Smoke on the Water

by Lori Handeland

  “You did a protection spell from the cradle?”

  “No, my foster mother was a witch. After she saw a wolf with its head in my carriage, she cast a spell of protection.”

  “A very good one,” Raye said. “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Doesn’t usually keep me from talking to people. What happened?”

  “Tortured, murdered, branded, and burned.”

  “Hell.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Is that why you didn’t stay with them?”

  “They sent me back. When you foam at the mouth every time you take a bath, people get twitchy.” At their identical expressions of concern, I lifted a hand. “Kidding. I did scream, thrash, and freak out, but there was no actual mouth foaming.”

  “If your foster mother was a witch,” Raye said, “you’d think she would understand.”

  “You’d think.”

  “Maybe she was trying to protect you. Figured you’d be safer away from her.”

  “Safe from what? How long have the Venatores Mali been back?”

  “As far as we know, only a year or so. Then again, who’s to say Roland hasn’t been trying to get his club going since we arrived.”

  “Do you know how a spell of protection can be removed?” I asked.

  “Why would you want to remove it?” Raye asked.

  Same question Peggy had asked. She’d cast a spell of protection around the facility, and us, yet she was dead, just like Sadie.

  “I just wonder how Sadie—my witch foster mother—and her husband got dead. Same thing with Peggy Dalberg. They both did spells of protection.”

  “I don’t—” Raye paused when Pru lurched to her feet, staring at Becca.

  “She says that a protection spell can be weakened by a location spell. Shit.” Becca’s gaze flicked to Raye. “We got Peggy killed. First Raye tried to locate you and couldn’t. So we tried again later, together, and probably melted the magic away like wax. Mom says it’s always a good idea to renew a protection spell every so often, just in case they’ve been weakened.”

  “They died because of me,” I said.

  “A protection spell isn’t going to stop a knife,” Raye insisted.

  “No.” Becca sighed. “But if we hadn’t weakened it, Mistress June probably wouldn’t have been able to find Peggy.”

  “Mistress June. Big woman. Long hair?”

  My sisters nodded.

  “She’s dead now?”

  Another dual nod.

  I shouldn’t be glad, but I was. I’d seen her do some terrible things.

  “We’re sorry,” Raye said. “We just wanted to find you.”

  “How could you know that searching for me would lead to people dying?” I asked.

  “We are flying blind,” Raye agreed. “But that doesn’t make Sadie or Peggy any less dead. They aren’t haunting you. If they were pissed about it, they would be.”

  Well, goody. No vengeful ghosts on my heels—one less thing.

  “Couldn’t the Venatores Mali do a location spell and find us?” I asked.

  “They aren’t witches,” Becca said. “They’re witch hunters.”

  “They seem pretty witchy to me,” I muttered.

  “She’s right,” Raye said. “Raising Roland was magic—black magic, but still magic. Back in the day he was righteous, he never would have stooped to fighting fire with fire—” She rolled her eyes. “So to speak. But once his family died, he lost his teeny-tiny mind. Being unable to have his revenge sent him over the edge. He went to the dark side. He’ll do anything, including magic, to kill us. We should probably recast the protection spell every night, just to be sure.”

  “Works for me,” I said. “Do you have…” I tried to remember what Peggy had used. It would have been a good idea to bring along her Book of Shadows. I wondered where it was now. “Peppermint, lavender, chamomile…”

  My sisters looked at each other, then at me.

  “Why?” Becca asked.

  “That’s what Peggy used.”

  “Every witch has a different way.”

  I had a flash of the roses floating in the bathtub at Sadie’s and carnations in a pot at the facility.

  “Okay,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “Ours,” Raye said. “The protection spell of the Taggart family.”

  She tilted her head as if listening, and from the way Pru stared at the nearest corner, I knew she was listening to Henry. Our father.

  It gave me a both a tingle and a chill to hear myself referred to as a Taggart. A tingle because I had always wanted to belong to something, to someone. A chill because being a Taggart had marked me. At least it hadn’t marked only me. There was power in numbers. There was power in us.

