Runaway Witch

by N. D. MacLaine

  I raised my eyebrows at him.

  “I couldn't tell him vampires held me hostage till a witch showed up and saved me, could I? I'm just lucky you needed a place to stay.” His eyes lit. “Hey, you could stay here! At least for a couple days. I mean, it's the least I could do.” I could hear the hope in his voice.

  And I'll be honest. An air-conditioned house sounded a lot better than some abandoned building. So, even though it was against my better judgment, I said, “Okay, but I have things to do, so I won't be around much. I've got some...memory problems, and I think something in Chandler might help me solve them.”

  “So, you have to, like, investigate? Maybe I can help. I've lived here my whole life. I know the town.”

  I considered that. “What I'll be looking into probably isn't a side of town you're familiar with.”

  He thought for a second. “Well, it's still better than going in completely blind, isn't it?”

  He had a plaintive, “don't leave me alone” look in his eyes, and I caved. “Fine, but you have to listen to me and do what I say. No offense, but you kinda scream prey to things in the Other community.”

  He frowned but didn't say anything.

  My stomach rumbled suddenly, and I realized I'd barely eaten all day. Evan heard it and said, “Hey, I have leftover pizza if you want some.”

  My mouth practically started to water at the thought. “Pizza, you say? Well, I mean, if you insist.”

  He smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.

  I looked around the room. Pictures of his family lined the walls–school pictures, Christmas pictures, and one presumably from Disney World with the whole family. Evan looked slightly younger. His parents were wearing Mickey Mouse ears, and Evan and his older sister looked mortified, while his younger sister looked delighted.

  Evan returned a couple minutes later with a plate containing a few slices of pizza and two cans of Pepsi (nectar of the gods!).

  The pizza was great, pepperoni and mushroom and gooey cheese, and I felt much better after I'd eaten.

  “Okay,” I said. “We're going out.” I looked down at my cheap clothes. “I just wish I had something nicer to wear.”

  Evan said, “You look about Evie's size. Do you want to look at her clothes?”

  “Evie?” I asked.

  “My older sister. She's off at college. She took all the clothes she cared about, but there's still plenty left in her room.”

  I said, “Lead the way.” I followed him upstairs, and something occurred to me. “What's your younger sister's name?”

  “Eva,” he replied, pronouncing it Ava.

  I broke into a smile. “Evie, Evan, and Eva.”

  He sighed. “Yeah. Isn't it just so adorable?”

  We entered a bedroom and he opened the closet. It was full of clothes, and I wondered how many the girl had, if these were the leftovers. I pulled a few things out of her closet to appraise her taste and deemed it decent.

  “Okay,” I said. “Go put on something nice. Like you'd wear on a date.”

  He frowned and left me alone in the room. I changed into a black top with some accents and a pair of black jeans that hugged me just right. Definitely better than the Dollar General clothes for going into town at night. Even her shoes fit, only a half-size too big, so I put on a pair of flat-heeled boots. Then I helped myself to some of the makeup that was left on her dresser and pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail.

  When I emerged from the room, Evan was waiting. He was wearing a charcoal-gray, vertically pinstriped button-up shirt, untucked, and black trousers. He'd put a little product in his hair. I cocked my head. “Not bad at all,” I told him, and he grinned sheepishly.

  We went back outside to his car, which I guessed was a hand-me-down from his parents. I even let him drive, which is not an easy thing for me to do, and we started back for town.

  THREE

  Chandler had a more active night life than I'd anticipated. With summer vacation nearing its end, teenagers were desperate to enjoy their final days of freedom. Evan parked in a lot at the start of Riverfront Drive, and we started walking down the street. The restaurants along it were busy. We even passed an actual arcade that I hadn't noticed on my way through town. I didn't even know arcades existed anymore.

  Evan kept looking around nervously. “Forrest isn't going to attack us in public like this,” I told him. “Vamps don't just make themselves known to the masses. He has a baron or baroness to answer to and making a scene with a bunch of witnesses would be an automatic death sentence.” Probably, I thought, but kept it to myself.

