Spiked (The Sundance Series Book 1), page 4
He winked and bit into the cookie. "I'll work on it."
Chapter Four
There were only three customers in the afternoon, which gave my head a chance to rest. Diego, the kitchen assistant, had left for La Paloma to make the deliveries, and I didn't bother blocking Tío José. His thoughts revolved around bread, whatever song was on the radio, and whether or not he'd have time to see Yolanda today. Once or twice, he took note of a twinge of pain from last night's disastrous shifting, but he didn't dwell on it.
I, however, did dwell on it.
In fact, it ate at me as I cleaned and locked up, all through the nap I tried to take after work, and into the evening. I had to do something to help him.
Even if it meant skirting the edges of my deepest fear.
So, at 6:00 p.m., I gassed up my chili-pepper-red Mini Cooper and headed to the belly of the beast. Lucas Blacke's compound—at least, that's how I thought of the place. His house was on several acres of desert land, the sprawling, single-story ranch crouched behind a ten-foot black steel fence that looked as if it could withstand a direct missile strike.
I climbed out of my car and slammed the door. The sound echoed in the empty, grassless land surrounding the house, bounced off the date palms lining the main road, and died in the street. There was a speaker security box on a post at the head of the driveway, and since I didn't know the code, I mashed buttons until a throaty female voice finally yelled, "Goddamnit, what do you want?"
"To talk to Lucas Blacke, please."
"Why?"
"Well, um, I'm Neely MacLeod. My uncle and I own the panaderia on Main—"
"Yeah, I know who you are. There are, what, seven businesses in town?"
"Oh, I—"
"Plus, how often am I called upon to get rid of an entire motorhome? That one was a challenge. Tell your uncle nice job on the poacher, by the way. You should have seen the stuff we found on him. Turned my stomach. That guy was a real piece of shit."
So that's where the poacher's vehicle had gone. I'd wondered. My uncle had simply told me it was "under control."
"Uh, who's this?" I asked.
"Chandra Smith. Alpha Blacke's second. He's not here."
"Do you know when he'll be back?"
"Nope."
"Can I leave a—"
"Nope. Just come back later."
Disappointed—and slightly relieved, because I wasn't sure I was ready to face the alpha tonight no matter how much my uncle needed his help—I climbed back into my car and drove out of town, heading west on I-8 into the mountains.
I'd face Alpha Blacke later. Right now, I had an appointment with a couple of witches.
The California southwest never lost its magic for me. One could travel through three distinct climates in as many hours—sand dunes to the east, mountains to the west, and the ocean an hour west of the mountains. I loved this beautiful state every bit as much as I loved my home state of Texas, which I hadn't seen in nearly seventeen years.
Twelve miles up the highway, I took the Esbat Road exit. Hung a right, pulled over to clear a ball of dead brush that blew into my bumper, and continued to the top of the mountain. At the base of a dead-end road, Desert Vista Tower loomed, a squatty obelisk against the expansive twilight sky.
According to the public website, the stone tower offered visitors a 360-degree view of desert flowers in bloom. Sure enough, a narrow wood balcony wrapped the circumference of the top floor. There were slats missing, and the supports were rusted. Right then and there I decided I'd get my 360-degree flower views 90 degrees at a time. From the ground.
The website was for humans, anyway. The witch I'd emailed told me the tower assumed its true purpose after the sun set, and the gift shop on the bottom floor—which specialized in herbs and energy-charged crystals, flora and fauna postcards, and "grow your own cacti" kits—closed itself to tourists.
I parked next to a white Ford Escort in the mostly empty lot and headed to a front door that belonged on a castle from medieval times. As if it should be lowered like a drawbridge rather than swung open.
"State your business, please," a masculine voice said when I knocked on the door for the third time, scraping my knuckles on the rough wood and catapulting the pain sitting on top of my head deep into the whorls of my gray matter.
I took a long breath, rubbed my temples. "I have an appointment with Dolores. I'm kind of early. I'd intended to stop somewhere first, but my plans changed and I didn't want to shut off my car once I got it cooled down."
