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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.

Chapter 4

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.

“Oh, shoot! I don’t think I expelled it to Faery.”

Indeed, the thing had disintegrated. But it worked for Tor.

Melissande ran out and stood over him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Bloody hell!” Tor pushed up and out of the clutter of black feathers. He eyed the neighboring building, where he knew a very curious cryptozoologist happened to live. The shades were drawn. Which didn’t mean much. That kid had a way of seeing things he wasn’t supposed to see.

“You’ve a smudge of black salt here. Pity your vest got torn.”

Tor charged past Melissande and into the house. Checking his watch, he abandoned his intent to head out the front door and over to the next building. No time to check on the neighbor. The interview was soon!

He marched down the hallway—then abruptly turned and stomped up to the witch. “Do not move. Do not go outside. Do not even blink. And where is that bedamned heart?”

She meekly pointed toward the kitchen counter.

“Did you have a chance to ward it?”

She nodded. “I used a new dark magic spell.”

“Fine.” He tugged at the torn tweed vest. Not the first impression he wanted to make to a prospective employer. “I’m going to change. Again. Stay right here.”

He turned and stalked off.

“But—”

“Nope!” he called back to her. “Not even!”

The man had changed into a midnight blue vest, combed his hair and now led Melissande back toward his bedroom. This was an exciting turn of events! But she didn’t read any sexy, playful vibes coming off him. More like stern frustration as he stretched out an arm to indicate the room they entered.

“I need an hour,” he said. “With no distractions. No witches getting attacked on my deck. Not even a peep from that little box of yours.”

She clutched the plastic container to her chest. He’d hastily grabbed both her bags and now set them on the end of the bed. This was certainly not sexy or playful, being consigned to the metaphorical time-out corner.

“You can stay in here while I’m online. It’s a very important interview. So please, please, be quiet. There’s the TV on the wall to entertain you. Keep the volume low. And I’ve got some books on the shelf.”

She noted the books were organized by color of their spines, and they were all in a gradient order, from white to gray to black. Did the man not understand color? Fun? Simple civility?

“Can you do that?”

She met his patronizing glare and huffed. “Fine. The teacher wants to put me in detention for an hour.”

“It’s not that, Mel—” He sighed. “I just...need this interview to go well. I promise as soon as it’s over, you have me at your beck and call.”

“What’s the interview for?”

“New job. Accounting stuff.” He checked his watch and shook his head. “I only have five minutes. I’ve got to sign in to Skype. I’ll come get you when I’m done. Do not come out to check if I’ve finished. Promise?”

“Fine!” she called as he closed the door behind him.

Melissande plopped onto the bed and crossed her arms. A pout felt necessary. Seriously? He was going to treat her like a naughty five-year-old? She hadn’t expected the harpie to come swooping out of the sky, wings flapping and bared yet feathered breasts shocking.

“This heart attracts some strange energy.” She tapped the container. “Good thing I had Tor to fight off the bird chick.”

Because in the moment out on the deck and under attack, she hadn’t been able to summon any deflecting magic. She could do that. With ease. A mere flick of her wrist and a few words of intention would make others walk a wide circle around her, or even push back a potential attacker. But she’d panicked. And in such a state, her magic was useless. Only when she’d gotten inside and knew she was out of the harpie’s path had she been able to focus.

Now she gave her kinetic magic a try. A twist of her wrist slid the books on the shelf from one end to the other. “Just so. I seriously have to learn to relax during terrifying moments.”

Yet despite her faults, she had managed to obliterate the harpie. And that made her sad. She hadn’t wanted to kill the thing, just consign it back to Faery. Truly, this strange new magic she sought was going to take some getting used to.

With a nod, she decided she would concede to Tor’s request. The man had a life, and he had agreed to help her. Which meant she had to understand that he must have engagements and things to take care of. He wouldn’t be able to stand as her guardian 24-7. And she didn’t expect that. Should she?

She was getting nervous that the next few days could prove more harrowing than she was prepared for.

