The Enchanted Writes Book One (14 page)

This seemed to resolve Marcia's confusion,
and it also piqued her interest. At the word French, she oozed into
a puddle of seduction on the floor. Now she was leaning so far
forward that every single person in the room could see down her
top.

“French,” Marcia said, “I see,” she added,
in the kind of voice she probably hoped rang with
sophistication.

“Bonjour,” Patrick leaned in from the other
couch, bringing his hand up to shake Brick's. Once again, Brick
just looked at it.

“My name is Brick,” Brick repeated, as if he
was a broken record.

Henrietta flinched. Brick did have a nasty
habit of repeating himself, and she was starting to realize that he
had zero social skills. It likely had something to do with the fact
he had spent his entire life growing up in a warrior monastery.

“He's just ensuring you pronounce it right,”
Henrietta jumped in. “He's very particular about the pronunciation.
You see, a lot of people get it wrong,” she lied on her feet, her
heart beating in her ears as she did.

Marcia nodded again, buying the farce. “So
it's Breeek?” she said, trying to make his name sound as foreign as
she could.

Brick narrowed his eyes and looked at her
askance, but before he could open his mouth and say the word Brick
again, Henrietta began to laugh. She brought out her hand, and
slapped it on Brick's back, hoping he got the picture. “That’s it,
you've got it now, Marcia.”

The move brought attention back to the
bottle in Henrietta's hand. So she brought it out and offered it to
Marcia.

“What's this?” Marcia asked as she glanced
at the bottle of wine.

“It is a 350-year-old bottle of Chardonnay,”
Brick jumped in.

Both Jimmy and Patrick snorted, and Marcia
rolled her eyes. “Of course it is. Henrietta, how many times have I
told you not to play games with me?” Marcia snatched the bottle out
of Henrietta's hands.

“Games? Would you have preferred a pack of
cards over a 350-year-old bottle of Chardonnay?” Brick asked. He
did seem impervious to Marcia’s charms. He hadn't once leaned over
and stared down her top, and neither did his eyes appear locked on
her knees and thighs. In fact, he looked bored.

Well there you go. There was a breed of man
on Earth that could ignore Marcia Gosling. They happen to be
magical warrior monks.

“Can I have a look at that?” Patrick leaned
forward and took the bottle from Marcia.

“I can't believe you steamed the label off a
bottle of Chardonnay and just replaced it with one you have made to
look fake,” Marcia said, coming up with her own version of events
to explain why the bottle looked so ancient.

“Steamed off the label? The bottle is 350
years old,” Brick pointed out again, and his voice was terse. “The
craftsmanship does not originate from this time, the style of
bottle indicates it comes from a specific region of France, and the
label cannot be faked. The ink used, though fading now, has
specific traces of minerals that indicate its age. If you take it
to a nearby laboratory, and find a suitably trained scientist, you
can confirm this.”

“Wow.” Patrick turned the bottle over and
over in his hands. Patrick Black fancied himself as a bit of a wine
connoisseur, and though Henrietta had never seen his house, Marcia
had assured her he had a substantial cellar. Unlike Marcia, who
liked fancy wine because it made her feel fancy, Patrick had grown
up on a vineyard outside of the city, and wine was in his blood. He
went to wine tasting events whenever he could, and he had an entire
shelf of books devoted to the art.

Right now his eyes were wide with shock. He
leaned forward, cradling the bottle now. He looked right up at
Brick. “Where did you get this?”

“From France, 350—” Brick began.

Henrietta slapped him on the back before he
could finish his sentence. The wonderful warrior monk was probably
about to say that he got the bottle 350 years ago from a tiny
village in France. Because, in fact, that would be where Brick had
gotten the bottle. But if they wanted to keep their cover, they
couldn't run around perpetuating stories like that. And even if
Brick had assured her that everyone would think they were crazy,
she didn't like to run the risk. Plus, she didn't want her
reputation to become any more tainted.

“Brick... is rich,” it was all Henrietta
could think of. It popped into her head, somewhat like the right
spell always manifested before her mind when she was out fighting
the witches. As with her spells, once she had said the words, she
could not repeal them.

