Witches Protection Program (6 page)

CHAPTER SIX

W
es walked confidently into the entry, the parcels blocking most of his face. He had written Bernadette Pendragon’s name as the recipient before walking up to the receptionist.

“Hi,” he told the guard. “These have to be signed for.”

The guard picked up a pen. Wes moved away. “Not by you. The receiver, um,” he said slowly, looking down as if he were reading it for the first time. “B. Pendragon.”

The guard looked at the names on the boxes, shrugged, typed something, and handed Wes a sticker with a pass on it. “That’s for the
thirty
-fourth floor, the mailroom.”

Wes shook his head. “It says receiver only, she’s in the penthouse, right? My job, pal, is to get it to them.”

The guard picked up a phone, spoke for a second, then hung up. “Penthouse. Last elevator bank.”

Wes nodded, then headed for the final elevator.

He looked out into the quiet, plush office. A beautiful girl with
café
-au-lait skin was walking into the reception area as he exited the lift.

“May I help you?” she asked politely.

“Packages for…” Wes pretended to consult the top box. “Bernadette Pendragon.”

“Oh, I’ll take that.” She smiled warmly.

“Wow, big place. Gave me a hard time coming up here.” Wes grinned back.

Jasmine shrugged, holding out her hands for the boxes. “Security. You’re in rarefied air up here. They don’t let many up this far.”

“Guess I’m special.” He swept his eyes appreciatively down her body. The girl blushed prettily.

“You might be right,” she flirted back.

“Downstairs looks busy. Got anything special going on?”

Jasmine glanced at him sideways, her lashes sweeping her golden cheeks. “Yes, as a matter a fact. They are planning a huge release of face cream…worldwide.”

“Face cream? What’s the big deal?” Wes asked innocently. He looked at the pretty assistant, his smile widening. “There are thousands of them on the market. They’re all the same, if you ask me.”

“Oh no.” Jasmine’s dark eyes sparkled. “This one is special.”

“I don’t think you need anything special. You have pretty skin.” He put the boxes on a
chest
-high reception desk, then leaned closer to Jasmine, a lazy grin on his face.

Jasmine flushed prettily again. “Thanks, you’re sweet to say so. No, really, it’s been tested.” She moved closer so their chests were almost touching, as if to share something very special. She whispered, “It
can
—”

“Jasmine!” a strident voice called, wiping the smile from the pretty girl’s face. “What do you think you’re doing? All packages are supposed to come in through receiving.”

Wes heard the click of sharp heels. He moved the stack boxes to the floor, put his hand on his hip, and turned to the rude speaker.

She was beautiful, curvy, with blond hair and pouty red lips. She slowed, her strut becoming languid, but her gaze hardened on the other girl. “I’ll take over. You should know better.”

Jasmine’s face paled, and her lips tightened. “I need to take the
boxes
—”

Scarlett’s eyes narrowed. “I told you to go back to your desk. Don’t make me say it again.”

Jasmine blanched. Wes recognized primal fear in her lovely face. The air vibrated with it. She hastily began to retreat back to where she’d come from.

“I said, go!” Scarlett ordered. Jasmine flinched, then scurried off, not looking at him again, the boxes neglected on the desk.

The atmosphere thickened in the entry. Scarlett turned to face him. Wes could swear she purred. “What do you have there?” She bent, her black skirt hugging her long legs. Wes stood back, admiring the view.

“Like what you see?” she asked. She stood, coming close to him. “You know, you’re not allowed to come up here.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am.”

“Ma’am. You make me feel so old,” she teased him, wetting her lips. “You could get in a lot of trouble.”

“I wouldn’t want to cause any problems, especially when you have a big event going on. Are you giving out any samples?” he asked, coming closer.

Scarlett placed a hot hand on his shoulder. Her mouth, coming close to his ear, tickled. “It’s a secret,” she whispered.

Wes placed his hand on the curve of her hip. “I like secrets,” he said back, his voice soft.

“I bet you do,” Scarlett responded, her lips grazing his.

