No Rest for the Wicca (3 page)

I shrugged into my jacket and glared at him. “This had better be good. I have a ton of paperwork to complete, and—“

“Oh, it’s good all right,” Danny chuckled. “Real good. Finger lickin’ good.”

I crossed the room in two seconds flat, my fists curled into Danny’s lapels. I half-lifted him off the ground, no small order as he stood an inch or two taller and had about twenty pounds on me. “Don’t toy with me,” I growled. “If you know, you’d better tell.”

“Hey, let go,” he swatted at my hands. “You’re wrinkling my two hundred dollar jacket.”

“It’s not all I’ll wrinkle, unless you spill it,” I hissed. “What’s Gilley want?”

“Well, I can’t be sure, but—“ he gasped as I released him and he took two steps backward. “I did hear your name and the word undercover mentioned in the same breath.”

I stared at him. “You mean like…a spy? For what? Oh, Zeus!” My eyes fell on the paper, which now sat in a crumpled heap on the side of my desk. “Do you think it’s got anything to do with—“

He tugged at the lapels of his jacket, smoothing out the creases my fingernails had etched. “Honest, I don’t know. The crystal ball’s been a bit cloudy lately.”

I moved past him, jerked open the door. “Very funny.”

“I didn’t mean it to be. Sorry, Champ, but there’s only one way for you to find out.”

“I’m on my way. And if you really want to be nice, you could do me a favor and start my paperwork for me.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen,” he snorted. “Give me a reason why I should.”

“Because I didn’t kick your butt from here to DesMoine,” I flung over my shoulder, and slammed the door to block out the sound of his laughter as I headed for the stairs.

I rapped on the wavy glass door with the name
Clement Gilley, C
aptain, PSI
, etched in gold letters and heard a brisk, “Morgan. Come in, come in.”

I entered and stood uncertainly for a moment. Gilley’s office reflected the man himself- utilitarian, yet full of class. He motioned to me and I crossed and took a seat in one of the two leather chairs in front of his desk as he flipped through some papers in a manila folder. He pushed the folder off to one side and propped his reading glasses on the edge of his beak-shaped nose.

“That troll Zandor telephoned. Said you did a bang-up job today.”

Wow, he sure didn’t waste any time
.
All my clients should be
so
grateful
. I shrugged. “Just a simple case of blocking a daemon’s portal, Captain. Not especially taxing.”

He leaned back in his chair. “No, I imagine not for someone with your talent.” He looked me up and down, and I shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “Whether or not you’re aware of it, I’ve watched you closely for the year and a half you’ve been in my charge,” he said at last. “You’re a bright girl, Morgan. Intelligent. Strong. I’ve felt for a long time your talents are wasted in this department.”

“Sir, I disagree. Vanquishing daemons and exorcising ghosts is an important part of law enforcement, even though the big boys upstairs don’t share our sentiments.”

He laughed. “Well put. Still, I can’t help but notice you seem a tad frustrated lately.”

“Sir?”

He leaned forward. “Isn’t it time you put the past behind you.”

My jaw thrust forward. “A bit hard to do, since my past is the reason I’m working in this division,” I said through clenched teeth. “Sir.”

He reached into his middle drawer, pulling out the newspaper. He laid it flat on the desk and tapped the headline. “Are you familiar with current events?”

“I try to keep up,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry.

He leaned across the desk so his nose hovered only scant inches from mine. “Good, good. How about this latest case?”

“Three women, apparently murdered in a semi-ritualistic fashion, no DNA left at the scene, not much of anything to go on, actually. Yeah, you could say I’ve been following it.”

He picked up the newspaper. “There were a few details about the murders not released to the press.”

I leaned back in the chair. “There always are.”

He studied me a moment. “What if I were to tell you the victims were all witches.”

I felt a jolt shudder through me, and affected what I hoped came across as an off-hand manner. “So, we’ve got a witch killer somewhere out there. Is that why you called me in? To tell me to be careful?”

“Yes, and more.” He took off his glasses, scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “How do you feel about undercover work?”

I felt the breath whoosh out of me. “Undercover?”

Gilley leaned across his desk, cupped his chin in his hand. “I’ve spoken personally with the Commissioner. Certain key people feel this investigation is right up your alley. You have a particular knowledge which could prove useful—get an inside handle on the situation. But I won’t kid you, there’s a lot of danger involved. Think you can handle it?”

