Page 37 of Wicked Witch of the Wolf

“I can handle it,” he said.

“No crazy chances, okay? Because if you get yourself hurt, I’m going to let Cecil bring his explosives to your pub.”

He let out a nervous laugh. “Yikes. No crazy chances. I swear on the pub’s fire insurance policy.”

I quieted my tone, dropped the sarcasm. “Ronan, I’m serious. Be careful.”

“Don’t worry, Betty.” His voice matched mine. “I will.”

By the timenine o’clock rolled around, Cecil, Fennel, and I’d been sitting in front of an unoccupied house down the block from the Mace-Reeves residence for an hour. Ida’d loaned me her ‘85 LTD for the job, since a neon-orange Mini was a terrible surveillance vehicle and I’d sold the late-model Jeep I’d used to pull my Airstream. The Mini was newer, and it wasn’t as if I needed a tow vehicle anymore since my little trailer had been reduced to a pile of burnt detritus.

As Margaux had warned, Desmond Mace was going to be late to the meeting. The disrespect shocked me, made me wonder why Margaux put up with it. She was the coven mother, after all.

The seven members were, in order of rank, Margaux Ramirez, Aldrich Redding, Desmond Mace, Gordon Lu, Bronwyn Jonas, Carolina Foster, and William “Billy” Lopez.

Margaux I knew through Mom, of course, and Bronwyn through Wicked. Aldrich Redding, second-in-command, was one of the members of the coven who’d been around when Mom was alive. He had skin and hair the same shade of white and a tendency to nod off during chants, according to Mom—and that had been over five years ago. Goddess knew how bad he was now.

Gordon Lu was in his early thirties, average height and weight, and clean shaven. Lu’s family had moved to Smokethorn from Beijing as a child. I’d—briefly—attended high school with his brother Bo. He was an air witch, not particularly strong, but he had a gift for healing. Lu was okay, as far as I knew. He came from a solid paranormal family.

Carolina Foster was three things I disliked: prim, proper, and pompous. She was a learned witch in her mid-twenties with board-straight black hair, round brown eyes, and perfect brown skin. She looked down on any witch who wasn’t affiliated with a coven, which included me.

Billy Lopez was a thirty-something Brad Pitt with the serene demeanor of the perpetually stoned. He’d joined the coven because his late mother had been a member, and they only let him because they needed a seventh, and he was a passable learned witch.

Definitely the weakest in the coven, but I’d choose to work with him over anyone other than Bronwyn. I had a soft spot for Billy. He was almost too gentle for this world, a genuinely good-hearted sort. The type of guy you’d let guard your drink at the bar while you went to the bathroom.

Conversely, Desmond Mace was the sort of man who made you want to lock your drink in a tiny safe and take it into the bathroom stall with you. He was middle-aged, spray-tan white, and tall to the point of being gangly, with close-cropped gray-blond hair and beady blue eyes.

I’d met him when he came to discuss a spell with Mom years ago. He’d been scornful of our intricate practices, snobbish toward learned-magic witches, and was downright rude to one of Mom’s elderly customers. She’d booted his ass off the property and told him to never come back.

Mom had been something of a peace-love hippie, for the most part, but she’d never been afraid to tell someone to fuck off when they needed it.

Cecil stretched out on the seat and yawned. Fennel sat at attention. So did I.

Although I was parked half a block away, I had a great view of the front door, which finally opened five minutes after nine. Desmond stood in the rectangle of light for a long moment, speaking animatedly to someone. There were a lot of hand gestures and annoyed looks.

He was dressed in a business suit that seemed too formal for his job as a real estate agent, but then what did I know about it? My uniform was mostly jeans and t-shirts, heels, and red lipstick.

Maya stood beside him. Her head was down, shoulders bowed. Limp blond hair brushed her shoulders. It was shorter than in the video Bronwyn had shown me.

I gave the signal, and Fennel leapt from the LTD’s window and darted toward the house, Cecil clinging to his back. I was using atelepathspell, which allowed me to speak to Fennel and see through his eyes when he wanted me to.

Leaves, bushy branches, darkness. They were in a dense bush on the property next door—aFicus microcarpa, or Indian laurel. Both remained still and watchful as they waited for Desmond’s tardy ass to get into his BMW sedan and hustle to his meeting.

Stay back until his car turns at the corner.

Fennel sent back his agreement. It was a general feeling of assent rather than the wordokay. That’s how it worked when communicating with animals, even magic ones.

Gnomes, too, for that matter, though I wasn’t connected to Cecil, only Fennel. I could only imagine the overstimulated speed run of a journey his brain would take me on.

Desmond’s car drove slowly past Ida’s LTD, where I was hunched down in the seat. I watched his progress through Fennel’s eyes. I caught a glance of his face before the car drove past. He was sweating, and even his orange fake tan couldn’t mask his pallor. Our pal Desmond was worried about something.

Good. The piece of shit should be worried.

Once he’d turned the corner, I waited a few precious minutes longer, instructing Fennel to do the same in case the witch backtracked. He’d seemed too nervous, too shaken. I didn’t trust it.

He didn’t return, so I sent Fennel and Cecil ahead to deal with the security doorbell and scope out any hex bags on the front lawn. Cecil had a knack for locating the suckers.

After they’d dug up two buried on either side of the porch, one beneath the mailbox, and another beside the driveway. I strolled up with another null bag, getting as close as I could. Desmond’srepulsionspell was still active.

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