Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers Read online

  All works in this collection are copyrighted by their respective authors.

  WITCH HUNT

  SM REINE

  CALLED

  ROBERT J. CRANE

  FLAMING DOVE

  DANIEL ARENSON

  CURSED!

  SCOTT NICHOLSON & J.R. RAIN

  WITCH HUNT

  A PRETERNATURAL AFFAIRS NOVEL

  SM REINE

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © SM Reine 2014

  Published by Red Iris Books

  1180 Selmi Drive, Suite 102

  Reno, NV 89512

  OTHER SERIES BY SM REINE

  The Descent Series

  The Ascension Series

  Seasons of the Moon

  The Cain Chronicles

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  1

  Hell of a night.

  It was my first thought when I peeled my eyelids open—an immediate precursor to “everything hurts” and “screw tequila, I’m never drinking alcohol again.” My mouth was dry like I’d licked that brown apartment carpeting that every sadistic landlord inflicts on his tenants, including me. My muscles were petrified into knots.

  Somehow, I stretched my legs out, flexed my toes, twisted my hips. My spine popped a few times. My body creaked.

  And something jangled.

  Would you look at that? A pair of open handcuffs dangled from my headboard. The key glistened on the bedside table, reflecting a sunbeam right into my aching eyeballs. I didn’t make a habit of decorating my bedroom with my work equipment, so I assumed that recreational use of my cuffs meant I had company. The best kind of company.

  I swatted it with a finger and grinned at the clatter of chains.

  My eyes traveled from the cuffs to my arm. Four bloody scratches spanned the space between wrist and elbow.

  I’d handled enough crime scenes to recognize fingernail marks. And I’d been with enough women to know that some wildcats liked it like that.

  Yeah, definitely a hell of a night.

  Too bad I couldn’t remember it.

  Grabbing at the scraps of memory made them float away faster. I thought I remembered a beautiful woman with beautiful curves and the kind of throaty giggle that would make me instantly hard. I had half a stalk just trying to remember her.

  I sat up, checked the clock. I was late for work. Twenty minutes late, in fact. Should have woken up hours ago, showered, put on my monkey suit, gone into the office. No way I would be in before lunch now. Talk about an instant boner-killer.

  Standing hurt in all the bad ways. My throbbing skull made my nuts shrivel into my body. Worst hangover I’ve ever had? Probably. There wasn’t much competition. I wasn’t a drinking guy. If I'd been partying this hard last night, she must have been really worth it.

  Where was she, anyway?

  I was alone in my bedroom. The open windows cast unforgiving beams of yellow light on the wall, cut into slices by my mini-blinds. The curtains were open. The neighborhood must have gotten a pretty good show.

  But there was no woman in sight—no souvenirs but a misused pair of cuffs and a backache.

  Out of habit, I opened my side drawer and grabbed a poultice that I’d prepared on the last full moon. Only two of them left. I’d need to do another ritual soon. I popped one into my mouth, chewed the grave dirt and oak, felt my muscles warm with magic. I grimaced as I swallowed. It was about as pleasant as drinking the clumps at the bottom of a protein shake.

  I scratched a few unflattering itches as I snagged a suit out of my closet. Looked like I needed to steam out the wrinkles while I showered. Always did. I wasn’t good at getting my clothes out of the dryer in time, and government work didn’t pay well enough to justify the dry cleaners.

  I hung it over my arm and dismantled the wards on my bedroom door with a wave of my hand. Or at least, I tried to dismantle the wards, but they weren’t active. I must have forgotten to turn them on during my drunken haze.

  As soon as I stepped out and saw the rest of my apartment, I gave a low whistle.

  My kitchen was a wreck. The contents of the counters had been dumped on the linoleum. The unplugged microwave was upside down on the toaster like they were the ones having a hot tryst. My jar of dried beans had shattered and spilled its guts all the way into the living room. The Blu-rays were everywhere. Oh man, even my eight-track collection had been screwed up.

  There were stains on my couch and I didn’t want to know what they were. Lubricant or bodily fluids or whatever. The damn thing was from IKEA anyway. I would just toss it and get another one.

  Again, I tried to remember the night before, and failed.

  “Hope you were worth it,” I muttered, mentally tallying the cost of restoring my collections.

  Fortunately, my fire safe was untouched, and my badge for work and my wallet were still on the bookshelf. I took a quick inventory of the contents. Cash, driver’s license, genuine counterfeit FBI identification, unmarked key card, St. Benedict’s medallion. Everything in its proper place.

  My apartment had been turned upside down by a mysterious woman, but at least she had been honest about it.

  Something out of place caught my eye. Not something that had gone missing, but something that didn’t belong to me.

  A Glock.

  I was already right in front of the bathroom when I saw the gun on my coffee table, so the unpleasant shock of possessing a firearm I didn’t recognize was interrupted by another kind of shock.

  The floor in front of the bathroom door squished. I stepped back and lifted a foot to see what I’d touched.

  It was red. It was slick. It smelled like a slab of rare steak.

