Water Witch Page 17

  The who, what, where, when, and how of my current situation gave me trouble. The blindfold had a little to do with that; ever since I’d gone through unconventional therapy after killing six people, my witchcraft had become unreliable at best. Overdosing on witchbane likely factored, although no one knew when—or if—my magic would fully recover.

  If it hadn’t already recovered and slept, the leviathan that was my magic waited to awaken and cause me trouble yet again.

  I wasn’t even sure how I’d ended up bound and gagged in the first place. Everything after I left my graveyard shift at the morgue was a blank. Blanks in my memory usually meant one of two things. I’d either been drugged or had my clock cleaned. The lack of a headache indicated the former.

  If the asshats responsible for my current predicament didn’t kill me, Dad would. Under our new father and son agreement, he would stop riding my ass if I did three things:

  One: if I had another depressive episode, I would talk to someone.

  Two: I stayed out of trouble.

  Three: I told him—or Mom—if I would be delayed by an hour or more.

  I assumed I’d blown my end of the agreement rather spectacularly in regard to number two. No matter how I looked at it, I was in a lot of trouble. Even Dad could be reasonable at times, so he’d give me a free pass on number three. Maybe he’d let number two ride if I proved I hadn’t gone looking for trouble.

  Hell, Dad wouldn’t care as long as I adhered to number one and rescued myself or survived long enough to be rescued. He wasn’t all that picky as long as I survived.

  I viewed my ongoing survival as a questionable proposition. How many times could I escape death before death got tired of me yanking its chain?

  I had to be cursed. There was no other explanation for my situation. Only someone cursed would be kidnapped within a week of recovering from three broken toes. When all else failed, I blamed Dad. If he hadn’t screwed around with me and put me in a sleeper hold, I wouldn’t have broken my toes on his hard head.

  If I hadn’t broken my toes, I wouldn’t have been on the graveyard shift at the morgue. If I hadn’t been on the graveyard shift, I wouldn’t have gotten kidnapped. Again.

  I just wished I remembered how I’d gotten grabbed. I abhorred memory lapses. It made assigning blame too damned difficult.

  Footsteps jolted me from my thoughts, and I feigned unconsciousness.

  “He hasn’t budged an inch. Are you sure you didn’t kill him? He’s useless to us dead,” a woman snapped.

  I pegged her as a voice actress, as I couldn’t imagine anyone having such a smoky, seductive voice even when pissed without putting a lot of work into it. I liked the whole useless if dead part of her statement, too. That boded well for my short-term survival.

  Of course, she could end up being the world’s nastiest bitch, saving my death so Dad or Mom could watch in person. I hated assholes like that. They made things messy and painful for everyone.

  I needed to move out of Las Vegas before I came down with a serious case of dead.

  “He’s not dead. I just pumped him full of enough sedative to keep him down, and the times I’ve gotten him up, he was so dazed he couldn’t see straight. I know what I’m doing,” a gruff man replied, and unlike his prissy girlfriend, he needed to stop snacking on rusty nails.

  “How long can you keep him safely sedated?”

  “How long do you want him incoherent? If you want him long term, it’d be better to induce a coma and keep him on full monitoring equipment. If that’s what you want, you pay the bills, and I’ll keep him breathing. But either way, muscle degradation will become a serious issue.”

  “Muscle degradation? Explain.”

  “If you don’t exercise him, he’ll suffer no matter what I do with him. I wouldn’t keep him on this cocktail for more than two or three more days at most. It’ll become dangerous.”

  The woman hummed. “What’s your recommendation?”

  “I would put an armed guard on him, chain him, and keep him blindfolded. Run him on a treadmill to keep him healthy, and give him good food. I can sedate him for transport as needed if he isn’t cooperative. I’d avoid showers or baths, so you’ll need a good stock of wipes. Keep his holding areas dry. If he goes into element shock, we’ll give him a light dose of a sedative and expose him to water until he recovers.”

