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This Strange Witchery
Michele Hauf


The last thing he wanted……was to fall for a witchAll Torsten Rindle wants is to be normal. As soon as he completes his last job, he’s done with the supernatural. Then Melissande Jones sashays into his life, and Tor finds that he can’t resist this sultry sorceress. He might be able to protect her from vampires and zombies, but can he leave the paranormal world behind after Mel has bewitched him?







The last thing he wanted...

...was to fall for a witch

All Torsten Rindle wants is to be normal. As soon as he completes his last job, he’s done with the supernatural. Then Melissande Jones sashays into his life, and Tor finds that he can’t resist this sultry sorceress. He might be able to protect her from vampires and zombies, but can he leave the paranormal world behind after Mel has bewitched him?


MICHELE HAUF is a USA TODAY bestselling author who has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries usually feature in her stories. And if Michele followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries and creatures she has never seen. Find her on Facebook, Twitter and at michelehauf.com (http://www.michelehauf.com).


Also by Michele Hauf (#u2c642c33-4ad2-5409-a129-4da84c389f75)

The Witch’s Quest

The Witch and the Werewolf

An American Witch in Paris

The Billionaire Werewolf’s Princess

Tempting the Dark

The Dark’s Mistress

Ghost Wolf

Moonlight and Diamonds

The Vampire’s Fall

Enchanted by the Wolf

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This Strange Witchery

Michele Hauf






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08220-4

THIS STRANGE WITCHERY

© 2018 Michele Hauf

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Here’s to you, Weirdo.


Contents

Cover (#u1046f95c-e949-58ce-8cc0-d84559cd9a71)

Back Cover Text (#ud9987072-dbf9-5a28-bdf4-81d2eb061061)

About the Author (#u31ec29bd-4ace-5fe0-8e62-a54031c1cbcd)

Booklist (#ueef0400a-2dbc-5bf1-8877-b6f45f7cdb59)

Title Page (#ucd1acc38-7e2c-5e59-a17f-a3c18db1f1bd)

Copyright (#udc319328-d513-5802-858a-4ad6bddcf462)

Dedication (#ud2be3dcb-becf-5b34-bc3f-9c6ca9eeabbe)

Chapter 1 (#ud8d6958b-cc74-5053-9f21-167d8e4a9402)

Chapter 2 (#u7a052c1d-feac-58ae-ac28-da83baf1a13a)

Chapter 3 (#u525df707-e8e7-5a05-9499-2ccdaa9c7a08)

Chapter 4 (#u95d960f3-5f98-56c2-b550-c4a3106f7aad)

Chapter 5 (#u6c804777-3267-50db-8300-43988250d803)

Chapter 6 (#ue22b06cf-fe64-518f-aa4c-853340d397cc)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter 1 (#u2c642c33-4ad2-5409-a129-4da84c389f75)


The key to disposing of a werewolf body was to get the flames burning quickly, yet to keep them as contained as possible. Torsten Rindle had been doing cleaner work for close to ten years. When a call came in about a dead paranormal found or deposited somewhere in Paris, he moved swiftly. Discreet cleanup was one of his many trades. Media spin was a talent he’d mastered for whenever he was too late to clean up and a human had stumbled upon the dead werewolf. He also dallied with protection work and the occasional vampire hunt.

It was good for a man to keep his business options fluid and to always expand his skills list. And if he had to choose a title for what he did, he’d go with Secret Keeper.

But some days...

Tor shook his head as the blue-red flames burned the furry body to ash before him. The use of eucalyptus in the mix masked the smell of burning dog. For the most part. The creature had been rabid, eluding the slayer until it had gotten trapped down a narrow alleyway that had ended in a brick wall. The slayer had taken it out not twenty minutes earlier, and then had immediately called Tor.

Those in the know carried Tor’s number. He was always the first choice when it came to keeping secrets from humans.

Thankful this had been an old wolf—werewolves shifted back to human form after death; the older ones took much longer, sometimes hours—so he hadn’t needed to deal with it in human form, Tor swiped a rubber-gloved hand over an itch on his cheek. Then he remembered the werewolf blood he’d touched.

Bollocks.

He was getting tired of this routine: receive a frantic call from someone in the know regarding a rabid werewolf who may be seen by humans. Dash to the scene. Assess the situation. Clean up the mess (if extinguishing the problem was essential), or talk to the police and/or media using one of his many alter-ego names and titles, such as Ichabod Sneed from the Fire Department’s Personal Relations. Then return home to his empty loft.

Eat. Crash. Repeat.

Tor knew... He knew too much. Monsters existed. Vampires, werewolves, witches, faeries, harpies, mermaids. They all existed. And yes, dragons were known to be real assholes if you could find one of them. A regular human guy like him shouldn’t have such knowledge. That was why, over the years, he had striven to keep such information from the public. Because knowing so much? It fucked with a man’s mental state.

And then there were some days he wanted to walk away from it all. Like today.

This morning he’d been woken and called to assist with media contacts while a minor graveyard at the edge of the city had been blocked off from public access. Routine cosmetic repairs, he’d explained to the news reporters. The truth? A demonic ritual had roused a cavalcade of vicious entities from Daemonia. Slayers had taken care of the immediate threat, but that had left the graveyard covered in black tar-like demon blood. And the stench!

Tor had spent the better part of this afternoon arguing with a group of muses about their need to “come out” to the public regarding their oppressive attraction to angels who only wanted to impregnate them. Something to do with the #metoo movement. Sexual harassment or not, the public wasn’t ready for the truth about fallen angels and their muses. But, being a feminist himself, he had directed the muses to the Council, who had recently put together a Morals and Ethics Committee.

“I want normal,” he muttered. He grabbed the fire extinguisher to douse the flames. He refilled the canister at the local fire station monthly. “It’s time I had it.”

It took ten minutes to clean up the sludgy ash pile and shovel it into a medium black body bag. Fortunately, this werewolf had been tracked to the edge of the 13th arrondissement not far from the ring road that circled Paris. It was a tight little neighborhood, mostly industry that had closed during regular business hours, leaving the streets abandoned and the dusty windows dark. Tor hadn’t noticed anyone nearby, nor had he worried about discovery as he made haste cleaning up the evidence. His van was parked down the street.

He hefted the body bag over a shoulder, picked up the extinguisher and his toolbox filled with all the accoutrements a guy like him should ever need on a job like this, and wandered down the street. His rubber boots made squidgy noises on the tarmac. After dousing the flames, he’d rolled down the white polyethylene hazmat suit to his hips. With shirtsleeves rolled up, his tweed vest still neatly buttoned, yet tie slightly loosened, he could breathe now.

“Normal,” he repeated.

He’d scheduled a Skype interview early tomorrow afternoon. The job he had applied for was assistant to Human Relations and Resources at an up-and-coming accounting firm in la Defense district. About as mundane and normal as a man could hope for. He’d never actually worked a regular “human” job.

It was about time he gave it a go.

The olive green van, which had seen so many better days, sat thirty feet down from a streetlight that flickered and put out an annoying buzz. Humming a Sinatra tune, Tor opened the back of the van and tossed in the supplies. He’d dump the body bag at a landfill on the way home. He’d done his research; that landfill was plowed monthly and shipped directly to China for incineration.

“That’s my life,” he sang, altering the lyrics to suit him.

Sinatra was a swanky idol to him. Singing his songs put him in a different place from the weird one he usually occupied. Call it a sanity check. The Sultan of Swoon relaxed him in ways he could appreciate.

He peeled off the sweaty hazmat suit, hung it on a hanger and placed that on a hook near the van ceiling. At his belt hung a heavy quartz crystal fixed into a steel mount that clipped with a D ring onto a loop. He never went anywhere without the bespelled talisman. Another necessity for sanity. The rubber boots were placed in a tray on the van floor. He pulled out his bespoke Italian leather shoes from a cloth bag and slipped those on.

“Ahhh...” Almost better than a shower. But he couldn’t wait to wash off the werewolf blood. Odds were he had it in more places than the smear across his cheek.

Closing the back doors, he punched a code on the digital lock to secure it. While he sorted through his trouser pocket for the van key, he whistled the chorus to the song that demanded he accept life as it was...that’s life.

Maybe... No. Life didn’t have to be this way for him. He was all-in for a change of scenery.

Before he slid the key in the lock, he saw the driver’s door was unlocked. Had he forgotten? That wasn’t like him. He was always on top of the situation. Which only further contributed to his need to run from this life as if a flaming werewolf were chasing his ass.

Tor slid into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. Another crazy midnight job. His final one. He would stand firm on that decision. And after getting a whiff of the dead werewolf’s rangy scent—someone please show him the way to his new office cubicle.

Adjusting the radio to a forties’ swing station, he palmed the stick shift.

When the person in the passenger seat spoke, he startled. “Whoa!”

“Hey! Oops. Sorry.” The woman let out a bubbly nervous giggle. “Didn’t mean to surprise you. I’ve been waiting. And watching. You’ve quite the talent, you know that?”

“Who in bloody—” He squinted in the darkness of the cab, but could only see glints in her eyes and—above her eyes? Hmm... Must be some kind of sparkly makeup. “How did you...?”

“The door wasn’t locked. You really should lock your doors in this neighborhood. Anyone could steal your van. Not that it’s very steal-worthy. Kinda old, and there’s more rust than actual paint. But I’m guessing you have important stuff in the back. Like a dead werewolf!” she announced with more cheer than anyone ever should.

His eyes adjusting to the darkness, Tor could make out that she had long brown hair and big eyes. She smiled. A lot. He didn’t get a sense about her—was she paranormal or human? But then, he didn’t have any special means of determining whether a person was paranormal or not. Sometimes he didn’t know until it was too late. But he did pick up an overtly incautious happiness about her.

Without letting down his guard, he reached across the console to offer his hand. “Torsten Rindle.”

“I know!” She shook his hand eagerly. “I’ve been looking for you. And now I’ve found you.”

If she knew who he was, then she probably knew what he did for a living. Which still didn’t solve the issue of what she was. Humans hired him all the time to protect them from paranormals. But to find him, they had to be in the know, and also know someone who knew someone who knew him. Who, in turn, had his phone number.

He pulled back his hand and leaned an elbow on the steering wheel, keeping his body open, prepared to move to either defend or restrain. “Who are you, and why are you in my van?”

“It’s a rather beat-up old van, isn’t it?”

