Actually, I was pretty sure the last thing was the reason he didn’t slam the door in my face.
Not all the daughters of witches had magical ability, and of those that did, quite a few couldn’t manage more than a very specialized area of spellcraft. Some of us really got the short end of the magical wand—boil water with a touch, but only a few cups at a time, call an object from across the room, but only if that object weighed less than three pounds and wasn’t more than twenty feet away, invisibility, but only from twilight to dark and only if she had the forethought to put on camo or dark clothing first.
My sisters and I had a wider range of skills and abilities. None of us liked to completely show our hands, but being a descendant of Temperance Perkins meant the town residents, supernatural and otherwise, tended to regard me with caution. Well, they regarded me with caution after The Incident anyway. Before that, no one paid much attention to me at all.
Dallas was far more interested in what was between my legs than any magical power I might or might not have. He’d always been a letch. Didn’t matter whether someone was a werewolf, a harpy, a ghoul, or a witch, if they had boobs and a reasonably appropriate slot B for tab A, then he was game.
“Dallas. I’m here to talk with Clinton about what went on last night.” No sense in beating around the bush with this guy. Small talk would only give him the impression that he had a chance to get me in his bed in the next hour.
He leaned against the doorjamb and tossed his silver hair over one shoulder, stroking his reddish-blond beard with one hand. All the werewolves had long hair, men and women both. Men and the occasional woman also had an ample supply of facial hair. I think it was less to do with grooming trends and more to do with the fact that werewolves grew hair at an alarming rate, especially around the full moon. Their healing ramped up this time of the month as well. Last year Evie Howler had fallen face-first into a bonfire during one drunken party and come out of it looking like something from a horror movie. The next night not only was her skin completely healed, but her hair had grown back to past her chin.
“Sure you’re not here to see me instead?” Dallas continued to stroke his beard.
“Unless you’re the one pressing charges against my client for assault, then no.” I squeezed in past him and immediately regretted it as the guy copped a feel on my ass.
I’m a witch. I could have hexed his hand or cursed the thing right off his wrist joint, but I didn’t practice magic, and I needed this werewolf’s cooperation. For all his skeeviness, Dallas was pack alpha. I wouldn’t go so far as to sleep with him, but if grabbing my rear got him to insist Clinton drop the charges, then so be it.
“Clinton’s pretty pissed,” he told me. “Who the hell beat him up anyway?”
I shrugged, moving out of the range of the werewolf’s hands. “A newbie. Some tourist.”
He chuckled. “Some tourist? You see Clinton’s face? And Stanley wound up with twenty stitches in his head along with that broken arm. If he’d been human, he’d probably have been dead.”
I grimaced. “Stanley is the one who got his head shoved into the windshield, right?” Dallas nodded. “Well, if it’s any consolation, the guy in jail doesn’t look all that good either.”
Actually, he looked pretty damn good, and I wasn’t just talking about how attractive the man was. I’d seen people who’d been on the other side of Clinton’s fists before and it hadn’t been a pretty sight. Last month a werewolf had come close to killing one of the humans in town. We let the werewolves get away with a lot, but serious injury and death was where we drew the line. The sheriff had asked us to visit the pack compound as a group and make it quite clear to Dallas that the werewolf clan needed to follow the town rules. I’d been bouncing that stuff back on our elected officials for over almost two decades but for some reason I was in a bad mood and had decided to intervene. I’d marched up to the compound and told the alpha that the if someone died, every wolf in town would wind up a rug on our floor. Normally Dallas would have laughed in my face, but ever since The Incident, he’d seemed to take me a bit more seriously. Since The Incident everyone took me a bit more seriously.
Temperance Perkins hadn’t established this sanctuary and put these protections in place for supernaturals to turn into a bunch of bullies. Maybe Aaron was right. Maybe the town did need a witch to keep things in order. But why did that witch have to be me?
I know. Whine, whine, whine. But seriously, could I at least have ten or so years of my life where I didn’t have to do something that was imposed on me because of who or what I was? Or because someone else wasn’t up to the task?
