Witches Protection Program (2 page)

That actress’s voice continued. Maybe he was wrong, but her voice was so familiar. He tried to place her. It was one of those celebrity chefs. He was sure he recognized her from somewhere.

“Pay attention, Wes,” Alastair whispered.

“The problems escalated as harvest failed, and squabbles broke out in the villages. Both petty jealousies and
long
-standing feuds were the catalysts to get the law involved. Soon the sisterhood of witches turned on one another.”

Wes perked up as the pretty group of women flirted with the judge.

“Looks like a potential catfight,” Wes murmured.

“Are you taking notes? There’s a test afterward…I’m kidding, Wes. The information will all come together. Relax.”

One woman loosened her collar; another tucked an errant hair under her cap. Licking her lips, she coyly said, “It wasn’t me, good sir. Goody
Abigail”
—she pointed a slender finger at a slovenly woman on the other side of the
room
—“she put ideas in my head, she did. She made me bark like a dog.”

The room erupted. The judge slammed the hammer on his gavel. “Quiet! Quiet. Go on, mistress. What else did Goody Abigail do?”

“She spake in tongues!” another shouted. “She be a witch.”

“Look at her, Judge,” the first female said, her voice seductive. “She looketh like a witch.” She walked over, circling the old woman, sniffing. “She has an odor of brimstone and sulfur. I saw her…” She spun to face the judge, her voice loud. “She danced with the devil! Naked!”

Shouts overwhelmed the judge’s cries for order. Now Wes watched raptly as the frumpy witches were led to the gallows. The voiceover continued with more sad details.

“The accusations caused a great schism. Witches split into two factions: the Davinas and the Willa. Both groups continued to practice their brands of magic even though they disappeared into the fabric of society. Davinas mastered medicine and healing. You may have known one as a teacher or a nurse. They used their powers for the good of mankind. The Willa went
dark
—very
dark
—embracing the nefarious arts and anything that thwarted goodness. They hid their intentions and were shunned by society but used circumstances to make mayhem. For close to a century, no one could identify them, and no one was safe.”

Wes recognized Mount Vernon, President George Washington’s home. He had been there on a field trip in the fourth grade. The plantation bustled with activity; the Potomac sparkled with the sun’s rays. The camera swooped into the main entrance, finding the first family enjoying domestic bliss. Martha Washington, her dress spread around her like spilled lace, sat in a dainty chair, stitching on a tambour while the general was sprawled in his armchair, reading.

In the distance, cackles filled the air. Mrs. Washington dropped her embroidery, her face white. She rose, walking slowly to the window. “General, do you not hear it?” she whispered.

“Stay away from the window, madam. They are far off,” he said sharply.

The echoes of ghostly voices screaming, “Martha, Martha, Martha!” filled with room.

“Nay, husband. They draw near. George,” she said and turned, her hand near her face with alarm, “you must do something.”

The narrator filled in more information. “It wasn’t until this land became my land that the government decided to create an organization to protect woman at risk. The Davina Doctrine went against everything that the Willas stood for. Even though they ran the risk of persecution, they chose to work with law enforcement to expose the evil deeds of the rival sisterhood. President George Washington established secret legislation under Title VI of the Control Act of 1792. The law was enacted to protect the good witches that exposed the evil deeds of their sisterhood.”

The screen went dark. There was only a chair in the center of a dimly lit stage. A single spotlight focused on the top of the blond actress’s head. Wes was right; it was the actress he suspected. She had a hit sitcom and two Emmys, and there was some recent Oscar talk about her last movie.

“Yes. There are witches. Living among us. They are women who believe in using their power to protect love and life. And then there are some who use their powers for all the wrong reasons.”

The camera came to rest on her beautiful face. She winked saucily as she placed a triangular witch’s hat on her head. “Welcome to the Witches Protection Program.”

Alastair smiled broadly. “I love that part.”

