Sixpence & Whiskey

SIXPENCE & WHISKEY

By

HEATHER R. BLAIR

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Kindle Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

© 2016 Heather R. Blair

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Dedicated to the City of Duluth, for being my messed-up version of nirvana. Thanks for feeding my soul.  

.

Other works by this author:

Celtic Elementals

Smoke in Moonlight

Blood In Fire

Phoenix Inc.

Phoenix Rising

Phoenix Fallen

Phoenix Broken

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye.

Four and twenty blackbirds,

Baked in a pie.

1

I’m
a witch.

Three little words and
boom
—you’ve got a stereotypical image of me in your head, doncha? Which way do you lean,
Hocus Pocus
or
The Craft
?

Doesn’t really matter ‘cause both are wrong. I’m blond with a streak of candy-floss pink, under 30, fiercely cute and curvy. I look like the least badass person you ever met. Hell, I even wear glasses, which believe me, I need.

Looks can be deceiving.

You’ve heard that nugget before, but someone should clue in the wendigo on my badonkadonk. He’s locked on like an ugly missile, chasing me through the leaves skittering along the streets in downtown Duluth.

He probably thinks he’s scary; with his pale skin, black eyes and big teeth, but then he’s never seen me in a temper.

He’s about to.

I run across Michigan Street, ducking around the Depot; a train station/art museum (I’ve never gotten the combo either, but it’s Duluth. Just roll with it.) I think the Historical Society operates out of there, too. It’s an old building anyway, topped with what looks like a couple of giant gnome hats.

Apt.

Supernaturally speaking, Duluth
was
founded by gnomes. Devilish little creatures. This city is full of them. Some worse than others.

I whirl to check that the nasty version of Marilyn Manson is still nipping at my heels before taking off through the train yard as night begins to fall for real. I’m starting to shiver. Not because it’s cold. Not by Duluth standards. It’s probably somewhere in the mid-thirties, but without a lake wind to juice things up, the air has no bite. Perfectly acceptable early November weather.

Nope, my shivering is all about anticipation. Wendigos are good eating.

Don’t give me that look. I’m a witch, not a vampire or a zombie. ‘Course if you talk to some people, we’re worse.

Just because we eat souls. Not as a general rule or anything, just when the situation calls for it. I’ve never gotten the prejudice. In my neck of the woods, no one has much of a problem taking their enemies’ lives, so why not their souls, too?

Waste not, want not.

‘Ol Marilyn is coming in fast now. He’s been thinking to toy with me, waiting for the dark to settle around us before closing in. Not that the few humans around would—or could—interfere. Human eyes only see what they want to see, and security cameras are useless on the likes of my stalker. Wendigos are insanely fast—like the Flash on some Heisenberg-grade blue meth fast.

I may not be the baddest witch around, but I could still freeze Marilyn here with a thought. Innate magic is handy like that. All witches are born with innate magic, no casting needed, pure defense. But using that would delay my fun. Instead, I suppress it—and let him come right up to my face.

I even let out a scream that would do Jamie Lee Curtis proud. You know, just to make him feel like he’s doing a good job. He buys it, too, grinning at me, showing every one of those nasty-ass Wendigo teeth—rows and rows of serrated dirty icicles.

He’s still grinning when I rip out his soul. My fingers dip into his chest, pull out the glistening strands that tether it to his body and snap them one by one. He falls to his knees, looking up at the ball of light in my hand, those big dark eyes going dim.

Call me cruel, but I love this. Besides, if hadn’t been me this beastie latched on to, it would’ve been some poor, defenseless mortal. Keeping my town (relatively) safe is one of the few things I take seriously. Not to mention soul magic is heady stuff, some of the scariest a witch can wield. Not that it’s technically ‘magic’, not like casting. Nope, it’s more along the lines of a supernatural talent, one all witches are born with.

Most of us just store soul magic, like a battery to fuel later spells, since in its raw form, its reliability is entirely too dependent on the personality of the creature the soul came from. Not that wendigos have much in the way of personality. It’s basically,
kill, kill, kill—24/7
.

