Tooth and Claw: The Harry Russo Diaries, #2

By Lisa Emme

Q:  When is a witch, not a witch? 
A:  When she’s a necromancer. 

Angharad ‘Harry’ Russo has had to adjust to some major changes in her life.  Her computer is haunted, she accidentally acquired a vampire servant and she’s attracted to the most aggravating alpha male on the planet.  Her friend betrayed her, a lunatic tried to sacrifice her to raise a god and she accidentally ‘outed’ herself to the Magister, the most powerful vampire in town.  What else could go wrong?  Oh yeah, she’s just discovered that her father is a vampire and her dhamphiric powers are emerging prematurely.  Poor Harry doesn’t know what weird ability could pop up next.

When werewolves start to go missing, and two young men die suspiciously, not to mention horrifically, Harry believes it’s all connected.  It could be a hunch, or it could be the big, grey wolf that stepped out of her dreams to haunt her waking moments; either way, Harry knows that she needs to help solve the mystery.  Now if she could just convince the sexy police detective, Cian Nash, to take her seriously.

This is the second book in the Harry Russo Diaries.  It is a stand-alone adventure with no cliffhanger.  It is intended for a mature audience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Emme
• Release date: Jan 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994828835

Lisa Emme

Lisa has been practising to be a storyteller almost since the day she started to talk.  Known to have told a tall tale or two as a child, she has always had an over-active imagination.  A voracious reader, Lisa has been preparing for this adventure in writing since she first became hooked on Fantasy novels at the age of ten.  After reading hundreds, if not thousands of books, she finally felt it was time to put her thoughts on paper (well, computer screen, but that doesn't sound as catchy). The Harry Russo Diaries is one of the first ideas to battle its way out of the deep dark crevices of her imagination.  

Book preview

Chapter One

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Harry dear, we’re going to need some more glads for the funeral sprays. Mrs. Potts’s sing-songy voice preceded her into the shop’s backroom where I sat at my work bench putting together some ‘brown-thumb’ friendly succulent containers. I had been at it all morning trying to catch up on restocking the display shelves at the front of the store.

I own Contain Yourself, a small flower shop that specializes in container planting and recently, business has been booming. Mrs. Potts - Mrs. P to her friends - is my assistant. A complete role reversal since she used to own the shop and had been my boss up until she decided to semi-retire and I bought it from her. Funny thing, I think she is working more now than ever.

Lately, we couldn’t seem to keep up with the demand. Our flower service, which for the most part had been walk-ups for ready-made bouquets of the ‘get-out-of-the-dog-house’ variety, was suddenly in high demand. Funerals, birthdays, anniversaries, you name it. Customers were ringing our phone off the hook and filling up our inbox with orders for floral arrangements for every occasion. The container orders had also sky-rocketed. Suddenly businesses all across town wanted me to put together potted arrangements for their lobbies and boardrooms.

Ah, sure. I think I have some ready to cut up in the greenhouse, I fudged. I didn’t have any gladiolus flowers growing in my rooftop garden or greenhouse, but I did have some bulbs I could hurry along with a little witchy push of my hedge magic. I can grow just about anything, thanks to the magical green thumb I inherited from my Gran. My mom was a witch too, but I never knew her; she died when I was born. My father is a different story. I don’t know where he is and well, he was never really alive, seeing as how he’s a vampire.

Really dear, Mrs. P looked at me and shook her head, we don’t have time for the whole charade of you going upstairs to the greenhouse to fetch some non-existent flowers. I know there are some bulbs down here in the cupboard. She patted my shoulder. I won’t tell if you won’t. She winked at me.

I, um… I stared at Mrs. P at a loss for words. Witches - and vampires and werewolves for that matter - weren’t really out of the closet so to speak. Norms, what we supernaturals call you non-magic folk, weren’t supposed to officially know about us. There are always a few members of each level of government that are in the know however, so of course the secret isn’t that well-kept. We had in fact tried to come out in the 60’s, but the president at the time decided it was better to keep us under wraps. There was more than one reason they called him ‘Tricky Dick’.

For the most part, norms just aren’t equipped to believe we exist. Sure, you love your horror movies with vampires and werewolves and your popular books with young wizards and witches, but when confronted with proof of the existence of these things, your brains just go into overdrive making up ‘logical’ explanations or denying they saw anything at all.

"You don’t think I’m a norm do you?" Mrs. P asked with a smile.

Well, actually, I kind of did. Of course now that I was thinking about it, she didn’t really ‘read’ as normal to my semi-reliable supernatural power detector, the sixth sense I seemed to have that let me gauge the power level of vampires and werewolves.

