Pack and Coven (16 page)

Her teeth chattered. She clamped her lips shut. The menthol quickly failed her as the frigid sludge stole her warmth and breath. Boy howdy, this was the most repulsive situation she'd ever been in, and she'd gone to great lengths to harvest certain herbs and fungi. June pushed forward, the sludge filling half the tunnel. Was it packed with worms, bugs and creepy crawlies?

And bacteria.
Ack, ack, ack!

It was hard to gain purchase on the slippery concrete. She pressed against a wall, wedging her fingers in a groove to pull herself forward. She inched upward until the sludge level sank to her elbows.

“Okay,” she called to Harry, her voice weak as she tried not to throw up. There were worse things than the mud created by her nice, soapy, sort of harmless graywater. Like adding vomit to the mix.

Harry splashed through it, cursing. He quickly caught up, bumping her rear.

“Think of this as a spa treatment,” he said, his teeth clenched. “Our skin is going to glow when we get out of here.”

“Don't make me laugh.” The essence of the sludge entered her mouth and sinuses no matter how she tried to fight it. Suddenly June couldn't resist any longer and retched.

“I was afraid of that. You okay?”

“Suuuuuuuure,” she moaned. She forced herself forward, inch at a time. They lost what little light they'd had, but soon the sludge was behind them.

Not that it felt like it. Muck had invaded every part of her. Her shirt, her hair, her ears. She had no idea how her stupid clogs had remained on her feet, but they were full, as well. Her toes squelched. She kept crawling up the slanted tunnel until they reached the door.

“Do you hear anybody?” she whispered to Harry. The only sound June could detect was the droplets of sludge falling off them. No light bled around the door's edges.

“No,” he said. “Not sure about the house, though.”

She fumbled the latch. The door creaked, another sign of her neglect. They clambered into the lightless safe room, shivering. Harry latched the door while she inched around the wall to the switch.

When she flicked it, a welcome sight greeted her—her utility sink in the front corner, complete with towels, antibacterial wipes, hand sanitizer and dish detergent. Her stash of emergency water underneath was down to two gallons after the power outage this winter. She couldn't crank the faucets because it would echo through the pipes, but she could scrub her hands clean enough to renew the protections on the house.

“What is this room?” Harry whispered.

“My safe room. The cellar is through there.” She indicated a steel door between an industrial cabinet and a deep freeze. The skateboards for quick escape lay atop a cabinet. The low hum of the freezer added a mundane element to the scene. “Can you hear anyone?”

Harry paused by the door. She held her breath.

“A couple men upstairs. Somebody's running a vacuum cleaner. This room seems fairly soundproof,” he answered.

“They can't hear us if they aren't shifters. I bet one is Pete. He wouldn't let them search the house without him.”

Harry glanced toward the ceiling. “Can Pete hear us?”

“Our senses aren't as sharp as yours.” June kicked off her clogs, which spattered muck all over the concrete floor, and plonked her purse on the sink counter. She grabbed enough wipes to clean the muck off the leather exterior. Otherwise when she opened it, the contents could become contaminated. “What time do you think it is?”

Harry reached into his back pocket gingerly and dragged out his cell phone. “Wow, it's still working. 7:00 a.m.”

Perfect, she had thirty minutes to spare before standard renewal time. The root cellar stood at the central point of the spell's boundaries. Her body acclimated to the temperature of the room as the sludge dried on her skin.

And then she began to itch.

Harry gestured with his phone. “Want me to preserve the memory? We look amazing.”

She rubbed her nose and instantly regretted it. “We smell even better.”

Blackish green sludge coated Harry's jeans and torso. Two featureless blobs masquerading as his boots tracked goo on the floor. Except for one smear near his mouth, he'd kept his face and hair relatively clean. With a smirk, he held his phone at arm's length and snapped an image of himself.

June couldn't imagine how much worse she looked. She could feel muck spattered over her face, pasting her hair to her neck. Her favorite pajamas were ruined. But they'd made it into the house, increasing their chances of surviving this fiasco tenfold.

