Chapter Fourteen

Mel woke with sunlight streaming across her face. The warmth of it soothed her, and the gentle motion of the bed beneath her would have lulled her back into a contented sleep except she remembered where she was.

She sat up fast and surveyed the room while climbing out of Blake DeWitt’s bed. The half-open sliding doors of the closet across from the bed revealed a plethora of dark clothing. The oak dresser, bulky and masculine, held a few bottles of cologne, a hairbrush and a stoneware dish full of the usual detritus from any man’s pockets—spare change, stray paper clips and balled-up receipts. The mirror above it was dusty, and the motes that clung to the glass caught the light and sparkled.

The room smelled like DeWitt, and so did she. How she could have his scent on her when they’d touched only briefly boggled her mind.

She ran a hand through her hair and bent close to the mirror to look into her own eyes. Familiar brown orbs stared back at her, a little bloodshot and puffy around the lids but definitely her own.

She felt utterly normal this morning.

Could lack of food and sleep have made her act the way she had last night? Chasing demons—and killing them!—throwing herself at Palmer and DeWitt?

Calypso would know. She had to get home and talk to her friend, but first…

The house was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall in the kitchen. Blake’s cell phone lay on the table in the hall, shut off. Nothing stirred.

Curiosity drew her through every room, wondering what DeWitt had done with her bloody clothes. Would he have washed them? Burned them? That’s what she wanted to do, when she got them home. She didn’t find them in the bathroom hamper or hanging in any of the closets she inspected. The second bedroom, she discovered, contained all the equipment someone would need to keep in shape—free weights, a stationary bike, a treadmill and a UV lamp. Stacks of towels and room-temperature bottles of spring water filled the small closet, but she found nothing that belonged to her. She doubted he’d stashed her outfit in the attic, so except for the trash cans outside, that left one place to look.

The door leading to the basement wasn’t locked, nor was it open, but that didn’t stop Mel. She flipped on the light switch, illuminating the short flight of wooden stairs, and descended into a very mundane-looking laundry room.

The washer and dryer were empty and very dusty. For some reason, she couldn’t picture DeWitt measuring fabric softener and pressing creases into his black jeans.

“Who am I kidding?” she asked aloud. Her voice echoed a bit. “I don’t care about my clothes.”

The admission boosted her confidence just a bit, and she made a circuit of the basement. A narrow door stood slightly ajar opposite the stairs. There was no knob on the door, and she guessed if it had been closed, she might not have noticed it.

She peeked in, but the room beyond was too dark to make anything out. The door creaked when she pushed it open just far enough to let a little light spill into the shadows. Drawn by her unnaturally acute curiosity, she slipped inside.

Panic stole her breath when she came face-to-face with him. The granite monster towered over her. Taller and broader than DeWitt’s human physique, he stood at parade rest, clawed feet wide apart, muscular legs encased in stone jeans.

He’d taken off his shirt before the transformation, and it hung on the inside doorknob. His chest seemed expanded as though he were taking a deep breath, triangular pectorals pointing down to a ripped abdomen. Yes, this part was definitely Blake DeWitt, but there the similarity ended.

His strong chin and deep-set eyes had been replaced with the face of a nightmare. Curving fangs filled a wide, lipless mouth. The broad, flat nose and bulbous forehead harkened back to a more primitive evolution of man. Pointed ears curved up high over his hairless skull, and a forked tail spiraled down around one calf.

Mel fought the urge to shrink back from him. Immobile, he couldn’t hurt her, except perhaps to break her heart.

She let her fingers trail along one icy cheekbone, down the corded muscles of his neck and to the center of his chest where a human heart would beat.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really didn’t believe you until now.”

She wondered, if he came to life at this moment, would he be Blake DeWitt in a monster’s body, or would he be a mindless beast? Her heart thundered, and she backed away, then sidled out of the half-hidden room.

“Um…I don’t think you can hear me,” she said through the door. “But if you can, I’m going home now. Thanks for letting me stay here. I’ll be careful, I’ll watch out for Fremlings, and I’ll see you later.”

She didn’t expect him to answer, but she waited a moment, just in case, then hurried back up the stairs.

 

 

Half an hour later, Mel settled into a chair at Starbucks. Cal plopped into the seat opposite her and slid a warm pumpkin muffin and an iced latte across the table along with Mel’s purse, which she’d left at Gleason’s last night.

