Southern Witch - Would-Be Witch Part 6

Daylight faded, and the air was hot and stagnant. What was with this stupid freak heat wave? Sweat trickled down my neck and made my s.h.i.+rt stick to my back. I grimaced. I needed a tall gla.s.s of iced tea or a mojito. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, sighing.

"This is a fine cat on a hot tin roof, huh?" I said to Merc, trying to keep things light and positive. I looked over and realized he was gone. "Merc?" I called out. I waited, and when there was no answering meow, I scowled. He'd deserted me. "You better not be lying in the shade under a plumeria plant!"

The trail had gotten thinner and the gra.s.s taller. I picked up a switch and started to beat the brush. The last thing I wanted was to get bitten by a copperhead. I hadn't thought to put on boots. I looked sullenly at my bare legs, shaking my head. Shorts and open-toed shoes were just plain foolishness for a hike through knee-high gra.s.s. I slapped a mosquito on my thigh irritably.

"I shouldn't even be doing this. It's not my fault Mrs. Barnaby got raised from the dead. I was poisoned into unconsciousness. I should march right back to my air-conditioned car," I muttered.

I reached the edge of the field and stared at the wire fence closing off Glenfiddle Whiskey's property. Glenfiddle's one of the three main businesses in Duvall. It's owned by the Gaffney family, who came from Scotland six generations ago. At first, they only had little stills and made moons.h.i.+ne, but then, three generations back, they started putting fancy labels on recycled whiskey bottles and selling their homemade stuff all over the Southwest.

Maybe it says something about my hometown that the second largest business also makes booze. Armadillo A le's owned by the workers who make it. It's only sold in Texas, and that's the way the Armadillo boys plan to keep it, although the people who smuggle it to Oklahoma and Louisiana have other ideas. I don't suppose Armadillo's going to have a choice about expanding soon.

The last big business in Duvall is one that no native Duvallan ever thought would work out. It's energy. We've got a queer amount of wind in Duvall. I'm guessing it has something to do with the tor and the magicks in the area, but n.o.body else knows about my theory, of course. Anyway, a retired college professor from Austin, with Bryn Lyons as a silent partner, bought a plot of land and put up a bunch of super-tall metal windmills. We power the whole town off the wind, and now we're s.h.i.+pping our wind power out. Professor Rubenstein's just about the smartest man anybody's ever met, although his silent partner's not shabby either. To hear rumor tell it, Bryn's investment had paid a 300 percent return so far.

I wished that Mrs. Barnaby had wandered into the windmill field. The gra.s.s there is very short, and you can see all the way across it with a glance.

I looked at the Glenfiddle distillery that was about a half mile away. It's made of pale gray stone, and, to hear Big Gaff-Joe Gaffney-tell it, it's a lot like a Highland clan's fortress. Don't ask me how he'd know that though. I'm pretty sure Big Gaff has never set a toe out of Texas.

I twisted my hair off my back and shoulders and blew out a chokingly warm breath. Where the heck was our famous wind now? I'd kiss a snake for a breeze, I thought furiously.

I stomped forward, feeling more and more nervous as the sun receded from the sky. I wanted out of the field, and I was getting an increasingly uneasy feeling.

I stepped on something squishy and shrieked. I looked down and shuddered. There was a pair of dead snakes with their heads bashed to a pulp. I whimpered. She's meaner than a snake? I looked over my shoulder. How far back to the car?

I shook my head, muttering nervously and wis.h.i.+ng I'd made a protection spell for myself while I was making the pa.s.sionflower soup.

There was a torn-up plot of land ahead. I c.o.c.ked my head. It looked like she'd maybe lain down for a while and dragged her hands through the dirt over and over.

I heard shouting. "Darn it," I spat and rushed toward Glenfiddle. The enemy has breached the fortress.

I smelled the mesquite woodsmoke and whiskey. My heart hammered in my chest, my lungs tight as I ran.

I got to the pair of big doors, which were open, and stood stunned at the sight inside. As a Texan, Zach's not unique. The boys from Texas don't stand around and talk when there's trouble, and they especially never hide from a fight. So five of them, with various b.l.o.o.d.y wounds, wrestled with the slimy, charcoal gray corpse of Mrs. Barnaby, who was tossing them around like she was a mad bull just out of a pen.

Women screamed and rushed forward to help their men as Mrs. Barnaby flung Red Czarszak into a wall. He went still, his neck at a crazy angle. I gasped and ran toward them. I had to stop her.

The Glenfiddle workers tackled her, piling on like a high school football team. I yanked the lid off my Tupperware and waited to glimpse some body part of hers, the swampy smell of decay choking me. Then her gnarled black hand thrust out and grabbed Stucky Clark's beefy arm. There was a bone-cracking pop, and Stucky wailed.

I propelled myself forward, raising my voice. "Go now and peace do keep. Return at once to your sleep." I tossed the pa.s.sionflower potion, splas.h.i.+ng it on the pile.

