#BookBlast – “The Problem with Witches” by Joey W. Hill #Giveaway

Drip, drip, drip.

Just a leaky pipe, he told himself, shrugging it off. Ben glanced at his watch. He2527d told Marcie he2527d run late tonight, so when he got home, he anticipated finding her on the small nook balcony of their Garden District home. She2527d be nested into the wrought iron garden chair she2527d repainted a cheerful blue and placed amid the forest of blooming potted bougainvillea there. She2527d have a glass of wine at her elbow, her sneakered feet propped on the rail. Her lovely face would be creased in concentration, strands of her silky blond hair framing her delicate features as she studied for the police academy exams. He tried to curb his demanding appetites while she was in study mode, which was part of why he2527d chosen to work late, but pinning her to the wall and taking her hard before he fixed them a late dinner qualified as restraint for him. 

He2527d probably want her once more when they finally went to bed, but she wouldn2527t be studying then. Or when he woke at the 3am witching hour, which he often did. His beautiful submissive would murmur in her sleep, open to him, give him all of herself, as she took all of him, and then slip back into dreams, drawing him with her. His good witch, with her own special magic to counter the darkness of the bad stuff that disturbed his sleep in the middle of the night. He—

Drip, drip, drip.

Damn it. Ben paused, his brow furrowing. He tracked every foot of the parking deck, looking for the source. It was one thing to hear dripping from the eaves in the aftermath of a rain shower. They hadn2527t had rain in three days, and this drip was like the leak from a rusty pipe, something heard underground. He didn2527t like it. 

Two vehicles were on the top covered level of their parking deck, the McLaren and Lucas2527s Outback, since he2527d biked home this afternoon, the maniac. 

Only two cars, but the parking deck wasn2527t empty.

Ben didn2527t carry a gun. He was glad as hell his wife carried and knew how to use the concealed Glock she favored. But he2527d learned to fight and survive without one. Had killed without one. The ability to handle a situation with wits and whatever weapons were close to hand was a skillset he2527d never abandon. Never wanted to get out of the habit. 

It came in handy when a couple of assholes were trying to corner him on his own parking deck at work. 

“If you don2527t come out of the shadows, the security cams can2527t show me kicking your asses on YouTube. I2527ve had a long day, I2527ve got a beautiful woman waiting on me at home, and a good sirloin. So show yourselves, let2527s get this done, or fuck off.”

The shadows to the right moved. Ben set down the briefcase and put his car at his back. As soon as the cameras did show whoever was approaching him, the alert team Kensington & Associates employed would be on their way to clean up what he left in a crumpled mess on the concrete. The cameras should have already tracked what he was dealing with, but apparently the bastards had knocked out a couple lights on that side. 

The big son of a bitch who emerged wasn2527t what Ben was expecting. He wore a cowboy hat, for fuck2527s sake. He also carried a white ash staff, very Gandalf-like, that didn2527t blend with the worn jeans and dark blue button down he wore. But it did work with his boots, which might have been snake or alligator skin but was neither, at least no species Ben had ever seen. The scales were bronze and silver, with tinges of iridescent color. The guy wasn2527t wearing them as a fashion accessory. They were scuffed, well-used.

His face was lined and rugged. Maybe forty-something, until you reached the steel-blue eyes, and then Ben thought he was looking at someone—or something—way beyond room for candles on his birthday cake. Unless the expanse of buttercream frosting was the size of a football field.

The set of the guy2527s mouth and jaw said cop to Ben, no matter the odd get-up. Too often in his youth, Ben had been on the opposite side of the law, so that cop-vibe was another instinct that never went away. Yeah, he got the irony. Ben2527s own wife was studying to join the blue line. God help him. 

Asshole number two stepped into the light a few feet away from Cowboy Gandalf. This one had the same cop vibe, was also tall and broad-shouldered, though he presented himself quite differently. His black suit was a Brioni bespoke, Ben was certain of it, a four- or five-figure investment. No Lord of the Rings staff for this one, but there was an odd energy vibrating around him. 

His gaze was so dark Ben couldn2527t detect pupil from iris, as if that wasn2527t eerie as fuck. The guy2527s hair was dark, thick and silky, yet there was nothing pretty boy about the eyes. That darkness ranked up there with vampire movie effects, not so easy to laugh off in the middle of the night.

But he2527d faced a lot scarier things.

“Getting bored,” he said sharply. “I do have office hours. What do you want?”

“A voodoo priestess named Elagra Bluebird Jones,” said Cowboy Gandalf.

Okay, that was one of the scarier things.

It was perhaps the last thing Ben would expect someone to say to him. Yet it wasn2527t a surprise to hear it, because somewhere way deep down in his gut, he2527d always known he2527d have to deal with her again. 

Out of all the disturbing things that woke him at 3am, one of them actually was a witch.