Mind Over Magic by Lindsay Buroker
11
Earlier than Morgen expected,Amar pulled up to the house in a pale blue Ford pickup truck that had to be from the sixties. She’d seen it in the back of the barn the day before but had assumed it was something that Grandma had inherited along with the property, not something anyone still drove.
A modern interpretation of a totem pole and two live-edge garden benches filled the bed. They were wrapped in blankets and tied down, but so much of the pole stuck out from the back that it looked like it might tip the truck onto its rear wheels.
Morgen grabbed her cauliflower puffs out of the front seat of her car before joining Amar. She highly doubted this restaurant would have anything vegetarian-friendly. Maybe she could talk Amar into stopping at the grocery store afterward. She would offer to buy him a few slabs of meat.
A whine of protest came from one of the front windows of the house. She’d left Lucky inside with a rawhide snack and water, but he’d probably already scarfed down the treat.
Normally, if the weather wasn’t warm, she would take him along on errands, but the thought of this Timber Wolf being rife with werewolves made her hesitant. Besides, if the late-afternoon sun burned through the clouds, it might be too hot for him to wait in the car. Somehow, she doubted the Timber Wolf was the kind of place with outdoor dining that invited well-mannered dogs onto the patio with their owners.
Amar got out of the truck and jogged back into the barn, as if he’d forgotten something. He returned with a toolbox and a blowtorch and tucked them into the bed. Maybe he anticipated the new owner wanting more of the burnt-wood look on the benches.
The door stuck as he returned to the driver’s seat. He grunted, muscles flexing, and yanked it open with a noisy creak.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take my car?” Morgen asked.
As the truck idled, the engine chugging loudly, it reverberated like an off-kilter paint mixer.
“I need to drop off furniture on the way.” Amar looked at her car. “That’s flimsy. One of my wooden bench legs would crush it.”
“A wolf almost crushed it the other night.”
“Yes. The wan metal dented and nearly crumpled under my weight.”
“I’m sorry the hood of my car wasn’t sufficient to hold your massive bulk. That’s clearly a deficiency the manufacturer should address in future models.”
He eyed her. “You had better practice ass-kissing before you talk to any of the Loups.”
“They’re not invited to my dinner.”
“They are if you’re having it in their restaurant. Don’t expect that runt-of-the-litter Christian to protect you from them.”
“I won’t, though I thought you were coming along to loom protectively and keep me out of trouble.”
“As a favor to Gwen, I will attempt to do so, but I am one wolf without a pack. They would be wise to acknowledge my strength, but I’ve never known the Loups to be wise.”
As Morgen climbed into the passenger seat—technically, the passenger side of a bench seat—she thought about texting Christian to see if he would be amenable to changing locations. Unless these Loups were tied in with Grandma’s death somehow, she had no reason to seek them out. She would prefer to avoid both wolf packs.
“Do you ever get in fights with the Loups?” she asked.
“Once.” Amar lifted the side of his vest to show old scars—claw marks—in his side.
“Did the other guy get hurt just as badly?”
“The other guys did.” He gave her an aloof sidelong look, as if she’d offended him by not assuming he was the supreme warrior in the land who’d handed out multiple ass-kickings.
“I should have known.” Morgen patted around for a seat belt but didn’t see one. It wasn’t missing. It just wasn’t there. Maybe they hadn’t existed in the sixties. “Do you ever get in fights with the sheriff over not having seat belts?”
“A deputy pulled me over once. I showed my fangs and growled at him, and he wet himself.”
“You think you’re pretty badass, don’t you?” Morgen gripped the handle bolted to the door as the truck rumbled off down the driveway, the furniture clunking and shifting in the bed behind them.
With her other hand, she gripped the star-shaped medallion she’d donned earlier and hoped it was lucky. At first, she’d scoffed at the idea of a witch amulet that could protect her from being zapped by magical items, but as an experiment, while she’d worn it, she’d touched the bone clip and the indention in the cellar door. Neither had shocked her. She’d then removed the amulet, touched the clip again, and it had left a painful red mark on her finger. That was enough to convince her to wear it, at least as long as she was in Bellrock. When she returned to Seattle, she trusted she wouldn’t have to worry about such things again. Witches hadn’t cavorted through her previous life any more frequently than werewolves.
“I am a capable warrior,” Amar said. “You should be honored that I will accompany you today.”
“Oh, I am. I’m giddy.”
He gave her another sidelong look as he navigated the potholes. This one was harder to read.
“Many females in town are attracted to me,” he stated.
“I’m sure. The sleeveless vest is like a display case for your arms.”
“When you asked me for dinner yesterday, I assumed you wanted to have sex with me.”
“No, I was just hungry.”
“Because of the insufficiently filling vegetable puffs.”
“Yup.” Morgen rattled the bag. “I’m also recently divorced. I’m not looking for a hookup with a werewolf or otherwise.”
“Good.”
She decided not to be offended that he sounded relieved, though it was a little insulting.
The deer carcass was gone, and she breathed a sigh of relief as they passed the spot. Amar didn’t comment on it.
“Did you leave the head in the box?” she asked, fairly certain he had, but if he hadn’t, and someone else was trying to send her a message, she had better figure out who.
