Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

Princess is silent for most of the trip to the Buffalo Bayou Coven headquarters. The trip to the renovated Victorian near Rice University isn't long, but it's enough peace and quiet to keep me calm. Enough to keep me from taping her mouth shut and tossing her in the back of the truck.

"Rick."

It takes an embarrassing amount of time to realize she's talking to me. It's the first time she's used my name - the one I answer to, at least - and she sounds almost reasonable. Normal.

"Yeah, Princess?"

"Can we keep this a secret?"

Seeing as this could refer to anything her cracked brain could come up with, I'm not keen on just blindly agreeing. "Keep what a secret?"

She waves a hand at herself. "Me."

"Unless you have an invisibility cloak stashed away somewhere, sweetheart, that's pretty damn unlikely."

"Are you always this dense? You should come with a foghorn."

Okay. Forget tossing her in the bed of the truck. I'm going to lock her in the toolbox. "You're going to have to be more specific. I'm not fluent in crazy."

"Coulda fooled me." She crosses her arms over her chest and turns her head to stare out the passenger window. Thanks to several layers of Greta's makeup, Astraea no longer looks like a human punching bag. I remember where every dark mark is hidden.

She falls silent again. I would rejoice, but there's a tension in the truck that makes my skin itch. "Out with it."

"Voids are rare. Usually they're a karmic bitch slap to someone trying to mess with the rules of magic. People - witches - don't usually react kindly when faced with a void." She scowls at her reflection. "Act as if all we do is suck up magic and turn them into bitter hags. Like I want all that nasty magic boiling inside me. Oh, puh-lease. I don’t even like being able to see the future. It makes my eyeballs hurt."

"Won't they be able to sense you? Anders could."

"Matthias isn't a witch," she says, as if that explains everything.

It explains exactly nothing. I don't have time to wrestle answers out of her, either. We're at the coven headquarters, and Sally Caplinger is waiting for us on the front porch. Princess unbuckles her seatbelt with a quiet click. I want to grab her before she can bolt out of the truck, but this is the calmest she's been since the previous night. I don't want to add any magic to her already overloaded system.

"Keep your mouth shut in there. Stick to me like glue. Don't touch anything. In fact, keep your hands in your pockets."

"I'm not three."

"Coulda fooled me."

The glare she sends my way makes me fear becoming a human torch. Fortunately, the stench of burnt hair doesn't fill the truck. Maybe sane-Princess has a little self-control after all.

Training Shifters is a lot like training dogs. You have to use a system of rewards and punishments. Training irritating voids can't be that much different. Praise good behavior, punish bad behavior, and offer up treats as incentives.

"If we make it through this without any random bouts of crazy, we'll stop for ice cream on the way home."

Her glare intensifies. The air in the truck is suddenly hot and stifling. Sweat beads up on my forehead but she looks cool as a freakin’ cucumber. "I'm. Not. Three."

I have to admit that the door slam is impressive, especially considering that her arms look like spaghetti. She stomps around to the front of the truck but doesn't go any closer to the house. Smart girl. Sally could be considered a friend, but she's a sly old biddy.

"Ricky," Sally calls out, her high, clear voice at odds with her wizened appearance. "I'm so glad you could come out on such short notice."

The soles of her satin slippers don't touch the ground as she moves across the porch and onto the walkway. Eyes the same steel-wool gray as her hair settle on the blonde beside me. "And you brought a friend."

Sally says 'friend' as if it means something more than what it should. The kind of meaning that involves white dresses, monkey suits, and gold rings. If I don't correct her, will that prevent the awkward and uncomfortable groping later?

"And who are you, dearie?" Sally stretches out bony, wrinkled fingers.

Astraea bobs just out of reach. She clutches a fistful of the back of my shirt, but doesn't touch me, either. The warmth of her cheek radiates across my shoulder. "Az, ma'am."

Sally stands completely still. Not a single hair stirs on her head despite the brisk fall breeze. After several long moments, she tilts her head back to sniff the air. Her head snaps back down a second later. Her pupils are so dilated only a thin circle of gray can be seen.

"Daughter of Mage Vardan and his Witch-Consort," Sally murmurs. I half expect her to curtsy or prostrate herself at Astraea's feet. Houston doesn't have its own Mage, so witches here owe their allegiance to the Mage of New Orleans.

Astraea tugs on more of my shirt. "Like I said, I'm Az." When Sally continues to stare at her in awe and speculation, Astraea lifts her head and straightens her shoulders. She keeps her hands fisted in my shirt. "Undoubtedly you’ve heard the rumors, exaggerated as they are. I am not here in any official capacity. I am visiting friends and indulging in a moment of respite."

"You are always welcome to rest in the bosom of this coven."

I have to give Princess credit for keeping that damn serene smile on her face. "Thank you, ma'am. I will keep your generous offer in mind."

Yeah. I'm sure Sally would consider it an honor to have the Mage's daughter under her roof. Right up until she realizes that said daughter is a devourer of magic and an entire asylum of crazy disguised as a twentysomething-year-old woman.

