What's a Witch to Do Part 2

Jason Dahl is the Alpha, or head werewolf, of the Eastern Pack up in Maryland with, at last count, twenty-four werewolves under his protection. He's also a member of the P.C.O., or Preternatural Co-Op, which is having its annual meeting a week from today. And guess who pulled the short straw for hosting duty?

The P.C.O. was the brainchild of the head of the preternatural police (the F.R.E.A.K.S., or Federal Something for Extra-Sensory and Kindred Spirits), Dr. George Black, after the Goodnight Ma.s.sacre and Vampire/Werewolf War in the early eighties. He recruited Granny soon after. Since all of us preternaturals don't "exist," we tend to stick to our own kind, thus the co-op. We meet once a year to talk about potential threats, concerns, or needs. This way if a Lord vampire (the ruler of a vampire territory) needs a spell or advice, he knows a witch to call. It's probably why Adam chose my doorstep. But I thought Adam was Jason's Beta, or second-in-command. He must be in a whole heap of trouble to not want his Alpha to know he's here.

"Adam you might bleed to death. Whatever you did-"

"No! No," he says with enough force to knock over a mountain. "I just need to change."

"You-I have to wait eight hours to add the last ingredient in a transmogrification potion. I don't know if you have eight hours."

"It looks worse than it is, I swear it to you," he pleads with both his tone and blue eyes. "You cannot call him. No one can know I'm here. No one. Promise me. Please. Please."

"Adam, I have two small children in this house. Whatever trouble you're in-"

"Mona, I swear on my pack, you won't be in more trouble by having me here. I would never put your life in danger. Never. I swear it."

And the weird thing is, I believe him. I trust him. Don't know why, but I do. What I do know is this is a bad idea. Very bad. I'll be in the center of a s.h.i.t storm if I'm not already. If Adam's going against his leader and I a.s.sist, Jason might never forgive me, and he's not the warmest of men in the best of circ.u.mstances. In fact he's downright scary. His posture, the hard angles of his face, and especially the ice blue eyes that are always sizing you up as potential prey still freak me out. I've known him-we'll I've known them both-for eighteen years, and I wouldn't call either a friend. I only speak to Jason twice a year, once at the pack Christmas party and the other time at the summit, and that is more than enough. But Adam's his best friend; whatever he did, Jason will forgive him. And me.

Yeah. Right.

"I won't call Jason," I say. "I'll fix you up as best I can, you can stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning I'll help you shift, okay?"

"Thank you," he says, finally releasing my arm and falling onto the bed. "Thank you."

"Welcome. I'll be right back." When I swing the door open and step into the hall, the girls pop out of their room. "Didn't I tell you-ugh, never mind. Sophie, go upstairs to the attic. By the dressmaker's doll there should be boxes labeled 'Roman.' Get me some clothes out of them. Cora, go downstairs to the kitchen and get me the silver duct tape out of the drawer."

The girls obey, and I go next door into my office. In a wooden holder are the vials of potions I made tonight. Two are to relieve pain and I take them both, plus the st.u.r.diest birch branch I have before returning to my patient. "Who's Roman?" Adam asks, I suppose to make conversation.

"My daddy," I say.

Cora runs in with the duct tape. "This it?"

"Yeah, thanks sweetie."

She hands it to me, then looks at Adam, studying him. "Hi."

Though I'm sure it kills him, he smiles at her. "Hi."

Mother's daughter, no question. "Cora, bed. Now."

With a bright smile, she waves goodbye, and he does the same. "Thanks for helping," he calls as she leaves.

I pull the stopper out of the potion vial. "This is a sedative and pain reliever. It should work." I help raise his head, feeling soft hair under my fingers, and pour it down. Then the other. "I don't know how long it will take with your metabolism."

"Thank you." He watches as I ama.s.s my tools for repair, eyes narrowing in confusion as I pull out streams of duct tape. "What's that for?"

"I need to immobilize your arm so the bones don't shift. It'll heal wrong, right?"

"Yeah."

Sophie walks in, arms full of clothes, staring at Adam apprehensively. "Where should I put them?"

"Top of the dresser."

She doesn't want to come in, and when she does, her eyes never leave the interloper. He's smiling though. "Thanks for the clothes. Sorry if I scared you guys."