“This is getting serious,” the witch said. Her black-tipped nails tapped the tabletop nervously.

Mel gulped her latte and glared at her friend. “You’re telling me? I ripped a demon’s heart out last night. With my bare hands. I can’t even tell you how gross that is.” The thought of it killed what little appetite the scent of the muffin had kindled. “And those things followed me here from DeWitt’s house.”

Cal’s dark eyes darted from side to side. “What things?”

“Blake calls them Fremlings. They look like dirty dust mops with long…kind of bony fingers. They’ve been following me, sort of gazing at me with their beady little black eyes.”

Cal gaped. “How many?”

“I don’t know. There were at least a dozen last night, and Blake killed a bunch of them, but he said there’d be a lot more.” Mel lowered her voice and whispered, “I’m their leader.”

Calypso’s dark brows shot up at Mel’s confession. “No…honey. You’re not. I’ve heard about Fremlings. They follow power, and you’ve apparently got enough to attract them. The good news is, I don’t think they’ll hurt you.”

“You don’t think they’ll hurt me?” Mel gaped. Her muffin and her coffee looked gray and unappetizing now, and the sounds of coffeehouse patrons talking and laughing grated on her senses like nails on a chalkboard. She scowled.

“Just try to avoid them. The more you interact with them, the more will show up.”

“Yeah, Blake said that too.”

“Blake. Not DeWitt? You guys seem to have bonded.” There was a question in Cal’s statement, one that Mel wasn’t in the mood to address.

“Let’s skip to the important stuff, shall we? What did the Witches’ Council say about the curse?”

Cal studied the table. “The Council hasn’t convened yet. They’re gathering.”

“And how long does that take?”

Calypso sighed. “A while. The most important thing right now is to keep you safe until we have a solution. The consensus is that it may be possible to affect a transfer of the Cabochon from you to a suitable demon queen, but all the proper spells need to be worked out first.”

“A suitable demon queen? Because there are unsuitable ones?”

“Yes. Like Fremlings, for instance, and Ak’mirs. Certain breeds aren’t meant to have this kind of power.”

“What about just breaking the curse? Isn’t it time for that?”

Cal shrugged. “It’s not my call. Vengeance spells are very dangerous. They’ve been forbidden for centuries, and breaking one can be almost as chancy as casting one.”

“So they’re just going to let it go on? How many more innocent men will pay for what Percival Blake did?”

“I understand, Mel, but the people who get to decide this are a lot more powerful than I am.”

Mel pushed her cup and her muffin toward Calypso and rose. “Well, the way things are going, they might not be more powerful than me. Ask them if they’re in the mood to deal with a Melodie-demon, because I’d say if you ask the two creatures I killed last night, I’m hell on wheels.”

She grabbed her purse and strode out, secure in the knowledge that more than a few heads turned to watch her leave.

 

 

“The boy asks about you often. I’ve run out of stories to tell him.”

Percival glared at his solicitor over the crystal rim of a brandy glass. A thoughtful sip of the amber liquid soothed the raw spot in his gut that flared whenever Thompson mentioned Rene. “I will visit him before the year is out. Assure him of that.”

“I fail to see why you don’t do so yourself. He’s a fine boy, intelligent and curious. He could use a firmer hand in his upbringing, though. The house staff is too lenient with him.”

Thompson steepled long fingers over his round stomach and leaned back in his chair. The firelight lit the man’s hazel eyes, giving his appraising glance a sinister cast.

“I’d like nothing better than to spend time with my son, but if I’m to keep him fed and clothed, I can’t live a life of leisure.” Percival tossed a small pouch to Thompson, who caught it and tucked it away neatly in his desk, quick and efficient as always. Up until now, he’d never questioned where his employer’s funds came from or what work brought payment oftentimes in foreign coins. He handled the accounts and had judiciously arranged for the woman who had borne Rene to disappear when she began expecting Percival to make an honest lady of her.

A man with only half a life would not make a decent bridegroom. He barely made a respectable father, but at least his boy wanted for nothing material.

“I appreciate you checking in on him. I will consult with the staff and see that they don’t spoil him before I can return.”

“No one sees you for months at a time, Percival. I’ve often feared you wouldn’t return at all.”

“Don’t concern yourself with my welfare, as long as my accounts are paid and there’s money enough to care for Rene.”

