Halfway Hexed Page 4

  Edie appeared for a moment. “I’m fading, biscuit, so I’ll have to see you later.” She pressed a phantom kiss to my cheek. “Don’t forget to get tons of insurance when you mail the locket! I don’t want to end up somewhere besides London. Like Hell. Or Liverpool.”

  Chapter 5

  It took me almost an hour to walk back to the bakery. As I’d suspected, DeeDAW hadn’t locked the front door. Very inconsiderate kidnappers! Luckily, everything seemed to be in order. I quickly cleaned up the mess I’d created while working. I needed to head back to Bryn’s to fill him in and do some more Conclave prep work.

  The front door chime made me stiffen. If the felonious prayer group was back, they were going to be sorry. This time, by Hershey, there would be bloody noses. I cracked my knuckles and straightened my spine before I walked to the front.

  The stranger stood just inside the door. His hooked nose and the jagged scar along his right cheek made him seem sinister, but looks, of course, are one thing we don’t have control over, so I wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions about his personality.

  He looked to be in his midforties. His dark brown hair was clipped short, his tailored black trousers and charcoal overcoat proclaiming him wealthy and powerful in the human kind of way.

  “Hello,” I said with a smile. “Welcome to Duvall, Texas. And to Cookie’s Bakery. What can I get for you?”

  He pointed behind me. I couldn’t imagine what he saw in the back room that he wanted. I’d cleared the table except for the sculpture. I turned to be sure that there wasn’t a stack of brownies or something that I’d forgotten.

  It was only a pinprick at first. Then pain blossomed into a stabbing sensation. I jerked my head to look at my backside. A stainless steel dart was sticking out of the seat of my pants.

  “But? What?” I mumbled as wooziness washed over me.

  I looked at him through my lashes. He wasn’t watching me. He was locking the front door and putting the Closed sign in place.

  Considerish—considerate Tammy-napper, I thought blearily as I crumpled to the floor.

  There was a rushing sound in my ears, and my head felt three times its normal size when I woke. The head congestion might have had something to do with the tranquilizer dart the stranger shot me with or it might have had something to do with the fact that I was hanging upside down.

  Are you freaking kidding me!

  I raised my head to look up at my bound ankles. They were shackled together, the chain between the cuffs looped over a thick metal hook stabbed into the ceiling. “I am not a side of beef!” I muttered to myself.

  Where was the guy? Was he from WAM? But no, pretty sure if he was, he would’ve introduced himself before he shot me. The WAM guys I’d met were all about following rules and protocols—right up until the time they tried to kill you.

  My head pounded and my stomach muscles bunched as I continued to hold myself in a half-crunched position in order to look around. It was a cellar workroom. A nearby bench had tools scattered on it. All of a sudden, I thought of those serial killers who built lairs to keep their victims captive in, and my heart hammered a major protest.

  The walls and floor were solid concrete. If I screamed would anyone even hear me? I pictured a nice family of four living upstairs, not even knowing the psycho dad had yours truly hanging from a hook downstairs.

  Nope. No possible way am I staying here!

  I looked at my cuffed wrists and frowned. I could still feel the sticky duct tape residue from earlier. Too bad I couldn’t gnaw through metal.

  I tipped my chin forward, looking up the line of my body. Yep, more circus performer acrobatics were going to be necessary. But if Scarface thought I wasn’t up to it, he was sadly mistaken. Or at least that’s what I told myself to get in a positive frame of mind.

  I bent my elbows and brought my forearms against my chest. If I’d been my ex-husband, Zach, I’d already have been standing. Zach could do like two hundred hanging-upside-down sit-ups. That’s why Zach was in a training program for human champion superathletes. Me, on the other hand, I had maybe one or two dangling-from-a-hook sit-ups in me—at most.

  Get ready. Get set. Go!

  I jerked upward at the waist, getting to ninety degrees.

  Gravity pushed down on me like twenty tons. I fought hard, thrusting my hands out to grab my pant legs. I held on tight, panting with exertion, bending my chest toward my knees. The muscles in the backs of my legs screamed a protest. About not being flexible, Edie had a little bit of a point.

