Trying to refocus, he took in his surroundings: the wealth of lit candles around the room gave a proper ambiance to an overwhelming amount of holiday decorations. From a cauldron on the floor that misted a thin smoke, to a mantle covered as if it were a shelf in a witch’s workshop with various bottles and books along with another skull with a candle in its head.
Halloween. Once only a tradition to ward off spirit by disguise, it had now turned into a holiday fraught with decorations inside and outside a home like colored Christmas lights in purples, oranges, and greens, to front yards turned into graveyards. Entire houses were turned into nightmares in the vein of commercialism and scaring the piss out of someone. In this day and age it never ceased to amaze him what one would promote to make a buck.
***
She believed the man to be made of stone the way his muscles bulked his thin t-shirt, his jeans straining over his huge thigh muscles. Poppie should have taken the time to warn her the man knocking on her door was not old at all, but rather a six-foot Adonis. If this guy was an old friend, he couldn’t have been more than a child when they’d met. Maybe he’d said he was a friend of an old friend. She couldn’t remember exactly. Besides, with the whole stranger factor she’d expected her hands to start sweating when she opened the door, but instead she found moisture forming elsewhere.
What is up with me? It’s like I have never seen a man before! Why did I touch him? She chided herself while breathing in the musky, all male scent of him. Well, truth be told, up close and personal, she had never seen a man like him, one straight out of the pages of some body-building magazine, or maybe Playgirl.
Her attempt at directing him to the couch had not even made him sway. Dumbstruck, she stood with her hand still curved around barely half of the man’s bicep. Smart-girls keep their distance from these good-looking, conceited bodyguard types.
“No, I prefer to stand. Thank you. We do not have that kind of time, for formalities that is. The Mastema will be here soon. I have to get you to safety.”
“The who? Boy, and I thought all my life I was the only one with a weird name around here.”
“The group of men who have been accusing you of being a witch. They secretly call themselves the Mastema. It means leader of the fallen angels, the ones who tempt men to sin.”
“You are talking about the short-sighted idiots in the neighborhood who accused me of being a witch because I am a fantasy author living in Salem? They are so imaginative, right? I like witch stuff, like to study them, and write about them. I am witch obsessed, but not yet one. So, the Mastema are those nerds in ties that suffer from delusions of grandeur?” She paused to let out the laugh that had been tickling her throat as she had spoken.
The more she learned of these men, who thought they could rule the world because they owned small businesses of their own, the more ridiculous they seemed to be. Sure, this mentality had been passed down through the generations, but still, she didn’t see exactly what made them think they were so great. Long ago their grandfathers, or grandfather’s grandfathers, had gotten lucky, tripped into some demon playing with black magic, and as they had clouded up the energy grid here, darkened it, they believed themselves more powerful.
“Of course they have a secret, stupid name for themselves, but I don’t think they are out to hurt me. They are merely some control freaks who mentally-abuse their wives, their employees, and everyone else they come in contact with because they do not know any other way to act. They clearly consider themselves to be gifts from the gods to humanity. I only posed a threat when I moved here because they worried I might teach their wives to be strong and think for themselves. I will not let them intimidate me. Their wives are stronger than they know, and I can’t wait for the day when those men fall on their asses because their wives pushed them down! And, although I will not have had a single thing to do with it, sadly, I am sure I will take the blame. I mean, witches get blamed for everything, right? Salem has a history, but not everyone raised here is a witch or has ties to the hunts.”
“Enough,” he bellowed.
She jumped at the deep, harsh tone in his voice, the barked command berating her without the need for words.
Calm much? What’s with the rush, buddy? Or, maybe he was just tired of me rattling on like some nervous teenager in front of a rock star. You have got to get a grip, Kam! No more embarrassing yourself tonight. If you are going to be stuck with the guy for a few more hours, it would be nice if he thought you had a scruple or two in your head! And, stop staring at the way the guitar on his t-shirt ripples over his tight abs.
Her ridiculous mental tirade went to show her just how nervous this man truly made her on all kinds of levels. Gathering her thoughts together, determined to avoid letting him know how much he unnerved her, she willed herself to come up with something sensible to say, or at least something close to sarcastic.
“Sorry! You don’t have to get so upset about it.” Caught off guard that she had apologized instead of managing to flip off a witty come back at all, so unlike her, she waited for a smart-ass comment that never came to her mind.
“Obviously, your grandfather...Poppie didn’t tell you enough,” he offered, the words hissing through his teeth.
“You mean about these men? He has warned me before about becoming friends with their wives, but he has lived in this town all of his long life. He tends to make more out of things than they are. So, these men called me a few names and sent a few emails and texts to warn the people I was a dangerous witch.” She felt silly once she caught herself wiggling her fingers in the air like she was casting some spell. She abruptly lowered her hands, and the tone of her voice to continue. “All that has happened so far, is I have made a few of the teenage cashiers at the grocery store nervous or stupidly curious. I mean, who could tell these days? I really don’t mind playing the part. I have a great imagination. And, I was quite impressed they would go so far as to make a ritual circle in my back yard. Especially, since I hate to garden, it is nice to have something going on back there.”
