Kicking It(14)

Lyons froze, breathing hard, and I grabbed my potion box and ran to the boots.

They were moving. The pointed tips turned to face me, and worked into that battered leather was something living, a reptilian, vile face that stared back at me. Something that needed to go back to hell fast, because I knew it was capable of moving on its own now . . . capable of touching me.

And if it did . . .

I fumbled in my case and found what I was looking for; it felt hot to the touch, and I pulled the cap and threw it like a grenade, straight for the boots that were striding inexorably closer to me.

The potion ignited on contact with magic, and I reeled back from the fireball as it exploded . . . white-hot, a fury that held power of its own. The color changed, from white to a clear, fierce blue, and inside it the boots jittered, danced, kicked, and turned into snakes that writhed and bit each other in a frenzy of rage as the fire ate them slowly away into tubes of gray, inert ash.

“You bastard,” Lyons whispered. He was weeping, but it wasn’t in grief—it was bone-deep anger. “You fucking bitch. I don’t need the boots. I don’t need anyone else to take you down. I’ll burn every witch in this town, every one in this country. I’ll build a mountain out of your bones and piss on it—you hear me? I’ll end you!”

Andy took in a deep breath, then let it out. “That turquoise you got there on your bolo? It ain’t demon-touched. Only things you had to give you power were your knife, your boots, and your hate. Guess I’ll leave you the hate. You go out and try to make your case to people without those other things. We’ll see who wins in a fair fight.”

“You’d better kill me, witch!”

Andy holstered his gun. “Mister, you ain’t worth the powder it’d take.”

But he wasn’t above kicking Lyons right in the face when the man tried to lunge for him, and left him moaning in the fetal position on the floor with his broken teeth scattered around him.

“Fine job,” he said to me, and I smiled at him as I shouldered the weight of the potions box.

“You might just have to teach me to shoot for next time,” I said.

“Now, let me keep some advantage,” he said. “What with you not needing me for much else but—”

I kissed him. “But that?” I wiped some of the rotten red liquid from his cheek. “Never mind. I know what you mean. You’ve got demon crap on you. Maybe later.”

Lyons was still trying to make threats, but lying there in his blood and picking up teeth, bubbling tears and snot, he just looked like an angry, beaten old man.

Andy and I walked out into the clean, clear Austin evening, and drove home.

—

The protesters were gone. They’d left behind a mess of broken signs and rocks and glass, and spray-painted DIE, WITCH in red on our house, but none of them had lingered. I opened the garage door, and we parked the car. Andy took the potions case inside, and I went out to survey the damage.

The neighbor from across the street was on his porch. As I started to pick up some of the trash, he went inside, then came out again, walked over, and silently handed me a pair of work gloves and a trash bag.

He helped me clear it up. Not a word spoken until the very end, when he said, “I’ll be over tomorrow to help you clear that paint off the door. Can’t have that kind of thing in the neighborhood. Leaves a bad impression.” As if it were just gang graffiti.

I gave him a nod, fighting back tears. It was the briskest kindness I’d ever received, and the most meaningful. “Thanks,” I said.

“Well, we are neighbors,” he said, and shrugged. “You take care.”

The next day, Pete Lyons was on TV, red-faced and sporting spectacular bruising and missing teeth as he spouted off an insane rant about witches. He gained a few new fringe supporters; he lost the vast majority of those he’d assembled, who woke up feeling considerably less motivated.

At the next election, he was voted out by a massive margin, in a conservative district, in favor of a guy who advocated marijuana farming and open marriage.

And Austin PD? Started using witches again for investigations. Not right away, of course. But Ed Rosen was the one who got it rolling. He also bought a dealership for Holly’s Balm and became our top seller in the Austin area.

Oh, and for my birthday, Andy bought me a pair of cowboy boots.

Snakeskin.

It’s a good thing I love him.





STOLEN GOODS





BY SHANNON K. BUTCHER





1



Simone Solange was reputed to be one of the world’s best thieves, but after watching her walk into the café, Marcus Brighton guessed that men would simply give her whatever she wanted without her needing to steal a thing.