The Witch Queen of Halloween

Chills skittered up Rök’s back. He inhaled the air; remnants of blood and death greeted him.

Poppy was a formidable mercenary like him, but he suspected they were both in over their heads. Better to teleport her to safety and convince her to pick up where they’d left off two years ago. He grasped her arm. “We’re leaving.” Before she could protest, he teleported her.

Then blinked in confusion. They hadn’t budged.

He tried again. Nothing.

“You asshole!” She yanked free of his hold. “You were going to trace me away? Oh, it’s on.”

He concentrated on teleporting across the dusty foyer. Failed. He tried to turn into smoke. Only a useless haze arose over his skin. He was a godsdamned smoke demon; he’d been able to fade into smoke since before his pup horns had first molted.

As the witch gazed on, he hastened to the front door. Couldn’t open it. He kicked the wood and clawed at the frame, leaving not a scratch. He strode to the nearest window and launched his boot into the glass; got thrown backward. “What is this?”

“The boundary spell works from the inside too.” Her amused tone rankled. “It won’t open until tomorrow morning.”

Disbelief. “We’re trapped.” Teleporting demons didn’t do trapped. “Why can’t I trace within these walls or turn to smoke?”

“Dunno. I don’t sense any problem with my pouches. Must be a species-specific power dampener. Maybe the castle’s owner hated smoke demons?”

“What owner?”

“A long-dead wizard. You really did zero research?”

He waved that away, checking his cell phone. “No bars? This is a Wiccan LoreLine!” Despite his distance from civilization, he should still get reception. He shoved it back into his pocket. “What about yours?”

“Didn’t bring one. Even if I need help, no one can breach the entry.”

“You’re cool with that?”

“What can I say? I dig cheap thrills.”

Her words distracted him. Ah, witch, I can provide the cheapest, filthiest thrills you ever imagined. . . .

No! Head in the game, Rök. “Use one of your spells for a portal out of here.” She always had one handy for her work.

Scoffing laugh. “I’m not tapping out because my adversary has cold feet.”

“I’m not your adversary.” He ran a hand over his nape. “Everything about this castle is wrong. I know your senses are like a rock’s, but you have to feel how off this place is.”

She tapped her chin with a pink nail, so unlike his black claws. “A wizard’s bespelled fortress? From which the previous expedition failed to surface? With some ghouls for curb appeal? Nah, feels great.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “They didn’t surface?”

Her grin was cheery. “Not one explorer.”

“How much would it take for you to abandon this mission?”

She read his obvious unease and gave another laugh. “What’s the matter? Never had a mission hiccup?” She turned to check the coat closet—empty—then investigated the statuettes along the perimeter of the foyer. “Even if I wanted to open a portal, which I don’t, it would just transport me to another part of the castle.”

“Then how do we get out of here?”

She must’ve taken pity on him because she answered, “According to legend, the door will reopen for a short interval when the moon sets.”

The setting of a full moon corresponded to sunrise. Had he ever been so ready for dawn? “How short of an interval?”

“A raven will call four times from a spruce by the pond.”

“Four calls. Of a raven.” Rök had heard of sketchier shit in the Lore. At the same time, not much was random in the world of immortals. Random usually meant he hadn’t discovered the pattern yet. So why did this castle open under such precise circumstances? “And if we miss the grand opening?”

“We’ll be stuck here until the next Halloween full moon.”

His jaw slackened. “That only happens every twenty years or so.”

“Yup.”

Magic might power the lights, but that didn’t mean they’d find decades’ worth of food and water inside. Generally only fire or a beheading could kill an immortal, but some Loreans perished from less. Could a witch of only a hundred years starve? “Tell me about the wizard. Why did he build this place?” What would Rök and Poppy face tonight?

“It was supposed to be a home for his family, but they died a century ago.” She peeked under a dust cover concealing a settee. What was she searching for? “The wizard sealed himself up inside until he kicked it a few decades back. Some say he lost his mind and was up to no good, while others say this castle is his booby-trapped tomb.”

“Why would you come here without backup? Your sisters wouldn’t have sent you off alone.” He knew this for a fact, had run into the oldest Dyer sister earlier. Lea. Fearsome creature, that one.

But then, the five sisters were all formidable in their own ways, rumored to each possess a different witchly caste power.

Lea’s piece of advice for him still resonated. He would never forget it because he replayed it every day. . . .

Poppy shrugged. “You know I work jobs by myself.”

“And I’ve always wondered why.” Rök had recently undertaken a slew of solo missions himself, but he preferred the camaraderie of a partner or a crew.

“Did you know that each of my sisters is named after a plant?”

