Keeper
Copyright© 2021 by Charly Young
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 fucking letter.
Sweet Mother of All, he hated fucking 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.
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