“Well, Clinton’s spitting nails,” Dallas commented. “That guy might be a tourist, but he’s no newb. Man took on four werewolves and lived. What the hell is he, Cass?”
Like most supernaturals, Dallas underestimated the abilities of non-magical humans. And he underestimated how vicious a crazy person could be when provoked. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if Lucien really did have something demonic going on.
Or he was just really kick-ass at fighting.
“He claims to be the son of Satan.” I shrugged and held up my hands. “If that’s the case, Clinton and the boys are lucky they walked away at all from that fight.”
Dallas’ reaction was just as comical as his come-hither routine had been. The werewolf shuddered, his blue eyes wide. “A demon? I hate those damned things. Why you gotta let them in town, Cass? Why can’t it just be us here and the occasional newb and tourist without a bunch of hellspawn mucking things up?”
I blinked in surprise, and not just because he felt like I was the one that decided who got to stay in Accident and who got to leave. He’d encountered a demon before? There’d never been a demon in Accident as far as I knew. And as far as I knew, Dallas had spent his life here, outside the occasional hunting vacation in the Rockies or up in Alaska. Where had he encountered a demon? And why was he so worried?
“We’ve got to be welcoming to all sorts, Dallas,” I told him. “This town was founded to be a haven to all. If we’re going to open our wards to werewolves, gargoyles, mermaids, and silkies, then we need to let demons in as well. If you feel otherwise, then petition the mayor, not me.”
“You’re the witch,” he countered. “You’re the eldest female of the line. You’re the one that decides this stuff, not some jackass of a mayor.”
“Times change,” I informed him. “We’re not living in the seventeenth century any more. I might be a witch, but I’m not the duly elected official of this town. If you want to ban demons from Accident, take up a petition or talk to the mayor.”
“Don’t want them here. They don’t belong here. Demons aren’t like us,” he complained. “I don’t feel safe with one in town. I don’t trust that your magic can keep him under control, make him mind the rules, ya know? And when witches and demons get together…well, it ain’t fair. It ain’t at all fair.”
I tried to sort through his words, trying to determine what exactly was fueling his objection.
Would a demon be something that a town full of paranormal creatures and an entire coven of witches couldn’t control? And the thought made him, a huge powerful werewolf alpha...scared?
Scared. What on earth could possibly scare Dallas Dickskin, the alpha of Accident’s werewolf pack? Certainly not a guy who’d been locked in jail overnight, contained by metal bars and still sporting some rather impressive bruises and cuts. I was pretty sure my sisters and I didn’t even scare Dallas. He’d promised to keep his werewolves in line more in the hopes that he’d get one of us in the sack than any respect toward our local law enforcement or my recent threat to haul their hides to the local taxidermist.
Who was a leprechaun. Seems tanning hides and preserving the dead was a particular skill of theirs. Who knew?
I eyed Dallas with renewed interest. “Well, newbie or demon, I can’t kick this guy out of town and hex him into never returning if he needs to stay here pending a hearing on assault charges,�
�� I pointed out. “Aaron made me put a spelled ankle bracelet on him just to make sure he didn’t skip out.”
Dallas made all sorts of expressive facial expressions and began once more to stroke his beard. “I’ll talk to Clinton,” he told me.
“Why don’t I talk to Clinton?” I countered. “Or better yet, both of us talk to Clinton?”
He nodded, then lifted his face to the ceiling and howled. It was a deep, guttural sound, far more hair-raising than the calls I’d heard from actual wolves and coyotes out west. This vibrated from deep in his throat, filling the house and my ears with the type of melodious note that both made my heart lurch with the beauty, and my skin prickle with fear.
