Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

“You know,” Az muses as we drive to meet the Patriarch of the Herd, “I could just call Olivet and ask him who is directing him. You heard how eager he was to rescue me from your den of iniquity. I can play on that.”

Yeah, that’s going to happen over my very dead body. I tell her as much. I don’t want her have any more contact with Olivet than absolutely necessary. I don’t want any of my people to have contact with Olivet. Something about how he’s tried to kill my pack and is an all-around pain in my ass just rubs me the wrong way.

“He likes me,” she mutters.

“I’m not sure that’s an argument in favor of his sanity, Princess.”

She props her elbow on the door and then props her chin on her fist. Her eyes are fixed on the passing scenery. Not quite a full-blown sulk. Just enough to let me know she doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm. Poor Princess can dish it out this morning, but she’s not fond of taking it. Too damn bad.

Then again, in the clarifying light of day, I have to seriously consider the connection she’s developed with Olivet. My gut reaction is to forbid her to ever speak to the warlock again. Normally, I trust my gut instinct, but Az’s involvement negates any objectivity I might have. Do I want her to stay away from Olivet because he’s a power-hungry, murdering bastard, or do I want her to stay away from him because he made her smile and he understands her world of magic and rites?

Probably a combination of the two. With a dash of “because I’m Alpha and I said so” thrown in.

“I’m not going to let him actually rescue me,” she says in that tone that implies my intelligence level falls somewhere between amoeba and algae.

“Damn straight you’re not. We’ve discussed your role in this fucked up fairytale.”

She huffs. “Remember that thing I said about liking you?”

“Yeah?”

“I take it back.”

“What was it you told me after you brazenly defied my order?” I pause until she turns away from the window to arch an eyebrow at me. I pitch my voice so that it matches hers. “No takseies backsies.”

She manages to keep a straight face for a heartbeat or two. The grin that stretches across her face is one I’ll never tire of seeing. “You are such a dork, Ricky.”

I bite my tongue to keep from spitting out something stupid like takes one to know one or I know you are but what am I. We’re not six. We’re quite past the phase where the only way I can show my affection is to pull her ponytail or steal her juice box. She makes me long for the childhood I never got to have, though. When I am with her, I don’t feel like just the Alpha.

Proximity to Az, apparently, turns me into a romantic, silly sop.

It’s early enough in the morning that the parking lot in front of the Astrodome is nearly empty. When the Astrodome was slated for demolition, the paranormal community pooled its resources to purchase the building. There is no formal council that governs the PC in Houston, but the heads of each group get together once a month or so to discuss how best to wield their political power. I make it to every other meeting.

The pack has ten designated parking spots, but I don’t think we’ve ever used more than two on any occasion. I’ve only seen the inside of my office a dozen times. I’ve considered making that my official business office. It would keep potentially difficult clients away from the house. Given that all that’s gone on with the not-Shifters and Sally, it’s an idea I need to seriously revisit.

Az’s hand slides against mine as soon as she rounds the front of my truck. The impractical outfit du jour consists of jeans and a dark blue sleeveless shirt. What had looked like a professional-looking blouse when held up on a hangar, has a draped v-neck that borders on indecent. The material is too gauzy to provide any actual protection. Unfortunately, the overly complicated braid Jose twisted her hair into took far longer than expected, so there hadn’t been time to force her to change clothes.

“I brought a cardigan,” she says, holding up a ball of white cotton.

“I didn’t say anything. If you want to catch pneumonia then go for it. Just don’t expect me to bring you soup or anything.”

“You were glaring at my breasts.” She skips to keep up with my stride. “Not exactly the reaction I was expecting. You don’t like my shirt, do you?”

“I have no opinion.”

“Liar.”

“Smart,” I correct. “The best way to win a fashion debate is to concede early.”

Her laughter follows us into the lobby. The bright, joyful sound turns more than a few heads. Rachael, the pixie seated behind the massive marble-topped reception desk flashes Az a polite, but cool, smile.

“Good morning, Rick. Identification, ma’am?”

Az releases her grip on me to fish her pack id card out of her massive tote. She slides the card across the desk. “Good morning.”

Rachael takes the card without returning the greeting. Her tiny fingers fly across a keyboard. “Animal?” she asks.

