The Witch and The Wolves

“So what are you going to do then? Huh? Tell me that!” The screamed words were punctuated by the sound of glass shattering against something hard…most likely the wall, knowing the owner of the words. Martha sighed and rolled out of the bed to once again trudge downstairs and diffuse the drunken brawl that would, unfortunately, have already started before she managed to get down there. A series of loud thuds and grunts from below confirmed the suspicion. “Can’t just be adults and go to f*****g bed when we’re drunk, can we?” Martha muttered bitterly as she slid on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. She’d learned hollering down at them would only get them arguing about who was disturbing her more. It was much more effective for them to see the look of pure exhaustion and disappointment on her face. Her brothers had gotten into these fistfights pretty much once a week since their mom had died a few years ago. Martha had always been half mom and half-sister because of how often their mom traveled for work, but since she’d died, the sister half had pretty much disappeared. She snagged her phone off the bed and took a deep breath to steel herself. The noise got louder and louder as she opened her bedroom door and began her descent into the darkness below. As a matter of fact, the noise was a lot louder than usual. A great bang preceded the sound of wood cracking and more glass breaking, making Martha jump and almost fall off the step. “Jesus Christ,” she gasped and gripped the railing tightly. After a quick pause to get her breathing normal again, she realized the noise had stopped. That never happened. Fear gripped her chest as she rushed down the last couple of steps and through the living room to the kitchen. Her rushing was cut short when she stepped on a bit of broken glass. She held her phone light up to her foot in an attempt to remove the offending object to little avail. “Ow! s**t…oh, of f*****g course, why didn’t I think to put some damned shoes on…stupid little-“ “Martha?” Jessie’s oddly quiet voice called out. “Jess? Can you turn the damn light on? There’s f*****g glass everywhere!” She huffed in frustration, feeling for the barstool that should be near where she was standing before giving up. “I swear when I’m done with the two of you..” She hissed when her eyes were suddenly drowned in light. The sound of something small hitting the floor only served to irritate Martha even more. She opened her mouth to say as much when Jessie’s hushed voice floated towards her. “Martha.” “Yes, Jessie, it’s me, we’ve established that. Now can you come help me get this damned glass out of my heel, please? Lucian, you get your sorry ass over here, too – I mean it!” Martha yelled at her two younger brothers while hobbling over to the barstool that was a few feet farther than she’d originally thought. “The tongue-lashing you two are about to receive, I swear to God,” she continued mumbling angrily. “Martha…Lucian can’t, he can’t…I-I think he might…” “What do you mean ‘he can’t,’ he can’t what?” “H-h-he…I mean, I think h-he might be…Oh, God, Martha. I think he’s dead.” A chill ran up her spine. “What…What?” “Call 911! Oh, God, please no, please no, please. Lucian, no no no no no,” Jessie suddenly became hysterical, screaming and pleading. Martha shakily dialed the numbers and answered the dispatcher’s questions with tears streaming down her face. She was scared to move, scared to see either of her brothers like this, especially Lucian. She got through her name and address and that she needed help because her brother might be dead, but then she realized she didn’t know why that was. Why was he dead? What had happened? Was he really dead? “Ma’am,” the dispatcher’s firm tone shook her out of her head. “What happened to your brother?” “I…I don’t know. I heard a noise, so I came downstairs and-and…he’s not okay. I don’t know, please hurry! Please!” Panic started to sink deeper into her bones, but she stood up and hobbled through the kitchen to the dining room doorway where Jessie knelt sobbing and screaming. She looked through the doorway and jumped for the second time that night, dropping the phone and landing on her hurt foot. “Oh my God…Lu.” She was facing one of her worst fears. Her brother’s bloody body lay on top of the smashed dinner table, covered in glass and pieces of wood. His forehead had a hole in it that wept thick, red blood. Martha fell to her knees and vomited on the floor, which somehow pulled Jessie out of his sobbing. “Oh, God, Martha-H-hold on, I’ll, um…water. I’ll get some water.” He hurried towards the fridge. Martha crawled away from her vomit, away from Lucian’s body, and opened the back door. She sat down on the steps, just staring out at the woods in the backyard, mind racing. Jessie shoved a bottle of water to her lips. “D-drink some water, Sis.” She swallowed obediently for a second before pushing the bottle away from her face. That’s when she saw them. Two glowing red orbs in the