Warlock at Law

By R.L. Baranowski

Attorney Alistair Burke has been newly hired to represent supernaturals who find themselves in legal trouble in the state of Wisconsin. His first major client is a shapeshifter on trial for a murder he didn’t commit, an already tough job further complicated because Alistair must defend his client while preventing mundane humans from discovering supernaturals live among them.

The case turns out to be the tip of the iceberg– the first move in a slaver's plot to capture and kill local supernaturals, using their life energy to power his own necromantic magic.

Although Alistair is by no means ready to deal with the situation, he will not allow his friends to die....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pixie Wolf Publishing
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215977989

Book preview

CHAPTER

ONE

Ipaused outside the door of the interrogation room. I stood in the old jail, clutching a half-finished convenience store coffee and having a panic attack. My attorney bluster had gotten me this far, but inside I was a disorganized mess. On the other side lay the biggest case of my career. A homicide. My first.

My name is Alistair Burke, and I’m a small-time litigation attorney practicing in Madison, Wisconsin. My client-to-be was a military veteran accused of beating and strangling a young woman outside a downtown dance club. Given Madison’s major oversupply of lawyers, a high-profile case like this one could make my career.

I took some deep breaths, trying to control my heart rate and checked my wristwatch, again. It was my father’s, a classic, 1966 gold Omega Constellation with a soft leather band. 7:45 a.m. I wound it again.

Abby stepped in front of me. Winding your watch for the second time this morning? Anxiety is your body’s way of telling you to walk away, Alistair.

No. I reached through her torso for the doorknob. As a fallen angel, Abbadonna is incorporeal, and my hand passed through her without resistance.

Stop. This case is dangerous. I’m worried for you.

I paused and met her gaze.

Her silver eyes were wide, and her lip quivered ever so slightly. She wasn’t lying. She was worried about me.

I checked the hall. We were alone, but I popped in my phone’s earpiece just in case anyone happened by. Abby is invisible, which is to say, invisible to almost everyone but me. Her bleached-paper skin and hair implied chronic illness, but the wavery ghostlight outlining her frame suggested a less-than-cordial relationship with the material world. The only color on her came by way of her ever-changing wardrobe, meticulously copied from the haute-iest and most couture of European designers, or in other words, too outrageous and impractical to be worn by real women in the real world.

The decision’s been made.

She stomped her foot noiselessly. By you.

I nodded. That’s how free will works. Remember our contract? As a dying seventeen-year-old-boy, I’d contracted with her, an act that joined our lives together. I get to live, and, permanently metaphysically anchored to me, Abby gets to avoid Hell for the duration.

She arched one eyebrow. It’s a Threshold case. When the Covenants are involved, there’s always danger. And you don’t know enough about them to protect yourself.

I read the books….

Yes, but you kept dozing off while reading the case law.

Sure…I’d dozed off a few times. But to my thinking, it was just another set of laws from a different jurisdiction. A strange jurisdiction, admittedly, but then again, so was California, or so I’d been told. The Threshold Covenants governed supernaturals and our secret society. Most important of these was the Edict of Seclusion, which required us to maintain a curtain of absolute secrecy to prevent normal, average members of society, aka mundanes, from discovering that we lived among them.

My new client was a supernatural arrested by the City of Madison’s Police Department. In such cases, the Edict required him to have a supernatural attorney, which is what I am. My clients can tell me the most extraordinary facts, things that would shock or confuse a mundane lawyer. But where a mundane attorney would start working on commitment papers, I would maintain our society’s secrets and try to keep them out of prison.

I sighed. Abby, I’ve handled four Threshold cases. They paid on time, I’m still here, and none were dangerous.

She huffed. You reviewed three contracts and wrote a demand letter to an insurance company. That’s busy work, not cases. You didn’t even meet the clients face to face. This is different. Serious.

They’re just people—

They are not ‘just people.’ If they were ‘just people,’ there wouldn’t be a need for the Covenants. Thresholders are dangerous— you have no idea what they’re capable of. You’ve never even handled a mundane case this important. Your hubris is going to be your downfall.

"Hubris? That’s rich coming from you."

