Chapter 1

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

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

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

The VW slotted in behind four car lengths behind his white F-250 pickup right after he pulled out.

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

Small favors—even neophytes could be 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?

It was the letter. He shouldn’t have tossed that fucking letter.

Sweet Mother of All, he fucking hated 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 a bunch of combat Marines, his plan had been to build a smooth-running life for himself, one full of well-ordered routine. He wanted to know for certain on a Monday what things would be like 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 challenge came because his life had been anything but ordinary. Quinn had had to study up on ordinary. He’d spent the last few years watching other people, teaching himself to act normal. Regular people didn’t check automatically for exits or appraise every person they met to determine their threat level. Regular people don’t make sure to sit with their back against a wall with a clear view of an exit. Regular people just seemed to blend in.

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 his name 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 taught 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 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, he was convinced it would be big bucks coming out of his dream house fund to fix it.

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

The good news was this job was complete. All he had on his agenda was a fishing trip up on the Big Hole River in Montana.

The bad news was that now he had two Covens of 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.”

Quinn disconnected. Okay then, a bright spot in this day—the twice monthly poker game with his VA group.

Just before Quinn mustered out, the company’s Gunny had pulled him aside and suggested (strongly) he sign up with the VA as soon as he got home to get help to deal with the PTSD that was sure to come.

So far, he had had limited success with the VA’s program. His fault he knew—for the process to work you had to share your thoughts, experiences and feelings—something he was willing to do but couldn’t—as soon as they heard what he had to say, they’d be locking him up and throwing away the key.

Nobody alive had experienced what he’d been through.

Quinn also agreed to attend the group’s poker game because he figured that was something a normal guy would do—play poker with his buddies twice a month. After the first night, he was grateful that they had invited him. The game was as close as he could come to being back with the platoon.

He arrived at the Gunny’s combination garage and workshop to find Billy and the Nun in the middle of an argument.

Billy O’Day, a former grunt from the 10th Mountain, had some serious burn scars, a prosthetic hand and a bubbly irreverent outlook on life. He had no censor between his mouth and his brain. If a thought popped into his head, he said it.

He had named Captain Mary Agnes O’Malley, the Nun, because of a seventh-grade teacher he’d had at St Mary’s Catholic School in Philadelphia with that exact name. Mary Agnes was no nun however, a fifty-something retired CSH operating room nurse, she was profane and profoundly cynical. Mary Agnes put up with the name good naturedly; she gave as good as she got. She was also a lesbian—a source of endless fascination for Billy.

“Gunny, for Christ’s sake, go get me a ruler,” she yelled. “I can see there was too much Mr. Rogers in this boy’s childhood. He’s not okay by any stretch, but two good whacks across the knuckles on his good hand might make him fit for polite society.”

Billy jerked his right hand behind his back and grinned at her.

“What’s going on, Barbie,” Quinn whispered. Warrant officer Barbara Sessions was a burn scarred former medivac chopper pilot. Billie had named her Barbie over her vociferous objections. He had stopped slinging Ken jokes after Barbie had pulled a knife out of her boot and threatened to cut off an ear after he had offered to help find her a Ken one too many times. Quinn pulled her up short before things got out of control. Barbie, a serious weightlifter, could wring Billy’s neck like a chicken, as she often threatened too.

“Hey Doc, ‘bout time you showed up. Dumb ass found out next Saturday is Mary Agnes’ birthday. So, he’s been going on and on about how we should all take her to Honey’s and buy her some beer and table dances as a birthday present.”

Quinn shared a grin with her and settled down to enjoy the show. He had a regular seat at the end of the table, his back to a wall and with a view of an exit.

The LT called Billie and Barbie, the twins. Maybe because they were both carrying burn scars, or more likely because they were both bat-shit crazy. Excitable, LT called them with his understated southern drawl.

First Lieutenant Lamar Jackson was a big solid black guy, a medically discharged Texas A&M graduate from the 4th Stryker Brigade. He had almost made it through his second deployment when a bit of hot shrapnel from an IED sliced through his cheek and right eye. He was due for a prosthetic eye, so he wore a patch. Billy called him the Pirate (behind his back).

Gunnery Sergeant Kevin Murdock, a marine with a prosthetic foot, was the eldest of the group. He’d almost made his twenty before he got wounded. He was a proto-typical gunny—he projected an effortless calm leadership.

Quinn was Navy, an HM2 corpsman. He figured he was the lucky one. He’d come through four deployments with the second of the sixth marines without a scratch, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was the craziest of the bunch. While the others suffered PTSD from the combat they’d experienced, Quinn’s had roots that stretched farther back.

Billy had tried to name him Doc Quinn, Medicine Woman. But he only did it once. Quinn had zero ego, but he was proud of the Doc title. Months into his first deployment, when the gunnery sergeant finally called for Doc Quinn instead of that fucking squid, Quinn felt like they’d awarded him the Navy Cross.

“Billy shut the fuck up. Nice to see you Doc. Okay everybody, let’s play some poker,” barked the Gunny as he dealt the cards.