The Enchanted Writes Book One

  Chapter Nine

  Henrietta and Brick made it to the party, and somehow, even considering how thick the traffic had been, they were not late. Before she wandered up her sister’s garden path, she paused and tugged Brick to the side.

  There was something she had to deal with before she let that man anywhere near her sister. It was the same thing Henrietta had to deal with when any man was about to meet her sister for the first time.

  Brick looked at her, and there was even a flicker of interest and intrigue in his eye. “Do you sense the forces of the witches nearby?”

  Though his voice was quiet, she told him to shut up. People were arriving all around them, and the last thing she needed was for the local policeman to overhear her having a farcical conversation with Brick about magic and witches.

  “Do not worry, Warrior Woman Henrietta; if anyone overhears us, they will merely assume we are mad,” Brick said earnestly.

  She wanted to hit him. She always wanted to hit him, but she held herself back. “Brick, if you go in there, you need to be prepared.” It was like she was briefing a soldier before they went into combat, and hell, maybe it was exactly like that. The second Brick walked through that door and Marcia laid her eyes on him, was the second Brick would become prey.

  Brick brought his hands up and tugged on his collar. “I am prepared.” He even reached into his jacket surreptitiously and pulled out the bottle of wine, nodding at her, eyes vibrant as if to suggest he was more than capable of this mission.

  “Brick, my sister... well, look, she is incredibly attractive.”

  Brick, in usual fashion, looked nonplussed. “Her appearance has been described to me by my warrior monk brethren. She is tall, 5 foot 8 to be exact. She has long, flowing blond hair, large blue eyes, thick eyelashes, a round and pronounced bust tapering down to a narrow waist, and long slender legs.” As Brick spoke, he didn't start gawking or get a look on his face that suggested he wanted to run in and see Marcia for himself immediately. He looked like a schoolboy reeling off facts and waiting patiently for his teacher to reward him.

  “Brick, you don't understand. She is a knock-out. You probably think you are immune right now, but you won't be. Plus, she has this thing,” Henrietta shifted back, feeling uncomfortable, “she always goes after any guy I'm with. Any guy I hang out with, any guy I stand next to in a line even. If we enter the party together, and if she realizes you know me... Brick, she won't let go of you, she’ll come after you hot and fast, and you won't be able to resist her charms.”

  “I will be impervious to her charms. Warrior Woman Henrietta, you forget that I am a warrior monk. I am fully skilled in all forms of fighting. And if your sister wishes to hunt me down as a predator would their prey, then I will be fully capable of defending myself.”

  Henrietta slowly shook her head, making sure Brick saw the move. “Brick, you have no idea what you're talking about. My sister is incredible. If she wants you, she will get you.”

  “I am impervious to her charms,” Brick stated again, his voice firm this time, and it was clear he meant what he was saying.

  She crumpled her brow, crossed her arms, tilted her head to the side, and shrugged. “Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you,” her voice was low and ominous. She couldn't help it. The adamant look of bravery in Brick's eyes was stupidity. He was going to get himself burned. The witch hunter helper didn't know what he was getting into. Sure, he could fight fiendish magical creatures in the streets at night, he could pull anything out of his magical jacket, and he could run around ensuring Henrietta didn't destroy her house and the rest of the block with her new powers. But Brick would not be able to stand in Marcia's way. If Marcia took a liking to him, and that was a certainty considering Brick would be walking in the door with Henrietta, then Brick wouldn't have a chance. By the end of the party Brick would be covered in Marcia's trademark fire-truck-red lipstick, and a week later he would pull out a pair of her lingerie from the pocket of his leather jacket with no idea how it got there and a stupid, dull-witted smile forming on his lips at the possibility of what it meant.

  No, Henrietta was adamant that Brick was getting in over his head. Sure, the guy seemed pretty competent when it came to being a witch hunter watcher, but no doubt if Marcia got her hands on him he would disappear from Henrietta's life for good.