Her lip quivered. I expected an outburst, tears, or rage. Instead, she responded coldly, Our contract requires me to advise you. I’ve done so. I’ll have nothing further to do with this. She glared at me one last time and then stalked off through the wall to my right.

Typical Abby. There was no advisory clause in our contract, but once again, she had reinterpreted it to suit her purposes. I’d long since grown tired of arguing with her, so I let it slide. On the bright side, I wouldn’t suffer any of her distractions during the interrogation. I took three more deep breaths, counted backwards from ten, and opened the door.

I picked out Luke Johnson right away. He was huge, six-five or six-six easy, broad-shouldered and muscular, with tan skin with reddish undertones. He wore his black hair in a close-cropped military style, all of which lent him the look of a man that doles out beatings and saunters away, but he’d been beaten, both recently and violently. One of his bright blue eyes was black and swollen. He wore a glazed expression either from concussion or sleeplessness. A thick patch of sticky tape covered his nose. Bloody bandages swathed his hands and forearms. If he was the victim of police brutality, the two uniformed cops flanking him and the detective seated in front of the door had taken it to new levels.

Nerves be damned. Now I was angry. I stormed in to confront the detective. What in the hell is going on in here?

The detective bolted to his feet so fast his chair flew out from under him with a shriek of metal. Out. This is my interrogation.

Before I could reply, one of the uniforms moved my way. You heard the man. Move it.

His buddy clamped a hand on my client’s shoulder. "Don’t you get any ideas, boy."

I held up my bar card. I’m his lawyer, Alistair Burke.

The detective glared at my ID. Fluorescent light gleamed off his bald dome, throwing the valleys of his Shar-Pei wrinkles into stark relief. At first, his gaze was all belligerence and righteous indignation. He sighed and pushed his fingers into his temples. Attorney. Fabulous. His voice had the phlegmy growl of a lifelong smoker.

I put my ID card back into my pocket. What’s your excuse for my client’s condition? Resisting arrest?

The detective’s eyes narrowed. Don’t insult me. His injuries predate this interview.

Are you trying to find out who did this to him?

We’re pretty sure we know who did it to him.

Great. We’re done here. I’ll get him to the hospital.

After I conclude this interview.

He needs medical attention, Detective….

Burgess. And he’s already had it.

You have documentation of that? Because he looks like he could use some more.

Burgess gestured at the door. Talk to the secretary. End of the hall. He’ll show you the records.

Right. I wasn’t that naïve. If I left now, he’d bar the door and then step up the pressure on Luke. I dropped my coffee cup and briefcase onto the table. After the interview.

You’re not needed here, Counselor. He’s not in custody.

"Meaning he’s not in cuffs? I can see that, Detective. If you’re telling me this is not a custodial interrogation, then we are leaving. Now."

He smiled, showing more teeth than necessary. No.

In that case, take your objection to the Supreme Court. They might overturn the Fifth Amendment for you. Until then, I’m staying. I reached for a chair. I need to consult with my client. You can wait outside.

The uniforms clenched their jaws, and the closer one rested one hand on the butt of his pistol.

The overt threat caught me off guard and set my heart racing, but I wasn’t about to let some cop intimidate me. I swallowed hard and turned my back on the cop and his gun to stare at Burgess.

Burgess hadn’t moved. Why would he? Here, in the heart of his fortress and dressed in the trappings of police authority, the weight of his gaze sent lesser beings scurrying for cover. Lesser beings like defense attorneys barely five years out of law school and working their very first homicide case.

My stomach churned. I wanted to scurry, oh, so very much. I forced myself to hold his gaze. This was now a test of wills to see who would blink first.

The moment lengthened.

Of course, Abby chose that instant to stroll through the cinderblock wall, accompanied by the usual whiff of cordite. Well, I’m back. Our contract requires me to—Oh, a standoff!

Long practice with her sudden appearances allowed me to avoid glancing at her. I forced myself to hold Burgess’ gaze. Neither Burgess nor his uniformed officers acknowledged her presence at all because they couldn’t see her.

But Luke obviously could. He growled from the center of his mass, a sound deep enough to rumble the metal table like a subwoofer. The sound crawled straight out of a primeval forest and into my lizard-brain, triggering my fight-or-flight reflex. I yanked every last bit of my will, refusing to bolt out of the room.

