This Strange Witchery. Michele Hauf
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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.
“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