My Favorite Witch

by Lisa Plumley

  “I’m fine.”

  “No you’re not.” But Dayna didn’t have the fortitude to push further, only to be told that she was what was the matter. Repentantly, she hugged her mother. “Geez. I’m only asking because I love you. You’re getting cranky in your dotage.”

  “I’ll show you dotage. I’ll bust your butt with my dotage.”

  “Something is definitely going on with you,” Dayna said. “You don’t usually talk like Evander Holyfield before a fight.”

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Leaning closer, Margo gave her another hug.

  “Mom, you just trash talked me. You.”

  “Mmm. Good luck with your research.” Her mother gave her an abstracted wave. “I have things to do. Bye!”

  Dayna stared as Margo hustled across the library. Without a backward glance, her mother disappeared into one of the offices.

  Hmmm. That was weird. Except for the intrigue—and short-lived hopefulness—engendered by her new aura, it was almost as though her return to Covenhaven had thrown a monkey wrench into…something. Something mysterious. But what? And how?

  Worried and a little dejected that Margo hadn’t been completely thrilled to see her, Dayna picked up her backpack.

  She waited. After a few minutes, it was plain that her mother wouldn’t return. Frowning, Dayna headed for the stacks.

  If the new IAB program was as big a deal as Leo Garmin claimed, it was possible that everyone in town was following its progress closely—including her parents and all their witchfolk friends. It was possible that Margo was simply worried about being the mother of Covenhaven’s biggest screwup. Again.

  Miserably, Dayna realized that the pressure had just ratcheted up a notch. Somehow, she had to succeed. She had to.

  The first step was getting those witchcraft books. And the next?

  She had no idea. Because if learning from books couldn’t help her, she was well and truly stuck…all over again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was hard to conduct an undercover operation when every step reminded you of your…off-duty activities.

  Suppressing a groan, T.J. prowled the perimeter of the Covenhaven farmers’ market. He passed tented stalls filled with homegrown winter squash and crisp apples, vendors selling hand-dipped chocolates and homemade cactus jelly, and merchants hawking everything from soy candles to heirloom beans to Native American handicrafts. He wanted to focus on his surroundings. He needed to be alert to the arrival of his target. Instead, his body ached with vivid reminders of his encounter with Dayna this morning, and his mind offered up possibilities for the future.

  For their future—the one they would share as bonded partners. He and Dayna. Together, as they were meant to be.

  Ruthlessly, T.J. quashed that line of thought. Then he ordered his body to quit feeling so hard used and tingly, too.

  This was why being bonded was disastrous for him. This distraction. This yearning. They could get him killed.

  And yet…

  As he spied a fat pumpkin, T.J. imagined himself laughing with Dayna as they carved it into a fanciful, witchy shape. As he spotted a cache of beads, he pictured Dayna wearing them—and giving him one of her irrepressible, smart-alecky smiles. As he stopped at one of the stalls—the better to sell his presence at the market—he found himself standing beside a gray-haired couple in their seventies. They were holding hands. He decided that he and Dayna would do that, too, in their golden years together.

  Their golden years? Christ. Appalled with himself, T.J. turned away—and nearly ran into his target, Sumner Jacobs.

  She was wearing an impractical all-white outfit, a lot of jewelry, and a hairstyle that could only be the result of a time-consuming appearance charm. Flirtatiousness moved from her to him in a rush; the force of her emotions nearly bowled him over. Her interest would make things easier for him today.

  Flexing his best warlock charm, he took a step closer.

  Sumner did, too. “Hey! We meet again.” She smiled, then juggled her tote bag and offered her hand. “It’s Neal, right?”

  “Neal Michaels.” T.J. nodded, acknowledging the alias he’d given himself for this part of his mission to find the juweel. He’d used an appearance enchantment the last time he’d met Sumner. Despite the IAB’s ban on his magic, he’d exercised it again today—just one more brick in the wall of his dissolution. Ignoring the dangers of that ethics breach for now, he enclosed Sumner’s hand in his own. Subtly, he cast an endearment spell. “I was hoping I’d see you here again.”