Burgess blanched, blinking rapidly, and flinched away from the table. I turned to see both uniformed officers shying towards the far corners of the room, sweat sheening their faces. My client glared at Abby, his eyes tracking her movements. His hands pressed white-knuckled against the table as he prepared to leap for her throat.

What the…? He could see her, too? Amazing.

Abby shrugged and pointed at me. I’m with him.

Luke turned his baleful gaze onto me, the angry rumble trailing off, but the threat remained. I couldn’t breathe under the weight of his gaze, and my hand crept unconsciously towards my tie to loosen it. His eyes demanded an answer. I nodded slightly.

It was enough. He glowered at me, but otherwise relaxed.

The police and I collectively sighed. Burgess’ face collapsed around his frown and his shoulders slumped. Looking past Abby, he jerked his thumb towards the door. Two minutes, he added to me.

I sat, as much to hide my shaking knees as to project a confident aura. Make it five.

Burgess glared at me, anger rekindling in his eyes. For a moment, I feared I’d pushed him too far. But then, he nodded and opened the door. The beat cops filed out, one walking straight through Abby on his way. Burgess turned to follow, leaving his recording equipment on the table.

He planned to push every angle. Well, he wasn’t getting away with it. My throat tightened, and I cleared it. Loudly. Your camera and recording devices, Detective?

His mouth twisted, but he gathered them and left.

When the door closed behind them, Abby smoothed her hair. That went well. At least he didn’t shoot you.

You’re not helping, I replied. Turning to my client, I finally loosened my tie a bit. You must be Luke Johnson. I’m your attorney.

Luke’s striking blue eyes measured the two of us. A stinking warlock and his demon flunky. I should’ve known. His voice was as deep as his growl, and it vibrated my rib cage. I don’t like warlocks. He turned to Abby. And I hate demons.

Uh-oh. I’m not a warlock.

And I’m a fallen angel, Abby replied.

He snorted. Yeah, right. You and all the rest. He turned back to me. I won’t pay you with my blood, and I’m not giving her my soul, so you might as well go.

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I forged ahead. Morgan St. John sent me. She couldn’t raise any other local Threshold attorney this morning. The next closest one is three hours away in Wausau. You want to wait?

Luke exhaled. I won’t go against the Guardian.

Morgan is the Guardian for this Threshold territory, which stretched from north of Chicago to Minneapolis. Her job is to protect supernaturals in this territory from all threats while keeping the lid on our society’s secrets. Think of an Old West marshal combined with a hanging judge, and you have a good idea of her authority.

He glared at Abby. "But that thing’s gotta go. Get it away from me."

Abby squared up her shoulders. Alistair and I are a package deal. You want him? I stay.

Luke glared at me. Don’t ever let it talk to me again. I’m not joking, warlock. Make it go away or I’ll kill it.

An obviously empty threat, since no one could touch Abby. Also, if she left, I would miss her eidetic memory and her encyclopedic knowledge of legal procedure. But I needed to get our attorney-client relationship off to a less rocky start. I turned to Abby.

She put up one finger. No. Don’t even ask.

Abby, I only have five minutes.

"You’re choosing him over me? She looked angry. How could you?"

I opened my briefcase and took out my legal pad. I’ll see you later, Abby.

She stomped her foot. "No, you won’t. Chevienne du Mont’s fall line hits the catwalk in five minutes. I’ll be in Milan, taking in real culture. Ciao." And then she was gone.

That was Abby for you. Deadly serious one minute, gone the next. It was impossible to have the last word with her, ever. Still, at least she was out of my hair for a while. And, if I was lucky, the fashion show would calm her. I looked at Luke. Okay. Now tell me what happened last night before you were picked up.

Luke paused as if considering whether to talk. Okay. First off, I want you to know I didn’t kill anybody. In fact, I got jumped last night. He held up his bandaged forearms. A demon. Hurts like a bitch. Poison, maybe.

There it was: the supernatural underlying the mundane world. I made a note to ask Morgan about it later. Tell me more.

