WILLEM (The Witches of Wimberley Book 1)

by Victoria Danann

  At nine on the nose, three white vans pulled up and stopped right in front of us. Each driver came around and slid the side panel door open.

  The driver of the van directly in front of me added, “Watch your step, gentlemen,” and smiled.

  “Is anybody sitting up front?” I asked.

  He looked surprised. “No. You’re welcome to shotgun if you want it.”

  “I do. Better view.”

  He grabbed the handle of the passenger door and opened it for me. I noticed the other guys giving me dirty looks for being impertinent enough to score a better seat, but I shrugged it off. I wasn’t there to make friends and, hey, they could have asked just as easily as I did.

  When we pulled away, I said to the driver, “I’m Willem.”

  He slanted his eyes sideways like he had a secret. “I know who you are Mr. Draiocht.”

  “I can’t say the same. What’s your name?”

  “Lawson.”

  “That’s a great name. Strong. Unusual.”

  “Belonged to my granddad.”

  “Was he from around here?”

  “Yep. He was born here, but in case you’re wonderin’, we’re still considered newcomers.”

  “So how long’s the ride?”

  “’Bout eight minutes.”

  “You going out on the river today?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m going to be waiting for you downstream at the end of the day and drive you back here.”

  “That’s good to know. So what do you do when you’re not driving contestants around?”

  “Oh. This and that.”

  “Uh-huh.” A snort from behind told me that somebody thought it was funny that I just hit a conversational wall. The rest of the contestants in the van seemed to be listening to us instead of talking amongst themselves. “Have you ever done the canoe thing on the river?”

  “Oh, sure. Lots of times.”

  “Must be fun then.”

  “Hmmm. If you’re a certain kind of person.”

  I didn’t know where to take the conversation from there so I let it drop. We rode the rest of the way in silence, but that was just another couple of minutes.

  We pulled off the highway and drove down a dirt road, banked with brush on both sides, for a hundred yards. The dense foliage opened to a grassy riverbank shaded by huge cypress trees.

  When Lawson stopped the van, he looked over his shoulder at the other passengers and said, “Grab some breakfast at that truck over there and then get a life jacket. You’ve got about fifteen minutes before you’ll be on the water with a paddle in your hands. Nobody gets on a canoe without a life jacket.”

  The green bank was littered with brightly painted canoes that looked way too cheerful for a group of guys trying to prove they would never emote because it’s not cool.

  “Hey! Willem.” I heard a shout and turned to see Ivan stuffing something that looked like a tortilla and scrambled eggs into his mouth. I started walking his direction as he was heading in mine. “You’ve got to try this, man. These people know how to eat.”

  I checked in with my stomach. It replied that it was still working on last night. So I said, “Looks good, but I ate.”

  He smiled around a mouthful of breakfast burrito. “So you’re gonna share a canoe with me, right?”

  He was too teasable for me to let that go. “I don’t know, man. Do you have experience?”

  Ivan looked crestfallen. He stopped chewing and said, “They said we don’t need experience.”

  I didn’t have the heart to play him any longer. “I’m just messin’ with you. Of course we’re gonna share a boat.”

  His good-natured demeanor returned immediately. “We’re supposed to put on one of those life preservers.”

  I didn’t want to wear one of the bulky, hot life preservers, and knew I didn’t need one, but I figured it was a pick-your-battles moment. So I let it go.

  One of the helpers stepped up to us. They were easily identified by their khaki shorts and forest green tees.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” said the kid waving two plastic pouches. “These are for your valuables. Put your phones, wallets, watches, or anything else that can’t get wet in here. These are watertight so long as you seal them up. Put them in one of your big zipper pockets. Buttons come open sometimes, but zippers get even harder to open when they get wet. So you won’t lose your stuff no matter what.”

  I wondered what he meant by ‘no matter what’, but figured it had something to do with accidentally going in the water.

  Ivan and I reached at the same time and followed his instructions while he looked on to make sure we got it right. “Excellent,” he enthused. “It’s a glorious day for a float down the river.”

