Michele Hauf - This Strange Witchery

“Hexes are dark magic. Of which I am learning. Fast. Although protection requires a ward instead of a hex.” She bent and dug out a container from the tapestry bag and held it up. It was a clear plastic container, of the sort women used to store food, which they then placed in their pantries.

“That’s...” Tor winced. Really? “Is that a plastic food container?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I store all my spell stuff in these. They’re sturdy, and I have the whole pink set. And it’s got a stay-fresh seal on the cover.”

First it was a floating frog—make that a levitating frog—and now flimsy plastic kitchenware to protect a foul and officious artifact that seemed to attract the denizens of evil. And he’d yet to learn if that black line that curled out at the corner of each of Melissande’s eyes into a swish was intentional or a slip of the wrist.

His initial assessment of the witch was spot-on: weird.

“Ward it,” Tor said as he turned to stride down the hallway. He couldn’t stand before the woman any longer and not wring her neck. Or try to shake her to see what common sense might tumble out from those gorgeous curly black locks that spilled over her cheeks so softly—“Do it outside on the deck so you don’t make a mess in the house!”

“Oh, you have a fabulous deck. So big for Paris. Okay, sure! You take care of your manscaping. I’ll be good. Don’t worry about me!”

He was beyond worried about the woman who seemed lucky to be alive. And her father was the dark witch Thoroughly Jones? The awesome, fear-inducing magic he knew that man possessed hadn’t seemed to have been passed down the family tree, at least not concerning the malevolent confidence dark witches tended to possess. Melissande Jones was a fluff of flowers, glitter and star-shaped fruit who didn’t seem capable of wielding a crystal wand, let alone handling and controlling a volatile heart.

“Not going to think about it right now,” Tor muttered.

He pulled off his vest, made note of the blood on it and set it aside for the maid to bring to the cleaners. The shirt was a loss. Blood never did come out from cotton. He had a standing order from the tailor and received two new shirts every month. Might he have to change that with a desk job? He looked forward to saving on his clothing bill.

But he’d never see that savings if he didn’t get ready for the big interview. Pre-interview, that was. The Skype meeting would allow him to speak to a representative from Human Resources, and they’d likely question his skills and qualifications before granting him the ultimate in-person interview with the CEO. He was ready. Or he would be after a shave.

Removing the rest of his clothes, he wandered into the bathroom and flicked on the shower with a wave of his hand over the electronic control panel by the door. The room was big, and the freestanding shower was positioned in the middle of the concrete floor. Simple and sleek, a U-shaped pipe that he stood under sprayed out water from all angles and heights. No curtain or glass doors. The shower area was sloped slightly so the water never ran onto the main floor. He never liked to be enclosed if he could prevent it.

A glance in the mirror found he looked, if still tousled and smeared with blood and ash, rested. A surprise. Had the witch’s tea done that for him? He wasn’t buying that it had simply been herbs in that tea. He’d slept until eleven. He rarely slept beyond eight.

“Drop it,” he admonished himself.

Because he wasn’t the kind of guy who worried. Worry kept a man fixed and stifled. He took action. And sure, he’d been set on leaving his current profession behind and leaping forward into a new, normal life with the grand step of the interview today.

But the witch did need his help. And there was nothing wrong with holding down a job until he found a new one. Not that he needed the money. Nope. He was very well-off, thank you very much. But he was a self-confessed type A, and he knew after a day or two of doing essentially nothing, he’d be jonesing for action. His leisure hobbies were few. So work it would have to be.

“Just don’t let it suck you back in completely,” he said as he stepped under the hot water. Ahh...

Whistling Sinatra’s “I Get a Kick Out of You” made him smile. His thoughts went to the frog. Which levitated. Wonders never ceased.

Twenty minutes later, he was shaven, his hair styled with a bit of pomade (he liked it a little spiky but also soft enough to move) and the barest slap of aftershave applied to his cheeks. This stuff had been a gift from the young mother who lived on the ground floor of his building. She sold handmade products online. It smelled like black-cherry tobacco. It was different. As was he.

Now he stood in his long walk-in closet before the dress shirts. They were all white, Zegna, with French cuffs, but the one he touched now had a nice crisp collar. And the buttons down the front were pearl—not too flashy, and small. An excellent choice.

He slipped on the shirt, then pulled out the accessories drawer to peruse the cuff links. A pair of silver cicadas was his favorite. He pocketed them until he’d put them on, which would be right before the interview. Usually, he liked to roll up his sleeves if he wasn’t going to be talking to the media or trying to impress an interviewer.

He’d wear the black trousers with the gray pinstripes because they were comfortable for sitting, and he didn’t expect to battle vampires or to have to clean up a crime scene, so he needn’t worry they would pick up lint and dirt like a magnet. A gray tweed vest and a smart black tie speckled with white fleurs-de-lis completed the ensemble.

As he began to roll up his sleeves, Tor thought he heard something like...

Screaming?

He remembered his house guest.

“Can she not go one hour without attracting trouble?”

Before leaving the closet, Tor pushed the button that spun the wall of color-coded ties inward. The entrance to his armory was revealed. Dashing inside, he grabbed an iron-headed club carved with a variety of repulsion sigils, and then raced out of the closet and down the long hallway into the living room.

The witch wasn’t in the living room.

A flutter of something outside on the deck that stretched the length of his apartment caught Tor’s attention.

“What is that?” It hovered in the air above his guest. Long black wings spanned ten feet. Talons curled into claws. “Is that a—? Harpie? I have never—”

There was no time to marvel. Tor pulled aside the sliding glass door and lunged to slash the club toward the harpie currently pecking at Melissande’s hair. He noted out of the corner of his eye a salt circle with the plastic box sitting in the center. “Grab the heart and get inside!”

“I have things under control!” Melissande called as she tugged her hair away from the harpie’s talons.

The half bird/half woman squawked in Tor’s ear, momentarily disorienting him. Her whine pinged inside his brain from ear to ear. A guttural shout cleared his senses, and he twisted to the right and swung up the club, catching the bird in the chest, which sent her reeling backward.

“Inside!” he shouted to the witch.

Melissande gathered up the plastic container and scrambled inside. From within, he heard her begin a witchy chant.

“Curse it to Faery!” he called. That was where such things resided. Usually. Unless this one had come through a portal.

The harpie swooped toward him. Tor dove to the ground, flattening his body and spreading out his arms. The cut of her wings parted his hair from neck to crown.

“ Divestia Faery!” Melissande called.

The harpie, in midair, suddenly began to wheel and tumble in the sky. And then she exploded into a cloud of black feathers.