WILLEM (The Witches of Wimberley Book 1) (5 page)

That fantasy dissolved when she said, “Mr. Draiocht?”

I jerked my gaze from her chest to her eyes and said, “Yes. That’s me.”

She smiled, sat down, took the paperclip off the stack of pages she’d brought with her and began leafing through them. She glanced at me a couple of times as she was scanning, eyes moving fast, but kept her eyes to the paper when she asked her first question.

“I see you’ve been seeking work as an actor.”

I cleared my throat and sat up a little straighter. “That’s right. Seeking being the operative word.”

“No luck?” Keeping her head down in reading position, she looked up at me from under her eyelashes.

I gave her my best smile, hoping to look like I didn’t care. “No,” I shook my head.

She nodded. “If you’re not admitted to Orientation tonight, what’s your plan?”

The guy on the phone told me I couldn’t prepare, and I wasn’t prepared for that question. So I stalled.

“I didn’t get your name?”

She gave me a smile that broadcast that I’d been caught stalling. “Ms. Blackwell.”

“I’ve been moving in one direction for ten years and only decided yesterday that I’m done. I haven’t really had time to contemplate what’s next.”

“I like honest answers. Actors have a tendency to improvise on the spot. It’s always easiest on everybody to just tell the truth.”

“Well, I’m glad you feel that way because,
honestly
, I don’t know why I’m here.”

She graced me with the same brilliant smile I’d been given when she entered. I’d call it the first-impression smile. “I’m sure you think that’s unusual, but it’s far more common than not. We don’t recruit, you see. We simply let the right people find us.”

I nodded as if I’d just absorbed something profound, even though I knew nothing more than I had prior to stating that I didn’t know why I was there.

“Would you like something to drink while we’re finishing up?”

“No. Thank you. I’m fine.”

“Very well. I see here that you’re from Alabama, but your speech doesn’t give any hint of that.”

I shrugged. “I’ve spent the last ten years and a truckload of money working on getting rid of any hint of that.”

“Well, it worked. If I wasn’t reading your file, I would have guessed Illinois.”

“Yeah, well, speaking of that file…”

“You’ve made it as far as the foyer office, Mr. Draiocht. Trust me, that’s a little bit of an accomplishment all in itself. It’s not a guarantee of admission to the Orientation, but only a handful of young men in the area get this far.”

My lips parted, ready to give voice to the appropriate response, whenever it came to mind. Unfortunately that response never gelled in my head. She went on.

“What do you like to do with your free time?”

That was easy and the answer wasn’t especially incriminating so I didn’t hesitate. “Read.”

“Hmmm. What do you like to read?”

“Non-fiction.”

She set the papers down and focused a laser-intensive look on my face that made me want to squirm in my chair.

“Are you being evasive?”

“Not at all. Most people are either not really interested in what I read or don’t know what it is when I tell them.”

Her smile and affable manner was gone. She was all business. “I’m not
most
people, Mr. Draiocht.”

Of course I’d already known that, but the way she said ‘
most
people’ made it sound like that was the worst thing someone could be.

“No offense intended. I read books about mythology and all kinds of metaphysical theory. Sometimes paranormal research catches my eye.”

Her assessing manner remained firm, but a small smile reappeared. “So you’re still interested in the subjects you studied in school.”

“Yes.”

“If you had no worries, unlimited resources, and lots of free time, is that what you would do with your life? Read?”

“Unlimited resources and lots of free time?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds like one of those ‘what if a genie offered you three wishes’ questions. I’ve never indulged in
that
kind of fantasy before.”

“You strike me as the sort who can process quickly.”

It was clear she was waiting for an answer and just as clear that, if I wanted to move on in the process, I needed to give one.

“Yes. I would like to delve into things I’ve never had time to study.”

“See. That wasn’t so hard.”

“Maybe not for someone who hasn’t read a lot about wish-givers and how much trouble the wish-maker can make for themselves by giving the wrong answer.”

She laughed out loud. “I’m not a genie and it wasn’t a trick question.”

“If you say so.”

She nodded and sat back, studying me as if she could penetrate my mind and read my thoughts if she concentrated hard enough.

“Very well, Mr. Draiocht. I’m going to pass you on to Orientation. There will be a brief video presentation during dinner.” When she stood, I stood. She walked around the desk and extended her hand. I took it. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re in. And best of luck.”

“Thank you.”

With no idea what I was thanking her for, I decided that video and dinner sounded okay so, at that point, there was no reason to not see the thing through.

Following my inquisitor out the door I was again intercepted by Lurch. “This way, Mr. Draiocht.”

At that point I’d been addressed formally so many times that I was beginning to think I might get used to being called Mr. Draiocht.

He led me down the grand hallway, which was twelve feet wide and lined with art that looked both medieval and expensive. Lots of depictions of banquets and bacchanalia. The collector was clearly fond of food and wine. Possibly sex as well.

Stopping before another set of French doors, Lurch turned to me and gestured toward a room with no windows, but lots of ambiance including gas-lit wall sconces. “This way, Mr. Draiocht. Sit anywhere you like. Anywhere that’s available, that is.”

