Magic Rising (3 page)

“I have no idea if the name is Irish.” She tried to shift away from him without being obvious. “It sounds like you’ve been busy checking up on me.”

“I know about the fire. I know about that house you’re from.”

She swallowed hard, her heart sounding in her ears like a drum. The thought that someone else had found out made her blood run cold, but she couldn’t let Farmer know that.

It was difficult but she steadied her voice. “Fire? You’re going to have to be more specific. Are we talking candlelight or are you trying to pin some forest fire on me now?”

He laughed a whiny grating sound that ended in a snort she’d never heard in a person. He leaned in again, making her smell him for the second time tonight.

“I mean the Stone House fire.”

“You’ll have to give me more than that.” She smiled and fought the urge to grit her teeth.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“It would help me know what you’re talking about.” She felt Mark come forward, standing as her backup. That was the reason she kept Mark around. He was always quick to react and knew that the appearance of his large, muscled body was enough to end a conversation.

“We’ll have this discussion another time.” Farmer glanced at Mark then at the officer holding up Mr. Shope. “I’ll catch you later. I really will, Dragonfly.”

She stiffened at the old cult name, the one she’d left behind when Stone House burned. That was the name of the dead.

That’s what she felt like sometimes though. She felt dead inside. There were moments when she believed she had also died in that damned building. All she had now was the ghost of who she could’ve been.

Chapter Two

Deirdre parked in front of her house, which was situated in the boring subdivision where she’d lived for five years. It was a house she considered normal, average. It was a cookie cutter with beige stucco and a manicured lawn. Her subdivision only had three variations of houses making everything blissfully generic.

She’d chosen this place specifically because it looked like nothing out of the ordinary could ever happen here. No chants would wake her in the night, no screams, no blood. Magic seemed to have been banned by the very nature of the mundane. She supposed that could be a bad thing. People still wished on stars, they continued to look to the heavens for answers. Magic still existed in a child’s laugh or a bird’s song. Unfortunately she was unaccustomed to recognizing these simple constructs. All she’d experienced was the dark side of things.

She pushed open her car door and walked to the front door. Here, even the darkest shadows would hide only a sprinkler head or perhaps a lizard looking for a snack. This made her feel a little better after the difficult day she’d experienced. It made her feel normal.

Not like Dragonfly.

As she approached her door, she heard the leaves crunch. Branches moved to her left. She jerked, checking the ground. A moment later a white blur jumped at her feet, latching around her calf and climbing up.

She nearly punched the thing until she recognized her neighbor’s cat. For some odd reason it had adopted Deirdre. She wasn’t sure what to do about it. She plucked it as lovingly as she could from her leg, listening to the rip of her pants as she did it. With a gentle push, she released Snowball back into the bushes.

I can stop bad guys but a single cat can kick my ass.

The door unlocked with a slight metallic sound. She pushed it open and hung her keys on the hook. First thing, she grabbed a pouch of food that she kept by the door. Before Snowball could make a second attack, she opened the peace offering. The cat appeared at the sound of the pouch being opened, looking pleased and purring loudly.

With her offering paid, she stepped inside. She kept a black candle on the table by the entrance. It was her routine to light it the moment she came home. This she did with a scratched match and the scent of sulfur.

Most religions had some special use for candles. She’d heard of everything from healing to breaking curses. She lit this candle to absorb the negative energy, not that she expected it to work. Her rite had more to do with habit than any belief.

The only thing Deirdre truly believed in was herself. Everything else in this world had failed her. Of course she turned from her upbringing at Stone House. Christianity had a kinder spin on things than the dark arts practiced around her when she’d been a child. Still, some things made her feel better, like lighting the black candle.

She went through the house to the kitchen where she grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Deirdre returned and flopped into a large chair in front of the television. The overstuffed gray chair with its wide cushions was her favorite seat. There were two short matching couches but this was her spot to let the job melt away.

Kicking off her high-heeled boots, she curled her legs beneath her, and wiggled her cramped toes. High heels were killers on the job but she liked the added height. Deirdre was hardly petite. Her long lean frame stretched out to five foot eight, but three inch heels helped her survey a room.

Her rumpled clothes were uncomfortable and smelled of rich peoples’ perfumes that all clashed, mixing in her shirt. She was too tired to change yet though. All she wanted to do was to relax. Deirdre flipped through a few channels settling on some standup comic whose last jokes brought a rousing crash of laughter.

What a night. A strange bust and then Farmer.

The deal with Farmer bothered her. She didn’t like people digging through her past. There really wasn’t much he could’ve found. Then again, she didn’t think he would find any connection between her and Stone House, much less the fire that had killed so many people.

Ryan Farmer was an asshole who reminded her of a Pez dispenser. No other way existed to describe the beady eyes peering out from thick cheeks. He wasn’t fat anywhere but his face and the distortion gave him a strange appearance, like his head belonged on a different body.

She had met Farmer when he was only a rookie and she started taking security assignments. He messed up and lost a target after she turned custody over to him. The police failed to notify her or her client that the target was back on the street. Forty-eight hours later the target scaled a wall, and fired into the client’s bedroom window killing her. Deirdre made a stink and nearly had Farmer fired. From that point forward, he’d been after her. He seemed to have picked up a new zest for hating her over the last few weeks. It was strange that time had increased his anger rather than numbing it.

I won’t let it bother me. He can’t know. It’s not possible.

For a moment she remembered that place, the smells. She’d witnessed them taking the energy of the dying. The blood…

No. I can’t think about that now. They were mortal men. They all burned.

