Dead Witch Walking. Ким Харрисон

up at the nasal voice. I had forgotten Francis. He slid from Joyce’s desk and leaned up against my wall. After seeing Denon do the same thing, the effect was laughable. Slowly, I slipped back into my swivel chair.

      “I’ve been waiting six months for you to get steamed up enough to leave,” Francis said. “I should’ve known all you needed was to get drunk.”

      A surge of anger burned away the last of my fear, and I returned to my packing. My fingers were cold, and I tried to rub some warmth back into them. Jenks came out of hiding and silently flitted to the top of my plant.

      Francis pushed the sleeves of his jacket back to his elbows. Nudging my check out of the way with a single finger, he sat on my desk with one foot on the floor. “It took a lot longer than I thought,” he mocked. “Either you’re really stubborn or really stupid. Either way, you’re really dead.” He sniffed, making a rasping noise through his thin nose.

      I slammed a desk drawer shut, nearly catching his fingers. “Is there a point you’re trying to make, Francis?”

      “It’s Frank,” he said, trying to look superior but coming off as if he had a cold. “Don’t bother dumping your computer files. There’re mine, along with your desk.”

      I glanced at my monitor with its screen saver of a big, bug-eyed frog. Every so often it ate a fly with Francis’s face on it. “Since when are the stiffs downstairs letting a warlock run a case?” I asked, hammering at his classification. Francis wasn’t good enough to rank witch. He could invoke a spell, but didn’t have the know-how to stir one. I did, though I usually bought my amulets. It was easier, and probably safer for me and my mark. It wasn’t my fault thousands of years of stereotyping had put females as witches and males as warlocks.

      Apparently it was just what he wanted me to ask. “You’re not the only one who can cook, Rachel-me-gal. I got my license last week.” Leaning, he picked a pen out of my box and set it back in the pencil cup. “I’d have made witch a long time ago. I just didn’t want to dirty my hands learning how to stir a spell. I shouldn’t have waited so long. It’s too easy.”

      I plucked the pen back out and tucked it in my back pocket. “Well, goody for you.” Francis made the jump to witch? I thought. They must have lowered the standards.

      “Yup,” Francis said, cleaning under his fingernails with one of my silver daggers. “Got your desk, your caseload, even your company car.”

      Snatching my knife out of his hand, I tossed it in the box. “I don’t have a company car.”

      “I do.” He flicked the collar of his shirt covered with palm trees as if very pleased with himself. I made a vow to keep my mouth shut lest I give him another chance to brag. “Yeah,” he said with an overdone sigh. “I’ll be needing it. Denon has me going out to interview Councilman Trenton Kalamack on Monday.” Francis snickered. “While you were out flubbing your measly snag and drag, I led the run that landed two kilos of Brimstone.”

      “Big freaking deal,” I said, ready to strangle him.

      “It’s not the amount.” He tossed his hair out of his eyes. “It was who was carrying it.”

      That got my interest. Trent’s name in connection with Brimstone? “Who?” I said.

      Francis slid off my desk. He stumbled over my fuzzy pink office slippers, nearly falling. Catching himself, he sighted down his finger as if it were a pistol. “Watch your back, Morgan.”

      That was my limit. Face twisting, I lashed my foot out, tucking it neatly under his. He went down with a gratifying yelp. I had my knee on the back of his nasty polyester coat as he hit the floor. My hand slapped my hip for my missing cuffs. Jenks cheered, flitting overhead. The office went quiet after a gasp of alarm. No one would interfere. They wouldn’t even look at me.

      “I’ve got nothing to lose, cookie,” I snarled, leaning down until I could smell his sweat. “Like you said, I’m already dead, so the only thing keeping me from ripping your eyelids off right now is simple curiosity. I’m going to ask you again. Who did you tag with Brimstone?”

      “Rachel,” he cried, able to knock me on my butt but afraid to try. “You’re in deep—Ow! Ow!” he exclaimed as my nails dug into the top of his right eyelid. “Yolin. Yolin Bates!”

      “Trent Kalamack’s secretary?” Jenks said, hovering over my shoulder.

      “Yeah,” Francis said, his face scraping the carpeting as he turned his head to see me. “Or rather, his late secretary. Damn it, Rachel. Get off me!”

      “He’s dead?” I dusted off my jeans as I got to my feet.

      Francis was sullen as he stood, but he was getting some joy out of telling me this or he would have already walked. “She, not he,” he said as he adjusted his collar to stand upright. “They found her stone-dead in I.S. lockup yesterday. Literally. She was a warlock.”

      He said the last with a condescending tone, and I gave him a sour smile. How easy it is to find contempt for something you were only a week ago. Trent, I thought, feeling my gaze go distant. If I could prove Trent dealt in Brimstone and give him to the I.S. on a silver platter, Denon would be forced to get off my back. The I.S. had been after him for years as the Brimstone web continued to grow. No one even knew if he was human or Inderlander.

      “Jeez, Rachel,” Francis whined, dabbing at his face. “You gave me a bloody nose.”

      My thoughts cleared, and I turned a mocking eye on him. “You’re a witch. Go stir a spell.” I knew he couldn’t be that good yet. He would have to borrow one like the warlock he used to be, and I could tell it irritated him. I beamed as he opened his mouth to say something. Thinking better of it, he pinched his nose shut and spun away.

      There was a tug as Jenks landed on my earring. Francis was making his hurried way down the aisle, his head tilted at an awkward angle. The hem of his sport coat swayed with his stilted gate, and I couldn’t help my snicker as Jenks hummed the theme for Miami Vice.

      “What a moss wipe,” the pixy said as I turned back to my desk.

      My frown returned as I wedged my pot of laurel into my box of stuff. My head hurt, and I wanted to go home and take a nap. A last look at my desk, and I scooped up my slippers, dropping them in the box. Joyce’s books went on her chair with a note saying I’d call her later. Take my computer, eh? I thought, pausing to open a file. Three clicks and I made it all but impossible to change the screen saver without trashing the entire system.

      “I’m going home, Jenks,” I whispered, glancing at the wall clock. It was three-thirty. I’d been at work only half an hour. It felt like ages. A last look about the floor showed only downward-turned heads and backs. It was as if I didn’t exist. “Who needs them,” I muttered, snatching up my jacket from the back of my chair and reaching for my check.

      “Hey!” I yelped as Jenks pinched my ear. “Cripes, Jenks. Knock it off!”

      “It’s the check,” he exclaimed. “Damn it, woman. He’s cursed the check!”

      I froze. Dropping my jacket into the box, I leaned over the innocent-seeming envelope. Eyes closed, I breathed deeply, looking for the scent of redwood. Then I tasted against the back of my throat for the scent of sulfur that lingered over black magic. “I can’t smell anything.”

      Jenks gave a short bark of laughter. “I can. It’s got to be the check. It’s the only thing Denon gave you. And watch it, Rachel. It’s black.”

      A sick feeling drifted through me. Denon couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t.

      I glanced over the room, finding no help. Worried, I pulled my vase out of the trash. Some of Mr. Fish’s water went into it. I leveled a portion of salt into the vase, dipped my finger to taste it, then added a bit more. Satisfied the salinity was equal to that of the ocean, I upended the mix over the check. If it had been spelled, the salt would break it.

      A