Witch Wanted Page 2

  Well, he said nothing. Alpha of the town’s bear pack, and sheriff as well, he was where the buck stopped.

  Every. Little. Problem. Ever... he knew about it.

  Oh boy, did he know about it. Bears, particularly as they aged, turned into worrywarts and total gossips. Sometimes he felt like he was running a kindergarten. Except kids would be easier to deal with and smell less like rosemary and nettle joint rub.

  But, he had to admit they had a point. Without a witch to renew all the wards and charms around the town, they were slowly beginning to fade. Briony Burdock perhaps hadn’t been the greatest of witches. She’d had a sharp tongue and more of a talent for herbs and liniments than actual spellwork. And, yes, she’d been more than a little absentminded toward the end... but she’d always done her duty. And she hadn’t interfered with his running of the pack, which he’d appreciated.

  But even the most meddlesome witch was better than no witch. Without a witch and her wards, the town would soon be subject to far worse than their current brownie infestation.

  “I’m sure it won’t be long now,” he reassured the nervous old Shifter with a smile. “The right witch for us is out there. I promise.”

  She had to be, or they were in deep shit.

  Hell, only yesterday Jacob Colewort had reported humans had stopped in town. Stopped. They were meant to drive right on through, seeing nothing more than a derelict ghost town occupied by tumble-weeds and, possibly cannibalistic, inbred locals. They hadn’t. Instead, they’d stopped right outside the Darnel place and peered through the windows. They’d about given young Mrs. Darnel, about to drop her first cub, a heart attack.

  No. They had to have seen the “for sale” sign in the Darnels’ yard rather than the “Derelict! Keep out!” one—a warning that the aversion spells on the town had begun to fail.

  But he kept that to himself along with his worries they’d still had no interest in the multiple ads he’d placed. Not even when he’d listed them as international with travel to relocate included, and that had cost him a pretty penny for sure.

  “You get yourself inside, Mrs. Oakenthorpe,” he said kindly, but added the extra push of a pack alpha into his voice to ensure she complied. Not to be a dick but because otherwise she’d keep talking on the doorstep for hours, getting herself steadily more worked up and agitated because there was no witch in town.

  Normally, he’d have stayed around a little longer to put her mind at ease. But he had three more gardens to clear of brownies before lunch and moon alone knew what else would land on his desk while he was out. Plus, he still had to check out reports of tree damage down in Gromel’s orchard. Since there were two dryads in residence down there, he wanted to make sure they were okay.

  They called him the sheriff, yes, but in reality, the Bottomslick Sheriff’s Department consisted of only two men.

  Him and his best friend, Mac.

  And Mac didn’t take orders. Hell, he hardly took suggestions most of the time.

  “Such a good boy.” Mrs. Oakenthorpe tried to chuck him under the chin, misjudged it and smacked him with her paw instead. His jaws snapped together with a hard click. He’d had gentler uppercuts. Had he been human rather than a bear Shifter, he’d have been taking his meals through a straw for the next couple of months.

  “When are you going to find a nice girl and settle down?”

  Annnddd... that right there was the problem when you ran a pack with a large number of elderly females. They were all mother hen personalities with an interest in his love life that verged on the unhealthy.

  He smiled noncommittally. “Not many suitable bear girls around these parts, Mrs. Oakenthorpe. And this town don’t run itself. I’ll look for a girl when things start to settle down around here.”

  “Ahh, I didn’t say she had to be a bear girl, now did I?” The old bear’s expression was suddenly way too cunning for Brock’s liking. “Don’t tell me you’re one of them picky types who won’t mate outside his own species now, young Brock. Your mama raised you better’n that!”

  “No, ma’am, and yes she did.” Brock was shocked back to being twelve again and standing in front of his mother. She had instilled manners and decency, a huge impact on his moral code, but his answer was that of the man he’d become. “I don’t know who my mate is, but whoever or whatever she turns out to be, me ‘n my bear will adore her until the day we die.”

  “Good,” the old lady chuffed. “Now, hurry along with you, young man. These gardens won’t clear themselves of brownies.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Brock smiled inwardly at the order. The women of the pack bossed him around relentlessly, but it was an affectionate, motherly thing probably due in part to the fact he’d lost his own mother a while back. They all seemed to think they should fill the role. It didn’t bother him. They all knew he was pack leader and his word, when he gave it, was law.

  Turning to walk off down the path, he paused to find her still watching him, her shawl clasped around her shoulders. He tipped his hat in salute, heading out the gate and to his truck. Throwing the club into the back, he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he swept his hat off his head and cranked up the A/C as he pulled away. He might be a bear and at one with nature and all that, but this summer heatwave was an utter bitch. It was so hot at night he’d considered opening up the freezer and sleeping in there instead.

  Not that he minded getting all hot and sticky, but he much preferred to be getting all hot and sticky for a reason... not just from lying there. Turning the truck onto the road, he was about to head off toward his next garden clearing when his cell pinged.

  Anticipating another job to be added to his ever growing “sheriff-do” list, he fished it out of his pocket and clipped it into the holder on the dash. Even though he was the sheriff and technically would have to arrest himself for using his cell while driving, he still couldn’t bring himself to do it. No one was above the law. Not even him.

