Chapter Eight
It had been several weeks now. Henrietta worked every single day, and every single night she went home to find Brick playing with her dog, and then the two of them would head out into the night and hunt down witches.
It was surreal, but with time she was settling into it.
Weirdly, she wasn't that tired. Brick said it was her magic, but Henrietta fancied there was another reason. She’d never had direction before – she’d fallen from job to job, house to house. She’d never had a sense of purpose, let alone destiny.
Now here she was with an incredible responsibility and power. She was finally doing something meaningful with her life – saving the goddamn world.
She took a step back from the counter, brought her arms up, stretched, and gave a yawn. It was Friday afternoon, and the cafe was uncharacteristically quiet. A lot of the other staff had gone home, but she’d offered to stay late. She needed the money. Brick kept swanning into her house when she was at work and eating all her food, and her grocery bill was now astronomical. He kept promising to bring her some gold to repay his debt, but he never did. Plus, he would probably bring her real gold, and she would have no idea what to do with it. Could you go down to the local jeweler, set a clump of gold on the counter, and ask to exchange it for money? You'd likely go on some kind of list or something, and you'd get a knock on the door from the police.
Henrietta yawned again, bringing a hand up and covering her mouth so she didn't show her tonsils to the whole room.
It was around two o'clock, when she was on her break, that she got a phone call. She hardly pressed the phone to her ear before the screaming voice of her sister caused her to yank it back.
Henrietta screwed up her face in fear and self-pity.
“Where the hell have you been for the past several weeks?” Marcia began, hardly taking a breath. “I've been trying to contact you, I've left messages on your Facebook, and I’ve sent several texts. What the hell is your problem?”
Henrietta pulled the receiver from her ear again, twisting her lips into a pronounced grimace as she did. She tried to take a steadying breath. “I've been busy, Marcia.”
“Busy?” There was a fairly obvious derogatory tone to Marcia's voice. “Doing what exactly?”
Henrietta narrowed her eyes. Marcia had never made any effort to hold herself back when it came to telling Henrietta all her faults. Marcia thought Henrietta didn't try enough, didn't take good care of her appearance, gave up too easily, and was too shy around men.
“I asked you out to a double date three days ago, but you never replied to my text.”
Henrietta rolled her eyes. That wouldn’t have been the first time that Marcia had used Henrietta in order to play two men off at the same time. Henrietta had been on plenty of these so-called double dates. She would sit on one side of the table, and both guys would sit around Marcia, with that glazed-eye look and amazed expression that every single man on the planet got around her. So of course Henrietta hadn’t jumped at the opportunity when Marcia had offered it. Plus, Henrietta hadn’t even seen the text, and she hadn’t hopped on the Internet for weeks. She didn't have the time. When she wasn't working trying to keep Brick in food, she was jolly well fighting the witches and trying to bring peace to humanity.
But she held her tongue. “I'm sorry, look, I really am; I haven't looked at my phone in several days.”
“Well you are looking at it now, aren't you?” Marcia asked, her voice wild. She was a drama queen. Every single action, every single emotion, every single word, it was all over the top. And somehow people loved Marcia for it.
Henrietta mumbled a yes.
“Good, because you aren’t getting out of this one. I have a party tonight, and you are coming,” Marcia commanded her, and it did sound as if there was no way Henrietta was going to get out of this one.
But Henrietta didn't have the time to go to parties; no doubt tonight she would be running around the streets in her ridiculous outfit fighting witches. Plus, if Marcia's double dates were bad, then her parties were worse. Not only would every single eligible bachelor there be after Marcia, including some of the non-eligible ones too, Marcia would trot Henrietta out and poke fun at her. There would be baby photos, there would be stories about all of the hilarious accidents Henrietta had gotten into as a child, and it would go on and on all night. It would ruin Henrietta's reputation even further; with every single one of Marcia's parties she had ever attended, Henrietta had always wanted to run away and join the circus afterwards.
“Marcia, I can’t, I'm busy—”
“So you're going to get here at 8:30?” Marcia steam-rolled over her. “I would tell you to bring a date, but—” she snorted, “never mind, just bring a bottle of wine. And make it expensive.”
