Mind Over Magic by Lindsay Buroker

5

A white LandRover rolled up the driveway and parked in front of the house. Lucky had stopped barking, but Morgen grabbed his collar as soon as she came out of the root cellar—the witch cellar. He was more likely to jump on a stranger and knock him over with an energetic greeting than to bite anyone, but not everybody appreciated that.

The windows were tinted, so Morgen couldn’t see inside, but the owner soon stepped out. He had short white hair, a bushy handlebar mustache, and wore a denim shirt under a brown suede jacket with fringes. A ten-gallon cowboy hat topped off the ensemble. In Texas, he might not have looked out of place, but jeans and flannel were more typical along the misty coast of western Washington.

“Morning, ma’am.” He tipped his hat toward her.

Lucky woofed.

“Morning, hound.”

Lucky wagged agreeably.

“Hi,” Morgen said.

“I’m Magnus Christian, best real-estate agent in these parts.”

“Ah.” Morgen could already guess what this visit was about. Maybe she shouldn’t have shut the doors to the root cellar on her way out. Seeing all of the bizarre paraphernalia might have deterred an agent from wanting to list the place. “Morgen Keller,” she said, still getting used to using her maiden name again. “I inherited this place from Gwen Griffiths.”

“Wonderful to meet you.” Christian smiled and reached for her hand.

Morgen hid a grimace as she let go of Lucky’s collar so she could accept the clasp. She’d never been one for hugs—or handshakes—from strangers, but people tended to raise their eyebrows when she jerked her arm away.

Fortunately, all he did was clasp it and nod to her before letting go. “You’re the daughter of the deceased?”

“Granddaughter. I guess that’s what I get for not bothering with makeup.”

Christian blinked and looked her up and down. “I didn’t mean to insult you, ma’am. You don’t look a day over thirty, and if I were to walk through the shopping district with you, I’d feel quite smug at having attracted such a young lady.” He winked at her. “I just hadn’t realized that Mrs. Griffiths was old enough to have grown grandchildren.”

“She was ninety.”

“Really?” Christian patted Lucky. “Did you hear she died in a motorcycle accident?”

“Yes, how did you hear about it?” Morgen forced a smile, though she was already inclined to be suspicious of this man.

How had he known she was up here? It hadn’t even been a full day since she arrived in town. Had Deputy Franklin said something? And if so, to whom? And why?

For some reason, Morgen thought of the woman who’d peered into her hotel room window the night before.

“It was in the local news a few weeks back,” he said, “and I’d met Mrs. Griffiths a few times. She contacted me this past spring about selling her property. She was thinking of moving into a condo up north. One of those assisted-living facilities.”

Given what Morgen had seen in the root cellar, she highly doubted Grandma had been contemplating anything of the sort. Assisted-living facilities had to have rules about how many cauldrons and jars of organs one could store in one’s room. And surely, drawing pentagrams on the floor was discouraged.

“Interesting,” Morgen made herself say, though she was already contemplating how to get rid of this guy. Lucky had lost interest in him and returned to investigating the barn—or whatever creatures might be living under it. “My cousin is a real-estate agent, so I’m sure Grandma would have used her if she’d been serious about selling.”

His eyes narrowed. “An agent where?”

“In Seattle.”

Christian scoffed and waved dismissively. “You can’t use an agent who doesn’t know the local area. That would be ludicrous. I’m sure I can get you much more. I understand you are the sole heir to the estate?” He lifted his brows.

“Not to be rude, but how do you know that?”

He shrugged easily. “As I said, it’s a small town. I regularly have lunch with Abraham, the estate attorney who handles most of the cases in these parts.”

So he could find out which aggrieved descendants might be willing to list properties with him and beat his competition to their doors? This time, Morgen didn’t bother hiding her grimace. She eyed his SUV, decided it had cost him a fortune, and felt pleased about the fresh mud spattering the sides. If nothing else, he would have to pay to have it scrubbed after coming out here. Somehow, she doubted he was the type to wash a car himself.