"You are assisting Ricky, dearie?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Come, then. We have much to discuss." Imperious as a queen, Sally turns on her heel and floats up to the house.

My temporary lackey and I have no choice but to follow. Good. I need a little illumination on a few points. "She knows who you are."

"Yes, she's met my father. Can't wash blood clean, no matter how much of it you lose." Her smile is a shade shy of sane. "Could have disguised it some, but there hasn't been time. No one else to blend with, either."

Oh-kay. That's clear as mud. Not the most pressing question, though, so it will have to wait. "She knows who you are, but she doesn't know what you are?"

"Do you really think Daddy would announce that his baby girl isn't the perfect little witch he expected?" She rolls her eyes up at me. "When I was six, it was clear that I was the exact opposite of what he wanted. After that it was boarding schools, private institutions, and many rather interesting alternatives. They usually weren't too bad. Holidays at home were the worst."

"Minnesota." With Missy of the pink casts and threats of broken bones.

"Was the latest." She nudges my ribs with her bony elbow. "Cheer up, Ricky. Don't want Sally to think we're quarreling. She might think a good butt pinch is the best way to cheer you up."

"Shut up."

My growl only makes her laugh. "That's better," she chirps before skipping off after Sally.

Eight of the Coven's witches, plus Sally, are gathered in the house's formal living room. Sally gestures toward two delicate-looking chairs. I gingerly settle down on one, praying the spindly legs aren't as fragile as they seem. Princess chooses to hover at my side.

"No licking," I murmur, when I catch the gleam in her eye.

She winks. Fucking winks. I'm going to kill her. That's all there is to it.

One of the witches, a pretty brunette just the wrong side of jailbait, pushes a wooden cart into the center of the room. There are photographs and empty glass jars covering every inch of the cart. Jailbait hands me a typed list.

"That is everything that has been stolen from us," Sally says from her position near the fireplace. "As you can tell, it is a rather eclectic list of herbs and charms."

It looks like some kid's made up shopping list to me. Everroot. Wort-of-Opian. Thistle. Bram's Draught. I have never heard of most of the items on the list. I know how to make rudimentary protection charms and reinforce basic wards, but that's about it. "What else has been stolen?"

"A copper cauldron," says one of the witches near Sally.

Copper? Now that's odd. Most cauldrons are silver or steel. Steel is generic and cheap. The brews that come out of silver cauldrons are twice as potent for Shifters, vampires, and fey folk. Copper is a neutral metal, though, and is generally used for volatile spells.

"A copper ladle, as well," Sally adds.

Princess snaps the list out of my hand. Blood wells from a tiny paper cut on the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger. She swipes that from me, too. Crazy bitch.

With Sally and her minions watching, Princess circles the cart like a bloodhound. She ignores the photographs and concentrates on the jars. After running a hand over every jar, she picks up a hefty apothecary jar and brings it to her mouth.

I bury my head in my hands. I can't watch. I've never been laughed at by a houseful of witches, but I suppose there's a first time for everything. There's a stretch of land near where my momma used to live that would be perfect for hiding a body. The only road to and from the area is an unpaved one-lane path. No one ventures out there unless they're looking to hide something. They’ll never find Ms. Astraea Vardan’s corpse.

"Ahem," Princess coughs with all the subtlety of an elephant doing the can-can in a neon pink tutu.

I reluctantly raise my head. She's still holding the jar near her lips and is tapping her foot impatiently. Is she asking for permission? If I refuse, what are the odds she'll actually obey?

"Knock yourself out."

She flashes a beaming smile before dragging her tongue along the inside of the jar. To complete the picture of a total nutjob, she smacks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Loudly. She somehow manages to set the jar back down without breaking it.

"You left something off your list," she says, waving the sheet of paper in Sally's face. "Aconitum. Planted in sacred soil on a full moon. Watered with a virgin's tears. Pruned with silver shears."

A startled gasp rises from the collective of witches. I have to admit that I'm pretty impressed, too. Astraea's tongue is better than any commercially available magic detector.

"I'm just kidding," she laughs, manic grin on her face. Her announcement elicits nervous titters from the witchy audience. Astraea’s grin disappears as quickly as it appeared. "Except for the part about the wolfsbane. Aconitum napellus, to be exact. Grown in the Coven's backyard, if I'm reading the alkaloids correctly. You didn't have it on your list."

Because it's illegal to grow or sell wolfsbane within twenty miles of an established pack of Shifters. Sally has a hell of a lot of explaining to do. It takes balls to call me in for a case that involves stolen Shifter poison.

If that's the way she wants to treat a long, mutually beneficial business relationship, then that's the way we'll play. No more kid gloves. Never trust a witch. I should have known better. "From your tone on the phone, Sally, you believe the thief is a member of your coven, right?"

More gasps. Less startled and more outraged this time. Good. When a coven sticks together, you don't stand a shot in hell of getting through the Sisterhood. If they're fighting, you can turn them against each other without a bit of trouble. The bonds of Sisterhood don't hold a candle to the hunger for power.

"When did the first theft occur?"