She sets her bundle on the dresser. "I don't get scared," she says, face affixed with a scowl. She crosses her arms across her chest. "What happened to you?"

"Sophie, go to bed and stay there this time or no TV for three days. I mean it." Still glaring at Adam, she stalks out, shutting the door behind her. "Is the pain waning?"

"A little." He blinks slowly. Yeah, it's working. "Don't ... don't you want to know what happened too? You haven't asked."

"I have enough troubles of my own without taking yours on. Sorry. I want to be involved as little as possible, okay?"

"But you-" and he pa.s.ses out. Score one for a super-fast meta-

bolism.

First I set his arm with the branch and tape, then snip off his shirt. Though this isn't the right time or place, I can't help but notice that he has a nice chest in spite of the blood and bruises. Muscular and compact. After I wash the knife wound, I see he wasn't lying; it's not that deep but still oozes blood. I pack it with gauze, use all of my b.u.t.terfly Band-Aids to close it, and cover it with a bandage. Hope it'll keep until morning. When that's over with, I rub burn cream onto his blistered wrists and wrap those too. He was held captive by a brutal b.a.s.t.a.r.d. If he finds us ... no. Not going to happen. He said I wouldn't get into more trouble. Wait. More trouble? What the h.e.l.l did he mean by that? c.r.a.p.

There's little link between us. I mean, I didn't even know he knew where I lived. I may have known him since I was seventeen, but we've barely spoken. He was always at the meetings or parties but off to the side in the background. In fact I noticed he's always sort of avoided me. The few times I'd strike up a conversation, I'd either get a single-syllable answer or nervous smile. h.e.l.l, I accidently b.u.mped into him one time and he tensed up and pulled away like I had a flesh-eating disease. I figured he was shy or didn't like witches. But he did change my tire that one time.

It was two years ago the day after the pack Christmas party. I'd gotten up early to drive home, and of course I had a flat tire. It was cold, raining, I'd forgotten an umbrella, and I couldn't get the bolts off. Just my luck. Everyone was still asleep, and I sure as h.e.l.l didn't want to wake them. I like the werewolves in the Eastern Pack, which is why I go to the party every year, but grumpy werewolves are never a good thing. Shivering and cursing at my car was a better option. After about ten minutes, Adam strolled out with an umbrella and blanket for me and changed my tire. I made small talk about the party but was once again treated to almost silence. He handed me the tire iron, gave a quick nod, and ran back inside without another word.

We are so even now.

When I'm confident he won't bleed out, I toss a blanket over him and return to my office to start on the potion. Transmogrification, or shape-shifting, is one of the most complicated and dangerous potions. The ingredients have to be perfect in both proportion and freshness or it won't work-or worse, will half work. Think Jeff Goldblum in The Fly. I'd do a simple counter-spell, but I don't know which spell to counter.

It takes an hour to a.s.semble the base, but I have to wait another eight hours for the concoction to simmer before adding the catalyst. By the time I canva.s.s the house again, retrieve the gun, check on my three slumbering charges, change out of my bloodstained pajamas, and get back into bed, it's two a.m. I pa.s.s out five seconds after my head hits the pillow.

Get the werewolf out of my d.a.m.n house The sound of voices and laughter draws me out of a dreamless sleep. Normally it's the Captain meowing for his breakfast that gets me up, but he's not in his usual spot. I check the clock. 8:47 a.m. c.r.a.p, it's almost time to finish the potion. Oh, I really hope Adam didn't die in the night. Way things are going, it wouldn't surprise me.

Cora's high-pitched giggle echoes through the house. Then another. I pull my tired body out of bed and shuffle into the hall. "My favorite is Sandy. She knows kung-fu," Cora says.

I step into the guest bedroom, a little taken aback by the sight. A much-improved Adam sits up in bed, Cora right beside him, and Sophie in the rocking chair in the corner, all eating cereal and watching cartoons. "Morning," I say.

"Aunt Mona, Adam watches SpongeBob too," Cora says.

"Does he now?"

"It's the one show all the kids in the pack agree on," he says sheepishly.

"And he likes Lucky Charms," Cora says. "I brought him breakfast in bed!"

"That's very sweet of you," I say.

"He's feeling better," Sophie says, lacking her sister's enthusiasm.

"I can see that."

"Pretty sure it was the Lucky Charms that did it," he says to Cora, who giggles again.

