Witches Protection Program (5 page)

“And you do?” Morgan asked. She stood by the window, looking out on the tiny cars moving below. It was quiet up there, high in the clouds. In the distance, Jersey and its vast complex of warehouses stood.

“Of course,” Bernadette responded confidently.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“It doesn’t matter. You like having your loft in Soho, the private driver, your expensive
trailer
-trash clothes. Sign the papers, and you can continue as you always have.”

“It’s all just stuff.”

“So you say,” Bernadette said smugly.

“Why is it so important that I sign?” Morgan’s dark eyes filled with tears.

“I want to see women all over the world using Pendragon Glow. We are having a global release that can’t be interrupted with new people sticking their inexperienced noses in my business.”

“Oh, that snake oil again. Please, Bernadette, take it off the market. You know as well as I do, it just barely got through the FDA.”

“A mere formality. I know what I’m doing, Morgan. The cream will revolutionize the beauty industry.”

“Like the Segway revolutionized walking. It’s a face cream! Not the cure for cancer. I just don’t like anything about it. I don’t like the way it smells, the way it feels. It’s a bad product, Bea.”

“You see? You see why you have to sign now? You don’t understand its importance.
Ultra
-nourishing, deeply hydrating. Its unique formula will change the way women see themselves.”

“It’s poison, and you know it, Bea.”

“Why would you even say that? You never complained about our products before.”

“Because this cream is different. Because you’re different since you started developing it.” Morgan turned thoughtful. “You’ve been so secretive about it. You are up to something. I just don’t know what.”

Bernadette stood, her
six
-foot frame towering over her petite niece. She place her thin hand on Morgan’s shoulder, her mouth close to her ear. “You are too young to be involved. We are the
fastest
-growing company in the world. Women everywhere are begging for more. We have to empower our consumers. Give them control over their lives. This new line has a little bit of…you and me in it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“DNA. We are raising the bar in cosmetics! We are changing the world.”

“That’s revolting.” Morgan spun. “The only one who will have control is you. It’s sick, sick!” Morgan bolted to get her bag, but her aunt’s strident voice stopped her. She was holding her stone again.

“We have been oppressed for centuries. We’ve had to hide our true abilities from the world.”

“Davinas don’t have to hide.”

Bernadette’s tight lips made a moue of disapproval. “It’s time for us to function the way we were designed.”

“You’re talking like a Willa.” Morgan’s voice was a hushed whisper.

“Do you think all
this”
—Bernadette’s arms opened wide, the rock in her fisted hand, to indicate the opulent
office
—“came from behaving like a Davina?”

“You and my mother are Davina. We are Davinas, as was Grandmama and her mother before that.”

“You are so naïve.” Bernadette smiled sadly. “This grows tiresome.” She picked up a
black
-and-white photo of a young woman who looked like a younger version of herself. “Poor, poor Catarina. She was so cautious, so…pious.”

“You’re wicked,” Morgan accused her.

“If the shoe fits.”

“Wrong fairy tale. I’m leaving.”

“Sign the papers, Morgan, or I’ll make your life miserable.” She hit the intercom. “Jasmine, have my niece sign the papers I gave you earlier.”

The door opened, and Scarlett escorted two other women into the room. Both were extremely tall, dwarfing Scarlett. One was Asian; the other had the dark hair and olive skin of the Mediterranean. Both were dressed in black leather. They took up spots on either side of the room like silent sentinels. Morgan knew them both and disliked them equally. Wu came from China and consequently dealt with the factories in Asia. She was her aunt’s liaison with the production centers. Proud and hawkish, she refused to exchange pleasantries, no matter how anyone tried. She had a superior air that kept people at a distance, including Morgan. Vincenza had started as an exchange student from Italy and somehow never left. She had predatory eyes and a sneaky countenance. She worked as an errand girl for her aunt, and many times Morgan and Vincenza were thrown together while waiting for Bernadette. Once, her aunt had sent the two of them to the Bronx Zoo, and Vincenza had creeped her out with her fascination in the reptile house. Somehow, she’d found a way inside to lay down with a python, and Morgan had to call her aunt to order her out before the zookeeper found her. Morgan nodded to both of them.

“There’s been a problem with the shipment,” Scarlett told Bernadette as she approached the desk.

