Page 20

The following morning, Max, a crossword-challenged wicche, was sitting at a table in the bar and working on a new puzzle. He appeared to have cleared out the Philosophy section of the bookstore, looking for answers. Didn’t that count as cheating? Horus, who I was told was the Horus, Egyptian sky god, was sitting near the bookstore, drinking a black and tan. Don’t ask. I have no idea if he was the real Horus, or what he was doing in San Francisco. He kind of freaked me out, so I spoke with him as little as possible.

When Owen came in, I hit him up for information, considering myself polite for letting him stow his backpack before I jumped on him.

“What do you know about black wicches?” I asked.

“Huh?” He poured himself a soda, while he looked at me like I was a crazy person. He probably had a point.

“I spoke with the Alpha of the Bodega Bay Pack last night. He said they’d found spells in their territory. One of their young almost died. They think it’s a black wicche. Clive is sending Dave to go check, maybe trace the spell.” I dropped a cherry into his glass. “I wondered if maybe it was all connected, if whoever is spelling pack lands is also screwing with me.”

“Really? I mean about a black wicche laying curses on pack land? And Dave tracking spells? Well, that’s all mighty interesting.” Brow furrowed, Owen stared out the window, lost in thought.

“They say so. The Alpha is anti-wicche, so maybe it’s not them, but the threat seemed real enough.”

“Us,” he said.

“Us, what?”

“Wicches aren’t ‘them.’ We’re us. You’re a part of us.” Owen shook off the concern and lifted his glass in a salute.

“We don’t know that yet for sure.” Maybe my mother was a wicche. Probably she was. But that didn’t mean that I was.

“Trust me, we know. I can feel your magic building. It’s like a low hum in the air.” He finished his drink and then started twisting the bottles, so their labels were all facing forward.

I didn’t want to think about whether or not I was emitting a magical buzz, so I changed the subject. “Do you know any black wicches? Any you know and trust? I have some questions.”

Owen stared at me, disgust playing across his features. “No. I do not associate with black wicches. And before you ask, I don’t hang with sorcerers either.”

I put up hands. “Sorry. Too ignorant to know that that was offensive.”

He shrugged off my apology, but I could tell he was still annoyed with me.

“Owen, I’m sorry. I’m trying to figure out who wants me dead, who’s dumping those poor women on my doorstep. Are they connected? It doesn’t seem possible that they’re not, and yet, what’s the connection?”

“You.”

Pretending I didn’t hear that, I continued, “I was in no way intending to cast aspersions on your character.” When he nodded a reluctant acceptance of my apology, I continued, “You said sorcerer like it was different from a wicche. I thought those terms were synonymous.”

Owen looked around. “You better hope no one just heard you say that.” When no one rushed the bar to punch me, Owen explained. “I’m a wicche. All the wicches who come here use white magic, earth magic. We do no harm in our casting.

“Black wicches use blood and death in their magic. Animal—even human—sacrifices are used to increase the power of their spells. It’s done at a very high cost to their souls. Each time they do black magic, they sully their souls. That’s why it’s referred to as black magic; the practitioner’s soul bears the mark of their work.”

“You can see people’s souls?”

“Their auras, yes. The aura’s a manifestation of the soul. When you do evil, your soul becomes more sooty or black. We can see the evil surrounding black wicches. We stay away from them, and they stay away from us.” Owen had switched to filling snack bowls and glancing around the room, uncomfortable with the topic.

I lowered my voice even more. “Can you see my aura?”

Owen smiled, the first since I brought up this topic. “Weres are almost impossible to read. We think the duality of your nature makes auras hard to perceive. Yours, however, is hard to miss. It’s a bright, shiny gold.” He gave me another grin. “It’s also why so many wicches come here. One look and they know you can be trusted.”

“Is it just a wicche thing or can everybody see auras?” That would be a cool trick and damned helpful.

“Wicches, some fae, not vampires or weres. Anyway, you never let me finish. Black wicches use blood and sacrifice in their craft. Sorcerers use demons.” Owen must have noticed my confusion and continued to explain. “Sorcerers sell their souls for power and knowledge. A black wicche might slaughter a cow to power a spell. A sorcerer takes the farmer hostage, and calls up a demon to tear off the farmer’s skin, one strip at a time. He uses the pain, terror, and blood to feed the demon who then helps the sorcerer do magic.”

I was feeling sick to my stomach and wishing I hadn’t asked. Clearing my throat, I said, “Okay, now I get why my question was offensive. Again, sorry. So, is that what happened to those women we found? You know, one strip of skin at a time. Were they being tortured to feed a demon and power a sorcerer?”

Owen looked a little sick himself.

“If I could find one, would a black wicche even talk to me?”

“Doubtful. They’re secretive as hell. Maybe we can talk to Schuyler, though.”

“Schuyler who owns the wicchey shop downtown?”

