Hexed

Chapter 18

There was no time to waste. I released the binding on Granuaile’s vision, restoring her own sight, and shouted to her as I ran down the street, “Get back in the house and stay there!” She’d be safe inside from further attacks. I lengthened my stride and sprinted, hoping I’d be able to catch up to the witch who had just tried to assassinate me and my apprentice.

As I came around the corner of 11th to Judd Street, I spied her turning right onto 10th Street. That would take her in short order to Mitchell Drive, where I imagined she would turn north and head for the park—or possibly University Drive—in a bid to escape. Yet when I arrived at Mitchell Drive, the sound of her soles clapping on the asphalt drew my gaze to the south instead. I was in time to see her disappear around the corner of 10th Place, a brief afterthought of a road with absolutely no residential frontage. It was an outlet that would take her to Roosevelt Street, where again I presumed she would turn north—and the thought turned me cold inside.

That would lead her past the widow MacDonagh’s house.

Did she know the widow was my friend? The widow had no protection; she was completely vulnerable, and she was probably sitting on her porch that very instant, open to attack, if the witch had not already paid her a visit.

I used to try to protect all my friends in the early days, but gradually I realized that the very process of protecting them often painted them as targets—or pointed the way to where I was hiding. It became counterproductive to keeping my location secret, so I long ago fell out of the habit. Running after the witch now, I realized that the situation had changed and I’d failed to see it: I was no longer hiding, so my friends might as well be wearing sandwich boards that said, Hurt me to hurt the Druid.

I redoubled my efforts and considered drawing on my depleted store of magic to accelerate my progress, but then I caught sight of her and understood that she was hoping I’d do just that. She was purposely running in the middle of the road, which meant she knew I got my power from the earth. She was not about to run anywhere near someone’s landscaping, where I could draw power and never tire; if I wanted to attack her magically, I’d have to remove myself from the earth and risk draining my power entirely.

That smelled like a trap.

My options were somewhat limited. I had enough magic left in my bear charm for a spell or two, three if I was lucky; most of it had been burned up creating Granuaile’s talisman and binding her sight to mine.

I had shoes on, so I couldn’t draw power without stopping to take them off. I couldn’t shape-shift to a hound without getting naked first, and that would not only put me farther behind but would risk exposure in a couple of ways. Another possibility suggested itself to me as I continued pounding down the pavement after the witch, though it certainly carried the risk of revealing my true nature and I’d never tried it before. I reasoned that here on 10th Place, with no windows looking out at the street, I could manage it with minimal risk of witnesses. In my estimation, it was worth a gamble; I couldn’t let the witch get away without answering her blow somehow. If she wanted to pick a fight with me, she had to know there was going to be a price to pay.

I stripped off my shirt as I ran and tossed it into the street, then triggered the charm that would bind my form to an owl while still on the run. My arms unfurled into wings, and my legs shrank up into my body, leaving my jeans and sandals to tumble after my shirt. I didn’t crash and burn and no one saw me do it, including the witch, so I decided to chalk it up as a good idea.

Flapping powerfully to gain altitude, I banked northeast immediately to cut off the witch, who was now heading north on Roosevelt.

She came into view as soon as I cleared the last roof of 10th Place, churning her legs straight up the middle of the street. I climbed higher to get out of her peripheral vision. I lined myself up behind her and saw her check her six to see if I was still pursuing on foot. She didn’t see me closing from above. I dove at her just before she drew even with the widow MacDonagh’s property on the left. I kept my eyes on my target, so I didn’t know if the widow was on her porch or not. The witch saw no shadow as I descended, and when she heard the softest flutter of my feathers as I backwinged, there was not time enough for her to duck. My talons scratched into her scalp, and I clutched them convulsively and pulled away hard to my right, even as she screamed and ducked. I came away with a bunch of her hair in my talons, more than enough for me—or Malina—to do something mischievous with.

But first I had to get away. The witch knew almost immediately what had happened: Normal owls don’t attack running heads of hair for their nests. She knew it was me and what I could do with a handful (or taloned footful) of her hair. She stopped and shouted a curse at me in German, which hit me just like the last one did. My amulet slapped me hard in the chest and knocked me spinning through the air. I flapped my wings spastically, trying to regain control, but I was at low altitude already and could see that I was going to crash pretty hard—hard enough to break my delicate bird bones if I didn’t do something. I hurriedly unbound myself from the owl and crashed with a whuff of breath onto the street in my human form, rolling and skidding and scraping my hide up with a beautiful case of road rash. The witch’s hair floated free from the grasp of my human feet—which cannot be said to have much of a grasp at all. She spat that curse at me again, and I lost what little breath I had remaining as the amulet punched me once more. Well, that was enough of that.

