Witches Protection Program (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

J
unie lit a cigarette as soon as she took off her coat. Kicking off her shoes, she put on matted white slippers that made a whooshing sound as she paced her tiny apartment. She lived under the tracks, never noticing the train that shook the walls when it raced past her home. It was the
four
-story,
rent
-controlled
walk
-up with hallways that smelled of cabbage and dirty sneakers. There was so much paint on the walls that it made the rooms feel smaller than they were. Luna snaked her black, feline body through her mistress’s legs, meowing loudly. Junie threw herself on the couch and idly caressed the cat, enjoying the deep purring response. She rested there, letting Luna’s calming purrs relax her. Luna smiled up at her, her green eyes warm. Junie felt her tenison ease. She rose and walked over to the blotchy mirror that dominated her living room. Despite its faded glitter, it was an elegant accessory, all Rococo in design, with two putti angels attached to the top of the frame. She searched the misty depth, her eyes giving up to rest on her wrinkled face.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall.” She rolled the words on her tongue.

A deep voice chuckled. “Droll, Baby Fat. Very droll.”

“Works in the story.” Junie shrugged, her face breaking into a sly smile. She considered her reflection. She needed a change. “I don’t like my hair.”

The faded brown locks rearranged themselves into a smart blond chignon. The face in the mirror morphed, the nose delicately flaring as sparkling eyes narrowed. Baby Fat’s manicured nails touched her
now
-porcelain skin. “That’s better.”

“Agreed,” the mirror answered.

“So, can you tell me where this is all going?” she asked the mirror.

“You mean at work, Baby? I only do hair, skin, and nails. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that.” Junie shrugged. “That’s not going to do me a whole lot of good. Time to make some stew.”

Junie winked, then went into her kitchen, pulling out a huge, dented aluminum pot. Pleasant domestic sounds of water running and clattering utensils filled the kitchen. Soon, the whole house smelled of a
home
-cooked meal. Luna jumped onto the counter, her yowls filling the room. Junie pointed her knife as she answered her pet.

“I know. He was an asshole.”

The cat meowed for a long minute. Junie cocked her head. “I called Alastair as soon as I got out of work. You think I waited too long?” The cat growled from deep in its throat. She pulled her pen from her apron, fingering the worn wood of her wand. “I know it’s weak, but at least it’s Davina,” she told the cat.

The cat spat, then leaped off the counter to leave the room in a huff.

“I ain’t afraid, Luna.” She paused, taking a deep drag on her cigarette. “I mean, not much.”

While the mirror in the parlor reflected back a slender, beautiful woman, in the harsh light of the kitchen window, anybody could see Baby Fat’s wrinkled visage. She poured liquid into the big pot, stirring slowly until her craggy face could be seen on the surface of the bubbling stew. Rooting through assorted jars and vials, she added ingredients in the simmering stock, watching images form to replace hers. A young blond man with a
close
-cropped military cut and a
dark
-haired girl. It was a witch
girl
—Junie knew her. Alastair’s chubby build raced over the eddies and whirlpools that simmered back at her. Luna meowed loudly. “I know,” Junie replied. “I was thinking I needed that too.” She reached high over her head and dumped an entire box of white powder into the pot, watching it circle until it disappeared into the boiling mess. The room turned phosphorus shades of green. Her face was illuminated by the noxious contents of the pot. A fuzzy image of a head materialized. “Turn around, turn around…” Junie urged. The head rotated, its features vague. Junie gasped, blinking twice, a knock on the door breaking the spell.

They rapped again. Junie cursed. She wasn’t sure, she just wasn’t sure of the face. She’d have to recreate the brew to get a better look.

Wes wrinkled his nose at the odors filling the cramped hallway. There was no air to breathe. A short, frumpy woman smoking a cigarette cracked the door to peek outside.

“Alastair.” Her voice was deep with a strong Brooklyn accent. “Who’s that?” she asked as she opened the door. She poked her head out to scan the corridor. “You followed?”

“Baby Fat.” Alastair’s voice was friendly. He left his umbrella at the door. “What am I, a rookie? This is my new partner.” He walked confidently into the living room, stopping at a large,
dense
-looking mirror dominating the cramped space. He leaned forward, his white teeth showing with a pleasant smile, stroking his gray goatee. “He’s the rookie,” he said, gesturing to Wes.