Marcia got up now. She tugged down on her
skirt and offered Brick the most dazzling of smiles. She offered
her hand out to Brick again, but once again Brick ignored it.

“And eccentric,” Henrietta added.

“Really, what business are you in?” Marcia
asked, her eyes sparkling, her hips shimmying and her shoulders
leaning to the side. It got Jimmy and Patrick's attention, but
Brick didn't even glance at her.

“Old money, really old money,” Henrietta
jumped in.

She had no idea whether Brick was going to
back her up on the fly; he was looking at her as if he had no idea
what she was on about.

Now Henrietta had started this game, she
wasn't going to stop. She took an enormous breath. “He's very
generous too. He bought me this dress and a bottle of wine for you,
Marcia.” Henrietta gave a toothy grin.

“And you managed to pull him,” Marcia gave
up on offering her hand to Brick, and twisted her head to face
Henrietta, her voice a whisper.

“We are just friends,” Henrietta answered.
Although she could put up with pretending that Brick was an
eccentric rich Frenchman, she didn't want to add a relationship
into the lie. Brick wasn’t the kind to pretend amorous affections
with any one. Perhaps it was some code to do with being a warrior
monk. Maybe they were all celibate, or perhaps his idea of a woman
was somebody with a house full of shoes, and neither Marcia nor
Henrietta were his type.

“Friends,” Marcia's voice trilled on the
word. “Well thank you so much for this bottle of wine.” She leaned
down and grabbed it roughly from Patrick, clutching it to her
chest, the fabric of her sequin-covered top grating into the
label.

Patrick winced at the move. “Marcia, that is
a really expensive—”

Marcia turned from him and went back to
smiling at Brick. “And I find the fact you are from France,” she
bit into her lips and batted her eyes, “so romantic.” She gave a
shimmy as she finished her words.

No matter what Marcia did, Brick didn't seem
to care. “I am hungry, where is the food?” Brick turned his head
from Marcia and surveyed the room.

Henrietta brought her hand up and laughed
into it. “The kitchen is through the hallway, to the left.”

Brick turned and left the room. While it was
hilarious to see him leave, without casting a single glance
Marcia's way, Henrietta realized she was now alone with her sister.
Well, alone in a room chock full of party guests, but the feeling
stood.

As soon as Brick was out of the room, Marcia
turned on Henrietta. One of her perfect eyebrows arched up as far
as she could push it. “Where did you meet him? Does he live here?
What is he like?”

“He is...” Henrietta began, but stopped. She
wasn't going to tell the truth. She wasn't going to point out to
Marcia that she’d met Brick when he’d stuffed a manila package
behind the U-bend of the toilet in Sizzle Cafe, causing the door to
catch fire. Nor was she going to tell her sister that Brick had
moved into her house. As for what Brick liked, the answer was
heels.

So Henrietta shrugged her shoulders. “We
only just met each other.”

“Why on earth didn't you tell me about him?”
Marcia fluffed out her hair. “If I’d known you were bringing
someone like him along, I would have put a little more effort into
my outfit.”

Jimmy leaned forward, his beer sloshing.
“You look great, honey.”

Marcia ignored him.

“Oh, it was really a last-minute thing. We
weren't sure if we were going to make it tonight.” Henrietta
clasped her hands and tried not to look too nervous. Every time she
looked into her sister’s perfect blue eyes, she always felt like a
fool.

“I don't get it, how did you meet someone
like him?” Marcia trilled on you and him. It was clear what she
meant: it was inconceivable that Henrietta could pull somebody like
Brick. While that was a humorous thought, considering who Brick
was, it also hurt. In Marcia's eyes, Henrietta was nothing. Nobody.
Just Marcia's little sister, the awkward young woman who couldn't
do anything right.

Henrietta’s expressions soured. She took
several sharp steps back from Marcia. She didn't want to tear up
and run out of the party crying. For one, Brick would find her and
tell her in an outrageously loud voice so everyone could hear that
warrior women don't cry; and two, she didn't want to make a scene
in front of Jimmy and Patrick.

“Lighten up, Marcia, just come and sit back
down on the couch.” Jimmy patted the cushion by his side.

“Why don’t we talk about something else?”
Patrick tore his eyes off the bottle of wine.