He did. Oleander or Lea, Sage, Clover, and Belladonna. Herbalists and concoctionesses, they utilized plants in hex pouches.

Funny, though, when he’d taken Poppy to dinner, she’d ordered steak, rare. “Yeah, so?”

“So, I grow best with my own spot in the sun.”

How could she be so cavalier? No job was worth her life. “Now you might be about to die in a dark castle. Plants do that too.”

She winked at him.

Frustrating witch! “At least try to use your portal. I’ll make it worth your while⁠—”

Without another word, she started across the foyer, heading deeper into the castle. Her boot heels clicked against stone, her jeans rasping between her shapely thighs.

He watched her sexy stride for heart-stopping seconds. At least she tempered some of his teleporter’s claustrophobia. If he had to be trapped with anyone, he’d choose Poppy.

What a fitting name.

Pretty flower. Ruinous drug.

When he’d first encountered her on jobs, he hadn’t considered her anything special to look at with her bright hair scraped back in a bun and her serviceable work clothes. She had nice features and eyes the color of a new leaf, but nothing to make him do a double take.

Her scent though. It’d gotten him as randy as a stag encountering its first dose of heat.

In concoction terms, her scent was three parts vitality and one part smoky poppy blossoms, with a hint of womanly arousal. In other words: smoke-demon nirvana. So of course Rök had asked her out.

When she’d let down her hair for their date and he’d seen all those glorious locks framing her heart-shaped face, he’d been enraptured.

The little middle gap in her white teeth? Adorable. The glimmer in those green eyes as she’d mocked his best seduction lines? Made him hard. The sight of her curves in a rain-dampened dress? Gods below have mercy on this demon.

Yet after one tiny hiccup, she’d ditched their date. When she’d finally agreed to another one, the capricious witch had stood him up and blocked his number!

She was attracted to him—who wasn’t?—but it hadn’t been enough to bring her back for more. In fact, she’d avoided him for two years, dating someone else for half of that time.

He watched her for a moment more—mercy on this demon—then traced to catch up.

And didn’t go anywhere. That was going to take some getting used to. “Heading right into danger?” he asked as he jogged to her side. “Your pay must be astronomical.”

She strode toward a grand staircase, leaving a wake of disturbed cobwebs. “I’m very motivated. Your client paying you well?”

He’d let her believe he had a client; he did not have a client. “Would I ever take a job with measly pay?” Not a lie.

“Yet a spymaster like you didn’t research?” She shook her head, and a long curl escaped her bun, the color stark against her leather jacket.

“Didn’t get a chance to.” His former merc partner, Cadeon the Kingmaker, would razz Rök about the amount of research he usually did. Tonight’s preparation? Several demon brews and a blind leap into the unknown. “You could say this was a last-minute opportunity. I heard something tasty was here and wanted to jump all over it.”

Looking titillated, she said, “Spill.”

“As soon as you do,” he countered, wondering how to explain his actions. Well, I was at Erol’s bar, roiling inside, contemplating how selfish a prick I might be⁠—

Skittering sounded from the floors above, drawing his attention. “What’s the intel on the castle’s bogeys? Could be kobolds up there.” Those gnome monsters worked in packs to take down unsuspecting Loreans.

“I’m sure it’s just rats.”

His horns all but twitched. She’s lying. Over the years, he’d discovered that she was a piss-poor dissembler. But why lie? He sensed impending danger.

Good. He welcomed it, felt more firmly in his comfort zone. Yet she looked uneasy. “Never had a mission hiccup, Red?”

Straightening her shoulders, she plowed on. “You should go your way, and I’ll go mine.”

Why’d she find it so bloody easy to not be around him? Females the worlds over clamored for his attention—he could get summoned ten times a night—but not Poppy Dyer. “We might as well work together. If we teamed up, I could take the clout and give you the prize.”

“How about I take the clout and the prize and give you a swift kick to the balls?”

Her attitude made his head buzz like a potent aphrodisiac. “I’ve missed your humor, witch.”

They’d just reached the stairs when the skittering intensified, like a rave club full of kobolds. She swerved from the steps and headed toward another hallway.

He followed. “You’re not curious what’s up there?”

She shook her head, her bun loosening more.

What he wouldn’t give to release that silky mane and thread his fingers through it. “Where are you going?”

“I think the basement is this way. I plan to explore this castle from bottom to top.” He’d just parted his lips to make a quip when she pointed at him over her shoulder and said, “Don’t.”

The skittering suddenly sounded as if it was coming from the floor below them.

“On second thought . . .” She backtracked to another hallway. “I’ll start my investigation here.”