“Yes.”
“To scare me?”
“Yes.” They reached the paved two-lane road, and he turned onto it and headed toward town.
“Why? You knew by then that I wasn’t trespassing.”
“If you were scared away, you might leave forever and never do anything with this land. If you came here to sell it…” His voice lowered into familiar throaty-growl territory as he said, “You know I do not wish this.”
“Yeah, you haven’t been shy about expressing your feelings on the matter.”
They reached a stop sign, turned, and the main street of Bellrock came into view, the Wild Trout and a gas station on the left and shops on the right. She eyed the alley where the cloaked woman had spied on her, but nobody was loitering there this evening.
They passed the Wild Trout’s sole competition, the cedar-shingled Roaming Elk Inn, with a few tourist amenities across from it, including miniature golf and a Go-Kart track, both looking like they’d been installed around the same time Amar’s truck had come off the factory line. The Go-Karts probably didn’t have seat belts either.
Before reaching the handful of restaurants that presumably included the Timber Wolf, Amar turned the truck onto a side street that led up a hill with a view of the Strait. It curved past houses and driveways half-hidden by trees. There were more residences up there than Morgen would have guessed.
After another turn, Amar pulled up in front of a house with a big grassy yard and numerous trucks parked out front. Sawing and hammering noises emanated from the open front door, and a landscaper in denim overalls with no shirt underneath was putting in a brick-paver driveway. The various construction workers were all brawny bronze-skinned men with dark hair, many shirtless or in tight T-shirts that showed off more than they hid. Other than the unappealing yellow pit stains on some of those shirts, the fit group looked like they could star in a Chippendales calendar.
Amar sighed and curled his top lip, a hint of a sharp canine tooth showing.
“Problem?” Morgen asked.
“No. Stay in the truck.” He climbed out and started unwrapping the blankets from his furnishings.
At first, none of the workers seemed to notice him, but one who was carrying lumber into the house paused, nostrils lifting in the air to sniff like a hound.
With a start, Morgen realized these might also be werewolves. In fact, they looked a lot like Amar. Was this the pack he’d spoken of? The Lobos?
The one doing the sniffing spun, spotted the truck, and nudged the one who’d been laying pavers. They muttered to each other, set down their materials, and sauntered down to the truck.
As they drew closer, they appeared even larger and brawnier, with jagged veins running down their thick forearms. Staying in the truck seemed like good advice.
The two men glanced curiously at her but walked past to address Amar in Spanish. Hostile and surly Spanish.
Morgen listened through the window, but with her meager experience with the language, all she caught was that Maria wasn’t there, and Pedrowould beat Amar if he found him sniffing around. Amar said something about his furniture, maybe that he was there to deliver it and nothing else.
One of the men propped an elbow on the side mirror near Morgen. He was in his early twenties, much younger than Amar, and might have been considered handsome, but all she could focus on was that he wore a tank top that left his matted armpit hair on display for her.
She reached up and tried to lock the door, but it didn’t work. Hardly surprising in an ancient truck with no seat belts.
The man noticed her through the window, cocked his head, and sniffed. He looked toward her chest, though she wasn’t wearing anything revealing or designed to accent curves. Still, his gaze lingered. Was it possible he somehow sensed the amulet? She was wearing it under her thin hoodie, so nothing but the chain should have been visible.
Amar said something gruff, walking past with a bench over his shoulder. As chunky as the log it had been hewn from, it looked like it weighed hundreds of pounds.
“Déjala,” he growled over his shoulder.
The man eyeing Morgen chuckled and lifted his hands innocently. "Sí, sí, primo.”
The other man followed Amar up the walkway, not offering to help carry the bench. If these people were his relatives—his former pack?—Morgen felt sorry for him and wondered what had happened to drive a wedge between them.
Amar glanced around as he carried the bench, a wistful expression on his face as he looked at someone on the roof with a hammer. Because he missed the work? Had he once been a part of their construction crew?
The truck door opened, and Morgen swore. She should have remained focused on the man lurking outside her window instead of trying to decipher the moody Amar’s looks.
“Witch lady,” Tank-top Man said. “You sleeping with my cousin?”
“No. He’s giving me a ride to town.”
He looked her up and down, checking out her chest again. “You’re a new witch. Haven’t heard nothing about you.”
“I like my privacy and for the door to remain shut. Not good to catch a chill, you know.” Morgen tried to tug the door closed, but he’d leaned his arm against it, and it didn’t budge.
She hoped Amar returned shortly. If these were the Lobos, they seemed just as much a danger to her as the Loups he’d said he would protect her from.
“You one of those witches who keeps a pet wolf?” His lips rippled back, revealing pointed canines far more prominent than typical for a human.
“Nope. I’ve got a dog. He’s very un-wolf like.”
“You control him with your magic? Make him a slave?”
“No, I give him treats. That does the trick. Why don’t you go back to work? I believe there’s a homeowner in need of a burly man with unkempt armpit hair.”
The sneer turned into a smug smirk. “Yeah, she was. I took care of her. Me and Juan Martín did last night.”
“How lovely that your construction company provides extra services. That’s how you get those five-star reviews.”
