Vincent: Her Warlock Protector Book 5 Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Book Description

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Jackson (Excerpt)

  More Books

  Note from the Author

  Copyright

  VINCENT

  HER WARLOCK PROTECTOR

  BOOK 5

  By Hazel Hunter

  VINCENT

  Her Warlock Protector Book 5

  It’s not that Amanda Kirkus doesn’t want to be a witch. It’s just that she sucks at it. Despite the classes, and spells, and practicing, there doesn’t seem to be anything that she can really do. Though she’d resigned herself to keeping her day job as a hairdresser, everything changes when someone from her past reenters her life.

  Vincent Harcourt can hardly believe that the beautiful woman he’s been monitoring was the girl he’d once known in high school. Though he’s an immortal warlock now, all Amanda can see is that his black hair has gone completely white. Still struggling to get past the incident that gave him the silvery hair, Vincent is determined to nurture Amanda’s untapped power.

  But when his nemesis arrives seeking to conclude unfinished business, Vincent must confront a past that he had thought to leave behind. As he and Amanda fall hopelessly in love, she becomes a pawn in a game bigger than any of them could have conceived.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SURVEILLANCE IS EQUAL parts adrenaline and near-fatal boredom.

  Vincent Harcourt flicked his wrist, changing the photograph on his phone screen from that of a border collie to a headshot from the Blown Beauty Salon website. The name “Amanda Kirkus” ran in white block letters on a black background underneath the photograph of the stunning blonde with an up-turned nose and radiant smile.

  It was day three of sitting surveillance on the beautiful Amanda Kirkus, who, inexplicably, went from work to home each night without stopping. There was something deeply suspicious about a town where a woman who looked like that went home alone every night. Suspicions aside, all signs pointed toward this being a waste of Magus Corps time and money, even if he had managed to catch-up on his leisure reading. His classic video game scores had never been higher.

  The lights flicked off inside the salon and Vincent sat up to pull his seatbelt on, readying himself for the adrenaline portion of his surveillance day. Exiting the salon first was Aimee Wong, thirty-eight, California native living in Galveston for ten years, co-owner of Blown and of no interest to Vincent whatsoever. He started the Charger and turned the heat up full blast to drive the frozen salt air from the car. Next out, Amanda Kirkus, a possible untrained witch, thirty-one, co-owner of Blown and the reason Vincent was stuck in Galveston, Texas—in February. It was an odd homecoming in a way, though he hadn’t been back to Texas in years, and he’d never been to Galveston.

  The cold wind off the Gulf swept Amanda’s long hair away from her flawless face as she unlocked her pristine, cherry red, Austin Mini Cooper and hopped in. Vincent saw the headlights of the car blaze on and leaned forward, putting the Charger in drive, right foot on the gas, left foot on the brake.

  Amanda Kirkus fired her Mini Cooper out of the parking lot, bouncing over the curb and into traffic, tires squealing as she made the hard right turn.

  Vincent slammed on the gas, tearing out from behind the dumpster. There was just enough traffic to bring the Charger to a sliding stop three cars behind Amanda at the first stoplight, the evening’s drag race momentarily delayed by an ill-timed light. He revved the Charger’s engine, prepared for her next move. He sat in the right hand turn lane, ready for her right onto Seawall Boulevard and the race back to her house.

  The light turned green.

  Horn blaring, Amanda shot across three lanes of traffic cutting off two cars and narrowly missing a bicyclist in the crosswalk to make a hard left at Seawall Boulevard, heading east, away from her house.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  The Charger was a powerful car but could not maneuver as well as the Mini, leaving Vincent trapped in the far right lane between a VW and a Chevy coupe. He fought his way over to the left turn lane, bullying the Charger left on Seawall Boulevard as the Mini’s brake lights flared in the rear view mirror. He pulled a screeching U-turn, hammered on the gas and put the Charger’s engine to work. He followed her through town, slowing to a crawl as they entered the historic district.

  Amanda slid the Mini to a stop in a parking space outside a sunshine yellow, elevated, creole cottage, the bumper of the Mini a paper’s thickness from the white privacy fence which surrounded the property.

  Vincent circled around, pulling through the alley rather than taking the longer trip around the block, before parking three spaces down and to the left of Amanda’s Mini. He turned off the engine and brought his phone to life.

  “The Tree of Knowledge” was painted in two foot high script across the twelve foot high, faux-colonial sign staked in the front yard of the cottage. The phrase “Classes Available” had been added by a less adept hand in smaller print as a second line. A pleasant enough looking home, if you liked your home enclosed by an eight foot high privacy fence.

