Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

"The walls are very sandy today," Astraea groans. She sways like a drunken squirrel and takes one staggering step forward.

"Come on, Princess." With all the blood on her clothes, it's hard to decide where to put my hands. I keep my grip on her waist light, just in case there's internal damage, and lift her out of the remains of the coffee table.

"Bless you, kind sir." She shakes her head, licks her lips. "I did not give authorization to have my skull replaced by a drum."

Like ants, witches pour back into the room. A grim-faced Sally reaches for my void. Astraea huddles against me and whimpers like a pained, scared animal. A pointed growl and quick baring of teeth work well to put Sally in her place.

"Take care of yours, and I'll take care of mine, witch."

I manage to get Astraea to a wingback chair. She slumps forward and twitches at odd intervals while I check for broken bones. Her hair is full of glass and streaked pink with blood. None of her limbs are broken. Her ribs feel fine, but there's no way to detect internal bleeding.

"Hospital time, Princess."

"No. No touching." She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her pointed chin on them. Her eyes don't fix on any one object for more than a second. "My bones are made of bubble wrap."

"Bubble wrap." I can feel pressure building in the back of my skull. This chick is going to get me a one-way ticket to the loony bin before the week is out. "We need to check for internal bleeding."

"My spleen is full of jelly."

If you can't beat them… "Grape or strawberry?"

"Apricot." Astraea's smile is resigned. The fog in her eyes clears momentarily. "Thank you."

"Yeah, well, don't get too chipper there, sweetheart. You and I are going to have a long chat about stupid moves and not staying fucking put when you're told."

"Hadda drain her. Spell woulda gone pfft and then she woulda gone boom. Gotta protect the pack. So you say. Will say. Have said. Why’s it always seers? Fucking seers." She jerks as if jolted by lightning. Sharp white teeth clamp down on her lower lip. "Oh man. Oh man, oh man."

My mind, of course, automatically fills with pictures of massive internal hemorrhaging and innards flattened like pancakes. She simply presses her hands to her temples and rocks back and forth. Her lips move but not even my sensitive ears can pick up a sound.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't hold it. I gotta discharge."

I hope she means a magic discharge and not something that'll make even more of a mess on Sally's floor. "Let's go."

She shakes her head and sinks deeper into the chair. If she thinks I won't throw her over my shoulder and haul her out of the house, she doesn't know me very well.

"I wasn't asking, Princess."

She points a trembling finger at Claire. "Contain her. So many secrets. So much… pain. Oh, man. Bad magic. Black. Death." Giddy laughter spills from her split lips. She slaps a hand across her mouth. "Howling at the moon and foaming at the mouth. Bloody claws and a mouthful of fur. World’s on fire…"

Astraea rises, sways. Bats away my hands when I reach for her. She winds her arms around her waist and shakes like a sapling in a hurricane. "Drained her dry and cut her off, but it's too much. Too much nasty. Too soon." Her bloody hands shoot out to grasp my shirt. Her grip is surprisingly strong. There is almost no lucidity in her eyes. "You gotta keep the secret, Aldric. Gotta keep mum. Ha. Mum. Mummy wrapped in sheets. Pull out the brain through the nose. That's what I'll do to you. Keep your liver in a jar in the fridge."

Fruitcake. Pity, too. She's not half bad when she's not off her rocker. "I'll call Greta and Ike in to take Claire into custody. Let's get you out of here."

"You don't listen." She grins up at me. "Irritant."

"Pot."

All the color leaches out of her face. Even her eyes seem to dim. "Gotta dash. Can't explode in here. Too many prying eyes. Nosy witches. Blech. Witchy noses."

Naturally, this is the perfect time for Claire to come to with a loud shriek. The witches yelp and scream in response. Most of the cowards scramble out of the room. Fair-weather powerhouses.

Astraea takes advantage of the chaos drag my face down to hers. Her lips are soft and cool, but her tongue is hot as a poker when it pries my lips open. I only get a moment to savor the sweetness before heavy, boiling waves of magic pour out of her and into me. My knees wobble. Sparks dance in front of my eyes and the world tilts a little to the left.