  “I am air.” Raye’s hair fluttered in a breeze that couldn’t be since every window and door was closed. She offered her hand to Becca, who took it.

  “I am fire,” Becca said, and the fire in the fireplace whooshed upward, reminiscent of the way the pyre had whooshed upward and obscured Henry and Pru all those centuries ago.

  Becca offered her hand to me at the same time Raye offered hers.

  “I don’t—” I began.

  They took my hands in theirs and suddenly I did understand.

  “I am water,” I said, and outside, rain began to fall.

  “Protect,” Raye whispered.

  “Us,” Becca murmured.

  “All,” I finished.

  Lightning flared. Thunder crashed. The wind howled, or maybe it was wolves. Then the fire went out.

  “That oughta do it,” Raye said.

  Chapter 18

  “We’ll start fresh in the morning.” Raye’s gaze drifted to door number one, behind which Bobby Doucet waited. I could understand her eagerness.

  “Start what?” I asked.

  “Looking for Roland.” Becca’s gaze was equally captured by door number two and the promise of Owen McAllister.

  “Locator spell?” My own gaze flicked to door number three.

  “Henry wants to set a trap,” Raye said.

  My eyes flicked back. “He thinks Roland’s going to fall for a trap?”

  “If it’s baited right.”

  “Ah.” I knew exactly what bait they meant. Us.

  “We’ll be fine.” Becca set her hand on my arm. “Owen’s a marine. Just because he was in K-9 Corps doesn’t mean he can’t shoot a gun.”

  “We’re going to shoot Roland?”

  “Not we,” Becca said. “Owen and/or Bobby.”

  “Bobby’s a pretty good shot,” Raye continued. “Saved my life.”

  Could it be that simple? Could we dangle ourselves as bait, then shoot the bad guy and end it all? I had my doubts. But I was too tired to voice them, and what did I know? I was late to this party.

  “Grab what you want out of my bag.” Raye indicated an overnight case in the dining area.

  “Or mine.” Becca pointed to a duffel nearby.

  I guess we were all the same size, or close enough.

  “Here.” Raye offered me a clear bottle half filled with green flecks.

  I frowned and didn’t take it. “I gave that up.”

  At her confusion, I mimed smoking a joint.

  “I’m a kindergarten teacher!”

  “That would be a good enough reason for me.”

  She shook the jar. “Rosemary. Put a line across your threshold. It keeps the ghosts out.”

  “I don’t—”

  She pressed the cool glass container into my palm. “You want his sister watching what goes on in that bedroom? Or Henry?” She held up her own container and Becca did the same. “We learned early on to ward the bedroom before Dad saw something he couldn’t unsee.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Night.” Raye’s door closed.

  “See you in the morning.” Becca’s followed.

  Jealousy flared. It was the couch for me. I tucked the jar into my pocket, then went search
ing for PJs, not only because I’d be sleeping out here, where anyone could see, but my clothes were muddy and bloody. They had to go.

  I found an oversized T-shirt in Raye’s case that appeared big enough to reach to my knees. Perfect. I hated to borrow underwear, but I didn’t have much choice. I snatched a pair and went into the half bath off the living area. There I undressed, then washed up and changed into the clean garments before taking my stained things to the utility area where I’d seen a stacked washer/dryer. Someone had tossed Sebastian’s in at some point, and I moved his to the dryer, then retrieved the rosemary jar before I threw my stuff in, set the machine on “soiled” and pushed “start.”

  I grabbed an afghan and turned toward the couch. Pru lay all over it. Unless I wanted to shove a wolf over, hunt for bedding and make a bed, or sleep sitting up, I was going to have to …

  My gaze went to door number three again. “I should probably check on him.”

  Pru snorted.

  “You could move.”

  She stretched out farther and showed me her teeth.

  “Not very motherly.”

  She closed her eyes and ignored me. I tossed the afghan back where I’d found it and headed for the bedroom.