My jaw jutted forward. “I think I could, yes, sir.”

His expression softened and he leaned back. “Good, because I think you could too. Go home, Hawkes, and get some rest. Report back here tomorrow morning,
eight a.m.
sharp for a briefing.”

I felt a rush of adrenaline surge through me. “Thank you, sir.”

He regarded me silently for a moment. “I won’t kid you, Morgan, there’s a lot riding on this. Don’t let me down.”

I shook my head. “I won’t, sir. I promise.”

“Good.
Eight a.m.
sharp. Don’t be late.”

I started for the door, enjoying the sensation of floating on air. My euphoria dissipated with Gilley’s next words.

“And you’ll meet your partner.”

I turned slowly. “Partner?”

“You didn’t think you’d work a case like this alone, did you?” His voice softened. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t. This is an entirely different situation. Everything will be fine.”

I frowned. “Easy for you to say, sir.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You want this, don’t you, Morgan?”

I sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, go home and get some rest. I’ll have Danny finish up your reports on the Zandor matter.” He paused. “And don’t wear those leather pants.”

I backed out of the office. Not even the thought of Danny Robillard cursing as he waded through my sea of paperwork could dispel the odd pricking sensation, the one that started at the base of my spine, and inched all the way up to my neck.

I’d gotten a similar tingle only once before in my life. It hadn’t turned out well.

The house I shared with my cousin Xia was a small ranch, located on the west end of town, a stone’s throw from the ocean. Beachfront property, my Uncle Zak used to call it. Weather-beaten and worn, it definitely didn’t qualify as the best looking house in our little cul de sac, but it served the purpose as a roof over our heads and a sanctum to keep out the cold. Really, what more could anyone ask?

Tonight I sat out on the dilapidated porch, a six-pack of Miller beer at my side. A gentle breeze stirred, riffled my raven-black hair. Humidity was high, evidenced by the way the ivy crawling along one side of the cottage drooped, and I took a long swig of brew, thankful I’d changed from my work attire into a comfortable shorts set. I stretched my bare legs out in front of me and leaned back.

“You’ve been awfully quiet all night.”

I glanced up. Xia had padded onto the porch behind me. I looked pointedly at my cousin’s bare feet, toes painted some obscene shade of purple. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone?”

She flopped down next to me. My gaze flicked over her sweats and loose tunic, emblazoned all over with different phases of the moon. “Aren’t you hot?”

She shrugged. We were, the two of us, about as alike as Snow White and Paris Hilton. Where I stood almost five-eleven, Xia barely came up to my bosom; my hair was the color of fine ebony; hers resembled a fine chaff of wheat. Her eyes were wide, blue and innocent; mine were green, the color of smoky emeralds, the kind you’d see on a sleek black cat. About the only thing appearance wise we had in common was our milky-white skin, except during the dog days of summer. Where I tended to turn the color of a broiled lobster, Xia browned like a perfectly done piece of toast. Whenever we went to the beach, she could lie on the sand in a string bikini, while I wore floppy hats, ponchos, anything to keep out of the sun. It provided me a good reason to hate her, save for the fact it was just impossible to hate Xia. She’d gotten the overload of nice genes in the family, while mine, on the other hand, reeked of the “b” word. Oh, well.  One can’t have everything, right?

She held out a cracked mug. I caught the mixture of lemon and ginger wafting up from the cup. “Want some tea?”

I held up my half-empty bottle. “No thanks. You got your brew, I got mine.”

“I hate it when you refer to my teas as brews.”

I laughed. “Aren’t they?”

She cocked her head to one side and studied me. “You know, you always reach for a beer when you’re fretting over something. Did anything happen at work to upset you?”

I lifted my shoulders, took a deep swig before I answered. “No more than usual, I suppose.”

She crossed her legs at the ankles. “The usual? You mean you banished a ghost, right?”

I nodded. “Today proved to be a little more challenging. I vanquished a daemon.”
And I’m getting reassigned,
I wanted to add, but hesitated. I thought it good news, but Xia might not. She’d been quite happy when I’d informed her of my new assignment. A lot less dangerous, she’d said. And for the most part, it was true. Even though I’d never admit it to anyone, ghostbusting lacked something I usually got high on: an element of real danger. Ghosts and daemons caught between planes usually presented no real threat to anyone except themselves.

