it’s a wish for a new paint job, you’re right, bloke,” Tor said.
Not giving the thing a moment to think, he swung out and landed a solid right hook on the side of its head, just below the horn. That was a touchy spot where no bone covered whatever tender innards were contained within the thing. The demon howled in pain.
Not wanting to wake the neighbors, Tor acted quickly. Taking out the stake from his pocket, he plunged it against the demon’s chest and compressed the paddles to release the spring-loaded pointed shaft. It wasn’t the first line of defense against demons, but it did slow them down just long enough.
From his belt, he unhooked the vial of black Egyptian salt—that he purchased in bulk—and broke the glass outward so the contents sprayed the demon’s face. “Deus benedicat!” The god bless you wasn’t necessary for the kill, but he liked to toss that in. Those were the last words a demon wanted to hear as its face stretched wide in a dying scream.
“Bastard!” the thing shouted before its horns dropped off. The wraith demon disintegrated to a pile of floaty black ash at Tor’s feet.
Glancing over his shoulder, Tor scanned the neighborhood. No lights on in any nearby houses. And the altercation had occurred on the side of the van facing the witch’s house, so he’d been partially concealed. But he waited anyway.
Curiosity always tended to come out in moments of fear. If any humans had witnessed this, he’d know about it soon.
Checking his watch, he verified it was nearing 2:00 a.m. Too late. And like he’d told the witch: he’d had a day.
“Normal,” he muttered, and shook the ash from the toe of his leather shoe.
Sure the demon slaying had gone unnoticed, Tor opened the passenger door and grabbed the floral tapestry purse. It was so heavy he wondered if rocks were inside it, and red fringes dangled from the bottom. Girl stuff always gave him pause for a moment of genuine wonder. What was the purpose of so many fringes? And what did women put in their purses that made them heavier than an army rucksack? He’d like to take a look inside, but he knew that a wise man did not poke about in a witch’s personal things.
He turned toward the house, then paused. He should take out Hecate’s heart and toss the purse on the step. That would solve a lot of problems he didn’t want to have. Namely, revenants and crazed demons.
The purse had a zipper. He touched the metal pull—
“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not nice to snoop in a woman’s bag?” Melissande called from the threshold.
Tor rubbed the tattoo under his sleeve. No, his mother had not.
With a resigned sigh, he strode up to the witch’s stoop and handed her the curious receptacle filled with marvels untold.
“Tea?” she asked sweetly. As if he’d not just polished off a wraith demon in her front yard, and wasn’t wearing werewolf blood on his face like some kind of Scottish warrior.
“Why not.” With weary resolution, Tor stepped up. Pressing his palms to the door frame and leaning forward, but not crossing the threshold, he asked, “Wards?”
“None for you, but as soon as you step inside, I’ll reactivate them. Come on. I won’t bite, unlike some people.”
Tor’s chuckle was unstoppable. He stepped inside and closed the door, then followed the witch down a hallway papered in cutout purple and gray velvet damask and into the kitchen, which smelled of candle wax and dried herbs.
Two cups of tea sat on a serving tray, which she picked up before leading him into a living room filled with so much fringe, velvet and glitter, Tor closed his eyes against the overwhelming bling as he sat on the couch. And settled deep into the plushest, most comfortable piece of furniture his body had ever known.
“Right?” Melissande offered in response to his satisfied groan. “I like to become one with my furniture. That’s my favorite spot. If you relax, you’ll be asleep in two sips.”
Tor took a sip of the sweet tea. Not Earl Grey, but it was palatable. “I never sleep on the job.”
The witch sat on an ottoman before him, which was upholstered in bright red velvet. “On the job? Does that mean...?”
That meant that Tor had just fended off two crazed creatures who had wanted to get to the heart in the witch’s mysterious purse. There was something wrong with that. He couldn’t ignore that she was in some kind of trouble. Whether dire or merely mediocre, it didn’t matter. When bad things came at you, a person needed to defend themselves. And she didn’t seem like someone who knew how to protect herself, even if she did possess magic.
He took another sip of the tea, and his eyelids fluttered. This was good stuff. He’d had a long day. And combined with his growing nerves for tomorrow’s interview, his body was shot. His tight muscles wanted to release and...
Tor’s teacup clinked as it hit the saucer. He didn’t see the witch extend her magical influence to steady the porcelain set in midair, because sleep hit him like a troll’s fist to the skull.
Melissande leaned over Tor, who was slowly coming awake on the couch. He was so cute. Not a high-school-crush-with-long-bangs-and-a-quirky-smile kind of cute (though there was nothing wrong with that), but rather in a grown-up male I-will-save-you-from-all-that-frightens-you manner. His glossy hair was cut short above his ears, growing to tousle-length at the top of his head. She restrained herself from dipping her fingers into those tempting strands. Didn’t want to freak him out and send him running when he’d only just agreed to help her.
His face shape was somewhere between an oval and a rectangle, and essentially perfect. Even the remaining smudges of blood at his temple did little to mar his handsome angles. His nose was long yet not too wide or flat. A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, but she suspected he was a morning shaver and liked to keep as tidy as his knotted tie. The zombie debris smudged on his white shirtsleeves must be driving him batty.
Her gaze traveled to his mouth, while she traced her upper lip with her tongue. The man’s lips were firm, and sprinkled with a burgeoning mustache on the skin above. That indent between nose and upper lip was something she wanted to press her finger to. It was called a philtrum, if she recalled her explorations in anatomy (for spellcraft, of course). Maybe, if she was really sneaky...
Tor startled and Melissande quickly stood, tucking the offending finger behind her back. “Good morning!”
She waited for him to fully register wakefulness. He shook his head, stretched out his arms and curled his fingers. Then he patted his chest as if to reassure himself of a heartbeat. His next move was grasping for the large crystal hooked at his belt—she figured it was a kind of talisman.
The man looked around the living room, brightly lit by the duck-fluff sunshine beaming through the patio-door windows—and groaned. “What the hell did you put in that tea, witch?”
“Chamomile and lavender. You had a long and trying day. And you said you were tired, so I knew those specific herbs would help you along.”
“Help me along? To where? Oblivion? That stuff was hexed.