  The TV was on, though the sound was off. The flickering light cast just enough shadow to reveal that Sebastian was asleep. And naked—at least from the waist up. His hair was wild and curly from the shower, his earring flashed silver-blue. I wanted to chase it with my fingers through those damp strands the way I’d done in nearly every vision. His chest was big and broad, taut; his arms were too. I wanted to lick him all over.

  I opened the rosemary jar and sprinkled a line across the door.

  He shifted. His skin twitched, and he set his hand on the slice that Roland had made. Concerned, I hurried over. The thin red line had faded to pink. In this light I couldn’t tell if the color indicated festering or fine. Becca had healed his flesh, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be something nasty lurking beneath. What if Roland had used a poison blade? Which sounded exactly like something he would do. Bastard.

  I set my hand atop the mark, terrified it would be hot to the touch, but it wasn’t. Just to be sure, I touched him several other places.

  All good. In fact, they were so good, I ran my fingertips over them more than I should have. I would have felt uncomfortable about stroking him when he was unaware, except my touch calmed him. The twitching and shifting stopped, and he appeared to have slipped into a deep, restful slumber.

  I should wrestle Pru for a piece of the couch, sleep by the fire or maybe in a chair. But what if Sebastian began to thrash again during the night? What if he began to run a fever? What could it hurt to lie at his side and make sure everything was all right? It would hurt more if I didn’t and something bad happened. The way things were going lately, bad was more likely than not.

  I reclined on top of the quilt, feeling righteous—until the chill stole in. Then I crept beneath the covers and listened to him breathe. The in and out sounded natural, but what did I know?

  I set my hand on his chest, and the steady up and down lulled me to sleep, too.

  *

  After his shower, which he’d had to cut short because the heat—or the blood loss, or the weirdness—had made him light-headed, Sebastian wrapped a dry towel around his waist. His bloody clothes had disappeared. He hoped someone was washing them. He couldn’t very well return to the facility in blood-drenched clothes.

  Sebastian wasn’t sure how he was going to return to the facility at all and what he would say if he did, but he shoved those thoughts aside for now. He was too tired to deal with them.

  He opened the door a crack, saw Willow, Raye, and Becca by the fire with the wolf—weirdness again—and shut it. He turned on the TV, muted the sound, then crawled under the covers. Easier than trying to make sure his towel pants were where they belonged.

  He must have slept, because he dreamed. First of the dark man—Roland—looming from the forest, right after Willow had predicted he would. She was right too often to ignore, even though he wanted to. Just like he wanted to forget about Raye floating to the ceiling and Becca apparently touching a gaping wound and making it close without stitches. He definitely wasn’t going to think about Raye describing his sister, right down to the earrings she wore—one of which now resided in his own ear. How could she know that?

  He turned, uneasy, and the movement pulled something where his wound had been—faded but not forgotten. The room was too warm, or maybe he was. He shifted, then he caught the scent of Willow. Even though it was different now—no longer institutional soap and shampoo—he recognized her. She smelled like fresh snow, heat lightning, and mint.

  She touched him, and the heat receded; the pain eased and peace flowed into his soul. The emptiness that had been there since his parents died, since Emma had died, receded. He could fill that emptiness with …

  Her.

  She curled against his side, her skin so soft, herself so fragile and fey—like one of those little people his mother had told him about. She wasn’t really small, but next to him, everyone was. He wanted to protect her, to save her. He wanted to love her. Which was crazy talk, but he was used to it. Though not usually from himself.

  Her breath brushed his skin, made him tingle and shiver. Her hair drifted over his chest. It tickled. He liked it. He set his cheek atop her head and slept ever deeper. It had been so long since he’d held a woman, and he’d never held one who’d felt as though his arms had been waiting forever just for her.

  When she kissed him, he kissed her back. Why not? He was a psychiatrist. He knew that sometimes dreams meant something and sometimes they didn’t. This one meant he hadn’t been laid in eons, and Willow smelled like heaven on a stick. She kissed like heaven, too, or maybe it was hell. Because he was burning, down low where fire like that belonged, and it felt so good, he ignored the ding-ding of warning as his hand cupped her ass and his fingertips grazed the soft skin where her thigh began.