That’s why I don’t feel bad when he keels over between the railroad ties. Harvesting souls isn’t for the faint of heart. Everyone has souls, even vampires and zombies. Though I don’t recommend sampling either. Seriously, vampires taste like shoe leather and zombies—

Yeah, ick.

I’m chowing down when company shows up.

I smell him before I see him. And I don’t fucking believe it.

Pinecones, smoke and leather. I let out a hiss as the familiar scent hits my nose. He’s been gone for years and he should’ve stayed gone. Energy billows from my mouth in flames of golden mist as I turn my head, looking for the source. Half hoping, half dreading.

“This is why it’s so important to really
chew
your food, Seph.”

“Don’t you quote
The Iron Giant
to me, asswipe.” I still haven’t forgiven Jack for ruining my love of that movie. It’s hardly the only thing this man ruined for me. He appears out of the shadows like a wraith; hands in his pockets, watching me with a grimly amused look on his face. I’m not sure whether to scream, attack, or both. But part of me wants to run straight into his arms.

The stupid part.

Gravel crunches under his boot heels as he crouches down in front of me. His fitted leather jacket is pushed up over lean, veined forearms crawling with tattoos I can just make out in the thickening darkness. Under his clothes they extend up both arms and lick over his shoulders and chest. I know because I’ve traced every last one with my fingertips and my mouth. Remembering the taste of his skin makes me swallow. Hard.

Don’t let those icy grey-green eyes, that thick chestnut hair (yes, it is as silky as it looks, damn him) or that hard, rangy body fool you. He’s a first-class asshole.

I eye him as I wipe my lips.

“What do you want, Jack?” Before he can reply, I cock my finger, unleashing a bit of the power I’ve just gained. A jet of eye-searing white lightning zigzags for his head. Without taking his eyes off me, Jack holds up a hand suddenly covered in ice and deflects it into the sky. The smell of ozone dances around us.

“Nice try, princess.” He’s always called me that. I’ve no idea why. I used to think it was sweet. Now it just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. But his voice gives me goose bumps. It always has. Low and deep, with just a hint of a rasp. Like good strong whiskey.

I glare at him and get to my feet. The wendigo is disintegrating, but neither of us give the swirling pile of ash a second look.

A smile curves those perfect lips. “Don’t you want to know why I’m back?”

“No.” Pissed that he’s killed what should’ve been an awesome buzz, and—despite what I said—curious as hell why he’s back, I give him the finger and turn to walk away.

“Haven’t you learned yet?
Never
turn your back on me, princess.” He’s behind me faster than thought.

Jack’s not a mere thought, though. Not a memory or a dream.
Not this time.
He has substance and weight and form. And what a fucking form it is.

I can’t help it, for an instant, I just savor the feel of him. Strong and warm, and so very familiar, even after all these years.
God, it’s been so long.

Those arms make me feel safe.
He’s always made me feel safe. And it’s still a goddamn lie. There is nothing about Jack Frost that is safe.

This is the bastard that dumped me the same night he took my virginity.

Well, to be fair it wasn’t exactly the night
of
. Nearly dawn the day after is more accurate. Jack did wake me up before he left. He looked me right in the eye when he told me he’d gotten what he wanted and that we were done. No excuses, no prettying it up. The real Jack in all his bastard glory—the Jack I hadn’t met yet. Not until that moment.

The Jack that had seduced me—the one that’d endured my love for sweet cartoon movies and slasher flicks, the one that gave me my first motorcycle ride and my first real kiss—the kiss that made me understand that silly word
swoon
—well, that guy had vanished. Never to be heard from again.

I sat there, in his bed, his sheets wrapped around my naked body, the feel of him still inside me while Jack told me he was going out, and that he expected me to be gone when he got back. Then he left.

I still remember the sound of the door closing.

I was seventeen.

Oh, put away the handcuffs. I’m certainly not one for cutting Jack any slack, but I wasn’t jail bait, not in our world. We’re considered legal at seventeen. Fairy tale creatures, or FTCs as I like to call us, give new meaning to the term ‘growing up fast.’

In every way.

In the here and now, approaching nine years after that memorable morning, I try to break his hold, but his arms are like frozen steel. “Goddamn it, Jack, let me go.”

