Witchdependence Day: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Shorts Book 8) (9 page)

I considered calling Landon, fingering my phone in my pocket, but ultimately decided to search on my own. For some reason – and I had no idea why – my inner danger alarm wasn’t flashing. All I could think was that someone was in trouble and needed help.

That’s exactly what I intended to do.

T
he blood trail was light
, and I lost it in the underbrush behind the stable pretty quickly. I considered my options, but ultimately decided searching on my own was the best way to go.

I approached my task pragmatically, mentally squaring off the property into grids, and searched any spot capable of hiding a grown man. After forty minutes I was tired … and frustrated … but I refused to give up.

That’s when I caught a hint of movement in a small gathering of trees about fifty yards away. I narrowed my eyes as I studied the location, not realizing I was holding my breath until the need for oxygen overwhelmed me. I exhaled heavily, and that’s when I saw the movement a second time.

I approached the area carefully, giving the spot where I saw the activity a wide berth until I could ascertain what I was dealing with. I rounded to the opposite side of the , frowning when I realized what I saw.

The man resting on the ground, his back to one of the trees, looked as if he was in rough shape. He was tall, his long legs splayed out in front of him, and his clothing looked tattered and ragged as he clutched a familiar blanket – I recognized it from the guesthouse – to his chest. His face was drawn, his features waxen and unbelievably pale. He had a grizzled look about him, a salt-and-pepper beard covering the lower portion of his face.

I cleared my throat to get his attention, and he jolted when he realized he wasn’t alone. He moved to get up – probably to run – but he grimaced instead and fell back against the tree. He gripped his side, where I saw blood soaking through his clothing.

“I’m here to help you,” I said, holding up my hands so he wouldn’t mistake me for a threat. “My name is Marcus Richmond. You look as if you need medical help. I’m going to call someone.”

“Don’t do that,” the man rasped, his eyes furtive as they glanced toward the field. If he tried running he wouldn’t get far. He probably knew that, and didn’t attempt to rise again. “Please, don’t do that.”

“Okay,” I said, licking my lips. I wasn’t ruling out calling for help, but I wanted to talk to him first. If I could get him to agree with my suggestion, things would be easier. “What’s your name?”

“Dutch Jenkins.”

“Hello, Dutch,” I said, hunkering lower so I could have an easier sightline to his injury. “Were you hurt?”

“I fell,” Dutch gritted out, his breathing labored. “It happened four days ago. I didn’t think much of it. I was sleeping in your stable and I rolled off that bed you have in your office and I fell on the toolbox. I cut my side. It wasn’t bad, though, so I ignored it. A day later I started feeling really sick. It’s gotten progressively worse.”

I pictured the toolbox in my head. “That thing is old and rusted,” I said. “It used to belong to my grandfather. I’ve been meaning to throw it out, but … it somehow felt disrespectful.”

Dutch barked out a laugh, the sound hollow. “You have respect for your elders. That’s nice to see in a man your age.”

“I believe in having respect for everyone,” I said. “Some people lose that respect, don’t get me wrong, but in general I like to think of myself as respectful.”

“You are. Don’t worry about that. I’ve been watching you for days.”

“Have you been sleeping in the stable every night?” I asked, carefully lowering myself to the ground so I could get more comfortable. “Are you homeless?”

“I never really considered myself homeless,” Dutch clarified. “I’m more … nomadic … by nature.”

“Is that by choice or necessity?”

Dutch shrugged. “It’s not a choice.”

“Okay,” I said, confused about how to handle the situation. “Are you from around here? Did you grow up in Walkerville?”

“I’m from Traverse City,” Dutch replied. “I grew up there and I spent two years living in the veterans hospital before they shut it down a month ago. I had nowhere else to go … and I was just kind of wandering around the city … but they kept threatening to arrest me for loitering so I left.”

The declaration made me inexplicably sad. If he was a veteran, that meant he served our country. Now he was homeless and treated with disdain. “Dutch, you should’ve asked for help,” I said. “This town is full of warm people. I know quite a few of them who would’ve liked to help you.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, boy, but I don’t know you and I have trouble believing anyone would help a stranger out of the goodness of their heart.”

“Then you don’t know the same people I do,” I said. “I know some very helpful people. I would like to call one of them now so we can get you checked out at the hospital. That wound looks bad … and I think you’re very sick.”

