My Favorite Witch

by Lisa Plumley

  “No matter who gets hurt?”

  “So melodramatic.” Her colleague made a tsk-tsk sound. “If everyone is so bugged by what Jane is supposedly doing, why aren’t they doing something about it? Why you? All alone?”

  “Because—” Abruptly, Dayna stopped. She didn’t know.

  Maybe she was alone in trying to do something about Jane.

  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d swum against the tide.

  “Anyway…” Shana looked her up and down, taking in Dayna’s geek-casual ensemble of beat-up Converse, thrift-store painter’s pants, and a vintage SAVED BY THE BELL T-shirt. “Good luck with your upcoming job hunt. Believe me, you’re going to need it.”

  Irredeemably pushed, Dayna gritted her teeth. In a flash, she wielded her Magic Marker, brandishing it like a sword.

  Shana laughed. “What are you going to do with that?”

  Even the score, Dayna thought with a spark of almost-forgotten insight. But things didn’t exactly work out that way.

  Chapter Two

  Instead, a weird cracking noise sounded. An instant later, her goldfish bowl exploded in a shower of glass fragments and stinky gushing water. Dayna swiveled, gawking as her two goldfish flopped in the current, streamed over the top of her filing cabinet, then landed in an eddy of water at her feet.

  Damn it. That wasn’t what she’d intended at all.

  But things like this had been happening a lot lately. Especially when she got emotional about something.

  With a muttered exclamation, Dayna dropped her malfunctioning Magic Marker and grabbed her desktop pencil cup instead. She shook out all the pencils, then knelt at the spot where poor Buffy and Spike were flopping on the industrial gray carpet. Cautiously, she scooped up the goldfish along with some of their semimurky water, hoping she’d acted quickly enough.

  “How did that happen?” Wide-eyed, Shana stared at her. “One second that goldfish bowl was fine, and the next…pow!”

  A shrug. “I guess there was a fault in the glass.”

  Shana seemed doubtful. “It looked like an explosion to me.”

  “Accidents happen.” It was the same excuse Dayna always offered. She hadn’t had much need for it here…until recently. Concerned about her goldfish, she peered into the cup. Buffy and Spike swam listlessly, their glistening bodies expanding and relaxing with their labored breathing. “They look scared.”

  Shana scoffed. “They were nearly fish shrapnel.”

  Dayna cast her an appalled look. “Remind me never to ask you to fish-sit. I think they’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

  Also, her feet were getting wet. Suddenly aware of the water squishing into her sneakers, Dayna moved out of the puddle. She frowned downward. “Can you grab a mop, please?”

  Shana stepped back. “Mopping is not my field of expertise.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do the actual work.” Carefully, Dayna set down her goldfish. She crouched to pick up slimy glass shards, then tossed them in the trash. She brushed her palms together, assessing the job. “I just want you to get the mop.”

  “No way. I’ll call building maintenance.”

  “By the time they get here, this carpet will be a total loss.” Not looking up, Dayna attempted to sop up the worst of the spilled water with leftover deli napkins. “My office will smell like fish bait for months. Come on, Shana. Just help me.”

  A peculiar silence made her spine tingle again.

  Dayna peered over her shoulder.

  As she’d suspected, Shana had fled. Her office doorway was vacant. She sincerely doubted the admin had gone for a mop.

  Annoyed, Dayna stood. She dropped her final wad of sodden napkins in the trash, then bent to double-check her goldfish.

  “Dayna Sterling?”

  Startled by the sound of a male voice, she glanced up.

  In reaction, a wad of papers flew upward, too. They billowed as though they’d been shot from a cannon, white and rustling.

  Damn it. Not again. She hurried to the corner and batted them down, trying to gather them into a stack on the cabinet.

  In the process, she stole a self-conscious glance at her visitor. The man standing in her doorway was big, broad, and curiously intense looking. If he hadn’t been frowning so hard, he’d have been breathtaking. As it was, he was merely handsome, with spiky dark blond hair, chiseled features, and eyes that seemed to look right through her. He had one of those cleft chins too—as though the master sculptor who’d created him hadn’t been able to resist a final flourish: a mark of special design.