“There’s plenty to see him well into adulthood, but I question the means through which you’ve acquired it.”

Percival set his brandy glass down and rose from the comfortable settee in Thompson’s drawing room. Five years lived in darkness had taught him one thing above all else—he could never rest too long in one place. “My occupation is nothing criminal, I assure you. I’ll be off now. When you see Rene next, tell him I’ll see him soon, and he’s to mind the staff.”

Under Thompson’s curious gaze, he gathered his cloak and swept out of the cozy room.

Nothing criminal. He might have laughed, but there was nothing humorous about his line of work either. Since he’d become a creature of the night, he’d learned far more about the dark world that existed in concert with his own. His search for the witch who had cursed him took him all over Europe to places no God-fearing man should ever see and left a stench upon him that he had no desire to share with his precious son.

He’d once thought witches the pinnacle of all evil, but he’d since discovered things beyond description. He’d found that plenty of men would pay dearly for artifacts of the occult, objects not visible to those who walked in daylight. Small fortunes passed into his hands on a regular basis in exchange for these sacred and often unholy items. He trafficked in commodities no sane man could comprehend and that no pure soul could touch.

Leaving Thompson’s cozy home behind, Percival hurried through the streets and ventured back into the deepest shadows where he felt most comfortable. No longer a witch hunter, he had put his skills to use tracking different creatures. Tonight, in order to maintain the flow of gold into Thompson’s greedy hands, Percival Blake hunted demons.

 

 

Blake returned to the world at sunset stiff-limbed and shivering. He climbed the basement stairs and stopped at the top to listen. He hadn’t expected Melodie to hang around, but he hoped she’d at least left in broad daylight. The Fremlings would stick to the shadows, even if they followed her, but in the half-light of early dawn, they might have been brave enough to swarm. He didn’t want to think of them carrying her off somewhere to worship her as their queen.

On his way to his bedroom to change, he glanced at his computer desk, and guilt pinged his senses. He couldn’t leave his accounts unattended for much longer. If he could track down Melodie again and bring her back here, he could get some work done and keep an eye on her at the same time.

The logical, conscientious part of his brain lost a swift and brutal argument with the part that was desperate for release. His work would wait, forever if necessary. He’d rather sell everything he owned and live in a tent if it meant breaking the curse. He’d find Melodie and Calypso, and tonight he’d demand some answers.

 

 

With every window in her apartment open and sunlight streaming in from all angles, Mel felt reasonably normal all day. She forced herself to eat a small bowl of soup, though she tasted nothing, and she forbid herself from returning Arnie’s call. He’d left a concerned voice mail asking her when she thought she might be back to work and thanking her for the wonderful job she’d done on the Ladies’ Club Luncheon cupcakes.

Guilt gnawed at her over that. Calypso had covered for her brilliantly, and she’d been petulant at Starbucks. Was it wrong to demand the Witches’ Council move fast on this? After all, everyone agreed a mistake had been made. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and odds were, a human possessing the Cabochon could screw up the delicate balance of everything, so didn’t it make sense to reverse the process ASAP?

Left with little to do but worry, Mel cleaned. She scrubbed the bathtub, aired out rugs, polished all her windows with vinegar and newsprint and rearranged some furniture to eliminate a couple of small hiding spots that she deemed just the right size for curious Fremlings.

She sensed them. Even with the midday sun reflecting blinding rays off the spotless kitchen counter, she felt them watching her. The back of her neck tingled, and every time she opened a closet or a cabinet, the skin on her arms turned to gooseflesh.

By dusk, she’d exhausted herself. What would she do all night if she didn’t go to work? When the last purple smudge of sunset faded on the horizon visible through her living room window, she snatched up the phone and dialed Blake’s number. Before it rang twice, the doorbell chimed, and she flung the receiver down and ran for the door.

Palmer stood on her front steps, his hair mussed, wearing a sheepish grin. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. It’s the Fall Blowout Sale at Taylor Tools, and I promised I’d help my uncle. Plus I had to do some research.”

Mel stepped back to invite him in. Heat crept up from the knot in her stomach when he brushed past her. “Uh…Palmer, I just want to say about last night…”

He waved off her apology and settled himself on the couch. A sheaf of papers appeared from inside his jacket, and he began spreading them out on the coffee table. “We don’t have to go there. More importantly—I got some of the scoop from Calypso on the Witches’ Council. I know they’re not in any hurry to break the curse, but the way I see it, if we don’t get the Cabochon into the demon queen it was meant for, Amberville is going to become a hub of demon activity.” He shuffled the papers around and glanced at her.

