I put my cup down. “Oh, no you don’t. If you want to know more about the hottie you’ve been banging for the last four decades, you’re going to have to find out for yourself.”
She pursed her lips. “Banging makes it sound so crude.”
“What would you call it?”
“Shagging.” A smile as warm as a summer breeze softened her face.
“Well, there you go.” I was just about to grill her on the hows and whys of her sudden detachment from the tall drink of water that was Chief Houston Metcalf, when I heard the whimper behind her door again. “Ruthie, are you keeping someone locked in your bedroom?”
She turned, curious as well. “No.”
She stood.
I used that curiosity over finally getting to see her apartment beyond her arts and crafts room to push myself up and off my chair.
She opened the door to a small bedroom, sparsely furnished with only the bare necessities. It was like Ruthie was punishing herself. She had an entire house full of lovely rooms, and she chose to live in squalor. Well, squalor may have been a bit of an overstatement, but I couldn’t help but wonder why. Why live in the basement? Why cut ties with the love of her life?
The sound I’d heard was coming from the other side of her bed. And this being Percival, there was simply no telling what would happen next.
Wishing I had a baseball bat, I eased around a twin bed topped with a sage green bedspread and found a little boy curled up in the corner.
“Samuel.” I rushed to him.
His little blond head popped up, and he looked at me with huge blue eyes from behind folded arms. And he had tears—real tears—streaming down his handsome little face.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
He pointed over and up. “Sir.”
I sat down next to him, my arms aching to embrace him. “What happened with Sir?”
“Him mad.”
“He’s mad at you?”
He nodded and scrunched up his face in what I thought was a demonstration of Sir’s anger.
The cuteness caught me off guard, but the fact that anyone was angry with this sweet baby lit a fuse igniting my own anger.
But what he did next, clawing at his arm and baring his teeth, stunned me. Had Sir hurt him? Was that even possible?
Percy grumbled above us.
Right there with him, I took a deep breath and pretended the anger rushing through my veins didn’t feel like my blood had caught fire. “If Sir is mad at you,” I said melodramatically, “then I’m mad at him.”
He tried to put his hand on my face, and my heart shattered.
“Is he here now?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.
He nodded and pointed again.
I followed his finger. Since walls didn’t hinder him, I tried to decipher where, exactly, Sir might be hiding. From this position, he was either in the broom closet on the first floor or on the balcony landing between the staircases.
I looked back at Ruthie, who’d been watching us the whole time. “What can I do about this?”
“You’re a charmling. I’m sure there are any number of things you could do.”
“Let me rephrase. What would you do?”
She lifted a shoulder. “It’s a remedy almost as old as we witches are, but the tried and true witch bottle works wonders. You could cast him off this plane, of course, but only you would know how to do that without a witch circle. And those can be a bit shaky, even with the strongest of witches.”
“Witch bottle it is. How do I get him back inside of it?”
“You don’t understand. There is nothing special about witch bottles, other than the fact that they’re darned near unbreakable. On purpose, naturally. People were afraid they would break and release the witch, so they were usually made of very thick ceramic.”
I looked back at Samuel as he tried to play with the zipper on my jacket. It seemed to fascinate him. “Interesting, but what am I not understanding?”
“The fact that any bottle will do.”
“Oh,” I said, remembering what went into a witch bottle. “I don’t have to pee in it, do I?”
A breathy laugh escaped her. “I would highly advise against it.”
“Yeah?” I asked, watching Samuel grab at the zipper, only to have his fingers slip through again and again. But he never grew frustrated.
A vine grew down the wall, and one stem brushed over his cheek.
He watched in wonder as a rose bloomed in front of him. As he leaned in to smell it, and I realized he could touch and feel the vines and the roses.
Percy led one of the vines around my wrist, curling it around multiple times as he had before, and Samuel played with it. His touching the vine almost felt as though he were touching me. One end twisted around his finger, and he laughed and patted it before trying to eat it.
I pulled it out of his mouth as Ruthie sank onto the bed and wiggled her fingers at him. He tried to hide his face in my jacket, and I cast her an expression that told her exactly how adorable I found the kid.
“Witches are hardly stupid,” she said, keeping her smile steady. “Not that any of the accused were actually witches back then, but a few real witches got together and created a sort of revenge which, unlike what modern film would have you believe, is rather unlike us.”
“What kind of revenge?”
“They created a spell that reverses the effects of a witch bottle. Whoever creates one and urinates into it to try to trap a witch will instead trap his own soul upon his death.”
“I like it,” I said with a grin. “Savvy and deserving.”
“It has to be done on an individual basis, bottle by bottle, so it makes me wonder who in this area would have known to do that back then.”
“So, Sir was very likely a persecutor of innocent people.”
“Very likely.”
“And now he abuses children.”
She lowered her head. “It looks that way.”
“Ink!” Samuel said, clearly able to see through walls as well as run through them. Ink was probably next door with the wolf. Samuel hopped up and vanished through the wall.
I climbed to my feet. Not an easy task. “What do you say we give Sir a visit?”
“Sounds good. I’ve been trying to pinpoint his location. So far no luck, but I don’t have nearly the power you do.”
