Avoiding eye contact, he nodded slowly, sipping his drink. “Lemme guess, you too?”
“Why not? Plenty of demons to hunt, so we won’t get bored and a big enough crew that we probably won’t die. I need to track down Gina’s notes on my mom, at least. Might be nice for a bit to have a routine again. You could use one too. The place has a weird amount of churches, so you’d have your pick.”
Vic shrugged. “I suppose I gotta make sure that Jackson doesn’t suck as a teacher.”
She waggled her eyebrows. “And then there’s whatever’s going on between you and Maudette.”
He smiled into his beer. “I thought we weren’t talking about our love lives.”
She laughed. “That’s a confirmation—a cougar dragged Vic Constantine into the dating game. It’s going to break Hannah’s heart just a little.”
Stace perked her head up from the conversation with Lashawn. “Did I just hear that?”
Vic flicked his bottle cap at Red. “Now you started it.”
She tossed it back at him. Her giggle wafted up with the smoke from the fire, drifting on a breeze over the town they saved.
---
Fresh from the shower and dressed in a cotton nightie, Red towel-dried her hair, sniffing it to be sure the bonfire smell had faded. She didn’t know what made her drop the towel on the bed and walk to the bedroom window.
Kristoff stood behind the fence in the backyard, phone at his ear. Hers vibrated on the nightstand. He smiled as she met his gaze.
Going into the empty hallway, she tiptoed through the quiet house, the other occupants already in bed. She rubbed the goosebumps on her bare arms, walking into the night air to unlock the gate.
“You look like a perfect snack.” He caressed his mark on her neck. His fingers trembled slightly as he drew away.
Arching an eyebrow, she took his hand. “It’s the virginal white, isn’t it?”
“Makes me wish I weren’t working. I’m getting Delilah on a plane to LA. I figured the white hats would want to know.”
She hugged him, resting her head on his chest, wishing he didn’t have to go. “I hoped to see you before you left town.”
He tipped her chin up to him. “What you did to Isaac… I’ve never seen that before. It was incredible. How do you feel?”
“Tired, but not scarred. Your special brand of medicine cured me.” She leaned into his touch. “Thank you for everything last night. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, he would have won.”
“I could say the same,” he said. “We make an excellent team.”
“Is that right?”
“I have proof,” he purred, wrapping his arms around her waist. His head snapped toward the cemetery. Nose wrinkling, he rolled his eyes. “Another ghoul. I’ll send a minion after it. There could be more.”
Red grinned at him. “So, you’ll probably turn around after you drop off Delilah, huh? Ancient laws and duties, and all that?”
Kristoff chuckled. “Eager for me to come back?”
She shrugged, kissing him softly. “I just like you, I guess.”
Epilogue
In England
Reading the letter was a mistake.
Edward Krandel forced the errant thought from his mind where it could be overheard. He set the porcelain egg cup on the tray, next to the tea, as he had every morning when the master was in residence for decades. His body knew the routine so well that it might stagger up at his funeral to perform daily chores.
He frowned, still arranging the breakfast. The possibility was all too real in this house.
A wall calendar marked the passage of time. At 92, he saw little use in it, feeling the change of season in his joints. Young when he began caring for the elderly bachelor, it seemed death would beckon him first.
As it had for so long, the master’s day started with his reading. The last year had changed much in the routine, but that remained constant. When exhausted, he would sleep until supper when he took private calls from associates. Imports and exports were how they explained the fabulous riches to the maids and chauffeurs. Smirking, the master would pronounce that he collected and traded only the most exotic objects.
Edward lifted the tray onto a cart beside the mail. His master maintained regular subscriptions on diverse topics. A Harvard physics journal had arrived with a dissertation on Medieval witch hunts in France. He placed the latest edition of USA Today and Der Speigel on top of the pile of national papers. Some were trash, only fit for a canary’s cage, but the scholar studied them all with the same piercing scrutiny. Cross-referencing articles, he looked for an unspoken pattern.
The resealed letter was on the bottom.
It had been addressed to the house, unlisted on any map, but the name was unfamiliar—Mr. Gabriel. Aliases weren’t unexpected among the staff, hired from gutters and prison work programs, but they weren’t supposed to have families. He’d opened the envelope to see which had been lying and closed it quickly, but he’d already seen too much.