With that Marcia hung up.
Henrietta stood there and tried to remind herself that Marcia was family and that she couldn't go around to Marcia's house and throw a brick through the window. For all Marcia's acting, for her terrible attitude to men, and for all the embarrassing situations she had ever put Henrietta in, Marcia was still Henrietta's sister. And when you stripped her back of all her glamour and drama, she was nice and she was reliable. It was always Marcia who came along to the hospital with Henrietta whenever she had an accident, and it was usually Marcia who tried her hardest to get Henrietta a job again after she'd been fired. She was reliable, she was loving, but bloody oath there was a lot of drama that came along with that.
The rest of the day dragged on slowly, but eventually Henrietta found herself opening her front door, dumping her bag on the ground, and giving an almighty sigh.
She walked into the kitchen, and she was not at all surprised to find Brick with his head in the pantry, Barney at his side.
Though Brick did not technically live with her, he was around so much and had the uncomfortable knack of letting himself in, that she should start charging him rent.
She cleared her throat as she walked into the kitchen, pulling a chair out with her foot and sitting roughly at the table. “Get your head out of the pantry. I don't get paid until Friday, and I can't afford any more food.”
Brick turned to her, and he had a can of baked beans in his hand, it was open, and he was using his fingers to pick the sauce-coated beans out and plop them in his mouth.
It was disgusting.
She raised an eyebrow at him and then clicked her tongue. “You better clean up after yourself.”
Brick finished off the beans and he smiled. “Of course,” he assured her. He pulled open his jacket and shoved the can into his pocket. And of course when he closed the jacket, it was as if it was no longer there.
On several occasions Henrietta had asked Brick exactly what was going on with his jacket. Was it magical? Did it link to some kind of portal? But no matter how often she asked, he never answered. He said it had to do with the many mysteries of the warrior monk cast.
She pushed her lips up, scrunched her nose, and shook her head at him. “Just use the bin,” she told him.
Brick didn't use the bin, and likely never would, but at least he smiled at her. Then he walked over to the kitchen table and sat down, that ubiquitous leather jacket of his scrunching. Though she'd known him for a while now, she had never seen him wearing anything other than the same scuffed boots, jacket, and billowing clothes. Occasionally he would reach into his magical pocket, pull out his hat, and tug it firmly onto his head. But that was the only variation when it came to Brick's wardrobe.
“So,” she leaned back in her chair and tugged the hairpin from her hair, “who are we going after tonight?”
Brick shook his head. “No one. There is no witch activity to speak of at the moment.”
Henrietta frowned. She had started to get into a routine here. It would be work during the day, and then it would be hunting witches at night. While she did feel overworked, now was not the night to have a holiday.
“I thought you would prefer to go to your sister's party instead,?
?? Brick said as Barney walked up to him, barked, and demanded a pat.
“How the hell do you know about that?”
“Your sister called several times today and left messages on your machine. I heard them.”
Henrietta crossed her arms.
“You have been working very hard, and I understand that your relationship is such with your sister that if you were not to go to this party, she would cast dire aspersions against your name,” Brick pointed out with an even expression.
She wanted to shake her head, but the problem was, he was right. Marcia wouldn't be casting dire aspersions against Henrietta, so much as going on the Internet and telling all her friends Henrietta was a dirty swine of a sister who could not be relied on for anything. She would complain to Patrick, she would complain to Jimmy, and no doubt Henrietta would have to put up with a rant from everyone she met in town for the next couple of weeks.
“I have already picked out the costume for you,” Brick nodded.
“You have done what?” Henrietta stood up from her chair, planting her hands on the table.
Brick stood up too, but there was no menace in his move. He stretched his shoulders and yawned. “I have picked out a costume that is fitting of a warrior woman.”
She scrunched up her nose. She knew what costumes Brick thought were fitting for a warrior woman, and there was no chance in hell that she was going to wear them to Marcia's party. Her sister would be thrilled to see Henrietta walk through the door in incredible boots, a tiny skirt, and a top so low you could see everything. But it wasn't going to happen.
“I have laid it out on your bed for you. Also, I have taken the opportunity to get an expensive bottle of wine.” Brick reached into his jacket and brought out a bottle, placing it on the table before him.