  It definitely wasn’t lubricant.

  Once I realized that I smelled meat, I smelled more of it. It was thick in my sinuses. I wasn’t just nauseous because of the stiff neck and the hangover; I was nauseous because I smelled something dead.

  In my apartment.

  Funny how much faster I could move once I’d stepped in a puddle of blood.

  I slipped back into the living room, dropped my suit on the chair, grabbed the Louisville Slugger from where it was propped on the wall. Everything was so much brighter and clearer than it had been a few seconds ago. My heart was hammering and every beat was a shot of adrenaline.

  As I curled my fists around the bat, my peripheral vision seemed like it widened. The whole world was quiet. The air conditioning clicked on and cool air whispered against my ankles.

  The apartment narrowed to the bathroom door as I approached. I didn’t hear anything moving on the other side.

  I opened it.

  The blood into the carpet was the end of a smear that crossed the linoleum and terminated at the other end of my bathroom—which, until that second, had been my favorite room in the apartment. The toilet and counter and fluorescent lights were standard Home Depot cheapies, but the bathtub was not. It was one of those big corner tubs with the jets that feel like sin after a hard workout at the gym. I’m enough of a man to admit to loving a hot bath. Sometimes even with bubbles and fizzy salts.

  And there was the woman that had given me such a wild ride. Legs like a colt. Firm, perky breasts. The kind of pouty lips my eldest brother, Domingo, used to call “beejay mouth” until I punched him har
d enough to shut his stupid face.

  The mystery woman was real pretty. I knew her name—I was sure I knew her name. For sure she worked at The Olive Pit, a favorite bar for my office. It was where we relaxed on Fridays at six o’clock and held retirement parties and the annual Christmas gift exchange.

  This waitress had laughed at me the first time I asked for her name, and the second time, and the third, but eventually I wised up and just took a look at the schedule in the kitchen. I couldn’t remember making love to those long legs and perfect breasts, but I remembered her ridiculously feminine handwriting.

  Erin. Her name was Erin, punctuated with a smiley face encircled by a heart.

  She was dead in my bathtub.

  Hell of a night.

  2

  My name’s Cèsar Hawke. I’m a witch working for a division of the government you’ve never heard about.

  The world’s not what everyone thinks it is—unless you think that our world’s a pawn in a game of chess between Heaven and Hell, and riddled with as much magic and wonder as it is with evil.

  In that case, the world is exactly what you think.

  My place of employment—the Office of Preternatural Affairs—takes a modern approach to an ages-old problem. It used to be that inquisitors would burn demons and the people in league with them. Now we get warrants, perform arrests, put the suspects on trial, and send guilty parties back to the Hell from whence they came with the travel forms filled out in triplicate.

  Everything you’ve ever heard about demons, angels, and witches is true. I would know. I’m a witch myself. But the world’s in denial about us. The Industrial Revolution brought about an era of people too smart to believe in the boogeyman and everyone has spent long decades telling themselves comforting lies about the mundane world they think they live in. Aside from some priests, renegade demon hunters, and victims of demonic crime, nobody knows the truth.

  Nobody but me and the other magically inclined special agents I work with, anyway. And we work hard to keep it that way.

  This stuff I do with the OPA, it saves lives on most days.

  Most days, I said.

  + + +

  I was still standing in the bathroom doorway and didn’t know how long I’d been like that. My arms were hurting from holding the bat with such a tight grip. My breaths were choppy and loud. It was the white roar of an approaching tornado.

  Erin had long, lacquered fingernails that were attached to long, shapely arms that were draped over the side of my previously favorite bathtub. The nail on her right-hand ring finger was missing. The one on her pinkie was cracked. They were the kind of fingernails that would leave gouges on a man’s arm during sex if she was having a real good time—or if she was trying to fight off a murderer.

  Glancing at the scratches on my arm a second time didn’t fill me with the same proud warmth it had the first time.

  Swallowing down the acid taste of bile, I took another step into the bathroom, careful not to smear the blood more than I already had. I needed a better look at what had happened in my apartment—in my damn home.

  Her head was tipped back against the tile, so it was easy to see the startlingly dark bruises wrapped around her throat. They formed a perfect imprint of two long-fingered hands that must have seized her from behind.

  At a glance, it was hard to say if it was the strangulation that killed her or if it was the gunshot wound positioned directly between the globes of her breasts. I did feel safe guessing that the gunshot wound was where all the blood came from, though.

  The Glock on my table.

  I was suddenly in motion again, lifting the baseball bat, moving through an apartment that suddenly felt like six hundred square feet of deathtrap.

  My search for an intruder was short and fruitless. The closets seemed deep and dark and endless even though they were too small to hold all my TV show Blu-rays, much less a murderer. I opened every kitchen cabinet and there was obviously nobody in there, either. I just about tripped over my free weights as I searched behind the bloody couch—yeah, that was blood on the cushions, all right.

  Aside from poor Erin and a Glock that wasn’t mine, I was alone in my apartment.