“That was Jennifer
Anis
—”

Alastair went on as if Wes hadn’t spoken. “Operations have been kept secret for over two hundred years. Davina witches in the program are given
twenty
-four-hour security while in a
high
-threat environment. Money for housing, schooling, essentials, and medical care are provided. As of today, over
sixty
-three thousand witches have been protected. In the entire history of our fine program, we’ve never had a breach of security in which a protected witch was harmed.”

Wes laughed, shaking his handsome head. “I don’t believe in witches, sir.”

“By the time you’re done, oh, I promise, you’ll believe in witches. No one grows up thinking they’re going to be protecting a person who uses magic and spells to get what they want.” Alastair rounded his desk to take his seat again. “But when someone needs to be protected, does it matter who they are?”

Wes looked back mutely, unable to think of answer. He was wondering why someone with an Emmy and a possible Oscar was doing public service films.

Alastair went on. “Believe it or not, we need witches in society.” This caught Wes’s wandering attention. He smiled at the younger man’s expression of disbelief. “When a witch changes from being a belief to being a force of nature, that’s when a witch goes bad. My
job
—” He paused. “
Our
job
—is to protect the good ones and investigate the bad ones.”

“Yeah, sure. And what about the trolls and pixies?”

Alastair shrugged indifferently. “Oh, they never give us any trouble.”

“I was kidding.”

“I know, Wes. I’m not.”

“Is my father aware of all this?”

“Indeed he is. We finish what his division can’t. He has assigned you here because if you can succeed here, you’ll succeed anywhere.”

“Is that your motto?” Wes asked with chuckle.

Alastair walked over to a blank wall and waved his hand, and a portion opened with a hiss. Wes joined him, whistling at the array of weapons attached to designated spots. They weren’t any kind of firepower he’d ever seen before.

“They’re real?”

“You bet.” Alastair reached in and took out a
lethal
-looking automatic that had a huge bulb at the end of its semitranslucent muzzle. It was covered with bronze gauges and metal gears mounted atop an antique grip.

“What kind of gun is that?”

“It’s a Steampunk Vaporizer. It’s good for long distances.”

“I prefer my Glock.” Wes pulled his gun out from inside his jacket.

Alastair clicked his tongue. “That toy will be shoved so far up your ass, you’ll be praying for it not to fire. Catch.” He threw the weapon to Wes, who caught it expertly. He hefted the surprisingly light gun. Wes aimed it at the wall, looking through the crosshairs of the scope.

Alistair nodded. “It’s locked and loaded, so be careful.”

“I bet you were a big Dungeons and Dragons fan,” Wes said, taking a bead on an imaginary target.

Alastair ignored him, then held up a slim,
plastic
-looking rectangle about the size of a candy bar.

“TV remote?”

Alastair smiled, revealing a line of gleaming white teeth. Wes noticed his eyes were black and amused. “A Darrow Trance Lifter. They stopped making them for a while. This one’s old but works like a charm. Ha.” He laughed at his joke.

Wes laid down the rifle, examining the device. “How do you use them?”

“Point and shoot. Don’t overthink it.”

He handed him an
ancient
-looking handgun similar to a Colt. It was shaped like a revolver with a cylinder attached and bubbled with green liquid. The grip was made from a metal Wes had never seen before. Despite its size, it was surprisingly light in his hand. All these weapons felt like toys.

“Lastly, this one should be on you at all times.” He tossed him a polished disk. “Open it.”

Wes caught it and carefully touched the lever, watching with fascination as it opened like a clamshell. He turned it over, looking for buttons or holes for a laser. He was expecting something…more. Confusion showed on his face.

“It’s a mirror. You’ll know when to use it,” Alastair informed him.

“Come on. This is bullshit. None of this is real.”

“I assure you, Wes, it’s all very real. These are the only known tools and weapons to stop a witch,” he told him as he walked to his desk. Opening a drawer, he took out a roll of duct tape, which he pitched to Wes. Wes caught it, shrugged, and put it next to the gun.

“It’s the little things that will save your life,” Alastair told him. Reaching down, he shuffled through a few folders, found what he was looking for, and held it up for Wes. “Your first assignment.”