  Yet as Brick stood there so close to the flower patch that his boots were covered in mulch, he had such a steely and determined look on his face that it appeared he was ready to take on a dragon. Well good luck to him.

  Henrietta shook her head, clamped her hands on her hips, and nodded towards the house.

  The party was already in full swing. Music was pumping out, thumping through the house and vibrating along the path. It was obvious that Marcia didn't care how loud it was, and didn't give a hoot whether she upset the neighbors or the police had to come around. Then again, the neighbors were already there and Henrietta had parked alongside Patrick Black's car.

  It did seem as if the universe had a different set of rules when it came to Marcia Gosling. It seemed as if every single angel smiled down at her. Not only did Henrietta's sister have the perfect looks, the perfect job, the perfect house, and the perfect friends, but Marcia never got into any trouble. Which was un-freaking-believable considering the amount of men she played off. Somehow Marcia never got a visit from an angry wife, a little off put that Marcia had slept with her husband, and ready to discuss the fact over a kitchen knife. Neither did Marcia ever have any run-ins with disgruntled lovers. Hell, it seemed that people were happy to be part of her life, no matter how badly Marcia treated them.

  As Henrietta walked, she felt the weight of the hairpin. It was incredible how much it calmed her these days, but more than that, it also made her feel strong. That was not a feeling Henrietta usually got to enjoy.

  “We are entering the dragon's den,” Brick said in a low voice as he walked carefully by Henrietta's side, the two of them making their way up the porch and towards the door.

  She couldn't help but give a spluttering laugh into her hand. Brick was using the same tone he used when addressing a threat, he was even walking with that same tense feeling. One look to the side told Henrietta that his expression was rigid with expectation. It wasn't the kind of expectation one should wear when going to a party. Oh no, Brick's lips were pulled back, his teeth clenched, his nose crumpled, and his eyes narrowed. He looked like he was getting ready to be punched in the face.

  She laughed again. Though she'd been dreading going to this party, with Brick at her side it might be survivable. Plus, for the first time in her life, she may have worn something Marcia would agree with.

  As Henrietta stood there on the porch, knocking on the door, she let a hand travel down the fabric of her skirt. Somehow Brick had done a fabulous job. Perhaps every warrior monk had to do a full course in style and fashion. Brick was a versatile chap, after all. Not only did he have his bus license, but in the last couple of weeks he’d proven himself handy with any weapon and any vehicle. He also had a way with animals, and from the few times she had left him in her house alone, she had always come back to the place sparkling clean. Apparently warrior monks can't abide a mess, and if you hand them a broom, they won’t sleep until your house is spotless.

  As Henrietta waited there, a nervous feeling started to trickle through her stomach. This was going to be one of Marcia's parties. Anything could go wrong.

  The door opened.

  It wasn't Marcia.

  It was Patrick.

  He looked at her, and he offered her the kind of smile you might a stranger. “Are you one of Marcia's friends—” he stopped. It looked as if his eyes were bulging out of his head. “Is that you, Henrietta?”

  She couldn't help it: a fast grin spread across her face. “Yes,” she began to chuckle. “Are you that blind drunk already, Patrick?”

  Patrick gave a shrug but shook his head. “Sorry, I actually didn't recognize you,” he sounded impressed.

&nbs
p; He looked to his left and saw Brick. The policeman's shock kind of crumpled into something that looked like mild suspicion.

  “This is my friend,” she mumbled.

  “Right....” Patrick looked back at her, and for the first time since she'd met him, his eyes lingered over her figure.

  Wow. Patrick Black. One of the city's most eligible bachelors. Someone who Marcia had dated multiple times, which was kind of a universal record considering she usually dated a man once and then never met him again.

  Henrietta stood there and reveled in the attention. Then she cleared her throat. “Patrick, can we come in?”

  Patrick yanked the door open. “Sorry, Henny.”

  Patrick hardly ever called her by her pet name, Henny. Jimmy did it all the time, and so did Marcia. But Patrick always kept a polite distance. One look at Henrietta tonight had changed that.

