Otherworld 11 - Waking the Witch by Kelley Armstrong Page B

addicts and abuse victims. Alastair was a group home counselor, and he’s a licensed therapist. What you’ll mostly find here, though, is young women overdosed on dreams. Like me. Fast-tracked through an MBA from Columbia, got a Wall Street job, nearly killed myself with uppers so I could make money that I didn’t have time to spend.”
    “So you traded in your BlackBerry for ...” I waved at the dead chickens.
    “A life of eviscerating poultry?” A sardonic smile. “Not what you’d choose, I suspect. And not what any of the girls here would choose, which is why you don’t see them helping me. I spent summers on my grandparents’ farm. Mucking out cow barns might not be every MBA’s dream job, but after a year on Wall Street, it started looking damned attractive.”
    “The simpler life,” I said, trying to sound as if I understood the appeal. “Between the MBA and the farm experience, you must be a valuable part of the, uh, group here.”
    “I am. And I’m well compensated for it, too.” She started plucking the other chicken. “But if I wanted to leave tomorrow, I could. No one would stop me. No one would stop any of the girls. Unhappy workers aren’t productive, and we always have an applicant pool lined up to get in. Even if you wanted to join, you’d only get on the waiting list. We’ve filled Claire’s spot already. Alastair is in a therapy session with the new girl right now.”
    “Can I speak to him when he’s done?”
    “Sorry. He’s tied up until dinner.”
    Convenient. “Can I make an appointment?”
    “You can try, but he’s very busy.”
    “And the girls? Can I speak to any of them?”
    “If you come back after dinner. We’re running a business here.”
    I didn’t push; didn’t say I’d be back later either. As reassuring as her earlier spiel had been, it sounded like just that—public relations lines. By dinner, she’d have had time to tell the girls exactly what to say. That wouldn’t do.

nine
    M egan watched until I walked out the gate. Then I rolled my bike behind some trees, cast a blur spell, and slipped around the side of the house, following my nose to an open door around the rear. As I approached, I rubbed the back of my neck. A headache was settling in. I don’t get them often, but my motorcycle helmet was new and sat different from my last one.
    Once out of sight of the chicken coop, I ended the spell, walked to the screen door, and rapped. A dark-haired girl, no more than eighteen, glanced up, startled. I waved my PI license. She opened the door.
    I introduced myself and added that Megan said I could speak to the girls, which was technically true. That put her at ease. She gave me her name—Deirdre—and a cookie-chocolate-chunk, still warm from the oven. After one bite I declared it delicious and offered to buy a box. She got one off a shelf and set it on the counter.
    As the cookies cooled, we stepped outside and chatted, long enough for me to realize this was the girl I wanted to talk to, someone who liked a bit of gossip and wasn’t quite smart enough to know when to keep her mouth shut.
    “I was hoping to talk to Alastair,” I said. “But Megan says he’s in a session. She really didn’t seem to want me talking to him.” I nibbled the cookie. “Seems suspicious ...”
    Deirdre laughed. “No. She just doesn’t want you talking to Alastair.”
    “So Megan and Alastair are ... a couple.”
    “Sometimes. When there’s not a new girl sharing his bed.”
    “Is that a requirement? For new girls?”
    “Oh, no. Some girls do, some don’t. It’s up to them. He’s a nice guy. Not bad looking ... for his age.”
    “And there aren’t many guys up here to choose from.”
    She grinned. “Exactly.”
    Compulsory orgies are all well and fine, but it’d be a lot easier to sleep at night if you told yourself the girls were coming to you of their own free will. Easier on the ego, too.
    “And Megan fills the void between girls,” I said. “So how did