“Huh?” Az frowns up at me before shrugging. Her smile dims. “I don’t have one.”

“And you are a member of the Pack Houstonian?” Rachael lifts a dark eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“What is your animal?”

Okay. I have to intervene before this becomes a never ending circle of questions. “She doesn’t have an animal, but she’s a member of my pack.”

Rachael nods tersely. “Noted.” She types for a few seconds before raising her head and addressing Az. “Look at the camera on your left.”

Az turns; before she can smile, a flash goes off. The printer near Rachael spits out a laminated security badge. The pixie deftly secures a clip to the top of the badge before handing the badge to Az.

“This must be worn at all times when in the building.” Gold pixie eyes flick over me. “Sorry, Rick. Rules are rules.”

I clip my badge to the front of my shirt. The weight of the badge pulls one side of Az’s neckline even lower. Of course it does. My only hope is that it’s so cold in the Astrodome that she puts her cardigan on before she causes some poor soul to lose an eye or two courtesy of my fist.

“Is the Patriarch in?” I ask Rachael.

“Yes. He signed in at four o’clock this morning.” Rachael’s eyes follow my hand as it settles on the small of Az’s back. Her polite smile turns downright frosty. “Will that be all?”

I can take a hint. So can Az, it seems. My void offers up her most charming grin. She reaches out to pat Rachael’s hand.

“Bless your heart, Rachael. You have been so very helpful this morning.” False sincerity oozes out of Az’s voice. “I will be sure to let everyone know just how much I appreciate your effort to welcome me to the community.”

Rachael’s mouth gapes open. Az pats her hand again. I steer Az away from the reception desk before the pixie can recover. It isn’t until we’re a good twenty feet from the desk that I slow to a stroll and give Az a quick tour of the place.

The interior’s been gutted and remodeled so heavily that it is unrecognizable as a sporting venue. The cafeteria located on the former playing field resembles a mall food court and caters to all paranormal subgroups. I caution Az against going near the Wok of Joy; Wendats eat some funky-smelling shit. The first level is also where the gym, bank, security station, small farmer’s market, and three of the five assembly rooms are located. The second floor consists mainly of shops. The third and fourth floors are a labyrinth of hallways and offices. My two-room suite is on the fourth floor. As the centaur herd is larger than my pack, the Patriarch commands a six-room network of connected rooms on the third floor.

I take Az to my office first because I don’t want to see the disappointment in her face when she goes from the Patriarch’s lavishly decorated space to my underused suite. The sofa and recliner in the front room are relics from my first apartment. The white plastic patio table, complete with faded red umbrella, and matching chairs are from Ike’s bachelor pad. No one knows where the ancient French press coffeemaker or collection of novelty Houston mugs came from.

The bookshelf and desk in the rear office are particleboard castoffs donated by Matt. I found the leather executive chair near the dumpster behind an office plaza. The only thing on the walls is a plaque given to me by the Wveryn clan in Beaumont for preventing three of their eggs from being sold on the black market.

“I’ve seen mausoleums with more cheer,” Az remarks as she runs a finger through a thick layer of dust on the white speckled laminate countertop in the miniscule kitchenette. “Cleaner, too.”

“Tell you what, Princess, since your delicate sensibilities are offended by the lack of color and overabundance of dust, why don’t I put you in charge of decorating and maintaining this space?”

She wipes her dirty finger on my left hip. Her hand dips into my back pocket. “I think this is a decision you’ll regret. Loudly.”

That makes two of us. I don’t fancy staring at pink walls. “I’m going to start using this as my main office so keep it tasteful. If I see R&A Investigations on the door, you’ll spend the next month running with Greta and me.”

“Fine. Haskell Investigations is so boring, though. How about Mad Dog Inquiries?” she suggests with a grin. “Bloodhound, Inc? Watchdog?”

Like hell. “Two months of running plus KP duty.”

“Ha! From now on I will only think of you as Mr. Dully Dullman from Dullsville, Dullsvania.”

“Better than Ms. Crazypanties McNutjob of Bizzarotown.”

Warm lips brush across my cheek. Az’s hand finds its way back into mine. The fingers of her other hand sink into my hair. “Such a dork,” she breathes against my cheek. She presses a lingering kiss to my jaw. “And that shouldn’t be so attractive.”