She looked down. “That looks really old,” she pointed out as she glanced at the dust and the water damage on the label.
“It is. It is a 250-year-old bottle of Chardonnay. It is good,” he assured her.
She was horrified. “We can't take that to the party.”
“But your sister asked for the finest bottle of wine. And this was the best I could find at short notice,” Brick said with his usual nonplussed attitude.
Henrietta shook her head, realizing she couldn’t win this one. Then she marched from the kitchen into her bedroom. She expected to see the gaudiest and most outrageous outfit lined up on her bed, but she didn't. In fact, what she saw was, well, quite nice.
The clothes also weren't hers. She walked over to them, picked them up, and looked them over carefully. “Where did you get these?” She turned to Brick as he followed her into her bedroom.
“I acquired them,” he replied mysteriously.
Brick often said he acquired things. But as of yet Henrietta hadn't managed to get him to reveal where he acquired them from. She hoped the warrior monk wasn't a warrior monk thief, otherwise she would be getting a knock on the door from Patrick Black any day now.
She glanced down at the clothes again. There was a stylish black dress, cut in a familiar glamorous 60s style, with a flared skirt and netting underneath. There was also a pair of expensive high heels. It seemed that when it came to shoes, Brick had a bit of a fetish. The heels were high, but thankfully they were thick enough that it didn't look as if Henrietta would stab holes in any lawn she walked over.
There was a simple pair of clear stockings, too, and an ornate silver necklace with an odd stone for a pendant. Overall, Brick's choice in clothes had been fantastic. She didn't want to admit that, so she pressed her lips together and let the clothes drop back to her bed.
“I guess it will do.” She scrunched her lips as she looked at him.
Brick nodded his head low, his expression dropping as if he was remiss. “I know, I know, you would have preferred higher heels, frankly, so would I. However, I couldn't find anything that matched the dress.”
He looked serious. He didn't look like he was acting or joking. He appeared genuinely disappointed at the fact he couldn't find the perfect set of skyscraper stiletto shoes to match her dress.
Henrietta shook her head, turned from him, and went back to looking at the dress and pendant.
Whenever she went to one of Marcia's parties, she was always the cheapest looking one there. That wasn't to say she looked skanky and that her clothes looked like sequin-clad scraps of fabric. She perpetually looked like she shopped from a second-hand store, and no matter what Henrietta threw on, Marcia always pointed out how dingy it looked.
Well, if Henrietta wore the clothes Brick had brought her... hell, she could almost outdo Marcia.
A small smile spread across Henrietta’s lips.
She turned to Brick. “But what happens if you hear of any witch activity while I am at the party?” It was a pertinent question. The witches only came out at night, and considering the Witch King was upping his ante, their activity was supposed to become more frequent from now on. That was what Brick had assured her, and for the last several weeks that fact had been confirmed.
Brick tugged at the collar of his jacket, and it almost looked as if he was trying to appear dashing. “I am coming to the party with you. Should I hear of any witch activity, I will tug quite firmly on your arm, and we will dash out into the night.”
Henrietta was never sure when Brick was joking, but she settled on offering him a wry smile anyway. “You think you are coming to one of my sister’s parties, dressed in that?” She looked pointedly at his jacket.
Brick looked down at his outfit, and then looked up. “Yes, I do.”
“Listen, Brick, you don't know my sister.”
“Marcia Gosling, 28 years old, works as a travel agent, is known to have multiple amorous encounters and partners at the same time,” Brick began to reel off the facts.
Henrietta snorted. Multiple amorous encounters and partners sounded like a tidy way of describing Marcia.
“Though she is known to overreact and appears to possess strong self-esteem, her behavioral patterns seem to suggest an underlying lack of confidence. It may be a subconscious psychological reaction to the fact that her sister is the last witch hunter,” Brick finished.
Henrietta now snorted louder. “Sorry, what? You think that Marcia acts the way she does, because on some deep subconscious level she always knew that I was a witch hunter, and that she feels threatened by it?”
Brick nodded.