“Not now, Scarlett.” She looked at Morgan, her gaze warning her. “Sign the papers today.” Her voice was quiet.

“Or what?” Morgan asked defiantly.

“You don’t want to know.”

* * *

Jasmine sat at her desk, a pile of papers three inches thick in front of her.

“Do you want to sit here?” Jasmine said, apologetically holding out a pen.

Morgan moved to leave. Jasmine smiled sadly. “I have to have those papers signed. I’m sorry, Morgan.”

Morgan sighed gustily. If her aunt insisted she embrace her inner witch, then the old bat was going to have to deal with the consequences. Reaching into her hobo bag, she moved the contents around. “I only use my own pen.”

“Excuse me,” Jasmine said playfully. “Is it special?”

“It was my mom’s.” Morgan continued searching the voluminous bag. Her short fingers found the cylindrical shape of her willow wand, and she closed her eyes with regret. Saying a silent apology to Jasmine, she whispered, “They never saw me leave. I’m getting off the hook. Place these stupid papers in a place no one will ever look.”

Jasmine’s eyes glazed as she took the pile of papers, putting them in a cabinet in the corner of her office. Morgan said a breezy
good
-bye as the elevator doors closed. Jasmine blinked rapidly, looked distractedly around, and then sat down to type a memo.

CHAPTER FIVE

S
unlight bleached the pavement an ivory white. Wes sat in Alastair’s SUV. There were two
half
-filled coffee cups and a half dozen doughnuts between them. The morning rush swirled around them. New York City in the morning had a special, infectious energy. People jogged in shorts and tank tops; women wore skirts, their feet in comfortable sneakers, their high heels hanging from the openings of their purses. Men in business suits, swinging briefcases, rushed past the car, sometimes holding the hands of the small children they escorted to school before work.

The two agents watched as the March winds stirred the brisk air, making people walk with a snap in their step.

Wes felt something weighty bounce in his lap and fall to the floor of the car. He turned to Alastair. “What was that?”

“Pick it up.”

Squeezing his large shoulders between the dash and the floor, he combed the floor mat until his hands closed on a cold metal object. Picking it up, he held a badge pinned to a leather patch held by a long chain.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Wes said.

His thumb caressed the embossed shield, which displayed two crossed broomsticks and the name
Witches Protection Program
. His eyes rested on the bottom of the shield where the motto announced “Defenders of the Craft” in bold letters.

He turned to Alastair. “Defenders of the craft?”

Alastair replied, “Indeed.”

Wes dropped the badge negligently into his jacket pocket, forgetting about it immediately.

Alastair handed Wes a long, thin box. “Here, your business cards. I had them made for you last night.”

Wes shook his head, waving them away. “I won’t be needing them. I don’t plan on staying long. One and done, and then I’ll be heading back to my old unit.”

“Of course,” Alastair agreed. “Still, you never know. Take a few for the time being.”

Wes didn’t like his smug smile. Everything about the older man, who’d picked him up at seven that morning, rubbed him the wrong way. Still, he took out four cards, stuffing them in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Personally, I’m a jelly man all the way.” Alastair popped a doughnut into his mouth, his eyes on the crowd. The little guy irritated him something fierce. Wes grunted a response. He didn’t want to make small talk with Alastair, the lucky leprechaun. He didn’t want
doughnuts
—or coffee, for that matter. He wanted to get the job done, go back to his father’s department, and never think about a witch again. Not even on Halloween. He pulled out his laptop from his knapsack on the floor, silently typing in
Morgan Pendragon
.

“It’s like she barely exists,” Wes said dispiritedly as he combed popular sites looking for images of the girl.

“Keep looking; she’s there,” Alastair told him, wiping his fingertips on a napkin. “She never liked having her picture taken.”

“Yeah, she’s always hiding behind a big purse or something.”

“If you check out anything in the club scene, you’ll find her. Stop searching for her. Look for artists, musicians, reality show creatures. She’s always in the crowd. Look.” He leaned over, pointing his short finger at the monitor. Jelly smeared on the screen. “There she is.”

