Halfway Drowned (Halfway Witchy Book 4) Page 2

  I heard the crowd before I saw anything, because the buzz of wonder and fear is a noise that can’t be duplicated. Humans are an odd lot; we like to get closer to danger even when it could mean being squished or eaten. As someone who is experienced with creatures that actively try to eat me, I’ve learned there’s nothing wrong with taking a good, long look at the situation before charging in with my charms ablaze.

  The squeal of truck brakes announced danger on the prowl. Tammy Cincotti, our resident delivery driver and consumer of men, pulled her ungainly vehicle to the curb with a lurch. She stepped out of the folding door with the regality of a visiting empress, adjusting her shorts with a casual pull to further enhance her excellent legs. Her hair and makeup were, of course, camera ready. Tammy isn’t just pretty; she’s got that inner light of confidence that makes her like a feminine supernova with blonde hair. When she smiles, men melt, and her megawatt charm was turned to me as I stumbled down the street, coffee in hand, with a general cloud of fuzziness around me.

  Her smile fell, brown eyes crinkling as she looked at me suspiciously. She pulled her full scarlet lips to one side in a super judgy way. “Hmmph. You appear to have fallen out of bed.”

  “What?” I rounded my own gray eyes with as much innocence as I could muster. Tammy’s at least six inches taller than me, so she wasn’t just looking, she was looming. I began to crack under her inspection, even as my hair waved around in the breeze. When I sleep, tiny gnomes go to work shaping my hair into something out of an experimental art project, with swirls and cowlicks and random wisps that encircle me like a black halo worn by a drunken angel. It’s not my best look, but I needed to find breakfast, since Wulfric had eaten everything in the house except my cat. I thought men gradually ate less as they aged. I was wrong.

  In the middle of a loud growl from my empty stomach, Tammy leaned forward, or as close as she could with her impressive chest, which was exposed in a semi-tasteful manner. Tammy has a unique body that looks like teenaged boys designed her in a lab for All Things Sexy. With a long stare from her brown eyes, I watched in horror as she nudged closer to me and sniffed, like a bloodhound on the trail of wounded prey.

  “Thought so.” She retreated, but only just, nodding to herself with satisfaction.

  “Thought so what?” I asked, my voice rising in concern as I patted at the wild locks of hair that capered on my head.

  She smiled, then examined her nails, which were long and flawless despite her job. “You. Smell. Like. Viking.” She emphasized each word by pointing at me with her talons, which were covered in polish and glitter like her hands had visited Mardi Gras. Twice.

  “I--ahh. Well, yeah. But see”--I started, only to have her wave a finger back and forth to shush me.

  She closed her eyes, and smiled again. Somehow, it was rather lewd, and I was about to laugh when I realized she was almost certainly thinking about Wulfric. “Hey! Enough with harassing my boyfriend, even if it is in your mind.”

  “Can’t help it, kid. He’s impressive.” She grinned, then her eyes went wide. “Oh! Right, about him. The boat. Has he seen it?”

  I’m used to Tammy switching subjects, but even for her, this was an odd choice of words. “Boat? He makes them. So, probably?” Technically, he didn’t make boats, he made canoes, although they were more like works of art.

  “No, kitten. I mean that boat.” She turned me deliberately to look out over the lake, where a crowd was gathered on the shore across from the diner and other stores along the main street.

  “Oh.” I’m famous for understatement, but what Tammy called a boat was something far more impressive.

  It was a dragon.

  Rather, a dragonboat, or a craft that was identical to pictures of Viking ships from a thousand years ago. A carved prow loomed over the water, close to twenty feet high and dark with the patina of age. It was glistening in the sun, still wet from an extended stay under the crystalline waters of Halfway Lake, and it appeared in all ways to be authentic, at least to my eyes. I’m no archaeologist, but it seemed like a lot of trouble for a prank, and the lake had been in an absolute uproar during the fury of the storm. I took the ship at face value and began noticing details, even at a distance.

