Sam Harlan (Book 3): Damned Cold by Kevin Lee Swaim Page B

sigh and the older man said patiently, “Please don’t leave the front door standing open. It’s cold outside. If you leave the door open, it makes it cold inside .”
    “You told me that already,” Nicky said.
    “I’m sorry,” the older man said. “I’m just trying to help you remember. Now go play.”
    Nicky stomped off, then the older man stepped into the hallway. He looked like Nicky, except twenty years older. His hair was a close-cropped black threaded with silver, but where Nicky’s eyes were innocent, the man’s blue eyes brimmed with intelligence. He wore a tasteful pair of brown slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt, in sharp contrast to Nicky’s sloppy clothes, and a pair of burgundy leather slippers. He stopped in front of the open door and smiled neutrally. “May I help you?”
    “Are you Carlton Meriwether?” I asked.
    “Yes, I’m Carlton Meriwether.”
    There was a long pause. I didn’t know what to expect, but I certainly didn’t think the man who’d attacked us would stand there without a hint of recognition. I glanced to Callie, who shrugged, then I said, “Jodie and Gene Rexford sent us.”
    I half expected the man to blast us with magic, but he just shook his head and frowned. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this, Mr.…?”
    “Harlan,” I said. “Sam Harlan.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Harlan. I’m afraid they are quite mistaken. I have no idea what happened to Dorothy, and I can’t fathom why they would accuse me.”
    “You admit knowing about her disappearance?” Callie asked.
    “Of course,” Meriwether said. “Please, come in. We can talk about it inside, where it’s not so chilly.” He ushered us into the house and led us down the wood-paneled hallway and into a living room the size of a basketball court. The ceiling was at least twenty feet above us, and the walls were covered in paintings of wooden bridges and rural farms. A massive fireplace big enough for a grown man to lie down in occupied the north wall. A cheery fire roared away, and the fireplace mantel was covered in scented candles.
    All in all, it didn’t seem like the lair of a man who would send a golem to attack us.
    I could sense that Callie was confused as well, but we took seats on the fancy white couch in front of the fireplace, and Meriwether took the seat on the couch across from us.
    “What did Jodie accuse me of this time?” Meriwether said.
    I ignored his request. “How do you know her?”
    Meriwether smiled. “You want me to admit to being a witch. I will readily admit it. I am, indeed, a witch.”
    Out of the corner of my eye. I saw Callie’s jaw drop. The encounter was completely different than I expected. “You’re a witch?”
    “Of course,” Meriwether said. “I would never speak of such a thing to the public, but you are a practitioner yourself, aren’t you?”
    “Uhm,” I said. “Not exactly.”
    “Really?” Meriwether asked. “I assumed based upon the feeling I got when you crossed my threshold—”
    “It’s complicated,” I said. “You can sense what we are?”
    Meriwether frowned. “Gazing upon someone with the sight without their permission is gauche.”
    “How do you know the Rexfords?” Callie asked.
    “It’s a small community,” Meriwether said. “Practitioners tend to congregate together.”
    “Socially?” I asked.
    Meriwether threw his head back and laughed. “Monticello was quite a haven for the well-to-do in the early part of last century. The wealthy and powerful families who summered here were quite a motley collection. Some of them, like my own family, were gifted. They used to throw elaborate parties … that would have been quite scandalous if word ever got out.”
    In a moment of clarity, I said, “You mean sex parties.”
    “I believe they called them orgies,” Meriwether said with an embarrassed smile. “Sexual energy is one of the oldest known ways to focus power. Witches have cavorted with each other since mankind discovered