Witch Gone Viral

by Sami Valentine

  “As good as any do-gooder human does. Sometimes, I get what Fuchs was saying about my soul. It makes you whiny.” Chang rolled his eyes. “Enough catch up.”

  Distracted by the thought of what it must have been like for the demon-fighting cop to start working for the local vamps, Red fell silent at his suggestion.

  Joe Chang blinked, mouth dropping as if shocked by her obedience.

  Quinn asked, “Need more men on the ground?”

  “This is a confidential, ongoing investigation.” Joe crossed his arms, cheek twitching as if he realized he’d said too much.

  “He’s not the first dead vampire.” Red leaned in, head cocked. All the van time with Vic’s tinfoil hat podcasts must have rubbed off, because she smelled a conspiracy. “Did they all have souls?”

  “Okay Quinn, take Nancy Drew here and move it along,” Officer Chang ordered, waving his arm to direct them to the end of the alley.

  Red bit her lip. She studied the skeleton before meeting Quinn’s gaze.

  “Just walk away.” Quinn guided her away with a hand on her shoulder.

  Red turned, put her hands in her pockets, and walked into the lit-up half of the alley, passing from one world into another as if through a dark veil. Crossing a thin line between the paranormal and the normal, the street cacophony grew louder.

  Tomorrow, an office smoker sneaking out for their cigarette break would never know that a skeleton had lain by the dumpster. Assuring secrecy, the vampires would cover all traces. Only the maintenance man would notice that the light was broken. Vandalizing teenagers or a clumsy cat would be blamed. The building would pay for a repair. No one would know that an immortal had met his end in the alley. If Chang had his way, not even a whisper would hit the underworld.

  “He was coming to see you, I bet.” Red tugged at her sleeves, frowning as she fidgeted. It felt wrong to walk away from a case. “We’ll get pulled into this. Mark my words.”

  Quinn leaned in to whisper, “Before then, I’ll find out all about the investigation from Delilah when she goes to yoga with Cora.”

  “Oh, talking with the ex-wife now?” Red mentally added- and sire. Vampires didn’t just have complicated political alliances; their personal lives were a mess. She had been dealing with the fallout of vampire drama ever since she arrived in Los Angeles.

  “Don’t tell Vic. I won’t hear the end of it.” Quinn shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

  Red chuckled even as she shivered from the wind. “All the vampires have secrets tonight.”

  “Always.”

  Chapter Two

  January 20th, Evening, California Sunrise Apartments, Los Angeles, California

  Curling up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, Red shoved a fistful into her mouth. The TV soared with the Harry Potter theme. Vic had tried to rally her to go to the Pump House for a round of drinks with some hunters. He’d even convinced Quinn to join him. Red had been running without a night in for weeks. She had been either studying for the hunter’s challenge or practicing what to say to the Dark Veil Assurance tribunal at her summons. Tomorrow was going to be a doozy. She didn’t need to be hungover for it too. Cozy in her fluffy socks and purple bathrobe, she had popcorn to eat and a lumpy scarf to knit. This was the kind of normal life that she wanted in Los Angeles. She had finally settled into the apartment, made it feel like a home, and even found a non-demon hunting related hobby. Dawn, the empath therapist that Basil had forced her to see would have been proud of her ace self-care right now.

  She looked up at the lamp beside the couch. The lights were still on in the empty apartment. Red reached for it, groaning at having to move her popcorn to the coffee table. She reminded herself that even if she was using her magic, she’d still have to get up.

  Her therapist didn’t get it. Neither did Vic. After everything that she had experienced fighting Maxwell Baldacci and Nevaeh Morgan, she didn’t see magic in the same way. Her friends saw it as a power to use, Red saw a power that could destroy in the wrong hands. Red didn’t know what her hands had done before Vic found her. Until she understood her origins and deciphered the meaning of her connection to her doppelgänger, she needed to forge her own path. She might not know who she was, but Red knew that she wasn’t capable of being a dark witch like Juniper St. James. She could prove it. Officially joining the Brotherhood was a start.

  Her pocket buzzed, rattling her from her musings.