I was still rolling from the fall and kept at it, diving naked for the lawn of the nearest house. I sank my fingers into the grass and got only the tiniest trickle of power into my bear charm before I was torn away and hauled up by my own hair into the street.

Instead of resisting and trying to tear free by lunging forward, I pushed into a backward somersault. The unexpected maneuver forced her to let go, because her single right arm could not hold my entire weight propelled by my legs. I tumbled ass over teakettle and rose to my feet, squaring my shoulders and crouching defensively, to find myself facing not one but two witches in the street. Where had the second one come from?

My back was to the widow’s house, and the witches guarded my approach to the lawn in front of me. They looked different now—the hellish juju was muted and I could see some of their features in the green haze of the faerie specs, so I presumed they were now visible to humans and flipped off my spell to check them out in the normal spectrum.

They looked like they wanted to be Pat Benatar. Or maybe Joan Jett. They wore form-fitting black leather pants with boots rising to mid-calf, spaghetti-strap black camisoles barely restraining the sort of epic chests one finds in comic books, and snarling, toothy expressions glowering at me underneath feathery, heavily sprayed hairdos from the eighties. The one I’d pursued was a blonde. The new one was a brunette. I was surely looking at a cosmetic façade. Like Malina and her coven, these German witches were hiding their true ages with spellcraft. Unlike Malina and her coven, I had absolutely no doubts about their malignant intentions; there was cruelty in the faint lines around their eyes, and their thin lips smiled only at other people’s pain. Die Töchter des dritten Hauses had tried to kill me during World War II, and now they were after not only me but Granuaile too.

I heard police sirens wailing somewhere nearby and wondered if Granuaile had called them. As we scrutinized one another, looking for an opening, a weakness opened up behind me. “Atticus? Is that yer naked bum what I’m lookin’ at?” the widow called from her porch.

With a word they could have killed her, that same brief curse in German that they had used against me three times now. There was nothing I could do to prevent them. They would process it in another second and see how they could hurt me. So I had to distract them.

A clump of the blond witch’s hair was lying on the asphalt where it had fallen from my feet, just to my right. I dove for it, snatched it up, and strung the strands across my mouth lengthwise, as if they were a gag. Then I used the last of my magic to transform myself to a hound and bounded south down Roosevelt, back toward my house.

The witches shouted in dismay and gave chase immediately, the widow forgotten—if she’d even registered on their consciousness at all. If I reached my house, my wards would protect me utterly, and they could not allow that to happen.

I tumbled messily in the street as my amulet punched me twice in quick succession, but I scrambled to my feet and veered across to the houses on the west side, where I could weave in and out of the landscaping and draw more power as I ran. I was careful not to swallow or do anything else to dislodge the hairs resting between my jaws.

Though I was quickly outpacing the witches, I wasn’t going anything near full speed. I wanted them to chase me rather than pay attention to the widow. And I was beginning to wonder if they had anything else in their repertoire besides the single curse they’d been spitting at me. Some witches are bloody terrors if they have the time for ritual but are limited in what they can do in face-to-face combat; other witches are amazing in combat but lack the discipline or magical chops to do anything complicated when you sit them down in a circle and tell them to go to’t. Lots of European witches are of the former type: Give them time and the proper ingredients, and they could open some ungodly cans of whup-ass. Rarely were they prepared for personal fisticuffs—or for chasing a shape-shifting Druid. I was just reflecting that I still didn’t know much about the abilities of Malina’s coven and that Laksha was the only witch I currently knew who was as dangerous in your face as she was with a drop of your blood, when the Germans chasing me tried something new. They attempted to remove my necklace with a spell, recognizing perhaps that it was protecting me from the full force of their death spell.

It felt like I was a steer being wrestled to the ground. My necklace choked and pulled at me in response to the witches’ summons.