Harry aimed his phone at her and clicked.

“You big goomer. Delete that,” she ordered.

“Blackmail.” He set the phone on the counter and rubbed his arms. “What now?”

After spot-cleaning her purse, June turned her attention to herself and her crawling skin. “We get out of these disgusting clothes.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “I took pictures too soon.”

“I'm going to barf again if I can't get this off me.” No time for modesty. Or photographs. “If you touch that phone, I will hex you.”

“Can you do that?”

“Totally.” She peeled the flannel pants off her legs with a gross, sucking noise. Sludge had worked inside the pants at the waist and up to her knees, but her thighs were startlingly white. Then she tried unbuttoning her top. Her fingers were too chilled.

“Let me.” Harry's toasty body closed in, and he released the buttons. Shifters did run hot. Their temperature hovered two degrees higher than a human's, but witches, like young shifters, had more humanlike vitals.

“Thanks.” She shrugged her filthy shirt onto the floor and studied her torso. Not much of her had escaped the muck. Goddess, this was disgusting.

To his credit, Harry didn't get fresh though she had on nothing but panties. The muck probably had as much to do with it as anything.

June turned back to the sink and uncapped a gallon of water, her back to him. She shivered and then had a good scratch. “There are spare clothes in the cellar. Would you get me something warm?”

“Just a sec.” Harry removed his boots and jeans. The denim had protected his legs more than her pajamas had protected hers. His boxers were clean. He twisted the knob on the door and peered into the root cellar. “I can't believe I never noticed this door.”

“It's not as soundproof out there,” she whispered. “Don't let the door latch behind you, and don't turn on the light.”

“Gotcha.”

While he rummaged in the root cellar, June sloshed muck off her arms and hands. The water was room temperature. Gradually she began to thaw. She scrubbed her hands with an old towel, wishing she had hot water, lots of soap, five gallons of antibacterial gel, a nail file, a pumice stone and an hour to spare. She couldn't allow any trace of sludge to pollute her spell. That would foul things up mightily.

Harry reappeared with a bundle of clothes.

“You got more water?” He reached for one of her towels.

“You can have my last gallon. The room drains in the corner.” It would trickle back into the field line they'd just crawled through.

“On second thought, I could just pop into wolf form. Dirt won't stick.”

“Better not. I don't know if the spell is strong enough for that with Pete in the house.”

As quickly as possible, they dirtied her rag towels and emptied the water. The more sludge she wiped, the more she realized she was practically naked in the same room as Harry. June kept her back to him and focused on the grungy rags. Her ministrations worsened the briar scratches on her hands, but the slow ooze of blood would cleanse them. She used most of her water on her hands and face. The rest of her would have to wait.

At last she was satisfied her hands wouldn't sully the spell. After slipping into her clothes, she turned to Harry, who looked particularly fetching in yellow sweatpants. For her, he'd unearthed red shorts and a wool sweater that had always had an odd lanolin smell. She welcomed the warmth, if not the odor.

As she shoved her crusty hair out of her face, June said, “Can you guard the trapdoor while I cast the protection spell?”

“Sure.” Harry held the door for her, his voice muted. “Are you going to dance around and light fires and stuff?”

“Hardly.” Magic began as a neutral energy within the self. It gained purpose depending on how it was used. Or, more specifically, what organic ingredients it funneled through. The occasional mineral like talc functioned as an inert base. During a spell, a substance's natural properties were multiplied and transformed by the magic.

Protection spells involved forcing magic through preselected components and into boundary markers. Her markers were boxes of soapstone filled with herbs, scattered around her property in a precise circumference, with an internal set in the safe room walls. When cast properly, the magic shot into the components and out the other side infused with intent. The spell happened. A werewolf was calmed; a cut healed; her home space sheltered.

Magic, in fact, was about as showy as making potpourri.

When the door to the safe room closed, June allowed herself a deep, restorative breath. The low light in the cellar shouldn't give them away to anyone above. She and Harry were going to get through this without her losing her magic, without him becoming a packer. Hopefully without the coven insisting he needed a memory adjustment.

