Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

My crappy day doesn’t end with the couch and a movie like it does for ninety percent of my pack. Fortunately, it doesn’t end with a fashion show up in the pretty pink palace, either. It ends around one in the morning after all the bills have been paid and my reports updated. I don’t like leaving paperwork undone. Clients, especially law enforcement agencies, are sticklers for red tape and redundant, checkbox-laden forms.

My final round through the house involve shutting off the DVD player and the television, checking the locks on all the windows and doors downstairs, and peeking in every room to make sure the room’s owner is inside. Princess’s door is wide open. The lights are off, and the bed is neatly made. Of course. My mistake for thinking she’d be tucked up in bed like a good girl.

Intuition takes me to Jose’s door. It opens without a creak. Jose, still in cat form, is sprawled out across the bed. He’s snoring. Thank god the rooms are soundproofed. He snores louder than he purrs. During camping trips, Greta forces him to wear a custom made apparatus that protects the eardrums of everyone within a ten-mile radius.

Az is stretched out against his back with Jose’s tail curled across her abdomen. A booklight’s soft glow illuminates the pages of a book larger than her head. I don’t know how she can stand to be so close to the snore machine.

“Hey, Princess.”

She looks up. “Hey, Ricky.”

“Get some sleep.”

“I don’t need much,” she says, eyes still on her book. “It’s the only perk of being the devourer of magic.”

“Still. We don’t need a sleep-deprived nutjob on our hands. Get some sleep.” She won’t listen. It’s a waste of breath, but I say it anyway. She nods in acknowledgement if not necessarily agreement. It’ll have to do.

I manage to stay upright just long enough to strip off my jeans and shirt before collapsing face-first on the bed. With my pack secure under my roof, sleep comes easily.

It doesn’t last long enough. I wake before the alarm goes off and manage to slap the off button before the damn thing can ruin what could be a decent day. That it doesn’t break is a small tick in the “good day” box.

I’m not alone in the room. Every muscle in my body tenses, ready for action, while my brain rushes to catch up with my instincts. There is no one on the bed. There is something large on the normally bare nightstand on the other side of the bed. The faint aroma of magnolias fills my lungs with every breath.

“Az,” I groan, rolling over onto my side.

The lamp on that side of the room clicks on. Az is cross-legged on the square nightstand. It’s a damn good thing I don’t buy rickety furniture or else her scrawny ass would be on the floor.

“What are you doing here?”

She tosses the heavy book on the bed and stretches her arms up over her head. When she speaks, her tone is frosty. “Jose sleep licks.”

“Yeah, he does.” Now that I can see her properly, I note that her hair has that distinct just-groomed-by-a-cat look to it.

Her eyes narrow. “Someone could have warned me.”

“Yeah, someone probably could have. Why are you in here, Az?”

She averts her gaze. Color spreads across her cheeks. “You’re peaceful. You spend so much time protecting other people, that maybe I think you need someone to watch over you.” She chuckles softly, twists her fingers together. “I like you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Her head snaps up. Irritation flashes across her face. “Why not?”

“I’m a Shifter.” Most normal people don’t like Shifters. Witches, warlocks, Mages and other magic users downright hate us. We’re a little too close to wild animals for anyone’s peace of mind. She shouldn’t be comfortable around me.

“You’re a good person. You care for your pack. You help people.” Az rakes her fingers through her hair. “You took in someone you had every right to walk away from. Especially since, to you, I’m like a witch.”

“Oh, Princess, you are unlike any witch I’ve ever met.” I like her, too – her tenacity and her resilience and the way she genuinely cares for my people. She doesn’t cower when I growl, which may or may not be a good thing, and she has a good head for investigative work. I’m not sure either of us is ready for this sort of conversation, though.

White teeth flash in the dark. “That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Well, that’s my good deed for the day. And now I’m awake. So much for kicking Az out and snoozing.

She doesn’t follow me to the bathroom. Small miracles. She’s prone on the bed when I return – square in the middle of my warm spot. Her nose is, once again, buried in the book.

“Rick, I recognized three of the names on the list Uncle Evan gave us.”

Okay. She gets to keep the warm spot. For now. “Excellent. Which ones and what, in particular, do you remember?”

“Shane Terrigan. The family used to be wealthy. Now they’re broke. Their bloodline’s been diluted so many times that nostalgia is the only thing keeping their patriarch on the Council. I doubt Shane has the power necessary to use the Rite.” She pauses to turn a page. “Peter Smith. Dull. His whole family’s dull. Dull, dull, dull, dullsville. Decent magical ability. Ultra-conservative. Stickler for the rules. Not on the suspect list for all those reasons.”

She stops and doesn’t pick the conversation back up. I hurriedly tug on clean sweatpants and a t-shirt. So much for a decent morning. Evasion is never good. “You said three names, Az.”

