No Rest for the Wicca (14 page)

My next stop was the University Library. I found a bank of computers wedged off to one side, chose a secluded one, and typed in “Odic Force.” No less than ten sites came up. I clicked on the top one and read what popped up on my screen:

Odic Force:
A specific type of energy, believed to be the underlying principle of metaphysical nature, the very fabric of the universe. Can also be referred to or known as an aura – a glowing emanation that outlines the human body and can only be seen by sensitives.

I skimmed the site, but found no references to symbols, anything that could remotely possess seven or eight points. I made a mental note to ask Xia if she’d ever heard the term. I was just about to navigate away from the screen when a sentence at the bottom of the page caught my attention:

Odic Force is sometimes referred to as prana in the practice of ancient Haitian rituals, such as voodoo.
Animal and human sacrifices were used in ancient magick to increase the effectiveness of a spell. When the sacrifice was made it released the creatures life force which the magician would use to increase his own magical power.

I sat back, rubbing absently at my chin. Could the deaths of those witches somehow be tied to human sacrifice, a rite of ancient magick? Maybe the seven points referred to the voodoo definition of Odic Force, and not the other? Could there be someone—a magician or sorcerer, most likely—using the energy obtained from them to increase his own power, and if so, for what purpose? My little exercise in research had only served to raise more questions, infinitely puzzling ones. Oh, well, I thought as I switched off the computer, maybe Cole would have some ideas over dinner tonight.

At least, we’d have plenty to talk about. And who knew? It might actually lead somewhere.

“You’re certainly making a fuss about dressing. I thought you said this is a business dinner.”

“It is, but last I checked, it’s not a crime to want to look nice.”

“Uh-huh.” Xia surveyed the litter of shoes littering my bedroom floor, the tangle of dresses, pants and lacy lingerie scattered helter-skelter across my bedspread.  “Either you’ve emptied out the entire contents of your closet, trying to decide which of this mess you’ve decided to donate to Goodwill, or you’re getting ready for a date. Now which is it?”

“Neither,” I growled from the recesses of the closet.  I emerged, pair of black heels in tow. “I told you, it’s merely a business dinner. Cole wants to compare notes.”

“Cole, eh?” Xia folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you speak of a co-worker named Cole. Who is he? A new hire?”

“More or less,” I grumbled. I held up a black halter, studied my reflection in the mirror, then tossed it aside. I dragged a hand through my tumbled mass of black curls. “He’s—ah—sort of working with me on a special assignment.”

Both of my cousin’s perfectly arched brows went up. “Special assignment? Since when do Ghostbusters have special assignments?” Her eyes went to blue slits. “What is it you’re not telling me, Morgan?”

“Nothing,” I hedged. I pulled out a steel-gray vest and pants set, held it up. “What do you think of this?”

“Not much. The color does nothing for you.”

“No?” I made a face at my reflection in the mirror. “And here I thought it might be a good way to go, you know, not too dressy, not too casual. Team it with a pink halter top—“

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Xia bit out. She flopped on my bed, pushed a pile of jumbled clothes over to one side. “Since when do Ghostbusters have special assignments?”

I drew a breath. “It’s not exactly ghostbusting,” I said at last.

She rolled her eyes. “No shit. I’m not a total moron, you know. So what is it?”

I hung the pant suit back in the closet, pulled out another one a deep shade of green. “Maybe this one?” I glanced at Xia’s reflection in the mirror. “It brings out my eyes, dontcha think?”

“MORGAN!”

“Okay, okay. Maybe it’s not a ghostbusting assignment.”

She stood up and pointed an accusing finger at me. “Are you back on Homicide?”

I held the pants suit in front of me like a shield. “No. I am not back on Homicide.”

She blinked. “But you’re not ghostbusting, either. So, what?” She stared at the mass of clothing, suddenly cut her gaze to me. “It’s got something to do with those attacks, doesn’t it? With Darla’s death?”

I shrugged. “Sorta kinda. Yes.”

“Well?” Xia pressed as I turned to my makeup tray. “Are you going to tell me the rest of it?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“MORGAN!” She fisted one hand on a slender hip. “I can find out, you know. I can use the tarot, or scry. I have ways, so don’t think you can keep this from me, not now. I’m on your scent.”

“All right, all right. All the relatives in the world, and I have to get one with bloodhound instincts.”  I set the eyeshadow I’d been fingering back on the mirrored tray and sat down on the chair. “Captain Gilley asked me to help Special Forces investigate the string of recent murders.”

