Sixpence & Whiskey

by Heather R. Blair

  “In the basement of my bar.”

  His eyebrows shoot up and he gets to his feet, still rubbing the back of his head and wincing. Silently, I watch him study the magical fortifications I’ve put up while he’s out. He stretches a hand out here and there and pokes at the magical walls he can’t see, but must sense. His sword is in my office upstairs, locked behind iron and a ring of salt. I also took away his amulet, burned his scrollwork and relieved him of several nasty-looking pointy things along with that packet of weird dust. His mouth tightens after a minute, and the smile fades as he realizes I didn’t miss anything.

  “Feels pretty good for a slap job.” He leans back against the wall with a sigh.

  “It is. Now, tell me who sent you to kill me.”

  “Ah, darling, you know better than that.” He pats his pockets, coming up with a crumpled pack of Reds and a pack of matches. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Tyr laughs ruefully as he lights up. “Better than your friend knocking me out.”

  I raise my eyebrows and he grins. “Yeah, I got a peek of who whaled on me before the world went dark. Quite a right arm she’s got there. She really human?”

  “110%.”

  Leaning back against the wall, he lets out a groan. “That gets out and I’ll never live it down.”

  “You got worse things to worry about than your reputation.”

  He blows a smoke ring, giving me a cool look. “Do I? You’ll forgive me, but you don’t seem the type to implement torture effectively. At least not per the usual methods.” His dark eyes trail over my body again, slowly.

  “Quit that. I’m not in the mood.”

  Leaning forward, he smiles again. “What would it take to get you in the mood? Believe me, I’m all ears.”

  “Somehow you being here to kill me does nothing for my sex drive.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I got the impression that might be your kink.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He smirks, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette, ignoring the question to answer the previous one. Or rather, not answer it. “I can’t tell you who hired me.”

  “Then I can’t let you go.”

  “And so we are at an impasse.” He leans back again, looking utterly at ease. Like he could stay in my basement for the next century or so. It annoys.

  “Let’s try something easier. Why were you sent to kill me?”

  “You think me privy to such things?” He chuckles lazily. “I’m just a sword for hire, lovely. All brawn, no brains.”

  “Bullshit. You know.”

  Eyes narrowing, he gives me an amused look. “And if I share this you’ll let me go?”

  I smile, showing way too many teeth. “It would go a fair way to opening negotiations.”

  He contemplates the dusty, spider-ridden ceiling for a long moment. “What can I say, Persephone? It seems that you’ve given some influential people the impression that you’re dangerous.”

  I’m confused. “Dangerous how, Tyr? Like the way I mix margaritas, my penchant for jaywalking…? Give me some details here.”

  He sighs. “The titles ‘harbinger of the apocalypse’ and ‘destroyer of worlds’ were batted about.”

  I give a half-hearted laugh, because it’s not so much funny as totally ridiculous, but Tyr doesn’t even crack a smile. He turns his head and the look in his eyes makes my laughter die away. The heater kicks on, rumbling in the silence between us.

  Goosebumps feather their way down my arms, but I roll my eyes anyway. He’s insane…or his employer is. “Pretty sure you’ve gotten the wrong sister. Apocalyptic destroyer is more up Jett’s alley.”

  “I’m never wrong about a target. Persephone Gosse. Youngest daughter of Oriane. Pretty, runs a bar, likes pink.” He gives me a thin smile, crushing out the butt of his cigarette on the stained concrete. “Now that that’s sorted, how about letting me go?”

  “No,” I say slowly, still not sure whether to believe him or not. “I don’t think I will.”

  We both get to our feet. For the first time since he’s woken up, those black eyes turn hard. “If isn’t me, it’ll be someone else, love. They aren’t going to quit. These are very serious people.”

  They, huh? Interesting. “Maybe so, maybe so, but with you here, I’ll sleep easier. Night, night, Tyr.”

  “Sweet dreams, lovely,” his rich voice follows me up the stairs. I can feel his eyes on my ass. Without turning around I give him the finger. His chuckle is the last thing I hear before I shut the door.

