Kicking It

He looked at it with a frown, but opened the cap and sniffed. I watched the change come over him: pure, simple peace, flowing like air over his body. He let out a breath, capped the bottle, and said, “Well, holy shit. That’s good stuff.”

“It’s effective for up to six months once opened,” I said. “I figured someone in your position probably needs it more than most.”

He thanked me with another nod, more pleasant this time, and said his good-byes. They weren’t effusive, but I didn’t expect them to be. The patrol officers left soon after, and Andy and I wrestled the heavy, soot-encrusted cross out of the ground and dragged it around back. Our neighbor’s German shepherd took exception, but I wasn’t impressed. He hadn’t bothered to bark when the cross went up. “Rosen could be right about the fence and the dog,” Andy said. “Might be a reasonable step. Otherwise, I’m sleeping on the front porch with a shotgun. A little buckshot in their asses might move ’em on.”

“We’ll get a fence,” I said, and stripped off my blackened work gloves, which I dropped on top of the cross. “But you know what I want most?”

“What?” He opened the back door and pulled me inside the house and into his arms.

“I want you in my bed,” I said. “Not out on the porch.”

“You going to change into what you were wearing before?”

“After I wash off the smoke smell.”

“Join you in two shakes,” he said.

I looked back when I reached the top of the stairs, and saw that he had locked the door and was standing at the window staring out at the yard.

Detective Rosen had taken the dagger and the photo with him, as evidence. I didn’t know what Andy was looking at now. Maybe nothing.

“Andy?” I asked.

He dropped the curtain, turned, and said, “On my way.”

Whatever was bothering him, he seemed to have let it go. By the time he was in the shower with me, damp and soapy, neither one of us was wondering about the future very much.

It was a mistake. Obviously.

* * *

I went to work the next morning just as I normally did, albeit still smelling a little like smoke (you can never get that stuff off) and feeling gritty and raw on only about three hours of solid sleep during the entire night. Also feeling pleasantly buzzed by the very intense attention Andy had paid to my every need. So on balance, it evened out, at least until I finished my drive to work.

I turned the last corner, going on autopilot (as you do) and thinking about what I had waiting on my desk. I was an accountant—nothing too exciting or even too challenging, but it paid the bills and kept me in medical insurance, which even potions witches need. You can’t brew it all. I’ve tried.

I hit the brakes, because on the sidewalk in front of my building was a crowd. Okay, it wasn’t a mob, but it was at least thirty people, chanting and carrying homemade signs.

Signs that read GOD HATES WITCHES and FIRE THE WITCH.

I knew, with a sinking feeling, exactly who they were talking about.

My coworkers were having to run the gauntlet to get into the building, and were being handed neon-bright flyers (some were crumpled up on the ground, which made me happy). I was certain every flyer had my name, my picture, and some white-hot speculation on just how horrible and evil I was.

I realized that if I just sat in the car, they’d see me anyway, so I made the turn into the parking lot and pulled into a space at the back. Deep breaths.

I was preparing to face the lions, but then the phone rang. Saved by the bell, I thought. I was hoping it was Andy, but it wasn’t, and I wasn’t saved, either.

It was my boss, Heather. Heather said, “Hey, um, Holly? I think—maybe you should take some time off. Don’t come into the office, okay?”

“Really?” I felt shaky and cold, but I tried to sound clueless. “Why?”

“We have a little—situation here. HR and Public Relations are handling it, but everyone agrees that having you come in right now would really escalate things.” She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “I’m so sorry—you know I hate this, but there are . . . people out here. Saying bad things. And everybody’s very upset.”

“They don’t think it’s my fault, do they? Because I didn’t do anything!”

“I know that, and honestly, Holly, you’re great, but . . . let us try to sort this out. Just take a few days off. I’ll cover it. You’ll be paid for your time. Just . . . go home and relax, okay? I’ll call.”

She hung up without waiting for my answer. I didn’t suppose her directive was really optional anyway.

I put on my sunglasses, since I’d be driving into the sun, and circled the lot to get out. I considered running over a couple of protesters, but that would only prove their witches are evil point, so I didn’t. I gunned my engine, though. A little.

I got a whole mile before the enormity of it hit me. The feeling of having your skin peeled back and your insides prodded. The violation and betrayal of trust. It wasn’t logical, but somehow the feeling of being outed at work was horrifying. My private life had just been laid bare to people I had to deal with every day.

I pulled over to the side of the road and cried miserably for about ten minutes. Then I sucked it up, bought myself an ice cream sundae from a Mickey D’s in the same block, ate it in the car, and drove back home.

There were protesters in front of my house, too. Equal numbers to those at my office. Some had strollers and small kids with them, because screaming hateful insults is a family affair. They blocked my driveway when I tried to turn in, and one stupid woman actually put her toddler down on the concrete in front of my car’s bumper. She clearly hadn’t thought that one through. If I was as evil as she claimed, why wouldn’t I just keep going?

I hit the brakes.

Andy wasn’t home; I didn’t even need to check to know that, because if he had been, he’d have been outside with the shotgun, threatening to stand his ground. And that would only have made the situation that much more volatile.

I put the car in reverse and sped away, leaving a gaggle of protesters milling in the street behind me. If my neighbors hated me before . . .

After some thought, I drove to the police headquarters, where Ed Rosen had his office. If there was one place anti-witch protesters weren’t likely to gather, it was there. And sure enough, the coast was clear when I paid for my parking and went to sign in at the visitors desk. Once I had the right ID pinned to my jacket, I rode the elevator up with half a dozen others, savoring the relative quiet. Nobody gave me odd looks. It was like I was just . . . normal.

I had the feeling that was a sensation I would come to miss very soon.

Rosen was in his office and on his phone, frowning intently as he scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. When he glanced up and saw me through the clear glass wall, he frowned even harder. He got off the call fast, hung up, and yanked his door open to bark, “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t go to work,” I said. “Can’t go home. I’m being picketed. The only thing that’s missing is a bonfire and a stake.”

“Give it a day,” he said. “You were right about the woman. Her name is Portia Garrity, and she’s dead. Beaten in her tarot shop with—get this—her own crystal ball. Throat slit before she was dead. You want to explain to me what her superpower was?”

“She was a seer,” I said. “She saw the future.” He gave me a look of cartoon disbelief. I sighed. “Not her own future. Other people’s futures. She wouldn’t have seen this coming, in other words. Don’t look at me like that—I don’t make the rules, or I’d be able to turn you into a toad for looking at me like that.”

He shook his head, but didn’t pursue the point. “Apparently she wasn’t looking far enough ahead to put in a decent security camera system, either, so we have nothing showing who came in or out of the place during the day. Her last appointment on the calendar was at noon. After that, we’ve got no record of ins and outs until we broke into the shop after your little yard-related incident and found her dead on the floor. ME says she died sometime between two and four in the afternoon, most likely.”

“What about the knife?”