, But Human
Chapter Five: Not Dead, Just Napping
Chapter Six: Playing Catchup
Chapter Seven: Small Warning
Chapter Eight: Turn the Page
Chapter Nine: Truth or Pizza
Chapter Ten: By A Thread
Chapter Eleven: Fairy Tale
Chapter Twelve: Hitch in My Giddyup
Chapter Thirteen: Puzzle Piece
Chapter Fourteen: Call of the Wild
Chapter Fifteen: Truth Hurts
Chapter Sixteen: Circle the Wagons
Chapter Seventeen: O, Pioneer
Chapter Eighteen: Salt in the Wound
Chapter Nineteen: Totally Tammy
Chapter Twenty: Bad Luck
Chapter Twenty-One: Charmed, I’m Sure
Chapter Twenty-Two: Good With Faces
Chapter Twenty-Three: Cabin Fever
Chapter Twenty-Four: Call of the Wild
Chapter Twenty-Five: Staycation
Chapter Twenty-Six: Yesterday’s News
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Shave and a Haircut
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Trigger Warning
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Reckoning
Chapter Thirty: His Last Mistake
Chapter Thirty-One: All Too Human
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Sheriff Wore Heels
Chapter Thirty-Three: Best Served Cold
Chapter Thirty-Four: Morning Breath
Chapter Thirty-Five: Mirror, Mirror
Epilogue
About the Author
Contact Terry Maggert
More Books by Terry Maggert:
Chapter One: Silent Night
There were only two reasons for me to be awake on my couch, staring up into the gloom of the pre-dawn hours. The first was my house itself, which complained against the deep cold with creaking pops like the knees of a guy who played sports when he was younger and had more hair.
The second was Wulfric. My lover was out there in the Adirondack winter somewhere, his vampire skin now as cold as the deep snows that settled on Halfway with a heavy hand. I missed him every second of every day, with an ache that started in my heart and ended in the emptiness of my arms. Living without him was like swimming through wool that took my breath and will at every turn.
Everything was hard. Little things made me sad.
Smiles died on my face, and I knew if I didn’t find the magic to save him, moving on was going to take the rest of my life and all of my tears. In the midst of my somber reverie, Gus put one of his huge Maine coon cat paws on my shoulder. His rumbling purr calmed my mind enough that I sighed and began absently rubbing the magnificent fur of his Tabby neck.
“Brrrrtt?” he asked me, his bronze eyes fixed on me like two coals floating in the dark.
“I miss him. Sorry. I know I should sleep. Or listen for spell requests . . . or do anything except lie here having a pity party.”
Gus answered with a head butt and an even deeper bumble of contented reassurance. He stretched along me from hip to head, and I was reminded again that my cat is nearly as tall as I am; or he would be, if cats could walk upright, but he doesn’t because that would be weird. I felt a small grin touch my cheeks and let it bloom, then I looked across the room to the kitchen. There, I saw another friend who was always near.
Even in the heart of a mountain winter, the moon always finds a way to touch me. Lying on my couch in the middle of a frigid night, I watch the square of moonlight light dance across my kitchen floor like the slowest ballet possible. The brilliant smudge of light comforts me, telling me that no matter how short the days and how deep the snows, sunshine will use the face of sister moon to reach across the dark and set my spirits to right.
So I watch, and I wait.
I listen for the telltale creak of my mail slot, an old brass hinge that swings inward when someone needs me. Or, to be more accurate, they need my magic. When the moon is high, I spend my nights listening for the telltale footsteps on my porch. Those are followed by a hesitation as the person decides if they can go through with their request—they always do—and then I wait a bit longer. It’s understood that to ask for my family magic, you must write a note in natural ink, then fold the note within an envelope that is handmade. Handcrafting invests meaning into something as basic as a note, and the poignant pleas I get range from simple to impossible.
But I always try.
Tonight, there was no slide of an envelope on the floor of my foyer. Perhaps it was too cold, although Adirondackers are tough people. A few feet of snow and subzero temperatures wouldn’t stop a local person from asking for help if they needed it, which meant that at least for tonight, my town was free of unusual heartache.
In witch parlance, the night was clean. Spirits were at rest, and after casting a final wish across the snowdrifts to Wulfric, so was I. Before dawn’s gray could pierce the low clouds covering the mountains, my eyes grew heavy, I let the sadness leave me, and then, when there was nothing else to fight, I slept.
Chapter Two: Let Them Eat Cake
There are really only two kinds of people in the world: people who like waffles, and people who are wrong.
