Читать книгу This Strange Witchery - Michele Hauf - Страница 12

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.