Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

I fold my fingers over Az’s extended hand. I really want to wrap both hands around her neck. She’s calling Olivet? The man who has orchestrated two attacks on our pack? The man indirectly responsible for her broken nose and the bruise blossoming on her cheek?

I am going to kill her. It’s the only way I’ll be able to hold on to my sanity. At the very least, we’ll have to change her number. And teach her not to hand it out like Halloween candy.

“Hello?” Olivet’s smarmy voice, made tinny by the connection, fills our corner of the room.

“Hi!” Az greets brightly. She leans against the wall and crosses her ankles. Still holding her hand, I sit on the edge of the desk and box in her muddy shoes. “Is this Mr. Olivet?”

“I have listened to recordings of this lovely voice, but those snippets of conversation did not do it justice. Ms. Vardan, it is truly pleasure to hear from you. I had hoped to convey my apologies for drawing you in to the ugliness this afternoon.” Olivet pauses for a moment. “I applaud your ingenuity in acquiring my number.”

“It wasn’t particularly difficult. We have a mutual acquaintance,” Az says.

“Oh,” Olivet chuckles, “I believe we have more than one mutual acquaintance, my dear Ms. Vardan.”

“In the magical community, everybody is a friend-of-a-friend.” Az’s lips curl into an amused smile. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes. Perfectly relaxed.

“How very true, Ms. Vardan.”

“Please, call me Astraea. I believe we’re well beyond the point of formality. May I use your given name?”

“Of course, my dear.”

I don’t freakin’ believe this. Not an hour ago, one of Olivet’s minions had Az dangling in the air by her neck and now they’re chatting like old friends. Maybe I’m the one with the concussion. Maybe I’m still unconscious and this is a nightmare.

Maybe I’m hallucinating this entire afternoon.

Wouldn’t that be a relief?

“I am very sorry that you were harmed during today’s scuffle. I have instructed my soldiers that you are off-limits, but I am afraid that their mental capacity isn’t quite what I had estimated. I will emphasize this point so that we do not have a repeat of this unpleasantness,” Olivet says.

So Olivet has a hands-off-the-blonde policy. That should be reassuring, but it’s not. I don’t, for one second, suppose that he’s keeping her safe out of the goodness of his black, brimstone-filled heart. If he wants her safe, it’s because he needs her for something. And since he’s labeled her a witch in his book of creepiness, the list of possibilities my mind creates does not incite warm, fuzzy feelings. I’ve seen what he does to witches.

Az waves a hand as if dismissing Olivet’s apology. “You’re a peach, but to be fair, it is partially my fault. I put myself in the line of fire.”

“Nevertheless, there will not be a repeat of such inexcusable behavior.”

I’m not stupid enough to think that Olivet means there won’t be another attack. In fact, he’s all but announced that there will be a fourth attack. Judging by the crease between her eyebrows, Az has come to the same conclusion. The hand in mine is noticeably cooler than it was before. The adrenaline and magic that kept her bolstered have to be fading. She’s going to crash if I’m not careful. All it takes is a sharp tug to pull her forward so I can wrap an arm around her waist. Her head immediately settles over my heart.

“Thank you for your consideration,” she says. “Although a cessation of hostilities would be the best way to prevent another occurrence. I’m not fond of having my nose broken.”

“And such a shame it is to have marred your exquisite face.”

I gag. Az’s eyes narrow but there is no heat behind her glare. What does she want from me? Sure, she’s pretty. Charming. Adorable. Whatever. She’s also well aware of how much leeway that pretty face can earn her. No need to give her more rope to hang me with.

“So you won’t attack the pack again?” Az asks, though both of us know what the answer is going to be.

“I am sorry,” Olivet says. The bastard actually sounds apologetic. “They are in the way of progress and must be eliminated without delay.”

A growl rumbles in my chest. Az raises her head to shush me. The man on the other end of her phone call sputters.

“Astraea? Are you in need of assistance?”

“I’m fine.”

“I understand that you are in a precarious situation. I applaud your fortitude. If you require my help breaking free from your captors, all you have to do is say the word.”

The corners of Az’s lips curl down. She mouths the word pawn. Whoever is pulling Olivet’s strings has turned Az into the weak, fairy princess imprisoned by monsters. Perhaps Olivet isn’t the one who has plans for Az. Maybe she’s the prize dangling in front of him – the damsel in need of rescue - and the puppet master is the one who wants to use her. Given that our suspect list is down to the two Mages who know exactly what she is and what she can do, that’s not out of the realm of possibility.

“I am not a captive. I am exactly where I want to be,” she states firmly, more warrior princess than delicate fairy. I just hope that she doesn’t mention she tried to take out one of his minions. I don’t know how that would alter his no-touching-Astraea policy.

Her words spark a rush of warmth that makes my head spin. Her hand slips into the back pocket of my jeans as she tries to snuggle even closer to me. The gaping wound in my side becomes little more than a dull ache as my attention narrows to the palm sliding across my ass, the slender legs tucked between mine, and the breasts – okay, the nipples – pressed against my chest.

