by Jason Rose
“Where is here?” I ask. More information about one’s contemporaries is almost always a good thing.
“A place just outside of Lancashire, England. It’s . . .” She pauses as if she is going to say something further and then changes the subject. “Perhaps, if we’d had some advanced notice of your visit, we could have put on some tea.” The pleasant hostess tone fades and a more serious, yet still pleasant, in a wicked witch of the East sort of way, tone replaces it. “Why are you here? What can the Coven do for you?” Ginny punctuates the questions with a smile, flashing rows upon rows of oversized, sharp, needle-pointed, yellow teeth, on the high definition eighty-two-inch monitor.
I bite the inside of my cheek to maintain my composure. It’s a trick my old law mentor taught me, a little pain can focus you, and allow you to regain your wits. I typically use it when opposing counsel catches me off-guard with a question or piece of evidence, not when I am threatened by an ancient witch with big, and sharp, yellow teeth. Despite wrestling with my base flight-or- fight instincts, I manage to say, “We are here to make a trade.”
“A trade?” asks Ginny. “What is it you think you have that the Coven would want?”
“A life,” I answer.
“A life.” Ginny laughs, as if I have said something that slightly amuses her, like a mother hearing her child utter its first word. “And what do you want for this life?”
I was ready for this question; I have been thinking about its answer the entire time I was stuck waiting in the lobby. When bartering, it’s important to ask for enough, but not too much. An absurd over-ask can cause your barter opponent to tighten up—not what you want when you're negotiating. Conversely, an under-ask can cause your opponent to become overly aggressive, resulting in an unfavorable outcome. You don’t want to be seen as weak. Barter is battle. It’s important to start by asking for something vague, so you have room to negotiate, but also concrete, so as not to give your opponent room to dismiss the offer as nonsensical. Negotiating, the so-called Art of the Deal, is a necessary skill every lawyer must continue to hone throughout their career. Everything in law is a negotiation.
“Specific information and future goodwill,” I answer. In other words, there is something I want to know now, but the life is worth more than the information alone, so besides the information I want now, I also want a favor in the future; the size of the future favor is negotiable. At least, that’s what I’ve tried to convey through my response.
Ginny pauses, considering my answer for a moment. “Must be an important life. Whose life are you offering?” asks Ginny.
“Ginger Soot’s,” I answer.
Arianna Soot jumps to her feet. “What have you done with my sister?”
“Sit down,” commands Ginny through the monitor. Arianna stares at the screen, her eyes burning with undisguised hatred. After a few seconds of defiance, her daughter gently places a hand on her mother’s arm and guides Arianna back into her seat. Arianna maintains eye contact with Ginny until she is seated, and then her eyes seek out and lock on me like heat-seeking hellfire missiles.
“Mr. Valentine, how is it that you come into possession of Ginger’s life?” Ginny asks in a completely emotionless tone. The hint of a smile brushes across her lips. She is as comfortable discussing a life as a regular grandmother would be discussing crochet.
“She tried to kill me . . . twice . . . today.”
Arianna squirms uncomfortably in her chair. Vanessa frowns, not the type of frown indicating disbelief, rather the type of frown indicating disappointment, likely in her aunt’s failure to kill me . . . twice . . . today.
“It appears she failed,” comments Ginny, stating the painfully obvious. “How fortunate for you.” Sinn leans forward in her chair; she doesn’t like the implied threat behind Ginny’s laissez-faire tone. There is a lot of marianismo going on in this room right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone whipped them out and started measuring.
“My dad always said, every man is the builder of his own fortune,” I quip, not willing to allow the subtext to continue without responding. I think my dad stole the quote. The original quote, and I can’t remember who said it, uses the term architect, but my dad thought architect was a white man’s job. My dad was complicated. Also, a dick. Possibly, a slightly racist dick, justifiably racist considering how black people have been treated in this country, but definitely, a big, complicated dick.
“And what of women?” Ginny counters. “Are they not also builders of their own future?” I feel eight eyeballs turn and focus on me. Seconds ago, these four women wanted to kill each other. Now they are staring at me, unified in their expectation that I will say something chauvinistic and stupid. This is the very definition of a momentum swing. They might as well all be wearing matching inside-out rally caps.