  The vehicle’s wireless system took over, reading his text aloud.

  “Notification alert,” the disembodied female voice announced. “Witch wanted listing filled—”

  “Finally!” Brock breathed, the biggest of grins crawling over his face. The day already looked brighter. If they had a reply to the witch wanted ad, he could pull down the details later and check out who it was and whether they’d suit the town.

  “Successful applicant sent travel document and authorizations.”

  “Wait? What? No!” He frowned and hauled the truck over to the side of the road, snatching his cell out of the holder. “Crap. The travel documents weren’t supposed to be filled until we’d said yes.”

  He punched the number for the advertising department and waited while it connected. Voicemail answered.

  “You have reached the offices of Witch Weekly. I’m afraid we’re now closed for the eve—”

  “Fuck it!” he snarled, the edge of his frustrated bear deepening his voice. He’d forgotten about time zones. England, where Witch Weekly was based, was hours ahead of them. It would have to wait until morning.

  He groaned and leaned his forehead against his forearms braced on the steering wheel. They needed a witch, yes, but he wanted to know who he was letting into his town. Putting the wrong person in with a bunch of cantankerous bears...

  He sighed. Perhaps he could move and get a new job? Ferret herder, or jam plaiter. Both would be easier than trying to integrate a witch his bears didn’t like.

  3

  The spell dropped her in the catacombs below the market. Livvy stumbled at the sudden change from daylight to pitch black. Regaining her balance, she gripped the handle of her suitcase tightly and looked around to figure out exactly where she was.

  The catacombs weren’t the kind they used to bury the dead in, thank god, but instead they were a series of passages and cavernous rooms for engines and storage back from when goods were moved between the nearby canals and rail stations. Nowadays, the “normals”
were kept out with illusion spells. To them, the catacombs looked completely flooded.

  Turning in a small circle, Livvy pinpointed her location and set off. She couldn’t stay here. It wouldn’t take eighteen’s agents long to figure out where the spell had dumped her and then they’d be all over this place like a bad freaking rash.

  Heading across the big vault she’d landed in, she took one of the smaller tunnels. Most people used the bigger, older ones originally designed to allow horses to move in safety under the market, but not the smaller ones. She’d lived in the city all her life... there wasn’t a place she didn’t know.

  She found running through the tunnels with a suitcase in tow an interesting experience and sent a silent prayer down to Mother Earth for the fact she practically lived in boots and jeans. Running in high heels? She’d be flat on her arse in three steps.

  She ran, twisting and turning through the maze of dark, slightly damp corridors while keeping an ear out for the sounds of shouting that would indicate eighteen had found her. She daren’t use the torch on her phone, but she knew these tunnels well enough to navigate them with her eyes closed.

  A small rectangle of light showed up ahead and she breathed a sigh of relief, taking the steps two at a time to emerge right on a busy underground station platform. Normals thronged it, heads up, focused on either getting the next train or leaving the station to head wherever they were going. Livvy looked up and caught the eye of the big gargoyle sitting on a small wrought-iron platform high above the crowds. Normals never looked up and if they did, they wouldn’t see the gargoyle in his uniform. They saw nothing of the magical world, even when right under their noses. Thankfully. Because the city’s paranormal transport lines ran on the same tracks as theirs did.

  The gargoyle noticed her with a nod and made a small note on his clipboard. It looked ridiculously small in his hands, but he managed. She offered a smile back and headed for the side of the platform. The next train was in a few minutes according to the banner below the gargoyle’s perch, the gothic sign-writing wiping itself clean and rewriting as the time ticked down.

  Livvy gripped her suitcase and didn’t make eye contact with anyone. It wasn’t done on the tube, whether you were normal or paranormal. Technically, she was the former and shouldn’t be able to see the gargoyle or the ghost trains, as they were commonly called. (She didn’t know why. They weren’t ghost trains nor manned by ghosts. Somewhere along the line, the name had stuck.) Her nanna had gotten her an enchanted pendant when she was a kid, one that allowed her to see the magical world hidden below that of normal London.

  So she fixed her eyes on the wall opposite, sliding them out of focus when a normal train rolled in. Hers was just after this one. Buffeted by normals as they boarded or left their carriage, she blinked as the train pulled off.

  The picture on the curved wall of the closed platform on the other side of the tracks had changed. It was a normal image. Not an electronic one that changed, but an actual poster stuck to the wall. Before it had been some fitness ad, with two people whose wide grins and easy postures said they were either boning each other or really did enjoy physical torment. She shuddered at the thought. She liked carbs too much to diet... and exercise? Well, the words themselves said “extra fries.” The only time she ran was when her life was in mortal danger or she was being chased by MI:18 agents.

  Now though, the grinning man and woman had disappeared. Instead the large sign in curly writing said:

  Remember who you were before you forgot.

  Livvy looked away, blinking and shaking her head. First the voices and now the signs. She thought she’d gotten rid of both years ago, but they were coming right on back. Great. She huffed to herself, reaching up to rub between her eyes. All this stress was bringing on a migraine she didn’t need, not with eighteen on her tail.

