The Enchanted Writes Book One (13 page)

“Brick, you don't understand. She is a
knock-out. You probably think you are immune right now, but you
won't be. Plus, she has this thing,” Henrietta shifted back,
feeling uncomfortable, “she always goes after any guy I'm with. Any
guy I hang out with, any guy I stand next to in a line even. If we
enter the party together, and if she realizes you know me... Brick,
she won't let go of you, she’ll come after you hot and fast, and
you won't be able to resist her charms.”

“I will be impervious to her charms. Warrior
Woman Henrietta, you forget that I am a warrior monk. I am fully
skilled in all forms of fighting. And if your sister wishes to hunt
me down as a predator would their prey, then I will be fully
capable of defending myself.”

Henrietta slowly shook her head, making sure
Brick saw the move. “Brick, you have no idea what you're talking
about. My sister is incredible. If she wants you, she will get
you.”

“I am impervious to her charms,” Brick
stated again, his voice firm this time, and it was clear he meant
what he was saying.

She crumpled her brow, crossed her arms,
tilted her head to the side, and shrugged. “Fine, but don't say I
didn't warn you,” her voice was low and ominous. She couldn't help
it. The adamant look of bravery in Brick's eyes was stupidity. He
was going to get himself burned. The witch hunter helper didn't
know what he was getting into. Sure, he could fight fiendish
magical creatures in the streets at night, he could pull anything
out of his magical jacket, and he could run around ensuring
Henrietta didn't destroy her house and the rest of the block with
her new powers. But Brick would not be able to stand in Marcia's
way. If Marcia took a liking to him, and that was a certainty
considering Brick would be walking in the door with Henrietta, then
Brick wouldn't have a chance. By the end of the party Brick would
be covered in Marcia's trademark fire-truck-red lipstick, and a
week later he would pull out a pair of her lingerie from the pocket
of his leather jacket with no idea how it got there and a stupid,
dull-witted smile forming on his lips at the possibility of what it
meant.

No, Henrietta was adamant that Brick was
getting in over his head. Sure, the guy seemed pretty competent
when it came to being a witch hunter watcher, but no doubt if
Marcia got her hands on him he would disappear from Henrietta's
life for good.

Yet as Brick stood there so close to the
flower patch that his boots were covered in mulch, he had such a
steely and determined look on his face that it appeared he was
ready to take on a dragon. Well good luck to him.

Henrietta shook her head, clamped her hands
on her hips, and nodded towards the house.

The party was already in full swing. Music
was pumping out, thumping through the house and vibrating along the
path. It was obvious that Marcia didn't care how loud it was, and
didn't give a hoot whether she upset the neighbors or the police
had to come around. Then again, the neighbors were already there
and Henrietta had parked alongside Patrick Black's car.

It did seem as if the universe had a
different set of rules when it came to Marcia Gosling. It seemed as
if every single angel smiled down at her. Not only did Henrietta's
sister have the perfect looks, the perfect job, the perfect house,
and the perfect friends, but Marcia never got into any trouble.
Which was un-freaking-believable considering the amount of men she
played off. Somehow Marcia never got a visit from an angry wife, a
little off put that Marcia had slept with her husband, and ready to
discuss the fact over a kitchen knife. Neither did Marcia ever have
any run-ins with disgruntled lovers. Hell, it seemed that people
were happy to be part of her life, no matter how badly Marcia
treated them.

As Henrietta walked, she felt the weight of
the hairpin. It was incredible how much it calmed her these days,
but more than that, it also made her feel strong. That was not a
feeling Henrietta usually got to enjoy.

“We are entering the dragon's den,” Brick
said in a low voice as he walked carefully by Henrietta's side, the
two of them making their way up the porch and towards the door.

She couldn't help but give a spluttering
laugh into her hand. Brick was using the same tone he used when
addressing a threat, he was even walking with that same tense
feeling. One look to the side told Henrietta that his expression
was rigid with expectation. It wasn't the kind of expectation one
should wear when going to a party. Oh no, Brick's lips were pulled
back, his teeth clenched, his nose crumpled, and his eyes narrowed.
He looked like he was getting ready to be punched in the face.

She laughed again. Though she'd been
dreading going to this party, with Brick at her side it might be
survivable. Plus, for the first time in her life, she may have worn
something Marcia would agree with.