A good servant was a knowledgeable servant. His master had rewarded him in the past for insights beyond a butler in Russian cuisine, explosives, and the Berlin underground. This new knowledge wouldn’t be rewarded.
Edward pushed his burden past the calendar. The newest maid had circled his upcoming birthday. Foolish girl, she was too young to have stopped celebrating them. He reminded himself to mark her up for an infraction. This wasn’t a house for sentiment.
He took an ancient cage elevator to the third floor, grateful for the rickety contraption. The steep staircase of the old manor was too punishing on his knees now. Darkened by heavy drapes, the hallway reeked of sulfur. He’d throw open the windows on the next warm day to freshen the place up. The curtains should be washed as well. Even after months of inactivity, the smell of his master’s… experiments stuck terribly to fabrics.
That was another matter Edward couldn’t ponder in mixed company.
He waited outside the door, knocking at precisely 8:00 a.m., only entering at the hoarse croak of welcome. Rolling the cart to the medical bed, only long years of service suppressed a flinch at the invalid.
Fluffy pillows propped up a man that the servants wouldn’t have recognized as the head of household. Gone were the thick white mane, moustache, and goatee from the gentleman who had commanded the manor for a lifetime. Maybe more. Now he was a living skeleton in a nightgown, wan skin sagging on his withered frame. A small leather pouch hung below a liver-spotted chin. “Krandel, my good fellow, I am simply famished.”
“Excellent, sir.” Edward set the breakfast tray on a rolling overbed table, adjusting the position. The mail remained on the cart for later inspection.
“I’m feeling stronger today. Vigorous, I tell you. I’ll be out of this bed soon and waltzing by autumn. Open the windows so I can see the day.”
“You certainly do seem full of beans, sir.” Edward obeyed the command. The weak sun dappled over the modern hospital equipment amid the antique furniture. Releasing a healthy dose of fresh air, he fortified himself with a stiff inhale. Rolling country hills spread below the estate. He grew up in a tiny Birmingham flat facing a factory rubbish heap. On the darkest days, he always told himself at least there was a view.
He attended his master, body moving of its own accord as it had for years. A younger man might have run. Instead, he narrated headlines from The Times.
“Enough with the news, Krandel. There must be some periodical more stimulating.”
He presented the journal printed in a language that he didn’t read. Hopefully, it would ensnare attention, leading to a quick dismissal to the servant’s quarters.
“String theory is for supper.” The master sat to poke a bony digit at the mail on the cart. Only a month ago, he was spoon-fed. Would he truly be walking by summer? He always seemed to know queer things, things that no one could know, things no one should.
Edward hid his unease.
“What is that letter?” The master plucked the envelope to examine
over toast. Reading the address on the front, hairless brows lifting, he opened it. A smirk grew on colorless lips. Cunning brown eyes darted over the page. “You’ll pack my bags soon, old chap. I shall dance again before Samhain. We are now ahead of schedule.”
“I’ll send out your dry cleaning for the trip to America, sir.” Edward bowed, perspiring at the realization of what he had said.
“Oh, Krandel, I was truly having a good morning.” He clicked his tongue, folding the letter and setting it beside the egg cup. “How much of this did you read?”
“Very little, sir. Begging pardon, I won’t say anything about this Mr. Gabriel business.”
“You read the other name. My real one. That is enough.” The master stroked the pouch dangling from his neck.
Pain seared Edward’s mouth, lips sewn together by an unseen force. He clawed at the rough stitches. Green light surrounded the falling servant.
“You’ll keep my secrets, Krandel, even in death.”
The story continues in The Hired Witch coming in 2021.
Preorder your copy on Amazon.
Have you read Oracle in the City, yet?
Red is searching for a clue to her origins. Two pixies of unusual size stand in her way. Oh, and she has to confess to being amnesia girl to Lucas.
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About the Author
Sami Valentine is an urban fantasy writer who grew up in the desert and now wanders in search of Wi-Fi and coffee.
Formerly a mild-mannered librarian, she had a quarter-life crisis and shook everything up. She started working in an LGBT homeless center, shaved some of her head, and rediscovered some of her old passions. After realizing that her goal in life was to get out of her small town and she had only made it thirty minutes up the highway, she filled a bag and left. That was three years and a dozen countries ago. Find out more at samivalentine.com
Small Town Witch: A New Adult Urban Fantasy (Red Witch Chronicles 5) Page 28