  She couldn't help but smile when she saw Patrick look all the way down her legs and to her heels. Once again, he looked impressed.

  “Where is she?” Henrietta interrupted his gawking.

  “Who?”

  “My sister.”

  “Oh, sorry, yeah, she's in the lounge room, on the couch,” Patrick said through a quick cough.

  “Oh well, I'd better get this over with,” Henrietta mumbled as she waved a quick goodbye to Patrick. She turned and headed for the lounge, but didn't walk as quickly as she intended to. She was distracted. People, mostly men, were staring at her. Unless she had a fantastic klutz attack, and fell over in the middle of the street, knocking the contents of a bin all over her top, men never stared at her.

  She would have to buy Brick a meal for this. Maybe she would even have to ask him to give her a few pointers on style.

  Henrietta made it into the lounge, but before she did, Brick thrust the old bottle of wine into her chest. “You must now arm yourself,” he assured her in a low voice.

  She clutched onto the bottle. Dear god, it did look fancy. She could bet that Brick was not lying to her, and that it was a good couple of hundred years old. It would be worth an astounding amount, and yet here she was about to offer it to her sister at a simple party.

  The lounge was packed, but the couch only had two people on it: Marcia and Jimmy. Marcia was leaning back, chuckling at Jimmy as he had one of his giant, enormous arms around her. He looked, as Jimmy Field always did, incredible. Seriously, he was Mr December, there was no way he could ever look anything other than steaming hot.

  Henrietta took a stealing breath and walked up to them. It took a while for Marcia to glance up, in fact, Jimmy noticed Henrietta first. Just like Patrick, he got a confused look on his face, studying Henrietta all too well for several seconds until he leaned back and gave a surprised chuckle. “Henrietta?”

  Now Marcia turned around. She snapped her gaze on Henrietta. Those pale and alluring blue eyes travelled all the way up and down Henrietta for several seconds. She leaned forward in her chair. “Henny?” her voice pitched high.

  Henrietta nodded. “Hi Marcia.”

  Marcia opened her mouth wide, her full and pert red lips pouting. “What are you wearing?”

  Henrietta looked down, rested a hand on her skirt, and then shrugged. “Clothes.”

  “Where the hell did you get them? You couldn't afford anything like that. And who picked them out for you?” Marcia's tone brimmed with accusation.

  Despite what she was wearing, and despite the fact she had brought a bottle of ancient wine with her that was worth a small fortune, Henrietta began to feel small. Her sister had this uncanny ability to sap all of Henrietta's confidence. In Marcia's presence, Henrietta often felt like the smallest of insignificant dots on the carpet.

  “You look great, Henrietta,” Jimmy interrupted. Mr December seemed to mean what he said; he had the same dull-witted grin on his face that he only wore for Marcia.

  Marcia snapped her attention towards him, and then shifted herself away from his arm, giving him a cold look.

  Marcia turned right back to Henrietta. “Seriously, who picked those clothes out for you?”

  “I did,” Brick stepped forward, “the shoes too,” he added.

  Marcia sat up straighter, narrowing her eyes, her shaped eyebrows descending, though only slightly considering how much Botox was locking them in place. “Excuse me? Since when have you been in a relationship?”

  Henrietta's lips became stiff, and she clenched them there, not wanting to move her mouth down or up, wanting to keep it still so she didn't do anything as pathetic as bursting into tears. Seriously, any strength Henrietta had felt swanning in here and getting appreciative glances for the first time in her life had burned up. Marcia had so much power over Henrietta.

  She felt sick.

  As if on cue, Patrick walked into the room carrying two drinks. He handed one to Henrietta, a friendly smile on his face. Then he sat down on the other couch opposite Marcia and Jimmy.

  It got Marcia's attention. She looked at Jimmy, then at Patrick, and finally at Brick. Her eyes narrowed even more, and she proceeded to give Brick a thorough looking over. From his scuffed boots to the ridiculous leather jacket, to the thick stubble. Then Marcia flicked her gaze over to Jimmy and Patrick.