It's a hell of a first kiss.

By the time I recover from the mystical overload, Astraea is gone. So is my phone. Fine. She wants to run off and get herself killed? Screw her. The Mage can have his money back. It's not worth the hassle.

Besides, Claire doesn't seem to be too happy to be missing her magic. Ashen and bloody, she tries to look menacing but only comes across as pathetic. I'd feel sorry for her, but the blood under her fingernails belongs to someone I… tolerate.

"Where is Az?" Sally inquires once I have Claire cuffed and cowed on a spindly chair.

"Don't know. Don't care." The magic Astraea forced on me zips through my veins like electricity. I was born a Shifter; this is the first time I've felt close to involuntarily changing. Every sense has been heightened to the point of pain. It's fascinating and fucking frightening.

"I would like to know what incantation she used to drain Claire so quickly. I would like access to the stored energy, as well. There's no sense in letting good magic go to waste."

And that is a prime example of why I hate witches. They don't give a damn that one of their own just tried to kill me. All they care about is the energy. The power. Selfish bitches.

"Do you really think anything inside that," I say, gesturing at a scowling Claire, "is good magic?"

"Evil intent does not necessarily indicate that the magic itself is evil."

"It's evil." It has to be. Why else would it be driving me insane? Itching. Clawing at my insides. Urging to me to Shift. To lose all rational thought and change in the middle of the coven's living room. Tear into tender flesh and feast on witches and…

Whoa. Back the boat up. My control's good. Damn good. To keep my position as Alpha, it has to be. As a wolf, I've only killed people in the heat of battle or when challenged. I usually limit my dining options to deer, more deer, and the occasional rabbit.

I don't want Claire in my truck. Not when I'm one wrong breath away from Shifting. Fortunately Detective Dave Greer, my usual connection at the HPD, answers when I call. The HPD and I have an arrangement that's served us well for years. They call me in, at a special discount, for cases they can't handle, and in return I keep pack business from involving civilians. I'm working on a similar arrangement with the Harris County Sheriff's Department.

Two hours later, I leave the HPD precinct with a pocketful of coven cash and a set of empty cuffs. The magic buzz has died down to a dull roar, proving that a shit-ton of paperwork is boring enough to be fatal.

My jeans and shirt are covered with dried blood. There's glass in my left boot. I want nothing more than to shower, eat a steak or four, and zone out in front of whatever football game I can find. It's only one in the afternoon, but I'm done for the day. I don't want to see anything more magical than a dream for the next twenty-four hours.

Spotting Ike pacing the length of the front porch is a clear indication that I'm not going to get what I want. His guilt is so potent I can smell it from the driveway. He stops when he sees me, drops his head as a sign of submission.

Good fox, but it won't get you out of the doghouse. "What did you do?"

"Greta's not here."

"Unless she plans on hitting the Galleria with the pack credit card, I don't give a shit what she does on her days off."

Ike swallows. He keeps his eyes on my boots. "She got a call, packed a bag, and drove off."

Princess. Of course. The psycho couldn't trust me to take care of her, but she had no problem stealing my phone and my pack member. I ignore the pang of hurt and focus on the anger. "Fine. Whatever."

Ike doesn't budge. He's a fleshy roadblock. A fleshy roadblock that's about to be flattened. My growl causes him to flinch. His shoulders slump even more.

"Jose wants to fix up the spare bedroom next to yours for Astraea. It's all he's talked about since breakfast. Since she's not with you, I figure that whatever Greta's doing involves her."

"Yeah."

Ike shifts agitatedly. His nose twitches. "Is she coming back? Jose and I already cleared out the room. He's at Home Depot picking out paint. He's been real excited about this. Since that incident with the jaguar last month, he's been… you know. It's good to see him happy."

Which means I'm going to be the bad guy who bursts Jose's bubble when I tell him that his new bestie is gone. Which means we'll be stuck with a moping, weepy ocelot for the foreseeable future. Jose's the pack baker, so it also means another month without chocolate cake, cookies, or any homemade sweets.