  Her moan rumbled against his mouth. His tongue slipped through those sweet-sweet lips and stroked hers. Since this was a dream—the best dream—he rolled her onto her back, settled between her thighs. With only a wisp of her panties between them, he nearly came like a kid.

  His biceps bunched to keep his full weight from crushing her. Her palms curled around them, her thumbs stroked, then her fingernails bit as she arched. Her breath caught. He knew that sound. He could swear he felt her clitoris swelling against him. Then she wrapped her ankles around his and a soft “oh!” escaped her before she shuddered.

  She continued to tremble in his arms. He kissed her harder. She nipped his lip. The dual pleasure and pain had his eyes opening, displeasure at the end of the dream a growl in the center of his chest.

  Willow smiled—her eyes sleepy, her hair tousled, her lips swollen. Then she reached up and brushed her thumb against his earring. “I always wondered how that would be.”

  He blinked. She was still there. “Oh, God.”

  “I know,” she agreed.

  Sebastian scrambled out of bed. Morning sunlight through a crack in the curtains lit her with a soft pink glow. Or maybe it was afterglow.

  Her gaze lowered. His followed. He was naked and fully aroused. He scrambled back into bed. His bare leg brushed hers. Memories flickered. She reached for him.

  “Whoa!” He held up a hand between them like a crossing guard. They were so close his palm brushed one breast, the erect nipple sliding enticingly on the other side of a T-shirt so old it was nearly transparent.

  The dream hadn’t been a dream.

  He was going to hell. Right after he went to prison.

  He looked around for the towel he’d had last night. Found it on the floor close enough to snatch and snatched it, then slid out from beneath the covers as he slid the cloth around his waist.

  Hurt flickered in her eyes, across her face. “Sebastian?”

  “We didn’t—” he began. Had they? “I didn’t—” H
ad he? “You. Dammit.” He rubbed his face and gave up.

  She lifted her chin. “I did. And thank you. I never had before. It was lovely.”

  “Lovely?” he repeated like the moron he was.

  “Fantastic. Mind-blowing. Life-altering. What do you want me to say, Doctor?”

  He certainly didn’t want her to call him “Doctor.”

  “Willow, I’m s—”

  She held up her hand as he had. The universal sign for “Halt!” or perhaps “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Do not say you’re sorry.”

  “But—”

  “Zip it,” she ordered. “My fault. I shouldn’t have slept here. I was worried you were getting a fever and—” She glanced away. “Let’s pretend it never happened.”

  “Just so we’re clear … what happened?”

  “You made me come. First time ever. Woo-hoo.”

  Her voice didn’t sound very woo-hoo. He didn’t feel very woo-hoo either.

  “We didn’t—I didn’t—um—”

  “Take my virginity?”

  He winced. This was getting worse by the second, and he hadn’t thought that was possible.

  “You didn’t.” Her lips tightened.

  Did that mean he hadn’t taken it or that she wasn’t a virgin? And how did one ask such a thing? Considering the way she was glaring at him … one didn’t.

  “Forget it,” she said. “Please.”

  He didn’t think he could. From her expression, he didn’t think she could either. He sighed. They were going to have to talk about this.

  His gaze landed on the TV, which he’d turned on last night in an attempt to make the unfamiliar room more familiar. He often fell asleep to the flicker of the television. It was something you could count on nearly everywhere you slept, and he’d gotten used to drifting off to the muted silvery-blue light The sound was off, but he didn’t need it to know what was going on.

  The camera panned back to show the Northern Wisconsin Mental Health Facility. In front of it, Zoe and Deux. Cop cars filled the parking lot. On the steps stood Dr. Tronsted, arms akimbo, scowling at the spectacle. At the bottom of the screen blared a headline.

  New Director of NWMHF Helps Patient/s Escape!