  “Dayna Sterling?” he repeated.

  Finally corralling all the papers, Dayna made herself quit gawking. Shana must have made good on her offer. If this was the way they built maintenance men these days, Dayna was in the wrong field. Good-bye, research library—hello, mop closet!

  His brows lowered, golden and dense. “Dayna Marie Sterling, born in Covenhaven, Arizona, on February 28, 1979?”

  Her scalp prickled. That tingling started again, too. His information was close enough to make her wonder…and worry.

  “What does that have to do with mopping?”

  As though consulting an internal data chart, he continued. His voice sounded rough and deep. “Height: five-six, weight—”

  “Whoa! That’s kind of intrusive, isn’t it?”

  “It’s procedure for the IAB report. Usually I skip it, but today my partner is being a pain in the ass about protocol.” His gaze landed on her hips, then skimmed upward in blatant male curiosity. “I decided to play by the book for a change.”

  “Huh?”

  “I knew you the minute I saw you.” His attention swerved to her face. His gaze penetrated her, making her feel both hot and cold at once. He pursed his mouth in apparent thought. “Your field is weak, though. Someone else would have missed it.”

  “Oookay.” Her field? Whatever. “I guess that makes you the king of the janitors.” He definitely had the machismo for it. Realizing her spine-tingling warning system was on the fritz if it was cautioning her about brawny maintenance men, Dayna pointed to the soggy carpet. “The spill’s right there. Go ahead and make janitorial history.”

  “The reports were right about your smart mouth.”

  “Really?” She eyed him. “I hope someone’s taking notes about your people skills. You could use some work yourself.”

  “Come with me.” He held out his hand, palm up. “You’re in danger here. If there’s another incident—”

  “Geez, it’s just a fishbowl spill.” Wow, did he take his work seriously. Inquisitively, she scanned the rest of him. His hard-used khaki pants, fine-ribbed tank top, and compact muscles were hard to miss. So were his cryptic tattoos. Men like him didn’t normally hang out in research libraries. She was surprised his testosterone level hadn’t already drawn a crowd among the mostly female DRL staff. “I did my best to clean it up, but I don’t think—hey, where’s your mop?”

  She looked behind him for one of the wheeled yellow buckets with an attached wringer typically used by the maintenance staff. All she saw was empty hallway—unusually empty hallway.

  That prickle of unease whooshed all the way to her belly.

  “You’re placing everyone in danger by staying here.” He wiggled his fingers. “You need to learn to control your magic. You must have known you couldn’t hide forever. All cusping witches are prone to unmanageable surges as they near—”

  Magic? Cusping witches? Whatever further explanation he offered in that sexy, rumbling voice of his was lost to her.

  Feeling quivery and sick, Dayna shook her head. She had to be hearing things. This could not be happening.

  “You know what? I think I’ll get that mop myself.”

  Swamped with denial, she moved to force her way past him. The warmth of his body hit her, followed by an overwhelming impression of authority.

  An instant later, she was on the floor. She had no idea how she’d gotten there. Her vision swam. She stared in shock at the ceiling, realiz
ing her ears were ringing, too. Fishy water seeped into the fabric of her T-shirt at her shoulder.

  The hunky janitor loomed over her, his mouth set in a harsh line. “If you cooperate, this will be easier for us both.”

  “I’m not interested in making things easy for you.” Panicking, Dayna crab-walked to her chair. She levered upward blindly, then felt along the top of her desk. Her fingers scraped bare wood, metal, her paper calendar…her Magic Marker. She clenched it in shaking fingers. “Never mind the mopping.”

  She stood, then waved her Magic Marker as threateningly as she could. There was always a chance it would work this time.

  He stared at it in patent disbelief. “Tell me you’ve progressed beyond the level of an able child.”

  Able child. That meant something to her. Something buried. Something…that made her embarrassed. She lowered her marker.

  “See? That wasn’t so hard.” He took the marker from her grasp, then set it on her desk. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  He seemed to expect unquestioning compliance. Confused, Dayna shook her head.

