WILLEM (The Witches of Wimberley Book 1) (6 page)

As soon as I, the last to sit down, had taken my chair, the room came alive with wait staff. One person was pouring wine while another set an assorted basket of freshly baked breads while another set out individual saucers of butter pads stamped with the crest that was on the gates, the front doors, and in the grand foyer.

I turned to Ivan and said, “Top drawer. Bet they can’t beat this in Bellaire.”

He smirked like it was just any other day, but said, “Yeah. A guy could get used to this.”

The waiters delivering food drew my attention. It appeared that each of the five of us had his own personal waiter. It also seemed that each of us was getting a different first course.

Robert got Caesar salad. Harper got oysters on the half shell. Charlie got onion soup. Ivan got what appeared to be caramelized mushrooms on watercress. I got coconut shrimp. My favorite.

I turned to Harper. “Is that your favorite?”

“It is. Kind of scary how much they know about us, but in a way it’s relaxing. They already know the good, the bad, and the ugly. And we’re still here.”

“I can see how that could take the pressure off.” I was getting the distinct impression that I was the
only
one who didn’t know the entire story on why we were here. So I decided to enjoy dinner, watch the presentation and see if I could piece the puzzle together later. I would have felt like a fraud except that I was an actor by profession, which meant that I flitted from one dishonest vignette to another.

The lights dimmed simultaneously as strains of acoustic guitar flowed from what was arguably the best sound system I’d ever heard. I would have sworn they were hiding the actual guitarist behind the wall. Two large squares of block paneling slid to the side with a low whirring noise that was barely noticeable, to expose a giant black glass screen.

The room was just dark enough to make video look good and just light enough to be able to see and appreciate the beauty of dinner. I hadn’t had food like that since I was being courted by my agent.

I popped a jumbo coconut shrimp in my mouth and grabbed the dark roll sitting atop my personal bread basket. As a believer in ‘signs’, I figured the dark roll wanted to be consumed first.

The acoustic guitar faded out and was replaced by sounds of nature as the first image appeared. It was a giant of a man who looked like a fantasy movie Viking, long blonde hair partly braided around his face, with beard scruff that was more red than blonde. He was wearing faded jeans, a black Henley that showed off part of his prominent clavicle, sleeves pushed up to show off muscular forearms, and black biker boots.

He was different from the guys in the room with me, but no less attractive in his own way. Just depends on whether or not giant guys with blonde hair, blue eyes, square jaws, and hard-looking-stomachs do it for you. He was standing in front of an emerald green river with limestone ledges in the background and cypress trees with exposed roots in the foreground.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m Raider.”

Raider?
I didn’t find that at all difficult to believe
.

“Right now you’re probably thinking this looks too magical to be real,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “but this isn’t even the river’s best day. I’ve seen the water change from emerald green to turquoise on a sunny day and go black as night in a thunder storm. It’s not magic though. It’s Wimberley.”

He began walking slowly along the grassy bank of the river as he talked. “The first Wimberley came here before Texas was even a republic and the family’s been here ever since. Some of us are married to the descendants. Some of us are married to newcomers.” He laughed. “Of course, newcomer might refer to somebody who’s been here for a hundred years.

“So you’re thinking about whether or not you want to enter the competition,” he said, looking directly into the camera. “You’ve probably guessed by now that I’m a past winner. Correction. That was a silly thing to say. Because if you win this competition, you’ve won for life.

“I’ve been where you are.” He grinned. “I got buffalo wildwings with six dipping sauces and two racks of ribs for supper. No matter what you’re feelin’ right now, you couldn’t possibly be feelin’ more out of place than I did.

“So you get the idea. We’re not all the same. Far from it. I’m guessing some of you are having dishes I couldn’t spell or even pronounce. In the end, it’s not so much about who you are as whether or not you’re right for the debutantes. There are two this year.”

As he continued to walk slowly the background scenery changed slightly and every new view seemed to be more enchanting than the last.

“You probably wouldn’t think I’d be a candidate for something like this. I was an outlaw biker who got sucked into that life on a promise of fun, anarchy, and pussy.

“After eight years what I had to show for it was this.” He grabbed the neckline of the knit shirt and tugged it down to reveal an angry-looking red slash across his chest. “Let me tell you, it’s not fun to get shot at or knifed. It’s not anarchy when you have to follow somebody else’s orders twenty-four-seven, right or not, like it or not. And the pussy? Christ. Looking back I can’t believe the nasty cunts I stuck my dick into.

“I wanted out, but there was no walking away. Except for this. Thank the gods for this. It saved my life.

“Now I fish for catfish.” He looked over his shoulder at the river behind him. “They’re some monsters in there. I take ‘em home, somebody else cleans ‘em up, covers ‘em in corn meal like they ought to be, and fries ‘em up.

“I ride my Harley through the hills when I get restless. The Hill Country is the best ride anywhere. Guaranteed to clear your head and make you glad you’re alive. Sometimes I go climbing over at Canyon Lake Gorge. I kayak on the Comal River when we get a flood. If the rapids don’t get your heart goin’ then you’re not alive. My wife doesn’t like it when I do that stuff, but…” he shrugged and grinned, “you know.

“The last part is the best. My wife. I’m not going into that. All I’ll say about it is this. Get your own.

“That’s what you have a chance to do.”

Wait. What?!?

There’re no guarantees. Two weeks from now about fifty guys will show up here in Wimberley with big dreams, but only two will ring the bell and snuff out the candle.”

