Witch it Real Good

by Dakota Cassidy

  I nodded my head in understanding when what I really wanted to do was scream in frustration. How could I ask why Roger looked so much like Win when I was already supposed to know the answer?

  “Riiiight-right. Of course it would be difficult to travel much. My mistake. So…Nebraska?”

  She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Home of corn and steak. It’s dreadful, but who would think to look for me there?”

  Shrugging my shoulders, I gave her an apologetic smile. “I dunno. I like corn. Especially Mexican street corn. Have you ever had it? It’s delicious.”

  “Darling, the carbs simply aren’t worth it. Now, enough of this,” she drawled as though it was obvious carbs were her mortal enemy, waving the gun around in my face. “Now, I have a question for you. It’s only fair, yes? And I want you to answer it truthfully.”

  As she spoke, Karen the reindeer snored, startling me enough to make me take a step forward, which only brought me closer to Miranda’s gun.

  “You bet. Ask me anything,” I replied jovially, my brain still on fire.

  Her face fell, almost as though she were disappointed. “Why are you with Roger, darling? He must be at least thirty years older than you, Stephania. If I didn’t have to kill you, I’d befriend you and show you the way. I feel as though in another life, we could have been friends. You’re still fairly young and pretty, with plenty of life ahead of you. Save yourself—because mark my words, Roger’s going to do you wrong, darling. He’s the devil himself,” she spat, her green eyes flashing.

  Thirty years older than me… Roger was thirty years older than me.

  Um, what?

  He didn’t look any older than Win or Balthazar.

  “I guess I like older men,” I muttered, even though I didn’t know what I was talking about.

  I think that’s when it all sort of began to flow together. I was beginning to formulate a theory. Roger was there the night Win had died. He had, in fact, been the person to kill Win, which meant he had to be the man with the tattoo on his hand. Right?

  In that moment, when the picture we’d spent so much time trying to figure out flashed through my mind’s eye, it hit me all at once.

  I’d like to believe my delay in arriving at my destination was due to the stress of being held at gunpoint. Add in what we already knew—like the picture of the man not being terribly clear, the information Hal had gathered, and the fact that Roger doesn’t look a day over maybe, tops, forty, but I can’t be sure that’s true.

  I mean, I hope that’s true, because otherwise, I was a crummier amateur sleuth than even I believed.

  Anyway, Roger is thirty years older than me.

  So, a guy who looked exactly like Win with a tattoo on his hand who was thirty-years older than me equaled?

  Before I could catch myself, I mumbled the words, “Thirty years older…”

  Miranda barked a laugh. “Did he lie about that, too, darling? Of course he’s thirty years older than you. At least. Plastic surgery isn’t just for us vain girls, you know. You can ask Roger. He knows all about the skill of a good plastic surgeon’s knife.”

  My heart began an erratic, almost skippy beat and my clammy hands became even clammier.

  Ooooh. Oh. My. Stars.

  All the blood surely drained from my face, and if my feet were like blocks of ice before, now they were frozen in place as the realization of who Roger was hit me like a brick to my face.

  You know why Miranda thinks Win is Roger, folks?

  Do you know why, according to Miranda, he’s easily thirty years older than me?

  Are you ready? Gird your loins.

  Roger isn’t his cousin or an uncle or a triplet or a turnip, for that matter.

  Win’s biological father was Roger—and he wasn’t dead at all.

  Chapter 17

  “Stephania?” Win called from outside the barn, his voice tinged with only a small amount of panic. “Dove, where are you? Atticus has Twinkies especially for you.”

  I was still reeling from my discovery, reeling so hard, I had to grab the edge of Karen’s stall to hold myself up, but I knew I was right. It was too horrible to believe, but I was right.

  It explained why Miranda kept insisting I’d been with Roger as she followed us around Marshmallow Hollow. She’d obviously never been close enough to see it wasn’t Roger at all. From a distance, he absolutely did look like a sleezier version of Win with all those gold chains around his neck.

  It explained the picture she’d been showing to the shop owners of the man who looked just like Win and Balthazar. And listen, even if the picture wasn’t all that clear, Roger looked pretty darn good for a guy his age. Miranda wasn’t lying when she said a good plastic surgeon is key.

