Big Beautiful Witches: I Married A Warlock (2 page)

Erik arched his eyebrow disapprovingly, and fixed his boss with a cold stare. “I imagine that the men, women and children who live and work there care, for starters.”

“Well, yes, that’s true, but….” Greer stammered, at a loss. “This is an election year. There are several council seats up for grabs.   There are a number of more prominent districts filled with very prominent families, who fund our department, and –“

“The Graveyard pays taxes just like the rest of the city,” Erik said. “And they are under our charge and our protection just like every other district. When I took an oath, I took an oath to defend all the citizens of our realm, not just the wealthy ones who take up the society pages.   Cases. What do you have for me?” He folded his muscular arms across his broad chest and stared at Greer unblinkingly.

There weren’t many warlocks who could get away with speaking to their superiors like that, but Erik wasn’t just any warlock.  He came from an ancient, prominent family, and he was a war hero, having racked up one of the highest number of kills in the Troll Wars that had devastated the Northern Provences.

Which was why Greer hated to waste him on a bunch of dirt-poor nobodies with no political pull and no chance of getting more funding for his department…but Erik was notoriously stubborn. Maybe if he tossed Erik a case or two in the warehouse district, Erik’s do-gooder impulses would be satisfied, and he’d grow tired of working those filthy, lawless streets.

A handsome, politically connected warlock like Erik was much more useful in, say, the Garden District, where the matrons and their daughters would titter with delight at his presence, and then be inspired to donate generously at the Enforcer’s Ball.

He reached into his bottom drawer, pulled out a thick stack of file folders, and thumbed through them. Then his face lit up.

“Here!” he said. “You know where the warehouse district is, on First Street? Southernmost portion of the Graveyard? There’s been a series of warehouse thefts, and the merchants who own those warehouses are quite unhappy about it. We’d get some major political capital out of solving these cases.”

Considerably cheered, he handed the file folder to Erik, who flipped it open and then glanced up at Greer. “What’s our budget for special consultants?” he asked.

“For this case?” Greer leaned back in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head. “This could be quite a prominent case.  If we can save those merchants and their insurance companies some money, we can really make some friends. If you want a paid consultant on this case, go for it. Stop by the budget department, tell them I authorized it.”

A smile spread across Erik’s face. He knew exactly which consultant he’d be hiring.  

Chapter Two

“My palms are itchy,” Rosalind announced. “That means something bad’s going to happen before the day is out.”

Rosalind, a busty blonde who wore so much costume jewelry that she rattled when she walked, was a waitress at The Witch’s Brew, the coffee shop next to Fiona’s herb shop.  She had come to sit out on the patio with Fiona and Maizie.  

It was late in the day, and Fiona and Maizie were finally taking a break after dealing with the steady stream of chatty, empty-headed debutantes and their mothers who’d been cramming into  the Greenhouse for days now. The Crystal Ball was only weeks away, and they were snapping up salves and herbs and potions to artificially enhance their beauty, from sunup to sundown. Fiona could barely keep up with the demand.

The Crystal Ball was attended by the most powerful, beautiful, and desirable witches and the handsomest, most eligible powerful warlocks.   It was a tradition for warlocks to “claim” their future bride at the ball by proposing in magical and dramatic fashion.  Every witch in the city wanted to look her most beautiful at the ball.

“Seriously?” Maizie set down her coffee, leaned back in her chair and fixed Rosalind with an exasperated glare. “This again?”

“My gramma told me. And she’s right. Every time my palms itch, something bad happens.”

Fiona and Maizie glanced at each other.

“Shall you, or shall I?” Fiona asked.

“I shall.” Maizie turned back to their friend, and held up her hand. “Here are the reasons why you’re ridiculous, Rosalind. “ She held up one finger. “Number one, it’s two days before the full moon.” She held up a second finger.  “Number two, you’re a werewolf.  Of course your palms are itchy.  Your whole body gets itchy before the full moon.”

 “Yes, but my palms are especially itchy,” Rosalind said earnestly.

“I have herbs for that,” Fiona added absentmindedly, stirring her coffee.

Maizie held up a third finger.  “And number three, your little predictions are about as meaningful as the horoscope in the daily paper.  You always predict things that are obviously going to happen anyway. I mean, we’re on 25
^th
Street, for Hades sake. Of course something bad’s going to happen today!”

