Chapter One
Greginald
The door of number 12 Hemming Way opened, dry wood on creaking hinges serenading the bell above it that chimed a warning. A customer? Nine times out of ten, it was a moody gothy teen looking to buy ten different baggies of herbal tea and a colored candle to place a curse on someone that earned their ire. Little beacons of negative karma, alters of chaos, and invitations to the unknown to work their tendrils into the untalented.
Then again, I’d been one of those teenagers myself at one point. Fifty? Sixty years ago? Time lost relevance once a mage stopped aging. And even in mage communities, I was a whippersnapper. A freaky whippersnapper. Half shifter. Half other. Wholly desperate to feel included.
I had no idea who my parents were and wasn’t particularly inclined to find them. I knew I was born from an alpha giraffe shifter and an omega human—as it was on my paperwork, but nothing else. But even the orphanage doubted I was half human. Not even a name. I still had my umbilical cord attached when I was left on the doorstep. But babies, no matter how fucked up they were, were always preferred over anything old enough to have learned what a curse word was. And as an added bonus, I was fortunate to not be born addicted to anything, so I was adopted quite quickly by a lovely alpha giraffe couple. My fathers, bless their souls—so I don’t get haunted—couldn’t decide whether I’d be a Greggory or Reginald.
Instead, they compromised and decided I’d be bullied.
“Whoa…” The young man who strode in stared up at me. Then up again. Eyes wide.
“Yes, yes. Get the jokes out. How’s the weather up here? Fantastic. Less fantastic than that bald spot you’re working on. Yes, I can see things on the top shelf. No, I don’t get to look down ladies’ shirts. That would be rude.” I stared down and watched the man fidget. Mid-thirties? Too old to be a fly-by-night practitioner. Too unfazed to be in need of my services.
“Oh, I’m looking for a Greg-in-ald Hawthorne?” He dug in his coat pocket; eyes still pointed up at the ceiling to meet my gaze. As a half shifter, I had the most unfortunate blend of genes. Sure, I could shift to be fully human, but that required effort and concentration that I didn’t feel like putting on for errant fools wandering in.
“It’s just Gre,” I sneered, the musculature of my upper lip curling back over broad, square teeth that reflected back at me in a dozen ways from the ceiling’s chandelier.
It reminded me that the building, when I bought it, had been a little Italian romantic restaurant, and I’d done little more than move my apothecary and trinkets in, convert the kitchen to living quarters, and spell the upper floor taller so I had headspace.
“Gray?” He repeated back, and I nodded.Close enough.The local vernacular always stretched out syllables indecently long.
Satisfied, the interloper withdrew a paper from his pocket and extended it. Farther down my mass, I reached a hand out, taking it before I lowered my head down with a curl.
“You’ve been served.” He saluted me and marched out, muttering something aboutfreaky-ass mongrims.
A younger me would have shouted back at him that we preferred the term hybrids, but I was older, wiser, and crankier. Instead, I flicked long, pale fingers, letting my magic flow through them with a gust of wind that slammed the door against his backside with a satisfyingwhumpand yelp.
I narrowed my eyes and traversed the paper as I unfolded it.
I’d not slept with anyone recently, and certainly not one that was capable of getting pregnant. When one’s matron deities were fertility goddesses, you were overtly cautious. So, paternity suits were out of the question. I’d not fired or hired anyone to get into employment trouble, not sold anything illegal, nor had I let any of my licenses lapse.
I muttered as I read.Something, something, something; we regret to inform you of a pending lawsuit. Something something, if you cannot afford an attorney, get fucked—in the case of Lymmings V. Mages of Greater Lowell Valley Coven citing Greginald Hawthorne as a named defendant. Accused of… Hexing, cursing, jinxing, or otherwise magically bringing harm to the penis of one Malarthe Lymmings.
I had no use for hexes, no use for curses. I dealt with breaking hexes, supplying herbal teas, remedying the problems of magic and, occasionally, a little bit of penile necromancy. Nobody could blame a man for wanting magically enhanced stiffies. And certainly not for this Lymmings fellow. A man’s wood was sacred until he put it somewhere it didn’t belong. In that case? Probably witches.
Aside from that, everything else was luck, cats and minutia for my mistresses Bastet and Diana. This Malarthe gentleman’s peen was someone else’s problem.
I web-searched the name. Apparently, he was many people’s problem. Banned from most magical services, accused philanderer and serial masturbator, minor politician and potential vexatious litigant. The number of women scorned by the man?Definitely witches.
I sighed and placed the paper on my counter, folding my arms over it. The problem with dealing with the forces of the mystical, permitted or not, was that anyone could accuse one of anything and the burden of proof was on the defendant. Fortunately, I kept meticulous records of my clientele.
Barring anything else I could do, I reached for my phone, a relic of bygone times with a rotary dial. Two fumbled attempts later, and I sighed heavily, shifting with a drawn-out moan as my neck vertebrate cracked. “Fuck!”
I tilted my human head from side to side and held the receiver to my ear, grumbling as I made better use of facial proximity. When one’s arms couldn’t reach their head, it made phone calls difficult. The phone rang as soon as I entered the correct digits, and a bored feminine voice picked up on the other end. “LVC, Marilyn speaking.”
“Hi, this is Gre Hawthorne on Hemming Way. I received a notification I’m being sued—”
“Oh, right, the penis thing.” The drawl on the other end sounded a quaint mix of bored and intrigued.
“Correct. I’m aware that the coven has insurance for litigious instances for the mages. I’d like to speak with the coven’s lawyer, if possible.” And because I wanted to be polite to the potential gatekeeper to my tidy nest egg, I thanked her.
It didn’t do much good. But she wasn’t pissed, so that was a positive.
Keys tapped in the background. “You’re not the only one who is being sued, it appears, and the coven’s lawyer is double-booked on this.”
She sucked her teeth.