She frowned. “Is that all?”

“What, you think I’m holding something back?” I glared at her. “Or is your witch’s psyche giving you bad vibes?”

“You would know, since we have practically the same psyche,” she said lightly. Her hand snaked out, rested lightly on my knee. “I realize yours is slightly less advanced, nonetheless I know you, remember,” she said softly. “Blood tells. I don’t need to scry my crystals to see something’s eating at you.”

I slid her a look. Xia’s intuitiveness could be downright scary, at times. I wondered if the word “partner” screamed at her from my aura.

“Maybe something is, maybe something isn’t,” I grumbled. “Since you know me so well, Xia, you should be able to tell I’m in a very uncommunicative mood tonight. Even more so than normal.”

“Blessed be, of course I can tell. I just thought sharing would make you feel better.”

“Feel better? Oh, I see. You think sharing my troubles would relieve me of my mental burden?” I tipped my head back, let the beer burn a trail down my throat. “I don’t think so.”

“I disagree.” She expelled a giant sigh. “You used to be such a chatterbox, don’t you remember? Once you started talking, you didn’t stop for spit. As a matter of fact, you used to share everything with me before—“

“Before what,” I snapped as she paused. “Oh, let me finish the sentence for you. Before ‘the incident’. Oh, wait, even better. The damned incident, as everyone refers to it, right? Right?”

Xia leaned toward me, her blue eyes large and round. “Oh, hell, Morgan,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up old wounds.”  She picked at the hem of her tunic with the edge of her fingernail. “I know you still carry guilt over what happened, but you shouldn’t, not really. It wasn’t your fault—“

“How can you say that? Damn to Hades, of course it was!” I slammed the bottle down on the porch so hard it cracked. Golden liquid streamed out and down the steps, forming a little pool at the bottom. I grunted, reached for another. “What a waste,” I muttered.

“Do you mean the beer, or your life?”

I shrugged. “They’re interchangeable. Pick one.”

“See, that’s what I mean.” Xia folded her hands across her chest and glared at me. “You make these little veiled references, then clam up. For pity’s sake, if you’d just talk about it…let it out…”

“Stop!” I yelled, and passed a hand across my overbright eyes.  “Let it go, Xia. I did all my talking to the unit psychiatrist, who pronounced me cured, didn’t you get the news flash? Since it happened well over a year ago, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have.”

Xia clucked her tongue. “A mite defensive, aren’t we?”

I slumped down further on the steps. “Can we change the subject, please?  What  did you do today, Xia? Buy any new cauldrons? Learn some new spells? Did you and your buddies hold hands and recite some new chants?”

Her perfectly arched brows drew together. “You’ve never even tried to understand our Dianic Wicca. Maybe if you came to a meeting…”

I shook my head. “No thank you.”

“Sure, I forgot. You’ve got better things to do than embrace your Wiccan heritage.”

“Half-Wiccan.”

“Okay, half.” She threw me a glare and continuted, “Some of us are thinking of getting into Faery Wicca,” Xia continued. “Lily gave a brief talk on it today, and I had to admit it sounded fascinating.  We’d work specifically with nature spirits, you know, fire, air, earth, water.”

I raised my eyebrow.  “No pixie dust?”

“You know, you ought to quit after just one of those,” she pointed to the almost-empty pack. “After three your sarcasm level gets unbearable.”

I slumped further down the steps as a fresh wave of guilt washed over me.  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, hanging my head.  “I don’t know what gets into me sometimes and makes me act this way.  It’s like some demon force takes over.”

Xia’s hand shot out to cover mine.  “I’ve been on the receiving end of your moods more than once, and it’s a good thing I’ve got thick skin.”  She cocked her head, studying me.  “You know, Morgan, whether you want to admit it or not, you aren’t cut out to be a lone wolf.”  She rose with a sigh.  “I imagine you’re right, though.  I should know by now to let you work your moods out by yourself.  I’m sorry I bothered you.”

I scrubbed at my face with my palms.  “You didn’t, not really.  It’s just—oh, what’s the use?”

I felt her arm go round my shoulders, and then my face was pressed into her chest.

“You know, Morgan, you’re not the first cop, or person for that matter, to make an error in judgment. April had a choice to make, too. You don’t have to shoulder all of the responsibility for what happened. The sooner you come to terms with it, and find your own personal Summerland, the better person you’ll become.”