I walked back into her arts and crafts room, which would normally be a living room in the small apartment, and looked around at all the books and potions and maps on the table she’d pushed aside for tea with the girls. Potions were of particular interest to me, but now was not the time.
Annette was still over and out, but she was the one who’d wanted to be in the thick of it. I didn’t dare go on a ghost hunt without my illustrious sidekick. Not anymore. Not ever again. She would get what she asked for.
Her glasses sat askew on her face, her mouth pressed open with her arm, and a thick lock of curly chestnut hair lay across her nose. I snapped a pic for posterity’s sake then tried to wake her with a gentle tap on the shoulder. When that didn’t work, I shook her softly. When that only garnered a groggy moan of annoyance, I shook her harder. Nothing.
“Well,” I said to Ruthie, much louder than I needed to. “Guess I’ll go ghost hunting by myself.”
Annette bolted upright. “Ghost hunting?” she asked, morbid little being that she was. “You’re hunting ghosts?”
“Are you in or are you going to sleep on the table all day and wake up with one hell of a crick in your neck?”
“I’m in.” She swiped at the drool that had dried on one side of her mouth. “I was born to hunt ghosts.”
Somehow, I didn’t doubt that.
We said our goodbyes to Ruthie and headed upstairs after a quick, longing glance at Roane’s door.
“Do you know where this Sir is?” Annette asked me.
“I have a good idea where he’s hanging out if Samuel’s directions are any indication.”
“Oh, good. Do I n
eed anything? Like salt? A cross? Garlic?”
I chuckled. “We aren’t hunting a vampire. Wait.” I stopped in the hallway and turned toward her. “Given everything we’ve learned, do you think vampires are real too?”
Her lids rounded behind her turquoise cat-eye glasses.
“You know what?” I said, continuing the journey. “Let’s not worry about that right now.”
She followed. “Right. Good idea.”
A knock sounded as we headed across the foyer.
I groaned, and Percy grumbled, making me wonder who it was.
Annette went to the door and pulled it open. “Oh, it’s you.”
I walked up behind her. “Mr. Vogel.” I was none too pleased that the burly man was gracing our doorstep again.
“You still haven’t plugged in your phone.”
“Or we have caller ID,” Annette offered.
He glared down at her, his ire turning his pasty skin a bright scarlet.
His presence felt like acid on my skin. I found that many people only seemed distant or antagonistic, but deep down they were nice people. Vogel didn’t fall into the nice category. He was aggressive and volatile all the way through to his cold, black heart. I also had the feeling he’d hurt people in his past. I would be looking into that past as soon as I had a chance.
I pushed past Annette to take first position at the door. “Mr. Vogel, what can I do for you? Besides bring someone back from the dead, that is.”
“Can I talk to you alone?” He stepped back, expecting me to follow.
The darkness that overwhelmed me in that moment took my breath away, as though his intentions had manifested into a physical sensation. Even if I’d wanted to follow, Percy wrapped his vines around both of my ankles. To some degree, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to follow Vogel anywhere. He had a peculiar smell about him. An off scent I couldn’t quite place.
Oh, yes. There it was.
Death.
But to a larger degree, Percy keeping me glued to the spot did matter. I looked down and whispered through my teeth, “False imprisonment, mister.”
He didn’t care. He tightened his hold, clearly no longer trusting my judgment. If he ever did. We were going to have to talk. Soon.
“I’m on a case at the moment,” I said to Mr. Vogel.
“I just need a minute.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have one. And I’m not sure we would have anything to talk about even if I did. I told you, I lost my powers.”
He stepped close again. “I’m pretty certain I don’t believe you.”
“Be that as it may . . .” I started to close the door.
His hand shot out, and he grabbed my arm and yanked none-too-gently.
“Hey!” Annette shouted, trying to get past me and at him. Little firecracker.
His audacity stunned me. The razor-sharp thorns from the vines that twisted around his hand stunned him. He jerked back his hand, and we both stood there with our mouths agape as Annette harumphed in satisfaction.
He backstepped to a safer distance before stabbing me with that lethal glare of his. “I wanted to do this the easy way.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, stunned by his audacity again.
His gaze darted past me to something over my shoulder.
I was not about to take my eyes off him. The man was quicker than he looked. He tossed me one more glare for good measure then turned and strode down the walk to his pickup.
I finally turned and saw what I knew I would, because a calmness came over me anytime Roane stepped into my orbit.
He stood behind me, hair a mass of tangles and arms crossed over his wide chest, in a rumpled maroon T-shirt, leather kilt, and work boots he’d crossed at the ankles. All the things a growing girl needed.
“Did Percy wake you?” I glared up at the entity as though I could actually see him, though I had appreciated the intervention with Vogel.
“I was up,” he lied, his voice thick with sleep, and his lashes crumpled together like he’d been in a deep state of slumber.
“I’m sorry.”
“That I was up?”
“No.” I was quick to correct. “Never. It’s just . . . Roane, Ruthie told me you’re basically paid to keep an eye on me. It’s unnecessary. Please don’t feel obligated to, I don’t know, be my bodyguard.”
The grin that stole across his face seized my lungs. “Ms. Dayne, there is little on Earth I’d rather do than guard your body.”