  Shit. Whoever had me knew I was a witch, and they were taking steps to make certain my witchcraft wouldn’t bother them.

  Rogue packs and witches happened. What I didn’t know was if they were rogues.

  After my attempted suicide, the Inquisition had kept me on a short leash. They wanted my witchcraft—and they wanted to keep Dad contained.

  They’d invested tens of thousands into my ongoing survival, and I believed they’d go to extreme measures to get what they wanted. Unless Dad was in on it, the Inquisition wouldn’t stoop to kidnapping. Dad had already suffered through several me-induced anxiety attacks resulting in some broken furniture and the installation of a saltwater aquarium in the living room.

  The local aquarium had sent over baby sharks to keep me company while I cared for them. Someone in the Inqusition had come up with the idea, and sure enough, my witchcraft made me ideal for caring for them.

  I knew long before anyone else when something went wrong with my babies.

  I hoped someone was taking care of them, especially Quiet Lurker. Thanks to a fin deformity, he needed someone to feed him, as the other sharks would steal his share.

  The silence persisted, but finally, the woman sighed. “I need four days.”

  “It’ll be risky,” the man warned.

  “Do your best. If he suffers a little, we can fix it as long as he doesn’t die.”

  I hoped I remembered that later, as I had opinions on what she said. Unfortunately, I discovered the blindfold also came with a gag, something I hadn’t noticed while clawing back to consciousness.

  Damn it.

  “Addiction is a possibility.”

  “Then we’ll make him a little miserable during the rehab process and make sure he recovers before we send him home.”

  “Very well, just be aware of the risks.”

  “I’m aware.”

  The man sighed, a needle pricked my arm, and I slid into quiet, peaceful sleep.

  The next time I woke up, I hated everything about coherency. My head throbbed, and my stomach fared no better. I hated throwing up, but at some point, I lost the war. My captors had the sense to provide a trash can, but things went downhill from there.

  The gruff man’s voice informed me I suffered from element shock. A single taste of it cemented one fact for me: I’d do just about anything to avoid experiencing it again.

  After I finished throwing up my guts, they dragged me off. My eyes refused to work quite right, hampering my ability to plan an escape or identify what was going on and why.

  To expose me to my element, they, a dark-haired man and woman from what I could tell, dumped me in a fishpond. The humid air smothered me, and I annoyed the pond’s residents, a bunch of unhappy koi who were not pleased with my invasion.

  The pair, not much older than me and siblings as far as I could tell, stood and waited in silence. I hoped they died of boredom. I lacked the strength to do anything other than pant, and my chest hurt, warning me I likely suffered a relapse.

  The last thing I needed was to suffer through more damned stress-induced cardiomyopathy.

  Given another dose of sedative and five minutes, the two idiots might kill me from their ignorance. As I’d progressed to the point I no longer wanted to kick the bucket, I needed to convince them to skip future cocktails and cooperate with me until my strained heart had a chance to heal.

  My witchcraft flickered to life, and it locked on the pair before me. The woman was a human, and her brother was a Fenerec. That made sense; women usually avoided the ritual until they were certain they no longer wanted children. Three more individuals, one human and two Fenerec, lurked beh
ind me.

  “You could’ve sent an invitation, maybe started with a dinner and a date. Why do I always end up with the psychos?”

  The woman frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m pretty sure you kidnapped me from a morgue, lady. Which is where you’ll send me, in a body bag, if you keep this shit up. Us men can be pretty dumb sometimes, but maybe you should’ve asked nicely first.”

  “I have no intention of killing you.”

  Huh. My witchcraft, which had gone on high alert, detected none of the usual markers of someone lying. If anything, I’d offended her with my words. If I could’ve given my unreliable magic a cookie for good behavior, I would’ve given it two.

  The Fenerec in front of me worried about my reference to my body taking a one-way trip to the morgue.

  That boded well—and implied I dealt with a pack rather than rogues.

  “Shit happens, lady. I have stress-induced cardiomyopathy.”