Her only chance to acquire the heart had come yesterday afternoon while searching the Archives for the proper spell. A spell she’d already had, thanks to one of her father’s grimoires. However, she’d told her uncle Certainly she hadn’t the full version, so he had allowed her to search the stacks.

The Book of All Spells contained every spell designed, conjured and/or invoked by every witch who ever existed (and some by witches who were yet to exist). It was constantly updated as new spells were spoken. She’d browsed that massive volume without intent to copy anything out. Never was an item allowed out from the Archives—it was first and foremost a storage facility—but she’d often copied out spells or spent an afternoon studying an incantation to enhance her magic.

Having already studied the spell, she’d gone into the Archives knowing exactly what ingredient was required to make the spell successful: Hecate’s heart. And after a lot of digging and sorting through dusty books, old wooden boxes and piles of unidentifiable artifacts, she’d found it wrapped in faded red silk, tucked between a book on crystal alchemy and a steel box that had rattled when she’d brushed it with the back of her hand. She had absconded with it while Uncle CJ had been talking on the phone. With a wave and a merci, Uncle!, she’d told him she’d see him soon.

Fingers crossed that her uncle didn’t notice it missing from the Archives. It wasn’t as though he did a thorough inventory. He very likely had no idea exactly where the hundreds of thousands of items were at any given moment. Melissande had but to perform the spell and free her mother from the haunting, and then she could return the heart. And in the process of invoking dark magic, she could prove to her dad she had what it took to be a dark witch. Just like him and his twin brother and her twin cousins, Laith and Vlas. Even CJ’s wife, who had once been a light witch, was now half-and-half.

The practice of dark magic was a Jones family tradition.

“Whoopee.” Melissande sighed.

Was dark magic all it was cracked up to be? Try as she might, over the years she’d never been able to bring herself to pull off so much as a hex. Hexes were strictly dark magic. They fed off negative energies and sometimes required demonic familiars. Bruce was about as far from demonic as a familiar got. That amphibian was light, all the way.

Of course, she was aware that without dark magic, light magic could not exist. It was how the universe functioned. No good without bad. No peace without war. No heaven without hell (if you were a human). No Beneath without Above (for the paranormals). No yin without yang. No black without white. No glitter without ash. Someone had to practice dark magic. And in the hands of her dad and his brother, it was handled with grace, respect and kick-ass power.

Her sister, Amaranthe, had possessed that kick-ass skill. She had once been able to stand between CJ and their dad, TJ, and hold her own. Melissande missed her. But lately it was difficult to feel compassion toward her younger sibling for the havoc and utter terror she currently held against their mother.

And if a nudge from Amaranthe was required to push Melissande toward the dark in order to save her mother’s sanity, then so be it.

She glanced to the big-screen TV that hung on a black wall. She shook her head. She wasn’t much for mindless entertainment. And the books...

“The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.” She read one of the spines. “The man is uptight. But a cute uptight. And what a swing he’s got.”

Watching him wield the club against the harpie had almost distracted Melissande from the spell. Well, actually it had distracted her. Otherwise, the harpie would have been banished to Faery, and not...dead.

“She deserved it,” Melissande muttered. “Can’t have harpies flying about Paris all willy-nilly.”

Bouncing up to her feet, she ran her fingers along the wall opposite the bed, then opened a door, which she assumed was the closet. A press of the light switch at shoulder level flicked on an overhead row of fluorescent bulbs. She leaned in and peered down the long stretch of closet, which was a small room lined on both sides with immaculate shelves and clothing hung and spaced precisely. Everything was neat as a pin. And all in blacks, grays and whites.

A hint of cherries and tobacco tickled her nose. Mmm...he smelled so good.

Unable to resist the adventurous call to explore, she ventured inside.

Tor thanked the interviewer for his time and ensured him he was on call for an in-person follow-up.

“We’ll call you soon if interested, Monsieur Rindle.”

“You’ve got my number. Merci.”