Wes gave him a dirty look, rubbing ineffectually at the stain. “Oh, come on, I would never have found her.” He clicked on the photo, enlarging the grainy image. It was a group of
goth
-looking freaks outside Faves, a trendy nightclub downtown. He peered closely at a short girl with dark hair, held under the arm of a tall singer from the band Ratfinger. The guy had lumps in his forehead. Wes brought the laptop closer to his face.

“Body modification,” Alastair told him, his eyes now searching the crowds on the city sidewalks outside the Pendragon building. “They have shapes surgically put under their skin to make themselves
look
—”

“She’s into that?” Wes interrupted as he tried to enlarge her white face.

“Kids,” Alistair said with an indifferent shrug. “There she is.” He gestured to a pixie of a girl on the sidewalk, dressed all in black, carrying the oversize purse Wes now recognized. “Wait here.”

Alastair hopped out of the car. Wes fished his new badge from his pocket, slapped it on the dash, and quickly followed him.

“Miss
—Miss Pendragon,” Alastair called out to her.

Morgan heard her name being called and spotted an old man and a young, blond hunk following her. She noticed they didn’t have cameras, so they weren’t paps; maybe they worked for her aunt. Morgan picked up her pace, trying to lose them.

Wes dodged the crowds, losing Alastair in his rush to get to the girl, stopping short when he realized that not only did the older man have the girl, but he had somehow passed him without notice. Wes looked around wildly. Alastair’s calm voice reached him.

“I told you to stay in the car.” He had Morgan Pendragon’s arm in a grasp that looked casual, but Wes knew from the expression on her face it was not. “Miss Pendragon, we’d like to have a word with you.”

They had to be cops. Morgan eyed the little
gray
-haired guy with the goatee and the blond Neanderthal following him with the dawning realization they were feds. “Piss off.”

“Miss Pendragon, we would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Do you have a warrant?” Morgan demanded.

Alastair turned sideways, his trench coat flaring in the breeze. Morgan spied the butt of an antique Vaporizer, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Who are you guys?” she whispered.

“We’re friends, Morgan,” Alastair told her, his dark eyes boring into hers. “We want to have a chat.”

Wes reached into his pocket and was shocked when the girl flinched in fear. “Please don’t be alarmed.” He gave Alastair’s hold on her a dirty look. “I’m only giving you my business card.”

Alastair’s gray eyebrow raised with his smirk. Wes glared at him hotly.

Morgan took the card, her body tense. Crumbling it, she drew it into her voluminous bag while she snatched her other hand from the older man. Morgan swallowed nervously, searching her purse with her fingers. She felt the slender base of her mother’s wand and gripped it, muttering, “Come, wind. Stir some dust; mask their eyes. Escape, I must.”

“No!” Alastair cried as a swirling mass of grit and dirt surrounded both men, blinding them. Morgan pulled free and was gone in an instant.

Wes rubbed the mess from his tearing eyes. “You lost her! What did she do?”

Alastair coughed, wiping his abused eyes. He scanned the street, knowing she was gone. He glanced up to see his SUV being hooked onto a city tow truck.

“What the…! I told you to stay with the truck, Wes.” He started racing to his vehicle but stopped as it was pulled hastily away and down the street.

“Don’t yell at me! I’m not the one who let her go,” he barked back. He was getting tired of Alastair’s air of superiority. Wes leaned over, gasping from both the windstorm and his sprint. “Anyway, I put that stupid badge in the window.”

“Yeah. Right. The cops don’t recognize us. We fly under the radar.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. We fly under the radar. Call Bathsheba and tell her to get the car out of impound.” Alastair hailed a cab. Wes stopped him.

“Why don’t we go in and look around?” Wes gestured at the tall building.

Alastair thought for a moment and then told the cabbie he didn’t need him. “You won’t get past security. Bernandette is in the penthouse; you’ll never get up there.”

“Watch me,” Wes told him as if on a dare. “Wait here. I’ll be back soon.” He walked over to the back of a parcel truck, eyeing a stack of boxes left negligently on the curb. Alastair pointed to the driver, now waiting impatiently by a food truck. Alastair strolled toward the line, placing his bulky body in the driver’s line of sight. Wes nodded, grabbing the pile of boxes. “This ought to be interesting.” He smiled, feeling proactive. He’d show the old guy he wasn’t such a loser.