woods. Eyes. Somehow she couldn’t feel the extra fear. She just felt...a weary anguish. A small sigh left her lips and she turned to Jessie. “Water’s not gonna make them stop, now is it?” She pulled Jessie by the forearm to sit next to her. She held his hand and stared back out at the eyes lurking in the trees. Jessie just stared at the blood on his hands. “No…No I guess it’s not.” She wrapped her arm around him and held him close, for once not knowing what to say. And that’s what scared Jessie almost as much as his brother’s dead body in the kitchen. Cynthia Warren, head detective of the Kings County Sheriff’s Department and the resident witch of Sugar Cove, pulled up to the crime scene the next morning hungover and cursing. Cynthia, “War” to her friends and “that damn witch” to those not as friendly, was what some might call “a force to be reckoned with.” (Particularly when she was cranky...which was pretty often, actually.) She stood six feet two inches and was built like a curvaceous ox, that is to say, she had plenty of muscle, but curves that softened the hard edges due to a self-proclaimed addiction to bread. Her hair was a wavy, chin-length dark emerald that made her pale skin look nearly paperwhite. Her preference for black clothing and lipstick didn’t warm her complexion any, either. She’d been called in to a murder scene at 5 a.m. after a long night of drinking games with her friend, Joyce. Her partner was waiting for her on the front porch of the old house. Devonte Joyner was a couple of inches taller than War, probably due to his werewolf genetics. He had short black hair, a lanky build, much darker skin, and a far less “alternative” aesthetic. (His preferences leaned more towards a good pair of jeans and a nice, clean t-shirt.) He was the only one in the very small sheriff's department that could stand working with her powerful personality, mainly because he was so laid-back. He waited for her to arrive at many locations because she was chronically late. Often, he had to give her earlier arrival times in an attempt to prevent her lateness. He smiled at his clearly hungover partner as she stomped up the walkway in her ancient black boots. “Long night, then?” Her only response was to flip him off before taking a large swig of her energy drink upon reaching the porch’s top step. He chuckled and opened the creaking front door for her. “Alright, victim is 22 year-old Lucian McDowell. Cause of death looks like a shot to the head, but we won’t know for sure ‘til the examiner’s done with him. They’re going to take him as soon as you have a look, the doc already left. Died not long ago, around…4 a.m. Two other people were in the house, 20 year-old Jessie McDowell and 25 year-old Martha Dawson, siblings to the deceased.” “Married name?” Cynthia queried as she stepped over a small pile of crushed beer cans in the hallway. “Widowed, killed in action in…” Devonte paused to check his notes before continuing. “…2016. House is the family house the three inherited from their mother, Linda in…2014.” “Uh-huh.” She stepped over more debris and paused by the bottom of the stairs. “Home invasion, kegger, or both?” He sneezed before responding. “Ah, looks like the brothers were in the habit of getting too drunk pretty regularly and arguing to the point of getting physical until the sister stepped in. Usually something about a girl they both liked, I think. Not sure, Jessie and Martha were still a little in shock when I got to them, so they weren’t all that helpful. Probably get more out of them later.” He gestured towards the kitchen and she continued on, pausing by a smudge of blood on the floor. She leaned down and sniffed it. It smelled female and similar to the overpowering stench of one of the males’ blood that seemed to cover the place. “Martha was bleeding, then?” She pointed at the blood on the floor. “Ah, right.” Devonte flipped back through his notebook. “Stepped on broken glass when she came down to break up the boys. Probably from that.” “Hmm.” She nodded and headed to the body. “Fuckin’ hell, D.” The body of Lucian McDowell was covered in blood, gouges, bruises, and debris. Glass was embedded in several different parts of his skin. D yanked a tissue out of his pocket before sneezing forcefully. “Sorry, it’s just so many scents in here.” “So…did his brother shoot him…after beating him to hell?” Devonte shook his head, “He says no. Both surviving siblings say none of them even own a gun. Got Parks checking that now.” She nodded again, “Okay, so what’s from the sibling brawl and what’s from…whoever shot him? Just the shot?” “We’re not sure yet, Doc Les said she’d figure out what she could.” Cynthia gave her partner a knowing look, “Oh, that’s right, you said the doc was here earlier. Did you give him a warm welcome back?” “Shut up, War.” He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t keep the smile off his face. He’d had a crush on Les Robinson since his family had moved to Sugar Grove when they were in middle school. War enjoyed teasing