Luke continued. The demon came along with this guy named Jay. He’s the one that set up the bar job for me. You ask me, one of them’s your perp.

Perp. Police speak. I knew from Morgan’s file that Luke had been military police with tours in Afghanistan and, more recently, South Korea. I wrote Jay on my pad. Does this Jay have a last name?

Not as I know.

How did you meet?

At the VA office. I was looking for work. He comes in with a handful of flyers. Says he’s got an opening for a bouncer at Bulfinch’s. Not what I wanted, but the job market’s crap, so I took it.

Jay works at Bulfinch’s?

Yeah. He’s a bouncer.

I wrote that down. Okay. Go back to last night. What happened next?

I worked the door until close and helped the bartender clean up. I left out the back, three a.m. or so. Jay and his demon jumped me in the alley behind the bar.

Any idea why?

Luke shrugged. Looking for a snack, maybe, I don’t know. I didn’t start it, if that’s what you’re asking. I held them off for a bit. But I figured I wasn’t gonna win. Luke’s eyes shifted to the side. So, I…left.

Huh. How?

Luke’s mouth twisted. Let’s just say, the way I went, I had to leave my stuff behind. My clothes. Everything. Look, even if I told you, you couldn’t tell the cops.

Ah. Magic.

Something like that. He looked at the door to the interview room. Look, forget about this frame job for a minute. I need help from the Guardian. My daughter, Faith. She’s in foster care. Tell Morgan I have to get out of here so I can take care of her.

I wrote down daughter: Faith. What’s her story?

My wife died six weeks ago. Drug overdose. Doesn’t make any damn sense. Gina never touched any of that stuff. When I heard, I took a hardship discharge out of Daegu City. I got in last Friday. I haven’t even had time to fill out the paperwork to get my daughter back. I can’t spend time in jail.

If they charge you with murder, the bail’s going to be high. Astronomically high. You might have to stay in jail until after the trial, assuming we can get an acquittal.

How long will that take? Trial?

I shrugged. I don’t know for sure. It could be months.

He shook his head emphatically. "No. I can’t do that. I won’t do that."

That sounded ominous. "What do you mean by won’t?"

He leaned closer. It means I’ll leave. Cops’ll have all kinds of questions about how I did it, and it could get me into trouble with the Guardian, but Faith needs her dad. She needs to be with family, not foster parents.

I blinked. He was telling me he was going to escape from jail, very matter of fact. Based on what he said earlier, he’d go fast and leave his clothes behind. Morgan needed to hear about this. What about the murder victim? Did you know her?

Nope. Don’t know her, never saw her before. That demon probably fed on her.

A demon did it. Great. That’s a hard sell to the cops.

The door to the conference room opened, revealing Detective Burgess and his two assistants, Officers Grumpy and Grumpier.

Time to finish our conversation, Burgess said as he carefully arranged his recording equipment on the table. He smiled at me as Grumpy closed the door behind them.

Two hours later, Burgess rubbed his eyes. He’d played straight up questions, taken a hard line, and offered leniency. Now, he worked the sympathy angle. Sergeant Johnson, I know how hard it is to readjust to civilian life. Trust me. I pulled a tour in Kuwait. I still jump every time I hear a car backfire. I can help. Just tell me the truth.

Luke cocked an eyebrow. "I’ve been where you’re sitting a few times. Trust me. Good cop don’t fly any further than bad cop."

Burgess slammed a hand on the table. Your story doesn’t add up, Johnson! You say you were mugged and that you’ve never seen this girl. He paused to tap one of the morgue’s photos splayed on the table. It showed a young brunette woman, early twenties, with severe facial and neck bruising and the wide-eyed stare of the dead. But I got two witnesses that said they saw a big guy with a crew cut running away, and we found your clothes, your wallet, and your keys next to her body.

I told you I was mugged. Jay took my wallet and my keys. He’s got short hair, too.

Jay stole your clothes?

Luke sighed in exasperation. I told you I kept a spare set at the bar. You ever spend four hours wearing someone else’s puke? It ain’t fun.