“OK, so let’s say for a minute that this is all
legit
—witches exist.”

“Along with trolls and pixies,” Alastair added, his face utterly serious.

“Right, yeah, witches, trolls, and pixies. Where have they been for the last three hundred years?”

Alastair leaned back in his oversize chair. “Right under your nose. Have you ever felt compelled to buy a product you didn’t need? Stopped for a meal when you weren’t hungry? Ask out a girl you never noticed before? They’ve been around for years, living and working alongside of us. The Willas ran underground when women got the right to vote at the turn of the last century. But they pop up to stir the pot every now and then. Make life dangerous for the Davinas. That’s where we come in. We protect and relocate the good witches. Keeps the peace.”

“Pretty big operation for something that happens every now and then,” Wes told him.

“Cuban Missile Crisis, the mortgage meltdown, Hurricane Katrina. Are they big enough?”

“Hurricane Katrina?” Wes asked with disbelief.

“I told you, when a witch changes from being a belief to
a
—”

“Force of nature, that’s when they become bad,” Wes finished.

“Good. You were listening. Something big is going on. There’s been a lot of chatter for months. This all could be connected in some way.” He held up the folder again. “As I said, your first assignment.”

Wes took the folder ungraciously and snapped it open to look at its contents. It took him a while to organize the material so he could understand it. “I can’t believe this. I’m not doing it.”

“OK, then your choice is to hand in your resignation and explore the employment opportunities at Frankie’s Fried Fish on the corner. You won’t have to work hard at disguising your reading problem there.”

Wes threw down the folder. “Who told you about that? Nobody knows, and I am able to read just as well as the next guy. It takes me a little longer, is all.”

“I know. I timed you. So, being that I have a boss to answer to and that boss wants me to take you to meet Junie ‘Baby Fat’ Meadows of the Meadows Witch family, I strongly suggest you pick up the folder and get to work.” Alastair grabbed his trench coat and an umbrella from a stand. “Come on,” he called from the door. “It’s time to earn your paycheck.”

“Yeah, sure.” Wes started for the door. Alastair stared pointedly at the duct tape abandoned on the chair. Wes rolled his eyes as he grabbed it.

* * *

They were seated in Alastair’s black SUV, the older man driving as he described the informant.

“She’s a great gal. I’ve known her for years. She’s a
thirty
-two-year veteran operations manager for the Red Hook Port in Brooklyn. Quite a character, makes a delicious stew. Do you like stew?”

“No,” Wes said sullenly. “You allege that she’s a witch.”

“I don’t allege anything. She’s a witch.”

“So is she a Davina or a Willa?” A gentle rain pattered against the windshield. The lights looked unfocused and softer.

“She’s Davina, through and through.” Alastair put on his wipers. They streaked across the window, smearing the view so that everything looked as muddled as Wes’s mind.

Wes glanced at Alastair, asking sarcastically, “So can I look her in the eye? She won’t suck out my soul?”

“Indeed,” Alastair replied, but he said nothing else. The silence thickened until Wes squirmed uncomfortably. “All right, so what
did”
—Wes checked the information in the
folder
—“Baby Fat do to earn this visit from the Witches Protection Program?”

CHAPTER TWO

Red Hook, Brooklyn

T
he cavernous building was covered corner to corner with corrugated shipping containers. They were stacked on top of one another, high enough that some grazed the ceiling. They were
brand
-new and painted with a logo known to most women throughout the world. Pendragon Cosmetics was a
lower
-end cosmetic found in most drugstores. Heavily advertised on both radio and television, the products promised youth and beauty at a price that made them veritable household items.

A squat woman wearing a polyester skirt and a
vest
-like apron covered in shamrocks walked down an alley of containers, a clipboard under her arm and a pen designed to look like a tree branch in her gnarled hand. She had unkempt, mousy hair, with a tortoiseshell barrette holding it back from her bulbous eyes. Spider veins created a road map on her flabby face, and most would call her ugly. Junie “Baby Fat” Meadows didn’t mind. She had a magic mirror at home, so it didn’t matter. Walking confidently toward a milling group, she handed out sheaves of papers to each one of them. Some had questions that she answered patiently, while others stopped to talk office chitchat. The loudspeaker squawked, interrupting conversations.

