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To Kill A Warlock
Chapter One

There was no way in hell I was looking in the mirror.

I knew it was bad when I glanced down. My stomach, if that’s what you wanted to call it, was about five times its usual size and exploded around me in a mass of jelly-like fat. When I moved, it shook like Jello. To make matters worse, it was the
color of overcooked peas—that certain jaundiced yellow.

I didn’t think I’d ever be able to eat peas again.

“Wow, you look like crap.”

I did my best “don’t piss me off” look, but I wasn’t sure my face complied. Shit in a hat, I had no idea what my face looked
like. If it was anything like my stomach, it had to be canned-pea green and covered with raised bumps. The bumps in
question weren’t small like what you’d see on a toad—more like the size of a dinner plate and inside each bump, my skin
was a darker green. And the texture—it was like running your finger across the tops of your teeth—jagged with valleys and mountains.

“Can you fix it?”  I asked, my voice coming out monster-deep. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised—I was a good seven feet tall, and with the substantial body mass, my voice could only be deep.

“Yeah, I think I can,” Sam’s voice didn’t waver which was a good sign.

I turned so I wouldn’t be in the line of the sun’s rays as they broke through the window, the sunlight not feeling too great against my boils. I glanced at Sam’s perfect sitting room, complete with a sofa, love seat, and two armchairs all in a soothing beige, the de facto color for inoffensive furniture.

Better Homes and Gardens sat unattended on Sam’s coffee table—opened to an article about drought resistant plants
and how beautiful they can be. I felt a slight twinge of guilt as I realized I’d disrupted Sam’s horticulture moment when I’d trudged into her house and demanded her help.

“You have like nine eyes, I think.”

At least they focused as one. I couldn’t imagine having them all space cadetting out. Talk about a headache. I turned my attention from her happy sitting room and forced my nine eyes on her, hoping the extra seven would make my gaze all the more penetrating.

“Can you focus please?” I snapped, wanting to get out of this Jabba-the-Hut suit as quickly as possible.

Sam held her hands up, waving her white flag of surrender. “Okay, okay. Sheesh, I guess being a gigantic booger has put
you into quite the crap mood.”

My legs were aching with the weight of my body. I had no idea if I had two legs or more or maybe just a stump—my
stomach usurped them completely. I groaned and leaned against the wall, waiting for Sam to put on her glasses and
figure out how to reverse the spell. Sam was a witch and a pretty damned good one at that. I’d give her twenty
minutes—then I should be back to my old self.

“Was it Fabian who boogered you?” she asked.

I was never going to live this one down.

The mention of the little bastard set my anger ablaze, and I had to count to five before the anger simmered out of me
like a water balloon with a leak. I peeled myself off the wall and noticed a long spindle of green slime stuck to the plaster
which was reaching out as if afraid to part with me.

Holy Hades, I was disgusting.

“Ew!” Sam said with repugnance, taking a step back from me. “You are so cleaning that wall.”

“Fine. Just get me back to normal. I’m going to murder that Fabian when I get my hands on him.”

Fabian was a warlock, a dark master of witchcraft. The little bastard hadn’t taken it well when I’d come to his dark arts
store to observe his latest truckload delivery. I knew the little rat was importing illegal potions (love potions, protection potions, lust potions…the list went on), and it was my job to curtail it. I’m a Regulator, someone who monitors the creatures
of the Netherworld to ensure they’re not breaking any rules. Think law enforcement. And Fabian clearly was breaking some rule. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have turned me into a walking phlegm pile.

“Hold on a second, I gotta put these in the oven.”

Sam turned and faced a sheet of perfectly laid out chocolate chip cookie mounds. I watched her sashay to the oven and couldn’t help but think what an odd picture we made: Sam, looking like the quintessential housewife with her apron, paisley dress and Stepford wife smile and me, looking like an alien there to abduct her.

She slid the cookies in and threw the oven door shut, turning on me with a bright grin. “Now, where was I? Ah yes, let
me just whip something together.”

Kneeling down, she pulled open a cupboard door underneath the kitchen island, then grabbed a couple clay bowls, three
glass jars, and a metal whisk. One jar was filled with some sort of pinkish powder, the next with a liquid that looked like molasses, and the third with a white powder that looked like sugar.

“I don’t have time to sit here and watch you make more cookies.”

“Dulcie, stop being so cranky! I’m stirring a potion to figure out how the heck I’m going to help you. I have no idea what
spell that little creep put on you.”