The Graveyard stretched from north to south, from 25
^th
street down to First Street, a neighborhood where only the foolish ventured out at night without magical or hired protection, where murder was a daily event, where hope came to die.  And not in its sleep.

Fiona’s store was in a business district on the northernmost block of The Graveyard, just south of a long stretch of tired, blue-collar homes where the residents still struggled to keep up appearances.

“See? So I’m right!” Rosalind beamed happily. 

“Oh, bite me,” Maizie grumbled, turning her attention back to her coffee.

“I’m not even turning for two more days,” Rosalind said, puzzled.  “And why would you want me to bite you? Werewolf-witches aren’t a good combination.”

Maizie’s irises flared red, and her coffee began bubbling so hard it slopped over the edge of the coffee cup.  Fiona leaped in hastily.

“Rosalind,  there are customers coming in right now.”

It was true; a cluster of debs and their mothers were inside the coffee shop, reading the day’s specials off the chalkboard wall and giggling excitedly.  Dragon’s blood smoothies?  Horn of unicorn tea? The drinks didn’t really contain those illegal ingredients, but the tourists who bought them would never know that, and the owners charged a premium for the cheap thrill.

Rosalind rushed off to serve them. “Bless her empty little head,” Fiona said.

“Moron,” Maizie grumbled. “She exceeded my recommended daily allowance of stupid.  And now my coffee’s too hot.”

“Take some ice from my icewater.”

“Then it will be watered down.”

“Someone’s thong is on too tight. Is it that time of the month?”

A puff of smoke sizzled up from Maizie’s coffee.  “I’m a fire elemental!  We’re naturally hot tempered! And yes, I’m PMSing.   I know, I know, you’ve got herbs for that.”

“I’ve got herbs for lots of things,” Fiona said, unruffled.

“Some of them are even legal,” Maizie smirked.  Fiona shrugged. She’d never deal in addictive drugs or poison, but there were certain substances which were not approved by the FDA and which fetched a high price.    Sometimes she knew how to grow or find those certain substances. A girl had to pay her rent and keep her protection runes charged up.

“I must say, you seem a little more out of sorts than usual,” Fiona observed, stirring her coffee.  “Is it that vampire you’ve been bodyguarding?”

Maizie flashed her a dirty look. 

“This bodyguard gig has gone on for an unusually long time,” Fiona continued, unperturbed.  “In fact, I heard that you fried the rival vampire who was threatening Stasik’s house, but you’re still working for him.  Also, you’ve bought herbs for anemia twice in the past month. Obviously you’re providing him with more than protection. What else is going on there?”

“You know, you’re the only person who could get away with interrogating me and not suffer third degree burns as a consequence,” Maizie muttered, but the expression on her face was more pouty than dangerous.

Fiona snorted. “Then where would you come for treatment when you’ve barely survived a fight?”  Then she turned to look at the fashionable women crowding into the Witches Brew. “Good heavens, look at those women. I grew up in that crowd. It’s a wonder I’m still sane. ish.”

She and Maizie surveyed the women in the coffee shop with a critical eye. The fashions among the magical crew this season tended towards the bright and showy, with neon-hued flowers bursting into bloom  over and over on the enchanted fabric of their a-line frocks. At the end of the season they’d discard the dresses that cost as much as a year’s salary for people in the Graveyard, and they’d stuff their closets full of the newest lines.

And the clothing never came in extra large.  Fiona remembered her mother’s bitter remonstrances every season as she brought in seamstresses to dress Fiona and Fiona’s younger sister Delphine, with muttered words like “tent” and “caftan” nettling the girls like the barbed stingers of bees.

Fiona winced at the memory.  She knew Delphine could hardly wait for two more years to pass so she could turn 21, and escape from their mother’s suffocating clutches as Fiona had.

She turned her attention back to the women she’d grown up with, and who she’d been glad to flee.  Coming to the edge of the Graveyard district to buy herbs was a major adventure for these women, the ultimate in slumming it.   That was part of the appeal of buying herbs from Fiona; the women felt dangerous and naughty.