  Henrietta knew what was happening here. It was always the same. Whenever Henrietta brought a new man into her life, whether it be a boyfriend, an acquaintance, or even a bloody plumber, Marcia would have her hands on the man within minutes. It was something deeply psychological, and maybe it was fueled from Marcia's own feelings of inadequacy, but it was also bloody irritating.

  Marcia straightened up, pulling down the little fabric that covered her bust and waste, and pushing her fat lips into a smile. “Are you going to introduce us?” She leaned forwards, the fabric of her tight skirt creaking as she brought up her hand, reaching it out to Brick.

  Brick did not take her hand. Neither did Brick flick his gaze towards her exposed knees or cleavage. Brick didn't start to blush at Marcia's smile, and he didn't get a dumb, schoolboy-like grin on his face. Brick looked like Brick.

  He looked at the hand as if he had no idea what to do with it.

  It was awkward, so Marcia let her hand drop, one eyebrow kinking instead. “Okay then, well,” she turned her gaze back to Henrietta, “who is your friend?”

  Henrietta felt like telling Marcia the truth. Brick was her witch hunter watcher, he'd found her, given her a magical hairpin, and now helped her to fight evil. But she held her tongue. Instead she tried not to laugh at the look of slight, but still pretty, confusion that crossed over Marcia's face at Brick's disinterest in her.

  “Well?” Marcia turned back to Henrietta, and her tone dropped, indicating her annoyance at Henrietta's prolonged silence.

  “Brick,” Brick answered.

  “Sorry?” Marcia looked confused again, and it was a very alluring confusion. She was twisting her shoulders to the side, giving her bust as much leverage as she could, and she was pouting, blinking, and flicking her head until her hair sat attractively around her shoulders. All up, it was an awkward mess of a move, and looked as uncomfortable as anything, but it was the kind of pose that would send a man to his knees.

  The problem was, Brick was still standing.

  “Brick,” Brick answered again.

  Henrietta had to bite her bottom lip not to start laughing. “That's his name...” she trailed off. Normal people were not called Brick. And Brick had gone to great pains to tell her that they must keep their cover. If they didn't keep their cover, then the witches might find out Henrietta's true identity. And if that happened... her house would be fire bombed in the middle of the night. So she quickly cleared her throat. “It's French,” she hastily added.

  This seemed to resolve Marcia's confusion, and it also piqued her interest. At the word French, she oozed into a puddle of seduction on the floor. Now she was leaning so far forward that every single person in the room could see down her top.

  “French,” Marcia said, “I see,” she added, in the kind of v
oice she probably hoped rang with sophistication.

  “Bonjour,” Patrick leaned in from the other couch, bringing his hand up to shake Brick's. Once again, Brick just looked at it.

  “My name is Brick,” Brick repeated, as if he was a broken record.

  Henrietta flinched. Brick did have a nasty habit of repeating himself, and she was starting to realize that he had zero social skills. It likely had something to do with the fact he had spent his entire life growing up in a warrior monastery.

  “He's just ensuring you pronounce it right,” Henrietta jumped in. “He's very particular about the pronunciation. You see, a lot of people get it wrong,” she lied on her feet, her heart beating in her ears as she did.

  Marcia nodded again, buying the farce. “So it's Breeek?” she said, trying to make his name sound as foreign as she could.

  Brick narrowed his eyes and looked at her askance, but before he could open his mouth and say the word Brick again, Henrietta began to laugh. She brought out her hand, and slapped it on Brick's back, hoping he got the picture. “That’s it, you've got it now, Marcia.”

  The move brought attention back to the bottle in Henrietta's hand. So she brought it out and offered it to Marcia.

  “What's this?” Marcia asked as she glanced at the bottle of wine.

  “It is a 350-year-old bottle of Chardonnay,” Brick jumped in.

  Both Jimmy and Patrick snorted, and Marcia rolled her eyes. “Of course it is. Henrietta, how many times have I told you not to play games with me?” Marcia snatched the bottle out of Henrietta's hands.