Her gaze was steady. “I thought you were through with Homicide.”

“This isn’t Homicide, exactly.”

“No? You’re investigating murders. What are they calling it these days?”

“Homicide isn’t involved. It’s—it’s a Special Forces investigation.”

Her hand flew to her breast. “Special Forces? They’re usually called in when supernatural forces are suspected of posing a dire threat to humanity. Do you mean to tell me Darla’s murder—“

“If you’ve read the papers, you know there have been other murders,” I sighed, realizing I couldn’t hope to try and keep anything from Xia now. She was right--her witch’s psyche was more finely honed than mine, the product of being sired by two full-bloods. What I didn’t tell her, she’d somehow manage to ascertain. “What wasn’t publicized was the fact the victims were all witches.”

“Well, great blazing balls of Hades,” Xia plopped back on the bed, right on top of two dresses I’d just gotten back from the dry cleaner. “Witches? Why on earth would someone want to kill witches?”

“It’s one of the angles we’re investigating,” I said. “The victims were all students at the University. I’m working with Special Agent St. John to try and find the connection—the link.”

She frowned. “There’s got to be more to it than just someone having a vendetta against us,” she said. “I don’t like the idea of you putting yourself in danger.”

“So what’s new?” I grumbled. “You should be used to it. I used to put myself in danger every damn day before, remember?”

“Yes, I do. I also remember the giant sense of relief I felt when you told me you’d quit Homicide and applied for PSI. No one knows better than me what you’ve gone through. I cannot understand why, suddenly, you feel the need to return to something you swore you’d never—“

“Because,” I interrupted her harangue, “of you.”

She stopped cold. “Me?” she squeaked.

“Yes, you,” I snapped. “They asked me once and I turned them down. I only agreed to help them now because you were attacked.”
And those other voices crying for help in my brain didn’t help either.

“Really?” Her gaze softened and she clasped her hands to her breast. “That’s so sweet, Morgan, you’d do something you vowed you would never again just because you feel I might be in danger.”

“Yeah, well.”

“But there’s something else, something you’re not telling me.” She wagged her finger under my nose. “You might as well spill it. I can find out, you know. I have my ways.”

I let out a breath in one gentle whoosh. “Okay, okay. They—Special Forces—think voodoo might be somehow involved.”

Her eyes looked about to bug out of her head. “Voodoo? And you’re actually getting involved, especially after—“

“Seems I don’t have much of a choice,” I said softly. “You had too close of a call. I can’t risk this killer deciding he wants you to play his numbers game.”

She gave a quick shake of her head. “You’re losing me.”

“We don’t really understand it ourselves, yet. There were Messenger Dolls left next to each body, each with a different number. As of today, body number four is still MIA, but I think I might have a handle on it.”

She pressed her fist to her lips. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

I went to her, put my arms around her. I could have also mentioned the missing body parts, and the ghostly voices crying out to me for help along with their eerie message, but there was really no need to upset my cousin further. I pulled back so I could look into her eyes.

“It’s tough,” I admitted. “But maybe I have to do this. Maybe this is the only way I can ever come to terms with…what happened.”

“Save the lives of other witches, make up for April.” Xia’s arms went round me, squeezed. “I don’t know if it works that way, Morgan.”

“I don’t know either. But trust me, this is something I have to do.”

She cocked her head at me. “Why?”

You have to help us.

I sighed. “Let’s just say a little birdie told me to, and leave it be.”

“Okay.” She pulled away from me. “I’m gonna worry about you, now, you know. More than I usually do.”

I let my lips curve upward. “How sweet.”

“Yeah. Sure. Contribute to my gray hairs.” Xia pulled a strand of hair outward, studied it.

“If anyone’s hair should be gray, it should be mine.” I picked up a tube of lip-gloss, twirled it in my fingers. “You’re more familiar with the Wiccan symbols than I—have you ever seen a star with seven points?”

My cousin frowned. “The Wiccan star has eight points, I know. Seven?” She scrunched her brow in thought, snapped her fingers. “Oh, yes. I’m not sure, but I think it’s the symbol for mystical energy.”

“Mystical energy, huh?  It might fit,” I said. “I wonder if it’s the same as Odic Force?”

Xia’s brow puckered in thought, and she shook her head. “Can’t say as I’ve ever heard the term. Has it got something to do with your case—with Florrie?”