“So you’ve said.”

“Doesn’t really jibe with you in your fancy vest and trousers and designer watch.”

The watch in question showed it was well past midnight. This had been a hell of a long day.

“I don’t need to draw attention by driving a sports car,” Tor offered. “And the van is as utility as it gets. A requirement in my line of work. Now. Your name? And why are you sitting in my van?”

“Melissande Jones.” She fluttered her lashes as she pressed her fingers to her chest, where frilly red flowers made up the neckline of her blouse. “My friends call me Lissa, as does my family. I’m not sure I like the nickname, but I hate to argue with people. I’m a people pleaser. Sad, but true. And I’m here because I need your help. Your protection, actually.”

Tor played her name over in his brain. The last name was familiar. And in Paris, it wasn’t so common as, say, in the United States or London. He made it a point to know who all the paranormal families in the city were, and had good knowledge of most across the world. Blame it on his penchant for getting lost in research. And for needing to know everything.

Recall brought to mind a local family of witches. The two elders were twin brothers. And he knew the one brother had twin sons, so that left the other...

“Thoroughly Jones’s daughter? A dark witch?”

“Yes, and mostly.” She turned on the seat so her body faced him. Her bright red lipstick caught the pale glow from the distant streetlight. Her lips were shaped like a bow. And combined with those big doe eyes and lush feathery lashes? “Can you help me?”

“I, uh...” Shaking himself out of his sudden admiration for her sensual assets, Tor assumed his usual emotionless facade, the one he wore for the public. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard about me, but I’m no longer in the business of providing personal protection.”

“You’re a cleaner.” She gestured toward the fire truck that was pulling up down the street where the werewolf had been burned. Someone must have witnessed the fire after all. “You also do spin for The Order of the Stake.”

Two things that most might know about him. If they were paranormal. And again, knew someone who knew someone who—

“And you own the Agency,” she said, interrupting his disturbed thoughts. “A group that protects us paranormals.”

That knowledge was more hush-hush. And not correct.

“Not exactly. The Agency seeks to put their hands to weapons, ephemera, and other objects that might fall into human hands and lead them to believe in you paranormals.”

“You paranormals,” she said mockingly and gestured with a flutter of her hand that made Tor suddenly nervous. A bloke never knew what witches could do with but a flick of finger or sweep of hand. “You’re human, right?”

“That I am.”

And she was a witch. A dark witch. Mostly? He had no idea what that meant. And...he wasn’t interested in finding out.

“Like I’ve said, I don’t do protection. And I’ve handed off the Agency reins to someone located in the States. But of most importance is, I really do not want to get involved with anyone from the Jones family. I respect your father and his brother. They are a pair of badass dark witches most would do well to walk a wide circle around.” He’d come this close to stepping into that dangerous circle a few years back. And he wasn’t a stupid man. Lesson learned. “If you need someone—”

“But your Agency protects paranormal objects, yes?”

“It does. The Agency always will, but I’m not doing that sort of—”

“Then you can help me.” She bent over and reached into a big flowered purse on the floor and pulled out something that blinded Tor with its brilliance. “I have a paranormal object.”

Tor put up a hand to block the pulsating red glow. It was so bright. Like the sun but in a shade of red. He couldn’t see the shape or the size, yet knew that she held it with one hand. “Put that away! What the hell is that?”

She set the thing on her lap and placed a palm over it, which quieted the glow to a smoldering simmer. “It’s Hecate’s heart.”

Tor didn’t recognize it as a volatile object from any lists he had read or compiled, but that didn’t mean anything. There were so many weapons, objects, tools, even creatures that were considered a danger to humans and paranormals alike. The most dangerous had to be contained, or Very Bad Things could happen in the mortal realm.

“What does it do besides blind a man?” he asked.

“Hecate was the first witch.”

“I know that. But she’s long dead. Is that her actual heart?”

“Yes.” Melissande patted it gently. The object pulsed with each touch. “It’s said that should her heart ever stop beating, all the witches’ hearts in this realm would suddenly cease to beat. Ominous, right?” The red glow softened her features and gave them an enchanting cast. Her lashes were so thick, they granted her eyes a glamorous come-and-touch-me appeal. “But it’s pretty indestructible. I dropped it earlier. Got a little dirt on it. No big deal. Though it looks like glass, it’s not. It’s sort of a solid gel substance.”

“You dropped it? Wait.” Tor took a moment to inhale and center himself. And to remember his goal: normal. “I’m not doing this. I’m no longer in the protection business.”

Melissande’s jaw dropped open. And those eyes. Why couldn’t he stop staring at those gorgeous eyes? Was it the sparkly makeup that made them glitter, or did they really twinkle like stars? Maybe she’d cast an attraction spell on herself before finding him. Witches were sneaky like that. And how had she found him? Tor prided himself on his ability to blend in, to be the classic everyman. That she had been able to track him down without a phone call...

He wasn’t going to worry about this. He’d made his decision. Normal it was.

“I need to get on the road and dispose of the remains,” he said, turning on the seat and gripping the steering wheel. “You can leave now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Did you decide just now you’re not doing the protection thing anymore?”

“No, I—”

“Or is it me? I get that my dad and his brother are a couple of big scary witches. Woo-woo dark witch stuff is imposing. But I’m not asking you to work with them.”

“I’ve been considering this decision for weeks. Months,” Tor protested. “And it’s final—”

“Oh, come on. One more job? I need your help, Tor. I’m just one tiny witch who has an ominous magical artifact stuffed in her purse that seems to attract strange things to it. In proof, on the way to finding you, I gave a zombie the slip.”

“Zombies do not exist,” Tor said sharply. “Revenants do. But the walking dead are a false assumption. It’s impossible to have a dead person walking around, decaying, and actually surviving more than a few minutes.”

“Is that so? That’s good to know. Still not sure I believe you. But revenants...” She cast her gaze out the passenger window.

And Tor couldn’t help but wonder what it was about revenants that gave her pause. Damn it! He didn’t care. He could not care. If he were going to make the transition to normal, he had to get rid of this annoyingly cute witch.

Yet the glow from the heart, seeping between her fingers, did intrigue him. Something like that should be under lock and key, kept far and safely away from humans. And should it fall into the hands of the Archives, whom her uncle Certainly Jones headed? The Archives wasn’t as beneficent as they were touted to be. The things they stored weren’t always left to sit and get dusty. Tor didn’t even want to think about all the nasty happenings that occurred because something the Archives had obtained had been used.

Yeah, so maybe he had stepped into that circle of danger with one of the Jones brothers. Whew! He knew far too much about the ominous power of dark magic. And yet he had lived to breathe another day.

“You want me to protect you and that thing?” he asked. “You know the Agency would take that heart in hand and put it under lock and key? In fact, if you want to hand it over, I guess I could take it right now—”

“No.” She lifted the heart possessively to her chest. Tor squinted at the maddening glow. “Can’t do that. I need it for a spell that I can’t invoke until the night of the full moon.”

Which was less than a week from now. Tor always kept the moon cycles in his head. It wasn’t wise to walk into any situation without knowing what phase the moon was in. Had tonight been a full moon? That werewolf would not have gone down so easily for the slayer. And burning it would have roused every bloody wolf in the city to howls.

Tor rubbed two fingers over his temple, sensing he wasn’t going to be rid of her as easily as he wished. “Why me? What or who directed you toward me and suggested I might want to help you?”

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m weird.”

“I already think you’re weird. I don’t think a person can get much weirder than stealing a dead witch’s beating heart and then breaking into a stranger’s van to beg for his help.”

“What makes you think I stole this?”

“I—I don’t know. Is it a family heirloom you dug out of a chest in the attic? Something dear old Granny bequeathed to you on her deathbed?”

“No.” She hugged it tightly to her chest. Guilty of theft, as he could only suspect. And he had locked the van doors. He never forgot.

“People only find me because someone has given them my name,” he said. “And I always know when someone is coming for me, because that’s how it works. I want to know how you learned about me.”

“Fine. This evening, after I’d gotten home with the heart and sat out on the patio to have a cup of tea—I like peppermint, by the way.”

“I’m an Earl Grey man, myself.” The woman did go off on tangents. And he had just followed her along on one! “You were saying what it was that led you to me?”

“Right. As I was sipping my tea, a cicada landed on my plate. It was blue.”

Now intensely interested, Tor lifted his gaze to hers.

“Cicadas always look like they’re wearing armor. Don’t you think? Anyway, I didn’t hear it speak to me,” she said. “Not out loud. More like in my head. I sensed what it had come to tell me. And that was to give me your name. Torsten Rindle. I’d heard the name before. My dad and uncle have mentioned you in conversation. Cautiously, of course. I know you stand in opposition to them. And they know it, too. But they also have a certain respect for you. Anyway, I knew you could help me.”

A cicada had told a witch to seek him out for help?

Tor’s sleeves were still rolled to the elbows. Had the light been brighter, it would reveal the tattoo of a cicada on his inner forearm. The insect meant something to him. Something personal and so private he’d never spoken about it to anyone.

“How did you know—”

A thump on the driver’s side window made Tor spin around on the seat. A bloody hand smeared the glass.

“That’s the zombie,” Melissande stated calmly. “The one you told me didn’t exist.”




Chapter 2 (#u2c642c33-4ad2-5409-a129-4da84c389f75)


Melissande observed as Tor swung out of the driver’s seat and darted into the back of the van. Heavy metal objects clinked. The man swore. His British accent was more pronounced than her barely-there one. He again emerged in the cab with a wicked-looking weapon. Actually, she recognized that hand-sized titanium column as one of those fancy stakes the knights in The Order of the Stake used to slay vampires. Was that supposed to work with zombies, as well?

“Stay here,” he ordered. Tor exited through the driver’s door, slamming it behind him.

Crossing her arms and settling onto the seat, Melissande decided she was perfectly fine with staying inside the nice safe van while the hero fought the creepy thing outside. Zombies didn’t exist? The man obviously knew nothing about the dark arts.

A hand slapped the driver’s window, followed by the smeared, slimy face of something that could only be zombie. One eyeball was missing. From behind, Tor grabbed it by the collar and swung it away from the vehicle.

