Descension (45 page)

A frumpy, spectacled woman with fly-away hair rushed behind the bar, stopping to stack condiments on a tray.

Farriss stepped forward, placing a hand on her platter. “I need the boss.”

“Don’t we all?” the woman snorted, crouching out of sight. Then she popped back up, tossing a handful of straws on the counter. “The boss ain’t here. If ya got a complaint, come back tomorrow.”

She tried to take her things and go, but Farriss kept his hand on the tray. “I need to see the man in charge,” he pressed.

The waitress paused, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Farriss’ sleek jacket. “The
man
called in sick today,” she countered. “Better luck next time.”

“Listen,” Farriss replied, glancing at her nametag, “Phyllis, I have business with your boss…”

“Do I look like I care ’bout your business?” she interrupted. “Sure, you’re fancy and all… and kinda handsome in a weird way, but I ain’t got time for this. I’m in the middle of a bar rush.”

Farriss narrowed his eyes. The old biddy wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him. “Perhaps there’s someone else I can speak with,” he suggested, struggling to keep his cool. “Who’s the man in charge when the boss is gone?”

“Lord, help us,” Phyllis sniffed, rolling her eyes. Then she yanked her tray away and turned, speaking to a passing waiter. “Deal with this chauvinist pig, Travis. I ain’t in the mood.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the waiter agreed, digging under the counter, but when he spotted Farriss, he straightened, raising one eyebrow as he scanned the Armani suit. “You must be Mr. Pig.”

Farriss scanned the scrawny excuse for a man from head to toe. “Give me a break,” he grumbled, grinding his teeth.

The waiter shrugged his skinny shoulders and turned to the till. “Don’t have one.”

“I need your boss,” Farriss repeated, exhausted by the inadequate staff.

“That’d be her,” the waiter replied, nudging the frumpy old woman, who was rattling orders to the cook. “He’s all yours, Phyllis,” Travis added. “I’m not man enough.”

The waiter walked away, and Farriss’ jaw tightened as his nostrils flared. “Enough,” he said, reaching over the counter. The waitress tried to back away, but Farriss caught her apron, retrieving her notepad and pen and slapping them on the bar. “Your boss’ name and address,” he demanded, pointing to the paper. “Right here.”

The waitress scowled, but Farriss could tell he’d rattled her. About damn time.

“Go to hell,” she snapped, lunging for the phone. “You got three seconds to leave or I call the sheriff.”

Farriss stiffened, taken aback by the woman’s rebuff. “Listen, lady,” he seethed, “I’ve been in this shit-hole diner long enough. Give me your boss’ address and I’ll get the hell out of here.”

Phyllis replaced the phone, and Farriss thought he’d finally gotten through to her, but then she smiled and propped her hands on her hips.

“This diner may be a shit-hole, but it’s the only one open for fifty miles, which explains why Sheriff Jenkins is walkin’ in the door.”

“Shit,” Farriss cursed, spinning around.

Sure enough, the sheriff and his deputy were strolling through the crowd, making sure the drunks weren’t causing trouble. The sheriff made eye-contact with Farriss then turned to Phyllis, who’d emerged from the bar to greet him with coffee and complaints.

“If you’re lookin’ for troublemakers,” she snitched, “I got one at the counter.”

“The guy in the suit?” Jenkins asked, looking toward the bar, but there was no one there.

“Where’d he go?” Phyllis mumbled, scanning the room. Then utter chaos erupted when someone screamed
Fire!

~ * * * ~

“Shit,” the stranger whispered, hovering fifty feet above earth as he watched flames leap from the diner. Two miles north, smoke continued to curl from the embers of the witch’s former residence. The stranger could hear sirens as the fire department rushed from one hopeless mess to another, and screams occasionally reached him from the frightened patrons pouring out of the restaurant.

The stranger searched the sky, glimpsing a shimmer as Farriss made his exit, and he wondered if Agro had ordered the fire or if the barbarian had lost his temper.

“Foolish,” the stranger scorned.

Agro and his dogs were fools. Burning down the witch’s former home was bad enough. By destroying the diner, the Unforgivable had hoisted two red flags. They might as well have phoned the witch to tell her they were coming.

“Unacceptable,” the stranger mumbled, soaring clear of smoke.

This was
his
project, damn it. Not Agro’s.
He
was the wizard who discovered the witch, and it was
his
careful planning and magical expertise that set things in motion. He couldn’t let Agro flaw his scheme. He had special plans for the special witch, and it would not do for Agro to change them. Perhaps bringing the Unforgivables into the plan was a mistake.

Well, if Agro continued to act like an obsessed head case, the stranger would adjust his path, avoid the consequences of his erroneous judgment.

The diner was crumbling, and he knew Agro’s intentions, so there was no reason to stay in Oklahoma. The stranger flew higher then soared over smoke, heading for Oregon.

Though I wrote the book, it took a small army to bring it to life. My love and appreciation overflows for all of them. To my mom—thank you for being my biggest fan and unofficial editor. To my sister, Lisa, and my friend, Amy—you gave me much more than financial support. I’ll always remember your loving encouragement and will strive to pay it back and forward. To my avid readers—you are my cheerleading squad and lift my spirits when I’m low; especially you, Aunt Leona. You and your enthusiasm make me smile. To my editor, Kelly Schaub—thank you for guiding little ol’ me around the pitfalls of writing long after you fulfilled your contractual promise. To the creators of my beautiful cover, Streetlight Graphics—I remain awed by how well you brought my vision to life, and I thank you for the compassionate and professional way you handled our project. And last but not least, to my amazing husband and son—without your support and patience, I wouldn’t have been able to finish this book. You’ve given me a gift beyond measure, and I’ll always hold it close to my heart. I love you guys.

B. C. Burgess lives in the Midwest with her devoted husband and their young son. Inspired to write by her love of reading, she feels fiction provides a healthy escape from the hardships of life, and hopes her stories touch the hearts of her readers, just as she’s been touched time and again. Though most of her visions flower in the form of fiction, she dreams of the day her passion for writing, along with determination, faith and hard work, proves to her son that creative dreams can come true.

If you like the tales B. C. weaves, let her know on her Facebook page—
B. C. Burgess
, or send her an email—
[email protected]
. She looks forward to hearing from you!