Nodding toward him, I took in the room. The ceiling was coffered. The walls were lined with polished blocked rosewood. The wood floor was wide distressed planks mostly hidden by a luxuriously thick and intricately designed carpet in tones of sage and red, more Venetian than Oriental. The art featured curling branches with delicate leaves and would have been worth a longer look if not for the fact that I was taking in the rest of the setup.

The table was arranged in a u-shape and set for five people with the most elegant linen, table, and glassware I’d ever seen. My mother would have gone nuts. No doubt about it. I was tempted to take out my phone, grab a photo and send it to her, but concluded that behavior might disqualify me for whatever I was competing for. If that statement sounds ridiculous to you, it’s not just you. I think it’s ridiculous, too. It’s also the real reason why I didn’t do it; because she would ask me where I was and what I was doing. Then what would I say?

I might also have to explain the four other guys standing around holding crystal brandy or whiskey tumblers, looking sexy and elegant enough for a Ralph Lauren ad. A little roughing up and anyone of them would be hired by Guess or Abercrombie in a heartbeat.

Yes. I noticed they had cover-model looks. When guys say they don’t evaluate the way other guys look, they’re lying pure and simple. Knowing somebody is pretty doesn’t mean you want to fuck ‘em.

So my eyes scanned the guys who seemed to be chatting amiably in a loose huddle. Their posture was a study in relaxed posing, the old one-hand-in-pocket sort of thing. They returned the favor and gave me a thorough look-over. I wouldn’t say I read forthright hostility on their faces, but they didn’t seem eager to welcome the new kid in town.

Movement caught my eye and I turned in time to see the back wall open where I hadn’t noticed there was a door before. Someone dressed like a waiter came toward me with a smile. “Would you care for an aperitif, Mr. Draiocht?”

“Sure,” I said. “What ya’ got?”

He smiled at my deliberately casual answer. “Let’s just say it would be hard for you to name something we don’t have.”

I laughed at that. I wasn’t a bartender for nothing. “A Commonwealth?”

The waiter raised an eyebrow but smiled in a self-satisfied way. “No problem.”

“No problem?” I asked with a good dose of incredulity. “How about a Rum Martinez?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Your choice,” he said, “although I would recommend the Commonwealth before dinner and the Rum Martinez after.”

“Hmm. What’s your name?”

The man looked like no one had ever asked and for a moment I thought he’d been struck dumb. He looked as if he was debating whether or not to give it. “Bartolo, sir.”

“Bar
tolo?” I laughed. “A perfect name for a master of the bar.” He grinned. “Well, Bartolo, your advice is well-received. I will try your Commonwealth before dinner and look forward to a Rum Martinez after.”

“Very good, Mr. Draiocht.” With a small nod, he disappeared behind a chunk of blocked paneling that, apparently, swung in and out seamlessly. Nice.

I walked over to the four other diners, who had stopped talking to each other. “So do you think the room has audio or video surveillance or both?” I asked the group at large.

The four of them immediately began looking around nervously, searching for signs of technology, as if it hadn’t occurred to them that they were being observed. And maybe it hadn’t.

“Just kidding,” I said. “Name’s Will.”

The guy nearest me stuck out his hand and I shook it. “I’m Harper,” he said. “You really think they’ve been recording everything we’ve said?” He had the look of a blue blood descendant who’d been raised on a Malibu surfboard without a care in the world. He was tan, with blond highlights that didn’t look salon-generated, and hair that was unapologetically over-the-collar. He was wearing a soft mauve crew neck tee over slacks with a lightweight sports coat. If he showed up at my bar looking like that, he’d have fifty women wanting to pay good money for a night.

I smiled and shrugged before letting my eyes move on. Robert looked like he’d spent the day on the top floor of a Fortune 500 company. Expensive suit, raw silk tie, definitely no hair touching his collar. His hair barely dared to touch his head.

Charlie was handsome, but he was also a mean-looking son-of-a-gun, whose persona was completely out of step with his fashion sense. He wore pleated khaki pants with crisp ironed seams, a pink button-down with a maroon tie, and flip flops.

Last was Ivan. Ivan was tall, lean, tan, and had a smile kissed by bleach. He wore newish-looking jeans under a coat and tie. On impulse I asked, “What do you do for a living, Ivan?”

“Tennis pro. Bellaire.”

“Sweet,” I said.

I couldn’t imagine how this guy thought life was going to treat him better than that, but I supposed he had his reasons for being there just like the rest of us.

“How about you?” he asked.

“Bartender.”

“Oh.” He smiled. “So that’s what that was about with the drinks.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thought I might as well have some fun with this. Although I don’t really know what
this
is.” I chuckled, but as I did I saw the others exchange glances. “Oh. So I’m the only one? You all know what you’re doing here.”

Harper opened his mouth to say something, but I’ll never know what it was going to be because Bartolo whisked in.

“Please take your seats, gentlemen. Dinner is about to be served.”

Robert and Charlie headed straight for the chairs on the end. Harper and Ivan took seats next to them. That left me in the middle, at the top of the horseshoe curve, furthest from the screen. But it’s not like I cared. I mean it wasn’t like musical chairs where the last person doesn’t get a seat at the table.