Mel crossed the living room and knelt beside the coffee table. Upside down, the papers he’d assembled look like chicken scratch. Spidery handwriting interspersed with unusual symbols and fine-lined sketches of plants, feathers and stones covered what appeared to be photocopies from very old books. “What is all this?”

“The Demon Hunters’ Network has a few resources at their disposal. I called in a favor, and I got my hands on some pages from a seventeenth-century grimoire.”

“That’s a spell book, right?”

Palmer nodded and rearranged pages again. They seemed to be in a specific order, though none of the sheets were numbered. Palmer motioned for Mel to join him on the couch, and he scooted over on the cushion to make room for her.

He smelled slightly spicy, and his Docker-clad thigh was warm against hers. She ignored the sudden flare of awareness. No way would she allow the demon in her blood to take over again. The embarrassment would destroy her.

Instead she stared at the pages in front of her. Now arrayed like the pieces of a puzzle, the half-dozen sheets looked like one large diagram.

“It’s a spell and incantation book written by an English witch back in the early 1700s. My sources tell me spells were very elaborate back then and very powerful. The old magick was stuff not to be messed with. Modern witches aren’t even allowed to perform these spells.”

Mel gave Palmer a sidelong glance. “And this will help us how? You don’t think Calypso would use one of those old spells if it’s forbidden?”

“If she won’t, we can do it ourselves.”

Mel might have laughed, but Palmer’s blue eyes had gone steely. That tingle crept up her spine again, and she shivered. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Nowadays, a lot of a witch’s power is internal. The spells they use have been simplified, and many of the purposes of those spells are benign…protection, warding, health, happiness and recharging psychic energy. The darker spells and curses are forbidden except under dire circumstances. These old spells relied more on ambient power that anyone could summon. Because witchcraft was demonized, though, the average person wouldn’t dare try casting a spell when they could be hung for something as simple as making a home remedy for heartburn.”

“So what is this spell? It looks complicated.”

“It is, but nothing we can’t handle. The ingredients are relatively common, and the incantations are in Latin, here…” He pointed to some of the chicken scratch. Mel couldn’t make out any of the words, but Palmer seemed confident. “It’ll take a little time, but we could have everything ready in a couple of days.”

“Ready for what? What does this do?”

“This is a transfer-of-power spell. It should transfer the Cabochon from you to someone else, preferably a demon. My friends in the network are willing to help me track one down.”

Mel gaped. All the normalcy just drained out of her day. “You’re going to capture a demon? A live demon.”

“Well, a dead one won’t work.” Palmer smirked. He nudged her shoulder with his own. “C’mon, don’t look so bleak. It’s doable. We capture a demon and hold it in a magical cage, perform the spell, then get out of the way and dissolve the cage.”

“Do you have a spell for making a magical cage?”

“They’re easy. I have the stuff in my lair—a few crystals, some salt and a power charm.”

“This is crazy.” Mel covered her face with her hands. “Why can’t you just pixie dust me and let me forget all about this whole mess?”

“Then you’d be chased by demons and not know why. When all this is over, if you want to be dusted, I’ll do it, but I don’t know how much of your memory could be erased. Considering the circumstances, you might forget all of us.”

Mel thought about that. She didn’t have many good friends. Larry had managed to keep all the couples they’d hung out with in Boston, and with the exception of her college roommate, who lived in Albuquerque now, there weren’t many people she could confide in. Could she afford to forget Calypso and Palmer…and DeWitt? How could she ever forget him?

“Well, let’s worry about that later, then. What does this spell entail?”

Palmer picked up the first page and read a laundry list of kitchen herbs.

“This is either a transfer spell or the recipe for Italian wedding soup,” she said. “I’ve got most of this stuff in my cupboard.”

“It all has to be fresh, no preservatives—don’t worry. I know a couple of magick supply shops that should have almost everything we need. We might have a little problem getting desiccated leeches this time of year, but—”

The doorbell rang before Mel could question the necessity of desiccated leeches. She rose, and Palmer shuffled all the grimoire pages together and stuffed them back into his jacket. “We should keep this under wraps for now.”