I’m a brownie, dear, she replied with another motherly pat on my shoulder. You didn’t think your apartment was cleaning itself now did you?

I was dumbfounded. Although now that she mentioned it, the apartment was looking rather neat and tidy and since I couldn’t remember the last time I pulled out the vacuum (did we even own a vacuum?), I should have wondered who was keeping the apartment clean. I’m not saying that Tess, my best friend and roommate, and I are slobs or anything. We do the dishes and tidy up after ourselves, but I really couldn’t remember the last time I had to clean the shower or scrub the toilet. I guess I just always thought Holly, our former friend and roommate who was now dead - kind of a long story - took care of those things.

Wow, I really was oblivious. Bad enough I hadn’t noticed that Holly actually hated me and was working for the biggest nut-bar around. The very same nut-bar that tried to revive the Cult of Osiris by raising a bunch of zombies using black magic and that wanted to kill me and steal my powers. I didn’t even realize that my former employer was Fae, a brownie bound to the building - the old converted firehall that housed both my shop and apartment – that I now owned.

No wonder Isaac keeps making batches of oatmeal honey bars, I said, mostly to myself.

Brownies love honey and oatmeal. And, since you never thank a brownie unless you want to insult them and have them leave your house to fend for itself, small gifts of tasty treats are a way to show your appreciation. Good thing Isaac was on the ball and on a baking binge. Otherwise it would have been an inexcusable amount of time since we last showed Mrs. P our gratitude.

Isaac is my...well, I really don’t know what Isaac is. After three weeks as roomies - he moved into Holly’s old room - I certainly felt we could be called friends. That is, if your definition of friend was someone who compelled you to act as your personal bodyguard using their rare necromantic powers over the dead and undead. Despite having done just that to Isaac, completely by mistake and under coercion I might add, I’d like to think that we were actually becoming friends. He did seem to be enjoying his new life and freedom to express his love of cooking. He was also my mentor in all things vampire, helping me to use and control my burgeoning dhamphiric powers.

A dhamphir is just a fancy word for a human-vampire offspring. They are always the result of a vampire male and human female mating and are extremely rare. Necromancy is even rarer than being a dhamphir, so I guess you could say I really hit the genetic lottery. I have yet to determine if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

I do love his baking, Mrs. P replied. Have you tried his lemon bars?

I had. And his peanut butter crunch bars and his chocolate chip coconut bars and his caramel pecan fudge. It was a good thing that Tess and I both had crazy metabolisms that had us eating double the normal number of calories every day or we would be four sizes bigger than we were a month ago. As it was, Isaac was baking so much that we couldn’t possibly eat it all, so I had started to bring trays of baked goods down to the shop for customers to sample. The baking was such a hit, I was seriously thinking of selling it in the store or maybe even renovating the extra storefront next door and opening a coffee shop.

I loved the lemon bars, but his butter tarts are my favourite, I replied.

They had been so good, Tess and I had almost come to blows over who would get the last one. We ended up deciding things by arm wrestling, something that until a few weeks ago would have put Tess at an unfair advantage with her being a werewolf. But, with my powers growing more vampire-like every day, it was pretty much a toss-up. Although Tess won, I had her worried for a few minutes.

The bell on the shop’s door rang, preventing further conversation. Mrs. Potts returned to the front to see to the customer, while I went to work coaxing a handful of glad bulbs to grow and flower so that we could finish our order for a funeral later on that afternoon.

It really wasn’t that difficult, for me at least, to persuade a plant bulb to grow. I just held each bulb, which in the case of the gladiolus it’s called a corm, in the palm of my hand, muttered a Latin incantation that was absolutely unnecessary, but helped me to focus, and then gave it a little push with my powers. The bulb burst open, a tiny green sprout pushing through the corm. In seconds, the sprout became a shoot, then the shoot became a stalk, and finally the stalk grew buds. I gave another little push of magic and poof! Flowers burst open all along the stalk.

Oh! That’s so cool.

Surprised, I dropped the now flowering glad spike and turned to find Christina Nash, a werewolf and the sister of a certain annoying police detective, Cian Nash, standing in the doorway.

That was totally amazing. I didn’t know you could do that, Christina said as she approached my workbench and picked up the fallen flower spike.

Hey Christina, I didn’t know you were there, I replied somewhat lamely.

Sorry, Mrs. Potts just told me to come on back. She smiled and shrugged. Can you do it again?

