Page 48 of Death and Divination
Tink let out a breath. “Okay. That sounds good. I just want to go back and live in the compound, but not marry that skank of werewolf. And not have it look like he jilted me for someone else.”
“Got it.” I didn’t have it, but I figured it was best to just wing it and do the best I could. “Come with us,” I told Tink. “I’m going to take you over to Cassie’s house where you can get something to eat, sleep in a decent bed, and have a demon watch over you. Nash and I will go talk to Dallas and see what we can do.”
I wasn’t sure how well that conversation was going to go. Having Nash along would help, even though all he seemed to be able to do was kill plants. I looped my arm through his as we headed out of the hospital, thinking that it might be a good idea to make a quick stop on our way up to the werewolf compound—to the one sister who might have something I could actually use as a weapon.
* * *
“I need a weapon.”Bronwyn and I stood in her workshop/garage while Nash sat out on the porch with Hadur drinking a beer. “I need something that I can use against a werewolf, not to kill him or anything, but to knock him down or render him unconscious or something.”
It truly sucked that I was the only one of the Perkins witches that didn’t have any defensive capabilities. Cassie’s go-to was fire. Bronwyn enchanted objects that could drop a dragon at fifty feet. Sylvie was a luck witch but could also hex and even curse, although she didn’t want anyone knowing about that. Adrienne could raise an attack army of wasps with a snap of her fingers. Babylon could raise an attack army of undead with a snap of her fingers.
I was an oracle. And throwing prophecies at someone wasn’t exactly a good defense mechanism. Dallas was hardly going to back off because I told him he’d leave the window on his truck open during the storm next Tuesday and his upholstery would be soaked.
Lame. So very lame.
Bronwyn wrinkled her nose. “I don’t have much handy right now. I’ve been so busy with farrier work, and…. well, with Hadur.”
I hid a grin, thrilled that my sister had found love. “A spare towel? Like what you did for Pistol Pete’s?”
“Hardly. That took forever to make. Metal is easier for me to enchant,” she said.
Pete’s towel was legendary. It was Bronwyn’s magnum opus, although she’d produced some other pretty spectacular objects as well.
“Spoons like you did in the cabin?” I suggested.
“I could have half a dozen done by tomorrow night,” she said. “I need Hadur to help me, otherwise it would take me until next week to pull that together. I’m sorry, Ophelia. I just can’t do a lot of magic on the spot like Cassie can.”
And Cassie wasn’t any good at enchanting objects. For her to help, I’d need to actually bring her with me, and I didn’t feel like pouring gasoline on the fire between her and the pack right now.
“How about your nippers?” I asked, thinking of the farrier tool Bronwyn had enchanted. “Can I borrow your nippers?”
“No, you most certainly cannot borrow my favorite pair of nippers.” She glared at me. “Besides, the enchantment on those wore off weeks ago. I’ve only got one item I was working on that’s finished and I don’t see how it would be of much help.”
“I’ll take it.” Whatever it was, it was better than nothing. Although after I’d said the words, I did wonder what sort of weirdness I’d be possibly using as a weapon against Dallas. Windchimes that chimed without any wind? A fireplace poker that absorbed stray sparks? A hammer that shrank down to pocket-size when not in use? Bronwyn made some pretty quirky stuff.
“I made it for Marcus. He’s gonna be really pissed off if I let you have it and you break it,” she warned. “And I won’t take the heat for it, either. You break it, you deal with the angry panther shifter.”
Crap, what was this thing? I immediately thought of all sorts of weird metal sex toys that Bronwyn might enchant for a horny panther shifter. Having Sylvie for a sister, I knew about spreader bars, love-cuffs, sex swings and the like. Who knew what Marcus had paid Bronwyn to work her magic on?
I swallowed hard, not wanting to have to defend myself with an eighteen-inch magicked metal dildo. Although it would probably be effective. I couldn’t imagine Dallas being more afraid of anything than a witch running at him with an enchanted Ass-Pounder 3000.
“Okay. I’ll take it. And I’ll be the one facing the firing squad if I break Marcus’ toy.”
Bronwyn went into the back of her garage and came out with a three-foot length of metal. It wasn’t an Ass-Pounder 3000. It was a golf club—a nine iron, to be precise.
“Marcus golfs?” I was completely shocked at the idea of the sexy panther shifter taking to the fairway. Although I probably shouldn’t have been. Lawyers golfed, didn’t they? Well, except for Cassie. Men lawyers golfed—at least that was the stereotype running through my head. I just couldn’t imagine Marcus in plaid pants, driving a cart down a path through manicured greens and shooting par.
Although he probablydidn’tshoot par, which would be the reason he’d left his nine iron here with Bronwyn to enchant.
“Please tell me it’s magicked to beat supernatural creatures to a pulp,” I pleaded.
Bronwyn shook her head. “Nope. You’ll hit straight and far every time. No slice. No hook. No duffing. Swing, and that ball will fly like you were Tiger Woods.”
I barely knew who Tiger Woods was, and I had no idea what slicing, hooking, or duffing meant, but it was the only option. I took the club from my sister, interested to note that it was lightweight and well balanced. Marcus had clearly spent a lot on this thing even pre-enchantment.
“Got any golf balls to go with it?” The vision suddenly returned. Golf balls. It was too weird a coincidence not to ignore. The vision had included golf balls, so clearly this club had something to do with what would happen. Something dead in the woods. Blood on leaves. Moon on the mountain. Blood leading to Shelby’s front door.
And golf balls.
Bronwyn headed back into the garage and came out with a purple felt bag that at one time held Crown Royal. She handed it to me, and I opened it, finding about ten golf balls inside.
“I’ve just gotta ask why you’ve got these, and why they’re in a whisky bag?”
She shrugged. “I did some work on the safety cage at Butler Ridge Driving Range, and they gave them to me along with a gift card for their putting course.”
“And you kept them.”
“You know me. I never throw anything away.” She grinned. “And now you have a really sweet pro-level PGA tour-type nine iron and a bunch of golf balls. Go play eighteen holes or whack Dallas over the head with it or whatever. Your call.”
