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  Water Witch

  A Dustin Walker Anthology and Other Tales by RJ Blain

  RJ Blain

  Water Witch

  A Dustin Walker Anthology and Other Tales by RJ Blain

  Copyright © 2019 by RJ Blain

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Water Witch

  Foreword

  1. Blood in the Water

  2. Fishnet Stockings

  3. The Water’s Call

  4. A Stormy Day

  5. Not a Drill

  6. Welcome to the Inquisition

  7. Of Consequence

  8. Recovery

  9. Puppy Mayhem

  Other Stories from the Witch & Wolf World

  1. Frank: A Christmas to Remember

  2. Richard: Alpha

  3. Frank: Dead Sled

  4. Pedro: Scent of a Wolf

  5. Jake: Meeting Karma

  6. Karma: Partner in Crime

  7. Jake: Six Feet Under

  From the Requiem for the Rift King World

  1. Breton: Rockslide

  2. Kalen: Gifts Fit for a Queen

  Double Trouble

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Water Witch

  When Dustin Walker’s witchcraft awakens, he discovers he harbors a leviathan, one that could destroy him—and his family—should he fail to learn how to control his powers.

  Dustin Walker first made his appearance in Beneath a Blood Moon, a Witch & Wolf Standalone novel.

  Foreword

  Dear reader,

  Please be aware that some stories in this collection feature difficult subject matter, including suicide. Below is a list of the stories that have some form of trigger warning and the nature of the trigger.

  Please decide for yourself if these stories are right for you.

  (By nature, the trigger warnings are a little bit of a spoil, so if you do not have any triggers, please swipe to the next page.

  A Stormy Day includes someone saying goodbye to an elderly but beloved pet, which breaks all those rules about never having animals die in fiction. (I’m sorry in advance.)

  Not a Drill involves an active shooter situation in a college environment.

  Of Consequence and Recovery deal with the subject of suicide.

  Dustin Walker may become a beacon of light in the darkness later in his life, but his story isn’t sunshine and rainbows.

  One

  Blood in the Water

  I should have known being my father’s son would land me in trouble.

  Masked men grabbing me at gunpoint outside my college during the middle of the day was the cherry on top of an already shitty day. At least I didn’t have to think too hard about what to do. If I cooperated, I had a chance. If I didn’t, I might not be the only one shot.

  Sometimes, being a cop’s kid truly sucked.

  I’d grown up with the understanding someone might come after Mom or me; it came with the territory. At nineteen and living on my own, I had believed the worst was behind me, but no. I really should have known better. Successful police investigators, especially ones who went on to become police chiefs, pissed criminals off. Once their incarceration ended, too many of them sought revenge. For some, killing the cops who put them away wasn’t good enough. They wanted something more, and how better to get it than targeting their enemy’s family?

  If I survived, I was going to have a long chat with Dad about his life choices.

  There was only one bit of good news for me: whoever the three masked men were, they wanted to draw it out, which meant instead of leaving my dead body on the sidewalk, they shoved me into a silver SUV.

  Dad had always worried something would happen, something he wouldn’t be able to prevent, and as a result, he had done his best to prepare Mom and me. Cooperating might buy me enough time to be rescued, and attempting to rescue myself would probably get me killed.

  I liked living as much as the next person, so I shut my mouth, sat tight, and waited.

  Instead of the bluffing, gloating, and threats I expected, my kidnappers kept quiet. They were older men, their dark hair starting to go gray, average Caucasians with the hardened look of those who had spent more than a few years in jail for their crimes.

  Why hadn’t they killed me? If revenge were their motive, it would’ve been safer for them to drive by the college, wait for me to come out, and open fire. What did they want from me?

  I eliminated money as their motive. Dad couldn’t meet any ransom demands; if he did, it would set a dangerous precedent and put many other lives at risk. Then again, criminals were often stupid, so the possibility existed my kidnappers didn’t know ransoming me wouldn’t work.

  A dozen blocks from the college, the driver pulled into an alley and parked. They searched me, taking everything except my watch before ditching their masks, sweatshirts, and the SUV for a mid-sized family car, common-as-dirt silver Toyota with California plates. A single, discreet test of the door handle confirmed my fears; the child safety locks were enabled, ensuring I wouldn’t be taking a dive from the back seat if traffic cooperated.

  Without anyone witnessing the vehicle transfer, my next destination was either heaven or hell, and I had no idea how the son of a werewolf and a witch ranked in the grand scheme of things in the afterlife.

  I probably had a one-way ticket straight to hell without the benefit of a handbasket. A wise person would’ve panicked at being trapped in a vehicle with three armed men. Instead, I contemplated if I could get away with murder.

  Would the defense pursue justifiable homicide or self-defense? If I got a gun away from one of them, I’d be able to put up a good fight. Dad had insisted I go to the range with him right along with Mom. I’d never match Dad’s skills, but while my accuracy left a lot to be desired, I could beat most Fenerec to the draw, and that said a lot.

