Page 8 of Any Witch Wolf (The Smokethorn Paranormals #2)

Chapter

Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

A fter horrifying Ronan with possible names—”Penis and Perrier” for the teetotalers in the groups—for a couple more minutes, I finished my sandwich and not-safe-for-work web search, and headed out to the garden room. I had an appointment with Annabelle Rossi this afternoon, and I had a mandrake issue to deal with now.

I made half a PB&J for Cecil and grabbed some cat treats for Fennel, who especially loved those Japanese tubes of fishy goo.

“Snack time.” I handed them their treats and reclined on the chaise lounge. “Find out anything about our Mictlan Mandrake?” I jabbed my thumb at the plant in question. It hadn’t been moved or touched since I’d placed it under my workstation.

Cecil shook his head. He perched on the edge of his workstation and swung his stubby feet back and forth as he munched.

“ Meow ,” Fennel said, which somehow sounded exactly like the word no . He slurped up the fish goo, half in and half out of his bed, furry black tail twitching with pleasure.

“Great. So we’ve got a plant in here we know virtually nothing about except that Ida might accidentally activate it. I’ve called Sexton several times, and he’s not answering. I thought about taking it to his cemetery, but if he’s not answering his phone, he’s not going to answer his door. And since we don’t know precisely what this thing does, leaving it unguarded seems risky.”

“ Meow .”

Chitter .

“Plus, we’ve got a missing beta wolf to look for—oh, and a slightly charred curse talker stalker.”

Cecil snickered.

“On top of all that, I still haven’t figured out what’s going on with my magic. I’ve connected with the soil a few times, but it failed me big time yesterday. I’ve been feeding it magic daily, too. We’ve even got grass in front of Mom’s cottage now.”

Cecil nodded, chewed.

“Why do you think it failed me so spectacularly after all that?” I didn’t expect a verbal response from either of them and didn’t get one. “I’ve pored over all my magic books, including the family grimoire, and… nothing.”

Fennel’s tail swished.

“The obvious answer is I’m not fully connected to the soil here, but what if that’s not the real issue? What if that’s a side effect?”

Fennel’s tail halted. Cecil lowered his sandwich.

“I’ve been thinking about this. What if there’s something keeping me from connecting? What if the soil wants me to connect with it—and I think it does, given how it grabbed me when I was discussing the possibility of leaving—but there’s something forcing us apart?”

I let the possibilities flow over me.

Unfortunately, no good ones presented themselves. “Thank the gods for you, Cecil. Frankly, your magic and specialty strains of lavender are the only things keeping our side business afloat right now.”

Cecil stopped licking jelly off his fingers and looked at me.

“I’m very grateful,” I said.

He chittered softly, the sound of a bird cooing. He climbed down the leg of his workstation and shot across the clay tile floor. A moment later, he was back with the string-of-pearls plant. It had grown exponentially in such a short time and now spilled over the sides of the seashell pot.

“It’s lovely.” I got up from the chaise and crouched beside the gnome and succulent. “Cecil, I don’t know what message my giving you this plant sent. My knowledge of your kind is cursory at best, and my interactions with garden gnomes have been a bit adversarial in the past—as you well know.” I touched a tiny pearl with the tip of my finger. “But if by giving you this I told you that you’re family to me then I sent the correct message. You are.”

Cecil gazed up. I couldn’t see his eyes, but his hat tipped back, so I knew he was focused on my face.

“And not because you’re single-handedly running our side business, either. If you get tired, or don’t want to do it anymore, all you have to do is say the word, and I’ll shut it all down. I’ve got some money socked away from my recent jobs. Enough to cover the property expenses and keep us in fishy goo, sour apple Four Lokos, and tacos for a few months.” I moved my finger from the pearl plant to Cecil’s nose. “You have a home here whether you’re useful or not. Always. Even if we don’t always see eye to eye, you’re one of us. Right, Fennel?”

He purred and squeezed in front of me to rub noses with the gnome.

“See? Fennel agrees.”

I went back to admiring the plant and nearly missed the crystalline droplets of water that ran down Cecil’s beard. He sniffed, climbed into the plant, and pointed to a spot behind me.

“You want me to move it here?”

Cecil nodded.