“And,” Az continues, oblivious to what she’s doing to me, “I really wish that people would stop trying to pull me from my home!”

“I apologize for any offense inferred from my statement.”

She huffs. Clearly she’s grown bored with their conversation. About damn time. “Don’t lie to me.”

Olivet squawks at the brusqueness of Az’s tone. “Astraea, I deeply regret -.”

“No. Don’t lie to me. Shifters disgust you. You’re a warlock. That’s to be expected. Lying about it insults my intelligence and that I won’t forgive.” She shifts restlessly against me. Maybe not so oblivious after all. “Who are your mother’s people?”

“M-my mother?” The abrupt subject change throws him for another loop. Good to know that not even wannabe Mages can keep up with Az.

“Dubois. Mary-Reinette Dubois.” She settles into story-telling mode. Her voice softens; traces of Cajun French linger in her vowels. “The family stayed pretty insular for centuries – inbreeding insular – but eventually they moved away from the family seat. Now, there are three main branches of the Dubois family. Henri Merlin Dubois emigrated from Paris to Louisiana in the early 1700s. Henri’s brother Étienne moved his wife and son to Avignon. His descendants control that area. Baby brother Bertrand wandered from Limoges to Brussels then Lyon before following his eldest brother to the US. Which of these esteemed gentlemen do you call great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grand-père?”

“I don’t know.”

“Liar.” Az hums to herself. I can practically see the gears turning in her head. The fingers in my pocket tap out an irregular rhythm. “Not Henri, then. Every Dubois brags about having that blowhard as an ancestor. Étienne or Bertrand. Easy money says it’s Bertrand.”

“I am in awe of your wisdom, Astraea.”

She preens a little under the praise. “A word of advice, Mr. Olivet: beware of cousins bearing offers of territory and power. Mages don’t like to share.”

She hangs up before he can respond. The phone lands on the desk with a loud thunk. Her other hand finds its way into my pocket. “My brain needs a shower,” she groans.

“You shouldn’t have called him. Now he has your phone number. Now he thinks he has rapport with you.” I stop myself before I can really get into the rant. She’s impulsive and foolish and it’s going to bite her in the ass one day. Which means that it’s going to bite me in the ass one day, too.

“He wants me.”

The growl comes without warning. She chuckles and lightly kisses my throat as if that is all it takes to soothe my anger. The growl dies down to an irritated huff.

Okay, so maybe it is enough.

“He can’t have you.” The rest of that statement remains unsaid but hangs in the air. She kisses me again. “I can’t trust him not to break his toys. Please tell me we learned something from that conversation.”

“He doesn’t want to hurt me,” she says.

“More than that, Princess.”

“He’s being used by a Mage.”

“I was hoping for something that we didn’t already know.”

She shrugs as best she can with both arms locked around my waist. “Then we’re out of luck.”

“What about all that Dubois bullshit? Didn’t that tell you something?”

“He’s descended from Bertrand Dubois. Weakest of the branches but still respectable. They’re spread like ants across the country, though. Not as close-knit as Henri Merlin’s or Étienne’s branches. Fertile, though. That part of the family is thick with cousins.”

“And one of his cousins is pulling his strings.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t help. Aunt Evelyn is from the Bertrand branch, but there’s Dubois blood on Dad’s side. Dad was an only child, but his mother had a sister who married a Dubois. The guy was supposedly one of Henri’s descendants but his magic was crap so that was probably a lie.”

“It could still be your father or your uncle, then.” I give in to the devil on my shoulder and drop a quick kiss onto the top of her head before moving out of her embrace. “Don’t call him again. If he calls, don’t answer.”

“Not real eager to repeat this experience,” she assures me. “You might as well give me the pages I’m supposed to look at. I can focus again, so I won’t need a translator.”

I dig the file with the pages of Az’s crazy predictions out of a desk drawer and hand them over. She promptly claims the desk chair, pulls her knees to her chest, and snatches a pen off the desk. Fortunately, the pen has blue ink so that new notes won’t get lost in black-inked craziness. I slide a steno pad toward her, but she ignores it.

“Whoo,” she sighs, using her finger to mark her place halfway down the first page. “I must have really been on the good stuff. Most of it rhymes, though some of the rhymes are a stretch.”

“Are you going to join us for dinner?”

“Nah. Save me a slice or two of the pizza not saturated with meat. I need to work on this.”

I open my mouth to argue. A glint in her eyes – something that could be panic – stops my words. She’s pale. Bruised. Her lips are pressed together into a thin, bloodless line. She needs to stay busy. I get that. It’ll distract her from remembering how close she came to having her neck snapped.

“Fine. If you need me, you know where I’ll be.”

Only Quinn and Uriah are seated at the kitchen table. Two empty pizza boxes are piled up on the counter. The teens are steadily working their way through a third pizza. I lift open the top of a fourth box. The ratio of veggies versus meat is higher on the uneaten pizza than on the one being devoured.

