WILLEM (The Witches of Wimberley Book 1) (4 page)

“Ah. I see. What do you know about our program?”

“Nothing.”

There was a slight, but distinct pause. “If you’d like to attend the next Orientation, you may be admitted if you pass an evaluation to be conducted at the door.”

“What kind of evaluation?”

“Nothing for which you can prepare. You are either right for the program or you are not.”

“Oh. When’s the next Orientation?”

“This evening. A car will pick you up at six thirty if you want to move forward.”

Part of me was thinking that bad things begin with mysteries, but I checked in with the Voice and it was quiet. While the Voice might allow me to do stupid shit or unproductive shit, the Voice intervened if I was about to do something irrevocably dumb or dangerous.

“Okay,” I said. “My address…”

“We can find it. Don’t be late. Dinner will be included.”

“Uh, wait! What do I wear?”

“What you have on is fine.”

“How do you know what I’m wearing?”

“I don’t know what you are or aren’t wearing, but approval does not depend upon clothes. You are either right for the program or you are not.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. The next thing I heard was a series of three beeps letting me know the call had been disconnected.

“Okay. Bye. See you later,” I said to the room with sarcasm.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that a sane man, one who’s been to the movies at some point in his life, would not even consider going, Voice or no Voice. You’re right, of course. That’s what a sane man would do.

It would be an exaggeration to say that I had nothing to lose at that point because it was far from true. I had my books. And my life. But it would be fair to reiterate that I was a man without a plan. I wasn’t desperate, but I was curious and certain that, if I didn’t show up at the curb at six-thirty, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened at Orientation.

Time to walk the walk. What student of the paranormal would refuse the opportunity to attend an Orientation possibly leading to some sort of “program” involving witches.

Again, I know what you’re thinking and, again, no, I’m not ignorant enough to believe we’re talking about cartoon witches like Disney or supernatural hags like those in Macbeth. I assumed these “witches” were modern-day Wiccans, a sect of pagans with little, if any, verifiable power to affect reality.

It seemed I was all cleaned up with no place to go at the moment, but I did need to call and cancel my shift at The Stop. The bar manager was not happy because it was Friday. Lots of upper, upper middle class people liked to celebrate surviving another work week with the corporate version of the MAN by alcohol-induced letting loose. Friday nights were good for the bar and good for me.

“You don’t show tonight, Will, don’t come back.”

That’s what he said to me. My mind raced around. Was I willing to cut the only tie between me and script from the U.S. Treasury? I must be a gambler because I didn’t really hesitate.

“Okay. I’ll be in to get the rest of my tips Monday afternoon.”

Wolfie, the bar manager, huffed and disconnected.

Had people forgotten how to say goodbye?

As I looked around my room, my eyes landed on the clock. I had eight hours to fill until go-time. For the second time that day I found myself smiling, just because of the simple pleasure of recreation time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a whole day to read.

I settled on a book from the Duke Parapsychology Lab that I’d acquired weeks before and hadn’t had time to dive into. I kicked off my boots, bounced on the bed, and said to hell with perfect bedhead. A couple of hours later my stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard over the Hummer and reminded me that coffee had been breakfast. It was good, but it doesn’t stay with you.

So I slipped into sloppy deck shoes, grabbed the book, and walked down to the corner Chinese. The place was filled with the overriding and heavenly aroma of eggrolls becoming little golden, hot grease masterpieces. Of all other cultures, Chinese come closest to Southerners in understanding that deep fried equals nirvana. I ordered a special with a diet drink, sat down at a vinyl covered dinette table in the corner and proceeded to enjoy my day off. If days off were about to become a lot more common than was comfortable, I would think about that some other time.

When I returned to the apartment, Hector was working at his station, which also seemed to have had a Martha Stuart makeover. Neat. Clean. Everything put away. Not even any wrappers in the trash can. I noticed that the overhaul had generalized to his personal presentation as well. He appeared to be wearing clean clothes, but the most shocking thing was how Hector looked with trimmed beard and clean combed hair. I’m not sure I would have recognized him on the street.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he responded.

“What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the place is kind of presentable. As are you. Something you want to tell me about?”

He shrugged. “You can’t have order of thought in chaos.”

“A sound philosophy. Well, it’s an improvement. Nobody’ll argue with that.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Not really.”

“I have somethin’ special tonight and I quit acting.”

“You quit acting? Does that mean you got an acting job and quit?”

“Don’t be mean. I’ve officially decided that acting is not for me and I’m moving on.”

“Huh. Does that mean you’re also moving out?”

“Got no plans as of yet, but you’ll be the first to know.”

“I will need fair notice.”

“Yeah. Goes without sayin’.”

Hector turned back to his monitor. Chitchat was over.

Closed my door, lay down with my book, which was enthralling, but not so enthralling that it could overcome the bio-dip that occurs after a nice greasy lunch. So I fell asleep.

When I woke I rolled over and looked at the clock. Six-fifteen.

I jackknifed off the bed like I had a trampoline for a mattress and ran for the bathroom. Thank God I didn’t have any pillow wrinkles on my face. My right side was a little pink-looking but that would settle on the ride to wherever.