him about it often, partially in the hopes of spurring him to action on the subject. She took another chug of her drink and stood up, turning towards the back door. She took a second to check out the missing pieces of wood in the doorframe. “Yeah, looks like it was forced open, but they don’t remember hearing or seeing anyone break-in,” Devonte bent down and waved a hand in the direction of the pieces of wood and chain from the door on the floor before sneezing again. “f**k my life, man.” He muttered, wiping his irritated nose for the millionth time since he’d arrived. “Here.” War grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled out a sachet of sea salt, siren’s tears, and eucalyptus. She often had to make one for his ridiculously sensitive nose. She waved the sachet in a circle over his nose. “Smolt kyrr megin.” A soft blue vapor wafted out of the sachet and into his nose as War spelled it. She’d originally done the spell in Latin instead of Old Norse and without the addition of ‘strong,’ causing Devonte’s sense of smell to disappear for several days until she’d managed to work out the kinks. Apparently Old Norse was more suited for sensory spells than Latin. And ‘clear’ and ‘calm’ needed the ‘strong’ to keep the nose functional. At least it made sense, spells oftentimes did not. “Oh God, that’s so much better.” “Good.” She stepped out onto the smaller back porch. “And the blood on the door handle? Whose is it?” “What do you mean?” He followed her out, once more checking his notes. She walked back over and leaned down to get a better whiff. “Well, there’s three different males’ blood all through the house, mostly Lucian’s and a similar one I’m assuming is Jessie’s. ” She leaned aside so Devonte could test his soothed nose as well. “But this other one is only little whiffs here and there, but most concentrated on the knob. I can’t really tell anything useful, just that it’s male. No one I’ve ever come across, anyway.” She returned to a standing position and walked down the back steps outside. “Hopefully, they’ll be able to tell us more after they run samples through the lab.” After jotting down a note, Devonte clicked his pen and closed his notebook, pocketing both. “Always useful to have a witch as a partner, my nose was bugging with all the scents in there. Like a damn perfume counter in there.” Cynthia laughed, “Well, get your fill of the fresh air before you have to get in my car.” He groaned. “How do you always know when I’ve run somewhere and when I haven’t?” “Those are your standard stash jeans, white tee, and nice-but-casual jacket. By my count, you’ve got at least ten of each. Buying in bulk are we?” She playfully tugged on his sleeve and turned to head to the car. He snorted, then paused before heading closer to the woods at the edge of the backyard. “What is it, D?” He shook his head. “Not sure yet. Something…off. Wait here a sec.” He tossed his jacket to her and stepped into the trees. She folded his jacket over her arms and waited, pacing impatiently for a few minutes. She told Deputy Parks and the forensics guys they could clear out when they’d finished and texted Sherriff Richards a status update. Finally, her partner reemerged wearing a pale orange shirt this time. “Changing things up to prove a point, D?” She snorted at his grin and threw his jacket back to him. “So what was it?” “In the car, I’m starving. My stash is out of jerky.” She laughed and they went to her car, an old Cadillac hearse she’d remodeled for style and comfort. “So you’re telling me that not only do we have a werewolf involved, but it’s not one we know?” D nodded. “Yep. And I know a lot of wolves.” “And I can’t smell that it’s a wolf.” “Yep.” She sighed as she pulled up to Charlie’s Diner. “Great. Does that mean-“ “Another one of your most favorite chats with the Alpha, yes ma’am, it does.” D grinned widely at her, clearly amused by her reluctance. “Ugh, why do I have to talk to him?” “Careful, War – you’re whining,” he teased. She smacked his arm and climbed out of the car, ignoring his laughter. “I’ll let him know to expect you.” She scoffed. “You do that.” The Shadow Guard Pack’s Alpha, Xavier Ward was a good leader, yes, but his cockiness irked War to an extent she hadn’t known a stranger could reach until she’d met him. And he knew it, too, which somehow made it worse. It was as if he amped up the arrogance just to piss her off. If he did, it worked. Well. War wasn’t in the mood for Xavier today, she was far too hungover, but duty called no matter how you felt about it, didn’t it? They ordered food and sat down in their customary booth in the back corner of the restaurant. She rubbed the sides of her skull in an attempt to force the throbbing ache out. “So, we got a guy who regularly indulges in drunken brawls with his brother in a house virtually destroyed by the most recent brawl, dead, but…that may have nothing to do with the aforementioned brawl?” “Right. And at least one rando, if not two – one in the house and one in the yard.” “God, this