The Witch and the Englishman (The Witches Series Book 2), Page 3

  Chapter Six

  It was later.

  I was in my Camry, parked illegally along busy Robertson Street in Beverly Hills. Yes, the words “Camry” and “Beverly Hills” don’t generally go together, and, yeah, I’m a bit of a fish-out-of-water type.

  I’m not wealthy. In fact, I worked two jobs to get by. Tomorrow morning, in fact, I would meet with a new client: a young actress who had been in the movie Marley & Me. I’d have to Google her later to see who, exactly, she was. Truth was, I didn’t care either way. Rich or not, she was a paying client, and that’s all that mattered. Then again, if you lived in these parts, you saw actors and actresses all the time. And TV anchormen. And reality stars. And famous artists and musicians and everyone in between. Last week, I’d watched Charlie Sheen get shit-faced at a bar near my home. And it wasn’t the first time I watched him get shit-faced, either.

  Or even the second.

  Oh, Charlie.

  Now, as I sat in my Camry, as a seeming armada of oversized, shiny SUVs roared by, I knew I needed someone to talk to.

  I checked the time on my cell. Samantha’s kids would be settled in now, perhaps watching TV or playing video games. Samantha was probably in her home office, making notes in files on her next case. Or not. Maybe she was playing video games with them. She was close to her kids, which I admired. And she seemed to only be getting closer to them every day, which was also a byproduct of her vampirism; meaning, her supernatural gifts were rubbing off on them, too. She especially influenced her daughter, who was quickly maturing into one hell of a psychic herself.

  Samantha picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello, Allie.”

  I said, “So, now I’m a fourth-ring friend? One more and it goes to your voicemail.”

  “That you know how many rings before the call goes to my voicemail is a little creepy.”

  “Says the vampire.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” said Samantha. “Not over the phone.”

  “Because Big Brother might be listening?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And why would they care about us, Sam?”

  “Because we’re awesome?”

  “I suppose so. I guess they could always capture you and use your blood to create a super army of the undead.”

  “Are you quite done with this topic?” asked Sam.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I said. “I’ve had a tough day.”

  There was a pause and I felt Sam scanning my thoughts. Yes, she and I were connected telepathically, even over long distances. Her feeding on me had a lot to do with that. Anyway, it was sometimes easier just to have her scan my thoughts, rather than relay them verbally. Telepathic communication was, if anything, efficient.

  “Ah,” said Sam when she was done. The scan only took seconds. Telepathic communication was fast, too. Everyone should try it.

  “‘Ah’ is right,” I said glumly. I had pulled over to the side of the road, not to admire the passing autocade of the world’s nicest cars, but because I was still too shaken to drive straight. And...I couldn’t think of anywhere to go. I just needed to stop and think and cry and talk.

  “You’ve had quite a day,” said Sam. Her voice was soothing and full of the kind of understanding that only two people who are deeply connected could have. After all, she had literally just relived the highlights—and lowlights—of my day.

  “Sometimes it sucks being me,” I said.

  “Join the club,” said Sam, with a small laugh. “Then again, part of what you have become is because of me, so I’m sorry for that.”

  “Nah. Don’t be sorry. I’m just having a pity party. Truth is, I wouldn’t trade what I am now for anything in the world. And you didn’t force me to hang around with you, unless you did some weird mind trick on me or something.”

  “I have a few tricks up my sleeve, but that’s not one of them. And they call it ‘compulsion’ on The Vampire Diaries.”

  Hearing Sam make real-life comparisons to The Vampire Diaries was amusing and surreal all rolled into one. I said, “Well, you’ve compelled people to tell you the truth in the past.”

  “That was just a momentary, passing thing. I barely knew what I was doing.”

  I said, “So, you don’t think you could compel people for longer periods of time?”

  I could almost see Sam shrug on her end of the line. Correction, I could actually see her shrug. I had, after all, a minor visual image of her on the periphery of my thoughts. It was an almost automatic link-up to her, a link-up that just happened without my trying. Yes, she and I were deeply connected.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll look into it.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re a good you-know-what, Sam.”

  “For now,” she said, in a rare instance of negativity. I knew that Sam the vampire wasn’t entirely sure how long she could remain “good,” which, of course, was a relative term. The thing within her—a very dark entity that had gained access to this world through her—was doing its best to control her...and to possess her completely. Such dark entities were the driving force behind vampires and werewolves. Yes, werewolves. And, yes, I even knew of a werewolf. Hell, I might have even had a small crush on him, too. Except, of course, he was Samantha Moon’s ex-boyfriend. Not to mention, he still carried a torch for her. A major torch for her. But, dammit, he was just so...yummy.

  “Are you quite done?” she asked.

  “Er, sorry.”

  “I mean, I can literally feel you lusting after Kingsley. That’s kind of gross.”

  “Sorry. He’s just so...never mind.”

  “Yes, he is yummy,” said Samantha, reading my mind. “He’s also a playboy and a cheat.”

  “He was set up, Sam. Some would make the argument that it wasn’t even his fault.”

  “Some?” I heard the bite in her voice.