Two long, patience-testing pages later, she finally deigns to answer. “Edward Harrington. His father’s skeevy. He’s skeevy, too. His grandfather’s the Mage of London. The Harringtons are one of the oldest families. Not sure why Eddie’s slumming it in Houston.”

I’m not going to react to the slight against my hometown. I have bigger, void-shaped fish to fry. “Why didn’t you want to mention him?”

“It’ll make you all growly.”

“You don’t get to make decisions like that, Az. You tell me everything. Every time.”

“Had things been different – had I not been, well, me – I would, at this moment, be Astraea Harrington.”

Wait. Say what now? Why does she do this to me when my blood-caffeine level is low? If this is going to be an everyday occurrence, I’m swiping the Keurig from Tommy’s room. “You wanna run that by me again, Az? This time with a little more detail.”

“Before Eddie and I could form words or even hold up our own heads, our fathers arranged our marriage. It’s done a lot in the older families.” She sets the book aside and sits upright. She shrugs one shoulder then meets my eyes. “I wasn’t always a disappointment to Dad. The math was right. I should have been brilliant. Better than brilliant. Radiant.”

She smiles and, for a moment, she is utterly radiant. The smile fades before I can commit it to memory. “Offers from schools poured in,” she continues. “But when it became clear that I was never going to be anything other than an aberration, he spread the rumor that I was emotionally fragile. Unstable. No one wants an unstable witch around. Not after Regina the Mad killed sixty people in the 1890s. The offers dried up. Everyone understood why Dad wanted to keep his daughter out of the spotlight. Harrington was eager to rip up the marriage contract.”

Saying I’m sorry doesn’t feel quite right, but the lost look on her face compels me to say something. There’s no love lost between father and daughter, but something is bothering her. “Sounds like you got a stay of execution, Princess.”

The smile returns. “I did. Eddie’s a total perv.” She scrambles off the bed, feet tangling in the sheets. She rights herself before she can hit the floor. “Can I run with you and Greta this morning?”

What she’s really asking is if I’ll carry her around like a damn monkey while I run with Greta. Not a chance in hell, sweetheart. My back still aches. “No. You’re jogging with Ike.”

“Bummer.”

Hardly. More like it’s my turn for a stay of execution. Or at least an hour of peace. Greta and I opt to the take the long route. I need to work out frustration that absolutely does not take the shape of Edward Harrington, and she’s always up for a run. By the time we return, Ike’s group should be showered and breakfast should be on the table. It’s all about timing.

Four miles from the pack house, on our return trip home, my phone rings. I don’t want to answer it. With my luck, it’s Greer or Anders or a new client. Hell, it’s probably Az with another of her questions or bombshells.

I can’t ignore the ringing phone while separated from my pack. Greta hangs back and jogs in place while I retrieve my phone. Greer. Just as I figured. If he’s calling for an update, it’s going to be a short conversation.

“What?”

“Attack at Dora’s Box. It’s messy.”

Dora’s Box is the unoriginally named Montrose club that caters to the PC. I’ve been there a dozen or so times. It’s a little loud for my tastes, and the crowd is too young. It’s too early for it to be open for business, though. Also sounds like it’s not my case. “Sounds like a police matter.”

“There are seven dead. Three of them are centaurs. The Patriarch of the Herd won’t speak to anyone but you.”

Double trouble for Greer because the Herd owns Dora’s Box, and centaurs don’t trust law enforcement. The only paranormal on Greer’s team is a half-imp forensic technician. It’s not the first time I’ve been called in to mediate. At least I’ll get paid for the consultation.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” That’ll give me just enough time to shower, grab something for breakfast, and get to Montrose. The Patriarch of the Herd is a patient man under normal circumstances, but he tends to act like a Shifter when his Herd is threatened.

“Bring your expert,” Greer instructs.

Take Az to a club teeming with magic and energy? Hell no. I like my voids on the sane side of the spectrum. “No. She’s unavailable.” I hang up before Greer has the chance to make any further demands.

“He is not wrong,” Greta pants as we race back to the house. On our normal runs, we try to pace ourselves so that we get a workout but don’t freak out any humans that happen to watch. If anyone were to see us now, they would definitely freak out. The trees and houses we pass are just a blur.

“You want me to take her in to a situation where she could absorb enough magic to make her engineer of the crazy train? Do you want to make me the conductor while we’re at it?”

She laughs. Bitch. “No, but if there’s magic involved she’ll point you in the right direction or keep you away from nasty surprises.”

“While she loses every one of her marbles.” And compromises mine. There’s something off about the glint in Greta’s eyes. “You just don’t want to have to babysit her.”

