No Rest for the Wicca Read Free Page A

front of me. “What respectable ghost hunter couldn’t use a new, shiny athame?”
    Who indeed? I patted my jacket pocket, where my own dull, well-worn dagger rested. My fingers reached toward the blade. I pulled my hand back and shook my head. “I appreciate your generosity and your desire to show your appreciation, but the Department frowns upon accepting any tokens from clients. The letter will do just fine, thanks.”
    Zandor shrugged, replaced the blade, and bowed. “Whatever you say, Morgan Hawkes, just know you have my undying gratitude. If you should ever need a favor, you have only to ask.”
    “Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. Enjoy your home.”
    I turned and walked away without a backward glance. Damn. Sometimes sticking to the rules really bit.
     
    PIS Headquarters sat tucked away in the basement of Police Headquarters, a tall building in the middle of Central City’s business district. They said we shouldn’t take it personally, but I always believed in the old adage – location, location, location. Our location meant we were regarded as the lowest form of law enforcement, and I had no doubt it was true. The City felt its tax dollars were better spent on maintaining a force whose prime objective was to jail murderers and rapists, not dispense with ghouls who for some reason or another, refused to exit this plane of existence.
    A helluva job, but someone had to do it.
    I exited the elevator, gave the password to the guard on duty at the desk. I proceeded down the long corridor to my little cubbyhole located all the way at the end of the hall. I slipped inside, shrugged off my jacket, locked the door, and slumped behind my tiny desk. Pushed sideways into a corner, it held just enough space for my computer, cracked coffee mug, and a framed photograph of Xia and me on our High School graduation, smiling like nerds into the camera in our caps and gowns.
    Better days? Possibly.
    I put my feet up on its scarred top, leaned back in my threadbare chair and laced my hands behind my head. I eyed the mountain of papers sitting off to one side with trepidation.
    When I’d worked Homicide, I’d had an admin to do my paperwork. Now, as a paranormal investigator (I liked the term so much better than Ghostbusters) I had to do it all on my own—plus, they’d thrown in several new reports just for the hell of it. And I couldn’t even score a shiny new dagger for my trouble. Bitch. Life could be so unfair.
    My door inched open. I saw a shaggy, sandy cap of hair, a pair of cornflower blue eyes twinkling above a snub of a nose. A hand appeared, waving a white handkerchief.
    “Very funny. You can come all the way in, Danny.”
    “Whew.” Danny Robillard’s wide mouth slashed in a grin as he eased his slender frame into my cubbyhole.  “So does this mean you’re not mad over yesterday?”
    I snorted. “It’s not the first time I’ve had my stapler and notebook glued to the blotter. The seat cushion’s a first, though.”
    He chuckled, tapped the newspaper he held against his side. “Made you smile, right?”
    “Oh, yeah. Especially after I got done wiping the Stick-Um off my brand new two hundred dollar leather pants. My sides ached from the laughter.” I shook my finger at him. “If you want my opinion, your latest pranks have been kinda lame. They lack originality. Frankly, we’ve all come to expect better from you.” I swung my feet off the desk, turned to boot up my computer. “So, how bad?”
    He frowned. “What do you mean?”
    “Whatever bet you made on how I’d react? You lost, right? You bet someone I’d lose my temper and start screaming up and down the hall, right?”
    He blew out a sigh. “You’re an enigma, Hawkes. You never react the way anyone expects. At times you can be so calm, and others…”
    “Yeah, a complete psycho. So, how bad did you lose?”
    “Fifty bucks.” He put a finger against his lips. “Although the expression on your face when you realized you couldn’t