Small Town Witch: A New Adult Urban Fantasy (Red Witch Chronicles 5)

by Sami Valentine

  She grinned. “Sure, we got an hour or two to kill until you gather gossip at the dinner rush. The whole thing is on me, from the rented shoes to whatever fried delight is best there. Don’t argue since I’ve been crashing at your place.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Zach smiled. “After a month, we’ll start charging back rent.”

  ---

  At Pinheads, she reassured him that she could go to a hotel that night. It was fun staying with them, but she had dropped in on their lives. Again, he said that their home was hers for as long as she was in town. They traded case theories and jokes easily yet both skirted around the harder edges of the week’s events with Vic and Kristoff.

  She stood for a turn, wondering how her new and old lives could coexist, and absently lobbed her scuffed bowling ball. Smashing into the pins, it took out the middle ones, leaving a 7-10 split.

  Red waited by the ball return, hoping it wasn’t an omen. She wasn’t a good enough bowler to get both pins. She’d have to choose.

  10

  Perched on the top step of the sunny front porch of Stace’s house, Red smiled up at Jackson Gonzales, hoping to soften his stony face. It was frosty enough to make her wish she had put a jacket over her black shirt. “Lashawn will be here, I promise.”

  Leaning against the rail, he grunted and looked at his watch. The big werewolf might have broken away from his brother Jorge’s pack in Las Vegas, but he still dressed like them. In a gray sweat suit, he looked more like a personal trainer than a shaman.

  Great. Her attempts at small talk were met with single sentences, but as time passed his replies had dwindled to one-word statements. Now they were grunts. Where was Lashawn? Red let her smile wilt, wishing Zach and Stace were here instead of working in the restaurant today, preparing for the ten-year high school reunion organized by Olivia Benston. It was for a class ahead of them, but some might recognize her even with the dyed black hair. The invitation would have wigged her out if she didn’t have Vic’s drama distracting her.

  A Prius zoomed into the driveway, narrowly missing a trash can as it parked. In the driver’s seat, Lashawn pushed his brother away from the steering wheel. He popped out of the car.

  Vic trailed, shoulders slumped like he already needed a lifeline.

  Jackson barked, “You’re late.”

  “I know. I can send him away,” Lashawn said, face screwed up in an apology under his black glasses. Dressed in khakis and a collared shirt, he smoothed down the large drying coffee stain on the white fabric in fastidious irritation. A green tea man, it wouldn’t have been his drink. Someone else must have spilled it on him. She didn’t need more than one guess as to whom.

  Jackson hopped the porch rail and stomped around the house to the backyard.

  Glaring at his brother, Lashawn trotted after the wolfmage.

  Red fell into step beside Vic, gesturing to the car, planting her hands on her hips at his dejected shrug. “What happened?”

  “I thought I’d surprise him with to-go breakfast. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have popped up in the backseat. He’s not a defensive driver. Swerved all over the road, spilled the drinks everywhere.”

  Crossing her arms, Red sighed. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Is this the town where I’m the asshole?” He hissed. “Because everyone is treating me that way.”

  “I know.” Red patted his arm, sorry for the poor guy. It wasn’t only a rough morning; it hadn’t been his week. “Everyone else is at work, so we can go inside the house and relax. You can meet Cocoa Puff.”

  “I need to know what he’s going to do with my little brother.”

  “Five minutes. Tops. Keep quiet this time,” Red said, as they approached the wolves in the backyard gazebo. It would have been smarter to take him far way, even to the diner, but she was curious too. What was wolf magic like? Each mystical tradition had its own spells and ceremonies. Wolfmages were even more secretive than alchemists.

  Lashawn pulled a phone out of his pocket, a note-taking app already on the screen.

  “You won’t need that.” Jackson took it and set it on a bench. He opened a rusted metal toolbox, fishing out a dried herb bundle, rosemary wrapped in braided sweetgrass, to light with a copper Zippo. Waving the burning herbs around Lashawn lazily, he looked at a notification on his smart watch. There were no pretensions in this man’s ritual. He handed the bundle to the smaller wolf. “Hold.”