  “How can you be so calm about all this?” he asked me as we passed a bar from which country music drifted.

  I shrugged. “Been dealing with stuff like this since I was twelve. It's not all sunshine and daisies. I am a little anxious. I've just learned how to control it.” I'd spent years training with Stephen and the others, learning mindfulness meditation, breathing exercises, and other methods of keeping cool when your instinct is to panic. Sometimes the panic won, but most of the time I could keep it in check.

  “Maybe you could teach me,” Evan muttered.

  We passed a few teens, who ignored us. “Aren't any of these guys your friends?” I asked.

  He seemed to study the sidewalk. “I go to school with them, but... no, not really.” He paused for a beat, then added softly, “I don't really have many friends.”

  Well, mine wanted to kill me, so it's all a matter of perspective, I suppose.

  We turned into the plaza that I'd noticed when I drove into town. It was set back near the river. Now I realized there was a nightclub here, and it sent my witchy-senses to tingling.

  There was a line of young adults in front of it, and as I approached, Evan scoffed. “Kaos?” he asked, and I noticed an intentionally flickering neon light that proclaimed the club's name. “There's no way we'll get in. And you don't want to, trust me. It's all booze, drugs, and STDs. Besides, if you haven't noticed, I'm not twenty-one.”

  “Neither am I,” I said, ignoring the many ways in which none of that mattered. I walked past the line to the steroid-enhanced bouncer at the door. He stood behind a velvet rope, and he wore a shirt with the club's logo on it. He had a shaved head and a neatly trimmed goatee. He would've been right at home as security on “Jerry Springer.”

  He gave us a once-over and burst into laughter. “There's not a fake ID in the world that would convince me.”

  “Told you,” Evan muttered.

  I appraised the bouncer and could see that he was something Other. He wasn't a witch, but he wasn't a vanilla human, either. I caught his eye and brushed him with a little magic.

  His expression changed. “Trying to get downstairs?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Okay, in the back, to the right of the bar,” he said. Then he cast a look at Evan. “What about the Rockwell?” he asked me.

  “He's with me,” I said.

  Bouncer pulled the rope aside and ushered us in, much to the chagrin of the people in line, who began to jeer at us. Some tried to push their own way in, but Bouncer scowled at them and resumed his brick-wall routine.

  Inside, techno music was blaring and seizure-inducing lights assaulted us. Tables lined the sides of the club, but the floor was filled with dancers, some holding plastic cups. We skirted around them. The place smelled of alcohol and sweat–and, I was pretty sure, weed.

  “How did we get in here?” Evan shouted over the music.

  “He recognized I'm a witch,” I answered, not worrying about anyone hearing us when we could barely hear each other. “There's more to this place than meets the eye.”

  We reached the back wall, and I could sense a glamour. I touched the wall, and the spot where my finger made contact began to glow red.

  Evan blinked. I held up a finger to delay any questions. A second later, where there had been nothing but wall, an elevator door appeared and slid open. Evan's jaw dropped, but no one else in the club seemed to notice. />
  “Why can't anyone else see?” Evan asked as I led him into the elevator.

  I said, “You knew to expect something, and that broke the glamour hiding it. It's a simple spell that capitalizes on people's ability to ignore what they can't explain.”

  “So, people are dumb?”

  I smiled. “Pretty much.”

  The elevator door closed again, blocking out the pounding music. There were no buttons, but the elevator started downward. After about thirty seconds, Evan got fidgety. “How far down are we going?”

  “We're not really going down,” I said. “We're slipping into a pocket dimension. The elevator is a physical representation of a non-physical journey. It's a construct that we, as humans, can understand.” I stopped short, then muttered, “God, I sound like Stephen.”

  “Who?”

  I shook my head. “Never mind.” I'd just had a flashback to the countless professorial lectures on magic and magic theory that I'd sat through with Stephen writing on a dry-erase board. School was a tad different for me than it is for most people.