  Mysterious, crazy-ass revelation or no, I’m currently running on two and a half days with little to no shuteye. As soon as I reach my office, I fall face first on the couch and am out in seconds.

  Hours and hours later, I come to in bits and pieces. Mostly because there’s someone cursing my name, loudly. Mumbling, I decide to ignore the voice, rolling back over. A zap of magic to the seat of my pants changes my mind, sending me bolt upright. It feels like my hair is standing on end.

  “I fed your pet and took him for a walk.” It’s Jett in my doorway, looking annoyed. Well, more than usual.

  “Pet?” My eyes are blurry. I rub at them, feeling around for my glasses, wondering what the hell she’s on about. And why my office couch is missing a cushion. And why I’m sleeping on it in the first place. Gods, I require coffee. Lots of it. Preferably laced with whiskey.

  “Tyr.”

  Memories start to click into place. “Oh…him. Yeah. Thanks. Did he behave?”

  She gives me a look. Men always behave around Jett. Duh. “It’s not a good idea to keep him breathing for much longer, Seph.”

  “I’m not you, Jett. I’ll probably let him go. Just not yet.” She presses her lips together tightly. I wonder what he might’ve said to her, but before I can ask there’s a perfunctory knock on the open door.

  “Let who go?” It’s Merry, looking altogether too curious for my own good.

  “No one. Just a stray I picked up last night. Back so soon, Merry?”

  He winks, though it feels forced. “Hoping to catch you napping again.”

  “You’re too late, by about four minutes.”

  Jett frowns, looking from me to the gnome, but obviously thinks better of asking. Instead, she says, “Whatever you’re gonna do with that…stray, Seph, don’t take too long about it.”

  I give her a nod. She gives Merry one, before leaving me and the gnome alone. I get up and stumble around my desk, fumbling in the drawers until I find a mint and a hair tie. Sucking on the candy and scraping my sleep-crazed hair out of my face, I wave a prompting hand at Merry.

  He shakes his head before taking a seat, but refrains from speaking until I sit down.

  “It’s the wolves again.” His brown eyes look a bit faded around the edges, as he removes his hat to scrub at his thick brown curls. Maybe Merry needs to catch up his sleep, too.

  “What about them?” He’s got my attention with that, but despite my somewhat disturbing chat with Luna, there’s been nary a peep from Thomas.

  “We got word they’ve been hunting down old 61, around Two Harbors. That’s a little close for comfort, wouldn’t you say?”

  I would. Highway 61 takes up where I-35 leaves off, running from the outskirts of Duluth all the way up into Canada. Two Harbors is only about thirty miles north of us.

  “Thanks, Merry. I’ll look into it.”

  “Tonight, eh?” he asks, hopping down and slapping his hat back on.

  I’m distracted, thinking about Tyr and Luna and Jack, but I get to my feet to see him out. Catching a whiff of stale me that makes me wince. I also need to get home and take a damn shower. “Probably.”

  I barely notice his nod, shutting the door with a vague smile as I pull out my phone. Three messages, all texts. All from Sy. She ended up closing the bar for me last night, but I was too busy setting up the wards to hold Tyr for us to process that fight. And after I talked to him this morning, I passed out before I co
uld text her.

  2:24am: So, what’s up with Sexy and his pointy sword? Buzz me when you’re done tying him down.Hehehe

  3:11am: Hey. Are you seriously taking advantage of him while he’s out? And if you’re not, can I?

  8:29am: WTF, Seph? At work now, fell asleep before. If you don’t get back to me before my shift ends, I’m coming over to kick your ass. I still have Lu Lu’s frying pan.

  Shit. It’s already coming on to one o’ clock. Her shift ended twenty minutes ago. I text her back.

  All fine here. I just passed out after playing with his pointy sword. Haha

  Give Lu Lu back her damn frying pan.

  I hit send, then wince when there is an answering ping from the hallway, followed by Sy’s pissed-off voice. “Too late, shithead, I’m already here to kill you.”

  She opens the door, her face pale and strained.

  I lean against my desk and smile weakly. “Apparently you need to get in line for that.”