“It is, but we don’t serve witches. Even Amar isn’t desperate enough to let some witch control him. If we find out you’re using a wand on him, we’ll come find you.”
“I’m wand-free currently.” Morgen wanted to scoot across the bench seat and get away from him, but she realized he might be a source of information. “Are witches known to do that? Try to control werewolves? That seems dangerous.”
“It is dangerous. But magic evens the odds, and some witches like danger.” His eyelids drooped partway. “Maybe you’re one of those witches. You know Amar has a temper, sí? Better not let your magic wear off, or he’ll tear your throat out.”
“He’s just giving me a ride.”
“That’s what the crystal witch’s sister used to say about Miguel. Turned out, she had him on his knees like a slave, forcing him to serve her.”
“Bautista,” Amar snapped, jogging back down the walkway. “I said to leave her alone.”
“Just watching out for you, primo.”
“You don’t care for me. You just hate the idea that someone who used to run with the pack could end up like Miguel.”
Bautista’s lips rippled again. “That was an embarrassment. The Loups don’t let us forget it.” Bautista pointed at Amar. “You let a witch control you, and we’ll put a stop to it.”
“Help me with this pole. You’re on the clock.”
“Sure, primo. Sure.” Bautista flashed his fangs at Morgen, then slammed the door shut.
She rubbed her face, relieved when he left, carrying the totem pole by himself. Amar walked past with the other bench, and he glanced in at her.
Morgen schooled her face into a neutral expression, not wanting him to know she was rattled. It wasn’t so much by the leering or the hostility as the fact that people she’d never met believed she was a witch. And hated her for it. If werewolves had bad blood with witches, how ever had Amar ended up friends with Grandma?
Morgen envisioned people in this town—werewolves—trying to kill her because they believed she was a threat. As if she knew anything about witchcraft or how to enslave a wolf or anyone. Maybe wearing the amulet had been a mistake. That might be what had made this guy think she was a witch.
She removed it, intending to stuff it in the glove compartment instead of wearing it to dinner, but pens and a huge stack of folded papers occupied the space. She pulled them out, hoping to shift everything around to make room, but a couple fell off the pile and to the floor.
Worried Amar would catch her snooping, she glanced up to make sure he wasn’t returning yet, then bent to retrieve the papers. She meant to simply put them away, but curiosity got the best of her, and she unfolded them.
One was a drawing of a fancy table with drawers and hidden compartments. Some project he planned? Relieved that the sketches weren’t something more personal, she glanced at the second one and started to refold it and put it away before she fully saw it. But it was of a person, not a piece of furniture. A beautiful woman with thick hair that tumbled to her shoulders. Her eyes gleamed with warmth, and her full lips parted in a smile, a cute nose crinkled slightly with laughter. A loving hand had drawn the portrait. Or… the hand of a lover?
A bang at the window made Morgen jump and crack her head on the roof of the cab.
“Put those away,” Amar snarled, fire in his eyes.
“Sorry,” she blurted, hurrying to fold them and return them to the glove compartment as he strode to the driver’s side, his back even stiffer than it had been that morning.
All the warnings about his temper leaped to mind, and she gripped the door handle, tempted to spring out and take her chances with the pack. Or simply leave all of them. She was close enough to the restaurant that she could walk there herself.
Indecision made her hesitate, and Amar opened his door and climbed in, the bench shuddering as his weight settled onto it. Jaw clenched, he started the truck without looking at her.
“Sorry,” she repeated. “That man—your, uhm, cousin?—thought I was a witch casting a spell on you or something. I thought it was my grandmother’s amulet that made him think that.” Since it was still in her hand, she held it up, as if it might work as proof of her innocent intentions. “I was afraid I would be a target if I wore it into the restaurant, so I was going to put it in the glove box for now. I shouldn’t have touched the papers.”
“No,” he said curtly, turning the truck back toward Main Street.
She wanted to ask who the woman in the drawing was—could it be the Maria that one of the men had mentioned?—but a cloud of disapproval and displeasure hung about Amar, so she didn’t dare. She had no ability to control werewolves or anyone else, so if he got physical when he lost his temper, she wouldn’t have a way to defend herself. Maybe she should have brought the butcher knife along.
“Is there somewhere else I can leave it where it won’t be stolen?” she asked as they turned toward the collection of restaurants, a sign out front of a log building proclaiming it was the Timber Wolf.
He glanced over for the first time. “Wear it. It’ll offer some protection.”
“Against werewolves?”
“Against other witches who might cast spells on you.”
“Does that… happen often at the restaurants in Bellrock?”
“The coven here is active, and nobody likes them. Some speculate that half the town is under their control. But not the werewolves.” He glared over at her, as if he expected her to argue.
Morgen lifted her hands. She didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into, but arguing was far from her mind.
Still glaring, Amar returned his focus to the road, swinging the truck into a parking lot behind the log building.
She thought about making a joke about jowl nuzzling but decided to let him cool off instead. As irked as he looked now, she doubted she could count on him to defend her inside. All she could hope was that Christian came alone and neither witches nor werewolves showed up to make the meal more interesting than she already feared it would be.