  You have to give it up for somebody who’s enjoying his job. At that he moved on to the next group of guys and repeated the instructions.

  “So. Let’s pick one out,” I said.

  “Yeah. We don’t want to get stuck with yellow or orange.”

  I had to laugh. “Why? What’s wrong with yellow and orange?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, they’re cheerful, but too girlie.”

  “Alright. How do you rate canoe colors for manliness, Ivan?”

  “Well,” he said, “nobody can argue with ocean blue. It’s universally understood as a boy color.”

  “Universally,” I repeated drily.

  “Red is a good strong masculine color. It says, ‘If you’re lookin’ for trouble, you came to the right place’.” I laughed, because I couldn’t imagine anybody thinking Ivan was trouble. “What?” he said.

  “Nothing,” I chuckled. “Go on. This is entertaining.”

  “The green is also a good solid masculine color. It says ‘close to nature and the great outdoors’ without any hint of feminine compromise.”

  “Looks like that brings us to orange and yellow.”

  “Orange and yellow are for pussies.”

  “Well, then, red, blue, or green it is. Take your pick while you still can.”

  He opened his mouth, but was stopped by the sound of Raider’s bellow. A bunch of the kids in khaki shorts and green tees jumped in the water.

  “Line up over here.” He pointed to where the grassy bank met a short dock. “We’ll get you in the boats in order.”

  Leaning toward Ivan, I whispered, “So much for color preference.” Ivan made a face. “Don’t be glum, chum. You know in your heart it doesn’t make any difference.”

  “Yeah.” He produced a small smile. “I guess.”

  We got in line behind about ten other guys. The camp shirt kids on the bank pushed the canoes in. The kids in the river took control, guiding them alongside the dock as they waded through the water.

  They held the first canoe still while the first two guys got in and took their seats. They picked up the paddles.

  “If you’ve never done this before,” Raider yelled, “don’t worry. It’s not hard. If you want to turn left, you both paddle on the right side. If you want to go straight, one of you paddles on the right while the other paddles on the left. If there’s a big difference in strength, you’ll have to make an adjustment, but you’ll figure it out. If you lose an paddle, one of you will have to jump in and get it. So try not to lose an paddle.

  “After you’re in your canoe, paddle out to the middle and wait.”

  The process was efficient so getting the guys into the canoes didn’t take as long as you might expect. There were twelve canoes altogether, plus Raider. So I guess that’s thirteen. He stepped into his custom camo green canoe like he’d done it a thousand times, and shoved away. I was a little envious about the fact that he wasn’t wearing a stupid life preserver, but whatever. Not my show.

  As it turned out we got a yellow canoe, but Ivan seemed to forget all about that as soon as he experienced the sensation of floating on the green water current. He was in front, which was okay with me. I’ve always had a back-to-the-wall preference.

  Ivan and I ended up being in
the middle of the cluster, but it didn’t feel crowded because everybody just naturally spread out once we were underway. A couple of times Raider rested his paddle and pointed out wildlife, most notably a large buck almost obscured by the trees.

  It was peaceful. It was calm. It was serene and, by the time we stopped for lunch, I was so relaxed I felt like a wet noodle. The kids from upstream had motored their way to the lunch stop and were on hand to make sure everybody got out of their canoes without mishap.

  Catering had been set up in a shady clearing where they’d been grilling shish-ka-bob over charcoal. There were choices of chicken and peppers, veggie only, beef teriyaki with squash and onions. Whole corn on the cob, also on sticks, and plenty of everything for seconds, thirds, or fourths.

  I saw the wisdom of choosing food that could be eaten on a stick.

  They offered an iced-down choice of water, vitamin water, and a few soft drinks.

  This was topped off by fried pies. You may find it unbelievable, but I declined. I didn’t want to fart my way through the big event that night.

  A short forty-five minutes later we were back in the water and headed downstream again. When we were, by my estimation, an hour or so from our destination, I saw Raider begin to drop back. He paddled lazily, letting the other canoes go by. As we passed he said, “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Draiocht?”