  Smiling, Red braced herself for a drunk call from Vic. How long would it take him to bring up his buddy Stan in Colorado and try to set them up again? She bet herself it’d be three minutes before he mentioned that Stan’s weed farm was zombie proof.

  Wiping her buttery fingers on a paper towel, she paused the movie and pulled out her phone. Her jaw dropped at the name on the screen.

  Fat Crispin? On a video call? Vic’s point of contact with the Brotherhood, Fat Crispin sent them on bounties and paid on time. Always online. Fat Jake Crispin, scion of an oversized and aged Bard family, didn’t video chat. The only time he’d ever initiated a phone call was when his daughter Julia had been murdered and he gave them the case.

  Was he butt-dialing her? Red fell into indecision, wondering if she was going to see the inside of a pocket. She looked down at her bathrobe, knowing that only an oversized South Dakota tourist T-shirt hid underneath. She smoothed her hair back and swiped the video call on. If he wasn’t butt-dialing her, then this must be the apocalypse.

  Fat Crispin’s thin face loomed large on the small screen before he leaned back. The ironic nickname was courtesy of British humor in a venerable Brotherhood family with a dozen Jacobs in the branches. Lanky in his conservative blue suit, he had to adjust the screen to catch his whole face. Gray early morning London sunlight dappled his neatly-parted brown hair and perfectly straight bow tie. He hesitated, lips tight as his crinkled eyes behind his thick black frames. “Red, forgive the late hour.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Crispin. Vic is out. How can I help you?” Red crossed her fingers, hoping that he hadn’t tried Vic first. Her mentor hadn’t had a fun night out in ages, and she couldn’t imagine anything killing his buzz more than trying to hold it together for a video call with headquarters.

  “This matter is not about Vic. Unfortunately, it is news for you. This could not be in an email, I regret.” Fat Crispin clasped his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Understand that this is… unusual. Normally, a hunter’s challenge in California would gather little attention.”

  Red gulped, her stomach sinking as her hands grew cold. She saw what was around the corner in this conversation like seeing a collapsed bridge when you were already speeding. There was no pumping the breaks. “But mine got a lot, didn’t it?”

  “In certain circles, yes. The records from Michel’s coup were on a fast track to be processed and archived. My own doing, which I may regret.” British to the core, Fat Crispin had a stiff upper lip that could rival the Queen. Only the worry behind his glasses hinted at his disquiet. “That included the audio of Michel de Grammont’s conversation with you.”

  “Where he said I was the reincarnation of Juniper St. James.” It wasn’t a question. Red already knew. How many had gotten the reincarnation memo? She wanted to rail that it wasn’t true. Not even the warlock had been sure.

  Red bit her tongue. That was a fight that she hadn’t reported to the Brotherhood. Saying anything about Maxwell Baldacci would only lead to questions that wouldn’t help her case. Her research in the Brotherhood database hadn’t uncovered anything about the dead bard-turned-warlock anyway.

  “Indeed. It is a closed file with copious evidence, yet that particular snippet attracted notice.”

  “Let me guess, in certain circles?” She wet her lips, squeezing her fist on her lap as she tried to keep her face calm for the camera.

  “Higher than I dare speak of, Red. Therefore, this couldn’t be an email.”

  “What do you think, sir?” Red tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible even as her
heart begged for one answer.

  “Michel was a murderer. You brought him down. I don’t care if you were Medusa or Margaret Thatcher in a past life.” Fat Crispin crossed his arms. His blocky frames didn’t hide his determined, knotted brow. “I know your record. My daughter knows justice. I don’t need rumors.”

  “Is this a warning?” Red asked, delicately.

  The Brotherhood might have been a lumbering bear in its movements, but it knew how to keep secrets. If they were interested in her, the best-case scenario was that she ended up written about in a scholarly dissertation which would then be locked in a vault along with the classified Stonetree Monastery file. She didn’t like to think of the alternatives if the Brotherhood thought she was a threat.

  “Be on guard, Red. I don’t even know what to make of rumbles about an obscure witch that the historical record can’t even verify. No census records, no death certificate, no original documents even in our databases.” Fat Crispin shook his head. “Nothing beyond hearsay that she died in Dresden and had connections to vampires. She certainly wasn’t Morgana Le Fay.”

