Holly’s Balm: Andy’s calming brew, meant only for bringing peace to troubled souls.

I grabbed it, uncapped it, and poured the fluid on the surface of the red shield . . . and a white streak ran down where it touched the red. It had a glassy shine to it, and I yelled at Andy and pointed.

He fired at it, and the hardened shell . . . shattered. Popped like a red blood bubble, leaving spatter on the walls and on our faces, and it smelled foul. I wiped at it with my sleeve, but didn’t pause as I jumped the line.

Lyons had one boot in his hand and was fitting it on his toes. I almost reached for it, almost, but something stopped me—the memory of that feeling of snakes slithering on my skin. Fangs gleaming and ready to strike. If I touched it, it would own me, too.

Instead, I shifted my weight and kicked, hard. I broke Lyons’s fingers in the process, most likely; the boot flew off to smack against the far wall. I kicked its mate over to join it.

When Lyons tried to crawl after it, Andy stepped up, cocked his pistol, and put it to his head. “I wouldn’t,” he said. As always, he sounded way too calm. “Unless you want to see what’s on your mind, friend.”

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.

She was utterly stunning. Her midnight black hair fell in glossy waves around the face of a temptress, lending a bit of softness to her strong jawline. Her long, lean body was encased in black leather clinging to curves powerful enough to cause even Marcus’s disciplined mind to sputter to a halt for a split second. Her stride was slow, almost sinuous. Every move she made screamed of confidence. As she saw him staring at her, her full lips, painted a shiny red, lifted in a knowing smile.

She came up to his table, spun a chair around, and lifted one shapely leg to straddle it. Deep red boots tooled with painstaking detail hugged her calves. The familiar flash of leather caught his attention for a moment as she settled into place across from him in a move that had him thinking about lap dances.

Suddenly the table seemed much smaller, putting her well within reach. He could smell the oncoming warmth of spring clinging to her riding leathers, along with a hint of wildflowers and even wilder woman.

“What did you bring me?” she asked in a voice made for sin. Low, soft, with just enough rasp to make a man imagine what she would sound like in the throes of passion.

“Just like that?” he said. “No introductions. No small talk.”

Her slender shoulder lifted in a negligent shrug. “Life’s too short for small talk. You’re Marcus. You want something from me. And I want something from you. Show me.”

Her words had his mind reeling for a moment before it caught back up with reality.

He opened the leather satchel he carried and pulled from it a deep red purse the exact same shade as her boots. Like the boots, the leather was tooled with intricate symbols that had taken weeks to get just right. The handbag was small enough not to get in the way but big enough to do the job she required of it.

Marcus slid it over the tabletop.

Simone hesitated for just a moment before reaching out to touch the leather’s surface. She drew the tip of one finger over the markings, following their winding path around the edge. “You’re right. It matches my boots perfectly.”

“I promised it would.”

She gave a dismissive snort. “Men promise me impossible things all the time.”

He just bet they did. Even now he was holding his breath, hoping that the work would live up to his hype. “Open it.”

She pulled the flap open and looked inside. A disappointed pout gathered her mouth, making it no less lovely. “It’s empty.”

“Is it?”

She looked up at him then, her smoky green gaze hitting him hard. He felt the breath leave his lungs and was momentarily unable to remember how to inhale.

Simone Solange was definitely as dangerous as her reputation professed.

After a second, she reached into the purse. “All that’s in here is this paper.”

“Good. Then it’s working as it should.”

“What is this?”

“A contract. History has given me reason to heighten my security against theft. The purse won’t work for anyone but its rightful owner. Which is me. You want the purse, I have to offer it to you of my own free will.”

“Tease.” She read the brief contract he’d left for her to find. When she was done, she hit him with that killer stare again, but this time he was ready for it.

Too bad being ready didn’t make a difference. He tried to play it cool, but her beauty was more than a simple distraction. It was a potent poison that flooded his brain with chemicals that rendered him stupid.

“This contract is only good for three minutes,” she said.

“Long enough for you to see that what I offer is real and to make up your mind. Unless you’re slow.”

Her gaze narrowed in warning at his jab. “Give me a pen.”

Marcus pulled one from his pocket. She took it, her warm fingertips grazing his skin. He couldn’t tell if the touch was accidental or not, but he was already hoping she’d do it again.

She scrawled her name at the bottom of the contract, leaving behind a signature as intriguing and curvy as the woman herself. “There. Now what?”

“The purse is now yours for three minutes. Look inside again.”

He’d made it a point not to touch the purse in any way. He didn’t want her to think he was cheating—not after the lengths he’d gone to to make sure she got what she wanted. He needed her cooperation too badly to make any mistakes.