"Understood." The heavy door creaked open with a sound like cloth tearing. "Drat. Third robe this month. I swear this tower feeds on poly-cotton blends. I'm Tim. You must be Cornelia."
"Neely."
The man appeared to be my age. He stood an inch or two taller than my five-foot-three, and reminded me of a willow branch. Thin and whippy, with ash blond feathery hair that drooped over a pale, white face.
"Shame. I adore the name Cornelia. Sounds like something out of a British historical period drama. I do so enjoy Downton Abbey." He gestured me farther into the tower. "We'll go the back way. Dolores wants to meet at the hidden spring. It has the most power. Also, it's where she stores the wine."
I followed him out the back door and down a dirt path. He waved his hand negligently, as if trying hard to show me he was blasé about the whole witch thing, and a swarm of fireflies appeared, lighting our way.
"Not bad."
"It's nothing, Cornelia."
I smiled at his theatrics, and paused to admire an abnormally lush—for the desert—herb garden growing among rocks and cacti. "When did the witches move in?" It couldn't have been long. I'd been here eight months and hadn't heard of them until this week.
"Last month. I started working here a couple weeks ago."
I leaned down to sniff a lavender bud. "Wow. They must be magic. There's no other way for this garden to look that good so fast."
"They have a green wand." Tim said this with a straight face, so I didn't comment or crack a smile, even though I really wanted to. I released the bud and continued walking behind him.
"So, uh, Dolores is a tower witch?"
"The. The tower witch. Witches, I mean. She and her sister, Dorothy. Dottie, they call her. You'll see why." Tim halted at the edge of a copse of screwbean mesquite trees that grew in an odd formation, perfectly cloaking whatever lay inside. "Go on in."
I tapped one of the twisty green pods clustered on a long slender branch. "You aren't coming?"
"No. I've seen this before." He spun on his right foot and hurried back up the path. "You go in alone."
I wasn't sure I liked that idea. However, my ever-present headache was back to dancing the can-can in the back of my skull, so I had little choice. I forged through the trees and into a twenty-by-twenty-foot clearing where a hot spring surrounded by rocks, muddy grass, and green unlabeled wine bottles took center stage.
"Hello. Dolores, is this the gal you told me about? The baker's niece? Come on in, dear."
The elderly woman who said this stood on the edge of the hot spring, stark naked, skin as white as a cup of sugar. She was short, with a long silver braid that hung down to her knees and a full, rounded belly upon which rested breasts the size of sandbags. Her sister was submerged in the clear water. She had similar hair and coloring, but was built like a solid wood door—tall and sturdy and flat.
"I'm Neely Costa MacLeod," I said.
"We're the tower witches. We've always been called the Fairfield witches, but now that we live in a tower, I suppose we should get used to the name. Want some wine? We make it ourselves." The short witch lowered herself into the hot spring, managing to keep the bottle in her hand out of the water. "We've drunk most of it, but there are a few bottles left."
"We've drunk and drunk and now we're drunk. 'Tis the way of the Fairfield witches and a great many Fairfield wenches." The tall witch splashed her sister. "I'm Dolores Fairfield. I emailed you. Did you bring cookies?"
"Uh, no. You didn't ask me to. I'll bring you some next time."
"That would be lovely, dear." The short witch gave me a wide-eyed, exuberant smile. "Sugar feeds our magic, you see. It's why we drink wine."
"Sure it is." Dolores's laugh was low and rumbling, like stones rolling down the side of a canyon.
"Most wine doesn't actually have much sugar in it," I pointed out.
"It does the way we make it."
"Hush, sister. Neely, it's nice to meet you. I'm Dottie." Her laugh was as chirpy as a sparrow, high and cute. "Also, that's my name."
"Nice to meet you both." I climbed to the top of a large, flat rock formation by the steamy water, kicked off my shoes and dangled my feet above the heated surface. "A little warm out for a dip in a hot spring, isn't it?"
"This isn't your average hot spring, dear. Our pool has the highest concentration of minerals and earth magic in the desert southwest. You soak for a few minutes, and when you emerge, your entire body is cool and energized." Dottie passed me her wine bottle and sank to her chin in the water. "Alleviates arthritis, indigestion, mild forms of insanity, and the aftereffects of demonic possession."