“I’m definitely sick,” Dutch acknowledged. “I think I’m dying. I don’t have money for a hospital, though. This is a nice spot. I can die here. I even got some fresh bread for the end of my run.”

I glanced at the bread pan next to him. He’d been digging in and eating with his fingers. “I know the woman who made that bread,” I said. “She would like to help you, too.”

“I stole it,” Dutch said. “I’m a thief. She wouldn’t help me.”

“You might be surprised,” I countered. “Although, to be fair, you should’ve waited until the pie contest was over before stealing the pie.”

“That was good,” Dutch said, grinning weakly. I had no idea how he managed to traipse all over town in his condition. “That was the best pie I’ve ever eaten. She should’ve won an award or something.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear that,” I said. “You should be around to tell her, though. I need to call for help, Dutch. We had your blood tested when we found it in the loft. You have blood poisoning. If it’s left untreated … well … you’re definitely going to die.”

I didn’t want to scare the man, but I needed him to see the bigger picture.

“Maybe it’s my time,” Dutch suggested. “There’s no one here left to mourn me. I’ll go to sleep looking out at this field and … move on.”

“You don’t have any family?”

“I have family,” Dutch answered. “They cut ties with me long ago. The doctors at the hospital said I had that PTSD thing. They tried to help me – and I was getting better – but then the bottom dropped out.

“I drank to numb myself for too many years,” he continued. “I lost my family because of it. No one will miss me. Don’t fret, boy. There’s nothing you can do to help.”

I didn’t believe that for a second, and I refused to let Dutch die without at least trying to save him. “I have to call for an ambulance,” I said. “You need help.”

“They’ll arrest me,” Dutch argued. “I’ll go to jail for stealing the pie and bread. I’ll go to jail for breaking into your stable.”

“I won’t press charges,” I promised. “The woman who made the pie and bread won’t either. We can help you.”

“And what about the woman at the unicorn store?” Dutch pressed. “I stole from her shop, too. She had candy and I was hungry.”

Crap. Margaret Little owned the porcelain unicorn shop. She wouldn’t be nearly as forgiving as Winnie. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said. “You need help, though. I won’t just sit here and watch you die.”

“I’m not spending my last days in jail,” Dutch said. “No hospitals.”

“But … .” His defiance irked me, but somehow I understood his pain. No one saw him. No one took the time to look for him. He was a forgotten man … and he was running out of time. Then something occurred to me. “What if I could get you help without taking you to a hospital?”

Dutch lifted an eyebrow. “And how are you going to do that?”

“You’re going to have to trust me,” I cautioned. “I need to take you back to the stable and get you comfortable, but I’m pretty sure I know someone who can help.”

“Do you happen to hang out with angels, boy?”

“Not angels, but I do know a fair number of witches. The head witch can fix this. I know it.”

“
W
HAT’S
the big emergency
?”

Aunt Tillie breezed into my office, an annoyed look on her face. Her demeanor shifted the moment she saw Dutch.

“He needs help,” I said, fluffing the pillow under his head. “Do something.”

“You must be the creeper,” Aunt Tillie said, moving closer. “What’s your story?”

“This is Dutch Jenkins. He was at the veterans hospital in Traverse City until they shut it down,” I explained. “He’s been stealing food to stay alive. He fell and cut himself when he was sleeping in the office. Now fix him.”

“I need to look at your wound,” Aunt Tillie said, leaning over and reaching for Dutch’s shirt. “Just for the record, if you hit me or bite … I bite back.”

“I like her,” Dutch said, chuckling as he leaned back to stare at the ceiling. “I’m warning you. It looks awful.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen worse,” Aunt Tillie said, moving the fabric and making a disgusted face. “It’s infected.”

“Oh, well, thanks. We couldn’t have figured that out on our own,” I deadpanned, irritation washing over me.

Aunt Tillie widened her eyes, surprised. I rarely yelled or snapped at her. That’s one of the reasons we get along so well. “Calm down, Marcus,” she comforted. “It’s going to be okay.”

“He says he’s dying.”

Aunt Tillie shifted her eyes to Dutch, her expression thoughtful. “Do you really think you’re dying?”

Dutch nodded. “It’s only a matter of time. I don’t expect you to help.”

“Why haven’t you called an ambulance?” Aunt Tillie asked. “Doctors might still be able to help him.”