  There was a quick flash of light, my ears popped, and the door slid open again, revealing what looked like another nightclub, if one had been carved inside of a mountain. The walls and floor were made of rock, and the tables seemed to grow out of the floor. The room was lit by dancing candle flames–except there were no candles attached to them. They just floated around the room, always out of arm's reach. Soft, sensual jazz was playing, music that seemed to invite you to dance...or do more than dance.

  And some of the dancers were doing more than dancing. Evan's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything.

  Against one wall, more candle flames formed the word Kaotique. A symbol–more precisely, a rune–was carved into the wall beneath it.

  “I think I need to sit down,” Evan said as we passed an empty table. He collapsed into a chair, overwhelmed by all the people here, a lot of whom weren't people at all. There were witches and other things that could pass for human, but there were also sprites, elves, and more Others, some of which I couldn't even name offhand. Some were on the dance floor, others sitting, At least there weren't any Faeries. I don't like Faeries.

  “Maybe we should get you a drink,” I half-joked as I sat down with him.

  “Like they'd serve me,” he said.

  On cue, a waiter slithered up to us–literally. The lower half of his body was serpentine but from the waist up he looked like a kindly older man. He wore a shirt and tie. “Do you really think anyone here cares how old you are, son?” he asked in an Australian accent, which confirmed to me that he was a Jarapiri. “I'm Walter. I'll be your server this evening.”

  Evan snorted. “Walter? Really?”

  Walter's eyes flashed. “Is there a problem?”

  Evan's voice climbed an octave. “No!” He cleared his throat. “Not at all.” He sank lower in his chair.

  Walter raised an eyebrow at me. “The Rockwell is under your hospitality, I presume?”

  I nodded. “He's my guest tonight, and he's just a little overwhelmed at the moment. I'll make sure he stays out of trouble.''

  Walter switched right back into professional mode. “Right, then. Can I get you anything?”

  “Water,” I said at exactly the same time as Evan said, “A mojito.”

  I frowned. “Go easy on the rum. Very easy.” Walter headed for the bar.

  Evan was sulking. “Why'd you say that?”

  I smiled pityingly. “Figured you'd be kind of a lightweight and this situation was crazy enough.”

  “I drink all the time,” he said defensively.

  I stared at him.

  “Okay, every once in a while.”

  I stared some more.

  “Fine, I had half a glass of champagne at my cousin's wedding. Happy? “

  I sighed. “I'm not trying to insult you. I know you're freaked, and you're trying to hide it and look cool. This is not the place to flex your manhood, okay? You're already handling this better than most people.”

  This seemed to mollify him. He sat up straighter. “So, why do they keep calling me a Rockwell?”

  “It's just sort of a slang term that stuck. It used to be 'Commoner' a long time ago, then 'Normal' or 'Normie,' then it changed to 'Norman,' and when Norman Rockwell became well-known and his paintings were all about, like, idyllic American life, it naturally evolved to 'Rockwell.'“

  Walter returned with our drinks. “Anything else right now?”

  “Actually, yes,” I said. “Information. Has there been anything unusual going on around town lately?” It was a lame question, but I had to start somewhere. I just couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was going on with me had something to do with this town, and it stood to reason that something weird could be going on here, too.

  Walter arched an eyebrow and looked around the room at all of the unusual things. I felt stupid and added, “Just different? Out of the ordinary?”

  Walter's brow furrowed. “There have been a few more out-of-towners than normal, but we are the only Others' club outside of Pittsburgh. Hmm…”

  More strangers than usual. That could mean something. “If you think of anything specific before we leave, could you let me know?”

  Walter agreed then moved to another table.

  I looked around the room, sipping my water. There was a tall, humanoid creature dancing with a witch. The witch looked like a normal woman, but her partner had skin the color of a stormy sky, and his face was covered with an intricate pattern of scars. “That's a Cloudling,” I told Evan. “When they're ten years old, the males go through a ritual where their fathers scar their faces. It's supposed to be pretty gruesome.”