  Water plants hung from the yawning jaws and carved fangs, three of which still existed in all their pointy glory. A long tongue curled out of the open jaws, and, to my delight, the dragon had ears, perked up like a giant Yorkshire terrier, but with fangs and an actual neck. The beastie had a spine of vertical scales running back under the water, where I presumed the rest of the ship was submerged. I’ve been swimming in the lake since my first birthday, and I knew the water dropped off into some serious depth. Based on how high the dragon’s head was out of the water, it was a huge craft, but I’d need Wulfric to understand the proportions without lifting the craft out of the water. That was a tempting thought, but a spell of that power required a lot of preparation, and it seemed extravagant when I could ask the Viking who was probably snoring in my bed right that second.

  The dragon’s face was arresting, a knurled thing of beauty and artisanal detail. Hollow eyes and beetled brows cast shadows that made the ship seem alive with hidden intellect. The head was longer than me, which isn’t impressive unless you’re talking about the front of a boat shaped like a dragon, in which case it was the work of a master craftsman.

  Tammy watched me taking it all in. “Yeah, that boat.”

  I whistled softly. “Wulfric needs to see this.” I thought for a moment, squinting into the sun. “I need to see it, too.” There was something ominous about the appearance of such a craft, even if it was likely dredged up by the storm. Questions immediately came to mind, such as the origin and how a Viking ship could be more than a hundred miles inland from the sea. Halfway Lake had no direct connections to the ocean, and hauling a craft that size over the mountains didn’t seem likely, although Vikings were a determined bunch. I’d seen Wulfric chase a fox squirrel for more than an hour because the creature had stolen one of his socks. When I calmly informed my lover that it was his fault for leaving them outside the door where said terroristic squirrel had access to the sock, he regarded me as a traitor who had sided with the squirrels. Eventually, the thieving critter dropped the sock and moved on to a location where giant Norsemen don’t harass the wildlife over petty theft, but the incident etched my mind regarding Vikings and their general intransigence.

  In short, the presence of a Viking ship in Halfway made perfect sense, because nothing in my town makes sense at all. Some things verge into the realm of logical behavior, such as the Hawthorn Diner, my job as the diner’s cook, and the ebb and flow of tourists in our little town. My purpose as a guardian of Halfway, along with my Gran, is less than common if you consider the fact that we’re both witches. We happen to find the magical world- and certain beasties- in need of the occasional nudge, courtesy of our spells. Gran’s been a witch for longer than I’ve been alive, but that’s no surprise considering I’m not yet twenty-two, and my magical prowess is an organic thing that changes as I grow.

  Tammy brought me back to the reality of a Viking ship in our lake. “Looks like you might not have a chance to take a snoop. Here come the people with clipboards.”

  She was right. As we stood watch, three officious looking types pulled up in one of those bland pickup trucks favored by unspecified government agencies or people who purchase used trucks from unspecified government agencies. It was a featureless white truck with a toolbox on the back. It could have been from anywhere, but the vibe said government.

  They debarked and begin shooing people back with the confident gestures of people who suppressed information for a living. There were two men and a woman who seemed to be in charge; she directed the men as they began to unroll safety tape, connecting it to benches, a tree, and one of the vintage lampposts that light the broad lakeway where people stroll. In less than a minute they had effectively turned the
beach into a no-go zone, which left the rather obvious question of how to deny access from the water. Anyone with a canoe or strong legs could reach the dragonship, which was close enough to shore that it would remain a temptation for anyone who could swim.

  Or owned a boat, I thought, just as Tammy pointed to the east. “Looks like they’re closing the beach. And the bay, too.”

  A sleek, dark green sportfisher came roaring across the lake, its bow throwing spray into the early morning light. The boat had no markings save a small, circular symbol I’d never seen before. The aggressive appearance of it made me uneasy, and I trust my instincts, both human and witch.

