Wolfsbane: Aspect of the Wolf (2 page)

A second later, Emilie's smile froze in place and her shoulders sank when she recognized her visitor. What in the depths of Hell was
he
doing here?

The shingle that hung outside Daniel Garrison's office around the corner on Lakeshore Drive read “Investment Broker.” Emilie imagined that was just a clever pseudonym for “Arch Nemesis,” which was what she preferred to call him. Of all the residents of Cypress Park that didn't like the idea of a fourth-generation witch running a magick shop in town after the demon debacle, Daniel Garrison was the most vocal and obnoxious.

Emilie could handle the subtle sidelong glances and the faint whispers. The plumbers who were mysteriously only
partially
out of town all week really didn't bother her. Even the shoppers who moved their children to the other side of the street as they passed the store didn't upset her. She wasn't the first in her family to come out of the broom closet and try to bring magick into the lives of the general populous. She'd come into the business with her eyes wide open and all her amulets charged.

Still, she hadn't been prepared for Daniel Garrison and his petition to the town council, or his eloquent rhapsodizing about the inherent dangers of mystical artifacts and magickal herbs. Well, hell. Fire was dangerous in the wrong hands, too, but people still lit candles and built fireplaces in their homes.

"Can I help you?” She forced the words out through her chilly grin and fixed him with a gaze designed to make his ears smoke.

"Uh ... well...” His bright blue eyes swept the shop from the besoms to the Beltane incense display. “Are we alone?"

"Do you mean ‘we’ as in mankind and ‘alone’ as in ‘in the universe'? Or do you mean literally—just you and me here in this room?” She crossed her arms over her chest, causing the phone she had slipped into her overalls to beep. She shut it off and gave him a languid glare.

"Ha. Ha.” There it was. That Daniel Garrison arrogance. For a moment he'd actually looked ... nervous, maybe? But the uncertainty in his eyes fled at her comment. He turned and flipped over the “Closed” sign that dangled from a pewter chain on the front door.

Emilie rounded the counter and propelled herself toward the door. “Excuse me, but I'm open for business. I don't do private consultations—at least not in the middle of the morning."

Daniel held up his hands to stop her. “Whoa! Truce! Just for a second. I came here to call a truce."

She stopped, crossing her arms over her chest again. “I don't see a white flag on you anywhere.” Nope. No white flag. His blue button-fly, stone-washed jeans fit nicely, though. Emilie silently berated herself for noticing.

"I said truce, not surrender.” He looked at her from under his eyebrows, and for the first time, she noticed his long lashes and the rim of dark blue that ringed his irises. The look he gave her was disconcerting and strangely compelling.

"Why do you want a truce?"

"I need ... your help."

Emilie blinked. The confession had cost him. His gaze dropped. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head, as if throwing himself on her mercy.

"I have just the thing. A potion to banish bad habits. A dab behind each ear—and poof—you'll disappear.” That was low. Emilie regretted the comment the instant it came out, but it felt good also. He took the needling in stride, and she gave him credit for that.

A faint smile turned up one corner of his mouth. “I deserved that."

"Hmm. I have more, so don't think you're off the hook. My store should be full of customers right now, but thanks to you, people are still terrified to come in here.
Most
people."

"Chester Creek was conjuring minions in the back room. Cypress Park isn't ready for minions."

"I'm not Chester Creek."

"Which is why I came to ask for your help."

Again, he caught her in that compelling stare. She thought of the protection amulet that nestled between her breasts. He didn't seem the type to have any magickal powers, but she reached up to touch the amulet through her T-shirt just in case.

"What kind of help do you ... need?"

"It's a long story. Is there somewhere we can sit down?"

And I thought chasing a werewolf around town was hard, Daniel thought, as Emilie Swanson led him behind the counter of Mystikal Excursions and into a narrow hallway. He'd expected hostility from her. After all, he'd drafted the petition to have the premises permanently closed and all magickal businesses banned from Cypress Park. Not that he had anything against witches like Emilie, of course. The whole thing rested on principal. One bad apple sours the bunch, as his grandfather always said. Of course, Nathan Bigelow Garrison had dabbled in witchcraft himself, which had ultimately led to disaster, come to think of it.