“What else could we possibly talk about?
This town is so boring and dull, nothing ever happens here.” Marcia
crossed her arms and flopped back on the couch.

“Boring?” Jimmy took a sip from his beer, a
strange smile twisting over his mouth.

Patrick understood what it meant, and he
gave a low laugh. “What about Stiletto Girl?”

Patrick guffawed as Jimmy wolf whistled.

Henrietta blushed.

Marcia spun to them, flicking her head so
fast that her beautiful blond hair fanned around her. “You mean
that skank running around town dressed like an actress from a porn
movie?”

Henrietta spluttered.

It was ironic for Marcia to accuse Stiletto
Girl of being risqué, considering what scraps of fabric adorned
Marcia’s wardrobe. Plus, Stiletto Girl wasn't skanky; she required
a short skirt so she could run.

….

Crap, had she just thought that? Not only
had she referred to herself as Stiletto Girl, but she’d bought into
Brick’s ridiculous excuse about her skirt.

“Oh, come on, Marcia, you have to admit, she
certainly has a little something,” Patrick grinned around every
word, looking like a toothpaste salesman.

“She doesn't have anything.” Marcia
harrumphed. “How she thinks she can run around in those heels, and
get away with a skirt that length, I have no idea.”

Brick walked back into the room. “The boots
are reinforced around the ankles, and with the correct poise and
balance, it is quite easy to run in them.”

“What he means is, by the look of the boots,
they appear to be reinforced,” Henrietta jumped in. “Brick knows a
lot about... leather and shoes.”

“And as for the skirt, I think you will find
that it is the right length for running and kicking,” Brick
finished off.

Both Jimmy and Patrick erupted into boyish
laughter, as if they’d shared their first illicit magazine.

Marcia stiffened. “I don't know what you are
both laughing at. That woman must have very low self-esteem if she
feels the need to run around town dressed like a hooker in a
mask.”

Wow, that was hypocritical. This coming from
the lady who honest to god owned a g-string collection.

Brick opened his mouth again.

Henrietta doubled forward and slapped him on
the back. Knowing Brick, he would probably point out to Marcia that
her skirt, while short, was not the optimal length for action, and
that her heels, while high, did not match her hair. Then he would
point out her psychological faults and explain why they might lead
her to form an inaccurate conclusion about Stiletto Girl.

“What do you think about this then?” Marcia
rounded on Henrietta.

Everyone looked at her. Even Brick turned to
face her.

Her cheeks flushed with heat. “What do I
think? About Stiletto Girl?”

Before Henrietta could formulate a lie,
Brick flicked his head to the side, frowned, then snapped over to
Henrietta and locked an arm around her elbow.

Marcia raised an eyebrow, the move so fast
it was a surprise it didn’t flick off her face and land on the
carpet.

“I am sorry, Marcia Gosling, but I am bored
of your party. We are going.” Brick tugged Henrietta backwards.
“Enjoy the wine.”

Brick pulled her around, and they headed for
the door.

“Brick, what are you doing?” she asked in a
harsh whisper.

“I have just received word: there are
witches on the dock.”

Henrietta stopped resisting and let Brick
pull her towards the door.

“Henrietta!” Marcia screamed from
behind.

“Sorry, Marcia,” Henrietta waved at her
sister, “but I told you he was eccentric.” It was a terrible
excuse, but it worked, because Marcia didn't run up to Henrietta
and start tugging on her too.

Before too long, both Brick and Henrietta
were out of the house.

“Right,” Brick looked to his left and right
as they rushed down Marcia's path, “that went exactly as I expected
it to. The information gathered by my warrior monk brethren was
correct.”

Really? It hadn't gone how Henrietta had
expected it to. Firstly, Brick had been immune to Marcia's charms,
and secondly, Henrietta had spun a bare-faced lie that Brick was a
rich eccentric Frenchman. Now she would never hear the end of this.
Marcia would be calling her 24/7, rushing around to her house on
the off chance she could spy Brick.

Damn.

Her stomach sank.

Brick kept tugging her along until they
reached a dark section of road underneath some thick trees. He
paused, checked the street, and nodded. “You can transform.”

She tugged the hairpin from her bun, strands
of hair brushing against her cheeks.