“I can’t, Seph. There’s somewhere you’ve got to be.” Belatedly, I realize my limbs are going to sleep. I’m getting cold and very sleepy.

The son of a bitch is using his mojo on me.

I reach for a can of my own metaphorical whoop ass, even though I know it won’t do any good. My eyelids are already drifting closed.

His lips brush my ear right before the night winks out. “I’m sorry, princess.”

My second-to-last thought is,
Wow, Jack’s never apologized before
.

And my last one is,
Shit, this can’t be good
.

2

“Rise
and shine, princess.”

Weird lights flicker over my face. Yellow and dappled against the night. Then there’s a smell. Thick, coating the back of my throat. Iron with a hint of rot. I know that smell. Water is lapping somewhere very close; agitated murmurs growing loud, soft, then loud again.

I blink and orientate myself. The harbor. But somehow we’ve shifted to the wrong side while I was out. We were in Duluth, Minnesota, now we’re in Superior, Wisconsin.

They don’t call this the Twin Ports for nothing.

Two bridges connect the cities, the Blatnik and the Bong, named for a politician and a war hero, respectively. Due to size, the former is called the high bridge, and the latter is called the low bridge. It’s a running local joke that the names are backward. Give it a second and it’ll come to you.

The harbor is lined with shipping docks, and loading facilities for various things; mostly grain and taconite. It’s an area I’ve only seen from the high bridge where it looked kind of small and boring.

Laying on the ground next to the towering structure soaring far above my head, it’s no longer boring, I’ll say that much. Only I won’t be saying it literally, as I can’t seem to actually
talk
. I can’t move my head from its locked position staring straight up at the imposing curve of concrete above me. Jack moves into my line of sight, his handsome face blurred since I’m near-sighted and my glasses are threatening to slide off the tip of my nose.

He leans over to push them back into place and his features come into sharp focus. I wish his motivations would follow suit, but that face gives away nothing.

“It’ll take a second, Seph. My magic always hits you hard.”

Of course it does. He planned it that way.

See, taking my virginity wasn’t just some random act of assholery on Jack’s part. Jack Frost made damn sure I’d be susceptible to him—for the rest of my life. Blood and sacrifice and purity are just as important in the arcane as all the stories say. And he got all three from me in one fell swoop.

Clever, treacherous man.

I hate him.

Well, I do
try
.

When I can move, Jack extends a hand and I accept it grudgingly. It’s startlingly warm against the chill of the night. He pulls me to my feet with a smoothness that makes me stagger. Automatically, his hand goes to the small of my back to steady me. When his fingers slip under my hoodie and brush bare skin, we both flinch.

There is a cough from somewhere close by. Jack drops his hand, his jaw tight.

I realize we’re not alone. The familiar silhouette at the corner of my vision has me seeing red.
No way.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Jack. You really are a rat bastard, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never pretended to be anything else, princess.”

“Now, we both know that’s a fucking lie.” Is it my imagination or does he flinch again? Doesn’t matter, the big man who up until now was watching us both from the shadows with a restless, somewhat petulant expression cuts in.

“Forgive me for interrupting this fascinating exchange, but Persephone and I need to be going.” His voice is rough and growly. Like he isn’t quite used to making human sounds. Which makes sense, since Georg Kivistö is the King of the Bears.

Georg has been after me since we were teenagers. He was never happy Jack got there first, but he’s been trying to make up for it ever since. I go out with the big, blond beast now and then. Or I did. What can I say? Georg is a freaking blast.

But I had to put a stop to that last year, when he got his crown. See, a king needs a mate, particularly in the shifter world. Guess who thinks I’d make a swell one?

He’s a good enough guy, or at least I thought he was. But come on—Queen of the Bears? So
not
me.

Turns out Georg doesn’t much like no for an answer.

He’s been trying to body press me into wedded bliss ever since. Consent is kind of a moot point to bears. Not to say that Georg would actually
hurt
me. It’s just in his world, kidnapping a potential bride isn’t an episode of
Criminal Minds
waiting to happen, it’s a way of life. It’s a bit sick and a lot archaic, but that’s shifters for you.

