Present Day—Oklahoma
The mundane neighborhood was silent—only a light spring breeze rustling the soft white blooms of Bradford pear trees, feathering manicured lawns and shadowed shrubs.
Dark and deserted, stood a small house with a covered porch, a for sale sign posted near the tidy walkway. The moonlit lawn ruffled in waves. Then five crimson cloaks appeared out of thin air, casting long shadows across the whispering grass. Glaring from the cape closest to the porch, were flaming orange eyes.
Agro’s nostrils flared as he scowled at the dark windows. He could sense the witch’s lingering energy, but she was gone. He soared to the porch, opening the front door with a wave of his hand. Then he floated inside, halting when he reached the witch’s deserted bedroom. The tiny closet and particle board dresser were empty, and the bed was bare, its mattress askew from the box-spring.
Agro landed beside the bed and leaned over the place she once slept, breathing in the sweet floral bouquet of pure power. His body tightened as his lungs quickened, drowning in her essence, and he burned to get his hands on the source, to inhale the flower at its freshest.
After memorizing every element of her scent, he straightened and started to turn, but paused when he noticed a streak of color poking from beneath the crooked mattress.
He waved his left hand, tossing the mattress aside. Then he froze, staring down at a dark-haired siren like no other. The way she gazed from the photograph—big, round emeralds deeper than the sagest soul yet swimming with innocence—made Agro shudder, simultaneously awed and aroused. Even through glossy paper he could tell she possessed the powers of the Heavens. Molded in their empyreal image, she could have been birthed by the Goddess Ava—Mother of the witches, the first of the breed.
Agro gingerly lifted the photograph, wondering why such beauty would hide under a mattress. Then he noticed an old crease running across the lower half of the portrait, obscuring the words Class of ’07. The graduation photo had been shoved under the mattress to flatten a fold. Lucky for him, it had been forgotten.
He ran a forefinger over the crease, magically repairing the damage. Then he carefully rolled it up, tucking it in his cloak as he returned to his guard. They stood where he left them, alertly scanning their surroundings, so Agro moved to the for sale sign and crouched.
“Farriss,” he hissed.
“Sir?” the henchman replied, kneeling beside him.
“Tell me again what you learned,” Agro demanded.
For the past week Farriss had been exploring Oklahoma, seeking information on a witch living a hexless life. He eventually made contact with a coven in southeast Oklahoma that knew of such a person. Two of their members had encountered an unaware witch while dining in Gander Creek—a tiny town near the Kansas border. One of the members had been more than happy to tell her story, claiming the witch held unusual beauty, both body and aura, and had looked and acted as though she knew nothing of magic.
Following the vague tip, Farriss ended up in Gander Creek’s lone watering hole, quickly learning his target—twenty-one-year-old Layla Callaway—had left town. He easily obtained her former address and place of employment, along with a brief rundown of her life. Then he delivered the bad news to Agro, who insisted on visiting Gander Creek himself.
“This house and the diner,” Farriss answered. “That’s all we have. The witch has been a recluse for three years. The locals in the tavern claim to know her as well as anyone, but they know nothing of her current whereabouts or activities. They didn’t even know she was leaving town until she was gone.”
“You’ll visit the diner,” Agro decided, “question her boss. Then you’ll pay this broker a visit—Gerald Greene.”
“Yes, sir,” Farriss agreed. “The diner’s open twenty-four hours. Would you like me to go now?”
“Yes, but I don’t want the witch hearing about your visit. After talking to the boss, convince him to keep his mouth shut. He’s not to tell his staff the subject of your interrogation. Tomorrow you’ll intimidate Mr. Greene. If his office is closed on Sundays, you’ll find his home.”
“Yes, sir.”
Agro looked at the abandoned house, a menacing growl rolling in his chest. Then he raised a palm, watching with pleasure as the insipid structure burst into raging flames.
Plain, dingy and too bright for the dark field surrounding it, the all night diner sat off a deserted highway, catering to local hell-raisers, early birds, and the occasional trucker.
Farriss descended behind the building and released his concealment spells, hovering an inch above cracked cement as he curled his lip at the overflowing dumpster. He transferred his cloak to his satchel, summoned polished leather shoes onto his feet, then adjusted the diamond cuffs of his Armani suit—the one he used to intimidate the hexless. After straightening his tie, he slicked his long hair into a low ponytail and secured it with a magical band. When facing down the powerless, he preferred to keep their focus on his saffron yellow eyes rather than his copper red hair.
Staying in the shadows, he headed for the front of the building then walked around the corner, surprised to find a line at the door. Apparently the local boozers had flocked to the diner after last call.
Farriss slowed his pace, hesitant to draw a crowd’s attention. Then he relaxed, realizing the circumstances could work in his favor. The intoxicated wouldn’t remember him, and the employees would rush to get him out of their hair.
He continued along his course, easily clearing a path through the wasted patrons, who ceased their carousing and stared with blurry eyes.
“Who’s this asshole?” one guy murmured, and the girl beside him speared his ribs.
“Shut up, ya dumbass. Dude looks like a fed.”