Wes knew she was an armful of lushness, but as much as he tried to move closer, something repelled him. Scarlett looked up at him, sensing his withdrawl, her hand splayed on his chest. They were so close, their breath intermingled. Wes could feel her sharp intake of breath as though she’d seen something deep in his eyes. She pushed him away. “You ask too many questions, errand boy. I think you should go.”

“What about the packages?”

“We don’t need you anymore. Security!” she called into the hidden phone she held in her hand. “Come and escort this man out.”

She walked away, her gaze lingering on him as two burly guards appeared instantly, taking his arms and directing him none too gently toward the elevator.

* * *

“So,” Alastair said, offering him a bag of hot chestnuts.

Wes took one, popping it in his mouth. “Security is tight, nothing new in post
nine
-eleven New York.”

Alastair nodded.

“It’s a strange place.”

“Indeed. What do you mean?”

“The employee I met was scared. Really scared.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

M
organ looked behind her back, satisfied they didn’t follow. She stepped into a recessed door, typed out a text for Gabby, and then headed for her friend’s place. It was on Ninth Avenue, a seedy tenement right in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen. Gabby lived in the
ten
-story residence with a creepy, tempermental box excuse for an elevator. Many times, they’d sat on the floor of the lift, waiting to be rescued. Morgan had recently asked why the neighborhood was called Hell’s Kitchen.

“In the eighteen hundreds, it was a rough place to live,” Gabby informed her.

“It still is. I don’t know how your parents let you stay here.”

“They don’t have much to say about it. Rent is cheap enough.”

It was an old brown building squashed between a newer
high
-rise and a crumbling office building. The apartment reeked of the Chinese food being cooked on the first floor.

“You didn’t answer my question yesterday about Hell’s Kitchen,” Morgan said, kicking off her boots and throwing her bag on the sad Naugahyde sofa.

“Well, they used to say, ‘What’s hotter than hell?’”

“Hell’s Kitchen,” Morgan said in unison with Gabby. “Kinda creepy, you living here.”

“It works with my image. Chic witch with a practice in Hell’s Kitchen.” Gabby bowed, her face beaming.

“Yeah, well, first of all, you’re not a witch.” Morgan held up her hand, ticking off her points.

“Yet. I’m learning,” Gabby retorted.

“Second of all, it hasn’t been proven that you can even learn to be a witch. My aunt says you have to be born a witch.”

“A mere formality. We will prove the skeptics wrong. Some of my spells have worked.” Her eyes sparkled, warming Morgan’s heart. She loved Gabby. When she had been friendless and alone and no one had wanted to associate with her, Gabby cheerfully embraced her. “Never mind all that, what happened? Your text was crazy. Who were the guys that stopped you?”

Morgan shuddered, thinking about the gun. She had only seen one in a book in their library at Bea’s home.

“I don’t know, and guess what? I don’t want to know. This is all getting scary. First, Bea wants me to sign over my voting rights.”

“What is she, Stalin?” Gabby exclaimed as she went into the kitchen to grab water bottles and a bag of chips. “Why is she doing that?”

“Next month is my birthday, right?” Morgan dug into her bag, fishing out the crumbled business card.

“Right, and we are going to Cabo to celebrate!” Gabby fell onto the couch, bringing up a swirl of dust. They both coughed and waved their hands. “What’s that?”

“The guy, the young one who followed me, gave me this.” She held out the
dog
-eared business card.

Gabby smoothed it out. “Wesley Rockville. Was he cute?”

Morgan shrugged. “I suppose. If you like big, blond men with tons of muscles and bright blue eyes,” she said dismissively.

“And you ran away from this guy?” Gabby asked, throwing the card into an ashtray.

Morgan leaned over, took out a match, and lit the card. Her eyes were transfixed as the flames curled the paper, turning it to ash. The flame flared upward, sparks flying. Both girls exhaled with surprise.

“Is that magic?” Gabby asked, her eyes wide.

“I
—I don’t know,” Morgan said with uncertainty. Staring at the wreckage of the card, the only thing that came to her was a sense of lost opportunity; she had no idea where that thought came from. Morgan blew at the remaining embers, watching them pulse, then go dark. A spray of ash fell on the carpet. She rubbed her fingertip over the embers, making sure they were out. Strangely, the heat traveled through her skin, up her arm, and lodged in the center of her chest. Morgan knew without a doubt it belonged there. She sat back with a look of wonder, dropping the ashtray and creating a mess on the floor. “This place is a dive,” Morgan gasped, trying unsuccessfully to hide the confusion she was feeling.