Melissande let out her breath in a gasp, then tucked the heart she still held into her bag on the floor. Growing up in a household with a dark witch for a dad and a cat-shifting familiar for a mom, she should be prepared for unusual situations like this, but it never got easier to witness. Dark magic was challenging. And sometimes downright gross. She was surprised she’d accomplished her task today, securing Hecate’s heart. But she hadn’t expected it to attract the unsavory sort like the one battling Tor right now. Earlier, that same creature had growled at her and swiped, but she’d been too fast, and had slipped down the street away from the thing in her quest to locate the one man she knew could help her.

Anticipating the dangers of possessing the heart, she had known she might need protection. She couldn’t ask her dad, or her uncle. And should she ask her cousins—the twins Laith and Vlas—they would have laughed at her, saying how she’d gotten herself into another wacky fix.

She did have a knack for the weird and wacky. It seemed to follow her around like a stray cat with a bent tail. She didn’t hate cats, but she’d never keep one as a pet or familiar. When one’s mother was a cat-shifter, a girl learned to respect felines and to never take them for granted.

The not-zombie’s shoulders slammed against the vehicle’s dented hood. Melissande leaned forward in time to watch Tor slam the stake against its chest. The zombie didn’t so much release ash as dechunk, falling apart in clumps, accompanied by a glugging protrusion of sludgy gray stuff from its core. Gross, but also interesting. She’d never witnessed a zombie death.

With a sweep of his arm, Tor brushed some chunks from the hood. He tucked the stake in a vest pocket, then smoothed out the tweed vest he wore. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows revealed a tattoo on his forearm, but she couldn’t make out what it was in the darkness.

He was a smart dresser, and much sexier than she’d expected for a jack-of-all-trades human—because she had expected something rather brute, stocky and plain. Probably even scarred and with a gimpy eye. Tor’s short dark hair was neatly styled (save for the blood smeared at his temple and into his hairline). Thick, dark brows topped serious eyes that now scanned the area for further danger. With every movement, a muscle, or twelve, flexed under his fitted white shirt, advertising his hard, honed physique. And those fingers wrapped about the stake...so long and graceful, yet skilled and determined...

Melissande’s heart thundered, and it wasn’t from fear of a vile creature. The man did things to her better judgment, like make her wonder why she had never dated a human before. Maybe it was time to stretch her potential boyfriend qualifications beyond their boundaries.

“Did you get him?” she yelled through the windshield.

Tor’s eyebrow lifted and he gave her a wonky head wobble, as if to say, Did you not see me battle that heinous creature then defeat it?

She offered him a double thumbs-up.

He strolled around the side of the van. The back doors opened, and he pulled out something, then came back to the front. A shovel proved convenient for scooping dead zombie into a body bag. He was certainly well prepared.

After the quick cleanup, he again walked to the back of the van. Melissande glanced over the seats into the van’s interior. When he tossed in the bag and slammed the door, she cringed. The driver’s door opened, and Tor slid inside. She noticed the blood at his neck that seeped onto his starched white collar. It looked like a scratch on his skin. If that thing had originally been a vampire, it could be bite marks. Tor slammed the door and turned on the ignition.

Melissande leaned over to touch his neck. He reacted, lifting an elbow to block her. But she did not relent, pressing her fingers against his neck. “I’m not going to bite,” she said. “I want to make sure you didn’t get bitten.”

“It’s just a scratch. The thing didn’t get close enough to nosh on my neck. Sit down and buckle up.” He pulled away from the curb as she tugged the seat belt across her torso.

“Was it a vampire?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Hard to determine with all the decay.”

“Zombie,” she declared.

“Not going to have that argument again. Probably a revenant vamp.”

“I’ve heard they’re rare. And don’t live in the city.”

“Dead vampires who live in coffins and have no heartbeat? Most definitely not common. And generally not found in any large city, including Paris.” He dusted off some debris from his forearm. “Though I didn’t notice fangs. And usually decapitation is required. Whatever it was, it’s dead now.”

“You’re driving with me in your van,” Melissande remarked cheerfully. “Does that mean you’re going to protect me?”

“No. That means I’m going to take you home and send you off with a pat on your head and well wishes. Where do you live?”

Pouting, she muttered, “The 6th.”

In the flash of a streetlight, he cast her a look. It admonished while also judged. Such a look made him fall a notch on her attraction-level meter.

“You’re not very nice,” she offered.

Tor turned his attention back to the street, shaking his head.

“I’ll pay you,” she tried. “I would never expect you to work for free.”

“What’s the address?” he asked.

Obstinate bit of...sexy. If he weren’t so handsome, she would ask him to stop and she’d catch a cab. She was not a woman to hang around where she wasn’t wanted.

After a reluctant sigh, Melissande gave him the street address and muddled over how to convince him to protect her. She didn’t know who else to contact. She’d overheard her dad and his brother one evening talking about the various humans in the city whom they trusted. The list had been short. And while they’d both agreed that Torsten Rindle was definitely not on their side, they’d also agreed that he was a man of honor and integrity who could get the job done, and who had a concern for keeping all things paranormal hush-hush without resorting to senseless violence or assuming all nonhumans walked around with a target on their foreheads.

At the time, Melissande had known if she’d ever need help, he was her man. And then, when the whole conversation earlier with the cicada had occurred—well. She never overlooked a chat with a bug.

She hadn’t told her dad, Thoroughly Jones, this part of the plan, though he did know her ultimate goal. She’d agreed to take on this task because she knew how much of an emotional toll it would take on her father. And she intended to handle every detail on her own, so he could focus on taking care of her mother, Star, when she really needed the attention.

Poor Mom—she had only just been reborn a few weeks ago after a fall from a sixth-floor rooftop, and this life was not treating her well.

Melissande’s neighborhood was quiet and quaint and filled with old buildings that had stood for centuries. The Montparnasse Cemetery wasn’t far away, and often tourists wandered down her street, but were always respectful of the private gates and entrances. She loved it because she had a decent-sized yard behind the house, fenced in with black wrought iron, in which she grew herbs and medicinal flowers. It served her earth magic. Her two-story Victorian, painted a deep, dusty violet, held memories of ages past. But no ghosts. Which bummed her out a little, because she wouldn’t mind a ghost or two, so long as they were friendly.

Tor parked the van before her property. The front gate and fence boasted a healthy climbing vine with night-blooming white moonflowers. Opening the van door, she breathed in the flowers’ intoxicating scent. “Blessed goddess Luna.” Soon the moon would reach fullness. And then Melissande would be faced with her greatest challenge.

Tor swung around the front of the van before she’d even gotten her first foot on the ground. “I’ll walk you up,” he said as he rolled down his sleeves.

She dashed her finger over the cut on his neck and was satisfied it was just a nick.

“I’ll live.” He offered her his arm.

Startled by such a chivalrous move, Melissande linked her arm with his, and with a push of her hand forward and a focus of her magic, she opened the gate before them without touching it.

She’d been born with kinetic magic. Sometimes the things she needed moved did so before she even had the thought.

“Witches,” Tor muttered as he witnessed the motion.

“What about witches?” she challenged. The narrow sidewalk forced them to walk closely, and she did not release his arm when she felt his tug to make her step a little faster. “You got a problem with witches?”

“I have little problem with any person who occupies this realm. Unless they intend, or actually do, harm to others. Then that person will not like me very much.”

“I know your reputation. It’s why I came to you. But you’re not a vampire slayer, so why the stake to fight the zombie?”

“Revenant.” They stopped before the stoop, and she allowed him back his arm. Tor pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “I like to keep my arsenal varied. The stake was a gift from an Order knight. I also carry a silent chain saw and a variety of pistols equipped with wood, iron and UV bullets. And at any given moment I might also be wielding a machete. Gotta mix it up. Keep things fresh.”

“You don’t use spells, do you?”

“Not with any luck.”

“Good. That’s my expertise. Do you want to come in for some tea before you abandon me to be attacked by all the vile denizens that seek the heart?”

“No, I’m good.” He winked.

Melissande’s heart performed a shiver and then a squeezing hug. Surely the heat rising in her neck was a blush, but she couldn’t remember a time when she’d blushed before.

“I’m beat,” Tor said. “It’s been a long day. Had to talk down a couple muses from going public with their life stories before that werewolf cleanup. Started the day with a demon mess. And capping it off with a revenant slaying put me over the edge as far as social contact.” He held out his hand for her to shake. “Good luck finding the person you need for protection.”

Melissande stared at his hand for a few seconds, deciding it was the sexiest hand she’d ever seen. Wide and sure, and the fingers were long and strong. She’d like to feel them handle her as smoothly and as confidently as he had the stake.

As she reluctantly lifted her hand in a send-off to her last best hope, she remembered something. “I forgot my bag in your van. It’s got the heart in it.”

“I’ll get it for you—”

They both turned when a growl in the vicinity of the van curdled the night air. Looming before the vehicle was a skeletal conglomeration of bones and smoke with a toothy maw.

“Really?” Tor said. “A wraith demon? What the hell is up with that heart?”

“I have no idea,” Melissande offered as she grabbed him by the arm and clung out of fear.

“Go inside,” he ordered. “I’ll handle this.”

“Good plan. I’ll start tea.” As Tor strode toward the growling demon, unafraid and shoulders back, Melissande called, “Don’t forget my bag!”



Tor’s strides took him right up to the wraith demon. The thing slashed its talons at him and hissed, “You have something I want, human.” It dragged its obsidian talons across the passenger door, cutting through the faded green paint to reveal the steel beneath.

“If it’s a wish for a new paint job, you’re right, bloke,” Tor said.

Not giving the thing a moment to think, he swung out and landed a solid right hook on the side of its head, just below the horn. That was a touchy spot where no bone covered whatever tender innards were contained within the thing. The demon howled in pain.

Not wanting to wake the neighbors, Tor acted quickly. Taking out the stake from his pocket, he plunged it against the demon’s chest and compressed the paddles to release the spring-loaded pointed shaft. It wasn’t the first line of defense against demons, but it did slow them down just long enough.

From his belt, he unhooked the vial of black Egyptian salt—that he purchased in bulk—and broke the glass outward so the contents sprayed the demon’s face. “Deus benedicat!” The god bless you wasn’t necessary for the kill, but he liked to toss that in. Those were the last words a demon wanted to hear as its face stretched wide in a dying scream.

“Bastard!” the thing shouted before its horns dropped off. The wraith demon disintegrated to a pile of floaty black ash at Tor’s feet.

Glancing over his shoulder, Tor scanned the neighborhood. No lights on in any nearby houses. And the altercation had occurred on the side of the van facing the witch’s house, so he’d been partially concealed. But he waited anyway.