  “It’s been a good day,” I responded.

  “It’s too deep to wade here. You know that?”

  Just then I caught a glint in Raider’s eye. I don’t know how I knew it, but I had the uncanny sense the fucker was going to try to turn my canoe over.

  Maybe I went temporarily crazy, but I was just as sure that I didn’t want to sit by and let that happen.

  So I said, “If I lived here, I’d do this a lot.” I was smiling all the while he was coming closer, pulling up alongside. Just when I judged that I had the perfect angle, I stuck the tip of my paddle under the keel of his canoe and using the side of my canoe for leverage, pushed down with all my might.

  Yep. You guessed it. The canoe turned over and a very surprised-looking Raider went under. Seconds later an even more surprised-looking Raider popped back up flailing.

  “I can’t swim,” he shouted. “I don’t have a life vest and I can’t fucking swim!”

  Shit. I hadn’t considered that as a possibility. I unzipped my life preserver as I jumped over the side. When I reached him, I knew I was going to have a fight on my hands trying to get the life vest on him because he was panicking.

  Sure enough. He grabbed onto me, dunked me and held me under with his considerable bulk until my lungs were ready to burst. Suddenly he let go and I felt a big paw grab my shirt and pull me to the surface. I dragged in a ragged breath like I’d been drowning, which I suppose I was. When my air passages began to relax, I looked at Raider, who was treading water and laughing.

  “It’s nice to know you’d jump in for me if I was drownin’.” I probably looked at him like he was crazy because that’s exactly what I was thinking. He lowered his voice, “Who told you somebody always gets dunked?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, liar,” I spat. I must have gone insane to be calling Raider names, but I was pissed. I tried to save his ass and he thanked me for it by trying to kill me.

  His head went back and he guffawed. “Good one, little brother. You’re the only one to ever get me first. It could be real entertainin’ to have you around.”

  I swam over to the canoe where Ivan was looking distraught.

  “Put all your weight into leaning away from me when I say go,” I told him.

  Ivan performed like a pro, which allowed me to pull myself back into the canoe with as much ease as wet clothes and water drag will allow.

  “Smooth,” said Raider, still watching, still treading water.

  “Go on,” he told everybody. “I’ll catch up. When you get to the green shirts, stop.”

  Raider swam to where somebody was holding his canoe steady. Somebody else had fished his paddle out of the river before it disappeared downstream. He took the paddle and guided the canoe to the shallows with his other arm, feet kicking. When he could stand up in waist-deep water, he righted the canoe and pulled himself in.

  “Hope you didn’t make yourself an enemy,” Ivan said.

  “Well, his intention was to turn us over. This way, only I got wet.”

  Ivan looked over his shoulder with a grin and laughed. “In that case, thank you, ‘brother’.” Ivan smirked at the term Raider had used.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After my dunking and subsequent near drowning, I needed a nap. Or a ‘toes up’ as they reportedly say in Wimberley. I was careful to set my alarm because naps had been causing near-misses lately. It had been made clear to the contestants that, if we missed our transportation, scheduled to arrive at nine o’clock, we’d be out of luck.

  At eight, I enjoyed a long hot shower, gave myself a close shave and the Willem’s-best mussed hairdo.

  Why wouldn’t they just say what they wanted us to wear? Lot less stress.

  Maybe that was the point. Maybe they wanted us to feel off our game. I wished I had rented black tie before I’d left L.A. It’s always better to be overdressed. Right?

  Too late to worry about that. So I got out my black jeans, my black zipper ankle boots, and a red raw silk shirt with extra pointed collar. I hadn’t planned to wear that, just threw it in at the last minute. I pulled the ironing board out of the closet and pressed it in the room. I thought it draped my body in a way that accentuated the width of my shoulders and the vee of my waist, so I left the tail out.

  They kept saying that the right person couldn’t do the wrong thing, or something like that. So taking them at their word, I took one last look in the mirror and left for the ultimate contest.