I frowned, or at least I thought I did. Sam opened a jar and took a pinch of the pink powder between her fingers. She
dropped it in the bowl and whisked. She spooned one tablespoon of the molasses-looking stuff into the bowl and whisked. Dumping half the white powder in with the rest, she paused and then dumped in the remainder. She whisked.

Then she studied me, biting her lip. It was a look I knew too well—one that wouldn’t yield anything good.

“What?”

“I need some part of your body. It doesn’t look like you have any hair. Hmm, do you have fingernails?”

I went to move my arm and four came up. But, even with four arms, I didn’t have one damned fingernail—just webbed
hands that looked like duck feet. I bet I was a good swimmer.

“No fingernails.”

“Hmph,” Sam said and continued to study me. “Well, this might hurt then.” She turned around and pulled a butcher knife from the knife block before approaching me like a stealthy cat. Even with my enormous body, I was up and out of her way instantly.

“Now hold on just a second. Keep that thing away from me.”

“I need something from your body to make the potion work right. I won’t take much, just a tiny piece of flesh,” she pouted.

I felt like adding “and not a drop of blood,” but was too pre-occupied with protecting myself. “How about some spit?”

She stopped coming at me. My entire body breathed a sigh of relief which, given the size of me, was a pretty big breath.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I guess that might do.”

She put the knife back, and I made my way over to her slowly—not convinced she wasn’t going to Sweeney Todd out on
me again. She held out the bowl and instructed me to spit. I wasn’t sure if my body was capable of spitting, but I leaned
over and gave it a shot. Something slid up my throat, and I watched a globule of yellow land in her bowl.

It was moving. Egad.

It continued to vacillate as it interacted with the mixture, sprawling this way and that like it was having a seizure.

“Yuck,” Sam said, holding the bowl as far away from her as possible.

She returned it to the counter just as the buzzer went off. Facing the oven, she grabbed a mitt that said “Kiss me, I’m
Wiccan”, pulled open the oven door, and grabbed hold of the cookie sheet, placing them on the counter near me.
Strange, but I couldn’t smell anything, and you know how great newly baked cookies smell.

Even though I couldn’t smell them, as soon as I saw them, I lumbered over and although I wanted to stop myself,
grabbed the sheet, not feeling the heat of the tin on my webbed hand. Sam watched me, her mouth hanging open in
horror, as I lifted the sheet of cookies and emptied every last one into my mouth. I swallowed them whole, not bothering to chew.

Feelings of horror also visited me. I don’t even like sweets.

“Well!” Sam said, her brows furrowing with anger, giving her normally angelic face a little attitude. “I was saving those to bring to work on Monday, thank you very much!”

 Sam didn’t wear angry well. She was too pretty—dark brown shoulder length hair, perfect skin, perfect teeth, big brown eyes—I wasn’t exaggerating when I said Stepford.

“Come on, Sam, you know I didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t even like cookies,” I pleaded, my mouth brimming with gooey chocolate. After swallowing the last one, something slimy and pink escaped my mouth and ran itself over my lips.
It took me a second to realize it was my tongue. Rather than curling itself back into my mouth, it hesitated on my
Ubangi lip as I focused on a stray chocolate chip lounging against the counter. Instantly, my tongue lurched out and
grabbed hold of the chip, recoiling into my mouth like a spent cobra.

Sam quirked a less-than-amused brow and ran her palms down her paisley apron, a sure sign that she wouldn’t be angry much longer. I, myself, have to count to ten, twenty sometimes. Otherwise, my temper is an ugly son of a bitch. I
sighed…so, she wasn’t going to hold the cookies against me.

“Besides, none of the guys at work deserve them anyway.” I knew because I worked with Sam.

She just frowned but appeared to be in the process of forgiving me, a slight smile playing with the ends of her lips.
I turned to the potion sitting in the bowl. The yellow ball of spit was still moving around, and I nearly gagged when Sam stabbed it with the whisk and continued her stirring. I peered over her shoulder and watched the potion change
colors—going from a pale brownish to a reddish then deepening into a flame orange.

“What’s it doing?”

Sam nodded as if she were watching a movie, knew the ending, and was just dying to tell someone what happens. “Ah, of course, I should’ve known. The little devil put a hemmen on you.”

“A what?”

“It’s just a charm. You’ll be back to normal in about five hours or so. It’s a short- term shape-shifting charm.”

“Five hours? Can’t you get rid of it sooner?” Five hours was a long ass time to be stuck like this. It was difficult to walk, I couldn’t lean against anything because of the snot, and looking like the quintessential monster living underneath every kid’s bed wasn’t fun.

