Part 2 (1/2)

”Like a weapon or something?”

”Uh, you can say that.” More pages flipped. He groaned. ”Yeah, really not crazy about this, Celia.”

I tapped my fingers against my dresser. ”Danny, they're my family. I have to do something.”

”I know you do, Celia.” He sighed. ”Look, as head of the family, you can challenge their head witch to a duel. It's called 'invoking the Ninth Law'. Your sisters will be spared from any retaliation, whether you win or not.”

A trickle of cold sweat found its way down my spine. I didn't want to have to kill . . . again. Danny must have sensed my fear. ”No one has to die, Celia. It's more like whoever cries misericordia -or 'mercy'-first, loses. But keep in mind, as head witch, she'll be a lot stronger than the witch you faced.”

I swore under my breath, thinking back to the rats. But what choice did I have? ”I know, but-it's fine. I'll do it.”

”I still think it's wiser to move.”

My mind flashed with images of our house. We'd purchased it at auction. The previous owners had wrecked it-the carpet had been torn up, angry fists had punched through the sheetrock, and yellow paint had been splashed over the beautiful hardwood floors. Still, they hadn't robbed the 3,500-square-foot colonial of its heart. We had big plans to make it so warm, so endearing. I couldn't think to abandon something we'd yearned for all our lives. ”We're not going anywhere, Danny.”

I heard Danny shut the book and place it down. ”Celia, please think this through. Just because the rules say no one has to die, that doesn't mean the head witch won't try to kill you.”

Chapter Four.

I didn't share my ”duel until someone cries 'uncle' ” conversation with my sisters. They'd go ape, and there was no sense in worrying them until I had to. So we waited for the witches to contact us. I expected something dramatic-a raven perhaps delivering the ”I'll get you, my pretties, and your little dog, too,” papers, or maybe something more technologically advanced like a curse via email. It seemed, though, even that was too much to hope for.

I ran along the snowy beach of Lake Tahoe, dressed in black spandex running pants with a matching long-sleeved top. The bitter morning wind slapped against my hot cheeks. Sweat trickled between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. And my b.u.t.tocks and thighs tightened like flesh-covered stone. It all felt so d.a.m.n good, especially with the caress of Tahoe's magic encouraging me forward. The ten miles I'd run would have drained most. Instead it enlivened my spirit and made my tigress beg for more. If she couldn't fight, she needed to run, or else the predator would choose to hunt those who threatened the ones we loved.

My ears and senses remained vigilant, seeking out any unusual scent, sound, and presence. Several days had pa.s.sed without incident. We'd returned to our nursing jobs, grocery shopping, and laundry duties. And yet while no one mentioned it, we didn't exactly return to a sense of normalcy. I finished my run and cut through the snow-covered path back to our development. The firs and rhododendrons covered by a thick blanket of snow parted just a few yards away, revealing the house closest to the path. Our neighbors were virtually nonexistent, with the exception of one.

Mrs. Mancuso hadn't liked four young, single women moving in next door. The first day we'd moved in she banged on our door. Emme mistakenly thought some kind, neighborly soul had arrived to bring us 'Welcome to Tahoe' cookies. There were no cookies, just a whole lot of att.i.tude and a great deal of neck skin.

”This is a family neighborhood,” Mrs. Mancuso had huffed. ”They'll be no whorin' under my watch.”

”Who says we'll let you watch?” Taran shot back.

I hadn't realized women in their eighties flipped people off until then.

I ran up the small incline to the walkway, hoping to avoid yet another Mrs. Mancuso tongue-las.h.i.+ng. It seemed the grouchy old hag waited like a leopard behind her hummingbird-patterned curtains to pounce on the would-be Wird gazelles.

Typically I took this time to cool down and stretch. But the commotion before me had me bolting full speed.

”What the h.e.l.l do you b.i.t.c.hes want?”

Oh. No.

Taran stood on our large wooden porch with her hands on her hips, her jaw clenched tight, and her glare fixed on the coven of witches gathered on our front sidewalk. Shayna lingered next to her with her hands close to her daggers, her sharp blue eyes sweeping along the crowd of thirteen. Emme kept her hands clasped in front of her, anxious, but ready to defend her family.

Ambrosial scents of spearmint, sage, rosemary, and basil thickened the air surrounding our development. It might have been comforting had I not feared Taran's fire would ignite our visitors like marshmallows . . . and that they'd unleash a plague onto our house that would make leprosy seem like diaper rash.