“You’re right. I don’t think Calypso would approve.” Mel hurried to the door. Blake and Calypso stood on the top step, shoulder to shoulder. His Harley was parked at the curb in front of Palmer’s Jeep, but there was no sign of Cal’s beat-up Toyota.

“Uh, hi?” Mel stepped back, and Cal shouldered her way in.

“I brought some warding stones to put around your apartment. That should keep the Fremlings away. Ooh, Palmer. You look like the cat that ate the canary. What have you two been up to?”

Mel’s curious gaze followed Cal’s sinuous sway across the room. She flipped her long hair over her shoulder and thrust one hip out, plopped her heavy purse on the coffee table where Palmer’s secret spell pages had just rested, and smirked at Mel. “You look like you’re feeling a lot better than this morning.”

Blake sidled past Mel with an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry you had to wake up alone this morning. I hope you slept well.”

Palmer glared, and Mel blushed. The strange rivalry between the two men didn’t make much sense. They couldn’t be fighting over her. Calypso just raised a brow.

“I’ve got your crossbow, Van Houten. For such a small weapon, I have to admit it’s well designed.”

Palmer rose, and Mel’s heart did a small flip. Had his shoulders just gotten broader and his blue eyes darker? “I’ve been told accuracy and skill are more important than size. The bigger weapons can be clumsy, and they have a tendency to misfire.”

DeWitt rose to the bait, and Calypso crossed her arms over her chest, settling in for a front-row seat in the testosterone battle.

“I imagine if you’re used to handling something slim and compact, you’d find a larger weapon difficult to control. I’ve always preferred something more powerful. When I fire on something, I like it to know it’s been fired on.”

Palmer surged forward, and Mel planted herself between him and DeWitt. “Boys, you can compare weapons later. Right now, let’s let Calypso do her warding spell.”

“Aw, Mel. Things were just getting interesting.” Cal pouted as she rummaged through her purse for a collection of black stones. Palmer and Blake circled each other like caged beasts, and for a moment, Mel entertained a vision of them naked to the waist, covered in sweat, ready to battle to the death for the right to possess her.

Cal caught her faraway stare and squinted at her. “You okay?”

Mel shook herself back to reality. “Fine. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Calypso performed the warding spell, which gave the whole apartment a faint, unpleasant scent of ozone. It took less than an hour and left the four of them squared off again in the living room.

Palmer spoke first. “Melodie, I have some more research to do. If you want to come with me, maybe you can help.”

Cal eyed him. “Research for what?”

He flattened a palm against his chest. “Demon hunter. I research demons for a living.”

Mel shrugged. Why not? But DeWitt made his move. “I was thinking maybe you should be someplace bright and full of people. You want to put some distance between you and the Fremlings, and they’d be less apt to come near you if you were somewhere well-populated…like a restaurant.”

Cal gaped. “What did I do a warding spell for if she’s not going to stay in her apartment?”

“Well, maybe they can’t get in, but they’re certainly going to congregate outside,” Blake shot back. “Take it from someone who knows about being cooped up, this is no place to spend the evening. Come with me. I’ll take you to dinner.”

“Like a date?” Cal asked. Her eyes went flinty and narrow.

“No, just dinner.”

“Research, Melodie. We—I have a lot of things to go over.” Palmer tapped his jacket. Mel looked at Cal.

“I have to go to Gleason’s and fill in for you,” the witch said. “In fact, I’m due there in an hour.”

“Uh, well, since I’m sort of hungry, I think I’ll go with Blake. I could use some normal time, and I really don’t want to sit here listening to the Fremlings mobilize outside my bedroom window.”

“Can you ward the yard too?” Palmer asked as Cal grabbed her purse. He cast a skeptical glance at DeWitt, then dismissed him with a shrug.

“I’d have to get more stones. I could do it tomorrow night.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any desiccated leeches lying around would you?”

“What for?”

“Aren’t they good for demon warding?”

Mel held her breath. Was Palmer trying to make Cal suspicious?

“Hmm. Sometimes. I’ll have to check into that.”

“Need a ride?”

Mel’s jaw dropped. She’d just been ignored by Palmer, and DeWitt wore a satisfied grin that spoke of the superior size of his weapon. Mel rolled her eyes.

“I guess it’s settled, then,” she said. “If anyone should come across a cure for cabochon affliction while I’m gone, please text me, okay?”