Page 16 of Brimstone and Broomsticks
Would a demon be something that a town full of paranormal creatures and an entire coven of witches couldn’t control? And the thought made him, a huge powerful werewolf alpha...scared?
Scared. What on earth could possibly scare Dallas Dickskin, the alpha of Accident’s werewolf pack? Certainly not a guy who’d been locked in jail overnight, contained by metal bars and still sporting some rather impressive bruises and cuts. I was pretty sure my sisters and I didn’t even scare Dallas. He’d promised to keep his werewolves in line more in the hopes that he’d get one of us in the sack than any respect toward our local law enforcement or my recent threat to haul their hides to the local taxidermist.
Who was a leprechaun. Seems tanning hides and preserving the dead was a particular skill of theirs. Who knew?
I eyed Dallas with renewed interest. “Well, newbie or demon, I can’t kick this guy out of town and hex him into never returning if he needs to stay here pending a hearing on assault charges,” I pointed out. “Aaron made me put a spelled ankle bracelet on him just to make sure he didn’t skip out.”
Dallas made all sorts of expressive facial expressions and began once more to stroke his beard. “I’ll talk to Clinton,” he told me.
“Why don’tItalk to Clinton?” I countered. “Or better yet, both of us talk to Clinton?”
He nodded, then lifted his face to the ceiling and howled. It was a deep, guttural sound, far more hair-raising than the calls I’d heard from actual wolves and coyotes out west. This vibrated from deep in his throat, filling the house and my ears with the type of melodious note that both made my heart lurch with the beauty, and my skin prickle with fear.
I was pretty sure he’d just hollered for Clinton, but like all families, others came running as well, no doubt to see what sort of trouble the black sheep of the Dickskin family had gotten himself into. They kept a respectful distance, but by the time Clinton stomped sullenly into the room, the walls were lined with a dozen other werewolves, all trying to look like they were doing something benign while stealing quick curious glances at Dallas and me. I recognized a few of them, having grown up here in Accident. Besides the few I’d seen around town, I saw Stanley, his arm mended enough that he didn’t need a cast, but still sporting a line of half-healed stitches across his forehead. By his side were two other bruised werewolves who I assumed had also been involved in the scuffle at Pistol Pete’s last night. A few feet away was Shelby, the only female wolf who was actually in the room instead of lurking in the hallway. She was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed, a smirk on her face. Or maybe it was a sneer. With Shelby, it was hard to tell.
“What?” Clinton’s snarl was the second thing that raised the hair on the back of my neck in the last five minutes. I had to hold myself back from clutching the amulet around my neck.
“Drop the charges,” Dallas snapped back. “Don’t want no demon in this town, and the witch can’t kick him out if he’s gotta be here to stand trial. So drop the charges.”
“He’s not a demon.” Clinton came dangerously close to his alpha, looking the elder man square in the eye. “He’s just some newbie who’s got an attitude.”
Dallas looked pointedly at the yellowish-purple of Clinton’s faded bruises. “Telling me some newb did that?”
Clinton actually blushed. Embarrassment? No, now that I looked closer, I think it was an angry sort of red that suffused the werewolf’s face.
“I’d had a bit too much to drink or they’d a been hauling him out of town on a stretcher.”
“Four of you had too much to drink?” Dallas laughed. “Poodle. I’ve got newborn bitches that fight better than you.”
I sucked in a breath realizing that not only had I lost control of this situation, but I was probably about to witness a fight the magnitude of which the town hadn’t seen since Dallas killed Old Dog Butch and took over the pack back in ’68.
I breathed out a word and traced a quick sigil in the air, feeling the power surge through me milliseconds before the flash-bang lit the room and made every werewolf in it yelp. A few of the werewolves ran into the safety of the hallway. Dallas and Clinton froze where they stood. Shelby’s eyes widened and she watched me with barely concealed alarm.
I felt a momentary weakness, a rush of exhaustion, like someone had opened up a drain and let all my energy out before quickly replacing the stopper. Even the slightest magic had a cost. But this minor fee was well worth the attention and respect it gained me here in this room.