I threw water in my eyes and spritzed my hair where it had been squashed and looked like actual bedhead. The shirt might be a little mussed but didn’t scream, “I took a nap in these clothes.” So I jumped back into the boots, grabbed the coolest pair of shades I own, the Wayfarers, and made it to the curb at six twenty-nine.

CHAPTER TWO

For almost a minute I contemplated that the whole thing might be some sort of prank. Here I was standing on a curb waiting for a car without a clue what to look for, driven by a stranger, to an unidentified place for an unidentified purpose, all while being videoed for future TV airing and humiliation. My voluntary participation in this madness was sounding crazy even to myself.

My head turned to the left just as the Bentley turned the corner my way. It wasn’t just me. Every other head on the street turned to look at the car. It was a thing of beauty, a deeply polished bronze color with chrome trim. It pulled to a stop in front of me and the driver got out. She was a cute, perky redhead with natural carrot-colored hair partially covered by a chauffeur’s cap. The rest of her uniform consisted of a white tank top, black jacket, black leggings and black ballet slippers.

She bounced around to my side of the car with a megawatt smile. “Mr. Draiocht, I presume?”

I smiled. “Call me Will.”

“Against the rules, Mr. Draiocht,” she said as she opened the door to the back seat. “I’m Chatsworth.”

“Good name for a chauffeur.”

As Chatsworth closed the door and went around the car, my fingers ran over the mocha-colored leather. Let me just say that I’d never been able to shop in a store that sold jackets made with that quality of leather. It was buttery smooth, supple to the touch and I was thinking that I would have no trouble giving up acting and bartending for a life that included rides like that.

When she pulled away, I said, “Where are we headed?”

“Malibu.”

“Malibu! On a Friday night? I hope you have snacks and a full tank because that’s going to take hours.”

She giggled. “We’ll see. I have some waters and wine coolers on ice. Are you hungry now?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Please let me know if you change your mind. Would you like to listen to music? Eagles maybe?”

I watched her glance at me in the rearview mirror. What kind of spooky guess was that? Nobody my age listened to Eagles. But it just so happened that I did. They formed a bridge between the country my family listened to and the pop most women gravitated to.

“How did you know I like The Eagles?”

She smiled. “Hey. It’s a beautiful California evening. What could be more perfect for a drive from Hollywood out to Malibu?”

Well, she had me there. Nothing could possibly be more perfect than that. “Yes. I would love to listen to Eagles on the way. So, how long have you been driving for this, um, outfit?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Draiocht. I’m not allowed to talk about myself. I will, however, listen if you would like to talk about you.”

I laughed. “Eagles it is,” I said.

I would have expected the usual stop-and-go gridlock because we were on the road at the busiest traffic moment of the week, and you’ve seen the L.A. freeways in the movies and on TV, right? But we sped through town, hit all the lights and turned onto Pacific Coast Highway One at Santa Monica. It was nice gliding along next to the water, listening to The Eagles. It was so nice that, when we pulled through a gate onto the circular drive of a house tucked back in the Malibu Hills, I couldn’t have begun to tell you how we got there. Either I’d been lost in thought or enchanted by music.

The most miraculous thing was that it was not yet seven thirty when the car pulled up to the grand entrance of a structure that looked more like a palace than a home. It was impossible that the drive could have been made in that time. And yet it had.

“Here we are,” she said as the engine went silent.

I waited for her to come around to my door. If she wanted to play the role to the hilt, I wasn’t going to be a barrier to performance. She opened my door and, as I was getting out of the car, one of the two massive doors opened. A guy who looked way too much like Lurch from the Addams Family came out and stood on the landing, apparently waiting for me. The fact that the entrance was up six steps made him appear even taller than his sock-feet seven foot height.

I turned to the little redhead. “It was a pleasure, Chatsworth.”

“Likewise, Mr. Draiocht,” she smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be admitted to the Orientation, but I’ll wait just in case.”

I took that as reassurance that I was not about to be dinner, although the lyrics of “Hotel California” were suddenly at the forefront of my mind.

Sensing my reticence, Lurch gestured toward the entry and said, “This way Mr. Draiocht.”

I went ahead and stopped a few feet inside, awaiting instructions. The foyer was every bit as palatial as I’d suspected, given the price-per-square-inch of the property the house was sitting upon. I didn’t have time to take everything in before Lurch said, “Please wait in here.”

He’d shown me into a small comfortable-looking office behind French doors to the right. Nothing sinister-looking. I stepped in, took a seat in front of the desk, and waited, but not for long.

In less than a minute a sleek-looking, raven-haired beauty click-clacked in on thin high heels, wearing a black figure-hugging suit and a white silk blouse. She even wore her hair pulled back into a bun, the slight concession to modernity being that it was more or less messy. The outfit would have met the corporate manual for women using battering rams against the glass ceiling if not for the smoky eyes and the siren-red lipstick.

I’m sure she saw me take her in head to toe even though I made half an effort to do it surreptitiously. I would definitely do her. I was imagining pulling out that spike holding her hair in place and loosening that tight-fitted jacket. The chest she was hiding was very promising and clearly in need of being freed from restrictive clothing.