“No doctors,” Dutch barked, grimacing. “God, that hurts something fierce.”

“He’s afraid of being arrested,” I supplied. “He doesn’t want to go to jail.”

“We’re not going to press charges,” Aunt Tillie countered. “He won’t go to jail.”

“He stole from Mrs. Little, too.”

“Oh, well, that woman is evil,” Aunt Tillie said. “She’ll press charges. We’ll deal with her once we get Dutch here on his feet. I’m going to need some supplies, though.”

“I figured,” I said. “What do you need? I’ll get it.”

“I’m also going to need help,” Aunt Tillie said. “He’s very sick. I need a … power boost … for what I have planned.”

“A power boost?” Dutch looked alarmed. “You’re not going to cut my stomach out, are you?”

“Hardly,” Aunt Tillie scoffed. “That’s not the sort of power I need.”

I understood what she was getting at. “Which ones do you want?”

“Get me the three young ones,” Aunt Tillie replied. “They’re easy to boss around. Clove should have the supplies I need at the shop. I’ll get you a list.”

“He doesn’t have much time,” I said. “I … don’t know how I know that, but I can feel it.”

“I feel it, too,” Aunt Tillie said. “That’s why you need to hurry. Get the girls and my supplies. Don’t dawdle. While you’re gone, I’ll keep Dutch company. He’s going to enjoy my stories.”

“I’m already looking forward to it,” Dutch said, pressing his eyes shut. He looked as if he could slip away at any moment.

“Hurry, Marcus,” Aunt Tillie prodded. “We need to do this now!”

“
A
RE
WE
sure this is a good idea?” Clove asked, her eyes huge as she took in Dutch’s prone form. He’d passed out during my absence and his breathing was shallow. “We need to get him to a hospital.”

“He doesn’t want that,” I argued. “He’s afraid. Can’t you help him?”

“We’ll do our best,” Aunt Tillie said, sorting through Clove’s herbs and handing her three bags. “Mix that into a poultice and pack it on his wound. We need to start the chant soon.”

Chant? “Can you stop him from dying?”

“We don’t have power over life and death, Marcus,” Thistle said. “You know that. We might be able to do something else, though.” She held up the fabric poppet Aunt Tillie instructed her to bring. “We’re going to direct his illness into this. If it works, he’ll be weak but hopefully recover.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

Thistle shot me a pained expression. “He’ll die.”

“We’re not going to let that happen,” Aunt Tillie said. “Everyone get moving. We’re almost out of time.”

Bay, Clove and Thistle sprang into action, seemingly knowing what Aunt Tillie wanted them to do without her uttering a word. I held Dutch’s limp hand as they readied the area, taking a step back but refusing to release my grip when Clove applied the poultice.

“Okay, Marcus, you need to step away,” Aunt Tillie instructed. “We can’t have you messing up our energy field.”

“But … I don’t want him to die alone.” Tears burned the back of my eyes. I barely knew the man yet I was invested in his survival.

“Then take a step back,” Aunt Tillie pressed. “If we do this right, he won’t die.”

I tugged a restless hand through my hair and did as she asked, leaning against the office wall as Aunt Tillie placed the poppet in the center of the floor and then joined hands with her great-nieces.

“Are you ready, girls?”

They nodded.

“You remember what to do, right?” Aunt Tillie asked. “We have only one shot at this and you haven’t done it since you were kids.”

“We remember,” Bay said.

“We could never forget,” Clove added.

The women pressed their eyes shut, and a chill swept over me as something powerful moved through the room. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel everything.

“We call upon the power of the north,” Clove intoned. “Stay true. Stay solid. Stay the course. Stay watchful.”

“We call upon the power of the east,” Bay said. “Be strong. Be courageous. Be true. Be diligent.”

“We call upon the power of the south,” Thistle said, her face a mask of concentration. “Earth. Air. Fire. Water. To all of you we take heed, and ask for help.”

“We call upon the power of the west,” Aunt Tillie said. “We’re out of time. We’re out of options. Make haste and do your best.”

Nothing happened, and I felt a severe pang of disappointment. Then they repeated their chant over one another. I was dumbfounded as wind whipped through the room and four voices ceased standing out as unique entities and instead melded.

It felt as if the spell would never end. My heart ached, and when I looked at Dutch I couldn’t help but wonder whether he was already gone.