  Obeying, Lashawn wrinkled his nose, holding back a sneeze.

  Red assumed the smoke was for purification. She sniffed again, trying to figure out what else was in the cloying fragrance.

  Jackson examined the empty air around the other man’s head, eyes shifting silver. He took back the herb bundle, stubbing out the smoking ends, and dropped it into the toolbox. Like a mechanic sussing out the engine problem, he grunted and wiped his hands on an old bandana. “Found the trouble.”

  “What is it?” Vic asked.

  Lashawn glared at his brother, shushing him.

  Jackson ignored both to pull a chipped juice glass from the toolbox. He unwrapped a blue egg blotched with brown—a raven’s—from a scrap of fox fur and touched it to the top of Lashawn’s head. He stiffened when the wolfmage ran the egg down the back of his neck and over his left arm.

  It killed Red not to ask questions, but not as much as Vic who had developed a facial tick, as if broadcasting his queries in morse code.

  Jackson wasn’t a showy shaman, each motion utilitarian and without explanation. Finished with the raven’s egg, he set it gently on the fur before lifting the empty juice glass. “Spit.”

  Distaste curling at his lips, Lashawn spat with as much dignity as one could.

  Jackson cracked the shell on the glass, plopping the viscous fluid inside. He peered at the concoction, disappointed as if it were supposed to look like something other than a loogie and egg yolk. “Huh. Didn’t expect that.”

  Face purpling from repressing his commentary, Vic tapped his brother’s arm. Lashawn batted him away with another shush.

  Jackson set the glass on the bench and gestured to Lashawn. “Lemme see you shift then.”

  “P-pardon? I mean, yes. I mean, I’ll try.”

  Hands crossed for a time out, Vic stepped forward. “Do that egg thing again, you missed spots. Besides, it’s not even a full moon. It’s going to be harder for him. He’s new at this.”

  Jackson sniffed, chin lifting. “Was I talking to you, wolf killer?”

  “Nope, you weren’t, and we’ll be quiet now.” Red tugged at Vic, guiding him backward as she whispered, “This is his last chance.”

  Lashawn leaned over to place his glasses on the bench. “Do I have to do it in front of everyone?”

  “You ain’t something to be ashamed of,” Jackson said gruffly, even as he waved the others off. “Give us space. We’re going next door.”

  She stepped beside her mentor, ready to block him if he made a run to join.

  The wolves squeezed through the broken section of the fence to the yard where the Peterses’ house had once stood. Now the empty lot was completely fenced in from the street.

  Vic nodded to the lot. “That’s it, huh?”

  Swallowing, she knew what he meant. She kept a stiff upper lip, shaking off her unease. “Yup. We can go eavesdrop, then buzz off.”

  They leaned on either side of a wide crack in the old fence, peeping through.

  Jackson and Lashawn stood in a huddle. Tall and lanky, the Constantine brother still seemed dwarfed by the muscular werewolf. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the extent of the discolored scars left by Frank Lopes, and carefully folded it to lay on a clean patch of grass.

  The wolfmage crossed his arms. “We’re wasting daylight.”

  Lashawn nodded, the grim acceptance of a man on the gallows. Minutes passed as he furrowed his brow, shaking his hands and stamping his feet, visibly rallying his body to comply. He looked more like a guy trying to wake up a sleeping limb.

  “Come on, kid, show
me what you got. Are you going to turn into a wolf or stay some yuppie?”

  Red nodded back to the house. “Maybe we—”

  A pained moan ripped through the quiet yard. Lashawn contorted, back spasming. His face screwed up like in gastric distress. Gnashing his teeth, he couldn’t muffle his whimpers, falling to his knees. His dark skin rippled, the beast within fighting for freedom from human form.

  She had watched other werewolves turn. Their skins literally reversed, human flesh peeling back as the limbs shrunk. It sounded painful as the joints ground together. Alphas could shift seamlessly, modifying the transformation if they wanted to merely grow claws. The weaker the wolf, the weaker the control. They suffered as the change drew out. She had seen an omega take fifteen minutes.

  This was worse. Vic had never let her see. Now she knew why.