I was pretty sure he’d just hollered for Clinton, but like all families, others came running as well, no doubt to see what sort of trouble the black sheep of the Dickskin family had gotten himself into. They kept a respectful distance, but by the time Clinton stomped sullenly into the room, the walls were lined with a dozen other werewolves, all trying to look like they were doing something benign while stealing quick curious glances at Dallas and me. I recognized a few of them, having grown up here in Accident. Besides the few I’d seen around town, I saw Stanley, his arm mended enough that he didn’t need a cast, but still sporting a line of half-healed stitches across his forehead. By his side were two other bruised werewolves who I assumed had also been involved in the scuffle at Pistol Pete’s last night. A few feet away was Shelby, the only female wolf who was actually in the room instead of lurking in the hallway. She was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed, a smirk on her face. Or maybe it was a sneer. With Shelby, it was hard to tell.
“What?” Clinton’s snarl was the second thing that raised the hair on the back of my neck in the last five minutes. I had to hold myself back from clutching the amulet around my neck.
“Drop the charges,” Dallas snapped back. “Don’t want no demon in this town, and the witch can’t kick him out if he’s gotta be here to stand trial. So drop the charges.”
“He’s not a demon.” Clinton came dangerously close to his alpha, looking the elder man square in the eye. “He’s just some newbie who’s got an attitude.”
Dallas looked pointedly at the yellowish-purple of Clinton’s faded bruises. “Telling me some newb did that?”
Clinton actually blushed. Embarrassment? No, now that I looked closer, I think it was an angry sort of red that suffused the werewolf’s face.
“I’d had a bit too much to drink or they’d a been hauling him out of town on a stretcher.”
“Four of you had too much to drink?” Dallas laughed. “Poodle. I’ve got newborn bitches that fight better than you.”
I sucked in a breath realizing that not only had I lost control of this situation, but I was probably about to witness a fight the magnitude of which the town hadn’t seen since Dallas killed Old Dog Butch and took over the pack back in ’68.
I breathed out a word and traced a quick sigil in the air, feeling the power surge through me milliseconds before the flash-bang lit the room and made every werewolf in it yelp. A few of the werewolves ran into the safety of the hallway. Dallas and Clinton froze where they stood. Shelby’s eyes widened and she watched me with barely concealed alarm.
I felt a momentary weakness, a rush of exhaustion, like someone had opened up a drain and let all my energy out before quickly replacing the stopper. Even the slightest magic had a cost. But this minor fee was well worth the attention and respect it gained me here in this room.
Ignoring the alpha, I turned to Clinton. “I got stuck representing this newbie. Or demon. Whatever. And I really don’t care who started the fight, or who-put-who through the windshield of a truck. I’ve got a tourist in town with no money and no identification. I’m having to put him up in Hollister’s inn on my damned dime because you’re embarrassed that someone got the jump on you in a fight and like a puppy, you went whining to the law. Drop the charges. I’ll have the guy out of town by nightfall. No one ever needs to hear how a newbie, a tourist who apparently has no magic whatsoever, managed to land more than one blow on a werewolf.”
It was a risky tone of voice to take with a dominant male werewolf, but I’d found out over the years that playing this bunch involved a whole lot of bravado and a whole lot of bluffing.
The air crackled with tension. I could practically hear the werewolves around the edges of the room say a low “ooo”. Clinton sucked in a breath and glared at me, while I forced my hands to not clutch the amulet at my neck.
Temperance Perkins had allowed the first werewolves into town in 1723. In the outside world, they’d been hunted nearly to extermination. The bonded pair who’d begged for sanctuary were with a pack of only six others. They were so starved that they looked like gaunt corpses. The female alpha had been pregnant, her tiny belly the only bit of flesh on her skin-and-bones body. She’d confessed to Temperance that she’d lost a litter earlier in the year, and that all her previous pups had been slaughtered by their first adult full moon.
Let no one ever say that witches didn’t have a compassionate heart.
Temperance not only let them into the town, a sanctuary she’d created that had up until this point housed only witches and the humans who were sympathetic to their plight, she went on to allow other shifters in as well. She’d allowed fairies and pixies, mermaids and sirens, ghouls and chupacabras. And more. She’d been a tight-laced, stern, God-fearing religious pilgrim who’d been cast out and nearly put to death by the people she’d loved just because she had a gift of magic. And that event had been the catalyst that opened her Christian heart to allowing others refuge in the sanctuary she’d created. Over the centuries the tiny wolf pack had accepted other refugee werewolves and grown to their current size, taking over the entirety of Heartbreak Mountain, and causing the witches to expand the town limits considerably to ensure their safety. They owed us. And by us, I meant the town. Clinton dropping the charges, and allowing his pride to be just as bruised as his face was the right thing to do for the town. And for the pack.