is gonna be a f*****g annoying one, isn’t it?” “Looks like it, yeah.” “Swell.” “I’m gonna snag a piece of pie, you want one?” She nodded and laid her head on the table. The waitress setting her drink down startled her. “Oh, sorry, War. Didn’t mean to scare you.” “No, no, Joyce, it’s fine. Just wish I hadn’t had to leave before you were finished with that hangover potion this morning..” Joyce was one of her best friends and a fellow witch. She was five feet even if she was five feet at all with long black hair that waved elegantly down to her waist. Her Latin heritage was obvious in her warm skin and sculpted cheekbones. War often told her to try modeling, but Joyce was happy where she was. She chuckled at her and patted her shoulder. “I’ll make you my ‘Hair of the Dog’ and some of that toast the way you like it, how ‘bout that?” War brightened. “You always know just how to make my day, don’t you?” Devonte slid two pieces of pie onto the table and hugged Joyce. “I’m impressed, Joyce. You got Grumpy here to smile.” She playfully swatted his arm while War flipped him off again. “She’s not Grumpy, we just did too many shots last night.” “Oh,” His eyes widened in mock-innocence as he slid into the booth. “I had no idea.” His comment got him a double-fingered response and a wash rag to the shoulder. “Oh, shut up, Devonte. You know on Fridays we watch murder mystery re-runs and take a shot every time the detective does their signature thing. Last night was ‘Columbo’ and that finger thing.” Joyce demonstrated the hand gesture herself as she spoke. “I swear, last night it was like someone had bribed him to do it every five seconds! We had to open the tequila! Ugh! It was brutal. We were supposed to have a day off, by the way.” She looked pointedly at Devonte, who was currently digging into his piece of pie while laughing at War picking at hers with her fork. “Yeah, but why do you like all happy and sunshiney and she looks all…” “Death and despair?” War offered, finally taking a bite of the pie and subsequently cringing. “Yeah, that.” “Well, someone called at five o’clock in the morning before I’d finished making her potion so she wouldn’t feel like shit.” Joyce poked him in the shoulder. He held his hands up defensively. “You want me to schedule cases now? I was supposed to be off, too, ya know?” “Mm-hmm.” Joyce turned in a sassy swish and headed towards the kitchen. He laughed again and took a sip of his drink. “What’s wrong with the pie, War?” “Charlie made it.” He narrowed his eyes. “And that’s bad because…” “No love in it. It’s just…crust and sugar and apples and butter. No heart at all.” She sighed and pushed the remains towards him. “You can have the rest.” “You can taste who made it,” His eyebrows rose as he dug into the rest of the pie. “No. I can taste that it tastes like s**t because it’s missing heart, soul, energy. Which means Charlie made it.” “Okay, but why does that mean it was Charlie?” She rubbed her temples. “Charlie…doesn’t have a lot of energy left to spare for a diner pie. Something probably happened to him, made him lose his way. Doesn’t trust, doesn’t love, just…survives. Goes through the motions.” “That’s…sad. Really sad, War.” She nodded and laid her head back down awaiting the delicious cinnamon-sugar toast and disgusting, but effective potion that Joyce would be bringing her momentarily. D finished the pie before he spoke up again. “What do you think happened to him, anyway?” She shrugged, “Dunno, haven’t really dug that deeply into Charlie. Don’t exactly have a lot of free time.” “Fair.” “Head up, babes!” Joyce returned with their food, setting down a pound of bacon, a double-stack of pancakes, and a platter of scrambled eggs in front of Devonte and a plate of toast that was smothered in butter, cinnamon, and sugar in front of War. “Oh, thank Anubis. And you, Joyce.” War smiled at her friend while D gave her a thumbs up, unable to speak due to the amount of food he’d chipmunked his cheeks with. “Of course, milady. Now, if you can manage to stay put for another fifteen minutes, I’ll bring you something to take care of that headache.” Joyce winked and fluttered off. “What’s she gonna bring you?” “‘Hair of the Dog,’,” War replied before taking a large bite of her toast and moaning happily. “Isn’t that just…more alcohol? It’s like 8 o’clock in the morning and we’re on the clock, War.” He shot her a disapproving look as he shoveled pancakes into his mouth. She shook her head. “Nah, it’s what she named the potion she makes for me when I miss the time frame for the better one.” “Ah.” He nodded and started on his eggs. “Jesus, I understand why you eat so much, D, but do you have to eat it all so quickly?” She faked a gag. Mostly. “Don’t judge me, I’m starving. Besides, you ordered toast. And only toast. At a restaurant.” “Cinnamon-sugar toast,” she corrected. “And it’s a poor man’s delicacy. That I’m eating at a normal speed.” He rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by his cell phone’s ringtone. Both cops