Kevin Hearne - Hexed

“Wait, Hal, let me explain—”

“I’ve been calling and calling you on your cell, and now I guess I know why you didn’t answer.”

“No, that’s not it, you don’t understand—”

The widow chose that moment to emerge from the hallway—the hall that led to her bedroom—and loudly observe with a slightly flushed and smiling face, “Well, that was quite an exciting bit o’ fun, wasn’t it, me boy?” She gave me a smart slap on my rear and cackled.

“Aw, that is just sick,” Hal spat.

“Hal, please.”

“If this is what happens to a man’s tastes when he gets to be your age, then I hope I die before I get that old.”

“Damn it, I flew here as an owl, and right after that, those witches attacked us! That’s all! Mrs. MacDonagh, tell him!”

“That’s what happened, all right. Why are his panties in a twist, then? Who is he, anyway?”

“He’s my lawyer,” I explained, and then it occurred to me that he’d seemed in an awful hurry to find me. “Why are you here, Hal?”

“Well, I had to finally call Granuaile on her cell to find out where you were, since you weren’t answering either your cell or at your house. She’s got your alibi, don’t worry.”

“Alibi for what?”

He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Tell me you’ve at least heard the sirens in the neighborhood.”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, all the cars those sirens belong to are currently parked a couple blocks away, in front of your shop. Your employee is dead on the sidewalk.”

The widow and I both gasped. “Which one?” I asked. “I have two now, besides Granuaile.”

“Some boy,” Hal muttered. “I didn’t get his name. A customer called 911.”

“Perry?” I said. “Perry’s dead?”

“Unless your other employee is also male, then it’s Perry.”

“Gods Below,” I breathed, piecing together the recent chain of events. “The brunette must have killed him while the blonde hit me at my house. Simultaneous strike. And then she joined the blonde on Roosevelt here because that was their getaway car.… Manannan Mac Lir take me for a fool.”

“Well, I could probably track them if you’d like; they can’t be far,” Hal offered. “I can’t fight, but I can take you to them.”

“No, no, I’ve got them.” I waved a hand to put him at ease. “I got the blond one’s hair. There’s no escape for her now, and the brunette will be with her, and the rest of them besides.”

“The rest of who?”

“I’ll explain. Just let me go get a towel.”

The widow offered to make us sandwiches, even though it was still midmorning. She offered us whiskey too, but we allowed that tea would be grand, since she clearly wanted so much to fix something for us. She busied herself in the kitchen while Hal and I sat in the living room to catch up. I knew Perry’s death would hit me hard later; right then I had to focus on making sure no one else got hurt because of me.

“I need to wrap this up tonight,” I said, once I’d recounted the events of the morning. “They’ve already killed Perry, and they tried to get Granuaile, and the widow—hell. I can’t let them keep taking shots at me and all my friends. And they’ve done other things to me, Hal; I ran into them decades ago. They need to go down. They deserve it, believe me.”

“I believe you,” he said. “What do you need from me?”

“Three things,” I said, ticking them off on my fingers. “First, I need the widow looked after until this is done. Do you think the Pack could keep an eye on her, since she knows about you all?”

Hal grimaced. “Gunnar won’t like it, but I’ll watch her myself if I have to,” he said.

“That’s going to be tough, because I need you for the second thing. Leif told me that the nonaggression treaty with the Sisters of the Three Auroras is ready to go. Could you do that with me now? Witness the signing?”

“Well, later this afternoon, certainly,” he said. “I’m due in court at one for a hearing with another client. And you should make a statement with the police in the meantime, because you can bet they’re going to want to talk to you about Perry.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Okay, we’ll do that next. Third thing is, arrange a better alibi for me tonight than killing time alone with Granuaile. I’ve been leaning on her too much, I think, and when the shit comes down tonight, I want something ironclad.”

Hal nodded. “All right. I’ll send a couple of reliable sorts over to kill time with her at your house. They’ll have a Lord of the Rings festival or something and testify you made the popcorn if necessary.”

“Oh, damn, that’s a good idea. I’d much rather do that than what I have to do.”

Hal made a couple of calls and arranged for one wolf to entertain the widow for the rest of the day and another three to join Granuaile at my house later that evening.

“Okay, let’s go talk to the cops,” I said, with a degree of insouciance I didn’t feel. I didn’t want to go at all, because the stark fact of Perry’s death was waiting for me there, and once I saw him I wouldn’t be able to compartmentalize his absence.

Hal flicked his eyes downward and raised his eyebrows. “In a towel?”

“I have a set of clothes and my cell phone on top of the shop. Just drive me up the alley and I’ll get them, no sweat.”

Hal rested his face in his hands. “Dare I ask why they’re up there?” he said through his fingers.

“I left them up there because I had to ditch that creepy Russian rabbi. Did you find anything out about him yet, by the way?”

“No.” Hal shook his head. “Still waiting to hear. We have someone good working on it, though.”

We waited until a member of Hal’s pack arrived to keep the widow company—it turned out to be Greta, who’d only just survived the fight in the Superstition Mountains. She looked askance at me standing there in nothing save a towel, but she made no comment.

“Take Mrs. MacDonagh for a nice drive out of town,” Hal suggested, pressing a hundred-dollar bill into Greta’s hand. “Bring her back in the morning, and we’ll have this window fixed up.”

“Oh, can we go to Flagstaff?” The widow clapped her hands in hopeful joy. “There’s a steak house up there what has singin’ waiters, and a fine wee wolf lady like yerself ought to be lovin’ some steak, am I right?”

Greta didn’t speak but looked meaningfully at Hal. He sighed and gave her more money, then beckoned me to come along to the car.

I bid farewell to the widow and assured her I’d have everything straightened out the next day.

“Oh, I know ye will, Atticus,” she said, and then a mischievous glint fired in her eyes. “Christmas isn’t all that far away, ye know. Would ye be likin’ a nice set of boxers this year?”

“Mrs. MacDonagh!” I said, embarrassed.

“What? Yer the sort that wears briefs, then? They make ’em in all sorts of fancy colors these days, y’know. When me Sean was alive ye got white or nothin’, but sure it breaks me heart t’see ye goin’ commando when ye don’t have to.”

“Going commando?” I exclaimed. Hal and Greta had tried at first to mask their amusement at this conversation, but now they were sniggering openly. “Where did you hear that?”

“The telly, o’course.” The widow looked up at me uncertainly, then glanced at the werewolves wiping tears from their eyes as they laughed. She got a little testy then, suspecting they might be laughing at her, and she explained with some heat, “I saw it on a rerun of Friends , when Joey wore Chandler’s clothes and did lunges while goin’ commando. Did I say it wrong?”