Chapter 8. Jenny
Jenny
“What the hell did I just watch?” Annette asked as soon as we were out of earshot. “Was he flirting with the van that tried to kill you?”
I glanced over my shoulder and smiled at the sight of Temple leaning against the front of the van, one hand waving animatedly as he told a story about getting invited to a werewolf potluck decades before. “Temple’s always had odd taste in women. Do you remember Litheal?”
Annette snorted. “The enforcer from the elf mob? She was the one with the wings, right? I remember the little downy feathers got everywhere. But she didn’t try to kill him until after they broke up. That van—”
“Saw me fighting her son,” I said. “And she didn’t actually hit me. I can’t hold that against her.”
“Oh my god, Jenny. If you got any softer, you’d be my second husband.” She grimaced and adjusted the shoulders of her shirt.
She was wearing a white cotton top and a linen floral print maxi skirt, both loose-fitting so they wouldn’t irritate her burns as much.
I still heard the tiny grunts of pain when she moved, though.
I’d offered her more painkillers before we left the house, but she’d refused.
I took her mule-headed stubbornness as a sign of improvement.
I sniffed the air at the entrance to the B&B. The smells were numerous and layered, but I recognized Ronnie’s scent. “There can’t be more than eight rooms in a place this size. It won’t take long to find him.”
“Walking through the front door is so mundane,” Annette complained. “I miss sneaking in windows or kicking down doors.”
“I know the woman who runs this place,” I said. “I’d rather not wreck it if we don’t have to.”
She reached for the door handle. “Is there anyone in Salem you don’t know?”
For a half-succubus, Annette had a strong introverted streak. “Her name’s Monique. She makes those miniature witches’ brooms we sell as novelty desk dusters.”
“Seriously? Those are so kitschy.” She opened the door and did an After you wave.
Inside was a cozy living room that doubled as a lobby, with worn loveseats and chairs and a coffee table covered in brochures for various Salem attractions.
From the kitchen came the smell of eggs with too much pepper, pancakes, bacon, sourdough toast and rhubarb jam, and orange juice.
Spread through it all was a strong aroma of instant coffee.
An older man poked his head through the kitchen doorway. “Welcome to the Maule House, how can I help—oh, hello, Jenny!”
“Hi, CJ!” I gave him a wave and a grin, then whispered to Annette, “That’s Monique’s husband.”
His smile faltered as he noticed Annette standing behind me and took in her appearance. A night of sleep had helped enough for her to remove the bandages and let the healing burns air out. Annette’s teeth ground as CJ stared at her drying blisters and scabbed skin.
“She had a minor accident in the kitchen.” I spoke loudly, hoping to get CJ’s attention before Annette slugged him. “She was making fudge. The double boiler blew.”
His expression turned sympathetic. “I’ve had my share of kitchen mishaps. Ask Monique about the Great Fried Turkey Debacle of 2023. I was lucky to keep my ear.” He pointed to the dining room off to our right. “Have you two eaten yet? I made too many eggs again.”
“Next time, thanks,” I said. “We’re just here to pick up a friend from out of town. Tell Monique I said hi!”
We walked through a hallway decorated with black-and-white photos of historical landmarks and figures from Salem’s past, then climbed the steps at the end of the hall.
Upstairs, I stopped to sniff each door. I paused at door six, took a closer whiff of the doorknob, and nodded to Annette. She stepped to one side.
I knocked. Waited. Knocked a second time.
“Maybe he left?” whispered Annette.
“I hear him breathing. I think he’s asleep.”
“It’s ten in the morning. He’s as bad as my grandkids.” Annette reached into her purse and brought out a set of lockpicks. I watched the stairs while she worked to make sure we weren’t interrupted. Twenty seconds later, she tucked her tools away and quietly turned the knob.
A crack of sunlight snuck through the drawn curtains to fall upon the figure of Ronald Kensington in plaid boxers, sprawled across cotton sheets. A blanket had been kicked into a twisted log at the bottom of the bed. Drool darkened the pillowcase at the corner of his mouth.
Dirty clothes covered the carpet, along with an empty pizza box from Engine House. Cans of Monster energy drink sat on the dresser. Leaning against the headboard were a large crossbow and a sheathed katana. From the volume and smell of the laundry, Ronnie had been staying here at least a week.
“What’s that on the carpet in front of the door?” asked Annette.
I dropped to one knee. White and black specks—salt and pepper, from the smell—drew a crude circle the width of the door. Well, more an oval than a circle. Anyone stepping inside would have to pass over it. “Protection spell, or maybe an alarm?” I guessed. “There’s another in front of the window.”