The room sucked all the air from my lungs, and I dropped to my knees, gasping, trying to pull some breath back in. I couldn't. I was dying, suffocating for real. My mouth moved, screaming soundlessly for help, then everything went black.

Chapter 7.

I woke up, shaking and wet. Zach knelt over me, looking a way I've never seen him look. Scared.

"What in the holy h.e.l.l?" someone behind him said.

"Talk to me, darlin'," Zach said.

"I'm all right," I croaked. I cleared my throat and shook my head, seeing an empty bucket near my feet. Someone had doused me with water.

"What happened?" I asked. "Is she . . . Did she . . ." I wanted to say "Did she go back to ground?" but I couldn't ask that. I didn't know who was listening.

I clutched Zach's arm and pulled myself up. The room spun around me, and I would have fallen backward and cracked my head on the floor if he hadn't grabbed me. He clutched me to him. His body felt warm and good against mine.

"I'm getting her out of here," Zach announced, standing up and cradling me to him.

"You are not. We've got a quarantine situation here until I hear different," the sheriff said.

"Quarantine?" I said in a raspy voice. My throat felt like I'd been gargling gla.s.s shards. I looked over Zach's shoulder and saw that the Glenfiddle workers, my friends and neighbors, were all laid out in a row.

"Oh!" I screamed. I killed them. I'm a murderer. Oh G.o.d, I didn't mean it. Please, no. Tears welled in my eyes. "They're all dead. Oh, no. Oh, no."

"They're not dead."

"Not dead?" I sobbed.

"No, it's some kind of fever. That d.a.m.n Doc Barnaby dug up his wife, and her rotting corpse must have been infected with something. Only the good Lord knows which dumba.s.s moved her body here, but whatever she's got, they've got, too.

"How did you get here?" I mumbled. Did I do this? Did I give them all a sleeping fever? Sweet Jesus, how am I going to undo it?

"Your cat showed up at the station. Tore my d.a.m.n s.h.i.+rt, too. And then took off, and I figured I'd better see where you were at. I followed him here and found this mess. The sheriff saw me drive by the cemetery and came out to have a look. And now we're all probably infected."

"Dr. Barnaby dug her up first," I said, playing along. "He's fine. Maybe some people are immune."

"Or maybe it just ain't hit him yet."

"Well, he's been at home, walking around in his yard. If he's infected, so's my block. We could go to my house."

"I don't think so." Zach carried me to the door.

"Sutton?" the sheriff said.

"I'm just getting a little air. Not going anywhere, Sheriff," Zach said.

"What the h.e.l.l's wrong with this cell phone?" the sheriff snapped, hooking it to his belt. He followed us out to the prowler.

"Try your radio again," the sheriff said.

The sky seemed to sizzle overhead. I stared up, and a fat rain-drop hit me on the forehead. A buzz of dizziness swirled around me for a second and then was gone. I felt a whole lot better than when I'd first woken up. Spell-casting takes a lot out of a girl, I decided.

"What's wrong with your police radio?"

"Don't know. It went out 'bout half hour ago when the sheriff tried to use it. His isn't doing jack either."

A streak of lightning lit the sky. Zach's chest muscles tensed, then rain poured down.

"Great," Zach said, backing up to get under the silver and burgundy Glenfiddle awning. He set me down in one of the old rocking chairs that the smokers use when they take a break.

I heard a yowl and looked up as Mercutio, who had been perched on the big awning, jumped off with legs outstretched. I gasped, thinking he was going to go splat on the ground, but, at the last second, he pulled his legs in and landed sure-footed. He spun instantly and darted under the awning, shaking vigorously to rid himself of as much water as he could.

"Hey there," I said.

He hopped onto the seat of the rocking chair next to me and went to work on his fur with his tongue.

"Is that really going to dry you?" I asked.

He didn't answer. Not in the mood to be interrupted, I guess. I leaned over and pressed a kiss onto his damp head.

"We need help, Merc. Zach can't help us unspell these people. You should have gotten Bryn. Only he was gone, wasn't he? And you figured that Zach's good in a fight, huh?" I nodded to myself. "It was good thinking. Only now we've got to get out of here and find some witch help. But which witch help?"

I nodded at Zach, who was sitting in his patrol car, trying the radio. Water pounded the dirt.

"I know you don't like water. I'm not crazy about maybe getting struck by lightning either, Merc, but I've got to fix this. He said they've got a bad fever. What if their brains are cooked by the time I unspell them?

Merc looked up at me, tilting his head at the thought.

"You don't have to come with me. But maybe you could, like, make a diversion or something, 'cause Zach and the sheriff aren't just going to let me waltz off."

Merc licked his paw.

"I'm pretty sure that Zach wouldn't shoot you, but I can't vouch for the sheriff, so don't go too crazy. And whatever you do, when you run and hide, be kitty-quick. You get me?"

He stared at me with those big eyes, and I wasn't sure he did get me. He's just a cat, I thought. What makes you think he can understand you? But he went and got Zach for me, I argued with myself. And he kept the burglar from getting me.

Zach got out of his car, slammed the door, and then ran back to the building.