“It’s just a quote. I didn’t write it,” I answer defensively. I didn’t plan on making an excuse, it just came out. Sinn’s frown confirms it’s the wrong response.
“Women, too, of course,” I add, trying to salvage my verbal misstep “And, anyway, weren’t we talking about Ginger’s attempts to murder me . . . twice?”
All four women give me side-eye, and Sinn and Arianna share a knowing look. If they didn’t dislike each other, I’d swear they were bonding. Nothing brings women together quite like shared disappointment in a man.
“Mr. Valentine,” Ginny looks directly at Arianna when she speaks, “the Coven will not be making a trade for Ginger’s life. Ginger’s life isn’t worth anything to me. She is a failure. She couldn’t even manage to kill someone as inconsequential as you. Why would I want her?” Ginny pauses, and although the backhanded insult was directed at me, she continues to watch Arianna like a hawk, looking for a reaction.
Vanessa flinches at the pronouncement and turns to her mother, expecting disagreement. Arianna doesn’t give Ginny the satisfaction; she remains still, physically unmoving, everything calm except her eyes which are scorching with anger. There is clearly a power struggle going on here and my intrusion is being used as leverage.
Ginny leers, her sharp, yellow teeth on full display, and turns back to me. “Mr. Valentine, I am sorry we can’t make a deal. I hope there are no hard feelings. I have a feeling we will meet in person one day soon. For now, you may leave.” A dismissal if I ever heard one.
Ginny pauses and looks back over at Arianna. “My decision is final.” The connection is severed and the monitor fades to black. Sinn stands and pulls at my arm, indicating it’s time to leave. I resist, wanting some sort of reaction from Arianna before I go. I don’t have a complete grasp of the Coven’s org-chart, but it seems to me Arianna should be given at least an opportunity to make an offer for her sister’s life. Also, leaving without securing Arianna’s help means I am left with only three viable options, none of which I like. Despite the tough talk, I’m not going to kill or torture Ginger, that’s just not in my DNA; I can either give her to the HPA, give her to the werewolf Adrian Varulv, or let her go—and I don’t want to do any of those things. I need to know who the hell is trying to kill me, so I ignore Sinn, and wait for Arianna to say something.
Near silence fills the conference room, broken only by the sound of Sinn’s impatient foot tapping against the tile floor.
Arianna finally mouths the words, “I’d like to see my sister.”
Vanessa scowls, the way young girls commonly do when disagreeing with their mothers.
Recognizing she has more to say but is reluctant to do so within the confines of this steel and glass tower, I retrieve my gate-pen from my pocket and draw a gate on the back wall of the posh conference room. I pull the gate open and the four of us step through into the warm, inviting confines of the main floor of my two-story brick office.
Chapter Eighteen
“I want it on the record,” Sinn warns. “This is an epically stupid idea. You should not be letting them speak together alone in that room. Arianna is probably untying her while they plot how to kill you or turn you into a toad.”
&nb
sp; “Sinn, Arianna promised me she would do her best to find out what she can. I can’t argue with her logic. Ginger is much more likely to talk to her sister . . . without an audience.”
“Still a dumb, stupendously dumb, idea,” mutters Sinn.
“It’s not like we have a lot of other options. We could let her go, hand her over to Adrian or the HPA, or cut her into itsy-bitsy pieces to feed the sharks in the bay.” I add the or-killing-her part to keep our audience on her toes. Vanessa, Arianna’s daughter, is sitting at our conference table, staring at her phone, trying to look uninterested, and yet actively listening to everything we say. She is my insurance policy if Arianna tries to get cute and renege on our deal. Arianna and her daughter seem close. I don’t know too many mothers who would trade a daughter for a captive sister. “You got a better idea? I am all ears.”
“I vote we just kill the bit—,” mutters Joycee.
“Boss,” interjects Wilson, while gently placing a hand on Joycee’s shoulder. “I hate to say it”— he glances over at Sinn—“I agree with Sinn. This is epically stupid. Why don’t you let me talk with Ginger? I bet I can get her to talk.”