It wasn’t going anywhere. It was bound to me and wouldn’t come off without being removed with my own hands—and right now all I had were paws. But the witches were encouraged. They hadn’t been able to do me any real harm, but they were consistently able to knock me off my feet in one way or another, and they were getting closer. Drawing some power from the earth of the lawn I’d slid on and bracing myself for further abuse from my necklace, I gathered my feet underneath me and leapt forward again, widening the gap. I wanted to pant but couldn’t risk losing the witch’s hair; it was the only reason they still pursued me.

They were cursing their fashion sense in German, one observing that their boots weren’t made for running but they’d had to do an awful lot of it this morning. The other said the running wouldn’t be necessary if people would just die like they were supposed to.

They were pretty shagged out by the time they fetched up to my house, but I was completely refreshed and recharged. The sirens nearby stopped, but they sounded only a few blocks away, up near University Drive and a bit to the east.

Granuaile had locked my door, as expected. I almost changed back to human form and knocked on the door, but just in time I remembered Oberon saying Mr. Semerdjian was back. I glanced over my shoulder and, sure enough, the telltale gap in the blinds told me he was watching. If I changed now, he’d report me for indecent exposure and whatever else he could dream up. Instead, I scratched at the door with my paws and called to Oberon, as the witches huffed and puffed and swore they’d snuff me for tearing out some of their hair and making the rest of it wilt.

Oberon was looking out the front window at the witches on the edge of my lawn and growling as I heard Granuaile coming to the door.

No, we have a witness. Must behave.

If they step on the lawn they’ll trigger the wards, and I think they know it.

Granuaile opened the door, and I bolted to the kitchen as she closed it and locked it up.

“Atticus? What’s going on?” She peered out the window. “Where did the porn stars come from?”

I unbound myself from the hound form and gagged a bit as I spat the witch’s hair onto the kitchen table. The third amulet the Morrigan had given me was there, and I snatched it up as I said, “The porn stars are witches, and they tried to kill us. Stay inside until I come back.”

“You’re leaving again? The phone’s been ringing off the hook, but I haven’t been answering it.”

“The widow’s in danger and I have to protect her. Keep ignoring the phone and stay inside,” I said as I headed for the back door.

“All right, but are you okay? Your skin looks like hamburger,” she said, noting where I’d had my unhappy landing on the street.

“I’ll heal.” The phone started to ring, true to Granuaile’s word. “Don’t worry, I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay, sensei,” she said. “Nice ass,” she added as I closed the door behind me. It was a comment I’d have to enjoy later. I tossed the amulet into a patch of grass, drew power, and changed form again into an owl. I hadn’t shape-shifted this much in ages, and it was starting to hurt. I collected the amulet in my talons and pounded the air until I cleared my neighbor’s fence, keeping below the rooftops so the witches wouldn’t see me. I hoped they’d be stupid enough to test my wards or at least waste their time shouting at my house.

The hope was short-lived. I cast camouflage on myself while in the air, and when I had to cross my street to head north to the widow’s house, I saw the witches already chugging back toward Roosevelt, grimly frustrated and looking for someone to take it out on.

I landed on the widow’s porch, screeching to get her attention, and her eyes widened. I unbound myself and remembered to cover my goodies just in time. The widow smiled widely and cackled.

“Whoo-hoo, Atticus, have ye come to give me a show? I think I have a couple of dollars in me purse inside.”

Crouching down carefully to pick up the amulet off her porch, I said, “Yes, let’s get inside quickly, please.” I had to get her out of sight before the witches got there.

“It’s open—get yer naked bum in there.” I dashed indoors, asking her to please hurry, and I darted to her bathroom and yanked a towel hanging from the shower stall to wrap around my hips.

“Aw, why’d ye put away yer twig and berries?” the widow teased when I emerged. “I thought ye were goin’ t’give me somethin’ to confess on Sunday.”

“We need to lock up the house,” I explained. “We’re in danger. Witches are on their way. Do you have a necklace you can put this on?” I showed her the amulet. The widow had lived through the Troubles in Ireland. She knew by my tone that there wasn’t time to ask questions.

“Yes, in me bedroom I have some gold chains,” she said, her teasing smile gone.

“Grab one quickly and then meet me in the bathroom. We have to keep you out of sight of the windows until I get this on you.”