  Dad hated when I called him and his kind werewolves, furballs, or fuzzbuckets, but it kept him on his toes. I often visited my parents, which gave me plenty of chances to yank his tail. It also kept them from whining, and while Mom was a witch, she had picked up several bad habits from Dad, including her tendency to whine when she didn’t get her way, growl when annoyed, and bite. Fortunately, she bit Dad rather than me, but I had learned my lesson: maybe Mom was a witch, but being mated to a Fenerec meant certain instincts rubbed off.

  When my parents learned about my kidnapping, they’d tear Las Vegas apart looking for me with the help of the pack and every single member of the police department. I pinched the bridge of my nose, a habit I’d picked up from Mom, and sighed.

  My kidnappers had planned their hit wisely. By grabbing me at gunpoint, they had taken advantage of my unfortunately human nature. They likely had counted on my inability to risk the lives of others, a common trait among the family members of law enforcement. It set me apart from their sort of filth.

  By changing cars, they ensured the descriptions from witnesses at the college wouldn’t do the police any good. Discarding their masks and changing their clothes would grind the investigation to a halt.

  Unless someone noticed me in the car, I was screwed. I didn’t need anyone telling me putting up a fight would end badly for me. Maybe I’d draw attention, but unlike Dad
, I wasn’t unnaturally resilient when it came to gunshot wounds.

  For the first time in my life, I regretted my decision to remain human. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to become a Fenerec like Dad; I did. However, I wanted to do it on my own terms, after I had a chance to experience the world without a wolf crawling under my skin. Going to college and finding my way in the world was part of my plan.

  Mom being a witch put a kink in my efforts, although my heritage wasn’t an insurmountable challenge. The Inquisition, which monitored the supernatural, didn’t like when witches or their children became Fenerec. So far, I was as Normal as a Fenerec-born got, which was a relief. It meant I could pursue my goals without anyone breathing down my neck.

  I’d find a way to get what I wanted, one way or the other. Too many my age didn’t know what they wanted to do with their lives. For me, it was simple. After obtaining a degree or two in Criminal Law, I’d help Dad. I wouldn’t do it the way he wanted, which involved serving on the police force, but I’d finish what he started and make sure the scum who deserved to go to prison went there and stayed there.

  My kidnappers played it safe, went the speed limit, stopped at the yellow lights, and did absolutely everything by the book to prevent unwanted attention. The driver stuck to the main streets, too, acting like stereotypical tourists in Vegas.

  It took them less than an hour to escape the city, and according to my watch, we arrived at a marina in Malibu five hours after my kidnapping. The rare times Dad escaped his duties as Alpha of the Las Vegas pack, he took us to the ocean, although he preferred Long Beach. Dad surfed, Mom read books on the beach, and I watched the distant waves without stepping foot in the water.

  “Keep quiet,” the driver ordered, gesturing at me with his gun. Of the three, he was the youngest. Someone had broken his nose, leaving it bent.

  There was power in a name, and as long as I thought of him as Bent Nose, I could pretend he hadn’t just kidnapped me to get back at Dad.

  Bent Nose and his accomplices concealed their weapons inside their jeans rather than using a proper holster. Their t-shirts masked the presence of their weapons but wouldn’t impede their ability to draw and fire.

  I was fast, but not fast enough to disarm three men and disable them before one of them put a bullet in my brain. Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I got out of the car and went where they told me to go.

  Since the other two men lacked distinguishing features to name them after, I dubbed the man beside me, Tweedledee and his friend Tweedledum.

  They had a twenty-foot motorboat docked at the marina, and no one gave us a second look as we headed down the pier. Boating wasn’t something I did; Dad enjoyed fishing, but I had kept my distance from where the waves met the shore. I didn’t understand his love affair with the sea. I preferred Mom’s view of the ocean: it was safest on land.

  Of course, it didn’t help Mom was a fire witch and didn’t enjoy getting wet. Water didn’t hurt her. She could even swim, but she didn’t like it. The only type of water she enjoyed was the hot tub, and only if Dad was with her.

  I avoided the water altogether, my exposure limited to taking quick showers and Vegas’s rare rainfall.

  As a result, Dad fished alone and taunted us both when he couldn’t convince us to join him.

  Why did my first boating trip have to be with a trio of kidnappers? I grimaced at the gap between the pier and boat. The vessel rolled on waves not stopped by the harbor’s breakwater.

  Tweedledee planted his hand between my shoulders and shoved me off the pier. I pinwheeled my arms, caught my balance, and ended up standing on the boat’s white-painted bottom. There were two rows of paired seats, and the bow had a large, flat section surrounded by a metal rail. I swallowed, grabbed hold of the nearest armrest, and held on with a white-knuckled grip.

  Bent Nose pointed at one of the back seats. “Sit.”