  Red nodded. Her eyes felt hot, but she kept her chin up. It was unsettling to know more of the Juniper St. James saga than the Brotherhood. Did they really think Juniper had died in Dresden? It was really in London in 1900 on the night that Lucas and his family were cursed with souls. She had tried researching her doppelgänger before. She had hoped that someone as high up as Fat Crispin would have better clearance than Vic, whose password she’d borrowed.

  “That isn’t the last of my grim tidings. You will get official notice, but after your stellar if unofficial service with Constantine, I did not feel that a letter would suffice. I’m afraid that your application to take the hunter’s challenge has been rejected. You have been deemed unfit by men who do not know you. That is not an opinion shared by me—or others in this Brotherhood.”

  “Thank you for telling me yourself.” Red’s head swam as she put a hand on her chest, trying to keep herself from embarrassing the proper Englishman with her emotions. She barely heard his short goodbye.

  Her ears rang and her vision blurred as she hung up. She leaned back on the couch, a hand covering her mouth. Red fought the tears, but they pushed through. Standing up, she gripped her phone, fighting the urge to scream-cry like a wounded pterodactyl. Everything she had worked for since joining Vic was to join the Brotherhood. She had risked more than life and limb to make this world even just a little less shitty and dangerous, and it only took the word of a monster to destroy her reputation.

  Her phone buzzed again. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. If it was Vic this time, he chose a terrible time to drunk dial. Red flipped up the screen to see a text message pop up.

  Automated reminder to RED: Your Dark Veil Assurance tribunal is tomorrow. Report to your supreme master vampire at sunset. Bring form 42B. All cellphones, electronic recording devices, firearms, amulets, familiars, cursed relics, and stakes will be confiscated at the door. Failure to appear is punishable by death.

  “Shit!” Red yelled. She didn’t need a text bot to kick her when she was already down. She read the message again. Form 42B. What was form 42B?

  Red paced, sniffing, as she tried to pull it together. Her chest ached like she had been the one staked tonight. She had wanted to walk into her DVA summons tomorrow with the weight of the Brotherhood behind her. Vic might have managed her expectations, but she knew Cora wanted the truce. Killing bards and the bard-adjacent was something even the Blood Alliance gave thought before doing. Now, she was blackballed. Red might as well not have spent so much time studying that stupid truce since it didn’t apply to her now.

  All she had to bargain with was the fact that she was Kristoff Novak’s claimed human. The Dark Veil Assurance was a division in the Blood Alliance. Hopefully, it played by the same rules. Red swallowed back a bitter taste in her mouth at the idea of relying on undead laws.

  The Blood Alliance’s version of a Bill of Rights included allowing vampires to claim humans and do whatever they wanted to them. What would a claimed human do? Go to the cops? There was probably a vampire on the night shift. Even older vampires had to respect a younger’s claim. It wasn’t the hand she wanted to play even if she knew it could work. Kristoff Novak would swoop in wearing an Armani suit, lean on his status as a diplomat for the Prince of Portland, and get her off while making a double entendre about it.

  Cora still owed her, but this would be the favor to clear that debt. Vic called them political critters. He wasn’t lying.

  She wanted to cry on the couch to Harry Potter, but now she had paperwork from Hell to fill out. If she could even figure out how to find it. Red weighed her options.

  Quinn would be the most likely to know, as the friendly and responsible neighborhood vampire. Counterpoint—she knew that she would blurt out the terrible news about the hunter’s challenge to the next person she talked too. That left Quinn out because she couldn’t have him telling Vic. Not yet. It would ruin his night.

  So, Red called the one vampire in LA who wouldn’t know but was the only one she wanted to talk to.

  “Red, how did you know I was thinking about you?” The British accent drifted out of the phone speaker, an easy smile in the tone. Leather shifted on leather in the background as if Lucas was leaning back on his couch in the basement apartment under Quinn Investigations.