In the hallway, Emilie skirted around a bucket of blue water and a soggy mop and gestured him into a back room. He gave a skeptical glance at the mess and peeked into the lavatory, where an azure puddle spread across the aging linoleum.

"Plumbing problems?” he asked.

She rolled her gorgeous green eyes. Why hadn't he noticed those eyes before? Or the waves of lustrous chestnut hair that spilled over her shoulders?

"Again, thanks to you,” she replied as she followed him into the back room.

"How am I responsible for your plumbing?"

"If it wasn't for you, I could get a reputable plumber in here to take care of the problem. Everyone's terrified of the place. Except Mrs. Wenzel."

"I know her, she's—"

Something stopped him in his tracks. Whether it was the sudden rush of chilly air that hit him in the face, or the massive circle of ancient runes inscribed on the floor in front of him, he wasn't sure. At the center of the jagged, crudely formed symbol sat a fat black candle, burning merrily against the chill, and four enormous quartz crystals. A bucket of industrial floor paint sat on a pile of newspapers in the far corner of the otherwise empty room.

"I love what you've done with the place.” Maybe this whole asking-a-witch-for-help idea was just bad, bad, bad.

"Don't even go there, bucko.” Emilie punctuated her statement with a dirty look. A cute dirty look. “Three layers of paint and four cleansing candles still haven't sucked all the netherworldliness out of this room. I may actually have to do a full banishing in here."

Bucko? He mouthed the word and gave her a curious look. “A
full
banishing? As opposed to a partial?"

"I hate them."

"Why?"

"Banishing gives me a major migraine.” She sighed and tossed her mane. Rich brown curls cascaded over the front of her denim overalls. “But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.” She waited a beat while he stared. “And your problem was what again?"

"Oh. Right.” He gave the runes another sidelong glance and decided to ignore them for now. “It's ... an unusual ... you might think I'm crazy, but just hear me out."

"I'm hearing. I mean, I'm listening. I've heard it
all
, you know. I grew up in a house with three generations of witches, so nothing shocks me. What is it? Embarrassing warts? Scum in the bottom of your cauldron? Can't get your broomstick up?"

Man, she was a spitfire. “My broom—” He had to stop and clear his throat. “My broomstick is just fine, thanks. This is a little more complicated."

"Spill it."

He took a deep breath. “My brother is a werewolf."

"Oh my GOD! Are you kidding? That's unbelievable!"

Daniel rolled his eyes. “This was a bad idea—"

She put her hand on his arm. Her face broke into an endearing grin that caused a faint ping somewhere in the vicinity of the middle of his gut. “I'm sorry. I had to. You looked so serious."

"I
am
serious. This is very serious. I need someone to cure him."

She nodded. “It's not a simple thing, curing werewolf ... ish ... ness."

"You mean lycanthropy?"

"Yes, I believe that's the technical term.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall. The movement seemed to cause a faint groan to emanate from the middle of the floor. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the desperate, hollow sound. “That happens. Now, let's get a handle on this. How old is your brother?"

"Does that make a difference?"

"Well, he's not a kid, is he? Teenagers are tough to deal with even when they're not changing into hell beasts three nights out of the month."

"No. He's twenty-seven. Two years younger than me."

"Does he know he's a werewolf?” She winced a little.

He imagined having to break the news to someone would be a bitch. “He knows. But no one else does. Part of the problem is we need to keep this very quiet."

"I can imagine, Mr. All-Magick-is-Evil."

For some reason, he didn't take offense at the jibe. To be fair, she'd already warned him to expect a few more zingers. This was number two. He planned to keep count.

"I don't think
all
magick is evil,” he replied with a pointed glance at the rune circle. “But having a brother who turns into a murderous, flesh-eating lycanthrope on a regular basis sort of tips the scales, if you know what I mean."

"Well, at least he's not a vampire."

"I suppose that's a small consolation. The truth is, he wants to keep this quiet from his fiancée. He's engaged to be married in a couple of months and this would destroy his plans."