  “Games? Would you have preferred a pack of cards over a 350-year-old bottle of Chardonnay?” Brick asked. He did seem impervious to Marcia’s charms. He hadn't once leaned over and stared down her top, and neither did his eyes appear locked on her knees and thighs. In fact, he looked bored.

  Well there you go. There was a breed of man on Earth that could ignore Marcia Gosling. They happen to be magical warrior monks.

  “Can I have a look at that?” Patrick leaned forward and took the bottle from Marcia.

  “I can't believe you steamed the label off a bottle of Chardonnay and just replaced it with one you have made to look fake,” Marcia said, coming up with her own version of events to explain why the bottle looked so ancient.

  “Steamed off the label? The bottle is 350 years old,” Brick pointed out again, and his voice was terse. “The craftsmanship does not originate from this time, the style of bottle indicates it comes from a specific region of France, and the label cannot be faked. The ink used, though fading now, has specific traces of minerals that indicate its age. If you take it to a nearby laboratory, and find a suitably trained scientist, you can confirm this.”

  “Wow.” Patrick turned the bottle over and over in his hands. Patrick Black fancied himself as a bit of a wine connoisseur, and though Henrietta had never seen his house, Marcia had assured her he had a substantial cellar. Unlike Marcia, who liked fancy wine because it made her feel fancy, Patrick had grown up on a vineyard outside of the city, and wine was in his blood. He went to wine tasting events whenever he could, and he had an entire shelf of books devoted to the art.

  Right now his eyes were wide with shock. He leaned forward, cradling the bottle now. He looked right up at Brick. “Where did you get this?”

  “From France, 350—” Brick began.

  Henrietta slapped him on the back before he could finish his sentence. The wonderful warrior monk was probably about to say that he got the bottle 350 years ago from a tiny village in France. Because, in fact, that would be where Brick had gotten the bottle. But if they wanted to keep their cover, they couldn't run around perpetuating stories like that. And even if Brick had assured her that everyone would think they were crazy, she didn't like to run the risk. Plus, she didn't want her reputation to become any more tainted.

  “Brick... is rich,” it was all Henrietta could think of. It popped into her head, somewhat like the right spell always manifested before her mind when she was out fighting the witches. As with her spells, once she had said the words, she could not repeal them.

  Marcia got up now. She tugged down on her skirt and offered Brick the most dazzling of smiles. She offered her hand out to Brick again, but once again Brick ignored it.

  “And eccentric,” Henrietta added.

  “Really, what business are you in?” Marcia asked, her eyes sparkling, her hips shimmying and her shoulders leaning to the side. It got Jimmy and Patrick's attention, but Brick didn't even glance at her.

  “Old money, really old money,” Henrietta jumped in.

  She had no idea whether Brick was going to back her up on the fly; he was looking at her as if he had no idea what she was on about.

  Now Henrietta had started this game, she wasn't going to stop. She took an enormous breath. “He's very generous too. He bought me this dress and a bottle of wine for you, Marcia.” Henrietta gave a toothy grin.

  “And you managed to pull him,” Marcia gave up on offering her hand to Brick, and twisted her head to face Henrietta, her voice a whisper.

  “We are just friends,” Henrietta answered. Although she could put up with pretending that Brick was an eccentric rich Frenchman, she didn't want to add a relationship into the lie. Brick wasn’t the kind to pretend amorous affections with any one. Perhaps it was some code to do with being a warrior monk. Maybe they were all celibate, or perhaps his idea of a woman was somebody with a house full of shoes, and neither Marcia nor Henrietta were his type.

  “Friends,” Marcia's voice trilled on the word. “Well thank you so much for this bottle of wine.” She leaned down and grabbed it roughly from Patrick, clutching it to her chest, the fabric of her sequin-covered top grating into the label.

  Patrick winced at the move. “Marcia, that is a really expensive—”

  Marcia turned from him and went back to smiling at Brick. “And I find the fact you are from France,” she bit into her lips and batted her eyes, “so romantic.” She gave a shimmy as she finished her words.