Sure, I guess. I have a couple more to do. I had never really practiced my magic with an audience before. I picked up the next corm and held it up in my hand for Christina to see. "Crevisti," I said while I waved my hand dramatically over the corm. Might as well put on a show if you have an audience.

The corm trembled then a small green shoot poked out. I handed it to Christina. Here, hold on tight. I gave the shoot a little magical push and the stalk burst forth almost flying right out of her hand.

Whoa! Christina looked like a kid at her first magic show. That’s incredible. Small buds began to appear with tiny red tips and then the flowers began to slowly unfurl. In seconds she was holding a fully flowered gladiolus spike.

Thanks. I’ve always had the knack. I gathered up the flowering spikes and cut them from the now ruptured corms and put them in some water for later. So, is there something I can help you with? Do you need to order some flowers?

No, no flowers today, Christina replied. I actually came to talk to you. To see how you were doing after everything that happened. I thought you might come by the Lodge.

Oh, you did?

Sure, you can come any time you want, you know; now that you’re out of the closet so to speak.

I am? Yeah, I guess I am. I hadn’t realized it, but Gran and Christina’s mother, Eleanor, a member of the werewolf Triad, had tried to keep my abilities under wraps, protecting me and giving me time to come into my powers. For years I had denied my true nature, but that had all changed in the last few weeks. My powers were prematurely forced to the surface when I used them to prevent a violent overthrow of the Cimmerian, Riverton’s supernatural governing body, by an insane, power-hungry mage. Although I had outed myself unknowingly to the Magister, Salvador Arroyo, the leader of the Cimmerian, there was no going back. My secret was definitely out.

I guess I haven’t felt that much like socializing, I said with a shrug. For the most part, Tess and I had holed up in the apartment and binged on movies. We felt it was our duty to broaden Isaac’s movie horizons. Can you believe he had never even heard of Star Wars? Or watched the Lord of the Rings?

And so I guess you haven’t been seeing much of my brother? Christina looked at me, feigning nonchalance.

Nash? I mean Cian? I frowned at her. Why would I see him? I haven’t broken any laws or stumbled across any dead bodies in weeks.

Cian Nash, Christina’s brother, was a police homicide detective. He and his partner, Dev, were also liaisons between the norm world and the Cimmerian. I first met Nash when I was trying to help Bryce, a victim of a homicide who held a clue to the identity of the leader of the Cult of Osiris. To say we hit it off would be a big, fat lie.

Nash was overbearing and totally exasperating, even if he did make me kind of (okay totally) hot and bothered. And, as far as I could tell, Nash thought I was nothing more than an aggravating, helpless female who shouldn’t meddle in police affairs. He didn’t want anything to do with me, even if his wolf felt differently. I said as much to Christina.

His wolf? she asked skeptically.

Yeah, his wolf likes me, but he doesn’t.

He said that?

Yeah, why?

Oh, no reason, Christina replied with a calculating look on her face. Hey, do you think I could try another of those delicious macaroons you have out front? she asked, obviously changing the subject.

Sure, I replied, letting her. I really didn’t want to talk about Nash. Take a bunch. There’s more upstairs. Isaac has been making them for days, or I guess I should say nights, trying to perfect his recipe.

Isaac made them? The vampire? Really? She couldn’t hide her surprise. Most people are when they learn that vampires can actually eat real food.

If you think those are good, you should try his butter tarts. I’m actually thinking we should open a coffee shop and start selling his baking.

We headed back out to the front of the shop, chatting about my idea for a café. After a few more minutes, Christina left with a bag of macaroons and a promise from me that I would visit the Lodge soon, provided she cleared the way for Isaac to come too.

Chapter Two

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I was still mulling over my coffee shop idea when I met with Isaac on the roof for another lesson. For the last few weeks, he had been working with me to try and figure out what I could and couldn’t do. Usually, a dhamphir’s powers mature over time and with age, the typical dhamphir coming fully into their powers in their thirties. I was twenty-three, soon to be twenty-four in the new year, and rather than being precocious, my powers had arrived in abundance out of pure self-preservation when confronted by a crazed lunatic intent on stabbing me in the heart with a really big, magical knife. Add to the fact that it was a guessing game as to what power was a result of being a necromancer and what was because of my mixed parentage, and it was a total crapshoot.

Try again Harry, focus, Isaac said patiently. He sat back in his chair, watching me. We were sitting around the portable fire pit I had lit to take off the November evening’s chill. Well, I felt the chill, Isaac didn’t.