“Marcia doesn't suspect I'm a witch hunter! I didn't even know I was a witch hunter until several weeks ago. The reason Marcia acts the way she does...” she trailed off. She had no idea what drove Marcia to do the things she did. Henrietta often tried to figure it out, but couldn't. Perhaps Marcia lacked empathy, perhaps she felt some deep psychological need to be with a partner, or several, all the time.
“Trust me, Warrior Woman Henrietta, this is the psychological evaluation handed down to me by my warrior monk brethren.”
“Excuse me? Your warrior monk brethren? Have they been checking up on Marcia?”
Brick nodded as he jutted his chin out. “We warrior monks are thorough. Now that I am your witch hunter watcher, and I am destined to help you in your sacred duty, it would be remiss of me not to find out as much about your life as I can. And considering the overbearing psychological power you give to Marcia, it is important that I assist you in your future interactions with her.”
She took in a deep, spluttering breath. “She doesn't have....” she was about to protest that Marcia did not have unwarranted psychological power over her, but it was a lie. Of all the people out there, Henrietta was most scared of her sister. Even the prospect of the Witch King didn't freak her out as much as going to the party did.
Brick waited, brought his hands in front of him, locked them together, and nodded at the clothes on the bed. “It is time to get dressed. The party is in half an hour, and we must make our way across town. And as you will not be dressed as a witch hunter, I fear that we will have to use public transport.”
Though bas
ic common sense told her not to put on the dress and go to the party with Brick, she found herself getting dressed.
After she did, she paused to look at herself in the mirror.
For the first time in her life, Henrietta Gosling almost looked... what was the word, attractive? She didn't look as if she was a child wearing adult clothes, and neither did she look as if she was the kind of girl who paid no attention to her appearance. She looked perfect. The dress fit snugly, and the heels made her legs look great. Okay, she didn't look as fantastic as she did when she was dressed as a witch hunter, but it was a different effect anyway.
Henrietta couldn't help but smile.
She had chased Brick out of the room so she could dress, but eventually he found his way back in.
She turned to him. The blighter had used his magic to transport from one side of the door to the other. Now he had his arms crossed and was leaning back against the wall, looking at her. He wasn't checking her out; he was appraising her with a careful eye.
“You must do something with your hair, it does not match your heels.”
It was always about the shoes with Brick. She was starting to wonder whether the leather-clad warrior monk loved shoes a little too much.
She turned back to her reflection and stared glumly at her hair. Brick was right. Short of the fantastic things that magic did to her red gnarled locks, Henrietta would never be able to make her hair look anything other than freaky.
“Hand me your brush, and hand me your hairpin.”
She looked at Brick, her lips pulling themselves open. “Excuse me?”
“I will manage your hair.” He walked across the room to her, grabbed the brush off her dresser, and then nodded at her hairpin.
She snorted at him. “You are a warrior monk, not a hairdresser.”
“I have my barber license,” he said as he tugged at her hair and began to brush it before she could get away.
“What the hell is a barber license? That isn't a thing.” She tried to pull away, but he had a firm hold of her hair, and was now brushing it vigorously.
He was quick too. Before she could muscle free, Brick took a step back, clapped his hands together, and gestured to the mirror. “Now you match your shoes.”
She cast her eyes over him, and hoped her expression revealed to him how crazy he was. Then she looked in the mirror.
She stopped.
She looked fantastic. Her hair looked... great. It was smooth, it was shiny, it was no longer unruly. And the red color looked far more alluring than usual.
Somehow, despite the fact Brick had used no product and he hadn't used a hair-dryer, he had managed to curl her hair into perfect tassels, leaving several strands of fringe collecting around her neck, and pulling the rest into a beautiful bun at the base of her neck. Then he had secured it in place with the hairpin.
She stared at herself in wonder. She had never looked this good in her life.
“We must now leave. I believe my warrior monk brethren have pointed out on several occasions that your sister... now, what is the correct word?” Brick paused while he tried to think. “Ah, yes, can go ballistic. Your sister will go ballistic if you are late. And we already have too much to deal with in this town without adding a ballistic woman to the mix.”
She chuckled into her hand, but as she did she kept glancing at her reflection in the mirror.
Wow. Just wow.