“All right. But ye’ll owe me an explanation,” she said, walking as quickly as she could to her bedroom. I dashed around her house, which was full of lace and oak furniture with overstuffed cushions, making sure the doors were locked. I quickly bound the metal of the locks to the jambs, making them a piece of solid metal; even with an unlocking spell, the witches would be unable to budge them. Still, since the widow’s house wasn’t warded, the doors would slow them down for only a few moments. They would break through the windows if they wanted us badly enough, and I suspected they did.

The widow was in the bathroom, waiting for me with a gold chain. I closed the door and locked it, then explained what was happening as I strung the amulet on her chain and clasped it about her neck. The pounding on the front door began as I spoke.

“There are two German witches out there who want us both dead. They can kill you with a word without this protection. It’s a talisman, and it’ll punch you in the chest if they sling their spell at you, but don’t take it off, because that just means it’s working, okay?”

“Okay, but why do they want to kill us?”

“The short version is that one of them’s having a bad hair day,” I said. “I’ll have to give you the long version later.”

Big front windows with panes in them don’t shatter all at once, like the sugar glass you see in movies. They can take an impact or two with loud whumps, and maybe a crack, before they completely shatter. After the first impact, the cats yowled and scattered somewhere to hide. It sounded like the witches were using the widow’s patio chairs to batter away at the windows. I compartmentalized it and concentrated on activating the widow’s talisman. Even when the glass shattered and I heard them cursing in German as they climbed into the living room, I kept focused on my task. I finished up just as someone rattled the locked bathroom door.

“Sie sind hier drinnen!” one called to the other.

“Get down into the bathtub and pull the curtain,” I whispered to the widow. “I’m going to take care of this.”

They began to kick at the door, which would not stand the punishment for long. Those courtesy locks on residential bathrooms are there to prevent your family members from walking in on you while you’re exercising your colon; they’re not designed to keep out homicidal hexen. If I waited for them to bust through, I’d lose the initiative and give them a shot at the widow. So I didn’t wait.

Concentrating on the locking mechanism, already buckling after a couple of kicks, I began to whisper an unbinding on the metal as I waited for kick number three. After it came—quite nearly shattering the lock anyway—I completed the unbinding and let the stressed metal relax. Then I yanked the door open, the steel crumbling like a day-old muffin, catching the kicker off balance and back on her heels. It was the brunette. I rammed my fist into her surprised schnoz, and she cracked her head painfully on the wall of the hallway, her knees failing after a moment and dragging her to the floor. The blonde, standing to my right outside the doorway, shouted “Gewebetod!” at me, and my amulet promptly punched me back into the bathroom. My towel came loose and I decided to take advantage of it, as the blond one encouraged the other one to get up and fight. I noticed that she didn’t pursue me; she just yelled at her companion to stop fooling around.

Pulling the towel taut between my hands, I twirled it locker-room fashion until it was coiled tightly lengthwise.

“Nice bum,” the widow said softly as I approached the doorway, and I almost laughed. But the blond witch had the drop on me outside that door, and I had to nullify her advantage; laughing would unwisely give her a proximity warning.

The brunette wasn’t even looking at the door; she had designs on hauling herself back into the living room, and I saw her reach up to the other witch, out of my view, for a helping hand. The direction of her eyes told me precisely where her partner was. Bingo.

I lunged forward, shot my right arm out, and whipped the towel up to head height. I heard it snap satisfyingly against something, and a sharp cry of pain followed from the blond witch immediately afterward. Douglas Adams was right: There is nothing so massively useful in the universe as a towel.

Dropping the towel and somersaulting into the hallway, I came up to see both witches retreating into the living room to regroup. The blonde had a hand raised to her right eye, and the brunette looked shell-shocked by the amount of blood streaming down her face.

“Vielleicht sollten wir ihn später erledigen,” the brunette said. Perhaps we should finish him later.

“Nein!” the blonde objected, moving into the kitchen. “Er ist allein und unbewaffnet. Wir machen es jetzt.” He is alone and unarmed. We do this now.

Of course I was alone. Did she think I had a posse or something? But it was also true that I was unarmed, and she was heading for the butcher knives. I shouldn’t have dropped my towel. I was considering going back for it, when our collective attention was drawn to the squealing of tires outside the house. A blue BMW Z4 convertible switched off and Hal leapt out, his nostrils already flaring with the scent of blood in the air.

“Er ist ein Wolf! Das ändert die Sache,” the brunette said. He is a wolf! That changes things.

Damn right it does, witch.