  I bent my knees and clenched all my muscles. Almost there! With grasping pulls I walked my hands up. God bless American denim for being stronger than gravity. My fingers got to the hook. Ha!

  I gripped it with sweaty hands and pushed my feet up. With some jerking, bending, and arching, the chain popped over the hook’s curve, leaving only my slippery hands holding the entire weight of my body—which didn’t work out all that well.

  I crash-landed on the floor with a thud and a weary groan. Being an action hero . . . I can’t say I really understand the appeal.

  I stretched out my aching muscles and let my breathing return to normal for a few seconds. Then I heard quick footsteps on stairs.

  Damn it! I am not going back on that hook!

  I scrambled up, my eyes darting around the room. No keys to free myself, but standing in front of a fireplace, there was a set of pokers.

  I tried to run to them, but my stride-length was only a few inches with the shackles on, so I tripped and landed with another bitter thud. Adrenaline poured through my veins.

  Hurry up!

  I pressed up and crawled, swinging both my legs forward as one.

  He’s almost here!

  I grabbed a poker. There wasn’t time to get behind the door. I moved quickly from the fireplace and lay down on my belly, concealing the poker under me. The door banged open.

  I ordered my muscles to relax, playing possum. I was under the hook so I hoped it would look like I’d knocked myself out during the fall.

  Okay, you jerk. Come roll me over. I dare you.

  I tried to keep my breathing slow and steady.

  I felt his hands. One on my left shoulder, the other on my left hip.

  That’s it. And over we go.

  Crack!

  I’d given the swing my all, and his look of shock wasn’t even complete before he crumpled into a heap. “Mark McGwire, eat your heart out,” I mumbled. I shoved Scarface off and got on my knees. I dug through his pockets.

  There’s a God, and contrary to what DeeDAW has to say, He loves me, I thought as I held the keys aloft and dropped onto my sore butt. I unhooked my ankles, but froze momentarily when Scarface moved. I lurched forward and grabbed his hair. I lifted his head and then banged it on the floor. I winced. “If you’re not a serial killer, I’m sure sorry about that. But you did start this.”

  Getting the key in the lock of the cuffs seemed to take forever. Isn’t that just the way when you need to hurry and escape?! I finally managed it, eyeing Scarface.

  He stirred.

  “Stay unconscious, darn you!” I snapped, worrying that if I ran outside, he might chase and catch me. I wasn’t going to be that girl. The one in the scary movies who only gets away for a couple minutes. I glanced at the cuffs, my eyes narrowing.

  Now you’re talking.

  I grabbed him and hauled him onto his stomach. I closed the shackles around his ankles and pulled them toward his butt. I fed the handcuffs’ chain underneath the chain that connected the leg shackles, so the two chains made a cross. Then, with some effort, I dragged his hands down and cuffed them one-by-one. He was on his belly with no way to get his hands more than a few inches from his feet.

  Sweat dripped from my temples and my muscles ached, but I was pleased with myself. Now, I’d just call the police. Actually, since he hadn’t serial killed me, this was still only a kidnapping, which fell under the FBI’s jurisdiction. But I didn’t know their phone number. Whatever it was, it wa
s nowhere near as famous as “nine-one-one.”

  I jogged upstairs. The house was a butcher’s dream. Cowhide border paper, and deer and elk heads protruded from the walls. Would I have been his first human trophy? I shuddered.

  “Where the Sam Houston do kidnappers hide their phones?” I searched for about five minutes, but when I finally found one tucked under a stack of magazines, it turned out not to have a dial tone.

  “Darn you, Scarface!” I snapped, stamping my foot, but then I calmed myself. He wasn’t going anywhere. Sooner or later, I’d find a phone. Or a sheriff ’s deputy.

  I marched out of the house, keeping a close eye in case he had any accomplices. I didn’t see anyone. Behind the house, I found a black pickup truck with no license plates. Nothing says criminal quite like a lack of license plates. Well, except for hanging unsuspecting pastry chefs from hooks.