I carefully set the pretty pot—and Cecil—beside Fennel’s bed.

Had he wanted to be there all along? I’d made a place for him in the back of the garden room when I brought him home a year ago, but he’d largely ignored it. I felt bad that I hadn’t made a stronger effort to find out what made him feel at home and mentally pledged to do better.

The gnome stretched out atop the plant, one chubby foot dangling over the edge, and let out a series of snores that brought to mind a buzzsaw chewing through a hardwood log.

Fennel head-butted me, reminding me I had more than Cecil’s comfort to worry about today. “I’m looking into the wolf’s disappearance this afternoon, want to come with?” I whispered.

He sat up tall and wrapped his tail around his front feet. His fur was like sable and touching it was calming.

I petted him between the ears, and he leaned into my touch. “Come on. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

He loped along behind me to my trailer where I fetched my bag with the truth charm tucked into the inside pocket then followed me out to the parking lot. I did a visual sweep to check for my stalker. Thankfully, he wasn’t around.

“So, here’s the story: Sy, a Pallás wolf, has been missing for two days.” I ignored Fennel’s quizzical look and backed the Mini out of the parking lot. “Alpha Floyd shouldn’t know we’re looking into his disappearance. At least, he shouldn’t know that I’m investigating on Ronan’s behalf.”

“ Meow .” He curled up on the passenger seat and closed his eyes. His listening pose.

“Sy’s full name is Sylvester Shaw, and he’s a bit of a Romeo in the senior world. His love life seems like the most obvious angle to pursue first.” I filled him in on what I’d discovered so far, leaving nothing out. I finished with, “We’re going to pay a visit to his last date. Maybe we’ll get lucky, she’ll confess her terrible guilt about locking Sy in the basement, and we’ll be finished almost before we started.”

Fennel purred. Listening.

“Yeah, fat chance of that.” I flicked the turn signal and pulled onto the short stretch of highway that led from Smokethorn to La Paloma. “Just a heads up, if Annabelle Rossi gives me nothing useful, I’m going to start working this case differently. And I don’t think Ronan will like the direction it’s going to take me.”

“ Meow ?”

“As long as Alpha Floyd’s in charge, the pack will remain the obvious choice anytime there’s a crime in the shifter community. I put nothing past that evil wolf, Fennel. Nothing .”

Annabelle Rossi’s house was on a ritzier side of La Paloma, and there weren’t many of those. Most of the town was middle class, a few poorer areas, and a few upper-middle-class streets. Her house was a sprawling ranch on a well-groomed acre of land.

I pulled into the circular driveway, having already sent Fennel ahead to poke around for clues. The little black book had provided enough of Sylvester’s scent for him to work with. My partner was surprisingly good at sniffing out people.

And magic.

Flourishing tea rose bushes flanked both sides of the porch. They were just beginning to blossom, and the smell was heavenly. Except… One of the bushes on the left side appeared to be struggling. It was half the size of the others, and its leaves were discolored. Was it getting enough water?

I set my concerns for the plant aside, slung my purse over my shoulder, and knocked on the door, resisting the urge to straighten my clothes. Grand houses like this one always made me feel a little uncomfortable. Give me a trailer or cabin or cheerful small house over a mansion anytime.

The door opened slowly. “Hello, Betty.”

Annabelle Rossi stood six feet tall, with wide shoulders, a trim waist, and long legs. She was around Ida’s age, but didn’t look a day over sixty. Her expertly dyed black hair was cut in a short, Dutch bob with thick black bangs. Her clothes were simple, blouse, slacks, mules, but they looked expensive.

“Hello, Mrs. Rossi. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” I held out my hand, and Annabelle shook it. She was a mole shifter, a lone alpha.

“Please call me Annabelle,” she said, some of the stiffness in her tone relaxing. “Of course, I agreed. If Sylvester’s gotten himself into trouble, I want to help. He’s a good friend.”

She led me into a mid-century modern, minimalist living room. Clean lines, lots of windows, few knickknacks. We sat knee-to-knee on a shallow-tufted sofa, our bodies turned toward one another.

“I hope you don’t mind if I get a little personal. This conversation will remain between us, unless an extraordinary reason for revealing it presents itself.”