“You’re avoiding trouble! You’ve never been timid before.” The witch was often the first into the fray. “Maybe your bag of tricks isn’t as full as it should be.” On past gigs, she’d come equipped with that satchel full of pouches. Had she gone off half-cocked tonight?

“As usual, I’m completely prepared.” She patted her bag with her customary confidence. Still, he sensed she was lying. “I’m just following my gut. Feel free to get lost. I’ll meet you at the front entrance in”—she checked her sports watch—“eight hours. I’ll be the one holding the prize.” With that, she headed through a pair of double doors.

Get lost, she’d said. Gods below, he’d tried.

He pictured his secluded cabin in Iceland. How many nights had he traced/paced in front of the fire? Enough to wear two holes into the floor! More holes dotted the wooden walls from when he’d rammed his aching horns with frustration.

Always on his mind was the question: Am I a decent male?

He’d booked treacherous jobs, but there were only so many. Though Cade and his mate Holly welcomed him to their home, Rök didn’t want to intrude too much. Eventually his inner turmoil would drive him to Erol’s, yet even in a crowd of Loreans, Rök felt isolated.

With a muttered curse, he followed Poppy through the doors into an expansive kitchen sparsely lit with more gas lamps. A crew of cooks must’ve once prepared meals here for scores of Loreans.

Poppy’s covetous gaze swept the area, as if she could see past the cobwebs dangling from pot racks and the chalky rat droppings on the countertops.

“I’ll never understand the inner workings of the Wiccan mind. You’re looking at this kitchen as though you’re ready to move in.”

Shrug. “I like them big.” He’d just opened his mouth for a joke when she warned, “Don’t.”

He refrained from knocking her softball pitch into the innuendo bleachers. “Fair enough. Why do you like big kitchens?”

As if the words were pulled from her, she said, “My sisters and I live in an old Victorian manor.” I know. Been there. “And our kitchen isn’t huge. We don’t have enough room for concocting and making meals. Something had to give, so we don’t cook as much as we’d like.”

“I thought all of you Louisiana witches wanted to live amid your coven.” Andoain, the newly inaugurated seat of the House of Witches in this realm, was located outside New Orleans.

“The Andoain witches are a bit . . .”

“Overserved?” The coven was like a party-hearty sorority house from a slasher flick. Except these sorority girls would slash back. With magic.

“I was going to say young, but your observation is fair. When my parents left the realm for a stint, my sisters and I voted to stay at their place.”

Her folks were the rare witch/warlock superpower couple living in perfect mystical symbiosis or whatever. He’d heard they were hard-core practitioners, teachers of the occult. After their daughters had all reached immortality, the couple had returned to the Wiccae dimension of Akelarre to hone their deep witchery for the coming Accession.

This one was shaping up differently from past Accessions. Instead of unrelenting skirmishes, Loreans feared a great war between an alliance of factions in this realm and the enigmatic Møriør. . . .

When Poppy checked some of the cupboards, Rök said, “I don’t scent a crumb of food here.” A few decomposed rats dotted the tiled floor, confirming that no food existed—and that the sealed castle prevented even a rodent’s escape. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a never-ending energy bar in that bag of yours?”

“Nope. One thermos of tea and a muffin.”

“Well, that’ll certainly keep us till the next Halloween full moon.”

She blinked up at him. “Us?”

Skittering sounded from the corners of the kitchen. “We’re not alone.” He freed his sword and scented the air, detecting something unexpected: scales.

Red eyes appeared in the shadows, what must be a legion of small, befanged creatures with scaly green skin. “Are those . . .” He frowned, recalling where he’d seen such creatures before. “. . . gremlins?” He turned to Poppy and read her expression: zero surprise. “You knew they’d be here?”

“Just ignore them.” She headed toward the kitchen doors. A dozen more of them blocked her way.

“Stay behind me.” Sword raised, he hastened in front of her, cursing his inability to trace her away. “How is this possible? They don’t exist in the Lore.” They didn’t exist at all, except in the minds of humans.

“I said to ignore them.” She sidled around to face him. “They can’t hurt you. They’re just illusions.”

Her irises had turned purple like sunstruck lavender. “Your eyes are alight.” His narrowed. A witch’s eyes could glow from emotion, but also from power. “Are you making these?”

“It’s involuntary, okay?”

Her ability reminded him of Sabine, the Sorceri Queen of Illusions. Sabine was considered the queen because she could conjure sights and sounds better than anyone else alive. But others could also dabble with the same talent. “How do you know these are just illusions?” The gremlins climbed the countertops, positioning themselves to strike. “I can scent them.”

Poppy marched up to the mass of slavering creatures. “Look.” She reached toward a larger one. “It can’t hurt me.”

The thing gave a snarl, baring its mouth full of fangs. Then it leapt for her face.