Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

I've been arrested more than I care to admit. Most of the time the charges are dropped due to my excellent working relationship with the local authorities. However, I have a feeling that breaking the jaw of Detective Dave Greer may not be met with the same leniency.

It would be a justified assault. Though normal as they come, Greer is head of the Paranormal Incident Bureau. He knows how to act around Shifters; he knows which triggers to avoid at all costs. Eyeing a member of my pack like she's a five-course meal waiting to be devoured is a definite no-no. He finds everything she says utterly hilarious. He's fetched three cups of coffee and two bottles of water. He's even offered to give her a tour of the precinct.

That she's flirting back doesn't help my blood pressure at all. Does she really have to keep touching his hand? And what is with that smile? She has good teeth. So what? There's no need to keep flashing them every five seconds.

"Az, we're here for a reason." I jab her in the ribs with a finger. If my little reminder happens to come out as a growl, well, that's just the way I talk.

She drops her fingers off Greer's hand and swivels in her chair to glare at me. Big baby. I didn't hurt her ribs. "Of course, Ricky." She turns back to Greer. "We need to see Claire Eras."

I give Greer the rest of the information on Claire. He normally busts my balls about interrogating people after they've been arrested. All Princess has to do is bat her eyelashes to make Greer fall all over himself to set up a chat.

The woman sitting in the interrogation room looks more like a zombie than a witch. Her skin is practically translucent and she is just bones and flesh. It isn't until her bloodshot eyes spot Az that she shows any sign of life.

"You! You bitch! What did you do to me?" Claire jerks on the shackles tying her wrists to the table. She tries to crawl on the table to get to Az. A fine mist of spittle accompanies every word. The enchanted shackles glow a pale blue.

"I took away your access to magic," Princess says. She delicately lowers herself onto the chair across from Claire and crosses her legs. She drums her fingers on the table. "Don't get huffy with me. It was never yours to begin with. You don't own magic. That's not how it works. Whoever taught you that was a damn liar."

"My Master controls magic," Claire sneers, plopping back in her seat.

"Well, duh." Az fiddles with the end of her braid. Her nonchalance only ratchets up Claire's anger. "That's about all you can do with magic. You direct it. You can't possess it. It's not made for that."

We could debate magic philosophy all afternoon, but I have better things to do. I think a root canal without anesthesia would be preferable to listening to Nutjob One and Nutjob Two argue about what you can and can't do with magic. Magic is magic. As far as I'm concerned, most of what people say they know about magic is all bullshit anyway.

"My Master can -," Claire protests, rattling her shackles.

"Your master is a lying sack of shit." I plant my palms on the table and leaning forward. It works to intimidate Claire, but it comes at a cost. The stench of body odor and vomit waft off her in heavy waves. By taking short, shallow breaths I can keep from puking all over the table.

"He is not." Claire tilts her pointy chin up. She shakes more than a meth head coming off a high. "He is… he is a genius."

Could she be any more of a stupid, lovesick idiot? Spineless women like her drive me insane. They remind me of my mother. "He's a moron and so are you."

"He's the most powerful man I've ever met."

Az lets out a low whistle. "Geez. And I thought I led a sheltered life." Under the table, her foot nudges mine. The tap is too deliberate, too firm, to be an accident. "Tell me, if this master of yours is so powerful why does he need you to steal for him?"

"He has better things to do than gather supplies."

"Come on, Az, why would he bother with such petty things when he has people like Claire to do his dirty work for him?" I tap Az's foot back. Okay, Princess, if you think you're up for it, we'll play this out.

Az shrugs, turns so that it’s clear she’s ignoring Claire. "A list like that makes me wonder about his magic knowledge. Not many spells use Reggata root. It tends to make things go wonky. Betcha he didn't even have a plan for the supplies."

"Typical witch: throw a bunch of weeds in a pot and hope things turn out."

Az's eyes narrow, her lips thin into a terse line of indignation. "Typical man: jot down the first thought that pops in your head and expect the woman to figure it out for you. This jerk probably has half a dozen Claires running around town doing his errands."

Claire flinches. She's weak, and she's not the only flunky. Good to know. I direct my question at Az. "Are those ingredients for a love potion? A little herbal remedy for a performance problem? Guy has that many women hanging around he's going to need a little boost."

