The Witch's Familiars_A Reverse Harem Fantasy Page 6

  "I'm glad he's doing better, but I didn't have anything to do with it."

  He snorted. "Everyone's seen that cat you saved. He's fine, he's not even missing a whisker."

  Hermes certainly was making his rounds. Jordan carefully placed the apples back on the table. "I'm sorry, I think I should go."

  When she stepped back, she collided with something solid and massive hands closed around her arms like a vice to steady her. Turning around, she found herself staring up at a wall of a man with a gleaming scalp and the hard-lined face of a life spent in authority. He was wearing street clothes, but Jordan had seen enough policemen and soldiers in her lifetime to know with absolute certainty that he was one or the other. She vaguely recognized him from the diner.

  "I'm sorry," she said, taking a step back. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

  "You the witch girl?"

  She gulped. "I'm not a witch, but I'm the one everyone is talking about."

  "Did you heal Stu Herbert?"

  Her pulse beat so hard in her temples that it felt like her veins might pop. "I didn't do anything of the sort."

  He frowned. "I've known Jenna Herbert since she came into this world and if the girl ain't one thing, it's a liar."

  "I never meant to imply that, sir, I just --"

  His hand closed around her arm again only this time his grip was more forceful than helpful. "What is it you want? Money?"

  Jordan pulled and finally freed her arm only because the behemoth allowed it. "I don't want anything. I told you, if Stu Herbert is better, it's not because of anything I did. Am I under arrest?"

  The question seemed to catch him off guard. "No," he said slowly.

  "Then I'd like to leave. Excuse me, please," she said, taking a step around him.

  The crowd that had gone silent while watching the exchange parted as Jordan made a beeline down the dirt path. To her relief, there was no one following her when she finally dared to look back.

  It still wasn't until well past the town square that Jordan felt like she could breathe a little easier. She berated herself with each step for being foolish enough to think she could keep such a reckless display of magic under wraps in a quiet town. Maybe she really would be better off in the city.

  She stopped suddenly and made a split-second decision to take the detour home through the alley where she had first encountered the cat familiar, or whatever he really was. It was daytime, after all, and the main road would be crowded with people who had questions she didn't want to answer.

  Jordan froze suddenly as she heard what sounded the scraping of shoes on the brick path, unless her imagination was deceiving her. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder only to find that the alleyway was perfectly empty.

  Breathing a mixed sigh of relief and embarrassment at her own jumpiness, Jordan continued past the butcher's shop and was relieved to discover that the spot where she had first found the cat was empty, too. Only a vague stain on the brick existed as proof that anything had happened there at all.

  Another noise came from up ahead, this one louder and more of a clanging sound. A trash can lid rolled out from one of the alley's detours and she glimpsed a flash of brilliant white fur. Driven more by curiosity than courage, Jordan rounded the corner only to find a possum hissing protectively over the seven small babies clinging to its back.

  "Sorry, guys," she said, backing up slowly only to collide with something that hadn't been there a moment before.

  It was the man from the marketplace. The color drained from her face as Jordan turned to run, only to be grabbed by the wrist and thrown against the wall. With the wind knocked out of her, Jordan had no time to react before the man's hand closed around her throat.

  "I know a liar when I see one, girl," he said in a calm tone. "You healed Stu Herbert and you can do it again. I want to know how."

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she choked, resisting the urge to struggle. "It was just a placebo effect."

  The man let out a frustrated growl and Jordan was sure he was going to strike her, but he didn't. Instead, he jerked her purse off her shoulder with such force that the leather strap snapped, but not before her shoulder made a loud popping sound of its own. He dug through her bag, tossing aside its contents.

  "Where is it?" he demanded.

  Before she could formulate an answer, footsteps raced down the alley. More of them?

  "Hank!" Darren's voice boomed through the alley. In an instant, the vet was between large man and Jordan. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Darren was no waif with a strong build and broad shoulders, but Hank far exceeded him both in height and in bulk. Nonetheless, the man's demeanor changed instantly and he stepped back on Darren's authority alone.

  "She's got a miracle cure and she's holding out," Hank said, pointing accusatorily in Jordan's direction. "That's what's the matter."

  "Miracle cure?" Darren's face contorted into an expression of pure disappointment. "Of all people, Hank, you?"

  Hank's face reddened, but it was hard to tell if he was embarrassed or just angry. "You wouldn't understand."

  "Maybe not," said Darren. "I know you've been through hell with Susan’s illness, but you're the last person I'd expect to fall for all this mumbo jumbo bullshit. If she had any idea you were threatening some girl in an alley for her sake, she'd be just as ashamed of you as I am."

  Hank's shoulders sank to make him only slightly less of a mountain. "But Stu Herbert --"

  "Stu Herbert has access to the best medical care in the Northeast," Darren said firmly. "He's been given experimental drugs, natural supplements and cognitive therapy, and yet for some reason you think it's some new age hippy's magic brew that did the trick?"

  Hank went silent. Darren's words stung, but Jordan wasn't about to defend herself. When he put it like that, even she couldn't help but wonder if it hadn't really been the tincture after all.