  Fifteen minutes came and left as Lashawn thrashed in the dirt, torn between two beasts. His ribs distorted, and the skin peeled on his forehead.

  Vic gripped the fence, hiding his pale face. “Goddammit. Jackson should do a spell or shake a fucking didgeridoo.”

  Red put a warning hand on his arm. “Be cool.”

  Lashawn cried out, face elongating. She thought he almost had it, but he was stuck, banging his head against the ground as if he were going to release the wolf by cracking his skull open. The rapid thuds made her cringe, looking away.

  Vic pushed past her through the gap in the fence and ran to his brother. “Stop it!”

  Jackson pushed him away from Lashawn. “How the hell am I going to help if I don’t see what he’s going through?”

  The two men faced off. Nostrils flaring, Jackson towered a head over Vic. Most men would have run, but the wiry hunter stared the wolf in the eyes. His fingers twitched as if fighting instinct to reach for a weapon.

  “It’s torture on him, and it’s not even a full moon night.”

  “I don’t want you hanging around that long.”

  “Like I want to be here with you either. If you want to dick with me, then do it. Don’t fuck with my innocent brother over whatever hurt feelings you got over that other wolfmage, Bra—”

  “Don’t say his name. That’s not for you.” Jackson stomped away, dipping into the other yard. “I’m done here.”

  Lashawn picked himself off the ground with a groan, body shifting back into its original shape. He coughed, sitting up. Sighing, he wiped at his wrinkled khakis, caked with grass stains. He brushed off his brother’s help and stumbled to grab his shirt. “You’ve done enough.”

  Vic rubbed his mouth with his wrist, eyes narrowing as Lashawn disappeared through the fence. He kicked at the dirt. “Fuck.”

  “You’re being a helicopter mom.” She ignored his glare. It wasn’t the first time she had been in the middle of a Constantine family argument. She had an idea where Lashawn was coming from, even if she wished the two could get along when they needed each other more than ever. “You’re the expert on wolves. Think about it. You’re making him look weak to a more powerful wolf, one that’s supposed to mentor him, accept him into his territory. He’s already been rejected from one pack.”

  “You saw how much pain he was in!”

  “And he’ll live that hell every full moon until he dies, if he doesn’t learn how to control this.”

  Adam’s apple bobbing, he grimaced. “I should find him.”

  “No, you handle Jackson and promise him you’ll back off. I can go after your brother.”

  Splitting up after he handed over Lashawn’s abandoned glasses by the gazebo, she exited the open gate in the back fence. She found the werewolf sitting in the meadow.

  Frowning, he picked at the grass without looking at the pile he was accumulating. He squinted at the tree-lined cemetery. “Well, that went terrible, don’t you agree?”

  “It was time for a break.” Red sat next to him and handed him his glasses.

  “I have to go back.” Putting them on, he lifted his head high, a thoughtful expression on his weary countenance. He squared his shoulders. “I left my phone.”

  “I heard a rumor Jackson is a teddy bear.”

  His lenses magnified a dour stare. “So, he’ll take pity on me after watching me flop in the dirt?”

  She winced. That wasn’t quite what she’d meant, but she tried to look on the bright side. “Or for having Vic as a devoted big brother.”

  “You always find the good in him even when he’s being annoying.”

  “Give him time and he’ll be offensive too, but he loves you.”

  “I know, but this is why Jorge Gonzales sent us off. It wasn’t even Vic’s rep, it was all the butting in. He didn’t have time for a runt anyway. Not with a pack that size. I’m worse than an omega.”

  “Do you want to be higher on the wolf totem pole?”

  “I want to not spend three nights a month in a seizure while my bones twist and my skin peels. I want to go back to my life in Seattle, even the office. I’m on medical leave, working remote, but how long will that last?” Lashawn rested his chin on his fist, hunched over his crossed legs. “This paranormal bullshit never ends. To be more correct, will never end. Not now.”

  Red kept silent. Lashawn was Henry Constantine’s biological son, inheriting his blue-gray eyes and height, but he hadn’t wanted the Brotherhood legacy or the supernatural complications that came with it. He even went professionally by his late mother’s last name. The job against the Lopes was supposed to be his last. She didn’t need to rub the irony in his face by trying to give him an optimistic pep talk. He wasn’t wrong.