I chuckle at the moronic suggestion. “I bet you can, just not about anything I care to know about. I am not interested in her bra size, favorite country song, or preferred sexual position, so I think I will pass on letting you conduct a private interrogation.”
Wilson smirks but doesn’t argue with my assessment, I likely hit the nail right on the nose.
I turn to Vanessa. “You got an opinion on this?” I ask the question, not for her input, but as a courtesy to remind her we haven’t forgotten she’s here.
“Toad? Really? Way too much effort. I agree with the vampire, it is epically stupid for you to let them speak together alone. As we speak, they are probably plotting how to kill you—all of you.” Vanessa makes eye contact with each member of my team while she lets that sink in. “My aunt is stupid, petty, and vengeful, and when the Devil has nightmares, they’re about my mother. Those are two women I wouldn’t want plotting my death.” Vanessa smirks and then returns her attention back to her phone.
I bite the inside of my cheek again. Not exactly the supportive response I was hoping for. About par for the course, though; I really should’t have expected anything more.
Our productive group share is interrupted by loud rapping on the front door. Everyone tenses, I signal to Sinn to position herself to the left of the door, while Wilson quietly moves behind his desk to where he stores his Benelli M1 shotgun. Joycee remains seated at the conference table, not willing to show any fear, while Vanessa sets her phone down and grasps an earring; hopefully, it doesn’t shoot lightning. While we have property insurance coverage for weather damage, I’m not sure it covers damage from lightning bolts that originate from inside the building. I’m not even sure how I could explain witch damage to an adjuster? I wonder if there is insurance for magic damage? Probably; they cover just about everything else. I bet the rates are exorbitant. When I find some time to come up for air, I will have to call our agent and ask. In the present, I’m praying the knocker is a traveling dictionary salesman or delivery person, and an electrifying greeting isn’t necessary.
Once everyone is in position, I calmly walk to the front door. Earlier, I had Joycee lock up so we wouldn’t be disturbed. It’s not like we get a lot of walk-ins, we don’t really advertise, but it’s not unheard of. Typically, walk-ins are crazy people who have been denied service by several other law firms and they happen to see our sign out front and decide to give us a shot. More often than not, it’s people who want to prosecute the president, make the cops return drugs they confiscated during an arrest, or sue Santa Claus for not bringing them a pony. The type of crazy people who are easily distracted and have short attention spans. Unfortunately, whoever is knocking doesn’t seem discouraged by the locked door or closed blinds, so I doubt it’s a walk-in. Chances are it’s someone who intends to be here.
I position myself to the right of the door, just in case some yahoo tries to shoot me through the door; you never can be too careful, and I call out, “Were closed.”
“Mr. Valentine, it’s Bree Jonas,” replies a soft voice from the other side of the door. “I work security for Adrian Varulv.”
I look to Sinn and then Vanessa for any sign they recognize the name. Neither gives any. “Mrs. Jonas, I have no reason to distrust you, but you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Trust isn’t coming easy today. Is there something I can do for you?”
There is a pause. “Mr. Varulv is en route.”
“I take it you’re his advance scout?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
“How far out is Adrian?”
“Approximately fifteen minutes.”
I glance at the stairs leading to the room where Ginger and Arianna are talking; this will be interesting. “Mrs. Jonas, I’d appreciate it if you waited outside until Mr. Varulv arrives.”
“Mr. Valentine, I’d like to confirm the building is secure myself. Please open the door.”
“Mrs. Jonas, if I wanted your boss dead, I could have killed him myself this morning or just left him in Canada with his enemies. Adrian Varulv is my client; he has nothing to fear from me.”
Another pause. “Mr. Valentine, that may all be true; none of that changes the fact that it is my job is to make sure this location is secure in advance of Mr. Varulv’s arrival. I need to check the building.”