  But it didn’t explain why Win’s own biological father would kill him. I didn’t even know how to digest that.

  However, my plate was full, thank you very much. I needed to get the heck off this buffet line and find a palate cleanser before I either lost my mind or my heart exploded from my chest.

  The moment Win called my name, Miranda stilled all motion and cooed in a seductive whisper, “He calls you Dove, darling? How sickeningly quaint.” Then she waved the gun right under my nose, her lips going hard and thin. “Now get him in here and we’ll finish this.”

  So here’s where a rock and a hard place should be forced to put my picture next to the euphemism.

  If I beckoned Win, Miranda was in for a surprise—and so was he. But he was also in danger. He had no weapon; he was coming in blind. If I summoned him, he’d come, and I’d be letting him walk right into a trap. That was never going to happen. Not on my watch.

  If I didn’t call out to him, Miranda would go after him, and he’d have no warning.

  But I didn’t have to worry about any of that—because all at once, everything went a little wonky.

  Someone else from outside the barn bellowed, “How the hell…?” in yet another distinctly British accent.

  Both Miranda and I looked at each other in confusion, obviously because the voices and accents sounded so similar, seconds before the whole fiasco became one big blur of bodies, horrified faces, and spy-on-spy-on-biological-parentage revelations.

  Win burst through the barn doors with a flashlight and a man hot on his heels. The light from behind Win made it hard to distinguish the man, until Win shone the flashlight on him, but he almost didn’t have to. I already knew it was Roger, and when he came into full view, I was validated.

  Holy cats, he looked just like Win. There was no denying he was Win’s father. But he looked so good for his age, if you didn’t look closely, you wouldn’t know there was an age difference at all, which is exactly why we all thought the picture Miranda had circulated was of Win.

  And as my eyes skimmed down his body, there it was, right on his hand, just below his knuckles—the tattoo of the coiled snake.

  There was a heavy moment of silence—a moment where shock bled into disbelief and turned into paralyzing fear. In that moment, as I watched Win narrow his gaze at Miranda and Roger, and Miranda’s gaze widen in horror when she saw my Spy Guy standing next to her accomplice, it was then the silence became a living, breathing thing.

  Miranda opened her mouth, but nothing came out as she backed away, her eyes darting from Roger to Win.

  But it was when Roger and Win caught sight of each other that I knew Win’s world had tipped on its axis. I knew he was as confused as he’d ever been, despite the fact that he put his spy face on and pretended he wasn’t as flummoxed as everyone else.

  The shock and surprise didn’t stop him from moving to my side and taking a protective stance by wrapping his arm around my waist and placing me behind him.

  “Stephania, are you all right?”

  But Miranda, much the way she’d been doing since I met Win, interrupted our short reunion. “Crispin?” she whispered in shock, her hand trembling as she continued to back away. “How can this be? You…you were dead! Roger, who is this?”

  “G
reetings of the day, Miranda,” Win said sarcastically, clearly amused by her fear. And when he turned to Roger, on eyebrow cocked, the crude stitches on his head rakish in the dim light, I had to give it up to him for not reacting. Instead, he quite casually, in an almost bored tone asked, “You are?”

  But Roger thought he knew the score. He narrowed his gaze at Win, his jaw hard and unyielding. “Miranda, you bloody fool, this can’t be Crispin. Crispin is dead. I killed him that night at your little love nest. It’s Balthazar.”

  Her chest rose and fell, clouds of condensation puffing from her nose as her gaze darted from Win to Roger.

  “Who…who is Balthazar?” she squealed, her horror evident by the expression on her face and the chalky pallor of her skin.

  “His twin, you idiot!” Roger roared, clenching his fists. “You didn’t do your homework, Miranda. Crispin had a twin. A twin named Balthazar with a criminal history as long as your legs. If you’d done your homework, you would have known that, and I wouldn’t have had to try to kill him, too!”

  Try and kill him? So Roger had killed Balthazar and left him on the doorstep of a Chicago hospital? His own father? This just grew worse and worse.

