No Rest for the Wicca (6 page)

“We found one left next to each body,” Cole said. “Each had a number. Rose 1, Charlene 2, Sunny 3.”

I frowned. “I see. And you have no idea as to the significance?”

He spread his hands out, palms upward. “I rather hoped you might have some ideas on that score.”

I did indeed, but I didn’t feel inclined to share. I tossed the packet back on the desk and folded my arms across my chest.

“Sorry. None.”

Cole’s eyes seemed to turn even blacker. “You’re lying, Ms. Hawkes.”

“Bite me, Agent St. John,” I shot back. “On second thought, cancel that. You’d probably enjoy it.”

That half-smile again. I wondered how many women had fallen prey to it. “Quite the opposite, my dear. You would, far more than me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

I rose, avoiding Gilley’s stare. I backed toward the door, hands balled into fists at my side.

“I want to thank you for extending this opportunity to me. As Captain Gilley knows, I’m never one to back away from a challenge.”

“Good.” Cole clapped his hands. “I’d like you to report to—“

I held up my hand. “You didn’t let me finish,” I said, and the startled look suffusing his handsome features made my heart beat just a tiny bit faster. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m very grateful the two of you have such confidence in my abilities, but unfortunately, you have confidence in the wrong skill set.”

Gilley must have sensed my direction, because he rose from behind the desk and walked around in front of it. “See here, Morgan, we didn’t mean to—“

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to dredge up old wounds, but as Captain Gilley well knows, I have no desire to utilize the particular talents you seem to feel you need to solve this case. So, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll stick to exorcising ghosts and evicting daemons. It’s not as glamorous a job as yours, Agent St. John, and Lord knows it’s belittled enough, but…all in all, it’s a much healthier atmosphere for me. My answer is thanks, but no thanks.”

I turned and walked out, resisting the temptation to slam the door behind me.

“Have I told you today you’re an idiot?”

“Yes, at least ten zillion times. Now hit me again.”

I sat in the Blue Devil, my favorite hangout bar near the docks.  Amid the haze of cigarette smoke and the faint odor of wolfsbane, I leaned over the wood counter, pushed my empty bottle of Bud toward Dorrie, one of my favorite were bartenders who, thankfully, worked the afternoon shift today. She looked at me, shrugged, dug out a fresh bottle, uncapped it, and slid it down the counter to me. I caught it one-handed, lifted it to my lips, and drank deeply.

“Thought the Force didn’t allow drinkin’ on duty,” she passed a cursory rag across the scarred top, more for show than for any real clean-up.

“I took the afternoon off,” I growled, and slammed the bottle down hard, almost missing the edge of the bar. “Oops.”

Dorrie reached across, plucked the half-empty bottle from my hand. “I’m cuttin’ you off,” she growled. “You’ve definitely had enough, and it isn’t even two in the afternoon.”

“Party pooper,” I grumbled, and splayed across the counter, my head buried in my outstretched arms. “Can’t I even get a Cosmo? A teeney-tiny one?”

“Cut off means cut off from all liquor. I will, however, get you some strong black coffee,” she volunteered.

“Fine.” I scrubbed at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Could you just put a shot of Zuluki in it? Just one, for old times’ sake?”

She cut me a look, poured black coffee into a large, cracked mug from a pot behind the bar, and shoved it in front of me. “Drink,” she commanded.

I lifted the mug to my lips, took a tentative sip, slammed it back on the counter. “Aagh! That swill is awful! What’s it made of? Daemon nails and puppy dog tails?”

“It’s made of strong Brazilian coffee beans. It’s just not diluted with sugar and milk and, god forbid, liquor. Now drink!” Her golden eyes blazed.

I lifted the cup back to my lips and took another small sip. “Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “No need to get so testy. For Hades’ sakes—and what’s with the yellow eyes? It’s not phase time, is it?”

“Relax,” Dorrie chuckled. “The full moon’s not till next week. You riled me, is all,” she sighed. “Your big chance to get back on Homicide, and...”

“It’s not Homicide,” I interrupted. “It’s a Special Forces Assignment. Completely different.”

“Yeah, well, you know damn well it could lead to reinstatement. And you blow it because of your goddamn conscience.”

“Yeah, well, life’s a bitch.
And who said I wanted to work Homicide again?
” I took another sip of the coffee. “This is really awful, Dorrie. I mean really.”

“Oh, Great
Neptune
.” She swiped the cup out of my hand, dumped the contents in the sink behind the bar. “There’s a fresh pot almost done brewing. You will drink from that one.” She wagged her pointed fingernail under my nose. “Or else.”