Curiosity always tended to come out in moments of fear. If any humans had witnessed this, he’d know about it soon.

Checking his watch, he verified it was nearing 2:00 a.m. Too late. And like he’d told the witch: he’d had a day.

“Normal,” he muttered, and shook the ash from the toe of his leather shoe.

Sure the demon slaying had gone unnoticed, Tor opened the passenger door and grabbed the floral tapestry purse. It was so heavy he wondered if rocks were inside it, and red fringes dangled from the bottom. Girl stuff always gave him pause for a moment of genuine wonder. What was the purpose of so many fringes? And what did women put in their purses that made them heavier than an army rucksack? He’d like to take a look inside, but he knew that a wise man did not poke about in a witch’s personal things.

He turned toward the house, then paused. He should take out Hecate’s heart and toss the purse on the step. That would solve a lot of problems he didn’t want to have. Namely, revenants and crazed demons.

The purse had a zipper. He touched the metal pull—

“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not nice to snoop in a woman’s bag?” Melissande called from the threshold.

Tor rubbed the tattoo under his sleeve. No, his mother had not.

With a resigned sigh, he strode up to the witch’s stoop and handed her the curious receptacle filled with marvels untold.

“Tea?” she asked sweetly. As if he’d not just polished off a wraith demon in her front yard, and wasn’t wearing werewolf blood on his face like some kind of Scottish warrior.

“Why not.” With weary resolution, Tor stepped up. Pressing his palms to the door frame and leaning forward, but not crossing the threshold, he asked, “Wards?”

“None for you, but as soon as you step inside, I’ll reactivate them. Come on. I won’t bite, unlike some people.”

Tor’s chuckle was unstoppable. He stepped inside and closed the door, then followed the witch down a hallway papered in cutout purple and gray velvet damask and into the kitchen, which smelled of candle wax and dried herbs.

Two cups of tea sat on a serving tray, which she picked up before leading him into a living room filled with so much fringe, velvet and glitter, Tor closed his eyes against the overwhelming bling as he sat on the couch. And settled deep into the plushest, most comfortable piece of furniture his body had ever known.

“Right?” Melissande offered in response to his satisfied groan. “I like to become one with my furniture. That’s my favorite spot. If you relax, you’ll be asleep in two sips.”

Tor took a sip of the sweet tea. Not Earl Grey, but it was palatable. “I never sleep on the job.”

The witch sat on an ottoman before him, which was upholstered in bright red velvet. “On the job? Does that mean...?”

That meant that Tor had just fended off two crazed creatures who had wanted to get to the heart in the witch’s mysterious purse. There was something wrong with that. He couldn’t ignore that she was in some kind of trouble. Whether dire or merely mediocre, it didn’t matter. When bad things came at you, a person needed to defend themselves. And she didn’t seem like someone who knew how to protect herself, even if she did possess magic.

He took another sip of the tea, and his eyelids fluttered. This was good stuff. He’d had a long day. And combined with his growing nerves for tomorrow’s interview, his body was shot. His tight muscles wanted to release and...

Tor’s teacup clinked as it hit the saucer. He didn’t see the witch extend her magical influence to steady the porcelain set in midair, because sleep hit him like a troll’s fist to the skull.




Chapter 3 (#u2c642c33-4ad2-5409-a129-4da84c389f75)


Melissande leaned over Tor, who was slowly coming awake on the couch. He was so cute. Not a high-school-crush-with-long-bangs-and-a-quirky-smile kind of cute (though there was nothing wrong with that), but rather in a grown-up male I-will-save-you-from-all-that-frightens-you manner. His glossy hair was cut short above his ears, growing to tousle-length at the top of his head. She restrained herself from dipping her fingers into those tempting strands. Didn’t want to freak him out and send him running when he’d only just agreed to help her.

His face shape was somewhere between an oval and a rectangle, and essentially perfect. Even the remaining smudges of blood at his temple did little to mar his handsome angles. His nose was long yet not too wide or flat. A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, but she suspected he was a morning shaver and liked to keep as tidy as his knotted tie. The zombie debris smudged on his white shirtsleeves must be driving him batty.

Her gaze traveled to his mouth, while she traced her upper lip with her tongue. The man’s lips were firm, and sprinkled with a burgeoning mustache on the skin above. That indent between nose and upper lip was something she wanted to press her finger to. It was called a philtrum, if she recalled her explorations in anatomy (for spellcraft, of course). Maybe, if she was really sneaky...

Tor startled and Melissande quickly stood, tucking the offending finger behind her back. “Good morning!”

She waited for him to fully register wakefulness. He shook his head, stretched out his arms and curled his fingers. Then he patted his chest as if to reassure himself of a heartbeat. His next move was grasping for the large crystal hooked at his belt—she figured it was a kind of talisman.

The man looked around the living room, brightly lit by the duck-fluff sunshine beaming through the patio-door windows—and groaned. “What the hell did you put in that tea, witch?”

“Chamomile and lavender. You had a long and trying day. And you said you were tired, so I knew those specific herbs would help you along.”

“Help me along? To where? Oblivion? That stuff was hexed. It knocked me out like a prizefighter’s punch. It’s morning? Bloody hell. I have business—”

“It’s only eleven.”

“Eleven?” He stood and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve slept half the day.”

“I’ve made breakfast. You have time to eat and get a grasp on the day.”

He winced. The man really did have a hard time coming out of a chamomile-tea sleep. Sans spell. She hadn’t added anything to the tea leaves. Honest.

“Appointment’s at—” he checked his watch “—one.”

“Good, then you’ve time. This way!”

She skipped into the kitchen, which gleamed from a cleaning with lemon juice and vinegar. It was the coziest place Melissande could imagine to create. The kitchen was a large circle that hugged the front corner of the house. A pepper-pot turret capped the room two stories up, giving it an airy, yet still cozy vibe. Everywhere hung tools of her trade such as dried herbs twisted into powerful protection sigils, a bucket of coal (all-purpose magical uses), abundance and peace spells carved into the wooden windowsills, and charm bags hung with bird feet, anise stars and such. Drying fruits and herbs hung before the windows and from the ceiling. Crystals suspended from thin red string dazzled in all the windows. And the curved, velvet-cushioned settee that hugged the front of the house and looked out on the yard glinted from the tangerine quartz that danced as if it were a fringe along the upper row of curtains.

On the stretch of kitchen counter sat the fruit bowl she’d prepared while listening to Tor’s soft and infrequent snores. She had already eaten, because who can prepare a meal without tasting? And really, she’d risen with the sun to collect fading peony petals for a tincture.

Stretching out his arms in a flex that bulged his muscles beneath the fitted shirt, Tor wandered into the kitchen and cast his gaze about. He took in the herbs hanging above and the sun catchers glinting in the windows, and then his eyes landed on the frog immediately to his left, at eye level.

He jumped at the sight of the curious amphibian. “What the bloody—? A floating frog?”

Melissande shooed the frog into the dining area where the table mimicked the curve of the windows and wall. The fat, squat amphibian slowly made its way forward, but not without a protesting croak. He did not care to be ordered about. “That’s Bruce, my familiar. And he does not float.”

“Looks like it’s floating to me.” Tor sat before the counter, checking Bruce with another assessing glance.

“He’s a levitating frog,” Melissande provided with authority.

“I don’t think I understand the difference.”

“Anyone, or any creature, can float. And a floater just, well...floats. But a frog who levitates? That implies he’s doing it of his free will. Not many can do that. Am I right?”

Tor’s brow lifted in weird acceptance. He tugged at his tie.

“I hope you like smoothie bowls.” She pushed the bowl of breakfast toward him and held up a spoon.

Tor took the spoon, but his attention was all over the bowl of pureed kiwi and pear spotted with dragon fruit cut in the shape of stars and sprinkles of cacao and coconut. “It’s...blue?”

“The algae powder makes it blue. Lots of good minerals in that. Do you like hemp seeds?”

“I...don’t know.” He prodded a small pear sphere that she had cut out and added to the bowl arranged to look like a night sky filled with stars. “It’s so...decorative. I’m not sure I can eat it.”

“Of course you can. Dig in. It’s super healthy, and the dragon fruit is only in season for a short time. I already ate. I have a tendency to graze more than sit down for official meals. When you’re finished we can discuss your payment plan.”

“My payment plan?” He scooped a helping of the smoothie and tasted it. With an approving nod, he ate more.

“You did say you were on the job last night. I took that to mean you were going to protect me.”

She fluttered her eyelashes, knowing she had abnormally long lashes. The action was one of her well-honed man-catcher moves. Well, she hadn’t actually field-tested it as a kinetic magic, but surely it had some power.

Tor sighed, and the spoon clinked the side of the bowl. “Really? Using the ole bat-your-lashes move on me?”

“Did it work?” she asked gleefully.

He shook his head and snickered. “I am impervious.”

Standing on the opposite side of the counter from him, Melissande leaned onto her elbows and gave him another devastating flutter. “That’s very sad that a man has to make himself impervious to a harmless little thing like me.”

“You, I suspect, are far from harmless.” He plucked out a star of white dragon fruit speckled with tiny black seeds and downed it. Stabbing the air in her direction with the spoon, he said, “I’m not buying the tea story. There was something in that brew. And you are a witch.”

“Wow, you got that on the first guess.”

“Don’t patronize me. I know my paranormals. All ilks, from shapeshifters to alchemists, to the feral and the half-breeds. And I know...” He set down the spoon and looked her straight in the eyes.

And Melissande’s heart did a giddy dance as his brown irises glinted with such a promise she didn’t know how to describe it, only it made her know—just know—that he had been the right choice. In more ways than she could fully realize.

“Fine.” He looked away from her gaze, clutching for the knot in his tie to ease at it self-consciously.

“Fine?”

He conceded with a headshake that was neither a yes nor a no. At least, he was trying hard not to make it an all-out yes. “To judge from the events that have taken place since we’ve met, it is obvious you need protection from—whatever that thing you have in your purse is attracting. And I would never refuse to defend anyone in need.”

Melissande clasped her hands together.

“But I would prefer you simply hand over the heart and let me place it in safekeeping.”

“Can’t do that, because I know you won’t give it back.”

“You are correct. The Agency takes containment and security very seriously. Once we obtain an item, there is no way in hell—or Beneath—we’ll let that thing out of hand or sight.”