"Radio's dead. What the h.e.l.l's going on here?" he said as he walked back inside.

"Now's my chance!" I announced in a fierce whisper to Merc. I darted from my chair and ran headlong into the storm, not looking back.

"Please don't let a snake bite me, G.o.d," I prayed. "You know I didn't mean to make those people get sleeping sickness. It was an honest-to-goodness mistake. I couldn't let Mrs. Barnaby's zombie rip them to pieces. And how come You let people get raised from the dead anyway? Far as I can tell, the last time it worked right was Lazarus, and Doc Barnaby's no Jesus Christ, I'll tell You that."

Thunder cracked the earth, making me jump.

"Not that I need to tell You that, Jesus being Your Son and all." Wind and rain whipped my body. The last person I wanted to p.i.s.s off was G.o.d. I could afford that like I could afford a Corvette.

"And, You know, I'd be the last person to lecture You," I hollered over the storm. "So I'm just going to be quiet right now." I ran through the slippery field, squealing in pain as the gra.s.s slashed at my legs. "Only I'll just point out that if a snake bites me, it would really slow me down. And I'd think I need to hurry up and save those people on account of their brains are cooking. Plus, I need to find our family locket before Edie's immortal soul is destroyed. Okay, then. That's all I wanted to say. Amen."

I ran like a bat out of h.e.l.l, which I pretty much was, except for the bat part. b.l.o.o.d.y rainwater ran down my calves from the gra.s.s scratches, but I was just glad I'd gotten past the snakes.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when something moved on my car roof.

"d.a.m.n it, Mercutio! You scared me to death." I yanked my driver's door open. "Get in."

He dropped down and leapt to his seat. I got in and slammed the door, s.h.i.+vering. He rose to his paws and shook, spraying me and the whole front of the car, including the winds.h.i.+eld.

"Thanks. I wasn't wet enough, you know," I grumbled. I wasn't really mad at Mercutio, of course. I was soaked and scared. If I couldn't unspell those people, they might die. And I didn't want multiple homicide on my record before I was even old enough to rent a car. I just know those Hertz people wouldn't understand.

I backed my car up and swung the wheel toward the exit, turning up my winds.h.i.+eld wipers. They whipped back and forth, hardly able to keep up with the rain. I squinted and drove determinedly through water two inches deep in the streets. I pa.s.sed Sycamore and turned onto Palm.

When I got to Bryn Lyons's sixteen-feet-tall gate, I wasn't at all sure I wanted to go inside, but my options weren't really all that extensive, so I pushed the security buzzer.

"Hi there. It's Tammy Jo. I was here earlier. I'd like to come up to the house again."

The security guy told me to wait. Probably going to check with the boss man. I looked down at Mercutio, who licked the scratches and water on my legs.

"I don't think that's gonna help, but thanks," I said, rubbing his head and neck.

The gate swung open, slow and steady and pretty d.a.m.n ominous in the rain. I thought again about the list. I wasn't supposed to be going here. And definitely not twice in one day.

I followed the circular drive to the front of the house and got out. The sky dumped another few buckets of water on my head as I ran to get under the porch awning. The front door opened. I knew what I must look like. I was soggier than bread pudding, but nowhere near as tasty.

The butler crinkled his eyes at me, probably thinking I was going to mess up his floor if he let me in. But Bryn walked up and shouldered past him to open the door wider.

"Hi," I said, s.h.i.+vering.

"Jenson, get towels," Bryn ordered, and the butler shuffled off. Bryn ushered me in. The house was overly air-conditioned and colder than a meat locker. My teeth chattered.

Merc sidled in behind me. Merc wasn't s.h.i.+vering, but then he had the advantage of being furry.

"I n-need help," I chattered, trying not to shake as gooseb.u.mps conquered every inch of my skin.

"Come," Bryn said, leading me across his very expensive Mediterranean tile. I left dirty, wet footprints like a toddler who'd been making mud pies.

"I'm sorry about the floor."

"Don't be. Mrs. Freet, my housekeeper, has been waging a personal war against dirt for thirty years, and she's had too many easy victories in this house. Mobilizing the maids and their mops for the foyer will be the highlight of her month, I promise you."

I giggled, feeling slightly better. He opened a door and looked in.

"Closet," he said and shook his head. He opened another door. "Here," he said, and we went into a large laundry room.

Bryn slipped off his black suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his expensive blue s.h.i.+rt.

"What are you doing?"

He stepped forward and pulled my tank top out of my shorts and dragged it up.

"Hey!" I squeaked, grabbing the fabric and yanking it away from him and back down over my bra.

"You're wet and cold. I wouldn't want you to catch pneumonia," he said, reaching for me again.

I slapped his hands away and stepped back. "Just a darn minute. Last I checked I could dress and undress myself."

"Sure, but wouldn't you be warmer if I helped?"

My jaw dropped open. I was in the middle of a crisis with people in a fever-coma. I was counting on Bryn Lyons to be my savior, not some normal red-blooded guy who noticed that frostbite had my nipples hard as arrowheads.