“What are you talking about?” Alistair frowned.
“Here. I’ll show you.” Laurel led the way out of the den and into the hallway toward the master suites.
Roark paused, his nostrils flaring. “Blood. Old, stale blood and rot.”
“Let me see.” Alistair pushed forward, opening the door. The sight that greeted them twisted his stomach into knots. Laid out on the table was a spell book and a basin filled with the rotting flesh of a small animal. Dried blood crusted the edges, but it was the bones resting in the gore that caught his attention.
“Wait.” Fenris moved forward, his eyes glued to the carnage. “I’ve seen this before.”
“Seen what?” Roark demanded.
“The markings on these bones. Julia was a witch. She came from a long line of spell casters. I remember being startled when she and Duncan announced they were to marry. Samuel hated anything of witch kind. It’s been a point of contention in Salem for as long as I can remember. Witches and wolves do not mix.”
“These two did.” Roark pointed out.
“And it killed her.” Laurel wrapped her hands around her stomach, the sheen of tears evident in her eyes. “Do you know what they are? The markings on the bones?”
Fenris drew his brows together staring at the stained bone. “Yes. I have an idea, but I would need a special kind of witch to help me be certain.”
“I know one that may be able to help you.”
“Do that. I don’t want to let this rest any longer than it has already. Death is making its way through the streets of Salem and it needs no help from us.”
Laurel backed out of the room and hovered in the doorway, her gaze shifting to Alistair. “I’ll get in touch with her. Did you show them the picture?”
“What picture?”
“The picture of Julia’s head and the sigil he drew on it.”
“Duncan drew a sigil?” Roark scoffed, walking out into the hallway. He made a face and shuddered. “Send someone in to clean that before you can’t get the smell out. I’ll have one of my staff call you with the number for a service.”
“Thanks,” Laurel pursed her lips. “I didn’t want to touch anything. I might not until I contact my source. She might need to see it.”
“Well, do it quick. Or you might as well burn the place and start over.”
Alistair dug the phone out of his pocket and handed it to Roark and Fenris, the pictures from the crime scene front and center.
“Gods. Look at that. He took her head.” Fenris’ jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. “Where is the weapon?”
Roark gave the pictures a perfunctory glance and clucked his tongue. “No. I’ve seen him kill and this wasn’t our wolf.”
“Let me see it again.”
“You don’t need to. Put it away, pup.” Roark turned on his heel, making his way back down. “Duncan didn’t do this. Call your witch, love. But, for now, this meeting is over.”
“What do we do if Duncan comes back?” Laurel swallowed, her eyes still on Fenris.
“You make sure you keep those gates locked tight.” Fenris shifted his gaze to Alistair. “Be the Alpha. Your pack is depending on you now. We’ll be in touch.”
With that the fae lord and Master vampire walked out into the night.
“Call your witch.”
“I’m on it.” Laurel vanished into the recesses of Briarwood and left Alistair alone with his thoughts.
“Duncan… Where are you?”
Chapter Four
Bridget stood at the entrance to the Hawthorn Hotel, fidgeting with her cranberry red skirts. She’d bypassed the Witch’s Ball for the first time in a decade, instead opting for the Hawthorne Hotel Halloween Gala the following night. The Seven Deadly Sins theme fit a little bit better with her state of mind these days.
The thought of going to the Witch’s Ball and being surrounded by a room full of people dressed as the white rabbit or the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland made her want to close herself in her apartment above Broomstix and stay there till the season passed. Not this witch. Hells no. Not this year.
Limousines and expensive cars queued up at the entrance through the valet parking area. The red carpet to the entry door was packed with women in brightly colored gowns and glittering jewelry. Men in tuxedos held out their arms, and Bridget thought it was just the thing to get her out of the witchy politics of her everyday life.
When she’d stepped in front of the mirror after trying on the dress her best friend and fellow witch Isabel had chosen for her, she’d almost feigned a case of the flu. Except, she didn’t get sick and Isabel knew it.