“I am not,” Wes said.

“He’s greener than a banana just plucked off a banana tree.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wes asked, slightly
off
-balance as a black cat twirled itself between his legs. He could feel the vibrations of its purring.

“Faithless jade,” Alastair told the cat, whose bright green eyes glared at him. He turned to the older woman. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

“I told you, good things come to those who wait.” Junie waved them into a cramped kitchen. There was a table the size of a postage stamp, with an
old
-fashioned oilcloth attached to it. A pen shaped like a broken twig was thrown carelessly on it. Wes looked closer.
Ha,
he thought with a laugh, thinking it might have been a wand. A black plastic cat clock that hung on the wall ticked, his eyes and tail swinging in synchronized, opposite directions. The movement caught Wes’s eyes, and he stood frozen, caught in its hypnotic movements. Alastair snapped his fingers in front of Wes, pulling him out of his trancelike state.

He nodded to the older woman, mouthing, “I told you so.”

She approached them both. The overcrowded room made Wes sweat. He backed away, but she moved closer, her eyes half closed. Soon Wes’s back made contact with the sticky wallpaper of her kitchen wall. He looked uncomfortably at the
water
-stained ceiling.

“You can look at me, honey.” She gave a wheezy laugh. “I ain’t a Willa. He’s cute, Alastair.”
And familiar,
she thought, knowing he was the first face she saw in her concoction. Crooked fingers touched his cheek, her yellowed nails scratching his
five
-o’clock shadow. Wes recoiled, pulling his face away. Junie shrugged, sighed, and then walked to the
two
-burner stove to stir a giant pot with a wooden spoon.

Noxious smells filled the kitchen. Wes looked longingly at the window, knowing there was crisp air on the other side of this nuthouse.

“What’s cooking, Baby Fat?” Alastair asked. He glanced in the pot.

“Nothing good, and I’m not talking about my stew.” She reached up, her hand grasping air, and flicked her empty palm into the bubbling liquid.

“Ah, a little bit of this,” Alastair offered.

“And that.” She looked at him pointedly. “I want an upstate cabin.”

“Of course.”

“One hundred fifty K a year.”

“I can’t, Junie. Way over budget.”

“This is
big
—bigger and badder than you can imagine.”

Alastair looked at her, then replied, “You won’t be able to go right away.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll have to go higher.”

Junie nodded, a silent message passing between them. “You do that.” She took out a brown bottle, crusty with dried, dripping fluids running down its filthy sides. “What?” She glanced at Wes’s horrified face. “It’s good for flavor. You’re gonna like it.”

Wes gulped, then said, “Alastair said you mentioned something about a face cream when you called earlier.” He had read about it in her file.

The older man smiled with approval. Wes looked over at him and said, “I know how to interrogate a witness.”

“Indeed.” Alastair nodded with a smile.

Wes’s lips tightened with anger.
Smug bastard
, he thought. He turned all of his attention to Junie.

Junie inhaled a deep drag of her cigarette, then tossed the butt into her pot. “There’s a shipment. It’s being exported to Singapore, Rio de Janeiro, Southampton, Bremen, and Cape Town.”

“Who’s moving?” Wes picked up her pen, trying it on his pad. Junie walked over and took the twig from his fingers, her eyes narrowing.

“Use your own,” she said through her teeth. Wes shrugged, but Alastair wagged a finger.

“Etiquette, Wes. Never touch another person’s wand.”

“Yeah,” June added. “You never know where it’s been.”

Wes wiped his hand down his pants leg, then produced his own pen from his pocket, clicked it loudly, and prepared to take notes. “So,” he said after taking a deep breath. “Who’s moving?”

“Pendragon,” Junie told him dismissively.

“The cosmetics company. So?”

“Yeah, well, we’ve had their contract for over twenty years.”

“What’s the problem?” Wes asked curtly, looking up at her.

“Four hundred million units of Pendragon Glow face cream? And that’s just export. I hear they have another two hundred million being released here in the States as well.”

Alastair whistled softly. The cat meowed in agreement. It jumped up on the counter, its tail brushing against Wes’s chest. He pushed it away, surprised at its strength.