  Beside her, her cell phone suddenly chattered. It rose and zoomed toward her head, flapping its cover like a clumsy wing. It buzzed just out of reach.

  Already formulating an excuse, she lurched upward. Missed.

  Her visitor grabbed it, his gaze never leaving her face. Her cell phone, still animated, chirped happily in his grasp.

  All her excuses died on her lips. “You’re not a janitor.”

  His mouth quirked—full and finely shaped, possessed of a masculine beauty that almost made Dayna forget her fear of him.

  “You’re not a research librarian.”

  “Technically, I am.” Her voice shook. “I’ve been to—”

  “Don’t waste my time.” His expression, both commanding and unforgiving, made her unease return on hasty feet. He dropped her cell phone beside her Magic Marker. The device emitted a low, mournful cry. “Get whatever you need. We’re already late.”

  “Late for what?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

  He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, as though he hoped to find a supply of patience waiting there. Disappointed, he exhaled. “I’m the tracer who’s assigned to bring you in.”

  Galvanized by his words, Dayna couldn’t move. She’d feared this day. That was why she’d kept the plastic pencil case full of talismans, decoys, and weapons. That was why she’d paid attention to the warning tingles she sometimes felt. That was why—

  No. Maybe she was wrong. She had to be wrong.

  Striving for casualness, she lifted her chin. “In?”

  “To Covenhaven.” He spoke with the careful slowness some people used to converse with a child. “It’s your cusping year. You’re required to take mandatory training. I’m here to—”

  “No.” Shaking her head, she tried to retreat further. She only succeeded in bumping painfully into her filing cabinet. “I’m not going back.” How did he know about her? Nobody knew about her—about the real her. She’d almost forgotten herself. She lifted her Magic Marker. “You can’t make me. I won’t do it.”

  “All right.” He regarded her wearily. “Don’t say I didn’t try this the right way. Be sure to tell them that at the IAB.”

  “Huh?”

  “In other words…fuck protocol.”

  Two seconds later she was in his grasp. He tightened his hold on her arm—heedless of her kicking and wriggling—then slung her backpack over his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. He hauled her out of her office and down the hall.

  Obviously, he’d decided on another strategy.

  And this one didn’t include playing by the book.

  Chapter Three

  Damn. The cusping witches were always the trickiest. For a runaway who was unschooled, unlinked, and unpracticed, Dayna Sterling could still pack a wallop. Most likely, her lack of discipline explained it, but T.J. didn’t ponder the matter any further than he had to. He’d been assigned to do one thing: get her back to Covenhaven. Nothing was going to stand in his way.

  With his vision disrupted by swirling clouds of office papers and airborne memos, T.J. strode relentlessly down the hall. In his grasp, his target squirmed and kicked. Mostly, she missed him. The hallway’s drywall wasn’t so lucky. It shattered in chunks, sprinkling the carpet with white powder.

  In the bullpen of cubicles they reached next, computer monitors flashed. Overhead fluorescents flickered, transmitting her agitation. A five-gallon jug of water burst as they passed it, sending water splashing onto the break room floor. A tornado of ink erupted from a nearby laser printer, whirling in midair.

  Whether Dayna knew it or not, she was causing this mess.

  “Calm down.” T.J. lowered his mouth to her ear, keeping his voice steady amid the bedlam. Her panic seared into him, twice as strong at close contact. “You’re making this worse.”

  “Let me go!” She wrenched her arm. “I won’t go back.”

  “You have to. It’s requisite.”

  “No. I live here now! You can’t make me leave.”

  “I already am. Keep moving.”

  With more kicking and dragging, they made it down two flights of stairs. They rounded a corner. At the sight that greeted Dayna there, she stopped.

  Wordlessly, she pointed. Dozens of her coworkers stood or sat motionlessly, mannequins in workday poses, still clutching BlackBerrys or telephone receivers or coffee cups. One woman waved at another, her expression frozen in eager interest. Another woman sat with her face contorted, caught with a tissue in midsneeze.

  Summarily, T.J. took in the scene. Everything was as it should be. Except for Dayna’s uncontrolled magic, of course.