“Put the dress on. And yes, the shoes too.”
Long and flowing, the dress was made for a woman with moderate assets on top, not the ones she was blessed with. They had long been a source of fascination for the various men in her life, and the undoubted reason for many of the shadowy curses carved into her body. And the heels… goddess but they were fuck me shoes and she’d be lucky if she got through the night without either breaking her ankle or falling on someone—or for them.
The shoes could be enchanted. It had happened before. Bridget knew Isabel just wanted to make sure she went out and actually had a good time, but the thought niggled. She shot her a glance.
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Spell the shoes.”
“Would you stop that?” Her best friend frowned, grabbing at her hands. “You’re supposed to be Lust. Not anxiety.”
“What? Anxiety isn’t one of the seven deadlies.”
“Are you sure? Cause, I’m thinking it should be.” Isabel narrowed her eyes, witch fire glimmering in their depths.
“Okay… okay. But, if I find out you did…”
“Yeah, you’ll curse me. I know. How long have we known each other?” Isabel arched an elegant eyebrow in her direction.
True.
“What did you say your costume was again?” Bridget eyed the gorgeous dress and sidled beneath the large green overhang, avoiding the spit of October rain that decided to make an appearance.
“I didn’t,” Isabel smirked. “But, I’m Envy. Don’t you love it?” She twirled, the iridescent green and blue fabric radiant, showing off every curve. Her black hair was wound on her head in an elaborate up-do, her makeup flawless, as usual. She clutched a black mask in her hand, sliding it into place with the snap of an elastic band.
“It’s wonderful.”
“How do you like your dress? You never said.”
“It’s great.”
“But?”
“If I move wrong, I’m going to be arrested for indecent exposure.”
“You will not. It’s elegant and will make the rest of the women here wish they had the boobs to pull it off.” Isabel grinned. “Come on. I’m determined that you’re going to have a good night. No shop talk. No Psychic Fair. No witchy drama. Just you, a hot dress, and a dance with a sexy guy in a mask.”
“Well, you’ve obviously been drinking.”
“Ha-ha. So funny. Look, you’ve been working way too hard. You need a break and I’m going to make sure you get one.”
Bridget sighed. “I know. You’re too good to me.” Part of her still felt guilty she hadn’t gone to the Witch’s Ball last night. As the oldest witch in Salem, it was expected of her to participate in such affairs. But lately the Witch’s Council politics had started to piss her off. Too much focus on tourism and not enough interest in what was really going on. Truth be told, Isabel had probably saved her from having it out with one of them.
“Stop thinking. I can smell the smoke.”
Bridget sighed. “I can’t help it. I’m worried. You know Merryn?”
Isabel nodded. “The girl in school?”
“Yes. Something followed her back to my shop the other night. She had to shift into owl form to avoid them.”
“What was it?”
“Wolves.”
“This isn’t good.” Isabel frowned, and they walked to
ward the door as the guests began to filter inside.
“The Council won’t listen. I’ve sent petitions to speak about the problem, but they’re more worried about the tourists finding out than actually doing something about it.”
“They’re just jealous. You don’t have to try and your shop drags in the money.”
“I don’t care about the stupid Council. Their foolishness is going to get more people killed.” Bridget pressed her lips together and tried to dispel the headache building behind her eyes.
“You’re here to have fun, remember? You have to let it go. For just one night. Merryn’s fine. The shop is fine. You’re here with me and there’s nothing but booze, men, and wait… is that a vamp?” Isabel’s gaze snapped toward a hot guy in a tux who had walked up behind them.
“Yes. And, I know.” Bridget rubbed at the markings that curved up her arms and gave Isabel a grin.
Her friend sighed. “One of these days you’re going to have to give me your secret.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The how to not look like a hag after three hundred years and have the tightest ass ever. I have to know.”
