Where A Witch Goeth

Chapter Thirteen: A Closeted Flirtation

Setting the ward around Orla took some creative magicking since Evander insisted it be a barrier from scavengers and people and also from decay. Preserving Orla indefinitely would have been beyond my magic, but he assured me I only had to delay disturbance for about eighteen hours until her Coven came.

It was tricky enough, however, to halt the march of Orla's death while not disturbing the existing glamour on her. I decided both a physical barrier and a magical one were required, and a full ritual was in order to manifest the spell. The vampires were somewhat dismayed with the list of herbs, candles, and magical tools I required, but Evander barked orders at Geordie and Darrow, and soon they returned, two baskets laden with my magical supplies in hand. I finished the ward a little after midnight.

After the ritual, I was abruptly delivered to Geordie with instructions to "take the lass to her room and make sure she stays there because we have a great many things to do in a very short time, and I'll be needing her right where I can find her, hopefully before the dawn."

I would have taken offense at Evander's authoritarian attitude to my "placement" in his world, except that I was well and truly rung through. The last forty-eight hours had not been good to me. Not only did I seem to have more injuries than a bull-rider during rodeo season, but my magic was also simply spent. My dad had given back more than he had taken before I time-traveled, but after the goblin attack and the ritual, I needed to recharge. Back in my room, I took a weary shower, popped one of Doctor Jesse's pills with trepidation, and went to sleep.

The sun had warmed the day past the breach of dawn when I was awakened by a knock on my door. I didn't answer, hoping it was simply a housekeeping check. The knock came again, then a raw, almost slurred voice, "Miss Dunne? I need to speak with you."

That got my spine vertical. It was Evander, and it was sunny outside, which was an interesting scenario.

"Just a minute," I said, hurriedly throwing on a robe. I made it two steps toward the bathroom when he spoke in a low voice.

"Quickly. Draw the drapes and let me in. I'm a fire waiting to happen, lass."

Fire. I didn't like that word spoken from his lips, and I hastily drew the drapes, despite my generalized soreness, my broken hand, my aching neck. Evander reared back slightly as I opened the door, but then relaxed. "Your room has the thick drapes. Good. Not all of them do."

This was an Evander I hadn't seen yet. Instead of the baggy, rough, work clothes, he was dressed in dark slacks, a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up, topped with a perfectly tailored vest that hugged his long, pleasing torso. All the accouterment of a well-dressed gent of the Roaring Twenties—shiny shoes, gold pocket watch, hair pomade, and good-smelling aftershave—were employed to full effect.

My, my, my. Gatsby, vampire style. Very entertaining indeed.

Despite his immaculate styling, he acted like a man who'd let a bathtub full of gin get the better of him. He leaned heavily upon a straight-backed chair that he'd apparently drug with him from somewhere. His posture was stiff as if he worked not to sway. He wore a black fedora hat and small, round sunglasses, reminiscent of the kind that were popular in the 1960s, but were apparently needed by a vampire of the 1920s who braved the light of darkened interiors by day.

He used the chair almost like a cane, shuffling in. His hat was pulled low over his face which he inclined further downward. In his other hand, a wine glass dangled beneath his fingers, half full of deep burgundy sloshing back and forth with his step.

"Do you mind holding this?" he casually handed me the glass as he snatched up the only other chair in the room--a rocking chair--and drug both across the floor. While he wearily repositioned the Asian screen in front of my closet and arranged the chairs, I sniffed the glass to confirm my suspicions. I was met with the coppery scent of blood.