  This halts her, but only for a second. “I call dibs, since I am the best friend and all.”

  “Jett knew I was fine.”

  “You know I don’t text Jett or Ana. They hate me, and they never fucking answer their phones anyway. And Carly had no idea where you were. You scared the shit out of me.” She glares and punches me in the arm. Hard. Really fucking hard. Damn black-belt bruiser.

  “Owie.” I rub my arm and give her the puppy-dog look I’ve perfected for these rare moments. “Sorry, sweetie.”

  Usually this is Sy kryptonite, but she only folds her arms and glares.

  “Not good enough. I want to know everything sword boy told you.”

  “Give me a ride home and I’ll tell you all about it. Throw in a stop at Amazing Grace and I’ll include the details of me running into both Jack and Luna yesterday.”

  Her eyes widen. I can almost smell the muffins as we walk out the door.

  Approximately ten hours later, I’m cruising through Kitchi Gammi. I spent the better part of the day with Sy, catching her up, taking a long, delicious shower—sans Sy—then dropping briefly by the bar. T&T is closed on Tuesdays, because it’s my goddamn bar, and I say everyone gets one day off a week. I made sure Tyr got some food. Chinese take-out, courtesy of Lu Lu next door, which struck me as amusing.

  Sy was concerned about Luna’s visit, even more concerned about what happened with Jack and not at all pleased about the nature of Tyr’s ‘assignment.’ Good thing I didn’t fill her in on Stephen’s visit, Georg’s disappearance, or my bet with Rochie.

  Or the reason why I’m out here: Merry’s concern about the wolves.

  I could plead short-term memory overload on the former items, but omitting the bit with Merry was deliberate. I try to keep any details about the wolves from Syana. She acts tough, but I know they scare her shitless. Luna not so much, as Sy seems to think someone who was once my best friend couldn’t actually be evil. Not really.

  Despite all she’s seen of my world and all her kickassery, Sy remains ridiculously naïve. That’s why she has no idea werewolves are why I’m not binging out on Supernatural with her tonight. Well, that along with a smidge of avoidance. Why sit and brood about mysterious entities sending assassins to kill me for some nut-ball theory when there are werewolves willing to do it for good ol’ revenge?

  Kitchi Gammi is better known as Brighton Beach. In the summer it’s chock full of tourists and locals alike. Its main draws are jogging, having picnics or taking selfies on the rocky outcroppings that cut into Lake Superior—during summer and fall. In early November, at close to eleven o’clock at night, I’ve got the place to myself. It’s actually illegal to be here right now, since the park is closed, but concerned about cops, I’m not. Unless they’re furry and start sporting some big-ass teeth.

  I drive up the winding tarmac, following the gentle curve until the first intersection and pull off onto what’s left of the winter-shocked grass. I get out and walk for a bit, studying the tree line, letting my eyes wander up the shore.

  Old Highway 61, Merry said. Officially, 61 starts way back in town, but in my mind, like that of most locals, it really begins on the other side of this park. If the wolves come from the north, this is the likeliest entry point.

  There’s no one here. And while there’s something in the crisp air I don’t quite like, I’m not getting much in the way of bad vibes. I take the time to cast a couple of alarm spells anyway. Thomas is my best warning system, but there’s nothing wrong with a little back up.

  The lake is restless as I work, dark blue slapping against the deepening night. Going back to the Fiat, I pull an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker from under the driver’s seat—where I stashed it earlier—and head down to the rocks.

  It’s fucking freezing. Pretty soon there’ll be a few feet of ice edging the lake, but for now, she’s mostly open, just thick and slushy close to shore. I sit down on the flattest rock I can find and crack the bottle. It’s like sitting on an ice cube, but after a couple of swallows, I’m warm enough not to care so much. I like to listen to the lake when I’m upset. All water, actually, but the big lake most of all.

  The Chippewa, or Ojibwe, like Thomas, think of the lake as a spirit, and they say it has its own song. I let the song take away the noise in my head, lulling away the confusion and doubt…

  After another drink of Johnnie Walker, I’m drifting somewhere between waking and sleeping, when I realize one of my warning spells has been giving off a Road Runner-esque beep beep for awhile now.

