This Strange Witchery. Michele Hauf
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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