  “This is serious,” I muttered. Tammy nodded, never taking her eyes from the boat as it continued to cut across the placid bay water with its engines roaring at full throttle. The man driving had a shoulder holstered gun and a grim expression, his short black hair unmoving in the stiff breeze of their approach. His partner was a tall, slender person under a broad brimmed hat who stood rigid at the bow, looking straight at the Viking ship with a stoicism that was impressive, given the violence of their ride. Neither looked friendly as the boat sloughed sideways, throwing a high wake into the side of the dragonship. In a series of small motions, the exposed bow bobbed from the force before settling again as tourists and locals alike began to recede under the unfriendly vibe.

  I could relate. The entire vibe of our beach changed in minutes. Gone was the sense of wonder and camaraderie, replaced by surly whispers and the forest of phones held aloft to capture video of the apparent government seizure. In a series of actions, the ship went from a curiosity to a conspiracy, firing the imagination of the chattering tourists who spread images of the mythical craft across the internet with each passing second.

  Tammy cocked her head in the same manner that she did when assessing a new man on her romance radar, but a tiny frown broke the illusion of fascination, replacing it with unease. “I’m not sure about that,” was all she said, and I understood.

  New is not always good. The Adirondacks are old mountains, and that meant things not meant for the modern world could be found here in Halfway, and often. This boat, or ship, or whatever it might be? This was old and new at once, and I made my decision.

  “I’m going to roust the big guy out of bed. I need his eyes on this,” I told her.

  Her face bloomed into a leer, which was somehow charming. “While you’re at it, I could use his”--

  “Simmer down, dirty girl,” I warned her, but my laugh betrayed me. I trusted few people in the world more than Tammy, even if she did find my boyfriend delicious.

  She composed herself with great dignity. “As I was about to say, I could use his big hands. I’ve got a jar that needs opening.” She gave me a toothy smile, eyes rounded with an innocence I knew she didn’t possess. It was like watching a wolf in lipstick, but with better hair and nails.

  “Is that what you’re calling it now?” I asked, hugging her with one arm and drifting away as she winked. We were laughing, but there was an undercurrent in the bay that made me turn quickly as Tammy got back in her truck, watching the milling crowd with curious distrust.

  “Here we go again,” I cussed, and it was all because of a creature named Richie. Sometimes I hate being right.

  Chapter Four

  The Closer

  “Get. Up.” I said, punctuating each word with a shove onto Wulfric’s wide back. He was, as usual, occupying the entirety of my bed, because he’s enormous and tall, and my bed was designed for a normal human.

  “No.” He didn’t move, but quivered with laughter. Ordinarily, I would tempt him with food, the delights of my company, or both at once. This morning was different.

  I straddled his back like a surfboard and leaned in to him, letting my hair drag across his neck in what was one of my signature moves for getting him to do my bidding. He knew enough not to give in immediately, so he feigned snoring, although with Wulfric, it could have been real. He has the uncanny ability to fall asleep in the middle of a sentence if he so chooses. It’s maddening, because I have a ten minute routine of minor adjustments just to reach a point where I can think about sleeping.

  “Did you build a giant dragonship and not tell me?” I asked, tracing lazy figure eights on the golden skin of his back. The skin rose in gooseflesh wherever my fingers went.

  The snores, real or fake, stopped. “Dragonship?” His voice was muffled from the quilt and pillow under his face, making him sound indistinct, like a fast food drive-through speaker.

  “Yes, a dragonship. With an apparent dragon in the bow, as tall as my house. Fangs, long tongue, all that jazz. Rather scary, actually. I can understand why your people might have been regarded with some trepidation, pulling up to shore in that kind of a ride.”

  He rolled over, holding me with one arm so that I plopped without ceremony onto his exposed stomach. His eyes were open and curious, despite having awoken seconds or minutes ago, depending on whether or not I believed his recent snores to be real. “Is this a complicated plot to induce me into taking you somewhere to do something unpleasant, like buying me those cruel devices you call neckties?”

  In his defense, I had a track record of--I don’t want to say lying to him, because that sounds crass. Altering the truth is a much better phrase, but always for his own good. When the Chamber of Commerce had their Christmas party, I thought it would be nice to dress up and drink champagne with all the people who’ve known me throughout my life. Wulfric was horrified by the idea of standing around chatting with an array of people who not only tolerated social interaction, but craved it. What he didn’t realize was that social interaction was the best part of the upcoming event for a man who spent the bulk of his time wearing clothing suitable for being A Lone Viking. Or a Viking-vampire, or a forest ranger who spent centuries bathing in freezing streams.