  No matter what Marcia did, Brick didn't seem to care. “I am hungry, where is the food?” Brick turned his head from Marcia and surveyed the room.

  Henrietta brought her hand up and laughed into it. “The kitchen is through the hallway, to the left.”

  Brick turned and left the room. While it was hilarious to see him leave, without casting a single glance Marcia's way, Henrietta realized she was now alone with her sister. Well, alone in a room chock full of party guests, but the feeling stood.

  As soon as Brick was out of the room, Marcia turned on Henrietta. One of her perfect eyebrows arched up as far as she could push it. “Where did you meet him? Does he live here? What is he like?”

  “He is...” Henrietta began, but stopped. She wasn't going to tell the truth. She wasn't going to point out to Marcia that she’d met Brick when he’d stuffed a manila package behind the U-bend of the toilet in Sizzle Cafe, causing the door to catch fire. Nor was she going to tell her sister that Brick had moved into her house. As for what Brick liked, the answer was heels.

  So Henrietta shrugged her shoulders. “We only just met each other.”

  “Why on earth didn't you tell me about him?” Marcia fluffed out her hair. “If I’d known you were bringing someone like him along, I would have put a little more effort into my outfit.”

  Jimmy leaned forward, his beer sloshing. “You look great, honey.”

  Marcia ignored him.

  “Oh, it was really a last-minute thing. We weren't sure if we were going to make it tonight.” Henrietta clasped her hands and tried not to look too nervous. Every time she looked into her sister’s perfect blue eyes, she always felt like a fool.

  “I don't get it, how did you meet someone like him?” Marcia trilled on you and him. It was clear what she meant: it was inconceivable that Henrietta could pull somebody like Brick. While that was a humorous thought, considering who Brick was, it also hurt. In Marcia's eyes, Henrietta was nothing. Nobody. Just Marcia's li
ttle sister, the awkward young woman who couldn't do anything right.

  Henrietta’s expressions soured. She took several sharp steps back from Marcia. She didn't want to tear up and run out of the party crying. For one, Brick would find her and tell her in an outrageously loud voice so everyone could hear that warrior women don't cry; and two, she didn't want to make a scene in front of Jimmy and Patrick.

  “Lighten up, Marcia, just come and sit back down on the couch.” Jimmy patted the cushion by his side.

  “Why don’t we talk about something else?” Patrick tore his eyes off the bottle of wine.

  “What else could we possibly talk about? This town is so boring and dull, nothing ever happens here.” Marcia crossed her arms and flopped back on the couch.

  “Boring?” Jimmy took a sip from his beer, a strange smile twisting over his mouth.

  Patrick understood what it meant, and he gave a low laugh. “What about Stiletto Girl?”

  Patrick guffawed as Jimmy wolf whistled.

  Henrietta blushed.

  Marcia spun to them, flicking her head so fast that her beautiful blond hair fanned around her. “You mean that skank running around town dressed like an actress from a porn movie?”

  Henrietta spluttered.

  It was ironic for Marcia to accuse Stiletto Girl of being risqué, considering what scraps of fabric adorned Marcia’s wardrobe. Plus, Stiletto Girl wasn't skanky; she required a short skirt so she could run.

  ….

  Crap, had she just thought that? Not only had she referred to herself as Stiletto Girl, but she’d bought into Brick’s ridiculous excuse about her skirt.

  “Oh, come on, Marcia, you have to admit, she certainly has a little something,” Patrick grinned around every word, looking like a toothpaste salesman.

  “She doesn't have anything.” Marcia harrumphed. “How she thinks she can run around in those heels, and get away with a skirt that length, I have no idea.”

  Brick walked back into the room. “The boots are reinforced around the ankles, and with the correct poise and balance, it is quite easy to run in them.”

  “What he means is, by the look of the boots, they appear to be reinforced,” Henrietta jumped in. “Brick knows a lot about... leather and shoes.”

  “And as for the skirt, I think you will find that it is the right length for running and kicking,” Brick finished off.