  “Every Wednesday, like clockwork. There’s no better place than the farmers’ market to find unique items for my shop.”

  “Clever farmers, growing necklaces and knickknacks.”

  “Oh. Well, they don’t actually grow those.” With an earnestness his joke didn’t warrant, Sumner withdrew her hand. She let her gaze rove over him, taking in his tank top, his utilitarian cargo pants, his birthright mark, and his Patayan amulets. Sexual interest zoomed from her to him, fervent and obvious. “But I do like to support local artisans.”

  “Me, too.” T.J. smiled. “That’s something we have in common. But then, these people are my family. I love their work as though it’s my own. I love to see their creativity on display.”

  “Wow.” She admired him more openly, offering him a smile that was heavy on the lip gloss. “That’s so passionate of you.”

  With a modest shrug, he started walking to the next market stall. As though they’d planned to tour the place together, Sumner fell in step beside him. Her perfume’s fragrance trailed them both. Her hips swayed with deliberately provocative movements. Warlocks and other males watched her hungrily as they walked by, drawn by Sumner’s confidence and sexual heat.

  Unmoved by either of those things, T.J. embellished his cover story with anecdotes involving his fabricated history as an artist who worked in metals. Sumner’s eyes widened as she soaked up every detail. Her laughter rang out. She touched his bare arm as he made a point. She lingered, then stroked upward.

  Instantly, her hand flew violently away from him.

  Frowning in confusion, Sumner stared at her wayward arm. She covered the incident with a smile, then tried again. This time her hand moved straight to his birthright mark tattoo.

  Then it bounced away again.

  It was almost as though his birthright mark was protected by…something. In a way, T.J. realized in surprise, it probably was. Now that his bond with Dayna was complete, his birthright mark had magically branded him as off-limits to other witches.

  In essence, he was hexed into fidelity.

  Perversely, he liked the idea. It made him think about Dayna. He wondered where his bonded witch was now. Was she thinking about him, too? Did she feel a lingering soreness where they’d come together? Did she want more, the way he did?

  Would she seek him out again? He hoped so.

  Oblivious to T.J.’s internal battles, Sumner kept flirting. With all the subtlety of a petite blond tigress in heat, she let their hips touch as they walked side by side between stalls. She tossed her hair. She gave him erotically charged looks. She licked her lips as she watched him, ostensibly hanging on his every word—and obviously not listening to a single one.

  T.J. had the uncomfortable sensation that Sumner wanted to devour him like one of the Indian fry breads they sold at the other end of the market. He’d underestimated her voraciousness. Judging by the emotions he sensed moving from her to him, she liked to be desired. She liked to be dominated. She also liked to belong, and that was what interested T.J. the most.

  That was what he could use the most in this operation.

  After all, he already knew Sumner was a vixen witch. The public records Deuce had uncovered had told him that much. What he didn’t know was whether Sumner planned to join a vixen pact. Or whether she already had. Or whether she might forgo her pact to help the Patayan avert the crisis that loomed on the horizon.

  A fully formed vixen pact could offer Sumner the validation and belonging she cr
aved. But so could T.J.’s people—if Sumner allowed them to. If she were truly destined to be the juweel his magus had identified, he had to appeal to her for help.

  Observing Sumner now, it seemed likely that she was the vixen he sought. His magus had warned T.J. that the juweel would be a witch who felt alone. Judging by the emotions he sensed coming from Sumner, she did feel isolated…and had for some time. His magus had warned that the juweel’s struggle to choose an allegiance among the witch factions would mean the difference between good and evil for everyone. If Sumner’s difficulty in selecting items for her gift shop from among the offerings for sale at the market was indicative of her personality, she would struggle with every decision, large and small.

  Keeping those factors in mind, T.J. wound up his patter. With a final “passionate” story about his connection to the artisans in Covenhaven, he stopped in the feathery shade of a mesquite tree. Beside him, Sumner stopped, too. She waved a market map in front of her sweat-dappled cleavage.

