Storm Cursed Read online

  There was not much I could do about that. Stefan did not want to be a member of the pack—and the pack would not, could not, make him a member.

  Stefan was apparently finished with that conversation, because when he spoke again it was on a different topic. “I don’t know a lot more about Frost than you do. He showed up as a Power maybe twenty or thirty years ago—I don’t keep track of time on that level, so I’m not sure. He seemed to be acting as a minion of Bonarata for most of that, so I watched Bonarata, and not him.” Bonarata was the Lord of Night, ruler of the European vampires, who had, I was assured, long tentacles of power that dug deeply on this continent, too.

  Stefan frowned deeply. “I don’t know who made him or why. I don’t know who his affiliates are. But I should be able to find out.”

  “What nationality is he?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I had assumed that he was European, given that he initially came as an agent of Bonarata. I can find that out, too.” Stefan rubbed his hands briskly together. “Give me some time to run some things down. I do think it is interesting that a vampire who has power over the dead and a witch who creates zombie goats share a close familial scent. If he was born a witch and someone turned him—that someone needs to be stopped.”

  “Creates miniature zombie goats,” I corrected him.

  He nodded at me. “‘Zombie goat’ sounds satanic.”

  There are reasons that Stefan and I became friends.

  * * *

  • • •

  My phone rang when I was about halfway home from Stefan’s house.

  I glanced down at my cell phone, which was faceup on the passenger seat. Whoever was calling wasn’t a number my phone knew, but it was a Benton City number. Benton City is not a hotbed of robocallers trying to sell auto warranties or time-shares. I let the phone ring three times before I gave in to curiosity and pulled over to the side of the road.

  “Ms. Hauptman? This is Arnoldo Salas. You were at my house this morning with the zombie goats.”

  “Mr. Salas,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “There is a car that has been driving back and forth in front of my house. It matches the car my boy saw yesterday. I do not know if it means anything. Maybe whoever is driving the car is lost—we get that here a lot.”

  “And maybe we should get you some help right now,” I said. “Okay. Don’t go outside your house. Don’t answer your door if anyone knocks. I will call you from this phone when I get there.”

  I called Adam and got his voice mail. I called Warren and got his voice mail.

  I called Stefan.

  * * *

  • • •

  “What do you think that you and I can do against a witch?” asked Stefan, sounding not overly concerned.

  I glanced over at him. He was driving his two-year-old baby blue BMW because my Jetta now only had one usable seat.

  “Do you think I should call for some more backup?” I asked. I’d left a message for Adam. I could have called more werewolves, but I wasn’t sure how much help they would be. I, at least, had my undependable resistance to magic. Stefan was Stefan.

  I didn’t want to call Sherwood. Not because he wouldn’t be useful, but because he’d been pushed enough today.

  “I could call Wulfe,” he said.

  I straightened in my seat. “No.”

  “He can deal with witches,” he continued. “They are very nearly his favorite playthings.”

  “No,” I said again. More firmly.

  Stefan grinned at me. “Yes, the ‘very nearly’ thing is a problem. He might just throw in with the enemy because you are ‘more fun as an opponent than any witch.’ I’m afraid that last bit is a quote. A recent quote. I didn’t know, yesterday, why he’d suddenly started blathering on about witches. He must have known about Elizaveta’s visitors.”

  A chill ran down my spine. I did not want to be within a mile of Wulfe if I could help it. The crazy-like-a-tornado-in-the-land-of-Oz vampire wasn’t anyone I wanted thinking about me at all. Let alone looking forward to having me as an opponent.

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “So now you are warned,” Stefan said, his voice remote. The reason for that became apparent in his next sentence. “I need your promise that you will summon me should Wulfe become a problem. Wulfe is not werewolf business.”

  I stiffened. But I didn’t think that he was influencing me. I thought that it sounded like a good idea. That right there is the reason vampires are so scary.

  “I understand your reasoning,” I said slowly.

  “But?” Stefan supplied.

  “But,” I agreed. “How about if I make you a promise when I am not sitting in the car next to you?”

  A distinct chill settled in the air. “You do know that if I were going to influence you like that, I could do it if I were here and you in Seattle.”

  “Thanks for that,” I told him sourly. “How about I promise to consider what you’ve said should the occasion arise?”

  “Fine,” he said.

  I knew I’d hurt his feelings. But there was a tie between us through which he could make me think and do whatever he wanted—and unlike hypnotism, I was pretty sure that “whatever he wanted” was limitless. I saw a man participate happily in his own death. The vampire involved wasn’t Stefan—it was Wulfe. That knowledge made me understand why trapped animals have been known to gnaw their own legs off. It was a peculiar kind of claustrophobia and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Nothing Stefan could do about it, either.

  “I am being unfair,” I said grudgingly. “I know it. But . . .” I made a frustrated sound.

  “But,” agreed Stefan heavily.

  And we drove the rest of the way to Benton City in silence.

