A Lying Witch Read online

  I went to shove Detective Coulson’s card back in my pocket but shrugged and discarded it in a wastepaper basket instead.

  Almost immediately, I felt a prickle crawl up the back of my neck.

  I turned to see the cat on the stairs.

  It was watching me intently.

  Its brow was furrowed, and its almond eyes elongated in a very human expression of withering disappointment.

  Cats couldn’t show withering disappointment, though – so it had to be hungry.

  “Yeah, yeah – I’ll head to the store after I check out the house.”

  I felt its eyes follow me as I pushed past to explore the house.

  … I'd never inherited anything. Especially nothing as large as a house. A couple of my friends back in the city had told me that I should stay here. If the house was nice and well-appointed, why not just live in it rent-free and save some money until I figured out what to do with my life?

  “Yeah, that's never going to happen,” I told the disembodied voices of my friends as I walked down the long corridor and found the kitchen.

  It was pretty, large, too, with an island bench, new appliances, a massive stainless steel fridge, pots and pans arrayed on hooks above the cooker, and a beautiful French-style dresser. Little teapots and cups and hand-painted plates were arranged on the dresser, drawing the eye to their intricate detail.

  The whole place was artful, tasteful. And exactly 100 billion miles away from my tiny, scrap of an apartment back in the city, furnished with second hand stuff.

  I shifted forward and opened the nearest cupboard, surprised to find it full of baking goods. Back in the way, far distant past, I’d once had a dream of starting up my own bakery. As I methodically shifted through the cupboards, I realized my grandmother had some great gear. Heavy cast-iron Dutch ovens, expensive copper-plated pans, a massive wok that could feed an army, and the best baking gear I'd ever seen.

  Once I was finished with the kitchen, I went on to explore the rest of the house. It was just the same. Artful, expensive, decent. I could almost fool myself into thinking she was a nice lady simply from looking through her stuff. Except there was still one massive omission. No family photos. Not one. And as for any photos of me – her only grandchild – it might as well have been that I didn't exist.

  I made it through the rest of the house. The three-story building was generous enough that there were ample bedrooms, a massive master bedroom, several bathrooms, a huge library, and quite a few storerooms.

  It was around mid-morning when I found the attic. I can't really tell you why I found it. Though I academically understood that all old large Victorian buildings like this had attics because of their steepled roofs, that wasn't the reason I found it. The cat was.

  I was standing on the top floor mulling over some trinkets artfully arranged on a credenza when the cat came trotting past. Though it had kept a close watch on me the whole day, as though I was a criminal intent on looting the place, when I'd stopped under the attic, it had started meowing like I’d stepped on its tail. It only stopped meowing after my head jerked back and I saw the opening to the attic. It was one of those built-in ladder ones that you could pull down with a hook. It wasn't properly closed and was open just a bit. There must've been a light on in the attic or something, because a faint glow was filtering out through the gap.

  “And what have we here?” I muttered under my breath as I searched around for a pole to pull the stairs down with. I found it in one of the spare bedrooms propped against the wall.

  The cat now watched me quietly and intently. Seriously intently. Either the little guy thought I was food, or he wanted me to find out whatever the heck was up there.

  “Don't go down that road again,” I admonished myself with a huff. “The cat is just hungry.”

  I don't know why, but a knot of nerves formed in my gut as I muscled the hook up to the attic stairs, inserted the pole into the hook and pulled them down.

  A loud grating creak echoed through the hallway.

  I swear the cat was looking at me with an approving glint in its eye. Hey, maybe this was all a setup, and it planned on locking me up in the attic so it could get revenge for me body-slamming it last night.

  Those knots continued to twist around my gut as the stairs clunked to the floor.

  “Pull yourself together,” I admonished myself as I took to the stairs lightly.

  My mom used to tell me that if you were attuned to the world, you could feel things. Sense histories whenever you entered a new building or traveled to a new city. The strongest energies of all either corresponded to great or terrible things. The more monumental some incident, the more energy surrounded it.

  So why the hell did I suddenly get the feeling that this attic would be the most important room I would ever enter in my entire life?

  “You're making it up,” I said firmly as I reached the top of the stairs.

  … The attic was empty. Or mostly empty. It wasn't full of treasure, wasn't full of heirlooms or old suitcases or stacks of old books. It had a nice enough looking rug, a pretty comfortable leather chair, and an antique table with a wobbly leg.

  There was a book on the table. Out of everything in the room, it was the book that caught my attention. It riveted me to the spot as if it had suddenly locked two hands around my cheeks and snapped me into place.

  I heard a creak on the stairs and shunted around, heart pounding in my chest as I expected everything from murderers to demons. What I got was the cat. Of course, it was the cat. It rested on the final step and stared at me, its gleaming intelligent eyes locked on mine.

  “Man, it's just you. You almost gave me a heart attack,” I muttered, then I admonished myself quickly as I realized that’s exactly what old Joan had died of.

  Never joke about the dead.

  I turned around, attention settling back on the book. I couldn't help myself. I was compelled by something – some sense that welled up in my gut, spread through my heart, and reached towards the book—

  I… couldn’t describe it. It was as if the book called to some part of me that had never been touched before. Some unreachable corner buried deep within my soul.