“A dump,” Gabby added. “Back to the Wicked Witch of the East. Why is she trying to make you sign away your voting rights? You haven’t voted for anything yet. You can’t until you turn
twenty
-one. What’s she up to, that old besom?” Gabby twirled her
bright
-red hair on her very slender hand. She had
milk
-white skin, feral eyes, a
turned
-up nose, and a dash of
cinnamon
-colored freckles. She was tall and thin, with a hoop through her delicate eyebrow and a diamond stud implanted in the deep dimple of her right cheek. She’d wanted to be a witch since she was a little girl. Morgan was amused by that. They’d met during freshman year at NYU, and Morgan had tutored her in both math and spells. Gabby couldn’t do either. Morgan enjoyed tricking her into believing she had developed powers.

Morgan rested her feet on the giant industrial spool that served as a coffee table. They had found it in the trash by a constrction site and wheeled it home. Morgan had used magic to get it up the stairs after it had rolled down twice, waking the super. “I made arrangements so they’ll never find those papers.”

“You used magic? With your aunt? Did it feel good?” Gabby pulled out a bag of red licorice that was wedged in the cushions. “Yum.” She ripped off some, handing it to Morgan.

“No, her assistant.” Morgan chewed thoughtfully.

“Who, Scarlett, or Frick and Frack?” Gabby asked, referring to Bernadette’s associates.

Morgan shook her head. “It would have never worked on Scarlett. She’s too canny. And Wu and Vincenza don’t handle paperwork. Jasmine put them away.”

“Uh
-oh.”

Morgan worried a bitten cuticle with her teeth. She looked down at her nails. The polish had chipped already.
I bet Scarlett’s polish wouldn’t chip
, she thought. She shrugged. “I know. I hope she doesn’t get in trouble.”

“Why now?” Gabby rose, walking to the kitchen area to look out the filthy window at the full moon. The fire escape cast shawdows that darkened the room. “It’s spooky out there.”

“It all started with that stupid face cream.”

“What stupid face cream?” Gabby asked absently. She held out her fingers, snapping for the licorice to float to her. Morgan looked at the candy, then moved her pointer finger so that it flew to Gabby. Gabby gloated as she caught it. “I’m really getting the hang of this.”

“She’s launching a new product with our DNA in it,” Morgan announced.

“Ew.”

“There’s more to the story.”

Gabby sat down
cross
-legged on the floor, her fishnet stockings torn at the knees. She looked intently at her friend. “Go on.”

“This face cream will allow her to suggest things to anyone who wears it. She will be able to influence their thoughts.”

“That’s crazy. She can’t do that. Anyway, that’s impossible. How can you influence millions of people at one time?”

“Believe me, she’s thought this through. She can, and she will.”

“I thought she was a Davina. Davinas don’t do that kind of stuff.”

“Yeah, but she’s acting like a Willa,” Morgan said darkly.

“You have to stop her!” Gabby stood to pace the room.

“You don’t understand. She’s powerful. I mean, Oprah asks her for advice.”

“You don’t have a choice, Morgan. She’s evil, like…like she probably wants to take over the world or something.”

“I don’t have the power to stop her. Oh, I can throw a wrench into her plans like the voting thing, but ultimately, she will win.”

Gabby stopped, her face lighting up. “What are you talking about? We have something more powerful that any old spell.” She grabbed her pink
skull
-and-crossbones shoulder bag, searching it until she pulled out a micro USB. “Dahling, we’ll go viral.” She pressed the USB into Morgan’s hand. “Between us, we have enough followers on Twitter and Facebook to bury that bitch. Tomorrow you get the formula for the cream. We’ll expose the ingredients. Every show will drop her ad. It will be like dumping a pail of water on her. She’ll melt. Selfie! Let’s post to Instagram.” She plopped down next to her friend, her cell phone in her palm. “Smile!”