“Not like you could see it in this thing.” Bridget turned and looked over her shoulder down the length of the gown. The cranberry red dress fell in floaty cascades of fabric to the floor. It was pretty and the more she wore it, the more she got used to the swooshy feeling when the dress moved around her legs as she walked.
She wasn’t going to tell Isabel that, however, and if her upper half fell out of the bodice she was quite simply going to kill her. Slowly.
“Okay, so did you bring your mask?”
Bridget opened her bag and pulled out a lacy black number with ribbons for ties.
“Is that it?”
“Yes. What do you think?”
“I think it’s wonderful. No one’s going to know it’s you and you’re going to have the time of your life. Now, let me put it on you.”
Bridget spun on her heel and held the mask up to her face.
Isabel tied it securely and turned her around. “There. That looks great. Okay, now, off with you. I have a red-hot vamp that I’m going to track down. I know he’s worth at least a nibble.”
“You’re terrible.”
“No. It’s been a good few weeks since I’ve been on a date with anything more than a battery operated boyfriend. This has got to be an improvement.”
“I hope so. Have fun.”
“You too. Find a guy. Talk to him. You should try it. It’s called dating.”
“Yeah. I’m a little busy.” Bridget forced a smile to her lips, thinking about how soon she could safely bail and head back to the shop. The Psychic Fair was in full force and the girls she had minding the space this year would need new hex kits and do-it-yourself curses.
“I see that faraway look.” Isabel snapped her fingers in front of Bridget’s face. “Stop it. Everything can wait until tomorrow. You’re not too busy for tonight. That’s all I’m saying. You need to get the broomstick out of your ass and have some fun.”
“Okay,” Bridget threw up her hands in mock defeat and laughed. “You’re right. Go. Suck on your vampire’s neck or something. I’ll be fine.”
“Text me when you get back to your apartment.” Isabel grinned. “Or, if you get lucky, tomorrow. With all the random wolf attacks lately, I just want to make sure you get home okay.”
Bridget grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”
“Tomorrow. Tonight, as your best friend, I insist you stop overusing your brain and let those boobs do the talking.”
Bridget snorted and rolled her eyes. “Get out of here.”
“Have fun…” Isabel sauntered into the crowd and left her to her own devices.
Chapter Five
The Hawthorn Hotel was packed with people. From humans to full blood witches and paranormals of all manner of speaking, there were so many energy signatures it all blended together into one almost overwhelming essence.
The walls of the ballroom were littered with crown molding, the ceilings dripping with crystal chandeliers. Waiters wandered through the throng of ornately dressed partygoers offering canapes or glasses of champagne. Round guest tables with black table cloths and matching napkin puffs in wine glasses were nestled around centerpieces of elegantly crafted paper flames.
The effect was charming, as were the photo stations for the Seven Deadly Sins, and Bridget found herself wishing she actually did have a date. It would have been nice to share the evening with someone, but the last man to share her bed… well. Actually admitting to it being three centuries ago just made her feel old.
Did her parts even work anymore? Good grief. Maybe Isabel was right. She needed to have a fling and feel like a woman again. Her gaze raked through the party goers but no one caught her interest.
A short, balding man who reminded her too much of her first husband approached. “Hey, pretty lady. Want to dance?”
“No, thanks.”
Been there. Done that. If she was going to get tangled up in the sheets it was going to be with a bit of man candy that made her toes curl just by looking at him.
Bridget caught a whiff of stale smoke from a portly man in a tux that tried to get her attention. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and kept going. Moving from room to room, Bridget explored the three floors of the event space and, out of the corner of her eye, found herself looking at her nemesis, Charity Hobbs. Descendent of Deliverance Hobbs, one of her accusers from the witch trials, the woman had absorbed every single one of her ancestor’s more unpleasant traits.
Only Charity fancied herself a witch and had gotten herself elected President of Salem’s Chamber of Commerce and an honorary member of the Witch’s Council. At least, the public version that all of Salem saw. The real Witch’s Council was held in Matilda Riley’s cellar, and she had until tomorrow night to think up a good enough excuse for blowing off last night’s dance.
