A Witch's Fate: Witches of Lane County

by Jody A. Kessler

  She sent another frame flying and hurled herself toward the door. As she reached for the knob, unyielding hands gripped her shoulders and spun her around.

  Being a murderess wasn’t a personality trait she ever considered before today, but Leif tempted it out of her. He jerked her aside, pinning her against the wall.

  “Nice trick. Are you quite done destroying my office?” His breath was ragged, and there was a tiny trickle of blood streaming over his right temple. Apparently, frame number two had hit the mark.

  “Just getting started,” she said. Her body shook with rage. She was sure he could feel her trembling.

  He narrowed both eyes. “Damned witch. Why won’t you tell me what happened with Delana, so we can move forward? I know you didn’t do it. At least on purpose. What are you hiding?”

  She set her shoulders and jaw into rigid insolence. “I’ll never tell you anything now. Just to spite you. Let me go!”

  Traces of humor she normally glimpsed when she taunted him were nonexistent. She’d never witnessed this side of him and it threw her off guard. Would he drag her off to the police? It’s what she half-expected, not his mouth capturing hers. The kiss was a mixture of fury and passion the like of which she’d never felt before. She fought him, but those hungry lips persisted. Her body rebelled, but her mind remembered every second of their night together. The coiled fire tight in her belly turned to fireworks and exploded. Bubbles of scorching lava traveled through her veins and warmed her from head to toes, not the heat of anger this time, but sheer lust. A craving to taste him and feel his tongue mingle with hers caused her lips to part.

  He leaned in so every taut muscle of his chest, abs, and pelvis touched her. A whimper escaped her lips as he moved to her jaw and then to her throbbing pulse. He sucked lightly, teased her with teeth, and moved back to her mouth for an indeterminable length of time. If only all men kissed in a way that melted her toes and turned her bones to pulp.

  His mouth left hers. The heat of his kiss churned between them. Tori’s eyes slowly opened. A dreamy sensation swam through her bloodstream and clouded her vision. An equally dazed expression nestled deep in Leif’s multi-colored eyes. She couldn’t speak. She forgot about their fight. The only thing on her mind was moving to the desktop, or possibly the leather chair, and finding a climatic and satisfying finish to that kiss.

  “Damn you!” he hissed.

  A rough hand wrapped around her upper arm, and she found herself being shoved out of the room. The slam of the door at her back could have been a slap to the ass. Thankfully, Cora wasn’t at her desk to see Tori’s abrupt and shocking exit. Stunned, it took a half second to regroup. Before she stormed out of the building, Tori focused on Leif’s office door and said an unbreakable spell. If he wanted her out of his office so badly, he could stay there—by himself—for all of eternity.

  Chapter Fourteen

  TORI’S FOREHEAD FELL against the steering wheel with a thump. She had fled the city and fled Leif’s office with fury and indignation fueling the long drive to her mother’s house. The replay of what she said and did, coupled with Leif’s audacity, kept her mind occupied for the entire three-hour journey. The realization that she couldn’t recall the last three hours with much or any lucidity left her feeling like a time traveler or an amnesiac. She lifted her head and stared at the nearly two-hundred-year-old building in front of her car. There wasn’t anything confusing about the old carriage house, otherwise known as Aunt Jet’s garage.

  The stone building housed her aunt’s motorcycles, cars, and everything needed to keep the vehicles running in perfect condition. She always liked hanging out with Aunt Jet in the garage. When she was growing up, her aunt never turned her away when she needed a break from her mother, or from any other childhood injustice. Jet would always welcome her into the garage, put down whatever tool or part she was working on and listen to her rant, rave, or cry her eyes out over a boy or a fight with a friend. The garage had been an escape—and a place to impress her boyfriends. And the boyfriends had definitely been impressed by the Harley-Davidson collection, the Mustang fastback, and the Cobra. Thinking back on her pathetic attempts at seducing boys with shiny chrome and big engines made her groan inwardly. Every one of the boys had been wrapped around her little finger long before taking them into the garage.