I stand by that mantra, and I’d like to go one step further, too. The only thing prettier than a waffle is three of them in a stack; also known as a Carlie in the language of the Hawthorn Diner. That’s my place, or rather where I work. You’ve seen a place like the Hawthorn before, with the comfortably squished pleather booths and the counter where old men gather to drink coffee and tell lies. In my town, Halfway, we just call it The Diner, and that’s good enough for us, because we are the only diner. My name is used for the short stack of waffles as a nod to me being the shortest member of the diner staff. Until we hire someone under five feet, the waitresses will keep barking out orders for the Carlie. Unless I forget how to make waffles. So, never.
I was born in Halfway, and this is where I belong. My folks retired three years ago and moved to New Mexico, where they produce art and sunburns with equal frequency. I love them, they love being retired, and we chat online once a week where they tell me about the exotic nature of the desert around them.
My Gran lives just up the street; her lineage as a witch is longer than I care to think about, as is her power. It’s vast, and pure,
and tinted with mercy. She is what I aspire to be, and I’m proud to follow in her footsteps as a protector of the lands that surround Halfway. Gran and I are more than wardens and less than saints. The tourists who pass through Halfway don’t know of our skills at keeping their lives free of things that are either hungry, or evil, or both. It’s a complicated world, and the veil between our reality and the Everafter is too thin by far. That’s why I work to perfect a family magic that has been honed over centuries. It’s also why I’m known to locals as someone who can help when there are problems outside the normal scope of our human experience. Gran used to take care of spell requests, but frankly, her magic is too strong to be used on minor issues of grief, lost love, or restoring hope.
But back to the waffles. Since I’m only five feet tall, seeing out of the window into the diner is a bit of a challenge. That’s why I wear Doc Martens at all times. Unless I’m being chased by a bear, in which case I will suddenly perfect the ability to fly, or at the very least run barefoot while screaming. The Docs give me enough height to keep from singeing my nose on the griddle, and I’ll thank you not to make any short jokes while you’re visiting my place of work. I have several spells that aren’t permanent, but might cause you to have a bad day.
You’ve been warned. Kinda.
I keep my black hair back in a ponytail, and my gray eyes are always looking at one of two things: the grill or the customers. I was plating an excellent omelet when my friend Brendan Kilmeade came in and took up his usual station at the counter. It was 10:18 in the morning, a fact I would later recall only because of what Brendan would say to me while I went out to greet him and pour his coffee. Glynna, the waitress handling all counter traffic, moved to the side while I went to speak to our town librarian and all-around good guy. Brendan is fully aware of the Everafter, my witchcraft, and everything that those facts entail. So when he looked at me with a half-quizzical smile, I knew something was up.
He’s a librarian, and being inscrutable is part of his job description, so I just waved at him and said, “Spill it.”
He took a leisurely sip of his coffee and made a show of enjoying it. I smiled sweetly, then pointed my charms at him and raised one brow. The message—talk or I’ll do something horrible and witchy to you—was received.
“Interesting gentleman in the library this morning. Thought you might want to know.” His green eyes twinkled with the joy of holding out on me, then he caved and added, “He walked in, looked gobsmacked, and walked out. All in about ten seconds.”
“Why is this news? You still trying out that new body spray?” I sniffed him and shot him a questioning look. He went through an awkward patch last year that involved skinny jeans and body spray. The results weren’t pretty, and I wasn’t going to let him forget it. Brendan was more of a smart-but-hot librarian type, not a hipster.
“No,” he said defensively. “I’m free of scent, if you must know.” After his own chilly look, he continued, “I think he was confused by the technology.”
“Why? Was he an old man trying to use the internet for the first time? You have to admit, that kind of thing isn’t unheard of unless you’re referring to the door, in which case he’s a few thousand years old.” I said with a laugh.
And then I stopped laughing, because Brendan pointed a finger at me and said, “Now you’re on the right track.”
I felt a chill, despite the warmth of the diner. Old things tended to be bad things. “How do you know he was . . . what did he look like?” I amended my question out of curiosity. Usually that was a good place to start with all things unknown, including people who don’t understand computers.
“He was dressed for the turn of the century. The early twentieth century, to be exact, or somewhere around there if I’m any judge of his clothing.” He thought for a moment as the noise of the diner crowded in on me. I was getting twitchy at not knowing what Brendan was about to say. “Baggy pants with a high waist. Suspenders and a heavy shirt. He wore boots that looked like he was used to hard work. His sleeves were rolled up, and there were some kind of marks on his arms. He knows his way around tools, I think. He’s taller than me, maybe six foot two or so, but ropy and muscular. I’d put his age just past thirty.” He looked thoughtful, then asked me, “Do you believe in time travel?”
I snorted, causing some of the customers to give me a look. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who would ever believe something that crazy?”
Brendan put his chin in one hand and gave me a patronizing smile. He dropped his voice and said, “Right. Who would believe in something crazy like time travel? I mean, it’s not like a werewolf or a vampire or something.”