“I can help you get a great offer,” Christian said. “I already know lots of developers who are interested in Bellrock and are buying up land all over the area for their projects. Do you realize how rare it is to find an estate this size left this close to town? I’m surprised the county hasn’t already rezoned it. A developer could put hundreds of houses and condos in there. And is that a view of the water over there?” He peered off toward the Strait. “If you cut down those trees, you’d be able to see the sunset and all the ships passing below. Magnificent.”

“Cut down all the trees?” Morgen wasn’t as anti-progress as some, but the idea of bulldozers coming in and clearcutting the woods—even if they were infested with werewolves—horrified her. The local deer were having a hard enough time staying alive as it was.

“Oh, they’d leave some, I’m sure. For aesthetics.” He waved his hand. “People like trees.”

“Yeah, I hear they’re good for the planet.”

“I’m more interested in getting you what’s good for your pocketbook.” He glanced at her hand. “I don’t see a ring on that finger. Are you single? Divorced? It’s not easy for a single lady to make it in the world, is it?” His pitying smile made her wonder if he’d researched her and knew she was out of work.

Morgen gritted her teeth. “Look, Mr. Christian. I just got up here, and I need to sort through Grandma’s things. I’m not thinking about selling right now.”

“Of course, of course. Take your time.” He pulled out a gold card holder encrusted with emeralds and diamonds—were those real?—and withdrew an embossed business card. “Call me when you’re ready.”

He pressed it into her hand, tipped his hat, climbed back into the hulking SUV, and drove off. She hoped the wolf leaped onto his hood and threatened to tear his throat out for trespassing.

“I’ll call you the first of never,” she muttered and tore up the card.

“Do you object to him personally or to developing the property?” a man with a growly voice asked from behind her.

Morgen swore and spun, realizing that she’d left the butcher knife in the cellar. What had she been thinking?

She recognized the owner of the voice right away, though he’d been naked the last time she’d seen him. Now, he wore jeans and a brown leather vest that revealed almost as much of his muscled chest and arms as his last outfit had. A single tooth—some animal’s fang—hung on a thong around his neck, and wide studded-leather bracers circled his wrists, as if he were an archer who needed them to protect his forearms. He towered six and a half feet tall, making her feel much shorter than she usually did at five-eight, and was close enough that he could have reached out and grabbed her.

Morgen skittered back, wishing she had the knife, especially since his cool blue eyes hadn’t changed. They lacked warmth, and they reminded her of the wolf he’d been the night before. The wolf he still seemed like with that wild black hair and powerful build. This was a predator, whether he was in fur or flesh.

“Do you object to him or to developing the property?” he repeated slowly, as if she were an idiot who needed help comprehending simple words, though he was the one for whom English had to be a second language. Was that a Mexican accent? What would a Mexican werewolf be doing in Washington?

“Both.” Though Morgen was afraid to look away from him, she glanced around for Lucky, worried the man might have done something to him. Otherwise, he should have barked to alert her to a stranger—to a threat.

Lucky stood off to the side. He didn’t appear injured, but his tail was clenched between his legs and his head was low, as if he’d been scolded.

“You will not sell the property?” the man asked.

“I don’t know yet, but not to someone who wants to bulldoze the woods and put in a thousand houses and condos.”

He watched her with those cool eyes, and she wasn’t sure if she’d given him the answer he wanted. Maybe she should have said a plain and definitive no. But that wasn’t the truth, and what business was it of his anyway? He was the trespasser here.

“Gwen was your grandmother.” He didn’t ask it like it was a question. He already knew.

The people in Bellrock knew far too much about her.

“Yes. I’m Morgen. And you are?”

Besides the freak who’d threatened to rip out her throat after leaping naked onto her car…

“He who protects this place,” he said.

“That doesn’t roll off the tongue as easily as you might think.”

“Follow me. I will show you something.” He strode toward the front of the barn.

