Free Until Death Do Us Part: A Kismet Knight Mini-Story by Lynda Hilburn Page A

spilling of guts. Subtle aromatherapy scents wafted from special canisters secreted in the heating-cooling vents, and soothing music floated through the air from a state-of-the-art sound system.
    I definitely must have done something right in a past life.
    A friendly voice erupted from my speaker phone. “Kismet? Yvonne, Falcon and their entourage just entered the elevator.”
    “Thanks, Vic.”
    “They’re your last clients of the night. Shall I stay? Or are you expecting the boss to drop by?”
    I chuckled. Victoria, Devereux’s human right hand, was a warm-hearted mother hen. “I’m sure he’ll show up eventually, but it doesn’t really matter. You can go. I’m sure I can handle anything that arises.”
    No pun intended.
    “All right, then.” I could hear the smile permeating her words. “Have a good evening. Don’t forget the coven’s expecting you to visit tomorrow evening. We’ll be practicing spellcasting. You’ll love it.”
    “Oh, goodie.” Another chance to expose my social anxiety in front of a group of women I didn’t know. I still didn’t see how learning to cast circles and do hocus-pocus was going to help fine-tune my own apparent psychic abilities, but Devereux said I should at least give it a shot. And I trusted Victoria. She said the group energy worked as a focus and I didn’t have cause to disbelieve her. She’d certainly been a wonderful friend since I moved into the office building.
    “Remember what Nietzsche said, ‘What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger’.” She laughed and clicked off.
    A high priestess with a twisted sense of humor. What more could an apprentice witch ask for?
     I took a deep breath, cloaked myself in my professional aura, and opened the door leading to the waiting room. The ding of the elevator was followed by soft shuffling footsteps along the lushly carpeted hallway.
    Walking single file, a woman entered first, followed by three large males. The woman was tall with very long red hair, parted down the middle, a throw-back to the once-popular hippie look of the late 1960s. But I knew her coiffure predated the Woodstock generation by centuries. Large lavender eyes, framed by thick, black lashes, smoldered in her pale face. She wore a purple, floor-length dress cut with a deep “V” neckline, which hugged her lean, well-toned curves, displaying ample cleavage – struggling to break free – and adorned with an antique amethyst necklace.
     I sailed my hand through the air, smiling. “Welcome, Yvonne. I invite you to enter my office.” She gave a soft smile, nodded and swept, queen-like, into the room. We both knew the invitation wasn’t necessary, but she and her group adhered to a number of such rituals for their own amusement. I saw no reason to refuse to play along. It was likely she’d picked up the affectations from one movie or another.
    She arranged herself in the center of the couch, spread the silky purple fabric out around her – perhaps to keep anyone from sitting close – and folded her white hands.
    As if by invisible signal, the tallest male of the three bowed from the waist, flashed a brilliant smile, lifted my hand, and kissed it. Falcon was a natural-born actor, charismatic and physically appealing. He’d elevated flirting and seduction to an art form. His curly dark brown hair scraped the shoulders of his custom-tailored black silk suit, and his copper-colored eyes sparkled with good humor. He was a charming rogue.
    A hint of fangs peeked through his spreading smile. “Dr. Knight. It is, as always, a pleasure.”
    The two men standing on either side of Falcon assumed their familiar stance: legs just so many inches apart, hands grasped in front, eyes straight ahead. No matter which two of his apparently endless supply of bodyguards Falcon brought, their actions were always the same. They even dressed alike. I’d never asked, but there appeared to be a required uniform, with no individual personalization allowed. Sometimes I