“Ike and I have plans for the day. Plans that don’t involve his new sister.” She waggles her eyebrows for emphasis. “Take her. She’s never had purpose before. I think she really enjoys working with you. Besides, she needs to interact with people who aren’t trying to hurt her or keep her locked away.”

Oh, I’m sure Az enjoys the hell out of our field trips. That doesn’t mean it’s a two-way street or that she should always get what she wants. It may be that in this instance it is worth the headache to drag her along. Greer didn’t say that magic was involved in the attack, but how could an attack on Dora’s Box not include magic?

Ike’s group is just jogging up the driveway when Greta and I skid to a stop on the grass. A quick visual inspection reassures me that they’re all fine. Tired and sweaty, but fine.

“Princess!”

Az’s shining head appears from around Jose’s back. “Here!”

“You have fifteen minutes to shower, dress, and meet me downstairs. We’re going to the scene of a murder.”

She blinks, frowns for a moment. She slips out from behind Jose and skips up to me. “You take me to the nicest places, Ricky.”

“Fourteen minutes and counting. I’ll drag you dripping and in a towel if I have to.” Oh. Now that’s a visual. Such a pity, too. I finally get to take a shower before the rest of the pack, and I won’t get to enjoy the supply of hot water.

“Well, that sounds like it’ll be fun for one of us,” she laughs as she scurries into the house.

Twelve minutes later, a blonde in a gray-and-black pattered dress, black cardigan, and lace-embellished Keds dashes into the kitchen. The hair pulled back in a braid is still damp, and she’s carrying one of the dozen purses she and Jose squealed over the previous morning. The only thing missing is a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of satin gloves. Driving Miss Crazy, indeed.

“I said crime scene, Az, not a picnic.”

She holds out one foot and shakes it. “They’re black. If there’s blood, I’m good.” Her gaze narrows suspiciously. “Unless you’re going to make me lick it.”

I’m not going to lie to her or sugarcoat things. “It’s a possibility.”

She grabs two bottles of water out of the fridge and dumps them in her purse. An apple and a banana follow. “Can we stop for breakfast on the way?”

I toss a chocolate-almond protein bar at her. It’s not the best flavor, but it’s the least offensive. It’s also the least likely to make me gag when she upchucks at the scene. “There’s your breakfast. Let’s go.”

I don’t explain the situation to Az on the way to Dora’s Box. I don’t want to color her perception of the scene. She surprises me by not asking a dozen questions. She just stares out the window and eats her protein bar.

“Spill, Az.”

“Nothing to spill, Ricky.” Her eyes dart to mine briefly before sliding back to the passing scenery. Oh yeah, that’s not guilty at all.

“Spill it.”

She sighs as if she’s carrying the weight of the world. “I would like to go one day without exposing myself to dangerous amounts of magic or energy. This sucks.”

A sentiment I can completely understand. I’m not particularly keen on the prospect of having the crazy version of Az on my hands. Having her lose it in public is not an option. We are not exposing a weakness to Greer or anyone else at the crime scene.

“Stick as close to me as you need to,” I instruct. “Before it gets to be too much, let me know and we’ll get the hell out of there. Don’t push it like you did with Claire.”

She stiffens as if insulted. “I had no choice.”

“Yes you did. Water under the bridge now. Let’s just try to avoid a repeat.”

“Yes sir.”

I’d say we were making progress, but the sarcasm in her tone wouldn’t fly with any other Shifter. She’s lucky I’m feeling generous. “Thank you.”

A uniformed officer guides me into a parking spot between two patrol cars. The baby-faced rookie nearly trips over his own feet rushing to open Az’s door. She smiles at him, and I swear he nearly loses it in his pants. Damn kid. Damn void.

“Az.” I stop myself from snapping my fingers. She’s new to the pack, I remind myself. She doesn’t understand all the intricacies. “Let’s not keep Detective Greer waiting.”

“Of course not, Ricky.” She hooks her elbow around mine and tries to dazzle me with that smile. Sorry, Princess, it’s not going to work.

Not completely, at least.

“Anti-violence wards,” she says, sniffing the air near the open front door. “Is that standard practice for crime scenes?”

It is. I tell her as much. They’ve saved my ass a time or two. Emotion often overrides common sense, which is not a good thing when magic is involved.

She freezes just inside the club. Wide, blue eyes are fixed on the Patriarch of the Herd. “Centaurs?” Her nose wrinkles and her lips curl down in a scowl. “I hate centaurs. They kick and bite. Don’t get me started on the smell. It’s like rotten eggs and… no. No.” She shakes her head sharply. “No, that’s satyrs. Goat-men. Creepy. We’re good here.”

Well, that’s a load off my mind. I can only hope that the Patriarch of the Herd didn’t hear any of that. Judging by the pained smile on his face, I’m willing to bet that he caught at least some of her craziness. Joy. Just what this morning needs.