“Then that’s a big no way on the safekeeping suggestion. And I know you can’t take it from me because that would be stealing, and that’ll have magical repercussions.”

“Yeah? Did you steal the heart?”

“I...” She walked her fingers along the counter toward the dish towel and grabbed it, then turned to dust the front of the fridge.

“As suspected. Guess that means I’m on the clock for the next handful of days, eh?”

Melissande tossed the towel to the sink and clapped gleefully. “Oh, thank you! You won’t regret it. I won’t be trouble. I promise.”

“That promise has already been broken. Twice over.” He scooped in more of the smoothie. “But this ornamental fruit thingy makes up for some of it.” He twisted his wrist to check his watch. “I didn’t expect to take on a protection job. I do have other plans, and an online appointment I need to make in less than two hours. I have to go home to clean up and prepare.”

“Then you’ll come back?”

He finished off the smoothie bowl and stood. “You’re coming with me. From this moment, I won’t let you out of my sight. Not until our contract is complete.”

“We have a contract?”

He held out his hand to shake, and Melissande slapped her palm against his. His wide, strong hand held hers firmly. And if she hadn’t been so excited for his acceptance, she would have swooned in utter bliss. Maybe she did a little of it anyway, but she gripped the counter to keep her knees from bending and sinking too far into the silly reaction.

“Yes, now we have a gentleman’s contract,” he said. “Grab whatever you need for the day. We’ll discuss details and logistics later, after I’ve finished with the appointment. Do you think you can stay out of my hair while I do that?”

“Of course. Although, you’ve some very nice hair. I almost ran my fingers through it while I was watching you sleep.”

“You were watch—” Tor put up a palm. “Don’t want to know. Let’s head out.”

“I’ll get my things!”

“Uh...” Tor glanced toward the dining table. “The frog stays here.”

“Of course he does,” Melissande said. With a snap of her fingers, the door leading out to the narrow side yard opened a few inches. “He’ll be going out for his noontime bug hunt, anyway!”



This was not how he’d intended his day to go.

Tor liked to keep to a schedule, which could be significantly different from day to day. But that he planned in advance for the following day’s events was key. He was always prepared, even for surprises.

Most surprises, anyway. A cute witch sitting in his van with a strange, glowing heart in her purse? That had been an unexpected one.

He walked into his apartment, followed by the witch, who carried two big bags of—whatever it was witches felt the need to carry with them. Please, do not let it be rank and slithery spell supplies. He didn’t mind the creepy stuff, so long as it was on his terms.

“I’ve but an hour before the interview,” he said with a glance at his watch. “This is the kitchen. There are food and drinks in the fridge. I’m going to shower and shave. Please, don’t touch anything that looks like it shouldn’t be touched.”

“So that means everything?” Melissande dropped her bags to either side of her feet.

Tor winced as he heard something hard clunk against the marble floor. “Exactly. You did bring the heart along?”

“Of course.”

“I assume you’ve hexed it well to prevent those we don’t want sensing it from...sensing it?”

“Hexes are dark magic. Of which I am learning. Fast. Although protection requires a ward instead of a hex.” She bent and dug out a container from the tapestry bag and held it up. It was a clear plastic container, of the sort women used to store food, which they then placed in their pantries.

“That’s...” Tor winced. Really? “Is that a plastic food container?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I store all my spell stuff in these. They’re sturdy, and I have the whole pink set. And it’s got a stay-fresh seal on the cover.”

First it was a floating frog—make that a levitating frog—and now flimsy plastic kitchenware to protect a foul and officious artifact that seemed to attract the denizens of evil. And he’d yet to learn if that black line that curled out at the corner of each of Melissande’s eyes into a swish was intentional or a slip of the wrist.

His initial assessment of the witch was spot-on: weird.

“Ward it,” Tor said as he turned to stride down the hallway. He couldn’t stand before the woman any longer and not wring her neck. Or try to shake her to see what common sense might tumble out from those gorgeous curly black locks that spilled over her cheeks so softly—“Do it outside on the deck so you don’t make a mess in the house!”

“Oh, you have a fabulous deck. So big for Paris. Okay, sure! You take care of your manscaping. I’ll be good. Don’t worry about me!”

He was beyond worried about the woman who seemed lucky to be alive. And her father was the dark witch Thoroughly Jones? The awesome, fear-inducing magic he knew that man possessed hadn’t seemed to have been passed down the family tree, at least not concerning the malevolent confidence dark witches tended to possess. Melissande Jones was a fluff of flowers, glitter and star-shaped fruit who didn’t seem capable of wielding a crystal wand, let alone handling and controlling a volatile heart.

“Not going to think about it right now,” Tor muttered.

He pulled off his vest, made note of the blood on it and set it aside for the maid to bring to the cleaners. The shirt was a loss. Blood never did come out from cotton. He had a standing order from the tailor and received two new shirts every month. Might he have to change that with a desk job? He looked forward to saving on his clothing bill.

But he’d never see that savings if he didn’t get ready for the big interview. Pre-interview, that was. The Skype meeting would allow him to speak to a representative from Human Resources, and they’d likely question his skills and qualifications before granting him the ultimate in-person interview with the CEO. He was ready. Or he would be after a shave.

Removing the rest of his clothes, he wandered into the bathroom and flicked on the shower with a wave of his hand over the electronic control panel by the door. The room was big, and the freestanding shower was positioned in the middle of the concrete floor. Simple and sleek, a U-shaped pipe that he stood under sprayed out water from all angles and heights. No curtain or glass doors. The shower area was sloped slightly so the water never ran onto the main floor. He never liked to be enclosed if he could prevent it.

A glance in the mirror found he looked, if still tousled and smeared with blood and ash, rested. A surprise. Had the witch’s tea done that for him? He wasn’t buying that it had simply been herbs in that tea. He’d slept until eleven. He rarely slept beyond eight.

“Drop it,” he admonished himself.

Because he wasn’t the kind of guy who worried. Worry kept a man fixed and stifled. He took action. And sure, he’d been set on leaving his current profession behind and leaping forward into a new, normal life with the grand step of the interview today.

But the witch did need his help. And there was nothing wrong with holding down a job until he found a new one. Not that he needed the money. Nope. He was very well-off, thank you very much. But he was a self-confessed type A, and he knew after a day or two of doing essentially nothing, he’d be jonesing for action. His leisure hobbies were few. So work it would have to be.

“Just don’t let it suck you back in completely,” he said as he stepped under the hot water. Ahh...

Whistling Sinatra’s “I Get a Kick Out of You” made him smile. His thoughts went to the frog. Which levitated. Wonders never ceased.

Twenty minutes later, he was shaven, his hair styled with a bit of pomade (he liked it a little spiky but also soft enough to move) and the barest slap of aftershave applied to his cheeks. This stuff had been a gift from the young mother who lived on the ground floor of his building. She sold handmade products online. It smelled like black-cherry tobacco. It was different. As was he.

Now he stood in his long walk-in closet before the dress shirts. They were all white, Zegna, with French cuffs, but the one he touched now had a nice crisp collar. And the buttons down the front were pearl—not too flashy, and small. An excellent choice.

He slipped on the shirt, then pulled out the accessories drawer to peruse the cuff links. A pair of silver cicadas was his favorite. He pocketed them until he’d put them on, which would be right before the interview. Usually, he liked to roll up his sleeves if he wasn’t going to be talking to the media or trying to impress an interviewer.

He’d wear the black trousers with the gray pinstripes because they were comfortable for sitting, and he didn’t expect to battle vampires or to have to clean up a crime scene, so he needn’t worry they would pick up lint and dirt like a magnet. A gray tweed vest and a smart black tie speckled with white fleurs-de-lis completed the ensemble.

As he began to roll up his sleeves, Tor thought he heard something like...

Screaming?

He remembered his house guest.

“Can she not go one hour without attracting trouble?”

Before leaving the closet, Tor pushed the button that spun the wall of color-coded ties inward. The entrance to his armory was revealed. Dashing inside, he grabbed an iron-headed club carved with a variety of repulsion sigils, and then raced out of the closet and down the long hallway into the living room.




Chapter 4 (#u2c642c33-4ad2-5409-a129-4da84c389f75)


The witch wasn’t in the living room.

A flutter of something outside on the deck that stretched the length of his apartment caught Tor’s attention.

“What is that?” It hovered in the air above his guest. Long black wings spanned ten feet. Talons curled into claws. “Is that a—? Harpie? I have never—”

There was no time to marvel. Tor pulled aside the sliding glass door and lunged to slash the club toward the harpie currently pecking at Melissande’s hair. He noted out of the corner of his eye a salt circle with the plastic box sitting in the center. “Grab the heart and get inside!”

“I have things under control!” Melissande called as she tugged her hair away from the harpie’s talons.

The half bird/half woman squawked in Tor’s ear, momentarily disorienting him. Her whine pinged inside his brain from ear to ear. A guttural shout cleared his senses, and he twisted to the right and swung up the club, catching the bird in the chest, which sent her reeling backward.

“Inside!” he shouted to the witch.

Melissande gathered up the plastic container and scrambled inside. From within, he heard her begin a witchy chant.

“Curse it to Faery!” he called. That was where such things resided. Usually. Unless this one had come through a portal.

The harpie swooped toward him. Tor dove to the ground, flattening his body and spreading out his arms. The cut of her wings parted his hair from neck to crown.

“Divestia Faery!” Melissande called.

The harpie, in midair, suddenly began to wheel and tumble in the sky. And then she exploded into a cloud of black feathers.

“Oh, shoot! I don’t think I expelled it to Faery.”

Indeed, the thing had disintegrated. But it worked for Tor.

Melissande ran out and stood over him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Bloody hell!” Tor pushed up and out of the clutter of black feathers. He eyed the neighboring building, where he knew a very curious cryptozoologist happened to live. The shades were drawn. Which didn’t mean much. That kid had a way of seeing things he wasn’t supposed to see.

“You’ve a smudge of black salt here. Pity your vest got torn.”

Tor charged past Melissande and into the house. Checking his watch, he abandoned his intent to head out the front door and over to the next building. No time to check on the neighbor. The interview was soon!

He marched down the hallway—then abruptly turned and stomped up to the witch. “Do not move. Do not go outside. Do not even blink. And where is that bedamned heart?”

She meekly pointed toward the kitchen counter.

“Did you have a chance to ward it?”