The mood in the room soured. Tempers simmered, and the place stank of sweaty anger. If I didn’t intervene now, my client would say something rash and the cops would find a way to twist it into a confession. Detective. My client has told you the same story six times. This Jay person got him a job at Bulfinch’s and then mugged him. We all know what happened next. Jay murdered this woman and planted Luke’s wallet and his spare clothes on the scene. Doesn’t that make more sense than a decorated war veteran killing a random woman, stripping naked, and streaking across town to the Maui Motel without being seen? What is that? Eight miles?

Burgess turned on me with a feral glint in his eye. I didn’t ask you, Counselor. Unless you were there, too?

I sighed. My client has been more than cooperative, and there’s only so many ways he can tell you he’s innocent. You have the wrong man. It’s time to admit it and let him go.

Burgess pursed his lips. The wrong man? He stood, turned, and knocked on the door behind him. A disembodied hand passed in a manila folder. He flipped it open. The wrong man doesn’t leave his DNA under the victim’s fingernails.

Damn. DNA evidence? My heart sped up. Was Burgess bluffing? I glanced at Luke.

He laughed. Bullshit. Even when they dropped everything else, it took at least eight hours to get the results back from the lab in the Army. You swabbed me three hours ago.

The detective scowled and slammed the folder closed. Here’s what I think happened. You met this girl at the club last night. She flirted with you, and you let her in without paying the cover. You ran into her at the end of your shift. You demanded sex. She said no. Your hands ended up around her throat. She fought. She scratched your arms to hell. You choked her down. You panicked and ran.

Luke shook his head. I got mugged in the alley….

Burgess sat back in his chair. Have it your way. Book him, Walsh.

One of the uniformed cops cuffed Luke’s wrists.

Burgess stood and tucked the folder under his arm. The District Attorney will get my report. He checked his watch. Ah. Lunchtime. Good day, Counselor.

CHAPTER

TWO

Several minutes later, I waited for the elevator in the humid air of the fifth-floor lobby. The ancient City-County Building’s air conditioning was overwhelmed by the June heat wave. Aside from an indifferent deputy half-hidden behind a fan at the intake window, I was alone.

I tried to gauge the morning’s events. On the plus side, I’d guided Luke through some complicated interrogation techniques. Burgess had used all the tricks, including double negatives designed to confuse an innocent suspect into confessing by answering the wrong way, or by asking two conflicting questions rapid fire. In the latter case, any answer provided by the defendant would be twisted into an admission, regardless of what the defendant meant to say. I hadn’t allowed Luke to answer questions designed to confuse, so I’d probably saved him from making a false confession. By that metric, this morning had been a huge success.

On the minus side, I was angry as hell. Despite my successes, Luke would still be formally charged with homicide this afternoon, and nothing I’d said or done had made a damned bit of difference. Also, Luke’s unwillingness to tell me how he escaped the mugging annoyed me. Without full disclosure, I couldn’t do my job. I needed more data, but I wouldn’t be able to see Luke for the next several hours while he was being booked into the jail. Hell, I’d be lucky to get fifteen minutes alone with him before the bail hearing this afternoon, and I would need that time to work on the details of my bail arguments with him.

And then, there was Burgess. Even though his DNA evidence was simply another ruse designed to sweat a confession out of Luke, he’d been confident enough in his arrest to take it to the next level. What did he know that I didn’t? I needed to see a copy of the police reports, but even if he gave them to the DA today, I wouldn’t receive one until after the probable cause hearing, which should be in two weeks or so. I hated the thought of spending that much time in the dark.

I also worried about the Edict of Seclusion. Because DNA swabbing was part of the standard booking procedure for felonies, the police now had Luke’s DNA in their hands. Would the sample reveal his supernatural nature? I hoped not, but I needed to talk to Morgan about it.

The elevator doors opened and I entered, too distracted by my own thoughts to notice my surroundings. I jabbed the L button without noticing it was already illuminated. The doors closed.

An unfriendly voice interrupted my thoughts. Hey dere, fantsy-pants, ya fergot something: me. I recognized the nasal twang and northern Wisconsin accent as that of Sven Pulaski, wife-beating husband of one of my (mundane) divorce clients. He stepped into the center of the elevator, angular eyebrows, honed widow’s peaks, and gray ponytail, grinning like he’d won the lottery. He punched the stop button. We gots lots to talk about, youse and me.