  My cell phone appeared in my hand. I dialed without looking at it as I walked back to the bathroom. I didn’t want to see her like that again, but it seemed too cruel to leave her alone.

  Staring at Erin, all I could think about was Ofelia. Erin didn’t look anything like my sister, who was dark-haired, like me, and only an inch shy of six feet. All Hawkes were tall like that. Erin was a short redhead, ivory-skinned and lean. But I looked at Erin, and all I could see was Ofelia with her bloody neck and bruised, lumpy face, and I was filled with a burning hate at myself, hate at the world, hate for the tequila that had wiped my memory of what had happened here.

  The phone stopped ringing. Switched to a voice.

  “You’re late, Cèsar, and I’m going to have your nuts on a griddle for it. Little salt, lots of pepper, maybe some—”

  “There’s a dead body in my bathtub, Suzy,” I interrupted.

  Silence.

  I probably should have called OPA dispatch or something, but I didn’t want to talk to dispatch; I wanted to talk to my officemate. She would get it. She would know what to do, how I should react, the steps we needed to take to fix it. Her head was always clearer than mine.

  “You’re going to have to say that again.” She sounded so calm, but there was a hard edge to her voice. Suzume Takeuchi—Suzy to me—was usually unflappable. But I think I’d just flapped her.

  “You heard me. There’s a body in my bathtub. You gotta head down here with a Union unit. We’ve gotta pull this scene apart and figure out what the hell happened.”

  Another long pause, and then, “Did you kill her?”

  The question hit me between the eyes.

  Scratches on my arm, body in my apartment, no memories in my skull—it hadn’t even occurred to me that I might have forgotten about killing Erin.

  The idea was so ridiculous that I almost felt like I should laugh.

  Almost.

  “No, I didn’t kill her,” I said. “Who do you think I am?”

  If she answered, I didn’t hear it. I was distracted by the wail of sirens through the cracked bathroom window. They were distant but approaching fast.

  It wasn’t the Union, which was like a special forces arm of the OPA. The Union didn’t blast through residential zones with sirens wailing. They were covert ops. They rolled in with black helicopters and black SUVs and quietly arrested or assassinated the guilty.

  Since it wasn’t the Union, those sirens belonged to the LAPD. The mundane police force.

  Someone had called the damn cops on me.

  “I need a Union unit now, Suzy.” I set down the Louisville Slugger and went to my living room window. It was a beautiful spring day. The oak tree blocking half my view was budding. Some kids that lived in the complex were playing on the grass. I could see the flash of lights beyond them.

  Suzy seemed to understand why I was suddenly more urgent. “Okay, Cèsar, don’t do anything crazy. I’ll take this straight to Director Friederling. Cooperate with the police; we’ll be there shortly.” And then she hung up on me without saying goodbye because Suzy never said goodbye.

  I pulled on the first clothes I found—boxer briefs, a pair of gray sweatpants with my alma mater’s logo on the hip, a white t-shirt—and that was when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs outside.

  Every instinct told me to prepare to fight and run. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I shouldn’t have felt guilty. But I was the one with the scratches on my arm and bloody feet, and I knew what they were going to think. I wasn’t authorized to tell these people that I was with the Office of Preternatural Affairs. Officially speaking, the OPA and I didn’t exist.

  All the cops were going to see was a man who got drunk off his ass and killed a woman.

  But if I ran, if I resisted—like the burn of adrenaline in my veins wante
d me to do—they were going to see a man who had killed a woman and was fighting them. It’d be as good as digging myself a nice, deep grave.

  I had to cooperate. That was what Suzy said. “Cooperate with the police; we’ll be there shortly.” Like I had any other option.

  Then my door was getting kicked open, there were hands forcing me to the floor, and I was handcuffed.

  And mostly, I was just thinking that I was definitely never drinking tequila again.

  3

  The police station kind of smelled like piss. You know, ammonia. That chemical in urine that seemed to be impossible to scrub away once the puddle went dry. I could smell bleach, too—someone trying to clean up someone else’s mess.

  Seemed like that was going to be a theme for the week.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been there. When Domingo got picked up for tagging in high school, that was where they had brought him: 77th Street Community Police Station. They were cool guys. They knew the neighborhood, they knew the kids, they knew who belonged and who didn’t. I didn’t know any of them by name anymore—it had been a long time since Domingo had gotten into that kind of trouble—but the cops walking me through the front door had the same honest faces that the old guys did.

  They marched me past some desks that looked a lot like mine. The desks were covered in paperwork and staffed by exhausted men just trying to make the world a better place, when the world didn’t want to be made any better. They were underfunded and overscheduled and stressed out, just like I was.

  But I wasn’t on the desk side of things now. The paperwork wasn’t my problem now. What had happened at my apartment—that was someone else’s bureaucratic nightmare.

  The holding cell had a bench and a toilet and a barred window. The one next door had a couple of gang bangers that looked like they had won a fight. The right side of one guy’s face was purple, and the other one was bleeding through the bandages on his ribs. Whatever had happened to them, they were in good enough shape to be in jail. That meant they’d won.