Our guest is quite the lady charmer. "Okay girls, I gotta check his bandages. Why don't you finish breakfast downstairs?"

Cora pouts but climbs off the bed, milk sloshing onto the bedspread. It's a goner after the blood, so I don't say anything. After they leave, I shut the door.

"They're great girls," Adam says.

I take the bowl off of his lap before lifting his shirt. "Thank you." His bandage is soaked through with blood. "It hasn't stopped bleeding."

"When I change it should heal."

I give him the once over, examining his face and chest as he watches me. His eye isn't swollen anymore, the gash in his head is pink, and all the bruises are yellow. "You're looking good. You're d.a.m.n lucky." I stand from the bed. "The potion will be ready soon. I just need to get the final ingredient from you." I take the scissors from the first-aid kit and clip off a few strands of his light brown hair from the tips. "You grew this before your last change, right? It should be untainted by the potion you were given."

"Okay," he says. "I need a safe place to shift though."

"Already thought of that," I say as I walk to the door. "I'm gonna get ready. Can you dress yourself?"

"I can manage."

"Good. We'll leave in half an hour."

I'm about to walk out when he says, "Mona?"

I turn around. "Yeah?"

"Thank you. You didn't have to-"

"Of course I did. Just get dressed, okay? I have a busy day today."

I take a quick shower and put on clothes but don't bother with hair or makeup. No time. As I lace up my sneakers, I phone my a.s.sistant Billie at the shop, telling her I'll be late before running into my office to check the potion timer. Ten minutes left.

"h.e.l.lo?" my sister Debbie calls from downstairs.

"Aunt Debbie," Cora shrieks, running down the hall from I'd guess Adam's room.

Sure enough when I step into the hall, Sophie walks from there out toward the stairs. Popular guy. As I pa.s.s the room a hand grabs my arm. Adam pulls me toward him. "No one can know I'm here."

"She's my sister," I say, yanking my arm away.

"Mona you can't trust anyone."

"I can trust my sister."

"You don't understand," he says desperately. "I need to tell you-"

"He's up here," Cora shouts downstairs. "His name's Adam, and he's a real werewolf!"

I c.o.c.k an eyebrow. "Moot now. Excuse me."

Debbie and her fiance, Greg, stand by the front door, gazing up at me with confusion. They're quite a pair. Her auburn hair is long and curly, but it suits her long face and huge almond eyes. She takes after our mother with lean limbs and freckles across her nose. Greg is every bit the lawyer in preppy clothes complete with popped collar, sandy blonde hair, and regal features. He's a good man and even asked me for Debbie's hand in marriage. I'm a sucker for good breeding.

"Werewolves are real too?" Greg asks me. They've been together for four years, and he's still not used to the whole preternatural thing.

"Vampires too," I say with a smile. "Welcome to our world."

Debbie rubs her fiance's back. "Why is there a werewolf here?"

"Million-dollar question," I say after a peck to her cheek. "It's co-op business. Just don't tell anyone, okay? It's a little sensitive." I glance down at the girls. "The same goes for you too. You can't tell anyone else. Not your friends, not anyone in the family, alright? Pinkie promise?" I hold out my pinkies for them.

"Pinkie promise," they say.

"Good. Now go get dressed! There's a lot of wedding stuff Aunt Debbie needs help with today. Go on." Reluctantly, they go back upstairs. "Coffee?"

Debbie and Greg trail me into the kitchen, which is a mess with milk and Lucky Charms littering the counter. I roll my eyes and get three cups. "So he just showed up last night?" Debbie asks.

"Yeah. Someone did a real number on him."

"And you let him in? Mona, you could get in trouble or some-

thing."

"Or more trouble," I mutter into my cup.

"What?" Debbie asks.

I sigh. "He's leaving today. No one will ever know he was even here, okay?"

"Then why are the police outside?" Greg asks.

I choke on my coffee. "What?" I cough. I run out of the kitchen toward the front door. Sure enough when I get outside Deputy Roy Timberlake is three houses down inspecting a red Explorer with a missing window as Auntie Sara, who holds my wayward cat, talks his ear off. Oh c.r.a.p. She looks over at me. "Oh, Mona!" For being in her mid-eighties, she sure can walk fast. Debbie and Greg join me on the lawn just as she reaches us. "Deborah. Gregory."

"Hi, Auntie Sara," Debbie says.