  Her right-hand man and probable brother began cursing in Italian. I’d heard most of the curses from Mom, and he whipped out all the ones I knew plus a few extra for good measure. When I found my way home, I needed to ask Mom for some lessons, as she hadn’t taught me all of the curses. I’d also have to take a refresher on the basics, including on how to find the nearest bathroom and if a pretty woman would be interested in sleeping with me.

  Priorities. I had them.

  “What is he talking about?” the woman demanded.

  “Remember how I told you those sedatives aren’t good for someone with a heart condition? Well, guess what? That’s a heart condition.”

  “Commonly referred to as broken heart syndrome,” I added. Since I’d go down an asshole if I went down at all, I forced myself to smile. “What? Didn’t you know I’d spent some time in a coma already before you decided to snatch me? My therapists are going to hate you.”

  Dan and Marc would hate being called therapists, but my weekly jaunts to California to surf and learn how to dive kept me on the right side of the crazy line. I still had plenty of crazy to work out, enough issues for my parents to be rightfully worried, and an aversion to my father’s pack so strong I made like a bat out of hell if any visited, which had resulted in Dad’s third rule.

  I remembered their fear and resentment, and when my witchcraft did work, their resentment and fear was partnered with guilt and confusion. Until I got a better handle on my reactions to them or stopped caring what they thought about me, I used my new avoidance skills to dodge the problem.

  The pair waited.

  “What are you stuck on? That I’m so young with a heart condition, the therapists, or that I totally believe you dipshits are going to be the death of me?”

  “All of the above,” the woman admitted.

  “Oh. That’s nice. You’re not as dumb as you look.”

  “You’re a rude little brat, aren’t you?”

  “Little? Okay, I won’t deny I’m rude and that I’m a brat, but you’re topping me in the rude department, so don’t get all high and mighty. If you wanted my cooperation for something, all you needed to do was invite me to go surfing somewhere nice. But since there are five of you versus one of me, and you’ve drugged me half to death, I’m really not convinced of your sincerity. What do you want with me?”

  “It’s not you. It’s your wolves.”

  I blinked. “My what?”

  “Your wolves.”

  “I don’t have wolves. I have a wolf for a father, and I have two therapists who happen to transform into wolves, but they’re not mine. Not in the witchcraft sense. Outside of those there, there aren’t any wolves willing to come near me right now. I assure you, they’re not my wolves. Dad bothers my therapists after every session, and it’s amazing they haven’t dumped my ass already because of it.”

  “That doesn’t match my intel.”

  “Did your intel tell you you’ve kidnapped a rude little brat capable of stopping your heart from a hundred feet?”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s not possible.”

  “It unfortunately is possible. Tell the six mad wolves I killed it’s not possible, lady. Wolves hate me because if I decide to kill them, there’s nothing they can do to stop me.” I loathed myself for telling the truth.

  I could hear—and feel—their blood flowing through their hearts. It wouldn’t take much to kill them.

  I wasn’t ready or willing to kill again.

  “You have a good reputation,” she said, and her choice of words startled me.

  She offered them as a comfort rather than wisely questioning her knowledge of me.

  It wasn’t enough to erase my bitterness. “As what? A merciful killer? Yeah, I guess I would have that reputation. I tried. It wasn’t hard to cut the blood flow from the brain and damage their spines so they wouldn’t feel a thing.” It hurt, but I crawled out of the pond, panting to catch my breath. “Don’t give me a reason to kill you.”

  For a brief moment, I angered her, but she recovered, regarded me with cool neutrality, and nodded, likely oblivious I pled more for my sake than hers.

  My captors were careful to avoid using their names, but I learned more about them than they likely wanted me to know. A wealthy pack had grabbed me, and they owned an impressive amount of medical equipment. Thanks to my cardiomyopathy, Dad had joined in the fray, converting part of the basement to a clinic, but he hadn’t gotten more than basic monitoring equipment.