  "Go on," Darren said without waiting for Hank to argue. "Get out of here and so help me God, if I find you anywhere near her again, you're gonna need a miracle cure yourself."

  To Jordan's amazement, Hank cast one last menacing glance her way before skulking off down the alley.

  Darren turned to Jordan immediately, looking her up and down with keen eyes. "Are you hurt?"

  "I'm fine," she lied, still holding her arm. She could have handled it herself, but she doubted he’d believe it. Part of her was glad she hadn’t called on any of the darker elements of nature she had access to as a born witch now that she knew Hank’s motivation.

  She blamed herself, just like she had after the fallout from the last town she’d slipped up in. Magic had a way of bringing out the worst in people, even if it was of the healing variety.

  Especially then.

  Darren frowned. "What happened?"

  "Nothing," she muttered, rubbing her shoulder joint in hopes of waking her arm up. She could feel touch, but her arm hung limp at her side and couldn't be willed to move.

  Darren's brow furrowed. "If you don't tell me what's wrong, I'm going to have to assume you need to be taken to the emergency room."

  She sighed. "When he grabbed my purse, it did something to my arm."

  "Your arm or your shoulder?" he asked, applying a small amount of pressure to the joint.

  Jordan jerked away and winced at the pain the movement caused.

  "Easy," Darren said in a soothing tone that Jordan had a bad feeling was the same one he used on the horses he treated. The next time he reached for her arm, she let him.

  “It’s my shoulder,” she grudgingly admitted.

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Only when I try to move it."

  "You said it hurt when he grabbed your purse. What did it feel like, a pop or a crunch?" he asked, gently raising her arm.

  "Um, a pop?"

  "You're sure?"

  She nodded.

  "Well, it's dislocated," he said. "The good news is I could pop it back in, but if you'd rather g
o to a hospital --"

  "No," she said quickly. "I don't like doctors."

  He eyed her skeptically but he didn't press the issue. "It'll hurt for a second."

  "That's fine. As long as it's quick."

  "It will be," he promised, settling his hands on either side of her shoulder. Before Jordan could wrap her mind around what was going to happen, he gave her arm a swift, sharp jerk and the joint popped back into place.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jordan hissed.

  The look of shock on Darren’s face warred with his amusement. ”Sorry, but it's easier if you don't see it coming and you did say to make it quick."

  Jordan sighed, rubbing her arm. "Yeah, I guess I did."

  "How's it feel now?"

  She moved her arm slightly, surprised that the pain had already begun to fade. "It feels a lot better, thanks."

  Darren smiled for the first time since she had met him. It was a surprisingly pleasant smile, even if it didn't quite meet his tired eyes. "You sure you didn't hit your head or anything?" he asked, taking her head in his hands as he gently pressed around her scalp.

  "I'm sure," she said, stepping back from him. "Only my back hit the wall."

  "He threw you against the wall?"

  The wave of fury that crashed over his features made her regret accidentally revealing that little detail. Why he cared so much was beyond her. He certainly didn’t seem like the chivalrous type. “Yes, but I'm fine. Really."

  Darren watched her in silence for a moment, clearly warring with himself over something. "At least let me escort you to the police station."

  "Police?" Jordan asked, confused.

  "To press charges," he explained, as if it should be obvious. "Hank is a good man under normal circumstances, but there's no excuse for what he did. I hate to see this happen, but this was assault pure and simple and if a night in the county jail is what it takes to knock some sense into him, so be it."

  "No, I’m not interested in going to the police,“ Jordan said, kneeling to gather her things and return them to her broken purse. "There's no need as long as he stays away from me."

  The last thing she needed was to be at the center of what was sure to be the town’s only documented crime in years. Her attempt to stay under the radar was already an abject failure.

  Darren fell silent again, but Jordan could feel his eyes on her. "He will," he said at length. "I'll make sure of it."

  "He's lucky to have you as a friend," she said quietly. She peered over her slipping glasses to see Darren kneeling in front of her, offering a tube of lipstick that had fallen out of her purse.

  "We're not friends," he said, reaching out to push the glasses into their rightful position on the bridge of her nose. "Like I said before, I feel responsible for the people of this town."

  Jordan's cheeks grew strangely warm as she took the hand he offered to help her up. "I guess it's the town that's lucky, then."

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched her so closely it made her squirm inside. "Since you won't go to the hospital, I'd feel a lot better if you stuck close so I can observe you for any signs of a head injury. Would you reconsider that cup of coffee?"

  She hesitated. "I don't think going out again is such a good idea. Not with all the things people are saying about Stu Herbert."

  "So come over to my place," he said, then winced. "I really didn't mean that the way it probably sounded."

  Jordan laughed a little. Maybe it was the fact that he had come to her rescue, or maybe she really had sustained a head injury without realizing it, but the vet's “charms” were finally starting to work on her. "It did sound pretty bad," she admitted. “But I guess I could give you a second chance to make a better impression.”

  Darren grinned. “That would be generous of you.”

  “I’m a good witch, remember?” she teased, following him out of the alleyway.