“There is a lot you don’t know yet. These men hate you more than you know, for more reasons than they are letting on. Their wives have no idea what they are capable of, and their coming after you has nothing to do with them, despite what the women have told you. The Mastema, the group to which they ascribe, is ancient. It has been around for years. They are a secret cult, who has remained secret over the years because they eliminate anyone who tries to expose them.”
“Well, until you, I knew nothing about their cult. I still don’t see why I could not drive myself to Poppie’s.” She had accented her grandfather’s name just to be glib. “Guess he was afraid I would not come in a timely fashion. How do you know him, by the way? He was too frantic to really explain more than I had to let you in and to listen to all you had to say. I was to do what you asked to stay safe from some danger he didn’t explain. And, I was to be nice and obey which isn’t really my style, but for Poppie, I’m tying my best here.”
“I can feel them getting closer; the negative vibrations have been increasing all day with their mindset and activities, so to speak. They have hired men to throw some homemade-type bomb-like things into the house. To start a fire that would hopefully take you with the house. That is who you are dealing with here. That kind of men. The witch hunt was their way of taking the blame off themselves when someone got fanatical enough on their own to kill you out of fear. Only, they hired the hit man personally, paying for his silence as well. Now, you have five minutes to gather what you deem important, and then we leave the rest.”
“Are you…?”
“Now, please.” The last of his request had been hissed through clenched teeth. “You told your grandfather you would listen to me. I have a car parked out front waiting. We can talk more when we get there. I will explain, but right now you are in danger, and I have been instructed to save you.”
“Old Poppie is going to have some explaining to do, setting me up to promise to be guarded by
Mister Bossy here,” she mumbled as she stomped away from the man in her living room. While she couldn’t exactly believe the nonsense he spouted, her heart was now beating a hundred or so beats a minute, maybe even per second judging by the sudden ache in her chest. “Bombs? Right.”
Poppie had to be losing it. But, if he had gone to all of this trouble to hire a bodyguard, she figured she could play along for the old man’s peace of mind. and Besides, right now she was good with getting out of the house, regardless of what was really, possibly, going down. Wouldn’t be the first time his own overactive imagination had gotten her grandfather all riled up about something that he never fully explained. She just wished he hadn’t picked a day she’d been on a roll writing to inconvenience her this way. He’d never gone to the trouble of a bodyguard before, though. She wondered if she should be concerned, or maybe look into putting the man into a nursing home. He’d been so genuinely upset when he’d called she would have agreed to anything to calm him down before he had a heart attack. He was usually a silent, gruff worrier. Something in the pit of her stomach balled and rolled.
Fear? Lust? She tried not to think of how the Adonis turned warrior prince turned her on. He was seriously like one of the fictional alpha males she created in her novels. As she started throwing her laptop and memory sticks and stuff for her work into a case, all she could think about was living out one of her fantasies. Still, her mind kept wondering back around to considering what could be the truth behind what Luca had said about the men in town. Could they really be involved in a cult?
“Maybe I should start my own witch hunt tomorrow,” she mumbled to herself. “Do some research on this group called Mastema.”
They really just seemed like a few arrogant, egomaniacs who thought money was the source of all happiness, and life was about how you could impress the world with your success. Once they had success, they thought they could do whatever the hell they wanted. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Luca had not seen the way she was moving her head about to emphasize her inner conversation, or that he heard her talking to herself. He didn’t look as if he had. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all, just stared out the window. She rolled her eyes.
What could they really hate me for? I rarely even see the assholes to say “Hi.” They are always working. Maybe they should spend a little more time at home. Ignorant asses! She tried to control her suddenly trembling hands from throwing her stuff into the cases as a heat grew in her core then inched up her spine. If Luca planned on being around for long, he had better start talking. She’d already excused Poppie of his tight-lipped, just-listen-to-me approach with her earlier, and she was not in the mood to let Mr. Stuff-That-Dreams-Are-Made-Of get away with the same.
A whirl of mounting emotions rushed through her. The brunt of her growing anger shocking her with its force as she heard the zipper hiss as she closed her case. Good thing Poppie called first, because despite this guy’s deep, dark good looks, from his coffee-brown eyes to his silky, black hair, she would not normally have let this nutcase in her house. What in the world was this Luca talking about with his 'feeling negative vibrations?' Oh, her Poppie better know this man well as he claimed. She’d always trusted the old man completely. He’d never given her a reason not to. It was based on this undying faith in her grandfather that she was now getting in a car with a complete stranger to ride to the house she’d grown up in just on the other side of town, for Pete’s sake.
She trusted in Poppie’s love for her completely. He had never led her astray, and he had proven more than once before to be a great judge of character. Her Mammie and her Poppie were all she had ever had. Her parents had died when she was only three years old, so she had no real memories of them. But, she had not wanted for anything with her grandparents, except for maybe a little more freedom. Her heart still ached every day with the loss of her Mammie last year. It was the reason she had moved back here, to be closer to Poppie. She had made it up to herself by buying a big house in one of the newer neighborhoods, since her last series of books had some steady royalties coming in now.