“No,” Clinton snarled. “I’m not dropping the charges. Newbie or demon, I agree that man don’t belong here. I want him gone, but it’s the rule of our land that people pay for what they’ve done. He struck first. He put Stanley though a windshield and broke his arm. He’s gotta have his day before the law and pay by spending time in jail. Maybe he’s a demon. Maybe he’s just a crazy newb who’s really good at fighting. Either way, man’s gotta pay.”
Since when did Clinton Dickskin give a damn about anyone paying? Oh, silly me. Clinton was always concerned when it was someone else who had to pay. Not so concerned when it was him who was being called to account.
“He spent the night in jail, Clinton,” I told him, my tone more conciliatory than it had been before. “He looks like hell from the fight. He spent the night in jail. And now he’s holed up at Hollister’s with no food and no change of clothes and no money for pay-per-view. He’s wearing a magical ankle bracelet because Aaron wanted to make sure the guy who didn’t have any ID and no apparent fixed address managed to make it to his hearing. Just drop the charges. Let this dude limp home and never come back and take whatever psych meds he needs to be on to remind himself that he’s not a demon or the son of Satan. Drop the charges.”
The werewolf met my eyes, then looked back at Dallas before turning to me again. “Not now. Not tonight. The hearing will be Monday or Tuesday. I got some things I gotta work out this weekend, and I’ll think about it. Come see me Sunday night and I’ll let you know.”
That wasn’t good enough. “How about you let me know tomorrow noon?” I asked, thinking of Lucien’s check-out time and how I had nowhere else for him to stay after that point.
Clinton narrowed his eyes. “Meet me at ten for breakfast at the Stagecoach tomorrow morning, and we’ll discuss it. If I’m so inclined, that is.”
I winced, hoping that maybe he might be so inclined if his bruises were completely healed by then, and if he’d so
mehow managed to regain his status in the pack after a disastrous bar fight. Whatever. It might be easier to smooth the guy’s ego after he’d slept and when he was away from his pack and facing a stack of cinnamon-spice pancakes with extra whipped cream.
“You’ve got it, Clinton,” I told him. “And if you decide to drop the charges, breakfast is on me.”
Chapter 7
Cassandra
It was closing in on five o’clock by the time I got down from the mountain where the werewolves had marked their territory. It was too late to work on those trespassing cases, even if I’d brought the paperwork from the office with me.
Happy hour? Or…
Crap. I turned down Cherry Street and pulled into the parking lot behind the Lutheran church, making it inside right at five thirty. Martin smiled at me and opened the book next to him, putting a check mark next to my name while I sat down and tried not to fume that I was the only one here that wasn’t “anonymous”. It was my temper that had gotten me here in the first place. Being an angry attorney was par for the course. Being an angry witch attorney was evidently something that could cost me my license and my job if I didn’t get it under control. I had no idea how my boss would explain to the bar association the reason he was recommending my disbarment, but I was sure he’d somehow manage it. Was anger-fueled magical activity in the courtroom technically illegal? It wasn’t like I’d pulled a knife on someone.
Besides, it had been my ex-boyfriend. My ex the prosecutor. My ex that I somehow needed to convince to drop this case now that Clinton was digging in his heels.
My ex who in spite of what I’d done, still wanted to get back together with me. Which was so not happening.
Martin looked over my shoulder, beaming a smile at whoever had come in behind me. “Welcome! Have a seat. We’re just about to get started.”
A familiar voice returned the greeting, making the words sound like smooth decadent barrel-aged bourbon. I turned in surprise to see Lucien lowering himself into a chair next to me. He scooted it over a few inches and I scooted away a few more.
Brimstone and Broomsticks: Accidental Witches Book 1 Page 5