  “Not me, of course,” I said quickly. I didn’t like pissing off my friend. Not to mention, it was probably never a good idea to piss off a vampire, especially a vampire who was presently battling a deeper darkness within. A darkness that could, at any moment, take total control of her. “But let it be known that I am officially on record for having an innocent crush on Kingsley.”

  “Fine, whatever. Now, can we change the subject? Like back to why you called me in the first place?”

  I nodded, but the truth was, I was enjoying not thinking about Billy Turner’s imminent death...or the thing that stalked his house. Outside my car, a couple were walking hand-in-hand. There had been an older photo of Billy and his daughter holding hands, too. Life could be so good in one moment...and so wrong the next.

  “Billy Turner is going to be murdered, isn’t he?” asked Samantha suddenly.

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know who kills him.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t need to be a mind reader to know what you’re thinking, Allie.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you?” I asked.

  She paused for only a nanosecond. “Yeah, I probably would do anything I could to save him, too.”

  “It seems like the obvious thing to do,” I said.

  “It does,” agreed Sam.

  “Except...”

  “Except what?” asked Sam.

  “Except Millicent thinks it’s very much the wrong thing to do.”

  “Millicent is an old prude. Not to mention, she’s dead. I’m not sure I like her.”

  “We were all friends once, Sam. In fact, we were friends in many, many lifetimes.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know her in this lifetime. And, as far as I’m concerned, she’s an old fuddy-duddy who’s kind of creepy.”

  “She’s more of a guide than a ghost, Sam. She knows what she’s doing and she’s teaching me to, you know, control what I am.”

  “Well, there’s something about her that doesn’t sit right with me. Something that bothers me.”

  I suspected I knew what that something was and gave Sam access to my suspicion.

  “Maybe,” said Sam.


  “There’s no maybe about it. She rejected you. In essence, she told you that you were not worthy to be the thing that we had been throughout many lifetimes. In effect, she cast you out of our little witch circle.”

  Sam said nothing. Her own husband had rejected her, too, and I knew that had scarred her, even to this day, and even though the man was quite dead.

  “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t still like you, Sam. It just means you can’t be, you know, a witch.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be a witch.”

  “You don’t have to be a witch, Sam. You’re something different. Something very special.”

  “Oh, bullshit. There’s a she-devil living inside me just waiting to take me over for all eternity. But thanks for trying.”

  “Hey, I gave it my best shot.”

  Sam was silent, and so was I. My stomach, not so much. I needed some food...I also needed to know what I should do.

  Sam picked up on my thought, as usual. “I say...skip all the psychic woo-woo shit, skip Millicent’s advice, and get out of your own head. I say this: follow your heart.”

  “I like that,” I said.

  “So, what does your heart say, Allie?”

  “It says to save him, no matter what.”

  “Then do that.”

  “And what if my heart is wrong?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “Except,” I said, “I think I’m already halfway over it.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Hi, this is Allison. Thank you for calling the Psychic Hotline. How can I help you see into the future?”

  “There you are,” said a familiar voice.

  I set aside my laptop and sat forward on the couch, elbows resting on my knees. “How long did it take you this time?”

  “Fourth or fifth try.”

  “Less than before,” I said.

  “Things are looking up.”

  There was a chance that I was grinning like a schoolgirl. Conn had that effect on me. As I grinned, and as Conn thought up the next witty thing he had to say, two things happened: one, I linked up to him almost immediately; meaning, he and I were now deeply connected, although he didn’t know it. The second, of course, was that I lit a cigarette. Yes, I smoked. No, I wasn’t perfect. Yes, smoking helped calm my nerves. Hell, wouldn’t you smoke if you were me, seeing the dead, and being friends with vampires and werewolves?

  Not to mention, whenever Conn called...I just felt like lighting up. The way I liked to light up after sex. Of course, Conn and I had never had sex, or even phone sex...or had even met each other.

  Months ago, he had called the Psychic Hotline, and we had hit it off in a way that had startled me. Our connection had been immediate and strong, and he’d felt it, too. The mystery part was that I’d refused to see his face; yes, I could see him remotely, but I had refused to focus on his face. Well, all of his face. I’d stopped at his lips and jawline. That had been enough for me. Seeing too much of him just seemed like...cheating. Plus, I liked the idea that he remained a mystery. Mysteries were good. One didn’t always need immediate gratification.

  Anyway, since then, he had called me often, always waiting until he finally got patched through to me, often calling many dozens of times until he ended up with me. Then, we would talk for a long time...and rack up quite a bill in the process, since he was paying about $3.00 a minute. But, from what I had seen, he could more than afford a $3.00 a minute charge. But, until I met the man—if I met the man—he would remain a mystery. And Conn had been calling me now for, what, four or five months.

  “Before I say anything, would you mind checking to see if we’re alone?”

  He did this often, which I appreciated. He was reminding me to double-check that we were alone on the line, as my bosses were sometimes tempted to listen in on us...and even record us for “training purposes,” they claimed.