I pushed my nose right in her face. “Are you threatening a police officer?”

She laughed full out. “Hell, you ain’t no police officer, Morgan, not any more. You’re a—what is the term?”

“Paranormal investigator,” I said, with a dignified air. At least as dignified as I could muster after about eight beers.

“Ghostbusters,” Dorrie bobbed her head up and down. “For pity’s sake, you don’t even carry a gun anymore.”

“And it’s probably a good thing too,” I said. “There’s far too much temptation around Central City to shoot it.”

The weretender leaned across the counter, her yellow eyes raking me up and down. “Something else is goin’ on here. What else is eatin’ at you? Besides not wanting to do the case for your oh so personal reasons?”

I drummed my fingernails across the countertop. “Nothing. Is the coffee ready yet?”

“Aha,” Dorrie crowed with delight. “I’ve struck a nerve. So, give. What’s got you all aflutter?” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Could it be your new almost-partner? What is he, incredibly good looking or something?”

“You could say so. He seemed…almost godlike,” I responded. “Like one of those paintings you see in museums.”

“No shit?” Dorrie pursed her lips and folded her arms across her ample bosom. “He must have been a were. Everyone knows weres are the hottest things going.”

“Nope.” I shook my head.

“What?” She poured me a mug from the fresh pot and held it out in front of me. “He couldn’t have been a vamp. They’re too
pale, too see through and
besides, most of them can’t go out in daylight.”

I reached for the mug but she held it just out of my grasp. My nails scraped along its side and I groaned. “Cripes, Dorrie, you are a real pain today. Bartenders are supposed to listen to their customer’s problems.”

“What in Hades do you think I’ve been doing for the last hour and a half?” she swished the mug under my nose. I sniffed the aroma like a starved Rottweiler. “So, tell. A Simbali daemon, perhaps? They aren’t half bad looking in human form? Or a Chrysalis warlock?”

“Wrong. He’s a vamp.” As Dorrie wrinkled her nose I added, “An Inheritor.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that breed.” She set the mug down and I grabbed it, raised it to my lips. “They blend in well with the human population. They eat, drink, go out in the daylight, everything.”

“Ah--hot!” I set the cup down, picked at my tongue. “Yeah, they’re more human than us. Except they’re pretty much impervious to harm, and can live for hundreds of years. Otherwise, they’re just like a regular human.”

“Hm,” Dorrie put her chin in her hands. “So, let’s see. Good looking, like a god, right?” She shut her eyes. “I bet he’s about six two, a hundred eighty pounds, with an impossibly perfect face, a strong, square jaw, soft chiseled lips, and long hair black as night.”

I let out a low whistle. “Wow, what have you been doing? Taking up mindreading, or scrying in your spare time? You’ve just given a very accurate description.”

Her full red lips parted. “So I’m right?”

“Cole St. John to a t,” I took a sip of the coffee. “Of course, I didn’t describe his personality—cocky, sure of himself, supercilious bastard. A week’s salary says he got his cushy job via nepotism. I’m probably much better off not working with him.”

Dorrie chuckled. “Maybe so.”

I set the mug on the bar. “I’m curious, though. How did you manage to guess his appearance so accurately?”

“Very easily, as a matter of fact,” she leaned across and whispered in my ear, “He’s standing right behind you.”

Ouch.

Cole St. John slid onto the stool next to me and smiled pleasantly at Dorrie. “What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?”

“Well,” Dorrie giggled, “Looking like you is a swell start. What’s your pleasure, Inheritor? We do carry bottled blood, but I’m not sure as to the vintage.”

He waved his hand. “The thirst only hits occasionally. When it does, there’s nothing like the lily-white neck of a virgin.”

Dorrie almost gagged. She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Leaves me out. Too bad.” She gave me a mischievous grin. “Morgan might still be in the running, though.”

My eyes widened and I felt my cheeks start to flame. “Dorrie!”

Cole laughed. “Right now I’d much rather have a Scotch, neat.”

“Coming right up, handsome.” She swung over to the rack of bottles behind the sink, pulled two of them down. “You got it.”

Cole glanced over at me. “I hope you don’t mind sharing your space with a cocky, supercilious bastard. I am sorry I didn’t get my job via nepotism, but I’ll try very hard to live up to your other expectations.”

I bit my bottom lip so hard, I tasted blood for the second time today. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “My mouth gets the better of me sometimes.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “So I’ve heard.”

I drank from the mug again, more to cover my sudden nervousness than any real thirst. “What did you follow me here for?”