I raised my face up to hers, felt the sting of hot tears at the corners of my eyes.   “I want to be a better person, Xia.  Honest.  I do.”

She smiled as she brushed away the lone tear that had found its way down my cheek.  “I know you do, Morgan.  I know.”

We sat like that for a few moments, quiet in the chill night air, and then Xia finally pulled away and walked up the steps.  When I heard the door close I dropped back on the top step, leaned my head against the railing and closed my eyes.  “Why do I act like this,” I muttered.  “Why?”

I knew the answer.

If only things had happened differently…if only…if only…

Later, much later, I slipped into the house and went directly to the kitchen. The refrigerator door groaned as I opened it; one of these days we were going to have to invest in a new one. I rummaged through it, finally deciding upon some leftover ham and
Gouda
cheese. I carried my prize to the sideboard, then fumbled to open the breadbasket. There I found a loaf of day-old rye, not my favorite, and some Wonder bread that had definitely seen better days. Not being a big fan of green mold, I opted for the rye. I slapped some ham and cheese on the bread, slathered it with Gulden’s hot and spicy, and carried my meal down the hall into the room set up as my office.

I loved this room—hands down it had to be my favorite in the house, probably because there were absolutely no trappings of Xia’s lurking anywhere about. The desk was a beautiful pale oak, bought for a song at a flea market. My computer system was state of the art, of course, the end product of my first Christmas Bonus check from the Department. Last year, Xia’d surprised me with a real leather desk chair. Wall to wall bookshelves were near to overflowing, with everything from a How-to handbook on autopsies to the classics Xia loved to read, over and over—
Little Women, A Tale of Two Cities, Kidnapped.
She’d even managed to get me interested in a few of them, and reading had never been high on my list of favorite hobbies. On a low table just under the window sat a collection of framed photographs. I walked over, selected the one in the brass oval frame. My face and the face of a girl with red hair and laughing green eyes smiled up at me.

April.
No matter what anyone says, it was my fault.
I know
it
.
I got too cocky—thought I knew too much.

I’ve found in my experience people who aren’t cops can’t understand the special bond between partners. When one dies, it’s like a part of you dies right along with them.

In my case, I’d operated for the last year and a half with no more than an empty shell.

I looked at the photograph for a long time, before I carefully set it back on the table. As the moon rose in the sky, a pale orb, I flopped down in my chair, let its rays wash over me as I dropped my head into my hands and, for the first time in a long time, let the tears flow.

***

The chamber was dark, musky, shadows slithering along the bare wall. The only light came from the flames spearing above the black candles set in gleaming tripods on either end of the thick slab of marble. In the center of the marble slab lay a naked woman. Her hands and feet were bound, her eyes covered by a black silk scarf. A bowl of sacrificial blood rested between her thighs.

A door at the far end of the room opened, and a dark figure entered. Clad in a dark robe with a hood totally obscuring its features, the figure knelt before the altar, murmured a few words in a long-dead dialect. It rose, bent over the woman, and pulled the scarf away from her eyes. They widened as they rested on the hooded figure.

“Wa—water,” she murmured, through dry, cracked lips. “Please.”

The figure crossed to a small table, poured some water into a goblet from a pitcher. It tipped the cup to the woman’s lips, and she drank deeply.

“Who—who are you?” she asked, as the cup was taken away. “Why have you brought me here?”

The figure lowered the hood, and she bit back a scream. The person facing her wore a boar’s head mask.

“I worship the one,” the figure said in a deep, guttural tone, so low it was impossible for her to discern whether a man or woman lurked behind the mask.

Her eyes widened. “Is this a Black Mass—is this why I’m here?”

The masked figure reached beneath its robe. The girl caught a flash of light and raised her eyes. The dagger, bright and shiny, seemed to float above her chest.

“No,” she whimpered. “No, please…”

He rested the point of the blade directly between her eyes. “There is a way you could save yourself,” he growled.

“What?” she gasped. “I’ll do anything. Anything—just spare me.”

“You were given a book by someone.” He paused. “I want it.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—I have no book.”

He pressed closer. “I think you do.”

She clamped her lips into a straight line and glared.

His hand caressed her chest. “Well, you had your chance. Now, your witch’s blood will make one more link in our chain.”

“Witch’s blood?” she gasped. “But I—I’m not a blood—“