Sam shook her head. “It’s not worth it. Would take lots of herbs and potions I don’t have. I’d probably have to get them at Fabian’s.” She laughed. “How ironic would that be? Just hang tight. It’ll go away, I promise.”

It figures the little bastard would’ve put a short-term spell on me. Currently, there weren’t any laws against turning
someone into a hideous creature if it would wear off after a while. And, even if he had turned me into this creature
long term, he’d probably only get a slap on the wrists. The Netherworld wasn’t exactly good with doling out punishments.
I was working on making it better.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “One hundred percent sure. Let’s just watch a couple movies to keep your mind off it.” She hurried to her entertainment center and scanned through the numerous titles, using her index finger to guide her. “Dirty Dancing?
Bridget Jones?”

“The first or second Bridget?”

“I have both,” she said with a triumphant smile.

“I like the first one better.”

With a nod of agreement (who doesn’t like the first Bridget Jones better?), Sam pulled the DVD out, gingerly placed it
into the player and faced me. I stood in her living room, not really sure what to do with myself. I couldn’t fit on her
couch, and with my slime ball still suspended on the wall, I guessed sitting was out. Yep, I was going to stand this one out. Sigh.

“How did Fabian catch you unaware enough to change you into…that?” She asked and pointed a finger in my general
direction. I shifted my weight, not sure how I’d stand for five hours straight. This just…sucked.

I sighed, which came out as a grunt while Sam stood up and skipped into the kitchen, pulling out a packet of popcorn
which she nuked in the microwave. Sam was an excellent hostess.

She turned toward me and waited for my answer. I couldn’t quite meet her eyes and, instead, focused on drawing
slimy lines on her counter top with one of my eight index fingers.

This was the part of the story I was least excited about. Fabian never should’ve been able to catch me without my
guard up. I’m a fairy. We’re renowned for being extremely quick, and we’ve got more magic in our little finger…well,
you get it.

“My back was to him… I know, I know…super dumb.”

Sam’s eyebrows reached for the ceiling. “Hmm, that doesn’t sound like you at all, Dulce. Why was your back to him?”

If I wasn’t excited about that last part of the story, this part excited me even less. “There was someone in his shop I’ve
never seen before.”

Sam laughed and quirked a knowing brow. She got my gist.

“So let me make sure I’ve got this right.” She plopped her hands on her hips and paused for a good three seconds.
Maybe she was getting me back for the cookies. “You, one of the strongest fairies around, turned your back on a known practitioner of the dark arts because he had a hot guy in his store?”

I frowned. That was about it. Well, almost it. “He wasn’t just hot. I’d never seen him before, and I couldn’t figure out
what he was.”

While the stranger’s formidable height, dark hair and twinkling blue eyes had first caught my attention, it was the fact
that I couldn’t figure out what type of creature he was that really got me. As a fairy, I have the innate ability to decipher a creature as soon as I see one. I can tell a warlock from a vampire from a gorgon in seconds. I don’t get paid the big bucks
for nothing.

Sam’s face took on a definite sense of surprise, her eyes wide, and her lips twitching. “You couldn’t tell what he was? Wow, that’s a first.”

I nodded or hoped my bulbous head nodded. “Exactly. I had no idea who he was, and if he’s here permanently, he never checked in with me or Headquarters.”

Any new creature who hoped to settle in Splendor, California needed to register with Headquarters, otherwise known as the A.N.C (Association for Netherworld Creatures). And more pointedly, they had to register with me. This new stranger hadn’t done either. Maybe he’d just gotten lost when coming over. It wasn’t rare for a creature to come through the passage from Netherworld to Earth and somehow get lost along the way. You’ll find the directionally challenged anywhere.

“Well, maybe talk to Bram. He always seems to know what’s going on.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, actually. Bram was a vampire (I know, how cliché…) who ran a nightclub called No Regrets. No
Regrets was in the middle of the city and was the biggest hangout for creatures of the Netherworld. If something was
going down, Bram was always among the first to know.

First things first, I’d pay a visit to Fabian and let him know exactly how much I didn’t appreciate his little prank.
Then, if he couldn’t give me any info on his strange visitor, I’d try Bram. My third choice was Dagan, a demon who ran an S&M club near No Regrets. Of course, the S&M club looked like any other club—the whole sadomasochistic stuff strictly behind closed doors, deep within the club. Otherwise, the people of Splendor never would’ve allowed it. Dagan was
always my last resort—I hated going to his club, Payne—S & M is sooo not my thing. I’d seen things there that had
scarred me for life.