She nodded. “Couples counseling might be in order. If you can't tell the one you love that you're a werewolf—"

"He
can't
tell her. And he shouldn't have to. Can you cure him?"

She met his gaze head on, and that strange ping echoed in the back of his brain this time. What the hell was
that
?

"I can try. It's not something I've actually done before, but I know people who—"

"No! No, no people. No anybody. He doesn't want this all over town."

"Uh ... it's not a one-person job. With my coven I could—"

"No covens. No group therapy. No gathering of distant relatives.
Dis-cre-tion
.” He emphasized the last word one syllable at a time. “I think he'd rather be a werewolf forever than lose his fiancée. She's the love of his life.” Bethany was a wonderful girl, perfect for Vance. He wouldn't let his brother lose the one thing that mattered most to him in the world. “Can you help?
Will
you help? I know I maybe owe you an apology for my vehemence in trying to get your business banished from the shopping district—"

"
Maybe
?"

"I was thinking of the town—the residents. This is a quiet place, a place to settle down and raise a family."

"Not a family of demons."

"Right, not a family of demons."

"Or witches."

"I didn't say that."

She sighed and looked up at him from under mile-long lashes. Were those flecks of gold in her eyes? “I'll need a few days to gather some supplies and do some research. I'm going to have to make a few
discreet
inquiries. I promise I won't name names. And I'd like to meet your brother before the next full moon."

"Any time. He works from the house—128 Hillside.” He dug into his pocket for business cards, his and his brother's.

Their fingers touched as he handed her the cards. Daniel felt a quick electric jolt that heated his blood and turned on all the nerve endings between his navel and his knees.

"One more question.” If she felt the same strange reaction to their touch, she didn't let on. Her voice had lost its sarcastic edge, though her gaze remained guarded. “Where was he bitten?"

"In the upper thigh ... I think, sort of, you know ... here.” He patted his back pocket.

"In the ass?” She shook her head, then pinched the delicate bridge of her pert nose between two fingers. “That's not what I meant anyway. Where in the
world
?"

"That makes a difference?"

"Who's the witch here?"

"Sorry. He was in Germany at the time it happened. About eight months ago."

"Yes. It makes a difference. The European lycanthrope is a bit meaner than the domestic breed. American werewolves are more wolf—less demony."

"So he's the more ‘demony’ type."

"Probably."

"You can still cure him, though?"

"I can try."

He gave her a long look. Something told him she meant it. Sarcastic cracks aside, Emilie would help him—help Vance. He'd owe her big time. “Thank you. I appreciate it, considering ... everything. Oh, money isn't an issue—whatever the cost."

"I don't charge. I mean, you know—maybe expenses for overnight herb shipments or something."

"Fine. Anything you need.” Another awkward moment passed and Daniel recalled his Junior Cotillion, standing with Martha Beckman by the gymnasium doors, too tongue-tied to ask her to dance. What was happening to him? “Anything else you need to know?"

She shrugged, glancing over his shoulder at the runes. “Not at the moment. I'll give you a call when I'm ready to meet with your brother."

"Okay. Thanks ... again."

Her gaze slid toward the door, a subtle invitation to leave. On the way out, he peered into the lavatory again. A steady drip from the shut-off valve created eddies in the widening puddle.

"I know a decent plumber,” he tossed over his shoulder while heading toward the front of the store. “I'll have him here this afternoon."

"Uh ... thanks..."

He looked back and caught her quizzical stare. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.

"Can't get your broomstick up! You
said
that to him?” Charlotte Swanson's infectious giggle reverberated long-distance. Emilie held the phone away from her ear while her cousin laughed.

"It just came out,” she replied. “This guy really brings out my wicked side."

"So let's talk about his broomstick. Give me details."

Emilie rolled her eyes as she nestled her teakettle onto the front burner of her kitchen stove. “His broomstick didn't enter the picture, Charl. This is the guy who wanted to run me out of town, remember?"

"And he just shows up in your store, looking all hunky and hot?"

"I never said he looked hunky and hot."