As Henrietta stood there on the porch,
knocking on the door, she let a hand travel down the fabric of her
skirt. Somehow Brick had done a fabulous job. Perhaps every warrior
monk had to do a full course in style and fashion. Brick was a
versatile chap, after all. Not only did he have his bus license,
but in the last couple of weeks he’d proven himself handy with any
weapon and any vehicle. He also had a way with animals, and from
the few times she had left him in her house alone, she had always
come back to the place sparkling clean. Apparently warrior monks
can't abide a mess, and if you hand them a broom, they won’t sleep
until your house is spotless.

As Henrietta waited there, a nervous feeling
started to trickle through her stomach. This was going to be one of
Marcia's parties. Anything could go wrong.

The door opened.

It wasn't Marcia.

It was Patrick.

He looked at her, and he offered her the
kind of smile you might a stranger. “Are you one of Marcia's
friends—” he stopped. It looked as if his eyes were bulging out of
his head. “Is that you, Henrietta?”

She couldn't help it: a fast grin spread
across her face. “Yes,” she began to chuckle. “Are you that blind
drunk already, Patrick?”

Patrick gave a shrug but shook his head.
“Sorry, I actually didn't recognize you,” he sounded impressed.

He looked to his left and saw Brick. The
policeman's shock kind of crumpled into something that looked like
mild suspicion.

“This is my friend,” she mumbled.

“Right....” Patrick looked back at her, and
for the first time since she'd met him, his eyes lingered over her
figure.

Wow. Patrick Black. One of the city's most
eligible bachelors. Someone who Marcia had dated multiple times,
which was kind of a universal record considering she usually dated
a man once and then never met him again.

Henrietta stood there and reveled in the
attention. Then she cleared her throat. “Patrick, can we come
in?”

Patrick yanked the door open. “Sorry,
Henny.”

Patrick hardly ever called her by her pet
name, Henny. Jimmy did it all the time, and so did Marcia. But
Patrick always kept a polite distance. One look at Henrietta
tonight had changed that.

She couldn't help but smile when she saw
Patrick look all the way down her legs and to her heels. Once
again, he looked impressed.

“Where is she?” Henrietta interrupted his
gawking.

“Who?”

“My sister.”

“Oh, sorry, yeah, she's in the lounge room,
on the couch,” Patrick said through a quick cough.

“Oh well, I'd better get this over with,”
Henrietta mumbled as she waved a quick goodbye to Patrick. She
turned and headed for the lounge, but didn't walk as quickly as she
intended to. She was distracted. People, mostly men, were staring
at her. Unless she had a fantastic klutz attack, and fell over in
the middle of the street, knocking the contents of a bin all over
her top, men never stared at her.

She would have to buy Brick a meal for this.
Maybe she would even have to ask him to give her a few pointers on
style.

Henrietta made it into the lounge, but
before she did, Brick thrust the old bottle of wine into her chest.
“You must now arm yourself,” he assured her in a low voice.

She clutched onto the bottle. Dear god, it
did look fancy. She could bet that Brick was not lying to her, and
that it was a good couple of hundred years old. It would be worth
an astounding amount, and yet here she was about to offer it to her
sister at a simple party.

The lounge was packed, but the couch only
had two people on it: Marcia and Jimmy. Marcia was leaning back,
chuckling at Jimmy as he had one of his giant, enormous arms around
her. He looked, as Jimmy Field always did, incredible. Seriously,
he was Mr December, there was no way he could ever look anything
other than steaming hot.

Henrietta took a stealing breath and walked
up to them. It took a while for Marcia to glance up, in fact, Jimmy
noticed Henrietta first. Just like Patrick, he got a confused look
on his face, studying Henrietta all too well for several seconds
until he leaned back and gave a surprised chuckle. “Henrietta?”

Now Marcia turned around. She snapped her
gaze on Henrietta. Those pale and alluring blue eyes travelled all
the way up and down Henrietta for several seconds. She leaned
forward in her chair. “Henny?” her voice pitched high.

Henrietta nodded. “Hi Marcia.”

Marcia opened her mouth wide, her full and
pert red lips pouting. “What are you wearing?”

Henrietta looked down, rested a hand on her
skirt, and then shrugged. “Clothes.”