  Through all those years of questionable judgment and bad decisions, Aunt Jet never made negative judgments about Tori’s life choices. Maybe if she had, Tori wouldn’t be in the midst of a mental and emotional crisis. Had fooling around with all those boys in high school led her to this? She could see her life with a different perspective now. One guy after another, never committing herself to any of them. Using them for her own entertainment and always knowing she would never have any kind of real relationship. Parties and clubs eventually led her straight to Gerard. The truth of her existence stung. When she examined her life closely, she understood how she brought this on herself.

  She redirected her attention away from the garage to stare at the house. Three stories of High Victorian Gothic grace mix-matched with Second Empire influences. A riot of spring flowers crowded the beds and rows in front of the covered porch and along every walkway and path. The shady side of the house boasted her mom’s talent with a jungle of hellebore and hostas. This early in the season, the amount of color and size of the plants and flowers would be considered unnatural by the general population. But witches, especially earth witches like her mother, had a few tricks up their sleeves. The azaleas, irises, and winter windflowers were a testament to her mom’s passion for gardening. In Tori’s mind, the gardens reinforced her belief that she was born to the wrong family. Tori didn’t garden. She took no enjoyment in it. Spending time digging in the dirt, trimming dead foliage, and the other tasks successful gardening required was a boring, tedious chore she only did when she had to—which was basically never. She discovered as soon as she was living on her own she could buy or trade for any medicinal plants and herbs she would ever want. Her extreme lack of interest in herbology and horticulture had been one more thing that caused discord between her and her family. Yes, she’d been forced to learn every plant and its use, but her mother couldn’t make her like it, along with cooking, cleaning, flying—the list went on and on. Tori was a disappointing child. Her interests were not the same as her mother’s. Nonetheless, she was cared for and loved, and for that, she would always be grateful.

  With the dogged and sluggish movement of one being forced to participate in a dreaded event, she pushed the door open and stepped out of the car. A metallic clang followed by muffled curse word sounded from behind the garage door. Tori glanced at the front porch, saw no sign of life, and spun on her heel. Aunt Jet was in the garage. The fates must be with her, she thought as her boots crunched across the gravel to the carriage house.

  Aunt Jet was so completely fixated on her motorcycle that Tori was nearly on top of her before she realized she had company. She glanced up, surprise replacing the furrows of concentration. The red hair, nearly identical to her niece's, was braided, but loose stragglers, refusing to be bound or given any direction at all, framed her attractive oval face.

  “Do my eyes deceive me? Is it really Tori standing in my workshop?”

  “What, I’m not allowed to come home anymore?” she made the statement equal parts question and accusation.

  “Don’t be silly. You can always come home. You certainly don’t do it often enough.”

  Aunt Jet set the wrench down on the workbench and reached for a rag. Tori pursed her lips together and took a deep breath as her aunt wiped grease off her hands.

  “You know all the reasons why I don’t come home more often.”

  “One, you’re too busy for your family.” Aunt Jet held up a finger and then raised a second one. “Two, you enjoy making your aunt suffer from loneliness.” Another finger raised into the air between them. “Three, you can’t stand clean air and the peace and quiet of the countryside.”

  Tori shook h
er head and sighed.

  “Four, you’re allergic to the salt in the air.”

  “Nope, nope, and nope. Although, I am usually busy. And I live three and a half hours away. I’m not five minutes down the street or something.”

  “Or something,” Aunt Jet mocked playfully and gave a little uppity wiggle of her head as she said it.

  Tori resisted giving in to her teasing quite yet, and she held back the smile that wanted to burst free. Seeing her aunt helped ease the stresses, but her turbulent emotions and the tension in her body couldn’t let go. “And you aren’t lonely.”

  Aunt Jet placed her hands on her hips. “How would you know?”

  “Because you are the one who taught me that it’s okay to be by myself and to enjoy my own company. As I recall, you said, ‘Listen little one, the moment you start thinking you need another person in your life to make you happy is the moment your soul begins to wither and die. Don’t ever forget to make yourself happy. If you can’t stand to be in your own company, no one else will either.’”