  Of course, it was hard to sneak up on a psychic, and I always had a feel for when they were on the line, and so I told him to hold on and scanned the line. “We’re alone,” I reported.

  “Good, so we can talk dirty?”

  “We never talk dirty,” I said. “And you had better be wearing pants, mister.”

  He laughed deeply at that. I knew, of course, that he was wearing clothing: shorts, in fact. He was sitting out on his upper deck—yes, he had lower deck, too—his preferred spot when he called me.

  Conn mostly wore clothes when he called me. I said mostly because sometimes his clothing was no more than a partially closed robe. Today, he was wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, and he looked tan and healthy and full of life. An iced tea sat next to him. There was a mint leaf in the iced tea, and a slice of lemon. Yeah, he had it rough.

  “So, when will we meet, Allison?”

  “The answer to that is never.”

  “You sound so...firm. Is there any room for negotiation?”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “There you go again. But that’s okay, Allison. I have you here with me now, and all is good in the world.”

  “You’re a nut,” I said.

  He reached for his drink and sipped it and sat back. I was tempted again to get a full view of his face. Was the rest of him as handsome as the lips and jaw promised? What did his eyes look like? It would be easy enough for me to see...all I had to do was focus...

  But I refused to look. Not now. Perhaps, not ever. No, I would look, someday. But, for now, I liked this game we were playing.

  “I want to meet you for dinner someday.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I said.

  “Aren’t you curious to see me?”

  He’d gotten me there, and I faltered before answering.

  “There!” he said excitedly. “There’s a chink in your armor. You do want to see what I look like.”

  “Fine. You got me. My interest is piqued, but it’s not going to happen. Not in this life.”

  “So, you’re saying there’s a chance in the next life?”

  I laughed at that.

  “So, all I have to do is die and wait?”

  “Now, don’t get crazy on me,” I said.

  “I like you a lot,” said Conn, “but not enough to kill myself.”

  “Hey, I think I’m offended,” I said.

  We were silent for a while. I was sitting forward, watching Conn in my mind’s eye. Watching him from behind, to be exact, noting his wide shoulders and the way he loosely held his phone to his ear. I liked what I was seeing.

  After a half minute, he said, “Is it possible to fall in love without actually meeting?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I think,” he said, “you might, for once, be wrong.”

  “Don’t say it, Conn.”

  He didn’t, but I felt it.

  Dammit, I felt it.

  Chapter Eight

  I had been a personal trainer before all this craziness.

  I still did some personal training, which I enjoyed very much. The next morning, I met my new client, Ivy Tanner, who was even cuter than her IMDB pictures. I now remembered her from the movie, Marley & Me. She’d had a small role, but an important one.

  We met at Gold’s Gym in Beverly Hills, where I quickly assessed her strengths and weaknesses. She had a sore elbow from a fall off a horse while filming in South America with Russell Crowe not too long ago. She wasn’t bragging. It was all very matter-of-fact. I nodded matter-of-factly as I put her through some lunges. I was so matter-of-fact that no one could have guessed that I had massive crush on Russell Crowe.

  “Ah,” she said, as she turned and looked at me, hands on hips, and lunging, “you are a fan of Russell Crowe, I see.”

  “That obvious?” I asked. I was lunging right alongside her.

  “Well, your eyes lit up when I mentioned his name.”

  “I thought I was, you know, acting cool.”

  “You were acting, you know, cool...except for the fact that you looked a bit starstruck. Plus, I’m a bit of a p
sychic.”

  “Are you now?”

  She nodded, sweat dripping from the tip of her nose. She might be beautiful as hell, but she was quite the sweater.

  Welcome to the club, I thought.

  “Yeah, I’ve been a little psychic my whole life. I’m always seeing things I shouldn’t see, hearing things I shouldn’t hear, and getting feelings that things are going to happen before they do.”

  I digested that, as we switched from lunges to squats. She wanted to keep the squats light, as she wrongly believed that squatting would make her ass big. I explained to her that they wouldn’t but accommodated her request anyway. Besides, she had the bad elbow and I was okay with not putting too much stress on that.

  As she positioned herself under the rack, with only a 25-pound plate on each side, I couldn’t help but notice the many glances and outright stares directed our way. Or, rather, her way. Ivy, however, ignored them all. In fact, she could have just as easily been at home, working out in a private gym, for all that she noticed the looks and stares. I suspected that not everyone knew her from her acting. She wasn’t big enough yet. Still, she simply looked like someone famous. And in this town, that was sometimes good enough.

  “I guess you think I’m pretty weird,” she said, grunting a little as she squatted with almost perfect form. She was, I knew, twenty-four years old and, in today’s fast-paced world of apps and widgets, that placed her nearly another generation behind me. Then again, I was only in my mid-thirties.

  I said, “Even normal people are secretly weird.”

  She giggled and focused on her squats. When she was done, she slipped from under the bar as I repositioned it on the squat rack. She patted her face with a towel and said, “There are other things about me, too. Other weird things.”

  “Oh?” I said. I eased myself under the squat rack. After all, why not get in my own workout while she cooled down? Yes, I was basically paid to work out, and that tickled me to no end.