Page 13 of Brimstone and Broomsticks
“He beat the crap out of the Dickskin boys.” I said, hoping that was enough to gain Hollister’s cooperation.
The older man’s eyebrows shot up. “Which ones?”
“Stanley and Clinton. Clinton’s not a good loser so he’s pressing charges.”
“Friday night. That’s all I’ve got. He needs to be out of here by noon tomorrow.”
I threw up my hands in exasperation. “Tomorrow is Saturday. His hearing won’t be until Monday at the earliest. Can’t you double up Lisa Morgan’s relatives or something?”
“Out by noon,” Hollister repeated. “And I won’t charge you on account of his whupping Clinton Dickskin hard enough that he went crying to the police.”
Crap. What the heck was I going to do with this guy after tomorrow noon? There was only one way out of this—I needed to go get Clinton to drop the charges. And Stanley to drop the charges. And Pistol Pete to drop the charges.
Out of those three, I dreaded the conversation with Clinton the most. I could barely keep my temper with that guy on a good day. How I was going to smooth talk him into letting this all go this was beyond me.
“Thanks. I’ll take it,” I told Hollister, figuring this was better than nothing. I grabbed the outstretched key, then motioned for Lucien to follow me.
“We actually do have fairies in this town,” I told the man. Fairies were vicious little creatures, who liked to magically glamour themselves to appear full-sized vicious creatures. Although I was pretty sure Lucien thought that Hollister was questioning his sexual preferences.
“I know, remember? A group of them tried to pick me up outside that bar last night.” He laughed. “Would they have been the ones in jail if they’d chewed me to bits? Or do you all only incarcerate those you assume are human in this town?”
“Fae have their own laws, as do the shifters and the other creatures in town.” I shot him a quick glance. “Humans are off limits. That’s one of the rules everyone needs to abide to continue to live here.”
“Funny. No one seemed to let the werewolves know that little fact,” he commented. “So this town of yours, Accident, is a haven for supernatural beings? A place where they can let their serpent-hair down and be themselves?”
I laughed. “Exactly. And Accident has been like that since the seventeenth century when it was founded.”
“By a witch,” he said.
I stopped walking and turned to him. “How did you know that?”
His dark eyes met mine and he took a step closer. “You’re a witch. I can see the magic around you, feel the power of your energy. Only a witch of great power could manage to keep the peace with all these beings living here together. How did you survive the inquisition? The trials? The burning times? Was there a demon who protected you? One you bonded with?”
I took a step back, not understanding what he was talking about and a bit unnerved by it all. “I’m only thirty-three years old. My ancestor, Temperance Perkins, survived the burning times, but she died centuries ago. And as for the town…we have a human system of government now. There is no witch running things here.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Then what do you do here in Accident, Cassandra Perkins? What does a witch with your power do?”
Not magic, if that’s what he was implying. “I’m a lawyer. I’m a resident. I live here just like everyone else. I pay my taxes. I vote. And I don’t do magic.”
He frowned, clearly puzzled. “What do you mean you don’t do magic? I can see your energy. You’re a witch—a powerful witch. You should be running this town.”
I abruptly turned away and kept walking toward the room. “I have no desire to do magic, or to run this town. Right now the only thing I want to do is to get you settled into this hotel room, and try to get the charges against you dropped before everyone heads out to happy hour.”
“Judging by the fact that you’re holding a real key with a plastic tag saying number six on it, I’m going to assume this isn’t an upscale place,” Lucien commented drily as he followed me to room six.
“Not the Hilton,” I told him, unlocking the door and motioning for him to enter with a sweep of my hand.
He stepped inside and turned slowly around, taking in the room. “Not the Motel Six either.”
“It’s clean. No bugs or nasty stuff. Just a simple inn, and far better a choice than anything else you might have.”
“No so,” he told me with a grin.
“What, sleeping in a field or on a street corner is better than this?”
“I meant your house. That’s a much better option.”
I let out my breath in a frustrated whoosh, thinking that if I didn’t talk Clinton Dickskin into dropping the charges, that might be where this guy ended up after noon tomorrow. Why hadn’t I just let him stay in jail over the weekend? Why had I bothered to insist that he be released? And why in the hell had I personally guaranteed he’d show up at his hearing?”