Every bone I owned, and even a few I didn’t, dissolved. It was the mischief in his smile. The glistening in his eyes. The promise of things to come in his expression.
A sigh echoed through the foyer, and we turned to see Annette standing close by. Like really close by. Like at our shoulders. She had difficulty with personal space.
“Either way”—I fidgeted with my wrist, missing my bracelet—“it’s not your job.”
“Are you firing me?” His deep voice sent ripples of pleasure over my skin.
“Please don’t fire him,” Annette said, her expression pleading, and it took everything in me not to crack up.
Something moved in my periphery. The shadow I’d been seeing. The entity from the witch bottle. Sir.
“There he is,” I said to Nette and Roane.
They looked up at the balcony overlooking the foyer as I sprinted upstairs, even though I only saw the barest hint of a shape. I stopped at the balcony and walked toward the wall.
“I would like to have a word with you.” That was when I realized I had no plan whatsoever. Then I saw it. Him. A stocky man with puffy bags under his eyes and a bulbous nose. I had a similar look once when I’d first discovered mudslides. The morning after had not been pretty.
He glared at me, but his glare was more disgust than the acidic, hate-filled glower of toxic waste that was Vogel’s infamous death stare. Sure enough, Sir was dressed in Puritan garb. A wide white collar and cuffs, a form-fitted black coat, breeches that gathered at the calves, stockings, and black loafers with a metal buckle. He was the real deal.
I was rather impressed. “Dude, you’ve been trapped in a bottle for, like, hundreds of years. Maybe take a breather. Get to know the people a little. Stop being a dick to a little boy one-tenth your size.”
“You can see him?” Annette called up to me.
“Yes.” I turned back to her. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be by my side? Isn’t that where a sidekick lives?”
“I’m okay.” She kept her feet firmly planted downstairs.
I turned back to the Puritan. “Did you know there’s a line of supplements named after your pride?”
“Thou art a witch.” His sneer could freeze Hawaii.
“You guys legit said thee and thou and art?”
His watery gaze turned into a livid glare. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
“Wow. Seriously?” I stepped closer.
He grew opaquer but just barely. We stood eye-to-eye, our heights evenly matched, which was perfect. I could glare right back. “I don’t mean to rain on your parade, buddy, but that’s pretty cliché. Is that all you assholes had to work with while you were persecuting innocent people back in the day?”
The smirk he wore spoke a hundred thousand words.
Oh, yeah. He was going down. But apparently not before me.
A wrecking ball hit me square in the chest. At least it felt like a wrecking ball.
I heard a crack, the breath whooshed out of my lungs, and I went flying back. Literally flying. I soared over the railing, my trajectory forming less of an arch than a seven, sharply changing from horizontal to vertical. The ceiling rocketed away from me as the floor rose up.
“Defiance!” Annette screamed.
Percy’s soft tentacles captured me in a sudden stop. Rather like a thrill ride at a fair. I was not, however, thrilled. Not in the least. I couldn’t breathe. Really couldn’t breathe. Something was very, very wrong.
As Percy lowered me to the ground and faded back, I doubl
ed over and gasped, clutching my chest. My vision blurred. Tears amassed. There was a loud ringing in my ears. The pain shooting through my chest was not in my heart but in the bones. My collarbones. My sternum. My ribcage. They all felt shattered. Sir had broken me.
Suddenly Roane was by my side, and I was off the ground again. In his arms. Against his chest. He carried me to the kitchen and laid me on the table.
And then Ruthie was there, shoving tea down my throat again. Gawd, that woman loved her tea. But I couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t talk. Couldn’t hear Ruthie when she got in my face and spoke. She ran out of the room and came back holding a drawing. “This,” she said, as though underwater. “Draw this.”
A pain so sharp, so overpowering that it suffocated me, wracked my body. Nausea and dizziness decided to join the party, and I was almost blinded by the agony. I felt the bones in my chest crack and scrape against one another, like a puzzle in a puzzle box before someone put it together. The pieces were all there, they were just in the wrong place.
She held my left hand as I tried to draw the symbol, but crushed bones sucked.
So.
Bad.
I realized she was arguing with both Roane and Annette. After a lengthy discussion, Roane turned away, angry, then she encouraged me to draw again, holding up the picture.
I tried to catch my breath but only managed short, excruciating gasps.
She yelled to get through to me.
I couldn’t make out the words, but I could imagine what she wanted. However, I’d learned early on that if I didn’t know what a spell meant, it was difficult to infuse it with power. I just didn’t know what power to infuse it with.
Still, I tried. I slowed my breathing and concentrated, trying to remember what the spell meant, wondering how Ruthie, who didn’t know the language, could be aware of its meaning. When I raised my shaking hand, it seemed to upset the wolf.
I concentrated on him. On his calmness. The steely resolve in everything he did. Even in his agitated state, it helped. I examined the symbol again, tearing through my memories, trying to spot the right one like a facial recognition program trying to match a face to a name.
There.
It sat on the fringes of my memories the way a child sat in a corner after being scolded. I pulled it forward. Drew it on the air. It blinded me with light for a split second.
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