“Yeah. Most wicches come here now for grimoires, but we still go to her for spell ingredients. She sees just about all the wicches in the area so she might be able to help us. I’ll call and check if she’s working this evening. We can go when Dave gets here.”

“Us? You’ll go with me?” Thank goodness. I doubted she’d be willing to tell a werewolf anything.

Owen gave me an assessing look before smiling. “Yeah. You’re benefiting from my being giddy in love. George makes me too happy to be annoyed by you for long.”

“I’ll take it!”

* * *

When Dave arrived,I broke it to him that he’d be on his own again tonight.

“How am I supposed to cook and serve drinks and sell books? This job was better before you decided to get a life.” Dave shooed me out of his kitchen.

Trying to hold my own, I said, “Someone’s trying to kill me!”

“At least you’re not boring as fuck anymore.” He gave me a shove that sent me sailing through the swinging kitchen doors. “And stay out,” he muttered.

I ducked my head back through. “I mean it, Dave. You have to come out here while Owen and I are gone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Go!” He roared.

Owen was leaning against the bar, smirking. “You really told him.”

“Shaddup, you.” I checked my pocket for cash, in case I found something cool at the wicchey shop.

“Come on. The bookstore’s empty. I just refilled everyone’s drinks, and Horus said he’d keep an eye on things when Dave is in the back.” Owen grabbed his backpack and headed for the stairs.

“Uh, thanks, Horus.” A chill ran down my spine, saying his name.

He looked up from his book, nodded imperiously, and went back to reading. Good enough.

On the drive downtown, Owen asked about the nightclub.

“We went to the Crypt. Apparently, the vampires own it.”

“I didn’t realize that, although it makes total sense. Who else would crave the ambiance of a skeleton-filled catacomb? Vampires, gawd. I don’t know any other supernatural group that works so hard to stay on message. Just once, I’d like to see a sunny vampire named Petey who wears pastels and enjoys watching the Great British Baking Show.”

Laughing, I tried picturing Clive in a pink shirt, sitting on my couch, and watching TV with me. It was remarkably easy. Maybe it was just thinking about Clive that was easy.

Owen battled through downtown traffic while I daydreamed. “Did you do any dancing?”

“Yeah. I danced with the Alpha and Clive.”

“Reeeeally,” Owen said, drawing out the word. “And how is Clive on the dance floor?”

“Good. Nice. It was—I liked it.”

Owen turned to stare at me when he stopped at a light. “I see.”

“No. I just—It was nice.” Stop talking now.

Nodding slowly, he drove on. “Not touching that.” He turned onto a one-way street. “George said he heard the vampires were all up in arms about something. Did everything seem okay last night?”

“There was definitely something going on. Clive cut our dance short and was pissed off, saying something about needing to discipline some of them.”

“Hmm, I wonder if they’re upset about him slumming with a werewolf.”

Slumming? Oh. Was that it? I replayed the evening in my head. Clive had told Russel he wouldn’t give something up because of bigotry, that gnats were buzzing in his ears. Was all that rage really about me? My stomach cramped.

Owen squeezed my knee. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. The vampires look down on all of us. I can just imagine how some of them would react to Clive willingly touching a wolf.” Owen snagged a street space a block down from the store.

He threw the car into park and turned to me. “I hear there’s unrest among the vamps, so it may have absolutely nothing to do with you. I guess there are some high-ranking vamp and his entourage visiting right now. It could be a power play to wrestle San Francisco away from Clive, or it could be a visit to pay respects. From the little bit of vamp gossip I’ve heard over the years, Clive is scary powerful to other vamps, too.”

I stared out the window, remembering. I used to think of Clive as scary, too. Then I spent time with him and realized I felt safer with him than with anyone else. I’d need to think about the reasons for that. Later.

Owen patted my leg. “You know, it may have nothing to do with you being a were. They could still be pissed off about him killing one of his own for you. Don’t let it get to you, though. They’re a snooty lot.”

What? “Back up. What do you mean he’s killed for me?”

“I thought everyone had heard the story.” At my growl, he continued. “Okay, don’t get furry. I guess six or seven years ago you were attacked by a kelpie when the bar was being built.”

“Yes, I’m aware. I was there.”

“Right, so this vamp had been assigned bodyguard duty. I guess he resented being forced to watch a wolf, so he took off and wasn’t there to protect you. The story goes, it was Clive himself who came tearing to the rescue. He later found the vamp—what was his name? It was something fancy and French—anyway, he tortured him to find out whether or not it had been done purposely to hurt you. I think if—étienne?—had meant you harm, he’d still be hanging somewhere in pain. Since he hadn’t, Clive killed him quickly.”

Damn kelpie was nothing but trouble.

“étienne’s mate—no, wait. Vampires don’t mate. Girlfriend? Lover? I don’t know what term they use. Anyway, she went a little bonkers. I hear it was a close one as to whether or not Clive would have to kill her, too.”

Vampires didn’t mate? “Oh.”

“Now let’s see if we can find a black wicche.”