She nodded. “I used a new dark magic spell.”

“Fine.” He tugged at the torn tweed vest. Not the first impression he wanted to make to a prospective employer. “I’m going to change. Again. Stay right here.”

He turned and stalked off.

“But—”

“Nope!” he called back to her. “Not even!”



The man had changed into a midnight blue vest, combed his hair and now led Melissande back toward his bedroom. This was an exciting turn of events! But she didn’t read any sexy, playful vibes coming off him. More like stern frustration as he stretched out an arm to indicate the room they entered.

“I need an hour,” he said. “With no distractions. No witches getting attacked on my deck. Not even a peep from that little box of yours.”

She clutched the plastic container to her chest. He’d hastily grabbed both her bags and now set them on the end of the bed. This was certainly not sexy or playful, being consigned to the metaphorical time-out corner.

“You can stay in here while I’m online. It’s a very important interview. So please, please, be quiet. There’s the TV on the wall to entertain you. Keep the volume low. And I’ve got some books on the shelf.”

She noted the books were organized by color of their spines, and they were all in a gradient order, from white to gray to black. Did the man not understand color? Fun? Simple civility?

“Can you do that?”

She met his patronizing glare and huffed. “Fine. The teacher wants to put me in detention for an hour.”

“It’s not that, Mel—” He sighed. “I just...need this interview to go well. I promise as soon as it’s over, you have me at your beck and call.”

“What’s the interview for?”

“New job. Accounting stuff.” He checked his watch and shook his head. “I only have five minutes. I’ve got to sign in to Skype. I’ll come get you when I’m done. Do not come out to check if I’ve finished. Promise?”

“Fine!” she called as he closed the door behind him.

Melissande plopped onto the bed and crossed her arms. A pout felt necessary. Seriously? He was going to treat her like a naughty five-year-old? She hadn’t expected the harpie to come swooping out of the sky, wings flapping and bared yet feathered breasts shocking.

“This heart attracts some strange energy.” She tapped the container. “Good thing I had Tor to fight off the bird chick.”

Because in the moment out on the deck and under attack, she hadn’t been able to summon any deflecting magic. She could do that. With ease. A mere flick of her wrist and a few words of intention would make others walk a wide circle around her, or even push back a potential attacker. But she’d panicked. And in such a state, her magic was useless. Only when she’d gotten inside and knew she was out of the harpie’s path had she been able to focus.

Now she gave her kinetic magic a try. A twist of her wrist slid the books on the shelf from one end to the other. “Just so. I seriously have to learn to relax during terrifying moments.”

Yet despite her faults, she had managed to obliterate the harpie. And that made her sad. She hadn’t wanted to kill the thing, just consign it back to Faery. Truly, this strange new magic she sought was going to take some getting used to.

With a nod, she decided she would concede to Tor’s request. The man had a life, and he had agreed to help her. Which meant she had to understand that he must have engagements and things to take care of. He wouldn’t be able to stand as her guardian 24-7. And she didn’t expect that. Should she?

She was getting nervous that the next few days could prove more harrowing than she was prepared for.

Her only chance to acquire the heart had come yesterday afternoon while searching the Archives for the proper spell. A spell she’d already had, thanks to one of her father’s grimoires. However, she’d told her uncle Certainly she hadn’t the full version, so he had allowed her to search the stacks.

The Book of All Spells contained every spell designed, conjured and/or invoked by every witch who ever existed (and some by witches who were yet to exist). It was constantly updated as new spells were spoken. She’d browsed that massive volume without intent to copy anything out. Never was an item allowed out from the Archives—it was first and foremost a storage facility—but she’d often copied out spells or spent an afternoon studying an incantation to enhance her magic.

Having already studied the spell, she’d gone into the Archives knowing exactly what ingredient was required to make the spell successful: Hecate’s heart. And after a lot of digging and sorting through dusty books, old wooden boxes and piles of unidentifiable artifacts, she’d found it wrapped in faded red silk, tucked between a book on crystal alchemy and a steel box that had rattled when she’d brushed it with the back of her hand. She had absconded with it while Uncle CJ had been talking on the phone. With a wave and a merci, Uncle!, she’d told him she’d see him soon.

Fingers crossed that her uncle didn’t notice it missing from the Archives. It wasn’t as though he did a thorough inventory. He very likely had no idea exactly where the hundreds of thousands of items were at any given moment. Melissande had but to perform the spell and free her mother from the haunting, and then she could return the heart. And in the process of invoking dark magic, she could prove to her dad she had what it took to be a dark witch. Just like him and his twin brother and her twin cousins, Laith and Vlas. Even CJ’s wife, who had once been a light witch, was now half-and-half.

The practice of dark magic was a Jones family tradition.

“Whoopee.” Melissande sighed.

Was dark magic all it was cracked up to be? Try as she might, over the years she’d never been able to bring herself to pull off so much as a hex. Hexes were strictly dark magic. They fed off negative energies and sometimes required demonic familiars. Bruce was about as far from demonic as a familiar got. That amphibian was light, all the way.

Of course, she was aware that without dark magic, light magic could not exist. It was how the universe functioned. No good without bad. No peace without war. No heaven without hell (if you were a human). No Beneath without Above (for the paranormals). No yin without yang. No black without white. No glitter without ash. Someone had to practice dark magic. And in the hands of her dad and his brother, it was handled with grace, respect and kick-ass power.

Her sister, Amaranthe, had possessed that kick-ass skill. She had once been able to stand between CJ and their dad, TJ, and hold her own. Melissande missed her. But lately it was difficult to feel compassion toward her younger sibling for the havoc and utter terror she currently held against their mother.

And if a nudge from Amaranthe was required to push Melissande toward the dark in order to save her mother’s sanity, then so be it.

She glanced to the big-screen TV that hung on a black wall. She shook her head. She wasn’t much for mindless entertainment. And the books...

“The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.” She read one of the spines. “The man is uptight. But a cute uptight. And what a swing he’s got.”

Watching him wield the club against the harpie had almost distracted Melissande from the spell. Well, actually it had distracted her. Otherwise, the harpie would have been banished to Faery, and not...dead.

“She deserved it,” Melissande muttered. “Can’t have harpies flying about Paris all willy-nilly.”

Bouncing up to her feet, she ran her fingers along the wall opposite the bed, then opened a door, which she assumed was the closet. A press of the light switch at shoulder level flicked on an overhead row of fluorescent bulbs. She leaned in and peered down the long stretch of closet, which was a small room lined on both sides with immaculate shelves and clothing hung and spaced precisely. Everything was neat as a pin. And all in blacks, grays and whites.

A hint of cherries and tobacco tickled her nose. Mmm...he smelled so good.

Unable to resist the adventurous call to explore, she ventured inside.



Tor thanked the interviewer for his time and ensured him he was on call for an in-person follow-up.

“We’ll call you soon if interested, Monsieur Rindle.”

“You’ve got my number. Merci.”

Tor signed off from Skype and sat back, clasping his fingers behind his head. A smile was irrepressible. He’d aced it. He could win this job—if the in-person interview went well. Which it would. He was experienced in human relations, having worked spin for The Order of the Stake. The only difference was he’d be talking about human issues to humans. He could do that. He had no doubts about his qualifications, and had successfully bluffed his way through the real-world applications parts.

As was necessary to any sort of spin job, he knew how to take rotten lemons and make spectacular lemonade.

Closing the laptop, he hummed a few bars from “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” and performed a side-to-side then forward swanky dance step into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Perrier. He drank half and set it on the counter. The day had taken a turn. It hadn’t started out all that swell, with a tea hangover and the harpie attack. All because of the—

“The witch.” He’d forgotten about the witch in his bedroom.

Loosening his tie and humming his way down the hallway, Tor felt a new enthusiasm for this unexpected protection job. The witch needed his help. He was the man who could help her. It would be his last hurrah before entering the corporate realm of humans and all things mundane.

Opening the bedroom door, he stepped inside to find...no witch.

“Hmm...” To his left, the closet door was open. Had he forgotten to tell her not to touch anything? He never overlooked the details most important to him.

Tor stepped into the closet. “I’m finished—”

The witch, who stood at the end of the closet, turned abruptly, her smile exaggerated and her shoulders to her ears. She wore one of his vests over her red blouse. One of his black silk ties hung loosely about her neck. And in her hand was one of his fedora hats.

“Oops,” she managed.

Aghast, Tor took a moment to settle his sudden need to shout an oath. He put up a hand. “I don’t even want to know.” He truly did not.

He had to force himself to leave the closet, but—“Okay, wait.” Turning to face the witch, he planted his feet and crossed his arms. “I really do need to know.”

Melissande carefully placed his hat back on the shelf and made a point of aligning it as neatly as it had originally been placed.

“Why are you in here?” he persisted. “Wearing my things? Are you...mentally unbalanced?”

She gaped at him. “I got bored. I don’t do TV, and I wasn’t interested in your literary choices. And I figured if I worked some magic, it could get noisy. And you did reprimand me to be quiet.”

“I don’t reprimand—”

“Oh, it was definitely a reprimand.”

“So you decided to try on some of my things as a means to...?”

“I’m a curious person,” she defended herself. “And your clothes smell good. Cherry and tobacco. Like you, I presume. But I can’t imagine that you smoke. That’s not very attractive. Speaking of, you are much more attractive than I’d expected.”

“Than expected?” He had to ask. She had a way of teasing out his curiosity.

“Sure. I thought you’d have a gimp eye or, at the very least, a scar. You know, with the kind of work you do.”

He really did not know, and if he thought about it too hard, he might go down the path she followed. And that scared him more than a raging demon or a squawking harpie.

Melissande tugged the tie from her neck, and he rushed to grab it.

“I’ll take that.” He carefully folded it and placed it in the open tie drawer. A few adjustments to the other ties she’d obviously touched and moved out of order were necessary. “I’m sorry. The interview went long. The rest of the day I’m all yours. In fact, we need to sit down and discuss a game plan.”

“Good idea. But I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are, you harpie-banishing, vest-wearing witch. Let’s just get that vest off you...”

He helped her slip off the vest, and as he did so, Tor drew in the lush scent of her dark hair. Like lemons, but sweeter, almost candy. It was surprising how the scent attracted him. When she turned to give him an inquiring look, for a moment their faces were but inches apart. Exceedingly intimate. And...he had but to move his hand an inch to touch her hair...