“Go ahead. I’m not ashamed of anything Sylvester and I’ve done together. We’re single, consenting adults.”

“Did you have a date with him this week?”

“Date?” She tilted her head to one side. Squinted. “I wouldn’t call what we do dating, per se. We scratch an itch for each other now and then. However, the answer to your question is yes. We’d planned to meet two days ago, but he never showed up. I believe he accidentally scheduled Ella Valdez on the same night.” She chuckled. “I say accidentally because Sy was good, but no man’s good enough to take on Ella and me in the same night. Also, Sy had a memory like a sieve.”

Echoes of everything the others had said.

“His roommate said he left for his date, but he didn’t take any of his accoutrements with him.” I cleared my throat. “All his, uh, shoeboxes were accounted for.”

“I provide my own accoutrements.” She laughed, loud and throaty. “Sy usually just brings himself. We have a little wine, do a little dancing, and finish the night in the bedroom. Or kitchen. Or dining room…”

Before she could continue naming places she and Sy’d had sex, I asked, “You wouldn’t be angry if he forgot your date and remembered his date with Ella?”

“Heavens, no. He’s done it before to both of us. I think we’re the only fives in his book right now.” She winked. “Ella and I attend the same church. We talk.”

She was right. They were the only fives. Not the only AWWs, though. There were a lot of those.

“You know about his book?”

“Yes. He’s very open about it with me—and Ella, too. He never shares anything about his other dates, though. I only know my rating because I asked, and apparently, Ella did, too.”

“It doesn’t bother you that he rated you?” I thought about how I’d feel if Ronan did that to me.

I’d throat-punch him.

“Not one whit,” she replied airily.

“And you aren’t upset about him dating other women?”

“Of course not. Sy isn’t the type to date jealous women. He’s very good at extricating himself from those types of situations with grace. The only woman Sy ever loved was Edina, his late wife. Just as the only person I’ve ever loved was my mate, Joshua.”

It seemed that whatever had happened to Sylvester, it wasn’t because of his love life. Sure, I still had a few more things to investigate before I abandoned that line of questioning completely, but after this conversation, I was leaning heavily toward the pack being involved.

“I have to say, you women are really annoying me with all this well-adjusted sexual relationship stuff.” I cracked a smile. “I can’t find a single reason any of you would want to hurt Sylvester.”

“We wouldn’t. The man should be declared a national treasure.” She started to smile but hesitated. “Betty, you’re aware that he’s a Pallás wolf, right?”

Unfortunately. “Yeah.”

“If I were you, that’s where I’d look for him. That pack has a reputation for mistreating betas, and Sy is about as beta as it gets—except in bed.”

I was already dreading the conversation I’d be having with Ronan about this investigation leading me deeper into pack business. “Who do you think I should I talk to first? Again, this stays strictly between us. I assure you I never reveal my sources.”

“I know about you, Witch Betty.” Her lips curved. “You have a reputation with us non-affiliated paranormals.”

She meant lone shifters, like her, and rare paranormal beings, like Ida. “A good reputation, I hope—or at least properly bad.”

Annabelle laughed. “A solid one. You’re not only strong, you’re honorable, and you’re someone we can call when we need help. Unlike the witches in that damn coven.” Her laughter died out and her gaze shuttered. “If I thought you were anything like Margaux Ramirez, I’d have kept my mouth shut.”

I badly wanted to know what Margaux had done to earn her distrust, but it could’ve been a personality thing. Margaux had the temperament of a wet cat with a toothache.

“Nope. I’m not a big fan of covens in general, the La Paloma coven specifically, and Coven Mother Margaux for damn sure.”

“Good. She, unlike you, isn’t trustworthy.”

No, she wasn’t. Margaux had done something unconscionable the day Mom died, but I’d distrusted their friendship even before then. Margaux was a user, in my opinion.

“As far as the pack, I’ve got nothing concrete for you to investigate. Sy didn’t talk about it much, except to say it was a necessary evil for a beta wolf.” She tapped a fingernail on her lip. “You might poke around the alphas directly under Alpha Pallás’s security team. Ronan’s a good one, but that new second is suspicious. And Alpha himself is far from a good person. I don’t have to tell you that.”

“No, you don’t. Does everyone in town know about our dislike for each other?” I asked.