"Can it help a beta shifter with his change?" Figured it was worth a shot.
"Nope. That's moon magic. Only a strong alpha can do that." Dottie gestured to her wine. "Have some, dear."
"No, thank you."
"She's got a headache, Dot. I doubt she wants to add alcohol to the mix." Dolores hoisted herself out of the water and grabbed a towel. I'd expected her to slip into a robe like the one Tim wore. Something solemn, in deep purple or black. Instead, she dressed in a glittery T-shirt with a photo of a cat on it and a pair of khaki capri pants.
"Can your hot spring help me?"
"Nope, but we can. You have headaches, the Fairfield witches have the cure. Truth be told, you could probably get rid of them yourself if you stopped trying to be something you aren't."
"What's that, sister?" Dottie burped.
"She knows what I mean."
I was terribly afraid I did, but I said, "No, I don't."
Dolores rolled her eyes. "Well, you're trying to play human, but you're a telepath—"
"A what?" I let out a nervous burst of laughter. "You can't possibly believe that I can read people's thoughts. That's crazy."
"—and a spiker."
A surge of panic zigged through me, and I started looking for the exits. Not in the clearing, but in the town, in my life. Damn it, I didn't want to leave Sundance. My uncle loved it here.
"A spiker?" Dottie hiccupped, gave me a puzzled look. "What's a spiker?"
"You know, she's one of those paranormals who can tune into the frequency of someone's brain and disable or—" Dolores stared straight at me. "—kill them."
Dottie's rounded face pinched into a frown. "Is that right? Must be rare. Never met one before."
"They are, but you've met one, sis. That good-looking Venezuelan fella that came to see us a couple years ago about a love potion. Luis O'Hara something or other."
"Ojeda?" Dottie said, and then dunked her head under the water.
Dolores waited until she surfaced before replying. "Yeah, him. He was a spiker."
"He was a deviant."
"Yes, but he was also a spiker."
Dottie frowned down at her breasts. They bobbed on the surface of the water like twin buoys. "Really? How did I forget something like that?"
Dolores rolled her eyes. "He knocked you out cold when you told him you wouldn't give him a love charm, remember?"
"Oh, that's right. What a rude man."
"What happened to him?" Deviant or not, I'd never met anyone like me. If he lived nearby, perhaps I could speak with him, get some advice on this ability-slash-curse of mine.
"Murdered." Dolores made a sawing motion across her throat. "Pack of shifters in Utah. Shifters are real funny about spikers. Either they love 'em or they hate 'em. No middle ground."
"Oh." I was now re-rethinking my trip to see Lucas Blacke. Maybe I'd get lucky and Chandra Smith wouldn't tell him I stopped by. She didn't seem inclined to pass along messages.
"Don't be too upset about it. The guy was a weirdo. You're nothing like him—except for the spiking thing." I opened my mouth to argue, and Dolores rolled her eyes, let out an ironic little laugh. "Good grief, there's no sense in denying it. It'll waste time, and I imagine you're at your wit's end with that headache."
She spoke with such assurance there seemed no point in disputing it with her. I gazed into the water, made figure eight ripples on the surface with my feet. "How did you know?"
"Reveal spell." Dolores pointed to a hollow, gumball-sized silver charm hanging on a chain and suspended from a tree branch above us. It looked like the charm Della had worn around her neck. "Lit up red when you came in. Only does that for certain types of paranormals. High-level alpha shifters, fire witches, and other top-of-the-food-chain predators. You don't smell shifter, and you aren't a witch, so there are only a few other things you might be."
"How'd you come up with spiker?"
"Oh…" Dolores gazed up at the sky with a beatific smile. "The spirits spoke to me."
"She cast another spell when you weren't looking." Dottie splashed around the spring. "My sister is quite learned at clandestine spell casting. She's always been sneaky."
"Thanks a lot, Dot." Dolores swung her bleary gaze toward me. "So, who'd you murder? Figure if you're keeping what you can do a secret, you must have done something bad."
"Goodness, what a question." Dottie ceased her splashing and gave her sister a sharp look.