“Save some of this one for Az,” I instruct as I make my way to the back porch.

Everyone else, including Greta, has already Shifted. The porch is covered with platters of meat so rare I’d give Hank half a chance at resuscitating it. The porch looks like the scene of a massacre. Blood and bits of meat are scattered like confetti. Ike slaps a paw across a thick, raw steak when I near.

“I’m not going to steal your dinner, you big baby.”

Greta looks up from her dinner. She licks the blood off her muzzle and lowers her head until I tap her ears. “So now you want to be submissive,” I grouse. Her lips pull back into a grotesque smile. “You have gristle between your teeth.”

The fox smile disappears. I nod at her, visually assess each of my people. I want to join them. It’s an actual ache right between my shoulder blades, but I can’t. Someone needs to stand watch; Az isn’t my first candidate for security guard.

Before the longing makes me even grouchier, I return to the house. One of the teens has put three slices of supreme pizza on a plate. I stuff a can of diet cherry cola in the back pocket of my jeans, tuck a bottle of Tylenol in my front pocket, and carry the plate and an icepack into the study.

“Let me have a look at your nose,” I say.

Az jumps as if electrocuted. She flattens a hand over her heart and glares at me. “Could you make a little noise next time, please?”

“No.”

“Meanie.”

She sets the pages on the desk and wheels the chair back so that there’s just enough space for me to stand in front of her. Her knees, scratched and grass-stained, bang against mine. The front of her dress is stained with blood. Even if she hadn’t ripped off half of the skirt, the dress would be unsalvageable. Maybe this will teach her to wear more practical clothes.

And maybe I’ll take up ballet.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn.

She nods sharply and braces her hands on the arm of the chair. Straightening her nose elicits a pained whimper. I kiss her forehead before handing her the soda and a dose of pain-killer. She takes the icepack from me and gently holds it against her nose.

“The boys saved you some pizza.” I wave a hand at the pages. “Did you get anything out of those?”

“A few things. Unfortunately, at this point it is mostly stuff we already know: someone’s killing witches and trying to take over the city. Pretty grim predictions, too. Blood and death and decapitation. Something about it all ending where the Ursidae meet the river.”

“Fucking bears, now?”

“Bears,” she agrees solemnly. She adjusts the ice pack. “Then again, there are six paragraphs on the evils of butter cream frosting, so I wouldn’t take much of this literally.”

She retreats to the couch to eat her pizza while I print out the information Greer emailed as promised. I finally access the Register of Witches and download a list of witches recently evicted from their covens. All of the dead witches are on the list.

My phone call to the Patriarch of the Herd is twenty minutes longer than I’d anticipated. All that formality and talking in circles makes my head ache. In the end, though, he agrees to give me statistics on centaur murders. I warn him to keep his people alert. Olivet is short four of his not-Shifters and will undoubtedly be looking to fill the gap. I agree to meet him in the morning to help him make sense of the perdition that has descended upon the paranormal community.

His words. Not mine.

The click of nails on the laminate in the kitchen perks Az up. She cranes her neck to peer out the door. A fluffy fox tail passes by the study.

“Has everyone Shifted?” she asks.

“All except Uriah and Quinn, though I expect they’ll do so once they’ve finished their pizza. And their homework.”

A furrow forms between her brows. She gestures at me with a sweep of her hand. “Why are you still here, then?”

“Someone has to stay human.”

“I’m not likely to grow fur or a tail.”

“Someone other than you.”

“I think that’s an insult.” She taps her chin. Her gaze narrows. “No, I’m sure that’s an insult.”

“You have a concussion, Az.”

“Pretty sure I don’t, but that’s a weak excuse and you know it. The wards have been recharged. Olivet’s army took a beating. He won’t attack tonight.”

“And if he does?”

“Then you all will be Shifted and ready to fight.” She inclines her head toward the door. “They’ll need you. Especially the boys. You can communicate better when you’re wolfy.”

I’m concerned by how much sense she makes. It is easier to check on my pack when the communication goes both ways. Uriah and Quinn are likely to be the most unsettled by this second attack. Bonding as a pack will go a long way to reassuring them. It won’t be the same as being at the ranch, but it’ll be enough.

“What are you going to do?”

She shrugs. “I’ve done all I can with this mess,” she says, pointing at the pages near her feet. “I’d like to take a shower and then join the slumber party, unless you think that’s going to be a problem.”

“No, that’s a good idea.” I want her where I can keep an eye on her just in case the head injury is worse than we assume. “We could watch a movie, too. Something light to distract everyone.”

“101 Dalmatians?” she teases, rising to her feet.

“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” I counter.

“Dr. Doolittle.” She hands me her plate as we step into the hallway. She heads for the stairs. I trail behind her.

“American Psycho.”

She laughs and waggles her finger at me. “Not nice, Ricky. Not nice.” Halfway up the stairs, she stops and pirouettes. Her face is glowing. “I’ve got it! Dances with Wolves!”