  “Whew! It’s so hot today, isn’t it?” she asked. “And it’s almost Samhain, too. I guess that’s the desert for you, though, right? Totally sunny and eighty degrees in October.”

  T.J. agreed. “Some people like it hot.”

  “Mmm. I sure do.” Sumner turned to him, her purchases hanging forgotten from her arm. She raised her hand as though to touch him again. After a glance at his darkly drawn birthright mark, she appeared to think better of it. She pursed her lips at him instead. “How about you? Do you like things…hot?”

  She waggled her eyebrows, her innuendo about as subtle as a Mardi Gras flash to earn a necklace of beads. T.J. began to have doubts that she could be the vixen witch he sought. Yes, Sumner was isolated and indecisive, as foreseen. But she was also naïve. And she seemed to have no special grasp of her magic.

  Then again, her naiveté could be a sham. Vixen witches were the most powerful of all witchfolk. It was possible Sumner had so much magic that she outpaced even a compound like T.J. Magical skills at that level could cloud the judgment of any warlock.

  Deliberating the issue, T.J. bantered with her again. All around them, market-goers traipsed past with canvas bags full of purchases. Children ran by with agua fresco—cold drinks in fruit flavors—in their eager hands. A trio of musicians played an acoustic set beneath a shaded awning, adding to the festival ambiance that always prevailed at the Covenhaven market.

  That ambiance was one reason the farmers’ market was so popular with tourists. The other reason was that it employed magic to bewitch the tourists into spending far more on trinkets than they’d planned. They didn’t remember being bewitched; they remembered only that, at the time, that Ironwood carving or turquoise bracelet or beeswax candle had seemed essential.

  Feeling less than proud of his magical heritage upon remembering that, T.J. abandoned all subtlety. It was time to have this done. He moved closer to Sumner, then looked directly into her eyes. She gazed back with dopey adoration. A single drop of sweat slipped from her neck to her witchily augmented breasts, then disappeared between them. He’d have sworn the maneuver was magically designed to draw his attention there.

  “It’s not often I feel so free with someone I’ve just met,” Sumner confided. She pressed her breasts against his arm. “But when I saw you here last week, I just felt drawn to you, Neal. I’m so glad you were here again today.” She offered up a flirty smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you came here just to see me. Tell me you did, Neal. Even if it’s not true. Tell me—”

  “I did come here to see you.”

  “Really?” A whoosh of gratification moved from her to him, mixed with very childlike delight. “That’s so sweet of you!”

  “We could be very important to one another,” T.J. went on. “I could give you what you need. You could give me what I need. If we join together, starting right now, we can—”

  “Whoa. Hold on a second.” Making a face, Sumner raised her palm at him. “I don’t want anything, like, serious. You know?”

  She thought he was trying to pin her down too soon—to rush things between them, the way human females sometimes did with the men they were interested in. The notion was laughable.

  But T.J. didn’t laugh. Soberly, he said, “What I want from you is serious. I came here—for you—for a very special reason.” T.J. kept his tone gentle. It was better to approach a vixen cautiously. If a vixen witch became upset, her payback could be cruel. “I need a vixen. A very special vixen…like you.”

  “Oh God.” Sumner’s flirtatiousness vanished. She gave him a disgusted look. “You’re trying to sell me something, aren’t you?”

  T.J. frowned. He shook his head.

  “Then you want me to help you sell something. I knew it!”

  “No.” Another frown. “I want you to help me, but—”

  “Ha. I get it.” Her gaze swept over him—derisively this time. “This happens to me all the time. You don’t look old enough to be sloping already. Or to need a spell from me to fix it. But…whatever. I guess you do.” She broke off, giving a sound of utter aggravation. “I knew no good would come of it when Francesca made such a big deal out of us being vixens. Now everyone in town knows about Francesca and Lily and me, and I’m the one who always gets dunned for favors.” She broke off, hands on her hips. “Do I look like a soft touch or something?”

  Angry emotions cascaded from her to him. T.J. fisted his hands, shielding himself from their force. “You look,” he made himself say, “like a vixen witch who wants to do better.”