“Junie. My office, now!”

“Dominic,” Junie muttered, exchanging glances with her colleague.

“He sounds pissed,” the other woman offered.

Junie shrugged indifferently. “He’s a pain in my ass.”

Junie walked slowly toward the metal steps leading to the boss’s office on the mezzanine. She rushed for no one, man or beast. She rested her hand on the railing and looked up the sixteen steps to the office with a sigh, wondering what the hell he wanted from her. He knew she hated climbing those steps. Looking longingly at a push broom in the corner, she dismissed using magic. Too many workers here today. Made them crazy when she did a little something to make her life easier. Upset the dockworkers, they didn’t understand
magic
—superstitious morons. She’d been told to keep her powers to herself, anyway. Pendragon was firm about that. While Dominic knew she was a witch, it didn’t mean it was public knowledge. Wearily, she climbed the steps, not even her misshapen orthopedic shoes easing her way. “This better be good, Dominic,” she muttered as she entered the office. “Whatsamatter, Dominic? The Panama shipments just came in.” She slammed the door behind her so hard that the glass windows rattled.

“Why were you going through the Pendragon Cosmetics order?” Dominic demanded. He was
forty
-four, with a potbelly and dyed black hair with a matching mustache under his very long,
cucumber
-shaped nose. His gray had come in, so it looked like both his scalp and ‘stache had a thin ring of white outlining their shape.

Junie looked at him insolently, hand on hip. “Because that’s my job.”

Dominic held up a handful of timecards, waving them around, his face mottled.
A little too choleric before ten in the morning
, Junie observed.

“You called in extra office staff for the export order without asking? That’s gotta be cancelled.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s four hundred million units. I can’t process that order by myself.”

“Well, you better. That’s what we pay you for.” He threw the cards at her so they fluttered around the office, wafting to the floor like helicopter seeds falling from maple trees. Junie narrowed her eyes at him, her face darkening. “Send ‘em home. Did you share this information with anyone?”

“I was in the process of giving it out.” She kicked a timecard that landed on her foot. “Why?”

“Go get the manifests back, and I hope for your sake that none of this information gets out.” Dominic pounded the desk.

“Why?” Junie repeated, her voice steely.

“Because they don’t want it shared with anyone. And it better not have left the building. If it did, there’s gonna be some serious consequences.”

“You threatening me?” Junie touched the reassuring surface of her pen. It hummed to life, faintly glowing, warming the palm of her hand. She slid it under the chrome clip of the clipboard.

Dominic walked around the desk, bending down to angrily pick up the timecards. He shoved them onto her clipboard, his face close to hers. His fingertips came in contact with her vibrating wand. He brushed together his hands dismissively. “Yeah,” he said nastily, his beady eyes holding hers. “I ain’t afraid of you or one of your stupid spells, Baby Fat, and neither is Pendragon. You can wind up your magic pen all you want. You got nuthin’ against them. You hear me? Nuthin’.” His ferret nose quivered with anger as he gave her a final push toward the door. He stopped, abruptly adding, “Yeah, and by the way, they called earlier and said you better have the galley’s victuals and water stocked by Friday.”

“I’ve got a week to get that done!” Junie retorted.

“No, you don’t. They want it now, so you got
forty
-eight hours, you hear me?” He finished with a menacing glare.

“Forty
-eight hours?” Junie sputtered, then held up her hand in defeat. “Whoever heard of such a thing. Food’s gonna spoil.”

“Not your business. Don’t make me come and check on you.”

Junie nodded, her gaze never leaving his. She walked down the steps, pausing to look up at him watching her intently like an angry vulture. Looking down at her wand, she watched it pulse weakly, knowing her brand of magic was nothing against a giant like Pendragon. Suddenly, Junie was
afraid
—very afraid. Shivering involuntarily, she went to send her staff home.