  My heartbeat didn’t quicken, but somehow it became harder, like a drum being pounded with ever-growing force.

  Suddenly, I remembered something Joan had said to me once. Maybe it had been at my granddad’s funeral, or maybe I’d just heard it from my mother.

  The point was – the saying echoed through my mind with the force of a bellowing blast.

  “Follow the path laid out by your heart. Weave together the strands of emotion that grow from your soul and follow them to your greatest destiny.”

  You see, according to Joan, each of us has a different set of possible destinies, ranging from good to bad. We get to choose where our life will end up.

  You want to be the best possible you? Easy. You don’t have to think. Don’t have to strive. Just follow your heart.

  My problem with that? Yeah, your heart beats blood. It doesn’t weave together strands of your destiny. It kind of underpins your circulatory system, so you don’t, you know, die.

  Plus, living is about surviving. It’s about making sacrifices. Trading off the good against the bad and getting something in between.

  So I fought. Aiya, did I fight that growing compulsion that pulled me towards the book, that told me wrapped up in the fiber of each page was my destiny.

  I fought so hard, in fact, I swore I heard something cracking. Like a muscle under strain snapping, or some metal chain clanking.

  Suddenly, someone knocked on the front door.

  Don’t ask me how I heard it, considering I was way up in the attic, but I did.

  I heard it because I felt every knock on the door. Felt it as if somebody had balled their hand into a fist and drummed it against the center of my forehead.

  It was so unexpected that I let out a ridiculously loud yelp.

  Whoever was knocking paused. “Everything okay i
n there?” A loud, husky male voice called out.

  A jolt of something shot up my spine. It was almost as if I’d swallowed an explosion. It fired across my back, charged up my arms, powered over my legs, and sank into my heart.

  My reaction was so powerful, I crammed a hand over my pounding heart.

  … All the good fortune tellers always told their clients that you could feel your future changing. You could sense the moment your life would turn down a radical new path. It was a priming technique. In reality, your future was changing every moment. But if you primed a client to be constantly on the lookout for change, it meant they’d be more attuned to opportunities. They’d start to look at things they’d once glossed over.

  I told my clients you could even hear change. Maybe a disembodied voice would echo in your mind. Maybe you’d hear the faint tinkling of a bell.

  Me? I heard something growling. “Hey, are you alright in there?” the voice repeated.

  Again that electric shock of recognition burst through me.

  I don’t know why, but I felt like I knew that voice.

  Before the guy could growl again, I took a startled breath, realizing I had to answer. “Ah… I'm fine. Just coming.”

  I fumbled forward and threw myself down the stairs. Though the book still had its hooks in me, the voice did, too. In fact, I felt like I was being pulled between them. A puppet suddenly tugged between two puppeteers.

  I reached the front door just as somebody was opening it. They slammed it right into me, and the heavy door smacked into my nose.

  I spluttered, cramming my hands over my face.

  Though I was a downtrodden, out-of-luck, crappy fortune-teller, I wasn’t meek.

  So I opened my mouth to shout at the guy.

  I stopped.

  Abruptly.

  I froze – my body grinding to a stop as every single muscle locked into place with a twang.

  No, it wasn't the pain pulsing down my nose from where the door had hit me. Nor was it the fact this guy had a seriously long shadow that suddenly cut out the sunshine beyond.

  It was the man himself.

  In a single second, my mind took him in. Every detail. From his height to his broad shoulders, to his shoulder-length brown hair and his piercing brown gaze.

  But that didn’t actually come close to describing how he really looked. Even a photo couldn’t do his presence justice.

  He felt like a god. He looked like one, too.

  My suddenly confused mind told me that I knew this man. Or at least some part of me did.

  I'd never met him – because, hello, I'd remember encountering a demi-god in the flesh. But there was something about him. Something that set off a visceral, powerful reaction that shot through my body and sent biting tingles cascading into my hands and feet as though they were on fire.

  The second he saw me was the second a pronounced frown spread his lips and jutted hard into that gorgeous, gorgeous jaw. “Who the hell are you?” he asked in a voice thick with a strong Scottish accent.

  Still surprised and with my nose and cheeks smarting, I replied with my hand crammed over my face. “Hmlili.”

  The guy frowned all the harder. “No, seriously, who are you?” he demanded. “Where's Joan?”

  Oh god. It was happening again. Another weirdly handsome guy had popped up at my front door demanding to see my grandmother.

  Except this was different. Powerfully different. About as different in scale as an ant compared to the whole frigging galaxy.

  Detective Coulson had been hot, sure.

  This man?

  I couldn’t begin to understand what my body was doing in his presence. I had no idea if my heart was leaping or shuddering, if my mouth wanted to snap into a smile or a grimace, if the chills racing up and down my back were the first sign of sickness or anticipation.

  “Where is Joan?” he demanded.

  Though his voice was a growl, there was a distinctly worried edge to it that caught my attention.

  And sank my heart.