“That melting thing only works in the movies, by the way,” Morgan told her sourly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

W
es stared dismally at the file, his face glum. The words swam before his tired eyes. He closed it with a snap and got up to grab a beer in the dimly lit kitchen. His apartment was small, on Steinway Street, over a souvlaki place that played Greek music day and night. The trill of the mandolins filled his space. The fan overhead circulated stale air. The smell of roasting meat from downstairs teased him. It was oppressively hot in his apartment. His parents had a place on Long Island, surrounded by trees. It was cool in the summer and warm in the winter. When he took his first apartment in Queens, he had been shocked by stuffy rooms. But as he missed the island, he loved the busy streets with the ethnically diverse,
open
-aired cafés. After he graduated, he’d backpacked through Europe, and Queens reminded him of Greece. He remembered visiting Delphi and learning about the Sybils. Wise women had stood over a fissure, releasing toxic gases that were said to turn them into oracles that foretold events. A reasonable explanation for something that appeared mystical. Legends of their prophetic powers made them sought after by leaders around the world.
So, could they be regarded as witches too?
he wondered. He learned about the witch hunts of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in school when he was a kid, as well. Midwives and medicine
women
—or cunning women, as they were
called
—were often persecuted because people didn’t understand the science of healing. The term
witch hunt
alone stirred up the concept of persecution. All they did was heal the sick or deliver babies. Science, he reasoned, explained the events taking place, but try as he might, he could not find science or even the logic in the Witches Protection Program. He leaned out the window, gazing at the large face of the moon, his mind swirling with thoughts of oracles, face cream, the girl, Alastair, and the idea of witches. Well, at least it wasn’t quite a full moon, he thought. Much less spooky, the waning moon. Hopefully by the time he finished this assignment, there would be no moon, and all this nonsense would be a memory. He turned to his small kitchen. Junie’s leftovers glowed gently with a pulsing green light. He should throw that crap out.

The biggest surprise was his father’s knowledge of the program. Wes picked up a landline to call him. He punched in half the number and then put his finger on the lever, hanging up. He felt his throat clog, not knowing where to start. He had questions, so many questions, but even more than that, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear his father’s answers.

He held one of his new business cards in his hand, turning it over. He folded it and then watched it flutter down to the pavement below. His new badge lay discarded on the table next to the pop gun Alastair had issued him. He picked it up by the chain, swinging it around his wrist. The cool beads of the metal slapped his arm, winding tight. Then, he unraveled it faster and faster. Finally, he held it up, staring at the inane image of crossed witches’ brooms. He caught the shield in his hand, then threw it against the wall, where it slid down to rest near his shoes. He sat on his
couch
—a Danish modern salvaged from his folks’
basement
—and put his feet up, his head resting on a pillow.

Witches,
he ruminated.
I mean, could it be possible?
He thought about Genevieve Fox. She was a sweet little lady, as tall as she was round, with a happy smile and wrinkled,
blue
-veined hands. Harmless, she was, with her soft chuckles and polite requests; he was sure he had gotten the instructions wrong.

It was his first assignment, in the backside of Nevada, the armpit of the country. A dry desert town in the middle of nowhere had her in an underground lockup. He and three others were supposed to transport her to LA. An easy job, with simple instructions. She was a little old lady, for Christ’s sake.

“Don’t look at her eyes. Don’t listen to her talk,” his superior informed him. They’d put a burlap bag over his face. It was medieval, gothic. Who put bags over people’s faces?

Wes shrugged as he led her into the school bus they were using for transport. He was advised to tie her up, all the way in the rear. He held her elbow as she shuffled, her swollen feet manacled together. She was so polite, her voice a frail thread when she asked for water. It was absurd. What was she? A drug lord? Terrorist? Gun runner? He asked his fellow guard. It was an easy assignment, his father assured him.
Don’t screw it up.
He had pointed his fingers right at Wes’s face.
Make me proud.

Wes felt his eyes sting. His chest ached. He pressed a hand to his breastbone, feeling heat welling up in his chest cavity. He breathed out, fighting the strange feeling. Well, he hadn’t made his dad proud. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what had happened, but he came up with nothing. Nothing at all.

He left the room, falling exhausted in his bed. Greenish shades from Junie’s container bathed his apartment.