Tor signed off from Skype and sat back, clasping his fingers behind his head. A smile was irrepressible. He’d aced it. He could win this job—if the in-person interview went well. Which it would. He was experienced in human relations, having worked spin for The Order of the Stake. The only difference was he’d be talking about human issues to humans. He could do that. He had no doubts about his qualifications, and had successfully bluffed his way through the real-world applications parts.

As was necessary to any sort of spin job, he knew how to take rotten lemons and make spectacular lemonade.

Closing the laptop, he hummed a few bars from “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” and performed a side-to-side then forward swanky dance step into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Perrier. He drank half and set it on the counter. The day had taken a turn. It hadn’t started out all that swell, with a tea hangover and the harpie attack. All because of the—

“The witch.” He’d forgotten about the witch in his bedroom.

Loosening his tie and humming his way down the hallway, Tor felt a new enthusiasm for this unexpected protection job. The witch needed his help. He was the man who could help her. It would be his last hurrah before entering the corporate realm of humans and all things mundane.

Opening the bedroom door, he stepped inside to find...no witch.

“Hmm...” To his left, the closet door was open. Had he forgotten to tell her not to touch anything? He never overlooked the details most important to him.

Tor stepped into the closet. “I’m finished—”

The witch, who stood at the end of the closet, turned abruptly, her smile exaggerated and her shoulders to her ears. She wore one of his vests over her red blouse. One of his black silk ties hung loosely about her neck. And in her hand was one of his fedora hats.

“Oops,” she managed.

Aghast, Tor took a moment to settle his sudden need to shout an oath. He put up a hand. “I don’t even want to know.” He truly did not.

He had to force himself to leave the closet, but—“Okay, wait.” Turning to face the witch, he planted his feet and crossed his arms. “I really do need to know.”

Melissande carefully placed his hat back on the shelf and made a point of aligning it as neatly as it had originally been placed.

“Why are you in here?” he persisted. “Wearing my things? Are you...mentally unbalanced?”

She gaped at him. “I got bored. I don’t do TV, and I wasn’t interested in your literary choices. And I figured if I worked some magic, it could get noisy. And you did reprimand me to be quiet.”

“I don’t reprimand—”

“Oh, it was definitely a reprimand.”

“So you decided to try on some of my things as a means to...?”

“I’m a curious person,” she defended herself. “And your clothes smell good. Cherry and tobacco. Like you, I presume. But I can’t imagine that you smoke. That’s not very attractive. Speaking of, you are much more attractive than I’d expected.”

“Than expected?” He had to ask. She had a way of teasing out his curiosity.

“Sure. I thought you’d have a gimp eye or, at the very least, a scar. You know, with the kind of work you do.”

He really did not know, and if he thought about it too hard, he might go down the path she followed. And that scared him more than a raging demon or a squawking harpie.

Melissande tugged the tie from her neck, and he rushed to grab it.

“I’ll take that.” He carefully folded it and placed it in the open tie drawer. A few adjustments to the other ties she’d obviously touched and moved out of order were necessary. “I’m sorry. The interview went long. The rest of the day I’m all yours. In fact, we need to sit down and discuss a game plan.”

“Good idea. But I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are, you harpie-banishing, vest-wearing witch. Let’s just get that vest off you...”

He helped her slip off the vest, and as he did so, Tor drew in the lush scent of her dark hair. Like lemons, but sweeter, almost candy. It was surprising how the scent attracted him. When she turned to give him an inquiring look, for a moment their faces were but inches apart. Exceedingly intimate. And...he had but to move his hand an inch to touch her hair...

“Right.” Tor backed away and hung the vest to distract his straying thoughts. Why was he so confused about whether to reprimand or kiss her? “I keep some prepared meals in the freezer. You might like the poached salmon mousse.”

“Sounds futuristically unappealing, but I’m in.” She marched out of the closet, leaving him in her lemon-scented wake.

She was a handful of kooky and strange, and she annoyed him in virtually every way. Trying on his clothes? He closed the tie drawer carefully. And yet he couldn’t think of a single reason to push her out the door and wash his hands of her crazy. So for now, he’d play along.

At the very least, she was entertaining.