  Red put her hand to her mouth, covering a sob. She had told herself not to cry before she even said hello. Damn it. She had staked master vampires, tracked homicidal werewolves, and seen the weirdest shit in the west. She was a hunter. Except she wasn’t. She would never be a real hunter. Chest tightening, her lips trembled.

  “What’s wrong, love?”

  “I-I got rejected from the hunter’s challenge. They said I was unfit and that I couldn’t even take it. Then I got this DVA notice about a form I need for tomorrow—42B. Is this on the website, or do I have to go down to Moon Enterprises? I don’t even have the van. No one told me until now. I even asked about paperwork.” The words shot from her mouth in a rapid burst until Red took a ragged breath. Embarrassment burned on her cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry, kitten. I know what it means to you.”

  “I hate that I’m crying. But Lucas, it’s the Brotherhood. They won’t even let me take the multiple-choice part!”

  “You never needed their standardized test bullshit. You’re field tested.” Lucas paused. “We’ll get through this. Admitted, I got no bloody idea what form 42B is, but Quinn keeps everything. I think I know the cabinet with all the bleeding forms. Let me look and bring it to you. Get some tea and put on your cozy socks, I’ll be there in a mo’.”

  Voice watery, Red thanked him before flopping back onto the couch, holding onto a pillow. In a fight, she was fine, but there was nothing to fight here. It was paperwork and whispers stacked against her. Right now, she was alone with the panic and the quiet. She was spiraling.

  After crying for longer than she wanted to admit, dry mouth forced her to the attached kitchen. She started a cup of tea before splashing water on her face. Her inner monologue veered between an existential identity crisis to reassuring herself that plenty of hunters were unlicensed.

  Red spotted her journal on the kitchen island. Expensive private therapy with an empath, recommended by Basil, had resulted in a checklist of healthy coping mechanisms. Fighting demons wasn’t on it. Journaling was. After a year traveling with a bard, she already was used to keeping a field journal. This entry was definitely going to be more emotional. Grabbing her tea, she sat down and opened it up.

  The pen flew over the paper as she poured out her heartbreak. Incoherent sentences about purpose, mingled with rants about how it wasn’t fair, and an essay’s worth of what the Brotherhood meant to her. She was a doppelgänger who was just trying to do right.

  A knock woke her from her writing. She wiped her eyes and closed the book, feeling more calm with her thoughts on the page. Walking through the living room, she looked thr
ough the peephole and saw Lucas. Relief washed over her. Red fell into his arms before the door was half open.

  “Oh, baby.” Lucas muttered soothing, nonsensical words as he rubbed her back and brought them inside the apartment. He kicked the door closed behind him.

  “Thank you for coming,” she murmured into his neck before leaving a teary kiss and pulling away. She wiped her face on her fluffy purple sleeve. “I’m probably all red and splotchy.”

  “You’re perfect.” Lucas led her to the couch and pulled a manila folder from under his arm to set on the coffee table. “Maybe fill this out in the morning. Made some extra copies too.”

  Red pulled out the form, scanning the many thin lines and tiny check boxes. It even had a requirement for the specific pen color and thickness to be used. “Vampires and paperwork.”

  “Sadism comes in many forms among my kind,” Lucas commented as he picked up her mug and walked to the kitchen. He busied himself making tea, calling over his shoulder. “Let’s get another cuppa in you.”

  Biting her lip, she wanted to tell him why her application had been kicked to the curb, yet it felt too fresh to share. Juniper St. James hadn’t just been the most powerful dark witch of her age. She had been Lucas’s courtesan back in ye olde times. They tiptoed around the doppelgänger topic, as a rule. Red had experienced a supernatural acid trip of a coma that had led her to some peace with Juniper’s memory. It didn’t mean she wanted to share more than the woman’s face. Or have anyone else think that.

  Lucas set the mug on the table and sat beside her. He put an arm around her shoulders. “What’s is it? You’re thinking. Tell me.”

  Red leaned into him. Every time she thought she had opened up to him, she found another door that hurt too much to open. Red knew she would tell him in time, but tonight all she could think about was her crushing disappointment. She told him the more comfortable truth. “I didn’t realize how much I had put on the Brotherhood approving me. Is this what it feels like when normal people are rejected by their top college?”