  “If I can control this, I can go back without worrying that I’ll accidentally wolf out on my Homeowners Association. When will that happen?”

  “It’s day one. Jackson is testing you. He doesn’t expect you to shift today, or he wouldn’t have you try in the backyard.”

  “He wasn’t only testing me, and we both failed.” Lashawn sighed, plucking at the grass again.

  “It’s day one.” The comfort felt as thin as the fog coming in from the cemetery. She tried again with something useful. “I can help get Vic off your back, distract him.”

  “Please. I can’t concentrate with him staring at me like that.”

  “Yeah, it was like he got punched in the nuts while seeing a puppy get run over.”

  Jackson called out from the back gate, “We’re supposed to be working, not weeding.”

  Even noticing Lashawn’s unsteady wobble, Red didn’t help him up, giving him the space and dignity to walk. She wanted to, but he needed to project strength. Vic might be annoying, yet Lashawn could still win over the wolfmage.

  Leaving the wolves alone, she found Vic by the Millennium Falcon. She fished the keys from her back pocket and handed them over. “You look like you could use a drive. Do you want company?”

  “Nah, only the Falcon. This was a shit day, but at least you’re thinking straight.”

  “What’cha going to do?”

  Vic opened the driver’s door. “Think about all the things I can’t laugh off.”

  Red nodded, not knowing what to say. Trudy Fox had warned him that he’d made a mistake that he couldn’t laugh off. It was a curse, in hindsight. They had set up an elaborate trap for the Lopes in Nevada, designed to keep them away from civilians and their mysterious benefactors. Then Frank said words as powerful as a spell, claiming to know who killed Vic’s biological parents—the Parkses. The hunter had confronted him, everything went to shit, and here they were.

  “Tell me if he needs me.” Hopping in the seat, Vic backed out of the driveway, and the van soon disappeared down the street.

  Wishing she could help more, she wandered into the living room and then the kitchen. She puttered around, wiping the counters and washing a few dishes, trying to settle her nerves. Stace and Zach were tidy housekeepers, so there was little for her to do. She had already finished her to-do list on the ritual murders last night, emailing a Bard in London for verification on her translation, not wanting to build a plan
around a mistranslated symbol.

  One was the name of the Etruscan underworld god Orcus—a bearded giant who liked to punish oath breakers. Was it a clue to the killer’s motives—revenge on a betrayer? It was still unclear what the ritual offering was for, since it was common in antiquity to ask the underworld for curses whether carved on tablets thrown into wells or with fresh bodies in tombs. Even the ancient would have been unnerved by writing a curse on a body, but the killer obviously wanted the dark god’s attention. Whether you called him Hades, Pluto, or Orcus, he answered darker prayers. It wasn’t his only trick.

  A yelp of pain drifted in from the backyard. Lashawn. It didn’t sound like the lesson was getting any easier.

  Needing a better distraction than cleaning, Red grabbed Aunt Gina’s binder from the study. She went into the living room and closed the door behind her to muffle the sound. Compared to the recent murders, this was an ice-cold case. One might argue that it had been solved. Either it was a true mundane accident or a riftquake destroyed the house. She had seen a portal’s energy melt asphalt. It could spark a gas line. Either she had been gobbled up into the Blood Realm or, less fantastically, flung free from the fire by magical instinct and an opportunist demon found her. The rest, until the moment Vic found her, would be better left forgotten in both theories.

  On the couch next to Cocoa Puff’s habit trail, she cooed at the little hamster. She knew she was stalling. Usually work engrossed her more than daytime TV, but she was tempted to turn it on and catch up on the human news. She was out of touch after weeks burrowed in a supernatural library, studying magic and researching Charm. The human world seemed like a bit of a dumpster fire even from her brief check-ins.

  Cocoa Puff twitched his whiskers in judgment and scampered into his wheel-run.

  “I saw that face,” Red huffed, slumping back on the couch cushions. Gina McGregor’s clinical notes on the house fire had been harder to read than she expected, but she couldn’t stall anymore.