Ring the bell and snuff out the candle?

“The other forty-eight will go home not remembering what they saw and heard, wondering why the fuck they went to Wimberley of all places.” He chuckled. “It’s better for everybody that way.

“So enjoy your dinner. If you decide to go on to the next step and you pass the test, I’ll see you here. Otherwise, hasta la vista, baby.”

As the image faded, the lights came up slightly and the acoustic guitar music resumed. The wait staff hurried to remove the remains of our first course, replace it with the entrée we all wanted, but didn’t choose, and refill the wine.

Charlie got prime rib. Robert got sea bass. Ivan got lamb lollypops with mint sauce. Harper got lobster. After seeing these expensive delicacies delivered to my peers, I laughed out loud when I was presented with tomato-sauce covered meatloaf. I don’t know how they got my mother’s recipe, but by damn, that was what I wanted more than anything else at that moment in time. I just hadn’t known it until they put it in front of me.

The other guys looked at me and my plate when I laughed out loud. The waiter looked worried. “Is everything alright, Mr. Draiocht?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “It’s beyond perfect.”

As soon as everyone was served, the wait staff withdrew, the guitar music faded, and the screen lit again. This time the camera was focused on a guy returning tennis balls as fast as the ball machine launched them his way. He wore new-style bright tennis clothes and had a red bandana tied on his head. When the ball machine stopped, he jogged over to a mark in front of the camera.

The tennis court was set high on a hill with a two-hundred-seventy-degree view.

“I’m Stefan,” he said with an accent that suggested Eastern European.

The guy looked to be taller than average, but he had a tennis build, strong and wiry. His tan looked like he spent a lot of time on the court and his dark hair and eyes reminded me a little of Rafael Nadal.

“I was a winner seven years ago.” He looked over his shoulder. “I like playing, but I didn’t like the stress or politics of the pro circuit. Now I play for fun and teach kids. You’d have to be a lunatic to ask if I have regrets.”

The camera moved backward as Stefan walked forward. “Is it Camelot here? I guess that depends on what Camelot is to you.” He climbed a set of wide stone steps to another level opening onto an infinity pool with an even more spectacular view. “Everybody has their own idea of what that means.”

As Stefan turned, the camera turned with him so that he was backed by a view of a breathtaking white columned Grecian-style villa, three stories high with flagstone patios, bronze statues of deer, and filmy gauze drapes on the veranda. It was probably the most romantic thing I’d ever seen. What I mean is, I would probably think so if I was a woman.

Stefan’s arm swept behind him to encompass the building. He smiled like the cat who got the canary and said, “But this is pretty good.”

I had to agree with Stefan. The promise of life like that is what turns people to crime.

As Stefan’s smile faded from view, the image was replaced with a set of wide iron gates bearing the same WW crest I’d seen all around the building in which I was presently having dinner.

A female narrator with a velvety, seductive voice said, “This is the entrance to our little colony. Of course access is invitation-only.” As the camera panned up, we saw that there were quite a few white palaces dotting hilltops and hillsides. “Residents are encouraged to pursue whatever interest is at the center of their heart’s desire. While you’re finishing dinner, we’ll give you a taste of local life in Wimberley. It’s not just for us, you know. It’s also an artists’ colony.”

Strains of acoustic guitar returned to create audio backing for a video of galleries. Each showed people viewing paintings or sculptures, conversing with the artists, or negotiating terms for purchase.

It would have been really interesting, an artists’ colony in an area as remote as Wimberley, but the video suggested they draw enough visitors from San Antonio and Austin, or elsewhere, to keep them thriving.

If I was fitting the puzzle pieces together correctly, this was some kind of contest of would-be suitors. The winners would, apparently, spend the rest of their days kept in the lap of luxury by sugar mamas. In exchange for what? Being sex slaves to somebody who had to go to these lengths to find a man? I would say I was about to hit rock bottom, but that would be hard to sell from a hilltop Grecian palace with all the time I wanted to do whatever.

The video faded to black, the lights and music came up a little and the wait staff rushed out to make sure we were treated like kings, removing dinner plates to make room for dessert.

“What else can we get you, Mr. Draiocht? Coffee? Bananas Foster?”

I smiled. At that point it didn’t surprise me that they knew I had a place in my stomach in permanent reserve for the next offer of Bananas Foster. “Now how could I refuse an offer like that?”

My waiter’s brown eyes gleamed. “It will be right out, sir.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

I heard the other ‘contestants’ agreeing to similar offers. All except for Robert who declined while making a rather loud statement about love handles and the evils of sugar. If you’d have asked me which of the four would be that asshole, I would have pointed at him an hour ago and said, “Yep. That’s the one. No question.” He was just wearing that holier-than-thou smarminess like a gooey aura.

While we waited for a selection of the world’s best desserts, three of us were poured coffee from individual silver carafes that were left sitting at our place just in case we wanted self-serve seconds.

The waiter lifted the little pitcher of cream, “Shall I pour, Mr. Draiocht?”

“No. I prefer doctoring my own coffee. Thank you for the brown sugar. Nice touch.”

My waiter looked a little shocked that he was being thanked for condiments. “You’re welcome, sir. Would you care for more?”

I looked from him to the Sterling sugar bowl holding enough brown sugar for six months. “This will do.” I leaned forward, lowered my voice in conspiracy. “And I wouldn’t want to offend the sugar police.”