  There were a handful of guys waiting for the elevator as I passed it by. I saw that they’d opted for dark suits or tuxes. Couldn’t fault them for that. If I’d given it more thought, I’d have done the same.

  I nodded and kept going. I figured the hotel had a grand staircase that went all the way to the top floor because somebody thought it would be used.

  Stepping out onto the hotel porch, I saw more suits. There was no point fretting over it, as my grandmother would say.

  Right on time, three black stretch limos pulled up in a line just as it was getting dark. Easy math. Eighteen rooms in the hotel. Eighteen contestants, six to a car. I decided to try the shotgun trick again. I walked up to the driver of the first vehicle.

  “Hey, I’m Willem,” I said.

  “Yes. Good evening, Mr. Draiocht.”

  “I was wondering if anyone’s claimed the passenger seat in front.”

  His jaw went slack from surprise, but he recovered quickly and chuckled. “No one has, Mr. Draiocht. Would you like to sit up front?”

  “Love to. I didn’t get your name.”

  “Anselm, sir,” he said as he opened the passenger door for me.

  I settled in feeling like I’d scored a coup. While the other guys would be riding sideways on bench seats, giving each other the stink eye, I’d be looking forward like God intended, seeing where I was going, just the way I liked it.

  When we pulled away, I said, “How long have you been driving, Anselm?”

  “You mean how long have I had a chauffeur license? ‘Bout six years.”

  “Do you work out of Austin or San Antonio?”

  “Nope. Wimberley.”

  I looked at him with open disbelief. “From what I’ve seen of Wimberley, I’d be surprised that the locals could keep you busy.”

  He smiled and gave me a sideways glance. “Busy enough. Sometimes I take jobs elsewhere.”

  We began our ascent, winding up through the hills that mirrored what we’d seen at the Orientation, palatial villas dotting the hillscape like gems. Within five minutes we pulled up to a guardhouse at a massive outer iron gate. When Anselm lowered the window and showed himself, the guard opened the
gate. We drove inside about twenty feet and waited while the gate closed behind us. When it was secure the inner gate opened and we drove forward.

  I looked behind us. “Are the other two cars going through that same process?”

  Anselm looked amused. “You’ve got a lot of questions for somebody who hasn’t won yet, Mr. Draiocht. You just concentrate on gettin’ yourself a witch. Tonight that should be the only thing on your mind.”

  Should it? I still wasn’t sure what I was even doing in a limo in Wimberley, Texas, having just passed through a security setup that would do the mafia proud.

  The climb quickly went from a gentle slope to steep ascent.

  “Wow. Great for skateboarding.”

  Anselm chuckled. “I hear some of the young ladies use the incline for just that purpose. Personally I don’t get it. Beating yourself up like that?” He shook his head.

  We turned into a lane lined with trees on both sides that gave no clue as to where we might be headed, but within a minute it opened onto an estate that would put most of Beverley Hills to shame. There were tiers of gardens, each with room for car parking tastefully worked into the design. It was unique, charming, and practical.

  The house looked like a grand English manor with gas light sconces every few feet. The design was centuries old, but the house was flawlessly new.

  “Here you are, sir,” said Anselm. “If you wait, I’ll come ‘round and open the door for you.”

  I grinned. “No need. Thanks for the ride.”

  “Anytime.” He smiled and touched the bill of his chauffeur’s cap.

  I could hear music coming from the house as soon as I opened the car door. Suited young men were spilling out of limousines and heading toward the open door. I filed in behind them, feeling a rush of excitement to finally learn why I’d let myself get caught up in this mysterious pursuit of the last thing I wanted, a wife. I was too curious to withdraw from the competition once I found out what it was about. Certainly I’m not the marrying sort. I’ve known that about myself since I was a child.

  Some of the winners were in the foyer greeting contestants as we arrived. There was a large living room to the left, where the music was coming from. I craned my neck around a couple of fellow contestants and saw that it was a lone musician with two keyboards, a mic, and a guitar sitting off to the side. It was very impressive. He was managing to make a lot of decent-sounding music for a solo act, kind of a pop/new age fusion.