Hexed_ The Iron Druid Chronicles - Kevin Hearne [18]
The witch’s expression softened minutely, and after a brief hesitation she gave me a curt nod. “That is reasonable. I will return any hair taken from you immediately and dispel the enchantment on my threshold so that you may enter safely. But you will never use this sword’s power on me again, nor on any member of my coven.”
I didn’t nod or give any other sign that I agreed to that but instead released her and said, “Let us proceed, then.” I was curious to see whether the silent hallway had succeeded in taking my hair when I had put a binding on it specifically to prevent that from happening.
“Who attacked me?” I asked.
“Just a moment,” she said. She spoke a few words of Polish, and the door frame flared with white light for a brief second. “It’s safe for you to come in now.”
“Thank you,” I said, and stepped into her condo. It was decorated in purples, ranging from intense violet to soft lavenders, and anchored by black leather furnishings and steel appliances. The wall above the obligatory big-screen TV boasted a large painting of a triple goddess figure, presumably the Zoryas. Pale wax candles dotted the room with fingers of light, emitting a scent of orange peel and cardamom.
“I think custom demands that I offer you refreshment,” Malina said as she moved to the kitchen, “but you won’t take any, will you?”
“No, but I thank you for the thought. It is a meaningful gesture in itself.”
“Will you be seated?” she gestured toward the inviting leather couch in the center of the living area. The black coffee table had several magazines scattered about on it—Newsweek and Organic Living and Rolling Stone, I noted with some surprise. Then I wondered at myself: What did I expect, Ritual Animal Slaughters Quarterly? I almost accepted her offer, because the couch did look comfy, but then a tense whisper of caution suggested that she could say something in Polish and make it eat me.
“I prefer to stand, thank you. And with my sword drawn, though I will keep it pointed at the ground. I do not wish to take much of your time, only what is necessary to establish who attacked me and to retrieve anything of mine your enchantments may have removed.”
Malina was not used to being so flagrantly mistrusted, and I think she was close to taking offense. But, let’s face it, most people outside her coven didn’t know she was a witch; they thought her nothing more than an alluring, successful, cosmopolitan woman with glamorous hair and a penchant for wearing sexy boots.
“Fine,” she said shortly, pulling a cork out of an already open bottle of Rosemount Estate Shiraz that waited on her granite countertop. She started to pull a glass out of her cupboard, but then thought better of it and tossed the cork carelessly over her shoulder, deciding to drink straight out of the bottle since I wouldn’t be partaking. “Let’s get to it, shall we?” She took a gulp or two for courage before continuing. “Waclawa is nothing more than a collection of cinders now on the lake shore, thanks to a certain hex I haven’t seen since my younger days in Europe. It’s not something my coven can do, I assure you, nor would we want to. This hex cannot be cast without the aid of dark powers, and it takes three witches in tandem to cast it. That,” she said, aiming her bottle at me meaningfully, “should give you an idea of what we’re confronted with.”
“If I was targeted at the same time as the rest of your coven, it means we’re dealing with two dozen witches plus eight demons.”
“Correct—well, the demons may not still be around. But I’m sure they left something of themselves behind.” Her eyes grew round significantly, and I began to wonder how much wine she had already consumed.
“Oh, no. Let me guess. Eight of those witches are eating for two now.”
“Very good, Mr. O’Sullivan. That’s generally how these things work. In nine months, eight demon babies will be born—and more soon after, if the witches care to try again. There’s only one coven large enough and soulless enough to try this, and we have run into them