  * * *

  • • •

  Stefan’s was the only car on the road in front of the Salas house. As we turned down the long drive, the porch light came on and Arnoldo Salas came out.

  “She quit driving by as soon as I called you,” he said grimly. He had a gun in a holster on his hip and he was wearing his military posture. His breathing was slow and even—deliberately so, I thought. I didn’t know him, but I thought he was pretty spooked.

  I shrugged. “I’m not a witch,” I told him. “I don’t know how they think—and only some of what they can do.”

  “I don’t want her near my family,” he said.

  “I don’t blame you,” I agreed. “Let me introduce my associate. Arnoldo Salas, this is my friend Stefan Uccello. We’ll wait here for a bit—don’t invite us inside your house—to see if she returns. If she does, we’ll find out if she wants to talk.”

  I could hear the sound of a car’s engine in the distance. It might just have been one of his neighbors.

  “Do you know why she is stalking my family?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know the why of any of this. Witches are hungry for power—and killing the goats would give her power. But it would take more power than the goats’ deaths to allow her to do something as spectacular as turning them all into zombies. And that accomplished nothing except to make your family sad and scared. Do you know any reason anyone would have had for that?”

  “Scaring people is fun,” said the witch, stepping out of the shadows about ten feet from the porch.

  I had not sensed her in any way—and, I could tell by Stefan’s complete stillness, neither had the vampire. Usually supernatural creatures who can hide from sight forget about other things—scent or sound.

  I, of course, jumped—as she evidently intended.

  Arnoldo Salas pulled his gun.

  She smiled at him. I noted that she was tall for a woman and built on a graceful frame. Her hair was dark and her eyes were some light color but I couldn’t tell for certain if they were green, gray, or blue in the dimness of the
night. I see very well in the darkness, but colors tend to fade to shades of gray.

  Her face had been relatively plain until she smiled and the expression gave definition to her features. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place who. It wasn’t Frost, though she did indeed share a close family resemblance to his scent under the foulness of her magic. Smelling her again, I was absolutely certain of the connection between her and Frost.

  I hadn’t been able to scent her until she’d come out of the shadows, though. I didn’t like that at all.

  “Aren’t you a darling?” she told Salas in a husky voice with an accent that originated in the Deep South. “But you won’t have any luck with that old thing, so you might as well put it away.” There was magic in her voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  He held his stance, cradling the gun in a classic grip. A light sweat broke out on his face—but the gun held steady.

  She turned her smile to me. “And that is the reason I picked this family, Mercedes Thompson Hauptman. I find it so interesting when people don’t do as I tell them. It doesn’t happen too often.”

  I wondered if the three tortured members of Elizaveta’s family had been told to go make breakfast. Time to think about that later. Right this moment, I needed to distract her from Salas. I didn’t like the attention she was paying to him, even with her face turned toward me.

  Last moon hunt, which we held out on the Hanford Reservation, the pack had been on the trail of an elk when a rabbit broke cover just in front of us. Just for an instant, the pack weighed switching their prey before continuing after the elk.

  Salas was the witch’s version of that rabbit and I wanted her focus on me instead.

  “Picked them for what?” I asked.

  “To get your attention,” she said. “We need to talk.” She glanced at Arnoldo and said softly, “Why are you still pointing that gun at me? Stefan Uccello is a vampire. Shoot him.”

  This time Arnoldo didn’t react at all.

  The witch frowned at him. “That’s not nice,” she said. “I asked you politely.”

  “Mr. Salas,” said Stefan softly. “I think that if you put the gun away, you won’t be so interesting to her. That might be a good thing.”

  “Ms. Hauptman,” said Salas. “If I shoot her, will she die?”

  “Probably,” I said. “But then you’ll have a dead woman on your front lawn. I’ll stand witness for you that she was a witch, but she is not trying to harm you just now. I think that she is responsible for the killing of your son’s goats, but that won’t get you out of a murder charge. Worse, I am fairly certain that she is part of a group of witches. If you kill her, they will come for you. I promise that our pack will try to keep them away, but our resources are limited.”

  “Werewolves protecting humans,” drawled the witch. “I never thought I’d see the day. It’s kind of cute.”

  Salas nodded at me and put his gun away. He glanced at Stefan and then away. He’d heard her call Stefan a vampire, but he was willing to give us the benefit of the doubt. Which was pretty amazing in a man I’d only met this morning.

  “You wanted our attention,” I said. “You have it. What do you want?”

  “We have pushed out the local coven,” she said. “My lady, our Ishtar, has told me that you have found the results.”

  “Yes,” I said. Who was Ishtar? It sounded, from the way she said it, more like a title than a name, but I couldn’t be certain.

  “Good. Then you will have no trouble with us assuming their place. We find that this town, which previously we knew nothing about, has become very interesting—a place where the werewolves make certain everyone feels safe. You will stay out of our way—and we will allow you to remain here.”

  “No,” I said. I’d heard the “feels” safe. “Feels safe” is a lot different from “is safe.”