  So right then and there, as Miranda was experiencing a clear measure of relief, when she felt reassured she wasn’t seeing a ghost, you know what Win did?

  He laughed—loud enough to startle Karen the reindeer awake and make Miranda jump. “If I’m Balthazar, how would I know what happened the night you killed me, Roger?” he asked. “Aren’t you the only two who know what happened?”

  But Roger shook his head, his expression cocky, his eyes, so like Win’s, flashing and angry. “That’s bloody ridiculous!” he spat. And look, I know now wasn’t the time, but I can’t get over how young he looked.

  Maybe in daylight, the story is different, but shoot, it I lived, I hoped I could get the name of his plastic surgeon.

  “Is it?” Win asked as he began to move toward Roger, his strong legs taking long steps. “If I’m truly Balthazar, how would I know about Miranda’s phone call the night I was killed? How would I know about the arms deal she was making? How would I know what her code name was?”

  Miranda had a code name? Why hadn’t Win ever mentioned her code name? I mean, of course she had a code name. All spies did—didn’t they? Why was I always the last one to know everything?

  Roger faltered for a moment, his eyes intense, until he stood up straight and sneered at Win. “No! You’re Balthazar! I left you for dead at the hospital in Chicago. You were in a coma. The doctors said you were brain dead! They told my man you were going to die, it was only a matter of time!” he yelled, clearly rattled by Win’s admission.

  I had to fight a sharp gasp. I almost couldn’t breathe from the horror of his confession. Hearing it spoken out loud changed everything. Everything. In fact, I was incapable of keeping my mouth shut.

  “Why?” I rasped in a whisper, putting my hand to my mouth. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. My mother wasn’t exactly Carol Brady, but she was a whole heck of a lot better than Roger. “Why would you kill your own sons?”

  “The money!” Miranda blurted out, her voice shaky, her eyes darting to Win’s face. “Just before Roger’s mother Catriona died, she discovered Crispin’s existence. She was a very powerful, rich woman, and she despised Roger because he was always so cruel to her. When she found out about Crispin, quite by accident, she decided to leave everything to him—every last bloody thing she owned! She knew who her own son was! A monster!”

  My chest burned and ached for Win. It became so tight, I thought my lungs would explode.

  But not Win. Win was a veritable iceberg.

  “Money,” he drawled coolly, driving his hands into the pockets of his overalls. “The root of all evil, eh, Miranda? I suppose if no one could locate me, after a period of time, Catriona’s money would go to Roger by default, yes?”

  “Yes,” Miranda muttered, her eyes filling with tears.

  “So Roger offered you a tidy sum to off me. There never was an arms deal, was there? That was simply a way to have me booted from the Von Krause case and make your access to me that much easier, wasn’t it, darling? ” he drawled, narrowing his gaze at her.

  I don’t know how he figured it out, but he had.

  “Yes,” she whispered, but then she shook her head as though the information was too much for her to bear. “No! You can’t be Crispin. You simply cannot be!”

  But that didn’t stop Win. “Alas, much like Catriona, my father didn’t know about Balthazar either, did he? I suppose with me dead, if anyone found out about Balthazar, the money would go to him? Am I right, Roger? And you couldn’t have that, could you?”

  Oh, heaven. I felt like I might pass out, but I had to keep it together for Win.

  “Stop playing this game!” Roger hissed, straightening his spine and jamming his hand into the pockets of his thick down jacket. “You’re Balthazar! I don’t know what happened—a medical miracle, some bollocks or another—but somehow you lived. You’re not Crispin! He’s not Crispin, Miranda!”

  Win’s chin lifted as my knees trembled. I don’t know how he kept such a stiff upper lip in light of the horrific truths his father was spewing, but he only moved in closer until they were almost nose to nose.

  Then he tilted his lips up in a smile, mocking the man. “But how can that be, Roger?” he drawled as though he were bored. I half expected him to buff his nails at any minute, he looked so bored. “Indeed, I’m very much the man you tried to run down. The man you likely paid to have someone sloppily take potshots at the other night, missing the woman I love by inches—which I assure you, for this, you shall pay. But I also assure you, I’m not Balthazar. How would Balthazar know I died on the patio of that dilapidated house in Ebenezer Falls from a gunshot wound to the chest after a battle with my ex-girlfriend, who went by the code name Blue Python?”