  A quick internet search let Vincent know this was the place, the moment he had waited for. The Tree of Knowledge’s course offering for the evening: Learning Tarot, with the special bonus of “Open to The Public.” Three days of home-to-work-to-home trips, and he finally had an opportunity to observe her in public without attracting undo attention.

  Nothing brought an end to a Corps investigation quite like a stalking charge.

  He watched a few more people drift through the gate and into the house. He was a little overdressed in his standard uniform of black wool suit and black cotton dress shirt, but nothing that would stand out. He exited the Charger and headed for the cottage.

  Inside, hardwood floors creaked in the near silent combination living and classroom. Students turned to look over their shoulders at him, but Amanda, in the front of the class, was too occupied with the arrangement of her cards, notebook and pens to l
ook his way. He took a seat at the back of the room in a metal folding chair, elbows propped on the wood-grain laminate surface of the cafeteria table and looked around the room to take in his fellow students. Most were of the bored, normal variety, housewives and lonely hearts who were here in the search of something to make them unique in a world filled with beige walls and Berber carpets.

  The instructor breezed into the room through a doorway at the front left of the classroom tables in a cloud of patchouli and sandalwood, her loose dress and scarf flowing behind her.

  Oh, shit.

  Vincent ducked, careful to keep his face hidden from the instructor, one Paulina Fordham, coven leader and kind of an ex, sort of, if you counted that thing in Marrakech.

  Amanda looked up from her the notebook when Paulina entered. Pens out, notebook open, Tarot cards face up on the table in front of her. She was ready. The cards were rich with symbolism, but the pictographs on the overhead flickered by fast as Amanda tried to catch everything. She pushed her pen across the notebook page, filling out her pre-drawn table with as much information as she could. The Nine of Pentacles flashed on and off the overhead screen in less than a minute.

  It’s a nice racket, Vincent thought.

  The normals would get just enough out of the class to come back to the next session and the Wiccans could log their continuing education credits with Magus Corps without breaking a sweat. All at twenty-five dollars per session, per person, with two sessions a week.

  The class ended as it had begun as Paulina drifted back through the doorway at the front of the room, taking the patchouli and sandalwood with her.

  Amanda stood, shoved her notebook and loose cards into her leather courier bag and followed the rest of the class back out through the front door into the enclosed courtyard.

  Vincent stood as she walked past, catching her eye.

  She threw him a cheeky smile.

  Well, I'll be damned. He returned her smile. This may be easier than I thought.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CHAIR OPPOSITE the table from her screeched as it was pulled across the cement pavers of the cottage’s courtyard. Amanda sat under the heat lamp, warm in its glow as Vincent Harcourt took a seat in the pulled-out chair. His sharp features lay under a head of short clipped, silver hair Amanda remembered as black. It wasn’t gray with age, but something more. She could not have recreated that shine, even with the help of the best hair products in the world. She wanted to touch it, run her finger through the strands to see if it felt as electric as it looked. The boy she had known had grown into a man with that perfect airbrushed quality you only see in soap operas and porn. She grinned from ear-to-ear.

  “Vincent Harcourt,” she said.

  Vincent’s black eyebrows inched up a bit.

  “Do you really not remember?” she said. “Gorman Catholic School, Tyler, Texas."

  His eyes widened. “No."

  "Anne Shaw. We were in the same graduating class."

  He stared down at her.

  "Annie?"

  The Anne Shaw he had attended High School with had been twenty-five pounds heavier, a brunette and, most importantly, named "Anne Shaw" not "Amanda Kirkus."

  Relief flashed across his face, then a grin.

  “You look fantastic,” he said. She couldn’t help but laugh. "I mean, you always looked great, but now…”

  Until she’d heard him say it, she hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to hear it.

  "Thanks,” she said, grinning. “And the name is Amanda now."

  "I'm sorry, I should have..."

  She let him off the hook. "No offense taken. It's nice to know you were interested in me and not the girl you sort of knew in high school."

  His smile was absolutely gorgeous. "So how are you?" he asked.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AS AMANDA FILLED him in on the intervening years, Vincent found himself entranced. How the gorgeous woman sitting with him could have been that girl in high school he still could not fathom.

  "Oh, I didn't change my name,” she was saying. “Well, that's not entirely true. Anne is my middle name and used by everyone in Tyler. First day of college the professor called attendance and said, 'Amanda.' Turns out, I’m a 'Amanda' not an 'Anne.' I became a Kirkus when I got married."

  "You’re married?"

  It felt like a piece of his life had just been stolen from him.

  I really should have read the goddamn file.

  "Divorced. Two years. And you?"