The pack accepted Astraea with a keenness that, had I not expected it, would have been cause for alarm. Any other pack would have rejected a non-Shifter, but my pack is made up of strays. Outsiders. Most of them have been abused at one time or another. They know what it’s like to not fit in anywhere. To need a family. I’m not surprised they recognized a kindred spirit in Princess. She has no animal inside her, but she has the same wounds and holes we carry. We’re all broken in one way or another.

Besides, they need a sister. Greta’s better suited for the disciplinarian beta role. Astraea had taken the time to talk to each pack member during her brief time with us. As a lot of non-Shifters are wary of us, if not outright discriminatory, that meant something. Even if most of what she’d said had been nonsensical.

"Fine." I drag my fingers through my dark hair. Get them caught on dried blood and beads of glass. Of course. "Paint the damn room. Let him turn it into a Pepto explosion. We'll use it as a guest room."

I get my shower. And a steak. I don't get the football. Greta, acting the perfectly submissive fox, appears in the doorway before I can rinse off my plate. She slides the phone across the kitchen table and takes a chair three spots away from mine. Smart girl.

"Where is she?"

"Galveston. She's at the beach house."

"She'll burn the damn thing to the ground."

"She was passed out in bed when I left. I made sure to bring all the weapons with me. She seemed to have regained some measure of control." Greta fishes something out of her pocket and tosses it at me. "She wanted me to give this to you."

This is four sheets of printer paper folded up in a complicated series of triangles. Unfolding and smoothing the pages requires more patience than I gave myself credit for possessing. The words written on the page might as well be written in another language. The letters are tiny and run together. I can make out a few words, but not enough to be of any use.

"Did she say anything?"

Greta shrugs. "Kept mumbling about the pack and about wolves. Test tube Shifters? I have to be honest, I tuned out when she was talking."

"Probably for the best." I meet her worried gaze. She's still waiting for punishment. Time to kill two pains in the ass with one furry stone. "Jose's turning the spare room into a pretty princess castle. Supervise."

Greta groans, drags her feet on the way out of the kitchen. She pauses on the threshold. "I picked up a burner phone for Astraea and programmed the number in your phone."

"Why the fuck should I care?"

Her shoulders shake. Amusement drips from her voice. "Sure. Whatever you say, boss."

While my steak digests, I take another look at Astraea's pages o'crazy. Most of the first two pages have to do with Claire and the herbs that were stolen. In the middle of the third page, crammed between a sentence about cream cakes and a question about the flammability of seashells, is a familiar name. Kassiopa Taylor.

Maybe it's a hint. Could be residual seer magic seeping through. An apology of sorts. I should hit Kassie up again to see if she'll give me a second chance. The worst thing she can do is say no.

No, really, that is the worst thing she can do. Her voice is nails on a chalkboard at jackhammer decibels.

When I call, Kassiopa oozes coy sternness. She chastises me for cancelling on her, but doesn't say no to dinner. I have to promise six times not to cancel again, which is an annoying, but small, price to pay for a shot of seeing her tassels.

I let her pick the restaurant. Big mistake. I hate jazz and 'small plates' and designer food. If I want an appetizer-sized portion, I'll fucking order an appetizer. When I order an entree, I want a plate full of food. Especially if I'm paying thirty bucks for it.

Seriously? Who takes a Shifter out for tapas?

After the dinner-that-never ends and never satisfies, and some quality time on Kassiopa's leather couch, I finally get to see the tassels. They are everything they were hyped to be and more.

Except, it's the more that turns my dream date into a nightmare. Any date that ends with a trip to the hospital and the HPD precinct is sure to be a last date. Greta manages to hold in her laughter as she drives me home, which means that she gets to continue living for another day. My cell phone doesn't survive the trip home because of a text message that simply reads, "Told you so."

Home, showered and in bed, I finally make out what Astraea wrote after Kassie's name. It's enough to make me want to bash my head against the wall. Damned half-psychic nutjob voids.

Succubus.