"Nah. Wouldn't do that at all,” Az says. She taps her chin. “Could be used to siphon magic off someone, but it's a roundabout way. There are easier ways to feed off witches. Could be that the guy's just in it for the flash. Lure them in with complicated spells and suck them dry."

Claire slams her fists on the table. "Filth. You Shifters aren't fit to breathe the same air as my Master. I can't wait until he wipes you off the face of the earth and his creations roam in your place."

Jackpot. This is normally where I walk off without saying a word. There's no need to rub in the fact that I just got everything I needed. Plus, being mysterious is just cool.

Princess, on the other hand, doesn't know the meaning of the term 'low-key'. She pops to her feet like a deranged jack-in-the-box and grins wildly at a red-faced Claire. "Thank you. You've been a tremendous help."

Claire's shouts can be heard all the way down the hallway. Her curses are inventive. It's a good thing she's in magic-canceling shackles and I have a void by my side. There are certain parts of my anatomy that I am too fond of to lose to a vengeful witch.

"I want to see Claire's apartment," Az announces before we reach my truck.

"No."

"Okay." She shrugs, yanks open the door. There are no words for how much I hate that shrug. "I need to go shopping. Dad still hasn't dropped off my things. I doubt he ever will. He probably thinks you’ve already killed me and buried my body in the backyard."

"Greta can take you shopping." That's what women are for, right? They take each other shopping and gossip about whatever it is women gossip about.

"Greta's style and mine are not necessarily the same." She glances down at her chest and scowls. "I don't have the breasts to pull off a bustier. Never saw the attraction to leather pants, either. Leather is restricting and hot."

And now I'm thinking about her breasts. Her just-about-a-handful, perky breasts. It's preferable to thinking about Greta's breasts, of course, but still. Not really a road I want to travel down. She’s cute, I’ll admit that, but for all I know insanity is as contagious as syphilis or gonorrhea. No thank you.

"Fine. We'll go to hoarding hell."

"Thank you."

Have I mentioned that I hate that damn smug smile as much as I hate her shrug? No? Well I do. It grates on every nerve ending in my body. It makes the wolf restless. Irritates every part of me.

The door to Claire's third-floor apartment is locked. Fortunately there's no one in the narrow, dim hallway so picking the lock won't be an issue. I reach for the slim set of tools I always keep in my back pocket, but it's missing. Az slips in front of me and drops to her knees in front the door. Since it's a little too soon after our last conversation, I take a large step backwards.

"Ooh, fancy," she mocks as she extracts a pick. "You should try this with a paperclip and a piece of Doublemint."

"We can't all be MacGyver." Not that I believe she can actually pick a lock with just a paperclip and gum. There's no need to argue about it though. It'll just give me a headache.

"Who?"

"MacGyver. You know, the guy who could get out of any jam with just some duct tape and a double-A battery." Who doesn't know MacGyver?

"Could have used him when I was at the Monastery of Gregan. Done!" She pops to her feet and hands over my case. She nudges the door open with her foot. The combined odors of magic and garbage waft out through the opening.

"Don't touch anything." It's a waste of breath, I know it is, but the words come out before I can stop them.

"M'kay."

She skips inside without bothering to turn on the lights. I follow and close the door. Claire's neighbor is nosy and chatty. I'm not getting sucked into another conversation about the best way to keep marigolds alive.

Like a magic-scenting bloodhound, she bypasses the mess in the living room and heads straight for the kitchen. She examines every inch of the cluttered countertop, muttering under her breath and clucking her tongue. "Ooh!"

"What?" What has she found that I missed? Granted, I don't have her magical expertise, but if she's found something this quickly it must have been apparent.

She holds up a blocky, grayish crystal. "Tevan crystal. Hard to find. We need one." The crystal disappears into her pocket.

"We are not stealing from the crazy witch."

"Do you know what Tevan crystals do?" She doesn't give me a chance to answer. "They hold energy and act as a power source for low-level spells. You set one of these near the front door or near the perimeter and we won't have a problem with your wards."

"There is no problem with my wards."

"There will be if I move in. I drain energy all the time. I don't mean to do it. Your wards won't last half a day, and you don't have a resident witch to replenish them. I can direct energy back into the Tevan crystal so that your wards stay up."

I had considered the ramifications of having a whackjob move into the house, but I had not fully considered what having a void around would mean. If she drains my wards, what other protection spells is she going to interrupt? There is an anti-violence spell around the safe house we use when tensions run a little high or we have new Shifters. Do I need to make a list of the place she has to avoid?