  Miranda gasped again before she began to stumble backward even farther. Man, for a spy, someone who was supposed to keep their cool no matter what—even in the face of boyfriends she’d had a hand in killing, rising from the dead—she sort of stunk at what Win called giving good face.

  Not only was she crumbling like a house of cards, I noted she’d become quite lazy with that gun in her hand. It now dangled loosely at her side. What kind of spy forgets to keep her weapon poised and ready?

  “This is a trick, Roger!” Miranda cried, the light cast from the windows catching the tears streaming down her face. “MI6 is up to no good. It has to be MI6! They found out about all your dirty dealings and they’ve sent in an imposter to toy with you! You killed him that night! We were both there. This can’t be Crispin!”

  But Win shook his head and clucked his tongue as he approached her with such speed, it was almost superhuman. “No, Miranda. It’s not MI6. If you were a good little spy, you’d have made contact with one of your dirty friends, and they would have told you, I’m confirmed dead. But tell me, Miranda, would I know something this intimate were I not Crispin? Would Crispin have shared something so detailed…like that night we spent in Palestine…with anyone at MI6?”

  He leaned in then and whispered something in her ear, making her knees buckle as she whimpered and shook her head.

  I don’t know what it was he’d whispered. I don’t ever want to know, either. I only know, it was the distraction I needed to spring into action and warn Win while Miranda’s defenses were down, and she was rightly freaked out about Crispin’s resurrection.

  But the moment I yelled to Win in warning, “She has a gun!”—I probably didn’t need to because he probably already knew, but I like my ducks in a row—was the next moment Arkady finally showed up to the party and yelled, “Malutka, Roger has gun, too!”

  My eyes flew to Roger (who honestly, if I could wrap my hands around his neck, I’d strangle him until his eyes bulged for doing what he’d done to Win), who did, indeed, have a gun.

  “Malutka, you must dive to ground! Go for his feet” Ark
ady ordered, and like the good little amateur spy I was, I dove like I was Greg Louganis, thanking the universe for my favorite Russian spy.

  I landed squarely at Roger’s feet, hitting the cold, hard ground with a crack of my bones and a burn to my chest flesh, but I grabbed him around his ankles with both arms and managed to topple him over, hearing his harsh grunt as he hit the floor of the barn.

  When I had him on the ground, I hauled myself up over his thighs just as Arkady yelled, “Malutka, gun is to your right! Get gun!”

  My eyes darted to the gun, which I could barely see without Win’s flashlight, but I scrambled off Roger and rolled to my right anyway, hitting something small and hard.

  “Is gun, malutka! Get gun! Reach above head!

  I stretched my arms upward blindly and felt the metal of the gun seconds before Roger came crashing back down on me, his heavy weight landing squarely on the length of me, catching me so off guard, I couldn’t breathe.

  “Zero!” I heard Arkady call out. “She has other gun in pantyhose!”

  I don’t know what that meant, I only know I think Roger had crushed my windpipe and maybe all my internal organs with his body slam, and Win was going to have to fend for himself.

  Roger did exactly what I would have done were our roles reversed. He scrambled up my body and straddled my hips, wrapped his hands around my neck, and began to squeeze.

  Man, I hated this maneuver. It always left me with a sore throat for days and a crick in my neck that hurt something fierce.

  “Malutka! You must go for his eyes. Go for his eyes!”

  I lifted my arms, but they felt sluggish and slow, sticking my thumbs out and pressing them to Roger’s face—which, alas, only made him squeeze harder.

  Heat rushed to my cheeks and I grew dizzy, but Arkady was in my ear once more.

  “Malutka, you must listen to Arkady Bagrov. You will not let this man win this battle! He is bad man who do bad things to our Zero. He must pay! Fight, malutka, take his eyes out!”

  Somewhere, I’m not sure where exactly, the life that was being bled out of me sparked a flame. I heard Win fighting with Miranda, I heard what I think was Karen making whatever noises reindeer make, and then I heard my body’s engine jumpstart.