Chapter 1

Present day

As Lachlan Quinn came off the job site, he immediately sensed the swirl of spell-craft. He had a zero talent for manipulating the magic himself, but like some people can taste colors, he had an odd synesthesia that could smell it working every time. This spell carried the scents of peppermint and sage, so there were two of them spellcasting.

He looked around and spotted them about fifty meters away. Two redheaded teenagers staring wide eyed at him out of a beat up gray VW Bug.

He slowly stowed his tools, his mind racing. Maybe it wasn’t him they were after.

No such luck.

The VW slotted in behind fifty meters behind his white F-250 pickup right after he pulled out.

Their “ignore me” glamor was barely adequate, probably good enough for the average mundane. Unfortunately for them, while he was mundane, he’d grown up around witch-crafters, so he wasn’t ordinary. Quinn figured they were neophytes, probably from one of the Emory Covens.

Small favors—even neophytes were deadly.

He couldn’t imagine what must have stirred the Aunties up to make them send shadows after him after all these years. He was a nobody, a small time finish carpenter and furniture builder. A vet with PTSD. So the question was—what the hell was going on?

He answered himself:

It was the Mother-damned last will and testament, of course. He probably shouldn’t have tossed that f•©king letter.

Sweet Mother of All, he hated f•©king witches.

After Quinn was lucky enough to get out of the Navy in one piece, no small thing when you spend the whole hitch tending to bunch of combat Marines, his plan was to build a smooth-running life for himself, one that was full of well-ordered routine. He wanted to tell you on a Monday what things would be like on three Mondays hence. Boring was good—adventure or drama was bad.

His goal was control over his life. He’d never had it, and he wanted it.

The problem came from the fact that his life until then had been anything but ordinary. He’d had to study up on ordinary. He’d spent the last few years watching other people, teaching himself to act like a regular person. Regular people didn’t check automatically for exits or appraise every person they met for a threat level.

Quinn put a lot of effort into blending in.

He told himself not to be pissed at those two young witches; they were just doing what they’d been told to do, but their presence was a capper on the irritants that had turned his spring and summer into crap.

He’d found out too late that the supervisor on his latest job was lazy and incompetent. The custom home they were building on the south end of Seattle’s Mercer Island had so many shoddy shortcuts that it embarrassed him to have been associated with the place. He knew he shouldn’t care so much and for once just go with the flow, but old man Finn’s lessons had set his work philosophy in concrete.

He had signed on to build a white oak and stainless steel three story circular staircase. The finished product was flawless—Quinn built nothing he wouldn’t be proud to show the grouchy old masters who trained him. The problem came from the fact that he’d had to build it, then take time to follow-up and often re-do the structural support that the framing crew often just slapped together. He had anger issues on his best day—working on that house drove him to distraction daily.

And then this morning, like a bad omen, his truck’s check-engine light flicked on. The way his luck was running, there was sure to be some big bucks coming out of his dream house fund to fix it.

He smiled at the sudden memory of old Finn and muttered the old man’s refrain. “Lad, some days it’s just one f•©king thing after another. Deal with it and quit your f•©king whining.”

The good news was that this job was complete. All he had on his agenda was a fishing trip up on the Big Hole River in Montana. The last few months a bad memory and a salutary lesson on vetting the contractors that had work before he hired on.

The bad news was that now there were witches meddling in his life. Some of whom were no doubt preparing to send the flying monkeys his way for the slimmest of reasons.

His cell rang, interrupting his gloomy thoughts.

“This is Quinn.”

“Hi Doc, you on for some poker tonight?”

“For sure, Gunny. I’ve got to stop by the house, change and jump in the shower and I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll win for a change.”

“Good to have a dream,” he laughed. “See you around 1900. It’s the Nun’s turn to bring snacks, so there’ll be some good chow.”

“Aye aye, Gunny see you then.” He disconnected. Okay then, a bright spot in this day. The twice monthly poker game with his VA group was always entertaining.