"Wait. Back up the boat. You drain energy all the time?"

"Yes. Magic if it's available. Pure energy if there is no magic. Trace amounts."

"So you'll be feeding off my Shifters constantly."

"Yes." She has the grace to look chagrined. She should. This is something that should have been disclosed a long, long time ago. "But not a lot. Like I said, trace amounts. You won't even notice. Shifters are made of magic. It pumps through your veins. You can replenish what I take with a few beats of your heart. I’ll take from the strongest source in the vicinity."

"Anything else I should know about? Full disclosure time, Princess."

"You will need someone to create anti-memory spell talismans for your people to carry. I can write out instructions. Greta or Ike should be able to do it. No magic is necessary. "

"Why?" I don't think I want to know the answer. I can feel my blood pressure climbing.

"Dad likes to ship me off, but he doesn't trust the people he ships me off to. No one I've stayed with remembers me staying there before. He can't let it get out that his only child is a void. Not good for the reputation, you know."

Mind wiping is illegal in all fifty states. Not that it's easy to detect or prove. If you can't remember being wiped, how do you even know that you have been wiped? I'm not surprised the Mage of New Orleans resorts to such tactics. I don't put anything past members of the Council.

Pacing the length of the kitchen does little to dispel the anger roiling inside. My hands itch with the need to flex my claws. I can feel the fur sprouting on my arms. Why is it that being around Astraea Vardan negates decades of self-control?

"I don't like this. I don't like threats against my pack. I don't like things I can't control. I don't like any of this, Astraea. I didn't ask for it. I sure as hell didn't go looking for it."

"I understand." Az’s shoulders slump. She stuffs her hands in her pocket, bobs her head once. I've seen kicked puppies look less pathetic. "Is the alternative offer still open? I don't need much money, but a new identity would be helpful. The Vardan name can be a bit of an albatross."

Growling at Princess was a good tension-reliever, but now I feel like an ass. I hate being the bad guy. Especially when I'm not the bad guy.

"I said you were going to be pack. You're going to be pack. You don't turn your back on a pack mate, even if you're pretty sure she's going to sink her teeth into your hindquarters." Besides, I don't think I can handle another week of Jose's moping.

"Thank you." She smiles, and this one doesn't feel like fingernails on a chalkboard. It is warm and clean as sunshine.

God, now she's turning me into a sap. Insanity has to be contagious.

"Finish up. Quick."

She snaps off a salute and turns back to the counter. After a little searching, and a lot of wishing for a pair of latex gloves, I find a mostly empty cardboard box. Since the floor is already covered with a layer or two of crap, I dump out the books in the box.

"Pack up anything you think needs to come with us. We can examine this shit at home."

She tosses crystals and herb packets and pieces of paper into the box as if they are nothing. It takes every ounce of control I have not to snap at her. To me, magic is volatile as a hand grenade and should be treated with the same care. I can only hope she knows what she's doing.

Click.

"Oops."

Shit. Princess has her hand on something near the microwave. The expression on her face clearly states that the fecal matter has hit the fan. Lovely. Because my day wasn't complicated enough.

"What did you do?"

"It's possible that the apartment is booby trapped."

"Claire booby trapped her own apartment?" Given the clutter, I don't know why anyone would think that's a good idea. It's an excellent way to wind up a story on the ten o'clock news.

"I doubt she did it. It's a mixture of magic, which I've drained, and explosive material, which I can't do anything about. Witches like Claire tend to rely solely on magic. They're lazy like that."

Now that she mentions it, I smell gasoline and phosphorous. I tuck the box under one arm and drive my shoulder into Az's middle. She folds like a tent over my shoulder.

Click. Crackle. Whoosh.

Heat licks up my spine as I race for the door. The door shatters with one kick. Two feet from the stairwell is a fire alarm. Az slams her fist into it as we run by. The wail of the siren replaces the crackle and pop of the fire.

I don't stop running until we're back at the truck. Az and the box get dumped in the bed of the truck. I do a quick visual inspection to make sure neither is crispy. The ends of Az's hair are a little singed but the box looks fine.

"What the fuck was that?”

"Booby trap."

"Yeah, I got that. Thanks." Before I can start the long and painful process of dragging answers out of my intermittently-chatty void, my phone rings. It's Greer. He keeps the conversation short, but the bit of news he drops in my lap is enough to completely ruin my day.

Claire Eras is dead.