My heart sank. Locked in a five-by-five elevator with this snarling maniac ranked somewhere on my bucket list between being waterboarded and having a rabid wolverine dropped down my trousers. The last time I’d seen him, he screamed obscenities at me from the back seat of a black and white as I helped his wife Joanna into an ambulance. Sven earned two weeks of jail time.

That had been ten days ago.

A rush of adrenaline hit my bloodstream. My throat tightened. I needed to defuse this situation. Mr. Pulaski. I’m so glad we have this chance to talk. Let me buy you a coffee or a beer so we can sit down in comfort?

Sven blinked, surprised by my offer. For a moment, I hoped to avoid a physical confrontation. But then, his expression hardened, and he cracked his knuckles into a stony fist. Beer ain’t enough to buy off ten nights in the slam.

Damnation. My mouth went dry. Sven wanted a fight, right here, right now. I had three inches on him, but he outweighed me by at least sixty pounds and had a history of gang-related violence. I had a history of epileptic seizures, and the only physical combat training I had was fencing. Because the police don’t allow swords to be brought into the jail, the odds were bad for me.

I hefted my briefcase. Heavy. Reassuring. The police monitor these elevators. I glanced significantly at the unblinking lens of the camera above the panel.

He smirked. I don’t care about that. I been ten days in the slam and then I get dis crap on account a you? He pulled a wad of paper out of his jean pocket and shook it in my face. Half my shop? Half my retirement? The goddamn Harley? Sven owned a motorcycle chop shop off Williamson Street frequented by a pretty tough crowd. He threw the wad at my chest. Bullshit! You can shove dis right up your ass.

I kept my tone even and my gaze level. Make a counteroffer. What do you think is fair?

He stepped into my personal space and cocked his head back to point his hatchet of a nose at me. His breath stank of mustard and bologna. None o’ youse is getting jack shit outta me.

I kept my tone level. I see. We can put it to the judge….

No one tells me what to do or takes what’s mine. Pulaski moved like a striking cobra, lashing a hand forward, finger extended. He jabbed my collarbone with the force of a polo mallet. Not you, not no judge, nobody.

I slapped Sven’s hand away. Don’t touch me.

He cracked his neck joints. Just did. Here’s what you’re gonna do. Take a trip. Don’t come back. Safer for you that way.

Are you threatening me?

What you think, FIB?

FIB. A highly-insulting term in Wisconsin. The second and third letters stood for Illinois and Bastard. The F? Heh. Not a word for polite company. I narrowed my eyes. I’m from Milwaukee.

Sven’s mouth twisted with distaste. Yah? Youse looks like a Bears fan ta me.

That tore it. A red haze obscured my vision. This was going down right here, right now. I dropped my briefcase and went to pull off my suit coat.

Sven smiled and licked his lips.

At that moment, the elevator doors parted. Two uniformed deputies entered. The larger man took in the situation and spoke as one accustomed to immediate compliance. Is everything alright in here?

I turned to the deputies. I am not a Bears fan.

The big deputy eyed me up and down. Who said you were?

I nodded significantly towards Sven. Then, I turned my tie face out to show him my green and gold ‘G’ clip.

The deputy turned on Sven. You know as well as anyone else around here that calling someone a Bears fan to their face is fightin’ words. You trying to start trouble?

Sven backed away from me, but his eyes lingered on my throat. His smile was genial, but hungry, the lying grin of the sociopath. Nah. Just having fun.

The smaller deputy smirked as he addressed me. That about right?

I wasn’t about to show any weakness in front of Pulaski by asking for help, so I put on my best trial face. Yes.

He crossed his arms. Alrighty. Don’t press Stop unless it’s an emergency. His partner jabbed the B button. As the doors closed, they positioned their bodies between us.

Sven and I held each other’s gaze all the way to the lobby. His eyes glittered, cold as a snake. From time to time, he rubbed his palms together. Probably imagining my neck between them.

My anger receded, but the post-confrontation jitters followed. I put my hands behind my back to hide the shakes and swallowed the bile that hit the back of my throat. I needed to call Joanna to warn her that