  Through some creative wrangling, I’d managed to coax him into Gran’s truck, and the three of us--I in the middle, Gran driving, of course--ventured to Saranac, where one might expect to find men’s clothing large enough to fit a person of Wulfric’s enormous stature.

  What I failed to mention was that it would be dress clothes, a detail he still regards as one of the great betrayals of the modern era. After an hour of trying on jackets, suits, and ties, he looked at me with a wounded expression and said, “Are we ever going to eat?”

  It took two steaks, a bucket of oysters, and all the bread that the restaurant’s oven could bake before he began to forgive me. Upon our return home, he steadfastly refused to try on the ties, explaining in his calm, iron-age logic that such things were designed to kill or sacrifice a man to Odin. While I couldn’t argue with his logic, I needed to see him in the clothes, so I stooped to the one can’t-miss trick that guarantees Wulfric will do my bidding. Limbering up in preparation, I stretched, gritted my teeth, and got down to the business of pleasing him in a way that was sure to win my case.

  Some men can be bribed with food, and while that works to an extent, Wulfric has an Achilles heel that I use to my advantage whenever possible.

  It isn’t an afternoon of passion, because that’s hardly a one way street. It’s the unreciprocated, face in the pillows back scratch of a duration long enough that my hand cramped, and I was forced to switch back and forth like an artist working on a broad, golden canvas that makes noises of appreciation. It took thirty minutes of scratching his back while he arched like a huge Norse cat, adjusting his shoulders back and forth for maximum coverage by my tiny hands before he agreed to my impromptu fashion show.

  That day, he tried on the ties I picked, and naturally, he looked amazing. He’s impressive in any form, but in a suit, he’s something unearthly, and I considered the cramped arms and suspicious glances to be well worth my subterfuge.

  Now, however, he was studying me through gleaming crescents, his eyes narrowed to reveal a small wedge of astonishing blue. Putting his hands on my
hips, he repositioned me with a sly smile. “I can assure you, the ship of my travels is long since lost.”

  “I know, but you need to get uh-uh-up,” I wheedled, pulling at his hands. For every moment he plotted against me in bed, we were losing a chance to sneak a look before more busybody government types showed up with their embroidered hats, logo jackets, and denials.

  “Are you jesting? A dragonship? Where?” His mood shifted as he cut his eyes toward the lake.

  “Across from the park, in the little bay. A Viking ship, or looks real enough to me. There are--cops, rangers, not sure, but they’re putting up barriers to keep people away. I’ve got a weird feeling about it,” I confessed. Above my ear, the witchmark tingled like the buzz of a distant radio. There was definitely something wrong with the boat’s appearance.

  In a fluid motion, he stood, holding me to him like a book or a small stack of laundry. The sensation was not unpleasant and gave me an excellent chance for a quick kiss before the world got in our way once again. “I must see it, of course. I’ll need my knife. And those ridiculous shorts you make me wear.”

  “First, put me down if you’re going to insult my choice of bathing wear. You’re not going swimming in your work clothes, and you’re definitely not swimming naked. Not with Tammy in town,” I stated. He truly was a beast. It’s a good thing I’m around to civilize him.

  “You should not fear my virtue around Tammy, although she can be a bit lewd when she drinks wine. Or is awake. Probably when she is asleep, too, though I dare not enter her bedroom because of the glitter. You know how I cannot abide that much glitter, such an irritating substance. I do not grasp why your people felt the need to invent something so pernicious.” Wulfric has strong feelings about glitter, but in his defense, Tammy did carry a cloud of sparkles and perfume with her wherever she went. Along with the cleavage, it was her calling card.

  He placed me carefully on the bed and began rummaging for the swim trunks I bought him, making a sour face when he found the offensive garment. “You should be concerned about Deb.”