  “Right. Let me guess—‘do better’ for you, right?” Sumner exhaled, shaking her head. “Not a chance. You’re the second warlock this month who decided I was the solution to his sloping problems. You guys are as bad as those human males who use younger females to ward off their own pathetic midlife decline.” Considering him, she pursed her lips in thought. “You do look better than most slopers do, though. What did you do, use an appearance enchantment to look younger? It’s good. Really good. I’ve got to say, I would almost go for helping you, Neal. You look pretty damn hot for a guy who can’t get it up anymore.”

  “You look pretty damn dense for a witch who could rule the world, if she wanted to. What’s the matter? Are you too afraid to seize your true power? If you are, I can help you.”

  “I’m not afraid! And you’re clearly not from around here, if you think you can talk to me that way.” Sumner’s aura glowed purple, emitting a low-level vibration that hurt T.J.’s ears. Humans thought their ears “popped” in response to elevation changes. Witchfolk knew that reaction was a warning—a response to angry vixens nearby. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

  “If you’re not afraid, then let me help you.” T.J. had to focus on what was important here. He moderated his tone. “I can show you a way to use your power together with the Patayan to—”

  “The Patayan?” Sumner barked out a laugh. “Why would I help a bunch of irritating do-gooders like the Patayan?”

  Taken aback, T.J. stared at her. “Because they need you.”

  “Ha. They need a lot of things. Like a life, for instance.”

  “You don’t understand.” T.J. had encountered this prejudice before. It was no less ugly coming from a beautiful woman. Still, he hadn’t expected it from his magus’s potential juweel. “A conflict is coming. No witch faction will be unscathed.”

  “Really? Good. If that means the Patayan get some of the smugness knocked out of them, then we’ll all be better off. There’s nobody in the world more annoying than a Patayan.”

  In truth, there was no one more annoying than a person who embraced ignorance and fear. But telling his targeted vixen witch that would not advance his cause. T.J. shook his head. “The Patayan are guardians. If you join us, you’ll be a rescuer to millions. You’ll end this conflict before it begins.”

  Sumner’s mouth dropped open. For a second, she seemed almost intrigued. Then her usual cynicism returned.

  “Nice try, Neal. Does thi
s come-on line really work for you? Ever?” With her arms akimbo in WWF style, she affected a macho demeanor. She lowered her voice to a baritone. “You’ll be a rescuer to millions.” Her tone changed to its usual pitch. “That’s me. Sumner Jacobs, swooping in to save the world. Not.”

  She laughed again. Bitterly. In that moment, T.J. truly felt sorry for her. But he didn’t have time to waste on pity. If he couldn’t convince this vixen to help him, witchfolk—and likely, humankind—were both doomed by the threat facing them.

  His magus had said it. He believed it.

  “You can do this,” he said. “You can save the world, if that’s your destiny.” And if you believe you can.

  According to his magus, the juweel would require unshakable confidence in her magic in order to succeed. But T.J. didn’t need to tell Sumner that. Like all vixens, she had the potential for extraordinary power—and she knew it. Growing up with that knowledge had given her an aura of self-assurance that witches envied…and that warlocks sensed—and desired—on an intrinsic level. He could see it in passersby’s responses to her.

  “Help me,” T.J. urged. He touched her arm, adding a dose of endearment spell to emphasize his appeal. “Join me.”

  But this time, his warlock charisma failed him.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.” Sumner shook off his touch. Resistance surrounded her like a wall, barricading some of her emotions from him. “I mean, really—Patayan?”

  “They need you.”

  “Do they? Is that why they’re always prattling on about how they descended from ancient indigenous peoples—as if that makes them better than the rest of us somehow—and boring everyone at cocktail parties with a bunch of woo-woo talk about elemental earth magic? That’s not even the useful kind of magic, you know. Everybody knows legacy magic is the best.” Sumner rolled her eyes. “I mean, come on. What Patayan ever came up with a good money-multiplying charm? Huh? What jilted Patayan ever cast a good spell to make their ex-boyfriend fat, bald, and warty?”

  “Patayan don’t get jilted. They mate for life.”