Ignoring the alpha, I turned to Clinton. “I got stuck representing this newbie. Or demon. Whatever. And I really don’t care who started the fight, or who-put-who through the windshield of a truck. I’ve got a tourist in town with no money and no identification. I’m having to put him up in Hollister’s inn on my damned dime because you’re embarrassed that someone got the jump on you in a fight and like a puppy, you went whining to the law. Drop the charges. I’ll have the guy out of town by nightfall. No one ever needs to hear how a newbie, a tourist who apparently has no magic whatsoever, managed to land more than one blow on a werewolf.”
It was a risky tone of voice to take with a dominant male werewolf, but I’d found out over the years that playing this bunch involved a whole lot of bravado and a whole lot of bluffing.
The air crackled with tension. I could practically hear the werewolves around the edges of the room say a low “ooo”. Clinton sucked in a breath and glared at me, while I forced my hands to not clutch the amulet at my neck.
Temperance Perkins had allowed the first werewolves into town in 1723. In the outside world, they’d been hunted nearly to extermination. The bonded pair who’d begged for sanctuary were with a pack of only six others. They were so starved that they looked like gaunt corpses. The female alpha had been pregnant, her tiny belly the only bit of flesh on her skin-and-bones body. She’d confessed to Temperance that she’d lost a litter earlier in the year, and that all her previous pups had been slaughtered by their first adult full moon.
Let no one ever say that witches didn’t have a compassionate heart.
Temperance not only let them into the town, a sanctuary she’d created that had up until this point housed only witches and the humans who were sympathetic to their plight, she went on to allow other shifters in as well. She’d allowed fairies and pixies, mermaids and sirens, ghouls and chupacabras. And more. She’d been a tight-laced, stern, God-fearing religious pilgrim who’d been cast out and nearly put to death by the people she’d loved just because she had a gift of magic. And that event had been the catalyst that opened her Christian heart to allowing others refuge in the sanctuary she’d created. Over the centuries the tiny wolf pack had accepted other refugee werewolves and grown to their current size, taking over the entirety of Heartbreak Mountain, and causing the witches to expand the town limits considerably to ensure their safety. They owed us. And by us, I meant the town. Clinton dropping the charges, and allowing his pride to be just as bruised as his face was the right thing to do for the town. And for the pack.
“No,” Clinton snarled. “I’m not dropping the charges. Newbie or demon, I agree that man don’t belong here. I want him gone, but it’s the rule of our land that people pay for what they’ve done. He struck first. He put Stanley though a windshield and broke his arm. He’s gotta have his day before the law and pay by spending time in jail. Maybe he’s a demon. Maybe he’s just a crazy newb who’s really good at fighting. Either way, man’s gotta pay.”
Since when did Clinton Dickskin give a damn about anyone paying? Oh, silly me. Clinton was always concerned when it was someone else who had to pay. Not so concerned when it was him who was being called to account.
“He spent the night in jail, Clinton,” I told him, my tone more conciliatory than it had been before. “He looks like hell from the fight. He spent the night in jail. And now he’s holed up at Hollister’s with no food and no change of clothes and no money for pay-per-view. He’s wearing a magical ankle bracelet because Aaron wanted to make sure the guy who didn’t have any ID and no apparent fixed address managed to make it to his hearing. Just drop the charges. Let this dude limp home and never come back and take whatever psych meds he needs to be on to remind himself that he’s not a demon or the son of Satan. Drop the charges.”
The werewolf met my eyes, then looked back at Dallas before turning to me again. “Not now. Not tonight. The hearing will be Monday or Tuesday. I got some things I gotta work out this weekend, and I’ll think about it. Come see me Sunday night and I’ll let you know.”
That wasn’t good enough. “How about you let me know tomorrow noon?” I asked, thinking of Lucien’s check-out time and how I had nowhere else for him to stay after that point.
Clinton narrowed his eyes. “Meet me at ten for breakfast at the Stagecoach tomorrow morning, and we’ll discuss it. If I’m so inclined, that is.”
I winced, hoping that maybe he might be so inclined if his bruises were completely healed by then, and if he’d somehow managed to regain his status in the pack after a disastrous bar fight. Whatever. It might be easier to smooth the guy’s ego after he’d slept and when he was away from his pack and facing a stack of cinnamon-spice pancakes with extra whipped cream.
“You’ve got it, Clinton,” I told him. “And if you decide to drop the charges, breakfast is on me.”