“Whadya know ’bout feds?” the cocky drunk returned. Then he and his friends burst into laughter, forgetting the sharp dressed man who entered the diner.
Farriss glanced around, taking a few seconds to assess the situation—multiple customers at every table, and only three servers, none of whom dressed like a boss. Through a metal framed window stood a cook, and behind him a dishwasher, but no manager.
A frumpy, spectacled woman with fly-away hair rushed behind the bar, stopping to stack condiments on a tray.
Farriss stepped forward, placing a hand on her platter. “I need the boss.”
“Don’t we all?” the woman snorted, crouching out of sight. Then she popped back up, tossing a handful of straws on the counter. “The boss ain’t here. If ya got a complaint, come back tomorrow.”
She tried to take her things and go, but Farriss kept his hand on the tray. “I need to see the man in charge,” he pressed.
The waitress paused, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Farriss’ sleek jacket. “The man called in sick today,” she countered. “Better luck next time.”
“Listen,” Farriss replied, glancing at her nametag, “Phyllis, I have business with your boss…”
“Do I look like I care ’bout your business?” she interrupted. “Sure, you’re fancy and all . . . and kinda handsome in a weird way, but I ain’t got time for this. I’m in the middle of a bar rush.”
Farriss narrowed his eyes. The old biddy wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him. “Perhaps there’s someone else I can speak with,” he suggested, struggling to keep his cool. “Who’s the man in charge when the boss is gone?”
“Lord, help us,” Phyllis sniffed, rolling her eyes. Then she yanked her tray away and turned, speaking to a passing waiter. “Deal with this chauvinist pig, Travis. I ain’t in the mood.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the waiter agreed, digging under the counter, but when he spotted Farriss, he straightened, raising one eyebrow as he scanned the Armani suit. “You must be Mr. Pig.”
Farriss scanned the scrawny excuse for a man from head to toe. “Give me a break,” he grumbled, grinding his teeth.
The waiter shrugged his skinny shoulders and turned to the till. “Don’t have one.”
“I need your boss,” Farriss repeated, exhausted by the inadequate staff.
“That’d be her,” the waiter replied, nudging the frumpy old woman, who was rattling orders to the cook. “He’s all yours, Phyllis,” Travis added. “I’m not man enough.”
The waiter walked away, and Farriss’ jaw tightened as his nostrils flared. “Enough,” he said, reaching over the counter. The waitress tried to back away, but Farriss caught her apron, retrieving her notepad and pen and slapping them on the bar. “Your boss’ name and address,” he demanded, pointing to the paper. “Right here.”
The waitress scowled, but Farriss could tell he’d rattled her. About damn time.
“Go to hell,” she snapped, lunging for the phone. “You got three seconds to leave or I call the sheriff.”
Farriss stiffened, taken aback by the woman’s rebuff. “Listen, lady,” he seethed, “I’ve been in this shit-hole diner long enough. Give me your boss’ address and I’ll get the hell out of here.”
Phyllis replaced the phone, and Farriss thought he’d finally gotten through to her, but then she smiled and propped her hands on her hips.
“This diner may be a shit-hole, but it’s the only one open for fifty miles, which explains why Sheriff Jenkins is walkin’ in the door.”
“Shit,” Farriss cursed, spinning around.
Sure enough, the sheriff and his deputy were strolling through the crowd, making sure the drunks weren’t causing trouble. The sheriff made eye-contact with Farriss then turned to Phyllis, who’d emerged from the bar to greet him with coffee and complaints.
“If you’re lookin’ for troublemakers,” she snitched, “I got one at the counter.”
“The guy in the suit?” Jenkins asked, looking toward the bar, but there was no one there.
“Where’d he go?” Phyllis mumbled, scanning the room. Then utter chaos erupted when someone screamed Fire!
“Shit,” the stranger whispered, hovering fifty feet above earth as he watched flames leap from the diner. Two miles north, smoke continued to curl from the embers of the witch’s former residence. The stranger could hear sirens as the fire department rushed from one hopeless mess to another, and screams occasionally reached him from the frightened patrons pouring out of the restaurant.
The stranger searched the sky, glimpsing a shimmer as Farriss made his exit, and he wondered if Agro had ordered the fire or if the barbarian had lost his temper.
“Foolish,” the stranger scorned.
Agro and his dogs were fools. Burning down the witch’s former home was bad enough. By destroying the diner, the Unforgivable had hoisted two red flags. They might as well have phoned the witch to tell her they were coming.
“Unacceptable,” the stranger mumbled, soaring clear of smoke.
This was his project, damn it. Not Agro’s. He was the wizard who discovered the witch, and it was his careful planning and magical expertise that set things in motion. He couldn’t let Agro flaw his scheme. He had special plans for the special witch, and it would not do for Agro to change them. Perhaps bringing the Unforgivables into the plan was a mistake.
Well, if Agro continued to act like an obsessed head case, the stranger would adjust his path, avoid the consequences of his erroneous judgment.
The diner was crumbling, and he knew Agro’s intentions, so there was no reason to stay in Oklahoma. The stranger flew higher then soared over smoke, heading for Oregon.
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