  Shit.

  I lurch to my feet, snapping my eyes open. But when I try to take a step, I can’t. I’m a witch encircled by a ring of salt. And there’s a werewolf standing just outside the circle, grinning at me.

  Double shit.

  13

  Tall, wiry and blond, the werewolf watches me with eyes that shine against the faint starlight. They’re more wolf than human. Which means the son of a bitch is either close to shifting, or just so excited his beast is showing through.

  Knowing him, I’d say the latter. Owen LaFontaine is a pretty nasty piece of work.

  I drop my gaze from him to examine the circle. It was drawn hastily, but the lines are thick, no hint of a break. From the suffocating weight crushing my magic, I already figured that. He’s also drawn it so close, I barely have room to move. So that scratches a physical fight, not that I’d win one against a werewolf. Owen smiles as he watches me, lips drawn back over teeth that don’t look entirely human, just like those eyes. Definitely morphing a little then, intentional or not.

  “Sit tight, bitch. There’s five of us and one of you. Well, there will be. The others are on their way. I smelled you first, got a little excited.” His eyes flash in the darkness. “When they get here, we’re gonna beat the magic out of you, then have some fun before we take your head. I’m ready to party, how about you?”

  What is it with people wanting to kill me lately? I’m starting to take it personally. I lift my bottle, still wrapped in one hand. “Got all the party I need right here. So thanks, but no thanks.”

  A snarling laugh. “Drink up, witch. You’re gonna need it.”

  His smile makes my skin crawl. After what my mother did, none of the wolves like me or my family, of course. But Owen has more than the usual issues with me. Probably because he was Gil’s protégé. I barely know the freaky fur boy, but he’s always been a bit rabid where I’m concerned. Luna won’t attack me directly, but Owen has no such compunction.

  Owen was one of the three wolves that went after me the night my mom executed Luna’s dad. I’m also pretty sure he was the mastermind behind the attack on my twenty first birthday. He’s the one who tried to eat Sy. He wasn’t a fully-realized alpha back then, but he is now, part of the ruling pair.

  “What do you think you’re going to do, Owen?”

  “Whatever I want, wherever I want it.” His eyes trail me up and down, in case I missed the obvious—and vomit-inducing—insinuation. “It’s about time someone took you down a notch.�
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  “You’re mated to Luna, you sick fuck!”

  “Well, there’s mated, and then there’s mated. I was never her choice, you know,” he sneers. Unfortunately, I know exactly what he means. Despite everything, my heart breaks a little for Luna. Forget all that sweet nonsense about wolves mating for life. Even for real wolves, mating is far more about strength and bloodlines than some mysterious bond.

  For werewolves, it’s only more so. What Asshole is saying is that because he was the strongest male and Luna was the strongest female, instinct forced them together. Romantic, isn’t it?

  Owen’s lip curls as if sensing the direction of my thoughts.

  “Damn witches, always thinking you’re better than us. You running around with Luna all those years, making her think you cared, but always with that snotty little nose in the air. I tried to tell her, but she never listened.”

  “You’re delusional. Luna was my best friend, right up until—”

  “The night your mother delivered Gil’s head to the precious Council.”

  “She had no choice, Owen. You knew he was sick, you all knew it, and nobody did anything. You couldn’t.”

  He scowls but doesn’t answer, because he knows it’s true. Besides shutting off the higher brain functions one by one and turning the eyes a pearlescent white, one of the markers of moon madness is the way it affects the mental link between pack members. Like puss in a wound, it pushes its way down to all those weaker than the infected one.

  Once the link is broken, the rest return to normal, but in Gil’s case, he was at the top of the chain. There was no one to put him down. For awhile, the whole pack was mad.

  Hence the Council, and my mother’s, intervention.

  “None of that shit matters now. Luna needs to let go of this connection to you. I’m going to fix that. Tonight. And enjoy myself along the way. Time to put you in your place, witch.”

  I resist the urge to shudder, but it’s a close thing. His gaze slides over me again, and I swear it leaves a greasy film behind.