  Both Jimmy and Patrick erupted into boyish laughter, as if they’d shared their first illicit magazine.

  Marcia stiffened. “I don't know what you are both laughing at. That woman must have very low self-esteem if she feels the need to run around town dressed like a hooker in a mask.”

  Wow, that was hypocritical. This coming from the lady who honest to god owned a g-string collection.

  Brick opened his mouth again.

  Henrietta doubled forward and slapped him on the back. Knowing Brick, he would probably point out to Marcia that her skirt, while short, was not the optimal length for action, and that her heels, while high, did not match her hair. Then he would point out her psychological faults and explain why they might lead her to form an inaccurate conclusion about Stiletto Girl.

  “What do you think about this then?” Marcia rounded on Henrietta.

  Everyone looked at her. Even Brick turned to face her.

  Her cheeks flushed with heat. “What do I think? About Stiletto Girl?”

  Before Henrietta could formulate a lie, Brick flicked his head to the side, frowned, then snapped over to Henrietta and locked an arm around her elbow.

  Marcia raised an eyebrow, the move so fast it was a surprise it didn’t flick off her face and land on the carpet.

  “I am sorry, Marcia Gosling, but I am bored of your party. We are going.” Brick tugged Henrietta backwards. “Enjoy the wine.”

  Brick pulled her around, and they headed for the door.

  “Brick, what are you doing?” she asked in a harsh whisper.

  “I have just received word: there are witches on the dock.”

  Henrietta stopped resisting and let Brick pull her towards the door.

  “Henrietta!” Marcia screamed from behind.

  “Sorry, Marcia,” Henrietta waved at her sister, “but I told you he was eccentric.” It was a terrible excuse, but it worked, because Marcia didn't run up to Henrietta and start tugging on her too.

  Before too long, both Brick and Henrietta were out of the house.

  “Right,” Brick looked to his left and right as they rushed down Marcia's path, “that went exactly as I expected it to. The information gathered by my warrior monk brethren was correct.”

  Really? It hadn't gone how Henrietta had expected it to. Firstly, Brick had been immune to Marcia's charms, and secondly, Henrietta had spun a bare-faced lie that Brick was a rich eccentric Frenchman. Now she would never hear the end of this. Marcia would be calling her 24/7, rushing around to her house on the off chance she could spy Brick.

  Damn.

  Her stomach sank.

  Brick kept tugging her along until they reached a dark section of road underneath some thick trees. He paused, checked the street, and nodded. “You can transform.”

  She tugged the hairpin from her bun, strands of hair brushing against her cheeks.

  “Do not be afraid,” Brick gave her the thumbs up sign, “no one will see you transform here.”

  It was dark, but she wasn't comfortable whipping off her clothes in a magical swirl of energy and transforming into her outrageous witch hunter costume out on the street. “I'm not going to transform here.” She dropped her hand, the hairpin resting against her leg.

  Brick sighed, grabbed her wrist, and tugged her along once more. They ran down another section of road until they reached a small park. It had large trees, and there were no houses around the sides.

  Henrietta felt comfortable enough to pick up her hairpin and write the words Witch Hunter.

  She transformed, the magic sparking and crackling over her form until her heels touched down on the grass.

  She patted her short skirt and gave a good tug on her jacket. She was ready.

  “Excellent.” Brick turned from her. He shifted his shoulders around, cracked his neck, then opened his jacket wide.

  She pressed up on her tippy toes, trying to see over his shoulder.

  He kept his back to her at all times. After a great deal of rummaging, he stood back.

  There was a sodding great Harley-Davidson motorbike sitting in front of him. It was big enough for three people.

  “Don't worry.” He threw himself on the motorbike, his jacket flaring around his hips and back. “I have my motorbike license.”

  She didn't say anything.

  She jumped on the back of the motorbike, locking her arms around his middle.

  He gunned the engine, and the bike roared out of the park, spewing a plume of exhaust in a thick cloud.

  They headed to the dock.