  A gust of wind announced her train as it chuffed into sight, minus the normal steam one would expect from a steam train. She could never figure out if it was magic or good, old-fashioned engineering.

  Grabbing her bag, she made a beeline for the door. A twist of the handle and she was up the steps and inside, closing it behind her. Somehow, the trains always knew how many people to expect (yet another thing she’d never worked out but that, unlike the steam, must be magic). Almost before she’d closed the door behind her, it jerked and started into motion again, slowly pulling out of the station.

  A ruckus on the platform outside caught her attention and she ducked down a little to look out the window. Sure enough, eighteen agents swarmed into the station, their faces twisted into annoyed expressions like bulldogs chewing wasps. One of them caught sight of her through the window and glared as he touched his ear, obviously talking to someone. She grinned and blew him a kiss.

  There was no way they were getting on the train now and, since they hadn’t been on the platform to see its listing on the banner, had no way to tell where it was going. The ghost lines didn’t work like the normal tube. You couldn’t plan a journey. You simply turned up on the platform (thankfully no running at walls required) and the ghost train knew where you needed to be.

  That was magic. It had to be.

  The train left the station, the platform disappearing in favor of curved walls as it rattled along. Livvy extended the handle on her suitcase and ventured along the wooden-framed carriage, looking for somewhere to sit. The train was like something out of the last century with a corridor down one side of the carriage and the other side sectioned into glass-doored compartments. Signs above the doors indicated whether they were vacant or not.

  The first was full. A small glance through the open window showed her the space within was crammed with four big, comfortable armchairs, each containing a witch. Three were knitting and the fourth was dozing, the handkerchief over her face billowing up with each loud snore.

  Livvy kept walking, passing a compartment full of bunk beds with plush comforters and little curtains in front. Two were closed, occupied if the slippers hovering by the curtains were any indication. The troll attendant sitting on a stool by the other side of the door scowled at her and warned her with a finger to be quiet. She continued. She didn’t need the night service anyway. She just needed to get away from eighteen.

  She found an empty compartment a little further down, settling into a plush armchair with a sigh of relief. The sign on the table next to her reconfigured itself from the nondescript cross-stitch it had been to say “Remember.” She reached out and turned it face down.

  “Arsehole,” she muttered at it as she pulled the Witch Weekly from where she’d sat on it and plunked it on her lap. Somehow, she’d kept hold of it on her mad dash through the catacombs. Amazing.

  A trolley rattled in, the teapot on top jiggling in question.

  “Not today, thank you,” she told it. It was too hot for tea and besides, she had more things to think about. Like what the hell she was supposed to do next. The paper rustled in her lap, trying to get her attention, but she ignored it, reaching into her pocket for her cards. Quickly, she laid them out into a spread as she tried to figure out what she should do now.

  A fake psychic, she made her money telling fortunes for people by reading tarot but not with this pack. Her “work” cards were a lovely, hand decorated set that, along with her stereotypical outfit and heavy fake accent, gave the customers confidence they were getting a reading from a real gypsy princess, not a load of old bullshit from a girl born and bred in the backstreets of London.

  But this set, the cards she used when she really wanted to tell fortunes, was battered and dog-eared. It had pictures of chubby cats in various outfits. Not impressive in the slightest.

  She blew out a sigh. Not impressive and not helpful at all today. Each spread she tried came back with nothing, or worse, confusing information.

  The paper rustled again.

  “Not now,” she hissed, putting her hand on it to keep it flat as she slid her cards away into her pocket. A frown creased her brow. She had MI:18 on her tail a
nd nowhere left to go. She needed to leave the city but where the hell did she go?

  The paper rustled more violently. She ignored it, biting her lip. She had family somewhere up near Hull, but they were second or third cousins she’d never met. There was no way they’d even recognize her, or her them.

  The paper, obviously having had enough, wriggled from her grip and slapped her across the face.

  “Hey!” she spluttered. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

  Hovering in mid-air, it folded itself again and again until there was only a small square of type showing. Then it shoved that in front of her eyes. She leaned back, blinking as she tried to bring the tiny type into focus.

  Witch wanted for small mountain town in USA. Must like bears and be experienced in removing brownies. Food, board and relocation transport provided.

  “Oh hell yes,” she breathed, grabbing it out of the air. Why leave just London when she could bid adieu to the entire country? MI:18 would never track her overseas. It was the perfect solution.

  With a grin, she tapped the advert. Once... twice... three times. The world around her slanted sideways and she grabbed for her suitcase handle just before everything became a peacock vortex and sucked her in.

  “Oh fuck, not again...”

  This time the magic dropped her on a road. She staggered again, wooziness washing over her due to the long distance ‘port spell.

  “Cheap bastards,” she hissed, somehow getting her suitcase under her before she sat down heavily. She was sensitive to teleportation spells, especially long-distance. To be fair, though, most people didn’t use the long-distance ones anymore, not the preset type.

  They were cheap, yeah, but they weren’t that accurate. And not by a few feet either but by miles. She’d heard a story about a city warlock who’d wanted to go to Paris, but the spell had dropped him in Siberia instead. He’d almost frozen to death before anyone had found him.