“Dislike, right.” She grinned. “You despise that wolf. We all know he’s afraid of you, too.”

How nice. I’d had no idea my hatred for the alpha leader had made it that far around town. “If you hear anything about Sy, give me a call?”

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

She stood, I stood, and the next thing I knew I was on the front porch, the door closing behind me. Fennel was sunbathing on the hood of the Mini. He sat up, yawned, and shook his head.

He’d found nothing interesting, apparently.

I glanced at the sad little rose bush I’d noticed on the way in. It wasn’t my bush—it wasn’t my business—but I couldn’t stand to watch it struggle.

“Hang on a sec, Fennel.” I tossed my bag onto the Mini’s hood and walked back toward the house.

The bush shivered as I approached. It was afraid.

“Don’t worry, little one,” I cooed, and I sank my fingers into the soil, flooding the area with magic. It felt so nice to reach out to soil that welcomed my touch. “I’m not here to take you away. I’m here to see what’s wrong. Talk to me.”

Sure enough, it was a water issue. A root issue, to be precise. The roots of the plant beside it had crowded into her space.

I turned to the bully bush. “There’s enough water for all here, no need to starve the others. Stay in your space.” My voice was kind, but stern.

My fingers tingled as the roots withdrew, returning to their proper spot. They tingled again, as I sent an extra shot of magic into the struggling plant, encouraging its roots to reach deep and drink.

Before coming back to Smokethorn, this sort of magic had come to me easily, with less effort than a wayward thought popping into my head. These days, it took a lot of effort, and I felt the effects immediately. My head was a little lighter, my body a little heavier.

The window above my head slid open. I could barely make out Annabelle’s silhouette through the screen, but I was pretty sure she was in her bedroom.

“I was about to have the gardener replace that one. I recently relocated a couple of them to the backyard—I’ve been having some work done on my patio—but these were doing very well. At least, until that one began to wither.”

“Replacement won’t be necessary,” I said. “Her roots are growing now. She’ll be the size of her siblings in a week or two. If not, call me. I’ll take another look.”

“Sure. Thank you. You really love plants, don’t you?”

“Yes.” It was more that I resonated with them on a spiritual level, but the word love worked, too.

“I’m surprised you walk on grass then.” She chuckled.

“Once it’s established, grass doesn’t mind being walked on. It especially loves being played on. It absorbs the joy.” I withdrew my fingers and dusted my hands together. “I’d consider getting a garden gnome or lawn flamingo.”

“Why?” Annabelle asked.

“Roses are especially cocky—they feel they’re the royalty of the plant world and expect to be deferred to. A good garden creature will keep them in line.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Betty.”

“You’re welcome.”

After taking a moment to center myself and recover from the magic expenditure, I drove back to Sy’s apartment building via the route I felt he would’ve been most likely to use. There was no sign of a car accident. I hadn’t thought there would be since one of the first things I’d done was contact the local hospitals. Although Sylvester Shaw was a wolf shifter, he was a weak beta and probably didn’t heal very quickly. It was easy to imagine him ending up in a hospital after a wreck.

A couple calls to the two major medical centers in Smokethorn County had netted nothing. There were no Sylvester Shaws and no John Does. Plus, the pack had people in both hospitals. If either of them had admitted a wolf shifter, the local leaders would’ve been alerted, and Sylvester would have been picked up by the pack. It was one of the ways we paranormals kept ourselves secret from the human world.

Even a loner like Annabelle likely had a contact in a local shifter group for an occurrence like that. Witches like me were less likely to be outed by humans, but we had a cooperative agreement with other magicals in town. Plus, I had Ida, and she had me.

“I’m really worried Ronan’s father has something to do with this, Fennel.”

“ Meow .”

“Yes, I know I can’t approach him. At least, not yet.”

Fennel purred like a motorboat and swiped his tail viciously. He didn’t like Alpha Floyd, either.

“I think I need to talk to Mason Hartman,” I said to Fennel.

“ Meow .”

“No, I’m not telling Ronan first. Haven’t you ever heard that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission?”

Fennel purred his displeasure.

I turned up the radio to drown out his protest. “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue ?yster Cult blasted through the speakers.

I really hoped that DJ wasn’t psychic.