  Aunt Jet’s hands dropped to her sides, and she cracked a half grin. “Yeah, well, your aunt is a fairly smart lady sometimes. Except when it comes to motorbikes. I swear they’re going to be the death of me.” She stared at the vintage bike on the rack, and her smile turned to a frown.

  “Don’t say death, Aunt Jet. You’re not allowed to die on one those things. Do you understand me?”

  “Oh, so now you care.” The grin crept back into place, and a single eyebrow rose. She tossed the rag onto the workbench and came closer, head tilting one way and then the other as she looked Tori over.

  “Of course I do. I just can’t stand the thought of you leaving us… ever… but especially on one of the bikes. You’re not allowed to crash.”

  “I’m not going to crash. Don’t you worry about that. They’re going to kill me by sheer repeated frustration. Another bad gearbox, fuel pump, or an oil leak through the air filter. Don’t worry, though. You’ll find me out here on the shop floor, an unladylike curse on my cold dead lips and another bloody wasp nest in my exhaust pipe.”

  “Let’s venture away from the land of the morbid, all right? And, a wasp nest? Did that really happen?”

  “Twice.” Aunt Jet winked, then stepped closer to Tori. “Enough about me. Your aura is a manic disaster. What’s going on with you?”

  Tori hesitated. The oil stains on the shop floor had her suddenly transfixed. What should she tell her? Too much had happened. The image of Aunt Jet’s wasps in the tailpipe brought back Gerard’s recent attack of fanged flying beasts. What if she or Willow had been bitten? Were they venomous? She hadn’t considered it before. Would she have made it home? Or made it to a healer in time? A glacial chill settled over her shoulders, and she shivered.

  “All righty then,” Aunt Jet said, wrapping an arm around Tori and steering her away from the motorcycle on the rack. “You need my special cure. Come this way.”

  Moving helped snap Tori back into the present. She swallowed hard. The uncertainties of life felt stuck in her throat like a horse pill. “It’s been… umm… it’s been a rough couple of weeks.”

  “I see that. I think I have just the thing to fix you up.”

  Tori remembered the last time she’d been out of sorts and sought her Aunt’s company and commiseration. “I can’t handle a margarita night with you right now. Don’t get me wrong, it helped a ton the last time, but alcohol and I aren’t pals. He’s more like my nemesis.”

  Jet laughed as she guided Tori through an open doorway to the room she used as her office, bar, gym, a place to escape from her sister, and anything else she needed peace from.

  “Your liver needs a rest, for sure. I can tell by looking at your eyes and your skin alone. Nope. No margaritas this time. So here’s the thing, some days require booze and some days require boxing.”

  Tori’s back stiffened. “What?”

  They stopped by a bench next to the stone wall. Aunt Jet’s home gym had been drastically updated since the last time she was here. A full-size punching bag hung from the rafters supporting the upper level of the carriage house. The floor had been replaced as well and appeared to give a little as Jet walked over to the bag. Padded mats were affixed to the walls in strategic locations to provide cushioning. Tori could hardly imagine anyone would be rowdy enough to need them, but the mats seemed appropriate.

  “I’m not dressed for working out. Look at these shoes.” She wiggled a high heeled wedge boot at her aunt.

  “Not a problem,” Aunt Jet sang out. “Everything you need is right there next to the bench.”

  In the stacked wood cubbies gym shoes and different types of gloves sat, neatly organized. There were also shorts, sweatpants, T-shirts, and clean towels.

  The sound of two quick thumps followed by an immediate loud thwap made her jump. She searched for the source of the noise and saw Aunt Jet’s foot returning to the floor. The punching bag swayed slightly after taking a few hits.

  “Change out of the silly shoes and get over here. You’re going to feel loads better after this. I promise.”

  Doubt nestled into her thoughts like a burrowing mouse, but Tori grabbed a pair of tennis shoes and took a seat on the bench. She and her aunt shared more than the same hair color. Their shoe size and body type were almost exactly the same. They were so similar looking that everyone assumed Jet was Tori’s mother, not Ivy. Growing up, Tori always wondered why she was born to Ivy and not Jet. Then again, her aunt never had any children of her own, so that was as good an answer as she would ever receive.