I sat back and removed my tetradrachm necklace. I wrapped the chain around my hand, took the coin between my thumb and index finger, and used it to draw a line through the circle.
A shock jolted my forearm, leaving it numb from the elbow down. I grimaced and tried again. This time, nothing happened when I disturbed the spell. “We’re clear.” I used my other hand to replace my necklace. “Some sort of paralysis effect, I think.”
The amulet had taken the brunt of the spell, but my hand tingled like I’d slept on it. I flexed my fingers as I crept inside.
A change in Ronnie’s breathing gave me half a second’s warning. He bolted upright in the bed and lunged for his sword.
I was faster, jumping forward to kick it out of his reach. What was it about teenaged boys and katanas, anyway? What was wrong with a nice rapier, or maybe a good, solid gladius? “I don’t want to fight, Ronnie. We promised your mother we’d do this with a minimum of ass-kicking.”
His fists clenched. “Leave her out of this.”
“Then talk,” I said. When his eyes shifted toward the window, I added, “Our friend Temple is outside, and he has a magic missile with your name on it. Try to run, and he’ll shoot your feet off.”
“Magic missile?” Annette murmured, low enough only I would hear.
I waved her question away. This wasn’t the time to educate her on made-up Dungeons and Dragons spells.
Ronnie was looking past me at Annette. Well, not looking so much as staring. Or maybe gawking. Not an unusual response to a succubus, but he hadn’t acted like this the first time he saw her, back at the shop.
“Checking out your friends’ handiwork?” Annette pushed up her sleeves to display more of her burns.
“What? No, I . . . I don’t have many friends. What happened to you?” He sounded genuinely horrified.
I caught Annette’s eye. She shrugged one shoulder. Ronnie could be telling the truth, or he could just be a good liar.
“I looked up the deed to Second Life Books and Gifts,” he continued.
“I didn’t make the connection before. You’re really her, aren’t you?
The Annette Thorne? The one who stopped a level six demonic incursion in San Francisco in ’89?
Who tracked down Jack the Ripper’s ghost in Paris?
Is it true you were married to Baptiste Davoust? ”
I looked sideways at Annette. She rarely spoke of her prior relationships, and the details of her first marriage weren’t common knowledge.
“My first husband,” said Annette. “The Earl of Arundel before he got turned into a vampire. Good kisser. Lousy temper. The marriage didn’t last. A five-hundred-year age difference is tough to overcome.
” Annette folded her arms, but I could tell she was pleased by Ronnie’s obvious awe. “How do you know all that?”
“It was part of my training. I studied the history of all the great battles that have been hidden from the world, along with the heroes and soldiers who fought the darkness. I have to know the warriors who came before me if I’m to join them.
” His voice shook like he was working up the nerve to ask Annette for her autograph.
Instead, he swallowed and said, “The deed also listed Temple Finn.”
“Protector of the eastern continent,” I said. “Enforcer of the Unseelie Treaty of 1981. Maker of the best cheesecakes in the northern hemisphere.”
“Holy shit,” he whispered. Then he blinked at me. “And what was your name?”
“Jenny Winter.”
He repeated the name to himself. “Are you their assistant?”
Oh, no. He did not just say that. “I’m—I was—a Hunter.”
He looked me over. “Like, deer and quail and that sort of thing?”
Annette snorted and covered her mouth.
“I’m ritually bound to Artemis,” I snapped. “I was a Champion of the Guardians Council. Wasn’t any of that in your training?”
He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“You never learned about the goblin incursion at Disney World?” I asked. “I was sixteen. I snuck away from my school’s band trip and killed the goblin king with my oboe. It was a mess. They had to shut down the Haunted Mansion for three months.”
“Never heard of it,” he said.
“Tell us why you were watching the shop, Ronnie,” Annette cut in.
He looked down at himself. “Can I get dressed first?”
“Be my guest,” said Annette.
Neither of us moved.
Ronnie flushed and pulled the blanket around himself like a cloak, then grabbed the nearest clothes from the floor.
“My name is Ronald Kensington the Sixth.” He tugged on a pair of jeans with one hand while clutching the blanket with the other.
“My family has fought the forces of evil since fifteen twelve, when Sir John Kensington helped track down five escaped creatures after the fire at the Norwich Exhibition of the Unnatural. I’ve come here to carry on that noble mission. ”
“How many times have you practiced that introduction in the mirror?” I asked.
His blush deepened.
“I take it you thought we were the forces of evil?” asked Annette.