  She smiled. “Ms. Hauptman, you are young.” Which was a weird thing for her to say. I’d have put her in her midtwenties, maybe, given the kindness of night shadows, even midthirties. “I doubt you know your history. Until the arrival of the Marrok, werewolves were the vermin of the supernatural world. Dangerous individually, of course, if one were such a fool as to put yourself in a bad position, but ultimately not much of a threat. Nuisances. Your pack does not belong to the witchborn Marrok, he who has abandoned his birthright. Alone, you and your pack are no match for us.”

  She was guessing about Bran being witchborn, I was pretty sure. Bran made a point of not confirming that rumor.

  The witch looked at Stefan. “I understand that you do not represent the Mistress of the Seethe, but that she listens to you. Please inform her that we will send a delegate to speak with her sometime in the next few days.”

  “No,” I said. “You are not staying here.”

  She turned her pleasant face to me.

  “We will not allow black witches in our territory,” I said.

  “Darling,” she said. “You already did.” She turned to walk away. “Oh, and about that meeting your mate is planning. When we act, don’t interfere.”

  Shadows cloaked her. The three of us waited on Arnoldo Salas’s porch until she was gone.

  “Do you know why the witch could not make you do as she asked?” Stefan asked Salas.

  Salas let air out through his nose like a spooked horse. “My mother had the pope bless me when I was a child. She asked him to bless me that witchcraft would not touch me or my children. It is a story my father liked to tell. My mother was afraid of witches.”

  “Me, too,” I said, still looking around.

  “She is gone,” Stefan said.

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I am certain.”

  “Mr. Salas,” I said earnestly. “Do you have the ability to leave town for a week or two? You’ve caught the attention of the witches and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  He nodded. “I have some vacation coming. My wife’s mother lives in California, and she has been asking us to come visit.”

  “I would go.”

  His mouth tightened. “It does not make me happy to leave the field because of a witch.”

  “You have a family to protect,” I said.

  “I can leave for two weeks. I have neighbors who can mind our place, but we still have to come home.”

  “That will give her time to forget about you,” said Stefan. “Why don’t you call Mercy when you are ready to head back?”

  “And if no one answers,” I told him grimly, “maybe you should consider staying away. I have a feeling that she’s not going to forget about you very easily.”

  * * *

  • • •

  All of the lights were blazing at the Salas household when we left. I didn’t blame him in the least.

  I called Adam’s cell phone and left the message that I was headed home. I called Warren’s phone and left the same message. Feeling Stefan’s attention on the matter, I said, “My recent kidnapping has left everyone a little on edge. So I check in.”

  He nodded.

  Eventually he asked, “What do you intend to do about the witches?”

  “Not my call,” I told him. “I’ll let Adam know and he’ll take it from there.”

  Not that I wouldn’t give him suggestions. I hesitated, but I needed to talk this out. And Stefan had a tactical mind—he could pick out things that I missed sometimes.

  “Why didn’t the witch just pick up the phone and call us? Our pack isn’t exactly hiding out. She killed the goats, turned them into zombies, to get our attention? That is a serious waste of power right before what might be a real fight. Killing Elizaveta’s people would get our attention all on its own. She doesn’t make sense. But, Stefan, she wasn’t lying.”

  “Just because something is stupid doesn’t mean it is not true,” said Stefan.

 
I tapped my fingers on the dashboard. “No, but it’s still stupid.” I thought a little more. “I can understand tonight—just now at Salas’s house. There was no power wasted. She was testing us, to see if we would protect someone who we met just this morning.”

  “Probing for weakness, yes,” said Stefan. “I agree. I have another thought you are not going to like. She meant to take the boy—you could see it in her. She took the goats as revenge because that boy stood up to her. She tested the father, but it didn’t anger her. She expected it. Witches have different affinities, but most of them are good with things like bloodline powers.”

  “The boy resisted her—and she divined that it was something that might run in his family?” I asked. “Because she could normally control someone? If she asked someone to come to her, they would have to do it?” I swallowed. “I thought they needed artifacts—like the collar Bonarata had on that poor werewolf in Italy.”

  “For werewolves,” he said. “But people with no magic?” He shrugged. At least he didn’t sound happy about it. “If it helps,” he added, “it is a rare thing. Back in the days when covens dotted the landscape of Europe, they were highly prized. They called them Love Talkers.”

  “Love Talkers are fae,” I told him. “And they are male.”

  “In fairy tales,” he said. “But most of those stories are about witches, not the fae. And I think it is one of the few witch traits that is equally strong in men and women.”

  I supposed if Baba Yaga was fae, it was only fair that some of the stories about the fae were really about witches.

  He continued, “We are safe enough, but I am not sure a blessing, even one given by the pope, could make a human resistant to witchcraft.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “But witchborn families can be resistant to magic.”

  I didn’t think, upon reflection, that the Salases were even a little bit safe while that witch knew where they were. If they were witchborn and didn’t know it, that would explain why the witch singled them out. It also meant that, like any other white witches, they were prey.