“Will you shut up?” I hissed. Even in the clatter of the diner, that was a bit too much information to let drift into the conversation. “And yes, I get it.” My charms jingled against my wrist as I poured a small amount of coffee into his mug while I thought. He was right; I of all people shouldn’t dismiss things out of hand. My entire life was beyond crazy, and I was just getting warmed up. I’m not even twenty-two yet, so who knows what waits for me on the other side of adulthood?
“I’m not saying that’s what he is, Carlie, but he was confused by everything in the library except one thing. Where it was located.” Brendan’s finger tapped the counter as he related the detail. “We’ve been here for more than a century. I’m just saying you might want to talk to the guy.” He raised his hands in supplication and looked off across the lake toward other park. Halfway is more or less one enormous park with a town in the middle, but there are two distinct places where anyone can access the lake. Brendan indicated what we call Golden Beach, then blew on his coffee to cool it. “He wandered off over there. He’s a bit stunned, I think. Want me to keep an eye on him until your shift is over?”
I peered into the brilliant winter sun. “Sitting outside? Go ask him if he wants breakfast on me, and see if he’ll come to the diner. Do you mind? Is there any chance the guy isn’t human? I don’t want you exposed to danger because I had to finish a shift.”
“I don’t get that vibe. There’s something, I don’t know, steady about the guy. He seems lost, not dangerous,” Brendan summed up.
“Good.” I looked back to the grill, where tickets waited for me like flapping laundry. “I’ve gotta cook. I’ll watch for you, and if he won’t come inside from the cold, at least keep an eye on him so we can find him later.”
Brendan winked awkwardly and said, “Gotcha boss.” And with that, we made the decision to invite an unknown person across our threshold, if only to leave the Adirondack winter behind.
Chapter Three: No Thanks, I’ll Walk
He refused to come inside, but thanked Brendan profusely for the offer. As I left the diner at just past two in the afternoon, Brendan met me and added some details about the man who sat unfazed by the bitter cold, watching the unmoving ice of the lake.
I approached him on foot for two reasons. The first being that he could see me from a distance, and I in turn could see him. That way, there could be no misunderstanding about what my purpose was as I scrunched across the snowpack in my boots. It was brutally cold, and I swore more than once into my scarf, which leads me to the second reason why I walked nearly a mile in the dead of winter.
I have a tiny little problem with cars. We, meaning my parents, thought it was just bad luck after I wrecked my first one by sliding across a puddle into a stand of enormous pines. It could have happened to anyone, they reasoned, despite the fact it was August and we hadn’t seen rain for a month. The second car I smashed was my dad’s pickup, in which a rock tumbled free from a wall that had stood, unchanging, for nearly a century. I hit the rock, broke the axle, and flipped the truck. I was unhurt, but Beulah, dad’s beloved truck, was dead. The third wreck was a message—I was run off the road by an amorous moose. And the fourth was my final warning. After they towed mom’s car away when I was hit by a runaway hotdog cart, dad silently took the keys from my hand and said, “Let’s buy Carlie a bicycle and see if she survives
until next year.”
My ability to kill cars is legendary in my family, and that’s why I was walking through snow so cold it squeaked under my Docs, rather than driving in something big, toasty, and solid.
He was there, looking rather like an image out of time. Everything Brendan said was true, but what I saw during my approach was an unmistakable masculinity that couldn’t be bought or worn; it was earned. His tall, lean figure was lit by the angled winter sun, and I detected loneliness, along with some kind of resolve. This was a man of mettle, and it did no good to tap dance around people like that. The direct approach it would be, then.
“Sir? I’m Carlie. My friend Brendan said he saw you at the library earlier today. Do you mind if we chat?” I stood several steps from him, my breath a wispy cloud that trailed slowly away. There was little wind.
He favored me with a look of interest, before smiling and transforming his angular face into something far less stoic. He had brown eyes and dark hair cut severely, combed to one side, and slightly mussed as if by sleep. A neat mustache that might have been waxed for special occasions curled above his lip. It was jaunty, like his smile. In a fluid motion, he stood before bowing slightly, the grin never leaving his face.
“Exit Wainwright, and I’d be delighted to hear you speak about anything at all, Carlie,” he said. His voice was deep and mannerly, but friendly.
I smiled back out of reflex and put out my hand. His grip was firm, calloused from work, and cool to the touch. No surprise there, given he’d been admiring the lake without a coat for most of the morning. In fact, how he wasn’t in the throes of hypothermia confused me, but we’d get to that in time. For now, I was just pleased to hear the mellow accent of his speech. It was formal, but familiar, like something from the past that an old uncle has told you about so many times you imagine you were there.
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