Deirdre usually avoided watching the news because the sight of human atrocity depressed her. The lame comedic routine grew bothersome so she risked it. Tonight she wanted to see if her earlier escapade had made it into the media. The local affiliates were playing old movies but she found a national station and watched. Fifteen minutes passed before the story she was waiting for came on, only she didn’t expect the spin they touted.

“An attempted attack on actress Tamara Haas’ life was thwarted by a local security company. The name of the suspect, who was killed at the scene, has not been released.” The woman with stiff hair smiled as if the subject were pleasing. “Ms. Haas was unavailable for comment.”

Great, the news had messed up another story
. That figured. They rarely got things right, but this was the first time they incorrectly announced the death of someone Deirdre had brought down during a job. Maybe Ms. Haas had that added that for more publicity. She has been unavailable for comment.

She yawned and looked at the phone. Surely Ryan hadn’t shot the guy. Her eyes eased closed and then she jerked them open again. She couldn’t rest without finding out for certain. One phone call and she would know if Shope was still alive. Grudgingly she picked up the cordless and dialed the station.

“Lawrenceton Police Department. How many I help you?” A young man answered the phone.

“Is Officer Smythe there?”

“One moment and I’ll check.”

A terrible mix of digitalized music filled her ear. She wished they’d update to something from this century. The strange synthetic mix did nothing to make her feel better or like holding.

“Smythe here.”

“How’s my favorite police officer?” She loved teasing Noah Smythe. He was a few years older than Deirdre and one of the few officers in town who had a chance at besting her in a fair fight. Not that she ever wanted to fight with him, a face that pretty should be kept scar free.

“I knew you’d call once the report aired.” He groaned and Deirdre knew there had been trouble. “Quite a mess here on the night shift. Everybody’s talking about it.”

She let out a long breath. “So it’s true?”

“Fraid so. Ryan had no choice but to drop him during an escape attempt. Guy was found face down, armed, after trying to flee down an alley not far from the restaurant. Ryan did the only thing he could on this one.”

“Damn.” Farmer had done it again. “I can’t believe it.”

That was not the information she wanted to hear. A death, even of a crazed man, made her guts knot. It figured that the incident would happen on Ryan Farmer’s shift. Shope should’ve never been given an opportunity to escape. His hands were cuffed. There was another officer. Shope should’ve gone to the station easily.

“Deirdre, why didn’t you call me on my cell phone?”

She knew why she had used the station’s number, to keep this business only. Noah had been asking her out for the last year. Two weeks ago, she’d given in and agreed to a date. It had been nice, maybe wonderful, but there was no room in her life for romance. There wasn’t anything wrong with Noah. He was handsome, charming, and knew all the right things to say. She couldn’t connect with him though. It was her fault. During her unique education, she’d never been given the tools for proper social interaction or maybe he was too good for her. Either way, whenever he touched her hand, she always pulled back.

“I guess I lost the number.” Not exactly the truth. She was sure the number was upstairs, someplace. There was no reason to find it though.

“Okay. If that’s your story.” Noah sounded disappointed. She hated doing that to him. He looked like a guy that should be married with two kids and a mini van. All the neighbors’ wives would flirt while he stayed faithful to some perfect lady who spent her time baking, not running security for glitzy clientele.

There was no reason to torture herself. She didn’t expect things in her life to change, and frankly, really didn’t want them to. If she found Mr. Right, then he’d better like her high heels, leather pants, and occupation. Of course she knew she was kidding herself again. Deep inside, she was afraid that there was nothing there. She was a shell, a half person. The vibrant woman she might’ve become died years ago at Stone House. Noah didn’t deserve that. He deserved something far better.

She tried to focus and realized that they’d been quiet for too long. This call wasn’t about dates or anything social. She wanted to find out what happened to the target after he’d reached police custody.

“Noah, how did Shope get out of his cuffs? He couldn’t very well pose a threat, even with a gun, while his hands were cuffed behind his back.” Much less go tearing through an alley.

“Cuffs? Ryan said that you’d hurt his wrist and they couldn’t cuff him properly.”

Her jaw clenched. Detective Ryan Farmer had some serious explaining to do. She didn’t send men off with the boys in blue to have their brains blown out over something stupid. Her job was protection, only protection. People, even the bad guys, weren’t supposed to die.

“Thanks Noah. I’ve got to go.”

“What’s wrong?”

At first she didn’t want to tell him. Smythe had acted like her friend, tried to date her, but he was a cop first. Anything she said could ruin their friendship, if their date hadn’t already done that. He deserved an answer though. “Shope was never seriously injured and when he left me, he was handcuffed.”

Farmer was at it again, blaming her for his mistakes. Questions remained, why did Farmer take Shope’s cuffs off? Whose gun did he get?

“Are you sure?”

“I’m willing to bet Tech caught it on video.” She stopped, knowing it would be best to end this conversation now. “Thanks for talking to me. I’ve got to go. Goodnight Noah.” She hung up the phone. This wasn’t the time to argue the finer points of his department. As far as she knew, Noah was a wonderful officer. It was naïve of him to believe all of the staff had his priorities.

There was nothing she could do about it tonight. Walking toward the gray tiled stairs up to her bedroom, she began to shed her clothes. She dropped her shirt on the floor just outside the living room, her bra followed, landing on a step, and her pants fell outside the bedroom door. By the time she entered the room she was naked and grateful to be sliding between the soft cotton sheets.

Farmer was out to get her. She only hoped he hadn’t killed a man to do it. She also had to wonder what he really knew about Stone House. He couldn’t know much. She didn’t know of any survivors beside herself.