“What’s the big deal if they release a product here?” Wes asked.

“It’s never done together,” Alastair informed him with a shrug. “Different markets are tested, then sometimes the product is tweaked for the area. Four hundred million units, you said?” Alastair looked concerned.

“Is that a lot?” Wes turned to Junie.

“Biggest I’ve ever seen. They want the order out
lickety
-split. Usually it can take four months to get through channels for export; this was greenlit in two weeks.” The cat growled. “Relax, Luna, I’ll get to that.” Junie was warming to telling her story.

Wes could swear she cracked a smile on her rubbery face. He looked at the animal and Junie.

“It got even weirder when I arranged for help in processing the order. They kicked everybody off the dock and made me swear nobody saw the manifest.”

Talk about getting weirder. “Who’s
they
?” Wes inquired without looking up. He was busy writing.

“My boss, Dominic Cerillo. The thing is, it’s gonna take me weeks to complete, but they said I can’t have any help. It’s almost impossible.”

“Did they ask you to use magic?” Alastair asked.

“No, that’s the odd part. They’re giving the impression they are using legitimate channels.” She paused, her protuberant eyes thoughtful. “But that’s what it
is
—an illusion. Something is not right. Something stinks, and it starts with that Pendragon Glow face cream.” She paused, remembering something else. “Oh, yeah. They want all the catering loaded by the end of this week. I finished that entire work order today. Very peculiar, if you ask me.” Junie opened a cabinet, causing a waterfall of faded plastic containers to cascade onto her head. Wes automatically bent to help pick them up. Junie smiled, purring, “Nice boy.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?” Junie asked distractedly.

“Why is that peculiar?”

“It means they want those cargo ships ready to leave on their schedule. They’re leaving nothing to chance,” Alastair said thoughtfully. “Something does smell funny.”

Wes wrinkled his nose, thinking something indeed smelled, and he was pretty sure it started with whatever she was cooking in that battered pot.

“What are you preparing there?” Wes pointed to the bubbling concoction, now bathing the room with oily steam.

Junie raised the spoon to her pursed mouth and sampled the green liquid, making great slurping sounds as she tried it. “Protection. I’m brewing protection. Want some?” She held out a spoon dripping with a boiling, slimy mess. She poured some into the canister, handing it to Alastair. “For later,” she said with a wink. She smiled, revealing a mouthful of
tobacco
-stained teeth.

Wes recoiled, but Alastair said calmly, taking the package, “That’s what we’re here for.”

Junie nodded, her gaze moving to the window. She wiped her hands down her filthy apron. She thought briefly about sharing what she saw in her brew, but she wasn’t
sure
—she just wasn’t sure. “I always trusted you, Alastair, but I think we have to move fast.” She scuttled back to the stove and made an identical canister for Wes.

“I couldn’t.” He backed away, shaking his head.

“You can, and you will,” Alastair said, plucking the container and handing it to Wes. “Very gracious, Junie. It will do him good.” He smiled benignly at the old crone. “have a place where I can put you, my dear. Someone will be by to collect you
in”
—he looked at his
watch
—“in about
forty
-five minutes. Take the minimum, travel light.”

Junie nodded, staring out the window worriedly. Wes wondered why she was so nervous. If this was all believable, wasn’t she a witch too?

Alastair spoke as though he could read Wes’s thought. “Every witch has different powers. The good ones are predictable. They dabble with helpful spells,
medicine
—you know, things to enrich one’s life.”

“That’s the thing,” Junie said, turning to look at Wes. “I would never hurt a
fly
—not a fly! You can’t trust a Willa. They dance to their own drum. They don’t care about anything!”

“Do you have any contacts at Pendragon?” Wes asked.

Baby Fat shook her head. “I smell a Willa spell brewing. Check out the girl.”

“What girl?” Wes asked, noticing their exchange.

The older woman looked at Alastair, who shrugged.

“You know, the one in all the tabloids.”

“What’s her name?”

Junie didn’t answer. A raven cawed, and the old crone hissed. Hunching over, she peered outside, the full moon painting her face with an evil yellow glow. Her eyes narrowed; her wrinkled lips twitched, turning her face into a macabre mask. Wes shuddered, wondering,
If she is a good witch, what does a bad one look like?