  "Never married."

  She is going to think I am a lunatic if I don’t stop grinning.

  Paulina rapped her knuckles on the table top. Both Amanda and Vincent looked up to see the courtyard emptying as the last of the students drifted toward the gate.

  “How is it going?” Paulina asked.

  Amanda looked at Vincent and said, “Really well.”

  Paulina’s expression remained carefully blank. “The tarot.”

  “Total crap,” Amanda said. “I still have no idea what I am doing.”

  “Keep trying, dear. Now, if you don’t mind I need to borrow Vincent here for just a moment." She already had Vincent’s right elbow in a bone crushing grip, encouraging him to stand up and come with her.

  "It's all good,” Amanda said, thankfully not noticing. “We can catch up later."

  She stood and gathered her things as Paulina guided Vincent away from the table.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PAULINA’S EYES LANDED on the silver double-pentacle tie tack in the center of Vincent’s chest.

  "You’re a Captain, now. I see the Magus Corps is still rewarding failure."

  Paulina’s tight hold on Vincent’s elbow did not relent as they walked the circumference of the courtyard.

  "What have you heard?" he asked.

  "Same thing everyone's heard. Can we just get the formalities out of the way?”

  She waved her right hand in a gentle circular motion near the mid-point of the heat lamp they stood under, the lamp dimming before turning off.

  “Amanda is not untrained. She is here, learning. Right now it's tarot. Soon it will be aromatherapy, again. She is signed up for a Wicca certificate. So, whatever brought you here is finished. You can go home now.”

  They came to the next lamp, which she turned off with another wave of her hand.

  "We both know that isn't sufficient training,” he said.

  "No, you think it isn't sufficient. I think her talent may be so rare it may never be found. Kind of like being an exorcist."

  Vincent smirked, "It's more useful than you think."

  "Really? Let's talk about your hair or the witch you lost in St. Louis."

  Vincent changed tack. "Why are you being like this? I know we’ve had our issues, but–”

  "Like that night in Agadir when I road you like Secretariat and all you could do was complain about having sand in your crack?" Her left eye narrowed, a warning of danger for the man the eye focused on. "Or how about when I woke up the next morning with a pissed-off myrrh dealer pounding on the door looking for you? And no you. You mean those issues?"

  "It was a frankincense dealer."

  A look which predicted Vincent’s imminent death crossed Paulina's face.

  "I was young."

  "It was last year."

  With the last of the lamps extinguished, Paulina began to drift with Vincent toward the gate. Certain that Amanda had gone, Vincent was tired of the game.

  "I’m trying to play nice here. We both know compliance is required. Just give me a copy of the notarized paperwork confirming Amanda is a member of your coven and I will go."

  “There isn’t any. She’s not one of mine.”

  Vincent blinked. “Then why is she here?”

  Paulina shrugged. “Because she has an interest, but no real clue what she is. Are you going to take her to coffee before you kill her?"

  "Paulina, godd–"

  She held up her right hand in surrender. "You're right, that was unfair.
Murder is not your usual MO. Has Amanda come to the attention of the Templars?"

  "No." He was quick to answer. The community here was under the radar and there was no need to sound the alarm. "No one has done anything to draw their attention. All is well. All I need to do is bring her into the fold and get out of town."

  She finally relented her hold on Vincent's elbow at the garden gate.

  "You’re good at the leaving town bit."

  She gave him a little shove through the gate. A quick sigil with her left hand and a snap of her fingers with the right and Vincent could see the electric blue glow of the ward around the gate.

  If he wanted back in, he would have to hop the eight foot fence.

  From the parking lot behind him came Amanda’s welcome voice.

  "Hey, sailor. Wanna get coffee?"

  He turned to see Amanda in her wool coat and purple scarf, hair golden under the halogen street light, smiling at him from beside her Mini.

  Well, hell yes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LIONEL STEERED THE white Porsche through island traffic down Seawall Boulevard. The usual beach town collection of board shops, t-shirt stands and restaurants interspersed with the ruined shells of the buildings abandoned after the last hurricane passed by. Galveston was the dirt poor cousin of South Beach, the Cozumel wannabe with neither the right kind of beach nor the money to compete. Not that it mattered. Lionel was not here to mingle or make friends. These were not his people. His people were in New York, London, Amsterdam—he would even admit to knowing a few in Chicago. When his people went to the beach, it was because they owned a house there.

  He pulled the Porsche into the parking lot of the St. Walpurgis Universal Contemplative Center, looked at the address on his phone, the sign on the building and back to his phone. The addresses matched. He parked the car, exited, and proceeded quickly to the sanctuary.