The incident at the club hadn't been pretty. I didn't get the impression this would be all rainbows, puppies, and potpourri. Still, I didn't want the Hermione Granger wannabees to think they could push us around.

My eyes darted along our cul-de-sac and took in their cars. It seemed every witch owned a Jetta. And their collective magic rose like the sun against their auras.

The witch closest to me held the power of the heavens within her reach. At first glance, I would have mistaken her for a vampire. Her beauty rivaled theirs. Long ebony hair traveled in perfect waves along her bold red Renaissance dress. Her lithe body rested against our Subaru and she gripped the long wooden staff at her side. I took her to be the second in command. It was an easy guess, seeing how the head witch was the only other gal wearing a velvet maiden gown, and her power cracked like the power of h.e.l.l's whips and thundered around her like the eye of a cyclone.

Their BFFs conversely dressed like they shopped at the Gap.

The dark-haired witch blinked her sapphire eyes my way before returning her attention to the mounting tension on my front porch. To her right, a young woman with dark spiky hair wrote feverishly on a scroll. ”Sandy,” the witch from the paper towel incident, hid behind a cl.u.s.ter of witches gathered in our driveway. At the sight of me, she sidled onto Mrs. Mancuso's property, tipping over one of the creepy lawn gnomes adorning the front lawn.

The head witch's tight, strawberry-blond curls barely moved when a strong gust of wind billowed her green velvet skirt, revealing her bare feet and three toe rings on her left foot. Each silver loop held minute amethyst stones sizzling with a supersized amount of collective power. I couldn't see her face since she was currently going toe-to-toe with my scratch-your-eyes-out-first, ask-questions-later sister.

The coven parted as I stalked my way through the crowd, much like the patrons had at the club. I sensed their alarm, but unlike the clubbers, they weren't exactly fleeing in terror. One witch even dared to cross my path-an ice blonde with eyes as dark as coals. A speck of her magic barely rose to the tip of her white staff before I yanked it from her grip and launched it into the street.

”Don't,” I told her stiffly.

And she didn't. Her dark eyes narrowed at the staff as it fell against the asphalt.

Did I intentionally mean to flex my supernatural muscles?

h.e.l.l, yeah.

As much as I didn't want trouble, no one had the right to threaten me or my family in our home. No one.

The head witch's back stiffened. She must have felt the swarm of magic leave her lesser's staff. She ignored Taran to fix her eyes on me. And holy cow, the coven must have had a ”homely girls need not apply” clause. The witch resembled a blond version of Betty Boop . . . if Betty came chock full of bad att.i.tude.

The amethyst toe rings glimmered with enough power to darken the light blue floorboards, and the heat they emanated was hot enough to burn. No wonder she didn't wear shoes. Girlfriend would scorch right through them. Hate found its way into her lovely brown eyes. ”Were you the one who destroyed my sister's talisman?”

”Yup,” I said before Taran could answer. I took my place next to Emme. ”Now tell me what you're doing here.”

And because the situation didn't border on sucky enough, Mrs. Mancuso came to the witch's rescue. She stomped out of her house dressed to the nines in one of her floral housedresses, orthopedic sandals, and her best support hose. ”Taran Wird. Leave the Jehovah's Witnesses alone!”

Oh, dear Lord.

”Shut up and die, you old hag!” Taran hissed back.

Mrs. Mancuso pointed a nasty finger-at me. ”Celia Wird. Do something to control that strumpet sister of yours!”

Strumpet. Now, there's a word you don't hear every day.

I heaved a heavy sigh. ”Taran. Please be nice to the Jehovah's Witnesses.”

The soft chuckle from the witch near our car caught me by surprise.

”Something funny, Sister Genevieve?” The head witch's voice held a twinge of annoyance, but the magic that danced along her hourgla.s.s form demanded an apology. My senses shot to high alert. I didn't like the way they regarded each other. Witches were a lot like Jersey girls. You didn't want to get in between two fighting. Fists, foul mouths, and fake hair would fly.

Genevieve took a small, elegant step away from our Subaru, keeping her magic whoop-a.s.s stick close to her side. ”Of course not, Sister Larissa.” Her voice was soft and silky, her words nonthreatening and apologetic. Yet she left me thinking she actually meant, ”Any time, any place, b.i.t.c.h.”

The witches, it seemed, weren't as united as I thought. Still, I didn't want them rumbling on our home turf. ”Taran, get rid of Mrs. Mancuso,” I muttered.