  “Och! She’s back for more, I see. Show me what you’ve got, you lousy unskilled wicked witch,” Tori heard in a distinct Scottish accent.

  She glanced up in surprise from tying the laces and saw no one but her aunt. A smart slap to the leather with her fist produced a, “What do call that? A wee tickle?”

  Aunt Jet bounced on the ball of one foot, whirled, and hit the bag with the top of her other foot.

  “Bollocks! You’re hardly giving it a go. Put some muscle into it!”

  Tori leaned forward, squinting hard for a better view. The voice was apparently coming from the bag. She left the bench and made her way across the floor to her aunt and the punching bag. A ruddy-faced man with dark brown hair and a sneering mouth was on the front of the punching bag, like a built in soft television screen. He eyed her with disdain but didn’t comment. His brilliant blue eyes were striking and somewhat familiar. She reached out and touched the side with caution only to find normal black leather beneath her fingertips.

  “Watch out,” Jet said and gave the bag a quick one-two with right and left fists.

  “Bah!” the man snorted. “Are you swatting at the fucking midges, you puny cunt swab? I couldn’t feel a thing.”

  “What is this crazy contraption?” Tori asked, holding back a laugh at the insults this guy dished out.

  Jet lowered her fists and turned to Tori. Her color had risen slightly, so her ivory skin now glowed a soft rose. A huge grin spread from ear to ear. “This is the best thing I have ever done with my magic.”

  “A quitter to boot! I should not be surprised in the least, but insulted, I most definitely am.”

  Tori slid the bag a sidelong glance. He was still talking, insulting, and taunting even though neither one of them were looking at him.

  “Who is that?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is who shows up when you hit and kick the bag,” Aunt Jet said and sidestepped to make room for her niece. She gestured for Tori to move into position in front of the bag. “Give it your best and let the bag show you who needs a good punch in the throat, or kick in the balls.”

  Now it was Tori’s turn to smile. This couldn’t be real, she thought. Her aunt stepped back again and gave an encouraging nod to try it out. Tori stood sideways to the bag, softened her right knee, leaned, and kicked with her left, planting the bottom of her foot in the center of the bag. The Scottish bloke clenched his gut and
disappeared leaving nothing but the smooth leather. Tori frowned. She expected an insult or some other remark, but he was gone. And she’d wanted to go for the side of his head next, darn it. Before she had a chance to question Aunt Jet, a familiar face appeared.

  “Hey, gorgeous. I thought you needed to know that I found out more about you and Grant English.” Leif’s eyebrows rose with judgmental scorn. The angle of his left eyebrow suggested more than a hint of suspicion.

  Tori swung hard. Her fist landed squarely against Leif’s jaw. A grunt ripped from her diaphragm and spewed forth.

  “I see you’re still a little angry,” he said. “Well, after I slept with you, I had the horrible realization that you and Weston had plenty of time to take a roll in the sack before I found you dancing with those sleazeballs at the club. I was a little sick to my stomach after I thought about the sloppy seconds I was served.”

  Anger surfaced like hard-boiled rage as she attacked the bag. After multiple punches and a few hard kicks, a pair of lightweight gloves appeared in front of her nose.

  “Put these on, or you’ll regret it later,” Aunt Jet said.

  Panting and already collecting sweat beneath her arms, Tori snatched the gloves and backed away from Leif.

  “Holy creatures of the underworld! Your punching bag is going to kill me.”

  “I won’t let it get that far.” Jet inclined her head. “He’s quite handsome.”

  “He’s a total jerk face.”

  “Today, or every day?” Aunt Jet asked. Her question was simple but also implied there was more to the situation than another jerk in Tori’s life.

  “I spoke with Detective Hollingsworth about our trip to the Ukraine. He would like to interview you about Mrs. Smootz immediately,” Leif went on.

  She groaned and turned her back to Leif’s image. He wasn’t there, and the words coming out of his mouth weren’t his words. She understood that much about the charm on the bag. It still burned, and it definitely spurred her into hitting and kicking out the frustration.