Of course, they only came in broad daylight, frequently chauffeured by bodyguards who idled in limousines outside the shop as they waited, and they were only on 25
^th
street. None of them would have dared venture so much as another block south, and they were right not to.

Fiona’s neighborhood gave new meaning to the phrase “…and then everything went south.”

But now it was near the end of the day, and the blood red orb of the sun was sinking low, ready to plunge into the lake of fiery orange and yellow clouds that flared up from the horizon.  Decaying buildings stood out like black paper cutouts against the flame-hued sky.  Their high end clientele was done shopping for the day.

“Who’s the cub?” Maizie glanced at the small werewolf child making her way towards the front door of the herb shop.

 Fiona stood up with a sigh. “I’ve got a good idea who. Break’s over.” She and Mazie grabbed their drinks and headed back to the shop.

Her storefront was painted green, and ivy carpeted  the outside of the shop.  To the left of the shop was a metal stairway leading up to the apartment she rented; behind the shop was her herb garden, where she grew most of the herbs that she sold.

Fiona paused in the doorway to take a deep breath.  The scent of a thousand herbs and flowers and roots swirled through the air, comforting, like the smell of family. She could distinguish every smell like a bloodhound, and knew the story of every plant in the little shop.

Inside was comfortable clutter, with shelves full of jars and paper bags and little bins, from floor to ceiling.    The store was empty of debutantes now;  Renoir, her faerie clerk, was nibbling a cupcake while restocking empty cubbies.  He was reed thin and delicate of feature, and he had spiky blond hair tipped with pink; today he wore shiny striped pink and blue leggings and a matching shiny pink t-shirt.

 They found the werewolf child in the back, eyes on the floor, hands stuffed in her pockets, shuffling quickly towards the door. Fiona recognized her. Her name was Mala; she was the daughter of a local prostitute.

Maizie stepped in front of her.  “Hand it over,” she said sternly.  The girl tried to dodge past her; Maizie reached out, grabbed her by the collar, and held her up dangling in the air.

“Let me go! Let me go!” she howled, legs kicking.

“Why, I never!” Renoir glared disapprovingly. “Girl, I am so sorry,” he added to Fiona. “My back was turned.”

“Hand it over!” Maizie snapped.  Reluctantly, the girl pulled her hands out her pockets, with a gnarled brown root in one of them. Fiona grabbed it from her, and Maizie put her down. She slunk towards the front door, face bunched up hard as she struggled not to cry.  Renoir stood with his hands on his slim hips, tapping his foot and scowling at Mala like a disapproving schoolmarm. 

“Get back here,” Fiona yelled.  The girl froze in place, hopelessness washing over her little puckered face.

Fiona held up the root. “This causes hairlessness. Is that what you were looking for?”

The cub gasped. “No! My mother has mange! She has it bad. She said I needed to get Capillo Rememdum.”

“Well, you got Levis Rememdum. It cures excessive hairiness. Can’t you read? Oh,” she added as the child scraped her foot on the floor and bit her lower lip. Of course not.   Mala’s mother was too busy entertaining clients to pay attention to her child’s education. It was highly unlikely that Mala had ever set foot in a classroom.

Fiona dropped the root back in its bin, then pulled out a root from the bin next to it and handed it to the child. “This is what you need.  It must be chopped up into little bits and then boiled in a gallon of water for one hour. Then she needs to use let the water cool, then drink one cup of it, morning and night, for the next three days. Got it?”

“I can’t pay,” the cub said sullenly.

“Obviously, or you wouldn’t be stealing from me. You owe me one.  And next time just ask me, before you end up stealing herbs that cause giant boils to pop up all over your body.” With a look of alarm, the cub dashed out of the store, herb clutched in her grubby little fist.

“Aaand, that’s why you’re always broke,” Renoir chided, watching the cub go.

“Eh.” Fiona shrugged. “Filthy lucre.  Money’s over-rated.” 

“Trollballs. You’re just a sucker, is all,” Maizie joined in the scolding. Then she perked up.  “Do you really have herbs that can cause boils to pop up all over your body?”

“Of course not.  Who would buy that?”

“I totally would. There’s this stuck up bitch receptionist at the Bodyguard’s Guild who – oh, shiznit. Rosalind was right. I hate it when that little twit is right.”