“Right.” Tor backed away and hung the vest to distract his straying thoughts. Why was he so confused about whether to reprimand or kiss her? “I keep some prepared meals in the freezer. You might like the poached salmon mousse.”

“Sounds futuristically unappealing, but I’m in.” She marched out of the closet, leaving him in her lemon-scented wake.

She was a handful of kooky and strange, and she annoyed him in virtually every way. Trying on his clothes? He closed the tie drawer carefully. And yet he couldn’t think of a single reason to push her out the door and wash his hands of her crazy. So for now, he’d play along.

At the very least, she was entertaining.




Chapter 5 (#u2c642c33-4ad2-5409-a129-4da84c389f75)


“If that was a job interview,” Mel said while prodding at her microwaved dinner, “I’m guessing it’s not your usual protection and cleanup work?”

“It’s a one-eighty turn from what I usually do. A job in an accounting firm. Completely normal.” Tor had finished his meal and was cleaning the plastic bowl for the recycle bin beneath the counter he’d pointed out to her.

“Huh. But you do what you do so well. I don’t understand why you’d want another job.”

“I need normal. And let’s leave it at that. Deal?”

“If that’s the way you want to play it. Do I have to stay here while you’re protecting me?” The meal he’d taken from the freezer and reheated in the microwave was supposed to be some kind of wild-caught fish-mousse thingy with lemon sauce on green beans but—ugh. “Don’t you ever eat fresh food?”

“That’s fresh. The chef delivers it frozen. No time to cook, and I eat out a lot. Lots of fresh choices that way.”

“Depends on where you eat. I need to go home this evening and pack some stuff if you expect me to stay here. Not to mention bring along half my fridge. A witch can’t survive on tough beans and rubber fish.”

She shoved the food tray forward, finished. Hey, she’d given it a shot at least.

Tor took it and, using a brush, began the same meticulous cleaning under the running sink water. “As protector, I follow you,” he said. “If you need to go home, that’s where I will go. I’ll be the one who packs some things. And once you’re home, you can add a cloaking spell to that thing.” He nodded to the plastic container sitting at the end of the counter. “Apparently whatever ward you put on it—”

“I only had time for a quickie ward before the harpie flew in.”

The heart didn’t glow now. Through the pink plastic, it merely looked like a hunk of meat. Which was odd to Melissande. The artifact was the real heart taken from Hecate’s chest. But when she touched and held it, it felt like glass, save for its rubbery texture. If it needed cold storage and might get stale on her, she had better not only cloak the thing but perhaps also keep it on ice.

She sniffed the air, but didn’t notice a rancid smell. “That’s a good idea. A cloaking spell will enhance a ward. But I’ll need Bruce’s help since I’m still new to dark magic. Such skills are a lifetime endeavor. It’s always a learning process, no matter the magic a witch practices.”

“Does the floating—er, levitating frog help with your spells?”

“Of course. He is my familiar,” she stated as if he should know better.

She slid off the stool and grabbed the heart. “Let’s head out. I’m hungry, and I’ve got some fruit salad at home with my name on it.”

“Let me grab a few things before we leave. Won’t be but a few minutes.”

The man strolled down the hallway back to his bedroom, whistling as he did so. He had a long, easy stride that spoke of confidence. Something Melissande was always unsure she possessed. And that was the paradox of it, wasn’t it? If you weren’t sure you had it, then of course you didn’t.

Hugging the plastic box to her chest, she wandered down the hallway, cringing only a little that earlier he’d found her wearing his clothes. Everything had smelled like cherry tobacco. It was a deep, heady scent that had lured her to sniff his clothing. And wearing him on her had allowed her to submerse herself in his world. To feel, for a moment, what it must be like to be Torsten Rindle, stylish protector against all means of evil. She bet not a lot of slayers or cleanup professionals could work the bespoke suit like he did and still manage to take out the enemy with such skill.

Tor must have plenty of enemies. She hoped he didn’t consider witches enemies. A man like him must work for all breeds and species, so hopefully he didn’t discriminate. Yet if he did not, that could also imply he didn’t discriminate when it came to slaying one.

Peeking into his bedroom, she spied him zipping up a small bag. He startled at the sight of her. “Oh. Uh...” He glanced to the open closet door.

That man’s closet was a fashionista’s wet dream.

“I, uh...was thinking I should arm myself with a few extra weapons before leaving.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She remained in the doorway.

Tor stayed by the bed, peering into the closet.

“So?” she prompted.

He pointed toward the closet, then smoothed a hand down his tie.

“You keep weapons in your closet?” she guessed. “I didn’t see any when I was—well, you know.”

“My closet is a sort of personal stronghold to me.”

“Where you keep all things most important to you.”

He winced. “It’s not so much that—give me another few minutes.” He strode into the closet.

And Melissande followed.

“I said to give me a few,” he insisted as he spun to stand before a small panel on the wall he’d opened. She hadn’t noticed that when she’d been in here earlier.

“You have a secret weapon stash?” She slipped around him and studied the panel, which consisted of a few round buttons. “What does the red one do? Sound the alarm? Send out the hounds? Alert the dragons?”

Tor sighed and gripped the little door that had concealed the buttons. “It reboots the system should an electrical failure occur due to lightning or power outage.”

“Oh.” Melissande dropped her shoulders. Sounded a lot like her place. It was an old house in desperate need of new wiring. There wasn’t a storm that occurred that did not leave her sitting in the dark, from a few minutes to hours. Not that she minded. Candles were always better than electric lighting. “So show me. Oh, come on—it’s not like I don’t already know your secret identity.”

“My secret—” Shaking his head, Tor pressed the topmost button, and the panel that displayed his ties in neat rows swung open. Inner fluorescent lights flashed on to brightly illuminate another room. He waggled an admonishing finger at her. “No touching.”

She sighed dramatically, then conceded with a nod and followed him inside.

This secret closet was as big as the clothes closet. The longest walls, parallel to one another, were covered with a mosaic of weapons. Melissande’s jaw dropped as she swept her gaze over pistols, rifles and semiautomatic weapons in all sizes and calibers. The knife section boasted the smallest pocketknife to a machete the size of a man’s arm. Garrotes were neatly coiled and hung with precision on the gray microfoam-padded wall. Dozens of wooden stakes were neatly stacked on the marble counter. An entire section featured vials of what she assumed were either spells or vile concoctions designed to injure or even kill. The vials with crosses etched onto the glass must be holy water.

Behind her, Tor took down a handgun and checked the bullet cartridge. “You will not tell anyone what you’ve seen in here.”

“Of course not.” She ran her fingers over the smooth matte-black finish of something that resembled a rifle but could also be a crossbow. She wouldn’t have the first notion what to call all these weapons, let alone gossip about them.

But thinking about gossip...she really needed to get together with the girls and tell them about her studly new protector. Tuesday was living with the handsome vampire Ethan Pierce. And Zoe had been shacking up with the gorgeous slayer Kaspar Rothstein for years. It was high time Melissande got to brag about a sexy man.

But first she needed a better reason to brag than that she was paying him.

“Can you not touch?”

“Of course I can. I mean, cannot.” She pulled back her hand and watched as Tor fit a knife in the inside pocket of his suit coat. A box of shells and another Order-of-the-Stake-issue stake were grabbed and tucked away in various pockets or loops on his attire. “What is everything for, exactly?”

“Vampires, werewolves, demons.”

“Mermaids?”

“I have a suffocating lariat should I encounter a vicious mermaid.”

He ran his fingers over a small iron sphere that had spikes coming out of it.

“What’s that for?” she wondered aloud.

“Dragons. They need to swallow it, and it’ll explode in their gut. Messy.”

Wow. Melissande had never seen a dragon. He lived an exciting life. Gossip-worthy, even.

“Faeries,” he recited as he moved his gaze over various weapons. “Reptilian-shifter. Angel. Kitsune.”

“What about ghosts?” Melissande tried.

Tor turned his gaze directly on her. “I don’t do ghosts.”

“Oh, but—”

“No ghosts,” he repeated firmly. And he brushed his fingers over the crystal talisman hanging from his belt. She was about to ask what it was for when he said, “Ghosts are just... No. Now come on. And don’t touch that!” he called as he filed out of the room.

Melissande made a point of gliding her fingers along a bayonet-like weapon after he’d called out the warning. She barely slipped out into the fore-closet as the door swung shut. Tor gestured for her to vacate the room, and she felt like she was being directed around like a child. She wouldn’t have ruined a thing in that room. How could she, a tiny witch, manage to do that?

“You have trust issues,” she concluded as she followed him down the hallway and into the living area and kitchen.

“And you are far too trusting,” he countered. “Where’s the heart?”

She caught herself before saying oops. Holding up a staying finger, she then dashed down the hallway, grabbed the plastic container from the end of his bed—took one more moment to inhale his uniquely sexy scent—then rushed back out to the man who waited by the open front door.

“Don’t worry,” she said as they exited his place with her bags in hand. “We’ll sync onto one another’s wavelength. I’m already dialed into yours.”

“Is that so? Right.”

She turned right as they walked outside and remembered he’d parked in that direction.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re controlling, precise and closed. I might be able to work with that.”

They arrived at his van, and he opened the passenger door for her. “You don’t need to work with anything. Just be you. Cloak and ward the heart. Go about your normal—whatever it is you do. And let me do my job. Deal?”

As she slid up onto the seat, Melissande turned and stuck out a foot to prevent him from closing the door on her. “How much is all this going to cost me?”

“We’ll come to an agreeable arrangement.” He shoved her foot inside and closed the door on her.

The man could be intolerable. But that made her smile. He was a tough one. She would enjoy peeling away his layers to get to the soft mushy stuff in the middle. Because everyone had that mush. Some even wore it on their outermost layer.

She did. And she knew she had to toughen up for the unavoidable trial that would arrive in a few days. She could do this. Her mother needed her. And her father would be so proud.

“Maybe I can learn to toughen up from Tor,” she muttered. Behind her, he deposited his supplies in the back of the van and closed the door. “Time to step up, Jones. Your family needs you.”

She smiled when Tor got in and fired up the engine. She had made the right choice in choosing her protector. But no ghosts, eh?

That could prove to be an issue.




Chapter 6 (#u2c642c33-4ad2-5409-a129-4da84c389f75)


“Carrots, celery and an onion.” Melissande set the vegetables on the counter before the cutting board and handed Tor a knife. “When you’re finished, I’ll get the mirepoix simmering for soup. Meanwhile, I’m going to the spell room with Bruce to put that cloaking spell on the heart.”