Because, did she want him to forget? Perhaps it was time to retire Sandie and begin her second pass-through as Sandie's granddaughter, June. Like hope, the familiar scents of old clothes, pickles, herbs and dusty potatoes overpowered the odor of the sludge.

Could this possibly work between her and Harry? Could they be together after this?

“Harry,” she began, but he shushed her.

He pointed at the trapdoor, the ladder to the upstairs folded against the ceiling.

A few thunks sounded above them. People in her stillroom? She'd left it in a mess.

Well, criminy.
She hoped the police investigation didn't cost her too much money replacing components. Or hiring a lawyer.

June blocked the vision of the police dumping her costly Spanish saffron, trying to figure out if it was an illegal substance. She settled into the room's center and dug through her purse until she located her travel mortar and pestle. Cayenne from yesterday powdered the surface. Careful not to touch the specks, she cleaned the tools with a wet wipe. No telling how cayenne and poppy would alter her protection spell.

Satisfied it was sterile, she wiped her hands. To the mortar she added premeasured packets of chicory, salvia, bay, thistle and caraway, then sprinkled in black tea leaves so the police would experience a sudden desire to be elsewhere. All this she pulverized before meditating on her power reserves. Pieces of hair tickled her neck and face, courtesy of the sludge. Her nose itched. Twitched. The briar pricks on her hands stung.

Through it all, Harry watched her, his whiskey-brown eyes trained on her every move.

This wasn't working. Thoughts of what she and Harry might do once they were alone—and clean—kept intruding. She could shelve the image of the cops costing her hundreds of dollars in saffron, but not the one of Harry kneeling between her legs.

“Stop watching me,” she whispered. “I can't concentrate.”

He raised a finger to his lips.

She shut her eyes and imagined Harry. Naked. Looming over her and…

A much louder
thunk
rattled the trapdoor.

A muffled voice said, “Does Miss Sandie have a cellar? I think it's hollow under here.”

The stomps of the policeman thundered through the cellar. “Definitely hollow. Where do you reckon the door is?”

Her heart racing, June poured the spell components into her hand. Powder escaped her fingers; she caught it in her other hand. Leaning so close to her doubled fists that her sludge-stiffened hair tumbled over them, she tightened her inner self…

And released.

It was like taking a deep breath to blow out a candle on the other side of the room. Magic rushed out of her. She reeled. Wow, either she was more drained than she'd realized or adding the black tea was going to make the policemen really quick-step out of here.

Footsteps trotted away from the trapdoor and faded, exiting the house. Another set followed. Another.

June straightened, dizzy, and shook her head to clear it. Dried sludge speckled her hands, falling from her hair like the world's most disgusting dandruff. Her reserves seemed to be empty again—three depletions in less than twenty-four hours.

“They're gone.” Harry watched her with intense speculation. “You did that?”

“Yeah.” The first time she said it, it came out raspy. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I did.”

“Cool.” He scratched his arms. “Can I shift?”

“Now? You'll be stuck in the cellar.” She'd never seen Harry up close as a wolf, only flashes in passing. He wasn't gigantic—more fleet and rangy, with long legs, lots of creamy white on his underside.

“I can shift back and forth.” He indicated his side, where sludge fouled the reddened wound. “This hurts, and I've got a wicked headache.”

The injury marred his muscular torso. She'd seen more of Harry's body in the past several hours than she had in eight years as Sandie. A definite perk. “Wait until we're sure they aren't coming back.”

They lingered five minutes, ten. Harry held his head cocked to the side, as if it helped him hear better. Her knees and behind began to ache on the hard concrete. It seemed the spell had worked.

“Anyone up there?” she asked.

“We're clear.”

She rose, depositing the inert components in the wastebasket before dusting her hands. “Then I guess we can…”

Before she finished her sentence, Harry had lowered the ladder and disappeared upstairs in a flash of buttercup fleece.