I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “It could. At this point, we’re just trying to tie loose ends together.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the pantsuit I’d draped across one end of my makeup table. “Good choice,” she nodded. “I’ll be glad to help you with your makeup, if you want.”

“I want.”

“Okay.” She picked up a tub of eyeshadow, gave me a curious look. “So, he’s good-looking? This guy you’re working with?”

“He’s not bad on the hunk-o-meter scale.”

She grinned. “You’ve got a crush on him?”

I blanched. “Hell, no. We work together. It’s not good to get a crush on a co-worker, you know. Complicates the hell out of everything.”

“Uh-huh. So tell me, if this is just a business dinner between colleagues, why are you fussing so over your dress and makeup? You usually look like something the sewer rats drag in.”

“Thanks for the glowing compliment,” I growled. “Maybe I just feel like looking decent for a change.”

“Right. And I’m Mother Earth.” She grinned mischievously. “If you ask me, you should concentrate more on your choice of lingerie. It’s been my experience most men are more interested in what you wear
under
the clothes.”

“Yeah, well, I think Agent St. John is different. He’s all business.”

“Uh-huh.” She pulled open my middle drawer, pulled out a black teddy. “But trust me. Put this on…just in case.”

I snatched it from her outstretched hand. “You are too much. You know darn well I haven’t…I’ve never…”

She laughed. “I know, cousin, and honestly, don’t you think it’s about time you did? You’re twenty-five, after all.”

“Is that all I am?” I slapped at my forehead with my palm. “Zeus, there are days I feel a hundred. Still, all in all, I’m not exactly what one would call an old maid.”

Xia giggled. “No, but you do have an aversion to sex.”

I gave my cousin a black look. “Aversion is such a harsh word. It’s not that way at all.”

“No? What would you call it?”

“Being careful. I don’t want to get involved and get my heart broken.” I swallowed. “I saw what it did to my mother, and I swore I’d never put myself in the same position.”

Her lips curved upward. “What position, exactly?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter. You know full well which one, the one where you love someone so much you lose all sense of yourself.” I tapped my breastbone. “It’s not happening to me.”

“Famous last words. Listen,” she slipped an arm about my shoulders. “I know you went through a rough time with your mother and dad, but trust me, getting involved with a guy isn’t always a downer experience.”

I eyed her. “You’re a fine one to talk.”

She pulled away and shook her blonde mane. “Okay, it’s true. I haven’t had much luck in the love department either, but at least I don’t shut myself off from the possibility. All I’m saying is, if there is an attraction between you and this guy, you should maybe see where it leads, and propriety be damned.”

I hugged myself. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” She gave me a little push in the direction of the bathroom. “Think about it while you’re taking a perfumed bubble bath. It can’t hurt. And I’ll burn some gata leaves for you…for luck. Trust me, there’s nothing more precious than your first time.”

Well, I thought, as I stood in the entryway of The Grotto, tonight might certainly be considered a memorable first of sorts. I’d never been in the exclusive restaurant, and the interior certainly lived up to its hype.

The wide, towering archway leading into the foyer looked more like the entrance to a museum than a restaurant. Chandeliers dripped light onto glossy wood floors, graced by throw rugs in ornate patterns of cream and teal. Expensive paintings lined the cream colored walls. I shrugged out of my simple linen coat, checked it, and walked over to a small podium. A white-haired man in a braided burgundy jacket, a nameplate pinned to his lapel, scribbled something down as I approached. As I drew closer, I saw the nametag read: Claude. Matre’d.

He glanced up, flicked me a disintrintested gaze. “Table for one, Madame. Or is your companion on his or her way?”

I cleared my throat. “I’m meeting someone. Cole St. John.”

The disinterest faded from Claude’s eyes, replaced instead with a rapier gleam. “Ah, yes. Mr. St. John. If you would be so good as to follow me.” He picked up a burgundy-covered book and started to thread his way through the maze of ivory-sheeted tables. I followed him to a tiny alcove, set far back from the main part of the restaurant. There, sipping water from a crystal goblet, his high cheekbones bathed in the ivory glow of candlelight, sat Cole. He glanced up and smiled.

“Ah, good. You’re right on time.”

Claude held out a chair and I slid into it. “Thanks,” I murmured, as he set the burgundy book in front of me. I touched the cover. Velvet. Nice.