I sighed as it looked like my plans for the weekend were shot. Not like I had much planned—just editing chapters of the romance novel, Captain Slade’s Bounty. I’d been working on it for six months now. I’d been looking forward to a quiet weekend, so I could focus on Captain Slade and his ladylove, Clementine, and now it looked like I’d be working the streets of Splendor instead.

Big Goddammit.

###

Six hours later and Bridget Jones one and two, Dirty Dancing and four bowls of popcorn under my belt, I was home and
back to myself. I felt like shit considering I’d eaten more in one evening than I usually ate in a day.

Wasting no time in unlocking the door, I headed through my sparse living room and straight to my bathroom. I threw
off the clothes Sam had lent me (the blob I’d been turned into had done a hell of a job destroying my outfit) and turned
on the shower full force. I was back to myself, but still disgusting—covered in a layer of what looked like clear snot, like
I’d just dropped out of God’s nose.

I tested the water and finding it still too cold, turned to face myself in the mirror. Yes, I was back to me. Small and
slender and no longer green. I’m not a vain person but I was very happy to see myself reflected back at me. I pulled
my mane of honey-gold hair from behind my back and inspected it. If I was narcissistic about anything, it was my hair.
It was long—right down to my lower back and it looked like it had fared decently well in the metamorphosis. Well, except
for the slime.

My hair was long because I wasn’t particularly thrilled with my ears. As a fairy, my ears come to points at the tops. You’ll never see me sporting a ponytail. Other than that, I look like a normal human. And, no, I don’t have wings.

I checked the water again; it was warm enough. I lived in a pretty shitty apartment in the city and the pipes in the wall screamed every time you turned the hot water on—they’d just pound if you wanted cold. I know I mentioned earlier that I make a good living, and I do. The shitty apartment is due to the fact that I’m saving all my money so I can retire from the A.N.C. Then I can focus on my writing full time.

It might sound strange that one as magical as I would need to work nine-to-five weekdays and some weekends, but
there it is. There are strict laws in place that disallow those of us who can, to create money out of thin air. I guess the
powers that be thought about it and realized all creatures who can create something from nothing—fairies, witches and warlocks, just to name a few—certainly would be at the top of the food chain…something bad for the less fortunate
creatures and humans, too.
So I have to work. I’ve accepted it.

I stepped under the less-than-strong flow of water, which was more like a little boy peeing on my head, and grabbed my gardenia-scented soap, lathering my entire body. I repeated the process four more times before I could actually say I
felt any semblance of clean.

After toweling myself off, I plodded into the living room with a towel wrapped around my head and body. The blinking red light on the answering machine beckoned to me. I had three new messages.

hit play and sighed when I heard Bram’s alto voice, reminiscent of his English roots.

“Ah, I’ve missed you, sweet. Come by the club. I have information for you.”

He never bothered saying “this is Bram.” The arrogant bastard. As to the information he had for me…that could be meaningless. Bram had been trying to get into my pants since I became a Regulator—about two years ago. And just because he had my home phone number doesn’t mean he’d succeeded—I used to be listed in the phone book.

I deleted the message. I’d have to pay him a visit tomorrow. The next message was from my dry cleaners—my clothes were ready to be picked up. The third message was from my boss.

“Dulce, it’s Quillan, Sam told me what Fabian did to you. Just calling to make sure you’re okay. Give me a call when you get in.”

I hit delete. Quillan was a good boss; he was the big wig of Headquarters, the Chief, and an elf. Elves are nothing like you’re imagining them, although they are magical. Whereas I have the innate ability to create something from nothing (all it
takes is a little fairy dust), Quillan is magical in his own way. He can cast spells, control his own aging and he’s got the
strength of a giant. Fairies and elves are like distant cousins—sprung from the same magical family tree but separated by lots of branches.

Quillan is tallish—maybe five-ten or so, slim, and has a certain regality to him. He’s got a head of curly blond hair that would make Cupid envious, bronze skin, eyes the color of amber, and I’ve lusted after him for years. Like I said before, he’s a great boss and regardless of the interest on both our sides, he’s never acted on it. Too bad for me.

I wasn’t in the mood to call him back. I’d add him to my long list of visits for tomorrow. Even though it was Saturday, it
looked like I’d be working.

Sometimes being law enforcement for the Netherworld is a real bitch.

Learn more about the characters in Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble and To Kill A Warlock