“Where the hell did you get them? You
couldn't afford anything like that. And who picked them out for
you?” Marcia's tone brimmed with accusation.

Despite what she was wearing, and despite
the fact she had brought a bottle of ancient wine with her that was
worth a small fortune, Henrietta began to feel small. Her sister
had this uncanny ability to sap all of Henrietta's confidence. In
Marcia's presence, Henrietta often felt like the smallest of
insignificant dots on the carpet.

“You look great, Henrietta,” Jimmy
interrupted. Mr December seemed to mean what he said; he had the
same dull-witted grin on his face that he only wore for Marcia.

Marcia snapped her attention towards him,
and then shifted herself away from his arm, giving him a cold
look.

Marcia turned right back to Henrietta.
“Seriously, who picked those clothes out for you?”

“I did,” Brick stepped forward, “the shoes
too,” he added.

Marcia sat up straighter, narrowing her
eyes, her shaped eyebrows descending, though only slightly
considering how much Botox was locking them in place. “Excuse me?
Since when have you been in a relationship?”

Henrietta's lips became stiff, and she
clenched them there, not wanting to move her mouth down or up,
wanting to keep it still so she didn't do anything as pathetic as
bursting into tears. Seriously, any strength Henrietta had felt
swanning in here and getting appreciative glances for the first
time in her life had burned up. Marcia had so much power over
Henrietta.

She felt sick.

As if on cue, Patrick walked into the room
carrying two drinks. He handed one to Henrietta, a friendly smile
on his face. Then he sat down on the other couch opposite Marcia
and Jimmy.

It got Marcia's attention. She looked at
Jimmy, then at Patrick, and finally at Brick. Her eyes narrowed
even more, and she proceeded to give Brick a thorough looking over.
From his scuffed boots to the ridiculous leather jacket, to the
thick stubble. Then Marcia flicked her gaze over to Jimmy and
Patrick.

Henrietta knew what was happening here. It
was always the same. Whenever Henrietta brought a new man into her
life, whether it be a boyfriend, an acquaintance, or even a bloody
plumber, Marcia would have her hands on the man within minutes. It
was something deeply psychological, and maybe it was fueled from
Marcia's own feelings of inadequacy, but it was also bloody
irritating.

Marcia straightened up, pulling down the
little fabric that covered her bust and waste, and pushing her fat
lips into a smile. “Are you going to introduce us?” She leaned
forwards, the fabric of her tight skirt creaking as she brought up
her hand, reaching it out to Brick.

Brick did not take her hand. Neither did
Brick flick his gaze towards her exposed knees or cleavage. Brick
didn't start to blush at Marcia's smile, and he didn't get a dumb,
schoolboy-like grin on his face. Brick looked like Brick.

He looked at the hand as if he had no idea
what to do with it.

It was awkward, so Marcia let her hand drop,
one eyebrow kinking instead. “Okay then, well,” she turned her gaze
back to Henrietta, “who is your friend?”

Henrietta felt like telling Marcia the
truth. Brick was her witch hunter watcher, he'd found her, given
her a magical hairpin, and now helped her to fight evil. But she
held her tongue. Instead she tried not to laugh at the look of
slight, but still pretty, confusion that crossed over Marcia's face
at Brick's disinterest in her.

“Well?” Marcia turned back to Henrietta, and
her tone dropped, indicating her annoyance at Henrietta's prolonged
silence.

“Brick,” Brick answered.

“Sorry?” Marcia looked confused again, and
it was a very alluring confusion. She was twisting her shoulders to
the side, giving her bust as much leverage as she could, and she
was pouting, blinking, and flicking her head until her hair sat
attractively around her shoulders. All up, it was an awkward mess
of a move, and looked as uncomfortable as anything, but it was the
kind of pose that would send a man to his knees.

The problem was, Brick was still
standing.

“Brick,” Brick answered again.

Henrietta had to bite her bottom lip not to
start laughing. “That's his name...” she trailed off. Normal people
were not called Brick. And Brick had gone to great pains to tell
her that they must keep their cover. If they didn't keep their
cover, then the witches might find out Henrietta's true identity.
And if that happened... her house would be fire bombed in the
middle of the night. So she quickly cleared her throat. “It's
French,” she hastily added.