  “What did you do to them?” she shrieked.

  “A harmless entrancement spell.” Ruthlessly, he hauled her in motion again. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.”

  “A spell? Oh God. It’s true. You really are a tracer.” Her words dissolved into mumbling. She tripped over her next step, bumping against him—and inciting a burst of unexpected heat where their bodies touched. “You really have come for me. Me. How did you find me? Why did—”

  “Keep moving. We have to leave.” Ignoring the jolt of warmth between them, T.J. strode on. If they didn’t get out of the research library soon, she might destroy the place. That definitely wouldn’t go over well with the IAB. “I’ll explain later.”

  She gawked at her coworkers. “Are they going to be okay?”

  Exasperated, T.J. stared at her. “Do you really care?”

  That stopped her. For several seconds, Dayna quit struggling. Then, “Of course I care! These are my friends.”

  “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought. They don’t even know you.” Not waiting for her to confirm the obvious, he sighted the lobby, with its huge plate glass walls. Given the way she’d reacted so far, he decided to amend his plans. “Wait.”

  She came to a clumsy halt, her feet stumbling over his.

  He cupped her face in his hands, hoping to command her attention. Instead, he ensnared his own. Unable to resist, he marveled at her skin’s softness and smoothness. Her features were delicate, her eyes a crystalline blue, her jawline fragile enough to break if only he tightened his hands the smallest bit.

  She jerked away, her gaze wary.

  Cursing himself, T.J. remembered what had happened the first time their bodies had collided—when she’d tried to evade him in her office. He hadn’t realized anything was amiss until she’d landed on her ass at his feet. He didn’t want to consider why. Such a reaction wasn’t typical for a witch—even a cusping runaway. His tracer’s hold should have calmed her. Nothing more.

  With that in mind, he tried again. Purposefully, he kept his grasp light, his manner patient, his warlock magic reined in beneath his Patayan control. It was a special gift to meld the two. As a compound, T.J. would have been embarrassed not to have mastered their mingling. As it was, he had, and to great effect.

  All the same, Dayna’s
skin paled beneath his fingers.

  Mayhem continued around them, marking the significance of this moment. This uncontainable magic would only hurt her in the end. He had to help her, if he could, before they went further.

  “Be calm now,” he instructed. “Breathe. Slowly.”

  He dipped his gaze to her chest, waiting for her to obey.

  The action did not endear him to her. Her scathing look said so. He’d recognized her immediately, as he’d said—but he’d underestimated her at the same time. Dayna was quirky and pretty, exactly as predicted in the IAB file, with shoulder-length dark hair and a lanky body hidden beneath boyish clothes. But she was far, far more resistant than he’d anticipated.

  “Calm? Ha! Let me go, then I’ll be calm.” Beneath her dark bangs, her frantic gaze searched his, clear and startlingly blue. “Just tell everyone in Covenhaven you couldn’t find me.”

  “Impossible. I find everyone. And I gave my word.”

  She laughed. “Your word? You’re kidding, right?”

  T.J. frowned. “You’ve been in this world for too long.”

  “Not long enough.” With new vigor, she wriggled again.

  He tightened his grasp, making her cry out. “Cooperate.”

  Her wounded gaze made him feel ashamed. T.J. couldn’t stand it. “You’ve lost control of your magic. You have to be calm.”

  “You’re crazy. I never had any magic to begin with.”

  Blandly, he gazed around the research library, with its whirling papers, exploding fluorescents, and sparking PCs.

  “Okay, so I had a teeny bit of magic once, but I never—”

  “Enough. I know your history.” Reminded of the way she’d abandoned everyone in her life, he found it easier to harden himself against her. If he’d done the things Dayna Sterling had, he couldn’t live with himself. “I’m not a gullible dozer, like these people you’ve fooled. Save your breath.”

  He dragged her forward, inciting new chaos.

  In the midst of it, an elderly, white-haired researcher wandered out of the ladies’ room. She lurched toward them. Her eyes were wide, her face ashen, her steps wobbly. Her sense of alarm whooshed toward T.J., momentarily slowing him.