  There were keys in the ignition.

  “Now we’re talking.”

  I hopped in the driver’s seat and started it up. As I drove away, I was careful to take note of the address and the road signs I passed. Had to be sure that I could give the police good directions.

  Scarface picked the wrong chocolatier to mess with.

  Chapter 6

  It turned out I’d been about twenty miles from Duvall. Once I got back into town, I went straight to the police station. Inside, I found Smitty, my least favorite deputy, on duty. He looked me up and down.

  “Hear from Zach?” he asked.

  “Yep. He’s doing great.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “I guess if he wanted you to know, he’d call you up and tell you,” I said in a deceptively sweet voice that wasn’t deceptive at all.

  Smitty glared at me.

  I ignored that and sat in the chair across from his desk. “I’d like to make a police report.” He didn’t move. I repeated what I’d said. He sighed heavily, got out his notebook, and dropped into his chair.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I was kidnapped.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”

  “Kidnapped. I was working at Cookie’s Bakery—”

  “Cookie fired you.”

  “I was working at Cookie’s,” I repeated firmly, “and I was taken forcibly from there by four women. They knocked me down, duct-taped my wrists, ankles, and mouth, then put me in the trunk of a car. Their names are Sue Carfax, Lucy and Jenna Reitgarten, and Mindy whose last name I didn’t catch.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Smitty said incredulously.

  “I’m totally serious,” I said.

  With some hesitation, he jotted notes.

  “I managed to get myself out of the duct tape and escape the trunk. I returned to the bakery, and a man I don’t know from Adam came in and shot me with a tranquilizer dart.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “I woke up hanging from the ceiling in his basement. There was no sign of any of the four women, and I don’t really think he was working with them. He seemed way more professional. Plus, his house was pretty far out of town. Gimme your pad. I’ll write down the address.”

  Smitty stared at me.

  I reached across and yanked the pad from his fingers. I wrote down the address and directions to Scarface’s place.

  “You should go now. I left him chained up in the basement for you to arrest. You can scoop the FBI,” I said with an encouraging nod, pushing the pad back across the desk at him.

  “Let me get this straight. You were kidnapped. Twice. In one day.” He shook his head. “Just how dumb do I look to you?”

  I was sure tempted to answer that, but I managed to stop myself. “I’m a hundred percent serious. The guy’s truck is parked outside. He took the plates off. If that doesn’t smack of ‘seasoned criminal,’ I don’t know what does. I’m willing—and fired up—to press charges.” I glanced at the clock overhead. “Why don’t you go get him, and I’ll come back tonight to sign my statement?” I slapped a key on the desk. “This is for the shackles.”

  Smitty narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re putting me on, right?”

  “No, I’m not. You better go get him. By the way, he’s gonna tell you I hit him with a fireplace poker. I’m not going to lie to you. I did. I was a kidnap victim, and I deemed it necessary force. Pretty sure a judge is going to agree with me on that.”

  I sucked in a breath and let it out. “There’s more to my statement, but I’ll tell it to you later. Can you drop me off at the bakery? I need to get my car since I assume you want the truck for evidence.”

  Smitty wrote some more things in his notebook, then flipped the cover closed.

  “This better not be bullshit,” he said, walking me outside.

  I pointed to the truck. “Exhibit A.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said skeptically. “I’ll drop you off, and I’ll take a couple of the boys to this address. We better find a kidnapper chained up in the basement, or, so help me, I’ll haul you in for making a false report.”

  I rolled my eyes. We rode in silence to the bakery.

  I realized that I didn’t have my keys, so I had to call Miss Cookie. She wasn’t very pleased, but she let me inside to get my tote bag. I didn’t tell her about the kidnappings. I decided that since I was already late getting back to Bryn’s, information would be given out on a need-to-know basis, and Miss Cookie didn’t need to know.

  I went home and picked up Mercutio, who looked like he’d just woken up. I envied him his quiet day since most of my body ached at the moment.

