Page 17 of Brimstone and Broomsticks
Chapter 7
Cassandra
It was closing in on five o’clock by the time I got down from the mountain where the werewolves had marked their territory. It was too late to work on those trespassing cases, even if I’d brought the paperwork from the office with me.
Happy hour? Or…
Crap. I turned down Cherry Street and pulled into the parking lot behind the Lutheran church, making it inside right at five thirty. Martin smiled at me and opened the book next to him, putting a check mark next to my name while I sat down and tried not to fume that I was the only one here that wasn’t “anonymous”. It was my temper that had gotten me here in the first place. Being an angry attorney was par for the course. Being an angry witch attorney was evidently something that could cost me my license and my job if I didn’t get it under control. I had no idea how my boss would explain to the bar association the reason he was recommending my disbarment, but I was sure he’d somehow manage it. Was anger-fueled magical activity in the courtroom technically illegal? It wasn’t like I’d pulled a knife on someone.
Besides, it had been my ex-boyfriend. My ex the prosecutor. My ex that I somehow needed to convince to drop this case now that Clinton was digging in his heels.
My ex who in spite of what I’d done, still wanted to get back together with me. Which was so not happening.
Martin looked over my shoulder, beaming a smile at whoever had come in behind me. “Welcome! Have a seat. We’re just about to get started.”
A familiar voice returned the greeting, making the words sound like smooth decadent barrel-aged bourbon. I turned in surprise to see Lucien lowering himself into a chair next to me. He scooted it over a few inches and I scooted away a few more.
The man had somehow managed to find new clothing. It fit. It fit really well. And unlike the usual jeans-and-t-shirt that most men around town wore, he was looking like he was about to board a yacht in a pair of khakis and a crisp button-down shirt. Still hot. Still someone who needed to get out of town yesterday, and not be hanging out at a twelve-step meeting for people with anger management issues.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“Now, Cassie,” Martin scolded. “Everyone is welcome. And I’m sure our newcomer will tell his story in a moment, if he’s feeling like sharing. If not, that’s okay. All in the twelve steps, you know.”
I wanted to punch Martin in the face. Lucien grinned, his eyes dancing with laughter. “Didn’t that magistrate man agree to let me out without a bail if I wore this ankle monitor and attended anger management sessions? Well, here I am.”
John Cotton, our resident cyclops chuckled. “Dude. You’re the guy who took on four of the Dickskin clan single-handed. Heard you gave that poodle Clinton a shiner that he’s still trying to heal from.”
The others in the room sucked in a breath and began to clap. John stood up and shook Lucien’s hand. Great. The nutjob had become a local celebrity.
“Did he start it?” Alberta asked, her already huge eyes even wider.
“Don’t answer that,” I told Lucien. It was probably a good thing I was here. These meetings were supposed to be confidential, but I knew all too well how gossip spread in a small town. I was having a hard enough time getting Lucien off the hook for last night without him bragging about his pugilistic abilities and getting Clinton Dickskin even more riled up.
“What I want to know is what landedyouin these meetings,” Lucien asked. “I mean, not that I’m surprised or anything, I just want to hear the details.”
“Well, you’re not going to hear the details,” I snapped, determined that I wouldn’t be sharing at this meeting, or any other meetings until this man was clear of town.
“She set her ex-fiance’s pants on fire,” John told the other man.
“He deserved it,” Alberta added. “Liar, liar, pants on fire, you know.”
“Setting someone’s pants on fire in the middle of the courtroom was the problem,” Martin added. As if doing the same thing out on the street or in the privacy of one’s own home were perfectly okay.
Lucien’s eyebrows shot up and he gave me an appreciative once-over. “I think I’m in love. Did you burn the offending body part off his body? Third degree burns? Oh, please tell me that he died.”
“No, he didn’t die.” What kind of witch did he think I was? “And I didn’t burn anything off. Just a bit of blistering, and that was only because he was wearing polyester pants. Edith grabbed the fire extinguisher and put him out within seconds.”
The expression on Lucien’s face was damn close to setting me on fire—certain parts of me at least. “That’s…that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Um, pun intended? I wasn’t sure with this guy. I wasn’t sure anything with this guy. His whole “I’m the son of Satan” thing was the sort of psychosis that would undoubtedly think that setting an ex on fire was a good thing.
And if he really was a demon…well, that explained a lot.
“Probably would have been worse if he hadn’t been a panther,” Alberta added. “Means he heals fast. And he thinks that sort of thing is hot too, although he wasn’t too pleased about it at the time. Actually, I think he was more upset at having fire extinguisher foam all over his crotch than having his pants burned clear off his body.”
John chuckled. “I was there. Made it look like he stepped out of a bubble bath. Or his dick exploded. Either one.”
“You a panther?” Alberta eyed Lucien appreciatively. “They like it rough, you know. I like it rough. Just thought I’d let you know that.”