  The gruff wolf with medical knowledge could, if he wanted, dump my scrawny ass into a coma with some expectation of me recovering. He used the equipment to confirm my claim I suffered a relapse thanks to their scheming.

  The verdict created panic, and I shook my head over the utter stupidity of the situation. Until I figured out what they actually wanted, I considered myself stuck.

  Planning an escape when my heart could go take a hike and leave me up shit creek without a paddle or boat would violate every damned rule Dad had put into place and get me killed.

  I learned the rules early. As long as I stayed inside the house and avoided anything I might be able to use to contact the outside world, I had free rein. For a full week, I did nothing at all, sleeping, eating, and occasionally wandering the house. My witchcraft continued to flare, warning me where everyone was and what they were doing.

  Enlightenment struck me at the end of the first week, courtesy of my magic.

  The woman was the Alpha’s mate, and she wanted a baby—an impossibility when her wolf wasn’t rutting. My witchcraft liked the bastard, fixating on him.

  With his mate ready to rumble and then some, he should have been rutting. The rest of the pack, thanks to her, had lust to spare, which annoyed the hell out of me.

  Some things I didn’t want to know, and the sex lives of werewolves topped my current list.

  Had the woman learned I was sensitive to biologics? If that was the case, her grabbing me made a lot of sense—especially if she’d whined to her mate.

  Damned wolves. One and all, they were driven to make their mates happy, and with enough pressure, I could easily see a male resorting to kidnapping to give his lady what she wanted.

  I’d been taken by a pack of rutting idiots. They could’ve solved their damned puppy problem with a single call to the Inquisition, who wanted their packs breeding to keep the struggling Fenerec populations stable.

  Dad had a love-hate relationship with winter, especially with Mom being too old to have any more children. Unless the Inquisition overturned its rules on performing the ritual on witches, he’d be stuck hoping my mother’s witchcraft would gift her with a long life.

  I figured it all boiled down to the woman wanting me to solve her puppy problem. It wasn’t the wolves she wanted, but a witch outside of a pack who might be able to help her have the puppy she wanted.

  Only the Alpha could solve her problem, and damn it, the last thing I wanted to do was give an older man advice on his sex life.

  No sex, no babies. In the case of Fenerec, it took a lot of sex and
the woman following some specific instructions to ensure he could give her the puppy she wanted.

  I’d gotten the talk so many times after developing witchcraft I wanted to choke the entirety of the Inquisition with a box of condoms.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it. I didn’t want to deal with an Alpha. Dealing with Dad gave me enough problems. I waited until everyone else had found something to do away from the woman’s mate before making my move. Unlike my father, the Alpha left his office door open, and I invited myself in.

  “I was wondering when you’d visit me.”

  “What can I say? I was enjoying my unexpected vacation from the morgue.”

  “Say what?”

  Great. Did the Alpha have zero clue how his mate had snatched me? Ugh. Idiots. “The morgue. It’s where they take dead people.”

  “You seem rather alive to me, so what were you doing at the morgue?”

  Damn it. The Alpha knew jack shit. Great. “What bullshit story did your mate feed you to make you go along with this?”

  “She’s infertile, and you’re a biologics sensor. She wanted you to help figure out what’s wrong.”

  Well, he wasn’t quite as ignorant as I’d believed, but for a pack Alpha, he remained pitifully clueless. “It would help if you went into rut, buddy. You’re about as fertile as a rock while your bitch is ready to rumble. She’s a Normal, and she’s so keen on a puppy you need to lock her up before she gets so desperate she assaults any male who’ll give her the time of day.”

  “Excuse me?” the Alpha growled, rising to his feet.

  “She’s not the one with fertility issues. You are. No rut, no pups. That’s how it works, dude. I’m a shit witch, and even I know that. You need to do whatever it is non-rutty wolves do to get in the mood and hit the hay for a few weeks.” I shrugged. “However much I like free rent, I have a dad with issues and a mom who views spoons as lethal weapons. I’m a witch with enough problems I scare the piss out of wolves more dominant than you are. I’m helping you.”