  The boat rocked beneath my feet, and I stumbled a few steps, falling onto the white leather cushion.

  “Get the bait.” Bent Nose took the seat behind the wheel and started the engine while Tweedledee kept a close eye on me, his hand on his gun. Tweedledum jogged to shore and disappeared into the marina’s primary building.

  What did kidnappers need with bait? I shifted on the seat, eyeing the water warily. Whitecaps marked the ocean beyond the breakwaters.

  Dad didn’t go boating on days the waters were choppy, instead taking advantage of the waves to surf. I figured if Dad wasn’t willing to risk it, there was a damned good reason for it.

  My kidnappers were lunatics with a death wish. Kidnapping a police chief’s son would draw a lot of attention—attention they’d have trouble shaking once they got rid of me.

  I scowled, kept a wary eye on the ocean, and wondered how the hell I was going to get out of my situation. At least I knew what I’d do if I did manage to escape: I’d learn how to swim.

  Shortly after clearing the breakwaters, the driver opened the throttle and headed for the open ocean. As the boat pulled away from the shore, the waters calmed to rolling swells rather than white-capped waves, although I didn’t find the change all that comforting.

  White-capped or not, some of the waves were taller than the boat was long. Normal people would’ve been afraid, but I’d progressed to bone-deep numbness. When I could no longer see land, I acknowledged my mistakes.

  I should have put up a fight at the marina. I should have done something other than cooperate. A swift death from being shot in the head was a hell of a lot more merciful than drowning in the ocean.

  At least that way, Mom and Dad would have had a body and the hope of closure. If Bent Nose and Friends threw me overboard, my parents would have nothing.

  If I had known my kidnappers were planning on taking me out to sea, I would have fought in the car until I either won and escaped or lost and died. The spray from the water soaked my clothes and chilled me despite the late-spring warmth.

  Tweedledee chuckled. “You’ve got steel balls, kid.”

  Nothing made a conversation quite as uncomfortable as having a gun pointed at my head. I glanced at the man beside me, careful to keep my expression neutral. Dad hated my poker face; Fenerec liked cheating at cards, using their over-sensitive noses to deduce when someone was bluffing. Keeping calm prevented my scent from changing, which meant Dad couldn’t use his sense of smell to his advantage.

  I doubted my kidnappers were anything other than Normal idiots. If they had been Fenerec, they wouldn’t have touched me; they would’ve smelled Dad’s scent marker on me. Witches often had ways of knowing, too, though I didn’t know how their magic worked. No sane supernatural being endangered a Fenerec’s puppy. Fenerec males were aggressive enough without being antagonized. They’d fight to the death for their mate or child.

  A Fenerec Alpha male took their need to defend their own to the extreme. If my dad got his hands on my kidnappers, there wouldn’t be a whole lot left when he was done. I suspected the Inquisition and police department would take steps to prevent Dad from getting close to my kidnappers if they were caught.

  If I were rescued, the Inquisition would hand me over to Dad and deliberately trigger every last one of his protective instincts to keep him out of the way.

  “What, you mute, kid?”

  “No, I just don’t want to talk to scum like you.”

  Why did my mouth always have to get me in trouble? I knew I had a low tolerance for stupidity, but it wasn’t exactly wise telling someone they were filth straight to their face when they were armed and I wasn’t.

  Tweedledee introduced me to the butt of his pistol, hitting me with the weapon so hard my head snapped to the side and I saw stars. I slumped over the side of the boat, the ocean splashing into my face when the boat crested a swell. Spluttering, I scrambled upright, shaking when I realized how close I’d come to falling in.

  “Watch your mouth, kid.”

  Pain stabbed through the left side of my face, but after a few minutes, it dulled to an incessant throb.
I ran my tongue over my teeth, relieved they seemed intact. The taste of blood helped me pinpoint the injury as a split in my lower lip.

  “It would’ve been easier and safer if you’d just shot me at the college, you know.”

  I really needed to learn when to keep my mouth shut. Instead of smacking the daylights out of me with his gun again, Tweedledee chuckled. “Safer and easier, but not nearly as satisfying. I’m going enjoy feeding you to the sharks, kid.”

  Great. Since killing me wasn’t enough to satisfy them, they planned to feed me to sharks. His comment explained the bait, the boat, and the hassle of kidnapping me and dragging me from Vegas to the coast.

  I found comfort in the realization that things couldn’t get any worse.

  Somewhere in the middle of the Pacific was an island, and it was home to sharks, lots and lots of sharks. Their fins cut through the water, and cold dread seeped through me.

  Bent Nose killed the engine, and the boat drifted and rocked on the waves. “Chum the water.”

  I hated the way Tweedledum, the eldest of the lot, smiled when he picked up the bucket of bloody bait, lifted it up, and sent it arcing out over the water. The ocean turned red where the chunked fish hit the surface before fading to a grisly pink.

  Every fin in the water changed direction, and the sharks swarmed towards the boat.