“Mrs. Jonas, no offense, I don’t know you or any of your three famous brothers, and if I’m being honest, I don’t really care for their music. We’re all safe and secure in here; when Mr. Varulv arrives and vouches for you, I’ll be happy to let you in to conduct a security sweep. I’ll even offer you a cup of coffee. Until then, I ain’t opening this door. If you’re intent on making sure we're safe, I suggest you scout the perimeter. If you’re not who you say you are, I suspect you will try to get through this door. I’m going to say this just one time, so please listen closely: you will not like what happens to you if you try and enter this office uninvited.”
I wait a few seconds for a response from Mrs. Jonas; there isn’t one. She doesn’t even clap back in response to the Jonas brothers comment; which is a little disappointing as I thought it was a good dig. Since she hasn’t tried to break the door down, I presume she followed my suggestion to scout the perimeter; either that or she’s standing outside with her ear pressed to the door hoping to overhear our conversation. Either way, the timer has been set and it's counting down.
“Where are you going?” asks Sinn.
“Upstairs, looks like Adrian Varulv has put a clock on Ginger’s and Arianna’s heart-to-heart.” I glance over at Vanessa. “If your aunt doesn’t tell me what I want to know before the Lycanthrope gets here, I am going to give her to him as a present. I may even wrap her in a bow. You know, the big red ones they wrap around new cars in TV commercials.”
Vanessa shrugs and goes back to doing whatever she’s doing on her phone. Either she is the world’s best actress or there is no love lost between auntie and niece. These witches all seem ice cold. They may be hot on the outside, but they are downright frigid in the important places. I hate to stereotype; I guess it’s possible there might be some nice witches out there, with real human feelings—I just ain’t seen anything that would lead me to believe that’s a likely possibility.
****
I pause at the closed storage room door and consider knocking. I know it’s the polite thing to do, but this isn’t the time for politeness, it’s the time to be hard. I have a decision to make about what to do with this witch’s life and I have very little time to mull it over. In fifteen minutes, the decision will be made for me. If I don’t have some useful information for Adrian by the time he gets here, he’s going to want to extract it from her in a manner I probably won’t approve of, and I don’t know If I have the will or even the ability to stop him. A few months ago, I couldn’t imagine being in a situation in which I captured a wit
ch who was trying to kill me, tied her up, and needed to interrogate her or let her go, all before a werewolf king showed up to kill or torture her. The whole thing sounds fucking ridiculous—such is my life.
I elect not to knock and instead push the door open, revealing Ginger, who is now unbound, and sitting in a chair, arms crossed, with an irritated snotty look on her face. Her sister is standing above her in the classic parental lecture position complete with her right arm partially extended and her pointy finger keeping cadence with the expletives flowing from her mouth. “Are you fucking stupid? Has all that bleach gone into your brain?”
Both witches turn and glare at me as I enter the storage room. Arianna doesn’t even try to hide her displeasure with the interruption.
“Time’s up. And that’s not a Me-Too reference.” Both women frown—tough crowd. “I mean, literally, time is up. Adrian Varulv will be here in a few minutes. Unless you provide me with the answers I need, I have no choice but to give you to him.”
Ginger looks up at me and spits, “Fuck y—”
Her statement is interrupted by the quick right hand of her sister literally slapping the words right out of her mouth.
Ginger looks down at the floor, refusing to acknowledge her sister, and mutters under her breath, “My name is Cinnamon, not Ginger.” Her cheek is imprinted with the pink outline of Adrian’s well-manicured right hand.
“My sister will answer your questions,” Arianna says threateningly.
Ginger glances up at her sister; anger, or maybe fear, or a little of both, dance across her eyes, and then she resumes staring a hole in the floor between her feet.
For the first time since I met Arianna, her voice cracks, ringing with uncertainty. “Mr. Valentine, you will release her to me if she answers your questions?” The inflection indicates it’s a question, not a demand. Despite the physical violence I just witnessed, it’s clear Arianna cares for her sister. Maybe there’s hope for witches after all.
“Yes.” The word pours from my mouth before I even consider the ramifications. Realizing I can’t give the store away for free and that my client will not be happy about the deal I just made, I add, “She has to answer all of my questions, and you’re going to owe me a favor.”