“Please do.” Tor grabbed a carrot. “Peeler?”

“Nope, I leave the skin on. It’s better for you. Nutrients and all that.”

He gave an indecisive tilt of the head at that statement. “What is it that you do, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“Earlier, when I said you should go about doing what you do. I—Do you have a job? Will I be guarding you while at work? Or are you just...a witch?”

“Oh, I work! I mean, most of the time. I’m a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, like you. I worked at Shakespeare and Company for a few months. Then I got a gig at the ice-cream shop around the corner. I loved that place. They didn’t love me giving out free samples. Oh, and just last month I was taking tickets at the d’Orsay, but the manager fired me for letting in tourists on expired city passes. I’m sort of between jobs right now. Which is a good thing. I’ll be focusing my attention on perfecting the spell this week and making sure I’ve got it ready to go. Which means we’ll be spending a lot of time together! Come on, Bruce!”

The witch scurried out of the kitchen on a sweep of fluttering black hair. Tor paused before touching the knife to the first carrot.

Bruce floated through the kitchen, passing eye level with Tor. The frog delivered a judgmental croak. Then he floated out. Or levitated. But wait—wasn’t levitation more a nontraveling action? It was floating that moved a person—or frog—from one place to the next. Levitation merely moved an entity up and down. Maybe? He wouldn’t argue with the witch about it. She was just weird enough to have a completely rational explanation for it.

And he was just curious enough about her to want to engage in such a chat.

“Right, then.”

They’d be spending a lot of time together. Tor wasn’t sure how he felt about that. While she was definitely pretty to look at, and wasn’t at all a threat to him, he wasn’t sure her wackiness could be endured for more than short bursts at a time. He did value his privacy and alone time. He had his...ways. And he didn’t like when they were disturbed. Like finding his silk tie hanging about her neck. Even if she had been the cutest thing ever—

Well, she had been.

Tor remembered the time he’d had to protect a celebrity singer from the vampire she’d attracted by mistakenly answering a text she had thought was a tease to drink her blood. That woman had clearly defined high-maintenance to Tor. He would never live down the trips to the beauty salon for seaweed wraps if anyone learned he’d had to accompany her there.

He should be thankful Mel was seemingly self-sufficient and didn’t seek the spotlight or have too many friends. He liked to keep what he did a secret. It was a necessity.

He turned back to the task. Chop vegetables? Not a problem. He eyed the length of carrot, took a moment to calculate his slices, then began. She hadn’t told him how many carrots to chop. There were at least ten in the bag. And as much celery.

As he chopped, he decided this activity was a weirdly soothing task that occupied his brain in a way that allowed him to focus. So often, he had a dozen things going on at once in his temporal lobe. Where was the dangerous creature? How many? Was he surrounded? Where were the escape routes? Had he loaded enough ammunition? What chemical was required to clean up sticky, tar-like demon blood? And would he get a call for the second interview?

He felt the Skype interview this morning had gone well. And hoped to hear back within a few days for another in-person interview. He’d doctored his résumé as best he could, leaving out the parts where he did spin for a group that slayed vampires and, in turn, spinning his skills to show that he worked with the local news outlets and reported on current events that could impact the residents. Spin was making the unordinary sound ordinary. Vampires? Get real! It’s just a bunch of satanic idiots.

And while the accounting firm employed number crunchers, someone in the human resources department didn’t require such skills. So he was safe there. And he could make nice with humans and paranormals alike. Changing a man’s mind after he’d witnessed a werewolf tromping through his gardenias in the backyard? Not a problem. Did he know that gardenias gave off an intoxicating scent that was actually studied and determined could alter a person’s thoughts and give them illusions? No? Well, it was true.

Fake science worked every time.

Tor took pride in what he did. Every single thing he did. He pushed aside the growing pile of orange carrot cubes and eyed the bag of celery.

Everything.

Half an hour later, he set down the knife after a round of near-tears with the onions.

Mel bounded into the kitchen and set the container with the heart on the counter. When she eyed Tor’s work, her jaw dropped.

Behind her, Bruce floated over to levitate above her shoulder. The reptile croaked in the most judgmental enunciation Tor had ever heard.



“That’s a lot of vegetables,” Melissande declared at the sight of the piles that Tor had heaped onto the countertop on a piece of waxed paper. She noted the empty plastic bags that the carrots and celery had been in. “You chopped them all.”

“You didn’t say not to.”

“True. And...” She bent to study the meticulously chopped bits of orange, green and white. All remarkably uniform. “Did you use a ruler?”

“I have very good spatial awareness. I like things in order.”

“I guess you do, Monsieur OCD. It looks like a machine did this.”

“Thank you.”

Mel didn’t really care what she was going to do with a shit ton of veggies all chopped into perfect half-inch squares. This was too wonderful. The man was a marvelous freak. And she could fall in love with him right now if he wasn’t holding the cutting knife like he intended to defend himself against her.

“You trying to decide whether or not to stab me with that thing?” she asked carefully.

“Huh?” Tor noted the knife he held, blade facing outward and arm pulled back as if to stab. He quickly set it on the cutting board. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Right.” She pulled a big soup pan out of the cupboard, and with a swish of her fingers, she swept a third of the vegetables into the pot. “Thanks to you, I’ll have mirepoix for weeks! I should invite you over more often.”

“Always happy to help. What sort of soup are you making?”

“Whatever strikes my fancy. I’ll get the veggies simmering then toss in whatever is on hand. I’ve some gnocchi and chicken stock. Toss in some spices and spinach and there you go.”

The man straightened his tie, watching as she went about the motions of adding oil to the pot along with the veggies and a good helping of butter, because life wasn’t worth living without lots of butter. She and her family bought all their dairy products from a witch who lived an hour outside Paris. She milked her cows by hand and churned butter and made her own cheese. It was heavenly.

Meanwhile, she handed Tor a couple of plastic freezer bags. “Hold those open for me, will you?” He did so, and she again swept the chopped veggies into the containers with but a few magical gestures.

“Handy,” he said, sealing the lockable bags.

“It’s just...me,” she decided. “Kinetic magic. Never known any other way of life. We witches got it going on.”

“I’ll say. Makes normal look so...”

“Normal?” She leaned a hip against the stove. “How long have you been in the know with us paranormals?”

“Most of my life. Like you, I haven’t known much different. But I feel like it can be better away from all this...supernatural insanity. It’s hard to explain. It’s something I need to do.”

Unconvinced, Mel shrugged. “I’ll have you know I’m the normal one in my family.”

Tor’s eyebrow lifted in question.

“It’s all about perspective. Family full of dark witches? Then there’s little ole sparkly me.” She winked at him, knowing her purple glitter eye shadow caught the sunlight. “Do you know what it’s like to be the odd witch out?”

“I actually do. Which, again, is reason for me to want to pursue this job.”

“I suppose I can understand that. You need to see if the grass is greener. Trust me. It’s not.” She turned and stirred the pot. “Too bad for us paranormals. Not having you to have our backs.”

“Someone else will take up the reins.”

“How will that happen? How did you take up the reins?”

“Monsieur Jacques taught me after I moved to Paris. Well, uh...hmm...it’s not important.”

He hadn’t thought about passing along his knowledge to anyone? Mel felt sure he hadn’t thought through the whole idea of normal either. But who was she to overexplain something the man had to learn for himself?

“Did you get the heart cloaked?” Tor asked.

“Yep.”

He bent to study the container she’d set at the edge of the counter, cracking open the lid to peer inside. “It looks...like a real heart. Wasn’t it more glassy when you first showed it to me?”

“It was. And it’s not glowing as much either.” She seasoned the ingredients with pepper and her favorite smoked black sea salt. “But it doesn’t smell, so I think I’m okay.”

“That’s your determination of an efficacious cloaking?”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t it work for you?”

“Well—okay, I can agree with you on that one. Not like I know much about hearts left over from long-dead witches. What, exactly, is this spell you plan to invoke on the night of the full moon?”

“The full blood moon,” she said.

“Really? Ominous.”

“Right? There’s a lunar eclipse on the night of the full moon, which will make it appear reddish-orange. The blood moon portends the closing of struggles and new beginnings. Couldn’t be more perfect timing for such a spell, if you ask me.”

Placing the bamboo spoon across the top of the pot to keep the brew from boiling over, Mel turned her back to the stove to face Tor. The setting sun beamed through the front window in a cozy orange glow and backlit him in the most delicious manner. He looked less uptight this evening. More amiable. And she still wanted to run her fingers through his hair.

It was easy enough for her to reveal a few things to him. As a means to gaining his trust. Because he still wasn’t completely on board with her beyond this merely being a job she would pay him for.

“My mother needs protection,” she started, then cautioned herself from saying from a ghost. The man didn’t do ghosts? What did that mean, exactly? “And since she’s only recently died—again—my dad is busy getting her back up to speed with life, so I offered to do the spell and take that worry off his hands.”

Tor put up a palm to stop her. “So many questions.”

“You know my dad,” she offered. “Thoroughly Jones, dark witch, husband to a cat-shifting familiar.”

“Yes, and your mother is Star. And she’s recently died?”

“Fell from the top of my parents’ building. She was...” Couldn’t tell him Star had been spooked. “Doesn’t matter how it happened. Only that she didn’t land on her feet. That’s a myth about cats. Anyway. You know how it is with familiars?”

“I do. Mostly. I’m not sure about frogs.” He looked about the kitchen, but Bruce was nowhere in sight. “I do know that cat-shifters have nine lives. If they die, they come back to life the same age at which they died.”

“Exactly. But they never come back with memories of their former life.”

“Oh. That’s—I didn’t know that detail. Wow, that’s gotta be tough. For the familiar and for her family.”

“Tell me about it. In my lifetime, my mother has died four times. With each death, she forgets I’m her daughter. That she had two daughters, actually. She died after giving birth to me. Poor Dad had to take care of a newborn and a newly reborn wife who couldn’t remember him or that she’d had a baby. My sister’s birth was event free, thankfully. Mom made it through that one like a breeze.”

“You have a sister?”

“Had.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He splayed his hands before him. “Isn’t there a life history of some sort you could record to help get your mom up to speed?”

“Dad does keep a video journal for her. It helps a lot. But it’s never easy. Poor Mom.”




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