  Despite the insane effect this guy was having on me, I realized what I had to do. Slowly, reverently, I let my hands drop from my face. “Look, I’m very sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Joan McLane is dead—”

  At first, the guy didn’t react. Then confusion crumpled his brow as he took a step forward, his shadow somehow growing even longer. “I would know if my future had died.”

  Though the guy had a thick accent, he spoke English well. I just couldn’t understand what he was saying.

  My grandmother had been his future? It didn’t compute.

  Before I could react, he thrust towards me, hooked a strong hand around my arm, and yanked me inside.

  I didn’t even have time to scream before he shoved the door closed with the toe of his camel- colored leather boot.

  “What-what are you doing? Let me go!” I spluttered, trying to wriggle out of his grip.

  Though I bucked and shoved against his fingers, they were unnaturally strong, even taking into account his size.

  A wave of dread sank into my stomach, chilling my spine and sinking so hard into my heart it felt like it would explode. “Look, just let me go, please. There’s been some misunderstanding. My grandmother really is dead. She died of a heart attack. They found her in her kitchen. Please, just look it up on your phone.”

  The guy suddenly ticked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing and his brow peaking. He looked confused, powerfully confused.

  But if I thought his confusion would slow his relentless attack, I was wrong.

  He dragged me forward. As he did, he walked past the open sitting room door, and I saw his shadow flit across the rug. For some reason, it seemed longer than an ordinary shadow, broader-chested, better formed. And somehow – some impossible how – I swore I saw a sword at his hip, even though there was nothing there.

  My bare feet snagged against the hallway runner, and I stumbled hard against the wall.

  The guy didn’t seem to notice or care as we reached the kitchen.

  He pulled out one of the chairs with his boot and shoved me into it.

  Before I could scuttle forward, sweaty fingers slipping against the edge of the table, he shoved a hand in the back pocket of his chinos and grabbed out a round of electrical tape.

  My stomach bottomed out as my heart exploded.

  I doubted this guy was an electrician or a handyman.

  Which left two other options: he just happened to have gaffer tape on him, or he’d planned this.

  He yanked back the tape with his teeth, and in a seriously quick, practiced set of movements, tied my wrists and ankles to the chair.

  I was way beyond reasoning with him.

  I was way beyond anything other than screaming.

  “No one can hear you. These walls are too thick,” he mentioned as he yanked off a short piece of tape and crammed it over my mouth, sticking a few scraps of my fringe in front of my eyes.

  I jerked back and forth on the chair, trying to get free, the chair legs screeching over the polished floorboards.

  My whole body shook, my fingers and brow were slicked with sweat, and my heart was shuddering so badly I thought I’d die.

  I watched as the guy backed up against the island bench and crossed his considerable arms in front of his chest. “Where’s Joan?” His words were choppy, quick, a line of sweat collecting across his brow. He still looked confused, but that didn’t detract from his anger – not one little bit.

  I shook my head, tears trailing down my cheeks and slipping over the smooth gray surface of the gaffer tape.

  I knew my eyes were already wider than they’d ever been. And yet, they grew wider still as the guy swung his arms down and pushed away from the bench, taking a loud step towards me. “Either you tell me where Joan is now, or I start to play mean.”

  I screamed behind the tape, the desperate cry completely muffled. More tears cascaded down my pale cheeks as I tried to jerk back on the chair.

  “Who
do you work for? Fagen? The Lonely King?” He shifted close and slowly got down on one knee, his arm resting on it as he stared up at me. “Coming here was a stupid mistake, fairy.”

  … Though there was so much going wrong – though my mind was splitting itself apart with fear – I still did a double take.

  Fairy?

  This guy had called my grandma his future. Now he thought I was a fictional creature.

  What the hell was going on?

  He paused, obviously waiting for me to answer. But, just as obviously, I couldn’t answer: I was still gagged, after all.

  Did he think I could talk through electrical tape?

  I shifted as far back from him as the chair would allow, the muscles of my neck straining and the tape around my wrists catching the fine hairs along my forearms.

  He waited there a few more moments then shook his head. It had such definite finality that it was clear he’d just come to some decision.

  He rose and loomed above me.

  I’d been mugged once. And I’d been followed down alleys a couple of times.

  Payback for all my sins, ha?

  But this? I’d never faced anything remotely like this.

  My heart didn’t just shudder with fear – it felt like it tore itself to shreds.

  I watched in horror as he reached a hand towards me.

  My brain told me this was it.

  My life was over.

  This creep would wring my neck and leave me on the cold kitchen floor.

  I saw his fingers reach towards my neck. Saw his short nails catching the midday light streaming in through the windows behind the table. Saw the muscles tense and tighten up his wrist and into his large shoulder.

  And I snapped.

  Or something in me snapped.

  It was literally as if something shattered before my eyes.

  I saw sparks cascade through my field of vision. Darting, pulsing, bright pricks of white-blue and yellow-gold dancing around the corners of my eyes.

  There. Right in the center of my eyes. Right in the middle of my field of vision.

  I saw something else.

  Something overlaid right on the top of this scene. Like a picture painted over a photo.