Thankfully, my magic threw a big ol’ wrench into his plans. I may be the lightweight of the Gosse sisters, but I’m no pushover. I scalded his ass last time he tried to drag me back to his man cave; aka the Den, the bears’ massive compound over on the South Shore. I thought he’d taken the hint, but I should’ve known better. Georg only got crafty and hired out his dirty work. To the only man who could bring me in without getting a scratch.

I watch him toss Jack a small bag that tinkles brightly, not that I give a damn how much I was sold out for. A corner of that seductive mouth curves up as Jack catches me looking.
Bastard.

He keeps his eyes on me, but addresses Georg.

“It will take most of the night for her magic to unthaw, Kivistö. I suggest you make sure she’s contained by then. Preferably someplace warm. I gave her quite a chill.”

“Don’t worry, Frost. She’ll warm up just fine. She always does for me, don’t you, babe?” He grabs my hips and yanks me back into him, tucking his bearded chin into my neck. Georg is an aggressive sort, but I can’t help but feel he’s ramping things up to needle Jack. He should know that’s a lost cause. Jack Frost doesn’t give a damn about me. He just examines the bag in his hand, ignoring Georg’s antics.

I elbow the bruin in his rock-hard gut and roll my eyes, but I’m getting scared.

Georg means to make me his, and he’s a persuasive guy. Without my magic, I stand about as much chance of getting away from him as a little pink piggy does the big bad wolf. Or in this case, the big bad grizzly.

Jack’s face is expressionless when he deigns to look up again. He shrugs, that icy gaze avoiding mine this time. “None of my concern, Kivistö. Just thinking you wouldn’t want your new bride getting sick. Might put a damper on the honeymoon.”

“Nothing’s gonna do that,” Georg sneers, but yanks his coat off at once, wrapping it around my shoulders. Warmth swallows me whole, but can’t touch the ice inside of me. Jack turns to go, throwing a careless wave over one shoulder.

“Mazel tov, Seph.”

He doesn’t look back. Why do I expect him to?

Fuck him.

I stare until he’s out of sight anyway, shivering uncontrollably.

Georg slides an arm around my middle, under the coat. I glare up at him even though the extra heat is welcome. He’s a seriously yummy guy, Georg. Longish golden-brown hair that curls at the ends, and a body that usually has my toes curling, but those big brown eyes can’t butter me up this time. He’s gone too far.

Bears aren’t big on ceremonies, besides getting me back to his domain and saying the words, there is only one thing Georg has to do to make this official.

Those eyes soften for just a moment. “Don’t be scared, Seph. This is for your own good.”

“Are you completely psycho, fur brain? I haven’t fucked you yet. And you think I’m gonna start under duress?”

I’ve never actually screwed Georg. We’ve come close, sure, but…. I come
close
with a lot of guys. And I do mean a lot
.
But I decided long ago being the original prick tease is the only way to go. Meaning I never go all the way. Meaning Jack is the only one who actually went there.

I try not to make too much of that.

It’s just—after what happened with him—I made rules. Lots of rules.

“You know I’ll win you over, Seph.” That growly voice is full of a casual arrogance that only pisses me off more, mostly because there’s a decent chance he’s right. Georg and I go way back—almost to the cradle. We have a history, and before this last year most of it was good history.

Well, except a few memorable nights drenched in tequila.
Ugh.
Tequila. Bruins love the stuff for some damn reason, they swill it like water, but I’m not a fan. Tequila’s my alcohol kryptonite.

Georg always convinces me to give it another go, though—mostly because he finds the consequences a lot funnier than I do. Usually, he’s a riot. Not so much right now.

“Dream on!” I snap, wriggling in his arms, until I realize he’s laughing at me.

“I do, Seph. A lot. And we’ll see what you have to say when we’re back at the Den and I’ve got these pretty thighs wrapped around my head. You like my mouth, Sephie, you like it a lot.” His growl in my ear makes me punch his arm.

Georg only laughs and nibbles my neck. The shivers that usually make an appearance about now are conspicuously absent. My eyes dart back to the point where Jack vanished.

Georg
is
a damn good lover, what I’ve had of him anyway. And he’s right, I really
do
like his mouth, but if he thinks this shotgun wedding shit is going to fly, he’s—

“That’s my baby sister you’re molesting there, bruin.”