tensed as he checked it, War’s shoulders slumping as he groaned. “This is Joyner.” War glanced anxiously towards the kitchen, hoping Joyce would pop out early so she could feel less like a zombie and more like the perpetually-annoyed witch she was. She squinted suspiciously when her partner straightened up and seemed to brighten. “Alright, we’ll be there in a second. Thanks for letting me know, Karen.” She chewed her toast a bit faster, sensing a shift in her partner’s aversion to leaving. “Doc Les wants us over at the morgue, I’ll go settle the check. Hurry up, it’s only toast.” He gestured at his cleaned plates and rose from his seat to walk over to the cash register. She sagged lower into her own seat and sighed, drinking some of her water and hoping against all hopes that Joyce would appear in the next second. She didn’t think she could handle D babbling about the great Doc for the next few hours with a full-blown hangover. The nausea was slightly lessened by the simplistic food in her stomach, but it was still there and so was her aching head, stubbornly remaining attached to her shoulders. A bright light of hope appeared when Charlie came out of the back to ring up Devonte. Charlie barely knew how to operate the ancient cash register and usually had to double-check the prices on the tickets, too. He’d take a ridiculous amount of time, so she’d be safe. She grinned when D glared across the diner at her, knowing her well enough to know she’d be quite happy they had a few more minutes. She waved and he responded with the same hand gesture she’d been giving him all morning. War just cackled. Charlie was human, but as a long-term resident of Sugar Grove, he was aware of all the paranormals around him. The diner was one of the town’s safe places to speak freely. War wasn’t sure why, but Charlie had lost a lot of his light inside a few years ago. Maybe she should have a chat with him, see if he wanted help. Not today, though. Today was scheduling itself into one giant clusterfuck already. Joyce appeared by the time she was halfway through her last piece of toast and Charlie was roughly five minutes away from actually accepting money from Devonte. She walked up to the table chuckling with a twinkle in her eye. “Something told me I might have to stall your forward progress, so I told Charlie I needed him to check you guys out extra slow while I made you some tea for your stomach.” “You are an absolute life-saver, babe. I owe you one.” She took the cup from Joyce and braced herself. If memory served, Joyce's Hair of the Dog’ tasted worse than actual dog’s hair. “Don’t you always, love?” She patted her on the back and put an ice-cold ginger ale on the table. “Now drink up, and then wash the taste out with this.” “Yeah, yeah. Bottoms up or whatever.” Cynthia drowned her mutterings in the warm liquid that tasted very much so worse than she remembered, somehow, causing her to gag and nearly choke for a moment. Thankfully, she got the ginger ale on her tongue before it got any worse. “Ugh! God, Joyce.” Her friend only laughed at her. “Why are you working today, anyway?” Joyce looked back to where Devonte was showing Charlie prices on the menu and slid into the booth across from War, whispering conspiratorially. “That new girl, Martha, was supposed to start today, but she didn’t show. Charlie couldn’t get her to answer the phone, so he called me in. But, get this, Mrs. Devereaux came in talking about a murder – I’m assuming the one you’re on – seconds before Martha walked in. Poor thing looked a mess! Her brother, was it?” Cynthia nodded. “Well, anyway, she wasn’t even wearing shoes, War. I think she just walked in on autopilot or something. Was wearing sweats and a stained tank top. Hair didn’t look like it had ever seen a brush in its life! Face as pale as a sheet. Kept mumbling something about how 'it didn’t matter anymore’ and ‘they weren’t going to stop.’ Her other brother, Jess I think, rushed in about twenty minutes after she got here, thanking us for getting some coffee in her and took her out to the car talking about seeing the doctor.” “What kind of stained?” “Huh? Oh, the top. Like, maybe old coffee or tea stains? Hair dye? Not sure. Don’t have your nose for that kind of thing.” “Hm.” They both sat thinking for a second, War sipping the last dregs of her ginger ale. “Looks like you’ve gotta run, love.” Joyce pointed at Devonte, waving at them both hurriedly. She stood and held out her hand. War took it and rose with her, happy she no longer felt woozy when standing. She hugged Joyce and headed towards the front door and her impatient partner. “She planned it, I know she did.” “Who planned what?” “Joyce.” “Ah, you think she trapped you with Charlie at the register? D, that sounds more like me than it does Joyce.” They got into the car and Devonte glared at her. “Yeah, but you’re a horrible influence.” She laughed. “Calm down, D, we’re on our way to see your future fiancé. Don’t worry.” His face flushed but he didn’t say anything else about it.