  On the drive over to Bryn’s, I said, “Wait until you hear what happened to me.”

  He looked at me as he licked a paw.

  “I’ll tell you and Bryn at the same time. It’ll be easier that way.” I ran a hand through my hair. “After the day I’ve had, I deserve to have something be easy.”

  Bryn wasn’t at all skeptical about my story and neither was Mercutio. Bryn said I should stay the night at his house until the police had picked up the kidnapper. I didn’t agree to that, nor was I inclined to agree to what he suggested next. He was going out and wanted me to join him.

  Since I was lying on my back, sucking down aspirin and whiskey-spiked tea provided by Mr. Jenson, I protested.

  “I’ve been all over town neutralizing residual magic, but there’s one place I forgot about,” Bryn said.

  “Where?”

  “Tom Brick’s.”

  I grimaced. “I don’t even want to go to Baskin Robbins, let alone to a murder victim’s house.”

  Tom Brick had been a wizard from Austin with ties to Duvall and the tor. A couple weeks earlier, he’d refused to help the WAM wizards, so Incendio, the fire warlock, had killed him. Mercutio had seen the whole thing. A few days later, Mercutio and I had had a standoff at that house with Incendio, and Bryn and I had nearly died trying to escape.

  “Did we cast any spells there?” Bryn asked. “You know my memory’s fuzzy from that time.”

  “You definitely didn’t. You spent most of that visit in a coma. I don’t think I did either. But you know me, sometimes I throw magic around without even realizing it.”

  Bryn nodded, walking over to the couch. “It’ll be one of the primary locations for the Conclave’s investigation. I want to be sure there are no traces of your magic there, Tamara, and I’m not sure I remember how to get to Brick’s.”

  I rubbed my eyes, but mumbled, “Okay, but if I’m leaving the house, I want a gun. I’m tired, and I’m not fixing to get kidnapped anymore today.”

  Bryn chuckled and leaned down. He brushed his lips over mine, making them tingle with his magic.

  “Hey. We’re not supposed to kiss,” I said.

  “I don’t remember that being the promise you made to Sutton.”

  I cocked my eyebrow up.

  “All you promised was that you’d wait to choose between us until he came back.”

  Just like a lawyer to instantly find the flaws in a normal person’s plan. “Well, yes, but things should be fair
,” I said.

  “You were with him for years. If anyone needs to make up for lost time, it’s me,” he said with a wicked smile. He stole another kiss before I could protest.

  When he moved away, I sat up dizzily. My voice was slightly breathless as I said, “I want a gun. I need it to protect myself.”

  He only grinned wider.

  We went out the back door, and I gaped at the black sports car parked there. It was low to the ground and compact, the kind where about half of it is engine.

  “What’s this?”

  “My new car.”

  The week before we’d had to park Bryn’s Mercedes on the bottom of the Amanos River. I’d also dented his limo up pretty good.

  The passenger door of the new car opened vertically, like an alien spaceship.

  “They put the doors on wrong,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’ll have to let them know about that.”

  There were only two seats, so Mercutio had to sit on my lap. “Mind your claws, Merc. These seats probably cost more than our house.”

  Once we got off Bryn’s property and onto the open road, he pressed his foot down, and the car roared forward with so much force that I was pinned to my seat.

  “Well, it’s sure a nice little car. Who’d you buy it from? NASA?”

  He chuckled. “After last week, I decided I wanted a car that could outpace anything that wasn’t powered by jet fuel.”

  “Is the undercarriage equipped with inflatable inner tubes in case of a water landing? ’Cause that would’ve come in handy.”

  Bryn laughed softly. “I’ll check the owner’s manual.”

  I gave him directions, and several miles outside Duvall, we reached the dusty road to Tom Brick’s. The road was lined by wildflowers and unmown grass. Bryn got out and opened the property’s gate. I smelled soot.

  The car’s tires crunched over the gravel as we rolled slowly to the side of the brick house. The scent of charred wood grew stronger as we parked. Mercutio banged a paw against the passenger window, looking out.