This Strange Witchery - Michele Hauf Mills & Boon Supernatural

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slept until eleven. He rarely slept beyond eight.

      “Drop it,” he admonished himself.

      Because he wasn’t the kind of guy who worried. Worry kept a man fixed and stifled. He took action. And sure, he’d been set on leaving his current profession behind and leaping forward into a new, normal life with the grand step of the interview today.

      But the witch did need his help. And there was nothing wrong with holding down a job until he found a new one. Not that he needed the money. Nope. He was very well-off, thank you very much. But he was a self-confessed type A, and he knew after a day or two of doing essentially nothing, he’d be jonesing for action. His leisure hobbies were few. So work it would have to be.

      “Just don’t let it suck you back in completely,” he said as he stepped under the hot water. Ahh...

      Whistling Sinatra’s “I Get a Kick Out of You” made him smile. His thoughts went to the frog. Which levitated. Wonders never ceased.

      Twenty minutes later, he was shaven, his hair styled with a bit of pomade (he liked it a little spiky but also soft enough to move) and the barest slap of aftershave applied to his cheeks. This stuff had been a gift from the young mother who lived on the ground floor of his building. She sold handmade products online. It smelled like black-cherry tobacco. It was different. As was he.

      Now he stood in his long walk-in closet before the dress shirts. They were all white, Zegna, with French cuffs, but the one he touched now had a nice crisp collar. And the buttons down the front were pearl—not too flashy, and small. An excellent choice.

      He slipped on the shirt, then pulled out the accessories drawer to peruse the cuff links. A pair of silver cicadas was his favorite. He pocketed them until he’d put them on, which would be right before the interview. Usually, he liked to roll up his sleeves if he wasn’t going to be talking to the media or trying to impress an interviewer.

      He’d wear the black trousers with the gray pinstripes because they were comfortable for sitting, and he didn’t expect to battle vampires or to have to clean up a crime scene, so he needn’t worry they would pick up lint and dirt like a magnet. A gray tweed vest and a smart black tie speckled with white fleurs-de-lis completed the ensemble.

      As he began to roll up his sleeves, Tor thought he heard something like...

      Screaming?

      He remembered his house guest.

      “Can she not go one hour without attracting trouble?”

      Before leaving the closet, Tor pushed the button that spun the wall of color-coded ties inward. The entrance to his armory was revealed. Dashing inside, he grabbed an iron-headed club carved with a variety of repulsion sigils, and then raced out of the closet and down the long hallway into the living room.

       Chapter 4

      The witch wasn’t in the living room.

      A flutter of something outside on the deck that stretched the length of his apartment caught Tor’s attention.

      “What is that?” It hovered in the air above his guest. Long black wings spanned ten feet. Talons curled into claws. “Is that a—? Harpie? I have never—”

      There was no time to marvel. Tor pulled aside the sliding glass door and lunged to slash the club toward the harpie currently pecking at Melissande’s hair. He noted out of the corner of his eye a salt circle with the plastic box sitting in the center. “Grab the heart and get inside!”

      “I have things under control!” Melissande called as she tugged her hair away from the harpie’s talons.

      The half bird/half woman squawked in Tor’s ear, momentarily disorienting him. Her whine pinged inside his brain from ear to ear. A guttural shout cleared his senses, and he twisted to the right and swung up the club, catching the bird in the chest, which sent her reeling backward.

      “Inside!” he shouted to the witch.

      Melissande gathered up the plastic container and scrambled inside. From within, he heard her begin a witchy chant.

      “Curse it to Faery!” he called. That was where such things resided. Usually. Unless this one had come through a portal.

      The harpie swooped toward him. Tor dove to the ground, flattening his body and spreading out his arms. The cut of her wings parted his hair from neck to crown.

      “Divestia Faery!” Melissande called.

      The harpie, in midair, suddenly began to wheel and tumble in the sky. And then she exploded into a cloud of black feathers.

      “Oh, shoot! I don’t think I expelled it to Faery.”

      Indeed, the thing had disintegrated. But it worked for Tor.

      Melissande ran out and stood over him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

      “Bloody hell!” Tor pushed up and out of the clutter of black feathers. He eyed the neighboring building, where he knew a very curious cryptozoologist happened to live. The shades were drawn. Which didn’t mean much. That kid had a way of seeing things he wasn’t supposed to see.

      “You’ve a smudge of black salt here. Pity your vest got torn.”

      Tor charged past Melissande and into the house. Checking his watch, he abandoned his intent to head out the front door and over to the next building. No time to check on the neighbor. The interview was soon!

      He marched down the hallway—then abruptly turned and stomped up to the witch. “Do not move. Do not go outside. Do not even blink. And where is that bedamned heart?”

      She meekly pointed toward the kitchen counter.

      “Did you have a chance to ward it?”

      She nodded. “I used a new dark magic spell.”

      “Fine.” He tugged at the torn tweed vest. Not the first impression he wanted to make to a prospective employer. “I’m going to change. Again. Stay right here.”

      He turned and stalked off.

      “But—”

      “Nope!” he called back to her. “Not even!”

      The man had changed into a midnight blue vest, combed his hair and now led Melissande back toward his bedroom. This was an exciting turn of events! But she didn’t read any sexy, playful vibes coming off him. More like stern frustration as he stretched out an arm to indicate the room they entered.

      “I need an hour,” he said. “With no distractions. No witches getting attacked on my deck. Not even a peep from that little box of yours.”

      She clutched the plastic container to her chest. He’d hastily grabbed both her bags and now set them on the end of the bed. This was certainly not sexy or playful, being consigned to the metaphorical time-out corner.

      “You can stay in here while I’m online. It’s a very important interview. So please, please, be quiet. There’s the TV on the wall to entertain you. Keep the volume low. And I’ve got some books on the shelf.”

      She noted the books were organized by color of their spines, and they were all in a gradient order, from white to gray to black. Did the man not understand color? Fun? Simple civility?

      “Can you do that?”

      She met his patronizing glare and huffed. “Fine. The teacher wants to put me in detention for an hour.”

      “It’s not that, Mel—” He sighed. “I just...need this interview to go well. I promise as soon as it’s over, you have me at your beck and call.”

      “What’s the interview for?”

      “New job. Accounting stuff.” He checked his watch and shook his head.

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