With a steely, forced smile on her face, she hefted her bag up onto her arm, and returned to the living room. Luca had still not moved an inch.
“Do I have enough time to pack some clothes?”
“You have a few minutes left, and then I want you out of here.” He growled out, his tone making it clear he would not be swayed in the least.
“Pushy!”
She stormed up the stairs to her bedroom, ignoring thoughts of how pleasant the rest of her night might be. She was not one to worry if her house would still be here in the morning. It was just a house. Stuff. Insured too. But this guy had to be wrong. People do not just start people’s houses on fire in places like this. Sure it happened up in the city from time to time, but those cases were always drug or gang related. She absent-mindedly threw a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt into a bag. Then she grabbed a set of sweats to sleep in, and closed the bag, pondering if Mr. Intense would be staying at Poppie's, too. The thought disturbed her in areas long un-pleasured.
He had the back door open for her when she took the last step down the stairs. He stood there looking quite pleased with himself, her computer bag slung over his shoulder.
“I will take that, thanks,” she reached for the thick strap of the black leather case as she went by him. “Sorry, I am funny about my c-computer.” The last word fell off her tongue on a quiet stutter as the back of her hand brushed over his skin. Tiny sparks, much like static electricity tingled, along the back of her hand as it caressed over his. She pulled her hand back as if she had been burned, then grimaced when her computer case bounced off of her hip.
She almost tripped over an uneven crack in her driveway. When she rounded the house and saw his vehicle parked on the side of the road, she had to overcome the instinct to stop walking. It fit. It perfectly fit the whole image of him. It was dangerous and tough looking. Just like this handsome man beside her. She knew she had never seen the likes of a car such as this one before. The thing had to be expensive. It looked like something they drove around in the movies at warp speeds.
If she could stop her writer’s brain, she would not be thinking of how the car's smooth, sexy curves and bulges resembled Luca. Nor, would she be imagining how good he would look sprawled naked on the hood, especially in a good drizzle. Berating herself to stop such thoughts, she tried to focus on forming the right questions to get this hunk to open up about himself on the ride.
The same static electricity thing happened when he touched her back to help her into the car. Only, she didn’t have time to consider it as she watched him close the door and look around them like some kind of cop in an action movie. The odd thing was, he perused over the sky instead of in the bushes and trees surrounding them. He had not warned her of any coming aerial attack. She had assumed the bombs, some homemade kind, if they were actually coming, would simply be thrown from a car as it drove by. She intended to get some answers the minute he plopped that absolutely delicious-looking hard ass of his down in the damn car.
He fell down rather gracefully into his seat for his size, though.
“So what kind of car is this?” she asked as the engine roared to life, her heart racing a bit more to match.
“It is a Ferrari Scaglietti, and it is only a loaner.”
“From who, Donald Trump? I will not claim to know much about cars, but I know this is too far out of my price range, or anyone else’s around here for that matter.” “It isn’t new. A 2007 I believe.”
“Still, not a car you see around here. Are you trying to draw attention to yourself?” Her voice sounding bitchier than she’d intended it to be for some reason
“What? No! I have no idea why Ahti has such a thing about cars. I just take what I am given.”
“Ahti? Do you know anyone with a normal name?” “What is it with all of the questions?”
“Do you have something to hide?” she accused loudly.
&nbs
p; His eyes appeared to come alive, lit up like there was fire behind his dark irises. His eyes were not a color she had ever seen before, either. They bordered more on a black than a brown, like darkly stained oak, mimicking the color of his hair almost as the oceans do sky. His unusualness intrigued her in ways she did not quite want to acknowledge fully, and yet his familiarity unnerved her to no end. She straightened her back, sitting rigid in her seat when he refused to answer her jibe.
“Okay, well like it or not, buddy, I have more of them. I am an inquisitive person. Blame the day job!”
“The books,” he said it as a statement of little importance. She had to wonder how much had Poppie told him about her. Yet, she left that question for another time. She had more important things to ask him about, and other ways of gaining her answers. She hesitated at the temptation to use her gift to obtain personal information.
She had always been able to read minds. It was her private little secret. She could not complain, though, it was what had led her to writing in the first place. Finding people’s thoughts to be much greater, more animated or blown out of proportion than anything they actually said, she had discovered a talent of hers to take those exaggerations and let her mind wander through the possibilities. Eventually, one fantasy after another had been born. So, when teachers had started to take notice of these stories of hers, she had started writing. Finally, it had proven a great outlet for the overload of information she dealt with each day.
Yet, she made a valiant effort, well most of the time when she wasn't looking for a story, to avoid the temptation to search another’s thoughts for her own personal gain. Especially since she had been burned, having fallen under the seduction of its lure a time or two in matters of the heart.
The mind reading for her craft had sent her to traipsing all over the world, though. City after city, invading people’s thoughts until she found the inspiration for her next story. Her imagination needed little incentive to spiral out of control. This was why she had chosen to write fantasies. She had long gotten over the guilt of prying into people’s conscious musings, especially when she didn’t know them at all. Although, what little she gained of the subconscious mind made it seem like it might have been a more profitable place to be able to go.
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