Dorrie set a glass in front of Cole. He picked it up, swirled the amber liquid, took a sip. “You really think you’re something don’t you? What makes you think I’d follow you?”

“Because you didn’t get what you wanted this afternoon,” I answered. “Plus the fact there would be no other reason for you to come into a gin mill like this.”

“Hey,” Dorrie cried. “I resent that remark—I think.”

Cole’s gaze flicked to the weretender. “You’re right to resent it, Dorrie. She meant it as an insult—to both of us.” He took another sip of Scotch, set the glass down. “Very smooth,” he nodded. “I’ll definitely have another. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

Dorrie grinned and eyed me as she pointed at Cole.  “I like him,” she said as she moved away. I glared at Cole.

“You might as well finish your drink and take off. You’re not going to convince me to work this case with you.”

He stared intently into my eyes. “Aren’t I?”

I averted my eyes and downed the rest of the coffee, held the mug out. “Dorrie—more of this swill—and this time, two shots of Zuluki! Please!” I set the mug down, turned back to Cole. “I don’t have to hear the details. You want me to try and tap into something I did once before—with disastrous results.” As he opened his mouth, I held up my hand. “Don’t say it, please.”

“Say what?”

“What happened wasn’t my fault. It damn well was, and I take full responsibility for it.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t going to say that at all.”

I stared at him. “You weren’t?”

He took another sip of Scotch. “No, in fact, quite the opposite. You thought because of your unique heritage, it would be a simple matter for you to master an art you’re basically unfamiliar with. Your intentions were noble, my dear, however you lacked proper guidance, training. The end result…well, we all know how it turned out, right?  I can appreciate the good intentions behind it, but it was, in short, a foolhardy attempt—not worthy of you, not at all.”

My jaw thrust out, and I gritted my teeth. “Wow, thanks for being so subtle. And how do you know what’s worthy of me?”

He shrugged. “Whether I do or don’t, you wished the truth, didn’t you? Well, there it is…as I see it, anyway.”

Dorrie set a fresh mug in front of me and I grabbed it, tasted the liquid. Great. There had to be at least four shots of Zuluki in this one. “Why would you say you disapproved of my trying to use my heritage, when you so obviously want me to use it on this case?”

He shook his head. “Did I say I wanted you to practice voodoo? No. I believe I said you had certain knowledge, a certain expertise that might prove handy. And you do, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” I grumbled. “I grew up raised by a bokor and a Wiccan. I have knowledge of both arts.”

“You still practice some—oh, not the big spells, but rather, the simple chants.” Cole fingered his glass. “You’ve used some—quite recently, in fact.  You continue to hone your abilities, what you’re good at. You draw upon your best resource—knowledge. And that is what I need,” Cole said. “Not another failed attempt to cast an ineffectual spell—just your knowledge. Your brain, ours for the picking. Nothing more.”

I took another swig of the brew, let the liquor burn a trail down my throat. “Why did you come here?”

“You didn’t let me finish explaining the details of the case. You walked out, made a decision without all the facts.” He clucked his tongue. “Not very professional. Gilley and I expected more of you.”

“Yeah, I’m big in the disappointment department today,” I spat out.

Cole’s lips quirked. “Perhaps. Anyway, seeing as I’m here—won’t you let me finish what we started earlier?”

I sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

He smiled. “One always has a choice.”

“So they tell me.” I slid off the stool, picked up my mug. “Come on. There’s a table near the back.”

Once we were seated, Cole withdrew the packet of photographs, passed them across to me. “Now, tell me the truth. You did pick up something from these photos, didn’t you?”

“If by pick up you mean did I get a psychic impression, I must tell you it’s not one of my special talents.”

“You know what I mean,” Cole said quietly. “The dolls.”

“Ah, yes. The dolls.”

“Really, Morgan.” His voice sounded harsh. His black eyes gleamed, and I saw the hint of red simmering below the surface. I irritated him. Good. “When are you going to stop playing games? I’m sure you recognize this particular type of charm, even I do. They’re called--”

“Messenger dolls,” I bit out. “Small, featureless bits of cloth, which usually have some sort of message secured to it with a ribbon.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.”

I traced the outline of one doll on the photograph with my nail. “Those dolls are used to send messages to
lwa’s
– the spirits. The doll is supposed to carry the message into the spiritual world so the
lwa
can grant the particular request.” I snapped my neck up to meet his gaze. “Sorry to disappoint, but I have no idea what the significance of the numbers could mean.”

“I see.” Cole drummed his long fingers on the checked tablecloth, one that had definitely seen better days.