Crap.
The woman laughed, doing a terrible impression of Bette Midler in Hocus Pocus, and wiggling her fingers at a man in a tux. He walked away briskly, leaving her to talk with the woman next to her who looked like she was scoping out possible escape routes.
Some things never changed.
Still a member of one of Salem’s leading families, the fact remained that Charity Hobbs couldn’t spell her way out of a paper bag if she tried, and every year at the ball was a new spectacle of sheer wishful thinking that would annoy any real witch. The irony wasn’t lost on Bridget, nor was the fact that they were both wearing the same dress.
Shit.
While the wispy cranberry fabric clung to Bridget’s curves, the dress hung from Charity’s bony frame, highlighting the fact that she didn’t have enough up top to fill it out, and it looked awful. Added to the fact that she’d spilled most of whatever she was drinking down the front of her gown.
“She didn’t even have the decency to show. The nerve….” Her grating voice carried and Bridget was sure she was talking about her disappearing act last night. Let her talk. At least, this time, she could walk away instead of being forced to listen to her prattle on during one of the council meetings. To hell with her and the stupid dress.
With a flick of the wrist, she let a curse fly, wishing instead that the next thing to come out of the woman’s mouth be the mulish bray of the donkey she sounded like. The tendrils shifted on her arms and she moved away as barnyard sounds filled the room. Outraged neighs and braying sounds carried over the laughter and Bridget continued on her way.
Let her play with that one for an hour or so.
If she backed away now and headed for one of the other rooms, there might be a way to salvage the night. The low murmur of many voices and rustle of dress fabric muffled the sound of Bridget’s heels as she crossed the room. Avoiding the waiter with the champagne, she spied a brightly decorated table of refreshments and headed in that direction and as far away from Charity as she could get.
Bridget wandered th
rough the crowd people watching. A woman in a tight leather Dominatrix outfit jostled past her, a leash clipped on a man dressed in black leathers. She didn’t have to guess too hard to figure out what sin she was playing at. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the white flash of feathers and her heart skipped a beat.
No. Not here. The man in white was never a good omen, and each time she’d seen him her life had taken a turn for the worse. She’d researched what she thought he was over the years and her heart had skipped a beat. Nephilim. The misbegotten child of angels and man, they had terrible powers. It was enough to almost want to make her stay home, but she was tired of being alone. No. She’d done right by coming out with Isabel tonight.
Another woman flounced by, her long pink hair done in streaked waves. Her dress bore a plunging bodice, translucent silver wings and a wispy nothing of a skirt. She looked like a fairy princess wrapped in bubble gum and, when she glanced in Bridget’s direction, she winked.
Yep. Pixie.
It was definitely a mix, but better in here than out on the streets. When her mind started going in that direction, she drew herself up short, instead refocusing on the myriad of costumed men and women who surrounded her. The men were primarily dressed in tuxedos with masks, but the women were colorful birds that brought the room to life. Whoever thought up the theme of the Seven Deadly Sins should be congratulated.
Just one night to be sociable and pretend she was like any other woman, not a three-hundred-year old witch with a penchant for trouble and curses. The markings imprinted in her flesh twinged.
She glanced up and spotted her patron, Mr. Black. Dressed entirely in his trademark black, this time he had donned a top hat and basic plastic mask. It wouldn’t have mattered what he wore. The curses wound into her body knew him, no matter the disguise. He nodded, meeting her eyes and turned away, no doubt in search of some new mischief to get involved in.
She had no quarrel with him. He saved her from the noose and gave her back her life. Formerly Bridget Bishop, she returned to her maiden name Mangus in order to remain a little bit more under the radar when she returned to Salem nearly two hundred and fifty years ago. Now it sort of stuck.
A Cursed All Hallows' Eve Page 147