  Darren rolled his eyes. “Right.”

  If only he knew she wasn’t kidding.

  Seven

  "Cream and sugar?" Darren asked, setting the additives down on his coffee table. His apartment above the clinic was larger than Jordan would have guessed from the outside. It was every bit the stereotypical bachelor pad with a leather couch and chair, a flat screen TV and very little in the way of décor. If she had to venture a guess, the refrigerator was filled with beer and takeout containers.

  "I'm fine, thanks."

  Darren finally sat down after having made a quick dash around the living room to pick up the stray laundry that had gathered on the floor.

  "Sorry for the mess," he grumbled, leaping up to grab a shirt he had missed on the arm rest. "I don't have people over often."

  "No, it's... charming," she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

  Darren watched her carefully for a moment and seemed about to ask something before he changed his mind. "I'm sorry your first couple of weeks in town have been so shitty."

  “I’m used to it. Trouble tends to follow me wherever I go.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Where are you from, anyway?"

  "That didn't come up in your investigation?" she half-teased.

  "That's the thing. I could only trace you back to Oakwood and a few more small towns around the southeast before that. Nothing long-term."

  Her eyes widened. "You really did do your research, didn't you?"

  "Know thy enemy," Darren said dryly, taking a sip of his own coffee. He also took it black, she noticed. Everything about the man was understated.

  "Am I really your enemy, Dr. St. Clair?" she asked, not quite sure that was a task she was up to.

  He considered it for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. "I don't really think you're here to start trouble. You could have started plenty of it with Hank, and even I wouldn't have blamed you for it."

  "You said Hank was a good person and my intuition tells me you're not the type to believe the best about someone without good reason," she admitted.

  He coughed. "I must have come up while you were talking to Chase.”

  "Just a bit."

  "And what else did he have to say about me?"

  "That you're an insufferable militant atheist with a superiority complex," she replied after taking a moment to recall that part of their conversation.

  He laughed. "Can't say he's wrong there."

  "What happened to Hank's wife?" she asked, deciding to just come out with the question that had been nagging her since the alley. "Is she sick?"

  He looked about to answer but shook his head and set his cup down. "Tell you what, I'll trade you. An answer for an answer. You tell me where you're from and I'll give you the rundown on Hank."

  "You drive a hard bargain, Dr. St. Clair."

  "Darren." Unlike Chase, she got the feeling he wanted her to call her by his first name merely for the sake of convenience rather than to forge a sense of familiarity between them.

  "Alright, Darren," she said, hesitating. "I grew up in Arkansas and I lived there until a little over a year ago. There are no records of Jordan Adams before that point because she didn't exist."

  He took that in for a moment, his face impassive. "Even a name change would leave some record. Unless --"

  "Unless the court sealed it," she replied quietly. "No offense, but I don't want to know about Hank badly enough to tell you why."

  "In other words, I'm not going to find anything if I keep looking into you."

  "You're pretty perceptive."

  He snorted. "For a guy who spends all his time with animals, I guess I am."

  Jordan smiled a little. "I think people who spend most of their time in nature are the most perceptive of all. Clarity comes with distance and all that."

  "I guess I owe you an answer now," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Hank's story is pretty much the story of Cold Creek. Decades ago we were just like any other small town in America, struggling through the depression of the eighties. A big manufacturing plant came in and promised jobs, maybe even a real economy. The mayor a
t the time—Henry’s father, actually--just signed on the dotted line without looking at the fine print, and no one wanted him to."

  He paused. "I should say no one with the exception of my father, but no one listens to the town doctor when that kind of money is at stake. Back then, no one cared about the environmental impact of a big manufacturing plant. No one thought about the cost of all those car parts flying off the assembly lines as long as they were made in America. At least, not until people started getting sick."

  "And Hank's wife was one of them?"

  "Yep. Susan was a real sweet lady who worked on the assembly lines. She used to make cookies for the neighborhood kids. I was still on training wheels then, but I remember everyone talking about how sad it was that she and Hank couldn't have kids of their own. Turned out a lot of folks couldn't. That was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to what the plant was doing to Cold Creek. Not just to the people, either."

  "The animals," Jordan murmured.

  He nodded solemnly. "All those forests are empty. Last year, Cindy started this big campaign to install bird feeders all over town but they wouldn't come here on their own."

  "So what happened to Susan?" Jordan asked nervously.

  "Brain tumor," he replied. "Her case was one of the most severe, even though she didn't get sick until a good ten years after she left the factory. By then, others weren’t doing well. They started getting diagnosed with every type of cancer you've heard of, a few even I hadn't, and a whole host of other problems. Susan didn't know she was sick until she had a stroke, and not long after that another one sent her into a coma."

  Jordan swallowed the knot in her throat. "How long has she been like that?"

  Darren leaned back with his hands behind his neck and took a deep breath. "Going on six years now, I'd say. Hank became a cop the second he graduated high school, and he was up for early retirement when Susan got sick. He jumped ship to take care of her. Took a job as security guard in the hospice wing just so he could always keep an eye on her."