Page 55 of Hooked on a Witch
“I’m not here to create it, but to head it off. Your people don’t want this one around.”
“When you find whoever you’re after, you do your business away from here. You make trouble in there, and I’ll be forced to hurt you.”
Merck shot him ago-ahead-and-try-itgrin. The fear in the bouncer’s eyes communicated he knew he couldn’t take Merck, but it didn’t stop the guy from posturing as if he could.
Merck pushed through the scuffed wooden door into the spacious multilevel club. It reeked of hookah smoke. He despised the flavored tobacco odor. It reminded him of his mom’s parties with “friends” who usually ended up naked, but who should never be seen without apparel in public. Hip-hop music blasted from deep inside, from downstairs on the basement level. He glanced over the railing into the sea of grinding leather-clad bodies. The sensation of threat slid down his spine. He got an image in his head of Reevo lurking nearby. Guess he’d be spending his time in the bar with Reevo instead of getting answers for Shannon.
“He’s here. You search the lower level,” he told Danny. “Don’t confront him if you find him. Text me.”
“On it.” Danny slipped away.
Merck ordered a gin and tonic at the bar and sipped, but didn’t sit. At least the place served top-notch liquor.
A redhead slid onto the stool next to him. Her skimpy top barely covered her medically enhanced cleavage. An ultra miniskirt had ridden up her thighs when she sat, leaving nothing to the imagination. A slow tongue swipe across her puffy lips was more than blatant. Actually, the most apt description wasdirty.
The redhead was a low-level, nonthreatening magic dabbler—a witch wannabe. Her eyelids drooped and lips pursed as her gaze dropped down his body. Maybe she was a professional. He wondered what it’d be like to pay for time with her.
Whoa. This is wrong.He couldn’t believe he’d even entertained the notion of paying for sex or considered anything with this girl, especially when working. She was too young for him and probably had a master controlling her behavior.
He sniffed the air. Damn it, this wasn’t just hookah smoke. It was an enticement spell, meant to induce him into something, probably her. He glanced to the other side of the bar and found its source. With a scowl directed at the female bartender, he flipped over the bowl housing the simmering brown contents.
The bartender shrugged, unapologetic. She provided what was paid for. An enticement spell this powerful wouldn’t come cheap.
He turned fully to face the redhead, not missing the concealed, probably poisoned blade in her palm. He locked the girl’s hand under his against the counter. “Where is he?”
The girl’s lips compressed and her eyes darted toward the busy tables to his right. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Reevo will kill you when he needs an easy death to power one of his spells. You’re nothing special to him.” He crushed her hand until she released the blade. It hit the floor.
The redhead’s eyes widened. “Fuck you.”
“Not interested.” He slapped cash on the counter for his drink and pushed away from the bar. As he stalked toward the corner the redhead’s gaze had traveled he noticed more than a handful of humans sat amongst the witchy clientele. Didn’t they recognize the danger for wannabes? They ran the risk of being manipulated and used, possibly enslaved through enthrallment, or killed.
He passed sofas with writhing bodies and a few indiscreet wall grinders. As he neared the corner, a body shoved him from behind, pressing him against the wall with a knife at his throat.
“Merck. I’m so glad you’re predictable,” hissed a gritty male with a New Orleans Creole accent. To onlookers they were another couple getting it on. Evil poured off the warlock with the sulfur odor reminiscent of a decaying mudflat.
“We need to chat, Reevo.”
“Not in the mood.”
Merck knocked the knife out of his hand, elbowed him in the stomach, and whirled to jab the warlock in the throat. Reevo wheezed, shifted his balance, and lodged a blade deep into Merck’s side. Reevo began muttering. Here came the spells.
Stupid of him not to check Reevo’s other hand. The blade burned as if someone set his muscles on fire.
He plucked out the switchblade, which hurt worse coming out than going in.
With a knee-to-crotch crunch, he destabilized Reevo. Taking advantage, Merck forced him back against a wall with the same blade that’d hit him and pressed it tight to the warlock’s jugular. The muttering continued. Merck pressed him backward until Reevo was against the wall.
“The spell won’t work.” Merck show-and-telled the Hexenspiegel hanging around his neck. The small, triangular mirror guaranteed whoever tried to cast a spell on him would only end up hurting himself when the spell was reflected back on the caster.
Reevo’s muttering stopped. On the street most would pass by the average height, receding-hairline warlock without a second thought. Many might assume he was a twenty-something meth addict with his stringy hair and reddened eyes.
“Why are you here?” Merck demanded.
Reevo’s eyes flashed the kind of nastiness that made killing assholes like him easy. They glared at each other for a few long, hostile seconds.
Finally, Reevo said, “My job is done.”