"No one." Today. "I'm here because I'm having trouble blocking people's thoughts without pain. It always happens after I use my telepathy. Takes weeks to go back to normal."
"Normal?" Dolores sniffed, rolled her eyes again. "Your normal is letting yourself be telepathic. The blocking is the opposite of your normal. You aren't human, you know."
It rankled. Yes, I was paranormal, but I was human too. Why did I have to keep reminding people of that? "My dad is human. I'm half."
"That's nice, dear. Don't worry, we aren't anti-human here." Dottie pulled herself onto the bank on the rocky side of the spring. Staggered to a pile of clothing and pulled a royal blue nylon muumuu over her head. "Seems like being a telepath would be handy. You'd always know when someone was lying to you."
I prodded my temples with the pads of my fingers. "It's not nice at all. I don't sleep enough because of the nightmares and the noise, and when I do sleep, I can't guard as well, so I pick up thoughts from anyone in the vicinity and incorporate them into my dreams. Living in an apartment was hell. I've seen some profane things in people's heads."
"Oh my, that is awful," Dottie said.
Dorothy tapped her chin with her thumb. "So, no good thing has ever come of your abilities? It's all curse and no blessing?"
The poacher. If I hadn't read the man's mind, he would have taken Donny and me both.
I faltered, then I remembered other things. My mother walking out when I was six because I'd read her mind, seen things I shouldn't have about the man she was seeing who was not my father. The day after I turned thirteen, the sadness in my father's eyes as he loaded my things into Tío José's truck and told me how sorry he was that he couldn't come with me. My ex-fiancé's betrayal and the danger trusting him had put my uncle and me in.
Danger we were still in.
"All curse," I said.
The witches stared at each other. Given the eyebrow raises and headshakes, there was some intense nonverbal communication going on. Finally, Dottie spoke. "We can't make your spiker abilities disappear. There's nothing outside of a demon that could."
Demon, huh? I'd accepted the existence of witches. Was I ready to believe demons were real?
Nope, not quite there yet.
I picked up one of the witches' wine bottles, turned it around in my hands. "It's all right if you can only help me with the headaches. I'd be—"
"But we can do a transfer spell on your telepathy. That might help with the headaches."
"—thrilled—what? Transfer?"
"Into a prayer box—er, ball, actually. Like this." Dottie opened her previously empty hand to reveal yet another silver chain with a star-filigreed charm hanging from it.
I studied the trees where the reveal spell charm swung back and forth in the hot desert breeze. Geez, they must buy the things in bulk.
"We buy them in bulk from a tattoo parlor/shrunken head shop in Pacific Beach." Dolores leaned against a rock and dangled her feet in the water. "Bill Bill's Tattoo."
I blinked. "Shrunken head. Shop."
"Tattoo parlor in front, cannabis paraphernalia behind the curtain, and pagan ritual supplies in a back room spelled to resemble a broom closet. Bill Bill loves the irony."
"His father, William Williams the fourth, was a witch, you see." Dottie flicked the globular charm, and it cracked open at the equator.
"But he's not a witch?"
"Well, no." Dottie hiccupped again. "Is that so strange? Your uncle is a shifter, and you aren't."
True. My mother was a wolf shifter, my father was human, and I was a spiker. Who knew where that had come from? Genetically speaking, I should have been either human or shifter.
"It's a one-time spell," Dottie said.
Dolores chimed in. "And it ain't cheap. Your car should just about cover it."
"My Mini?" I squeaked.
"You're getting a great deal here." Dolores snatched the necklace from her sister. Held it up. "Your telepathy gets crammed into a charm like a genie in a bottle. No one can steal it, if that's what you're worried about. The minute the charm is opened, it comes right back to you. Nobody will know your ability is in the necklace unless you tell them. As far as the world is concerned, you'll be a regular boring human—I mean, as long as you don't spike anyone. You can still do that, of course."
"You'll keep my secret?"
Dottie replied, "Of course. A witch is blood-oath sworn to keep the secrets of her clients."
"What about that spiker you told me about? Luis?"
"That guy wasn't a client." Dolores hunted behind the rock, presumably for another bottle of wine. "You have to accept the spell for us to enter into an agreement. Plus, he's dead."