"Three weeks ago. Thursday night. We had called a special meeting to discuss an important issue," Jailbait says. "When I got home, the backdoor was open and my Everroot was missing."

"Who was missing from the meeting?" I ask.

No one speaks for a moment. I can be patient when it suits me. They'll break on their own. I've done all the prodding I need to do.

"Cathy."

"Mark was sick. He had the chickenpox."

"Eva."

"She was in Dallas visiting her sister."

"Claire!"

Nine heads turn toward a pale woman with washed out red hair. Her brown eyes are bloodshot. Her thin lips curl back in a sneer. "I got better things to do than hang out with you harpies on a Thursday night."

"You missed the meeting when my house was broken into, too," a pudgy blonde witch accuses.

"She was there when my cauldron was stolen, though."

Claire nods her head at one of the witches. "Thank you, Mary."

The witch who'd spoken up in Claire's defense fidgets. "But you left before we had tea. I remember because you and I usually share a slice of carrot cake, but you were gone so I ate the whole thing."

"And promptly stuck your finger down your throat as soon as you got home," Claire scoffs. "Stupid cow."

I'd like nothing more than to escort Astraea out of the house before the situation deteriorates into a catfight. Fights between witches involve a fair bit more than hair pulling and scratching. Just my luck, though, Princess is inching closer to Claire. Who, now that I think about it, is a lot closer to me than she'd been a moment earlier.

"Tell me," Astraea starts conversationally, as if we aren't seconds from a nuclear explosion, "is your heart as black as your soul?"

To everyone's surprise, Claire throws her head back and laughs. She strokes a finger across Astraea's cheek. "You're precious."

"And you're demented."

Claire leans forward as if sharing a secret with Astraea. "Takes one to know one." She jerks her head towards me. Disgust is written across every inch of her pale face. "Hanging out with that. Half-human. Half-animal. Weak. Worthless."

Astraea cups the cheek Claire touched. "C'mon, don't do this. Please. I just cleared out all the cotton candy."

Looks like we have our thief. Judging by Sally's expression, she'll be more than happy to let me take the witch off her hands. The enhanced cuffs jangle when I retrieve them from my pocket. Not only are they immune to magic, but they tighten the more you try to wiggle out of them.

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back. We're going to take a little ride to your house to retrieve everything you stole, and then we're going to take a trip downtown."

Slick as a greased pig, Claire slips out of my grasp. "You think you can stop me? You're nothing. Fodder for the cannons."

"Don't do this," Astraea pleads, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "It's going to be messy, and this is my new favorite shirt."

"Filth. You aren't fit to lick my master's feet. When he is through, his army will-."

"Put a sock in it." I snap a circlet around one wrist. She wrenches free and rakes her fingernails across my cheek. So much for Mr. Nice Guy. I hate bringing in banged up suspects - the paperwork pile is twice as high - but sometimes it can't be avoided.

"Maybe I'll just kill you now. Your carcass will make a nice rug for his floor." Sparks of magic dance across her fingertips. I take two steps backwards. There's no telling what kind of mojo this chick is working. My hand slides around to my gun. Sally'll be pissed over having to clean blood off the floor, but at least I'll be alive for her to be pissed at.

"You couldn’t have gone with the easy way?" Astraea sighs.

Without warning, she leaps onto Claire's back and slaps her palms onto the witch's cheeks. "Playtime's over, freakshow." The quip loses some of its intensity when she starts cackling like a hyena. Her eyes go wide and glazed, but she keeps her legs around Claire's waist and her hands on the older woman's face.

"Soon there will be a new race of Shifters," Claire grits out between clenched teeth and bloodless lips. The madness in her eyes is more frightening than the deadly certainty I've seen in Astraea's gaze.

No one rushes forward to help Claire or Astraea. Short of tossing witches around like dolls, I can't push my way through the crowd to reach my ward. Claire bucks like a wild bronco. No matter how hard she tries, she can't dislodge Astraea. Pained howling pours out of her open mouth. She twists, digs her fingers into Astraea's bare ankles. Blood runs in rivulets down Claire's hand and onto the floor.

Astraea's grip doesn't loosen. Both women are panting and obviously weakening, but neither is ready to give in. In desperation, Claire twists wildly, loses her footing. Astraea's a featherweight and Claire is skin and bones, but their combined weight is enough to shatter a glass-topped coffee table.

The sound of the crash is sickening. Broken glass scatters like diamonds across the floor. The silence that follows is enough to drive a sane person around the bend. It only takes a few well-placed shoves to clear the witches out of my way.

There is a heap of hair - blonde and red - and pale, skinny limbs in the center of the table. Blood is smeared across the wooden frame. Neither woman seems to be breathing. Magic crackles over them like lightning. Someone groans.

The soft, breathless sound kicks me out of my stunned stupor. I turn and focus on Sally. "Call a healer. Get someone to clean up this glass. We need clean water and towels. Bandages."

The pile of witch and void moves. Bloody hands clamp onto the sides of the table, driving stray pieces of glass even further into thin skin. One shaky, dazed woman stands. The other remains crumpled in a motionless heap.