"I am trying. It’s just not working. It’s not like there’s a ‘Fangs On’ switch, at least not that I can find, I complained. My fangs had made an appearance weeks ago when I was thrown into the middle of a blood magic ritual. At the time, I thought I was just high from magical overload and hallucinating, but Isaac assured me that they had been real. Since I had yet to actually see them again, I was having a hard time believing him. What does it matter whether or not I have fangs?" I asked impatiently.

As a vampire, your fangs are an important part of who you are, explained Isaac. Not only are they your primary weapon, they are an indicator of your power and control. You must be able to exhibit full control.

So no premature…uh, fanging out. Darn, that sounded better in my head.

Isaac rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes, something like that. Only very new Vlads fang out, as you say, without provocation. You must demonstrate control. We don’t want the other vampires to think you are weak."

And that was the real reason for his concern. Since being forced to come out as a dhamphir and a necromancer to the vampire community, I basically had a target on my back. It didn’t help that Salvador, the Magister and most powerful vampire in town, had taken a special interest in me. So now I was either feared because I was a necromancer or hated because I was Salvador’s new pet. It didn’t matter which side they were on, vamps either wanted to kill me or kill me.

Isaac reached over and grabbed the small, wide-mouthed thermos he had brought with him. He unscrewed the lid and held the bottle out to me. Tell me what this smells like to you.

I wrinkled my nose in anticipation, but took the bottle anyway. There was a thick, dark liquid inside. I took a sniff and instantly regretted it. Ewww, yuck. Is that blood? I made a face and handed the bottle back to Isaac. It smells awful, like rotten pennies.

And yet you said it appealed to you the night of the ritual, he replied, setting the bottle down on the table.

It was different then. I was scared and hungry and getting high on all the magical energy in the air.

Hmmm, yes, it was different. Isaac looked at me pensively.

The next thing I knew, he had lunged across the space between us and had me by the throat. In a blink of an eye, he dragged me to the edge, bending me over the small half-wall that surrounded the roof.

Holy shit, Ithaac! Are you nutth? Put me down. I put my hand to my mouth in surprise. Hey, my fangth!

Interesting, Isaac replied as he set me back down on my feet. He strode across the roof and grabbed the thermos, bringing it back and holding it under my nose. Now how does this smell?

Yuck, I said. It thmellth exthactly the thame.

Interesting, he said again, taking a long drink from the thermos. He smacked his lips with a smile and shrugged. At least we know your fangs will appear when you feel in mortal danger. Now you just have to work on controlling them. Try retracting them. No…wait. Maybe you should practice speaking with them first so you don’t sound like a third grader with a lisp.

Ha, ha, very funny Ithaac. I mean, Isaac. Hey, you try talking properly with four brand new fangs in your mouth. Okay, letth…let’s talk about this great idea I had for a coffee shop.

Chapter Three

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I love churches. There is something almost magical about them. I don’t mean my kind of magic, I just mean something that makes them feel special. Maybe it’s the calm and hushed voices, the reverence they make you feel. Whatever the case, St. Anthony’s, with its gleaming stain glass windows, was one of my favourite churches in the city.

I was here for a funeral. Well, I wasn’t actually here to attend the funeral; I was working. Often, we get an order to provide flowers for a funeral service that the family would then like transported to the site of internment. It meant I had to hang around until the end of the service and grab the flowers, then drive them to the cemetery. We had been so busy lately, I had actually hired a delivery guy, but he was out making deliveries across town, so I was working this one.

Mourners were slowly beginning to trickle in and find seats. I was standing to the side in one of the small chapels off the main nave, trying to be discreet and watching the ghost of the recently departed pace back and forth in front of his own coffin. At least it wasn’t an open coffin. I really don’t get that. Why would you want to stare at a dead guy? Did you need proof he was dead or something?

The dead guy - his name was Charles Mathers - was muttering to himself. I was really hoping he didn’t notice me. I decided my best bet would be to sneak back out and wait in the narthex, the waiting area at the front of the church. I had just turned to make my escape when a familiar form stepped into the church nave.

Great, just what I needed. What was he doing here? I swear it seemed like Nash was following me half the time. Now I was stuck between having to deal with the dead guy or the surly, confusing hot guy. Naturally, I chose the dead guy and stayed where I was.

Unfortunately, Nash must have seen me duck back into the chapel because he started to walk down the aisle heading straight for me.

What are you doing here? he asked in his usual gruff manner. Nash never seemed to feel the need to adhere to the social niceties, at least with me.

"And a good afternoon