“Uh.” She glanced at Lucky, who’d lowered to his belly in the grass, as if commanded to stay. His tail was still clenched. If the werewolf tried anything, she couldn’t count on her dog to help. “Be right there,” she called, then ran back to the root cellar.

She grabbed the butcher knife off the workbench, then wondered if she would be better off grabbing the kris or antler staff, but shook her head and stuck with her first choice.

The werewolf was waiting at the large rolling door, the wood scorched with a symmetrical pattern that reminded her of snowflakes. Without explaining it, he shoved it aside, but he pointed at her knife before walking in.

“You intend to prepare a meal?”

“No. A wolf jumped on my car last night and threatened to kill me. It seemed like a good idea to be armed.”

He grunted. “You should have grabbed the boline knife.”

While Morgen wondered if that had been one of the tools in the root cellar, he strode into the barn.

Though still hesitant, and not at all certain he wouldn’t kill her, she followed him inside.

Wood chips scattered the cement floor of the cavernous interior. When Morgen had been a kid, there had been horse stalls on the left side of the barn, but those had been taken out, replaced by a huge workshop. Tables, benches, and even a totem pole in progress rose up amid power tools and sawhorses. Some of the furnishings had fine wood carvings in the flat surfaces, and a few had been decoratively charred, as if by a blowtorch.

To the right of the work area, stairs led up to what she remembered as a loft but now looked like more of an apartment. Near the base of the stairs, a tarp lay over something lumpy. The werewolf tugged it off, revealing a wrecked motorcycle.

Morgen grimaced. “Is this… was this… Grandma’s?”

“Yes. By the time I learned of the crash, the paramedics had pulled her body out of the ravine. I found this at the bottom, mangled among the trees.” He nudged a couple of parts that must have fallen off in the crash. “At the time, I didn’t yet know that she was dead. I brought it back in case she wanted it.”

“Wait, do you live here?” Morgen glanced at the steps leading to the apartment.

“Yes.”

“Do you pay rent?” She thought of her cousin’s words that if the werewolf had paid rent, it might be more difficult to evict him from the property.

“Why?” His eyes narrowed, and his words turned into more of a growl again. “Do you wish to charge me to stay here?”

“No. I…” Maybe saying she wanted to evict him wasn’t a good idea either, not when he crouched there, radiating menace toward her. She didn’t know what this guy had against her, but she definitely got the feeling he didn’t like her. “I was just asking. Grandma didn’t mention you.”

“You never came here. How could she mention me?”

“Well, there are these things called phones.” Morgen almost brought up email too, but she hadn’t seen a computer in the house and couldn’t remember Grandma ever communicating with the family that way.

“Which you did not use to call her.”

Was that what he had against her? Morgen had always thought that was what Grandma wanted, to be left alone in peace. But what if she’d resented that her grandchildren hadn’t come up to visit? It boggled her mind that this werewolf might have known her grandmother better than she did.

“This was on the bike when I found it.” He pointed to a bone-colored clip fastened to a fluid line. Or maybe the clip was made from bone.

Was that the brake line? Morgen had put together her own computers when she’d been in her teens and twenties, but she knew little about cars and even less about motorcycles.

“Touch it,” he told her, the words a command, not a request.

She bristled, not wanting to obey him—or crouch shoulder to shoulder beside him. But curiosity kept her from voicing a protest. She bent over, touched a finger to the clip, and jerked her hand back when it buzzed her the same way the indention in the root-cellar door had.

His eyes glittered with triumph. “It is magic, yes? I knew it.”

“Uhm.” Nothing more articulate came to mind.

“And you have the witch blood of your line.”

That deserved another uhm or maybe something more profound, but Morgen couldn’t do anything but alternate between staring at him and at the clip. It had felt like an electrical current had buzzed her—not magic, whatever the hell magic felt like—but as with the door, the clip didn’t appear to be made from a material that could conduct electricity.

“I don’t know what any of that means,” she said.

He pointed at the clip. “That means that someone murdered your grandmother.”