  Sitting at a table across from us was a woman whose hair looked like it had been spun from fine silver. She had slightly pointed ears. “That's an elf,” I said.

  Evan blinked. “So they are tall.”

  “They come in varieties. The typical Santa-style elf is also real. She's sitting with a Brownie,” I said, pronouncing it broo-nee .

  He squinted and realized there was a small table and chair sitting atop the regular table, and at it was a creature about six inches tall, drinking out of a tiny glass and laughing merrily.

  Evan took a sip of his mojito as he processed it all. “How's the drink?” I asked.

  He considered it. “Minty.”

  I chuckled and continued to scan the room, stopping on a young man who was sitting alone. He had piercingly dark eyes, neatly trimmed dark hair, and porcelain skin. He wore a scarlet button-up shirt with the first two buttons open. His lips were practically the same color as the shirt and were a striking contrast to his skintone. His eyes met mine, burning into me, and I felt drawn to him.

  Almost as though it was out of my control, I stood and started walking his way.

  “Oh, are we moving?” Evan jumped out of his chair and followed me.

  The man's voice was soft and not especially deep, but powerful nonetheless. “Please, sit down.” He spoke with the barest hint of an accent, something European, I guessed.

  I did as he asked, my eyes still fixed on his. He ignored Evan, who was looking around as though unsure if he should ask for help–or who he could ask for it, anyway.

  “You are lovely,” the man said. “And something about you is very familiar. You're quite captivating.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “But I can't help but wonder if the owner of this establishment would be thrilled to know you're attempting to enchant someone.”

  He cocked his head and his nostrils flared as he scented the air. “You're a witch.”

  I nodded. “Guilty. And you're a vampire.”

  Evan yelped involuntarily. “It's okay,” I told him. “Kaotique is a haven. No one can hurt you here.” The rune inscribed under the club's name prevented violence. I returned my attention to the vampire. “But enchanting someone into leaving with you and going someplace where they can cause harm is dangerously close to breaking the rules.”

 
Vampires can enchant a Rockwell easily, but witches are another story. No one is sure exactly why, but it works in our favor, so we're not complaining. As long as we remained in the club, we were safe, which is the only reason I wasn't scared to face my third vampire in as many hours.

  The vampire laughed. “I assure you, I had no such intention. I simply wanted to speak to you. Had I realized you were a witch, I never would have made such an attempt. But from across the room, your scent was indistinguishable from your friend's or anyone else's.” He made a gesture toward Evan. “Not that I need his scent to know he's a Rockwell.”

  Evan blinked, trying to decide if he should be offended.

  The vampire studied me some more. “I am certain that we’ve never met, and yet…” His voice trailed for a moment. “Anyway, I am sorry if I've offended you.”

  “I'll accept your apology,” I said, “if you'll answer a question for me.”

  He looked amused. “By all means.”

  “This young man was being held hostage earlier by a couple of your kind. I'd like to know why.”

  The vampire frowned. “They did not feed.” It wasn't a question. Vampires can tell when someone has been fed from recently, and sometimes even not so recently. The line between his eyebrows deepened. “Curious. I am not a part of this region's flock, so I'm afraid I don't readily have an answer for you.”

  Ah. An outsider. I moved to stand, our conversation at an end, but he reached across the table and brushed the back of my hand. His cool skin sent goosebumps up my arm.

  “The region's baroness and I are on reasonable terms,” he said. “I will make some inquiries.”

  Hmm. He'd risk wearing out his welcome for us? “Why?” I asked.

  He shrugged, and I noticed his neck was scarred, near his shoulder. Vampires don't scar, not even from the bites that turn them, which meant he'd had the scar in life. I wondered where it had come from.

  “Call it curiosity,” he answered. “And perhaps a touch of guilt for attempting to enchant you.”

  I didn't sense any dishonesty, and I'm pretty good at reading people–and people-like creatures—but vampires have a lot of years to master deception. Still, I didn't see any harm in letting him look into it.