“Come on, Princess. Best not keep the Patriarch waiting.”

I actually don’t give a flying fuck about keeping the Patriarch waiting, but if we’re alone together for another minute I won’t stick to our seven month timeline. Waking up with her draped over me like a warm, sweet blanket played hell with my self-restraint, and I haven’t had a chance to fully rebuild my defenses. The hallway is empty, but she snuggles as close to my side as possible.

“Are the wards bothering you? Too much magic?” I had worried about this. The wards surrounding and inside the building are heavyweights. The magic from the ‘dome’s denizens has to be strong, too. There are at least four leprechauns in the bank downstairs at all times.

“I’m keyed onto your signature now, and I can mostly control where I draw from if I stay focused.”

Yeah. It’s what happens if something messes up that focus that I fear. I don’t have time for a less-than-sane Az. I don’t have the resources to adequately protect her when she’s in that state.

“I think I should call my father,” she says when we are steps from the Patriarch’s door.

What the hell? I wouldn’t let her call Olivet. What in the name of all that’s sacred has led her to believe I’ll let her speak to her daughter-beating, oily asshole of a father?

I scowl. She fidgets but meets my stare. My grip on her hand tightens. “Do you really think now is a good time to start spouting craziness?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. My answer’s not going to change though. You can have a heart-to-heart with dear ol’ Dad just as soon as you toss a rose on my casket.”

“You’ve been taking drama queen lessons from Jose, haven’t you?”

“Thin ice, Az. Tread carefully.”

Her sigh carries the weight of the world. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Damn straight we will. And then I’m going to do the two-step on her phone before I chuck the damn thing into Buffalo Bayou. “Stop pouting.”

“You first, you big Alpha-hole.”

A growl rumbles in my chest. I’ll put up with a fair amount of sass, but she’s wearing my patience down to nothing. That this feels more like flirting and less like arguing doesn’t help matters. We’re taking things slow for her benefit. The least she could do is cooperate.

With a stifled groan, she drops my hand and rises on her toes to slap her palms on my cheeks. She drags my face down to hers. I cover her lips with my hand before they make contact with mine. Her blue eyes widen with indignation.

“Not here. Not now.” I gently push her back onto her heels. “And the next kiss is going to be mine, damn it.”

“In seven months,” she mutters against my palm. I drop my hand back to my side. She cuddles right back against me. “I didn’t mean that Alpha-hole bit earlier. You’re surprisingly good-natured for a tyrant. I mean Shifter.”

Can you even be a good-natured tyrant? I’m not going to waste precious brain cells trying to figure it out. I press the buzzer beside the doorframe before pushing open the herd’s door. The front desk is vacant. Odd. The Patriarch’s widowed mother is practically a permanent fixture behind that desk.

Az cocks her head toward the door that leads to the rest of the herd’s offices. “Do you smell lemons?”

I sniff. All I can smell is Az’s perfume and wet centaur fur. “No.”

“Definitely lemons. Healing magic. And something tangy.” She takes one shuffling step toward the door. Another. I have no choice but to follow.

And unholster my gun.

The ‘dome is protected, but it’s not impenetrable. The Succubae-Incubi War of last fall made that lesson very clear. The maintenance staff is still cleaning incubus weapons out of the air vents.

The breath catches in the back of Az’s throat. Her hand jerks but remains in my grasp. “Beneath the lemons, it’s bananas. Rotten bananas.”

Centaur blood. I take the lead and kick down the door that separates the receiving room from the rest of centaur territory. Streaks of blood run along the right side of the narrow hallway. Shoulder height for a centaur. As if someone with a shoulder wound brushed up against the wall as he made his way to safety.

Four doors along the hallway are closed. I don’t give a damn about them. The blood leads to the big room at the end of the hallway. To the Patriarch’s office.

Az gulps. I glance at her over my shoulder. Her face is ashen and her pupils are dilated. She’s breathing through her mouth to avoid whatever it is she smells in the hallway.

I inhale. Gag. Rotten bananas. I smell it now, too. The Patriarch’s office door is open. The blood trail stops at the doorway. I gingerly step into the opulent office. My footsteps are silent on the thick carpet.

At first glance, nothing seems out of place.

Nothing, that is, except the bloodied centaur collapsed on a chaise in a corner of the room.