No Rest for the Wicca (8 page)

“Drink this.”

We were back home. After a thorough examination, Xia’d been pronounced fit to leave. Leo wanted to bring her down to the station for questioning, but I managed to convince him to wait until the following morning.

I held out a purple mug with blue pansies emblazoned on it. “Chamomile tea,” I pressed it into Xia’s hand. “Good for what ails you.”

“Thanks.” Xia took the mug, inhaled deeply, took a sip. She set the mug down on the sideboard and stretched her feet out in front of her. “God, is this a dream? Tell me it is, Morgan. Tell me I’ll wake up and Darla will still be alive.”

I patted her arm. “Oh, sweetie,” I sighed. “If only I could.”

We sat in silence for another few minutes. I leaned forward, cupped my chin in my hands. “Feel like telling me what happened?”

She let out a long sigh. “We were going to have another meeting on Dianic Wicca.  Darla’d managed to get one of the professors there to speak to us about it.  But right after you left for work, she left a message on my cel.” Xia motioned toward her purse. “I saved the message. I’ll play it back.”

I found Xia’s oversized bright pink hobo bag and tossed it over. She rummaged inside, pulled out a matching neon pink cell, fiddled with a few minutes, then handed it to me. I listened to the message. Darla’s voice sounded clear and strong, certainly not as if she were being held at knife or gun point or even drugged.

“Hey, Xia. I’m real sorry, sweets, I know we usually ride to the meetings together, but…I have to meet with someone at the University beforehand. I can’t go into detail now, but I have something in my possession that could play a really important part in some very detailed research. It’s something I’ve worked on for a long time. I just want to ensure my role in this is acknowledged. So, meet me at Salvo Hall. Blessed be.”

I set the phone down thoughtfully on the end table. “Something she’d worked on for a long time, huh? Have you any idea what it could be? Or what sort of role she was talking about?”

Xia shook her head. “Darla always researched ancient legends and spells, questioned a lot of them. Offhand, I have no idea.”

“Could it have something to do with your Dianic Wicca stuff?”

Xia shrugged. “It might have had to do with the circle, or it could have had to do with her tarot group, or her Shadow group, or any one of a dozen others.” She gave a small shudder. “I didn’t see anyone in the hall, so I kind of stumbled around, found my own way upstairs. The room was dark. I groped on the wall, found the light switch. At first I thought it deserted—then I saw the leg jutting out from behind the podium.”

“Did she have clothes on?”

Xia gave me an odd look. “
What a question!
Yes, of course. She had a loose fitting green caftan on. Darla liked to wear caftans. She said they hide Nature’s bulges.”

I smiled slightly. Darla had been well over two hundred fifty pounds, but a pretty woman nonetheless and very proud of her full figure. Though not athletic, she’d been strong—strong enough to fight off an attacker.

It left a few possibilities: the element of surprise—or she’d known her killer. Or there was a weapon involved.

“I realize you were in shock, but this is very important, Xia,” I said. “Do you remember seeing anything near the body?”

Xia thought a moment. “Of course I screamed, but—I do recall seeing her purse. It was open, and everything spilled out on the floor.”

I nodded. “Do you recall seeing anything else lying nearby? Like—like a small doll, perhaps?”

Xia’s brow puckered in thought. “No,” she said at last. “But, of course, I was in shock. Honestly, I still am. There could have been, but—I can’t say for certain.” Her fingers traced the bruise at her neck. “I heard a strange sound—almost like the flapping of wings. Next thing I knew, this hand clamped itself around my neck, cutting off my air supply. I could barely breathe. I blacked out, woke up in the ER. And then you came in.”

I patted her hand again. “It’s okay. You rest now. If you need anything, just yell out. I’ll be in my office.”

Seated behind my desk, I booted up my computer, called up Google. I typed “Voodoo Messenger Dolls” into the search engine and hit enter.  Several sites appeared, and I clicked on one called, creepyvoodoodolls.com. A site appeared, depicting several cloth dolls with skulls for heads. I scanned the site. Basically, there was nothing there I didn’t already know. The power of a voodoo doll comes not from the object, but rather from the one who made it. They are not considered toys, but rather a messenger to the other side, usually a particular god. One sentence I found particularly interesting:

Voodoo dolls are power objects—not surrogates used to cause harm.
They are usually a form of bokor, or black voodoo, but in certain instances can be used for white magic.

I sat back, pursed my lips. What could be the purpose of those dolls? White or black magic? From the murders, it would appear black, unless…they were some sort of red herring. But why? And for what purpose?

My thoughts flew to the spirit in my office earlier, and its strange message. The words were burned in my brain.

Ago angajan asogwe. Lughnasadh
.

Voodoo words. Wiccan words.

I knew their meaning, I just wasn’t sure
what
their significance was all put together.

We need your help
.

One thing I knew, someone caught between planes could not rest until I helped them. I rose, grabbed my denim jacket from a nearby chair.

I knew what had to be done.

A thin fog had formed in the night air, sending little sparks of crackling energy whirling about. I parked my convertible on a side street and, hands jammed inside my pockets, walked the block and a half to Club Noir.

Since vampires and weres had been legalized in Central City more than a decade ago, Club Noir had been considered a meeting place for the supernaturals, kind of the way a strip club is for humans.  I pushed through the frosted-glass door covered with ancient symbols and odd graffiti and found myself in a large room. A massive oak bar took up the entire left side—tables were scattered at odd points throughout the balance, forming a sort of crooked semi-circle.  The ancient scarred hardwood creaked under my boots as I made my way to the bar. Behind it, a guy with huge muscles in a Ginny t, shoved ice into a mixer. A bandana sat looped around his forehead, partially concealing a jagged scar. He gave me a cursory glance, pushed some greasy blonde hair behind one ear as he flicked the switch on the mixer. It pulverized the ice in a nanosecond. He removed the ice, swished it into some pale brown liquid, sent the glass winging down to the opposite end with one motion. A woman in a tight t-shirt cut low to reveal an ample bosom caught it one-handed, lifted it in a salute. As she smiled, I caught a glint of overlong incisors. Vampire, but probably not Inheritor.  She appeared to be pretty tall—could be Baital, but in this dim light I couldn’t be sure.

The bartender grinned at me, showing uneven, discolored teeth. I couldn’t get a sense of him—he didn’t seem to be either ware or vamp. Might be a displaced warlock, but I couldn’t get a sense of that either. Or he could just be a plain old human, a slave. The latter seemed more likely. He brandished a glass, set it in front of me. “What can I get you, ma’m. Some whiskey?
Rye
?” He cocked his head. “You look like a Cosmo girl.”

I shook my head. “Actually, I’m a brew gal. What’s on tap?”

He studied me, turned away. “Miller, Bud. Pabst.”

“I’ll take a Bud.”

He looked me over. “Light?”

I wasn’t quite sure if he meant the remark as a compliment or an insult. “Straight up.”

He removed the glass, and a second later set a foaming mug in front of me. “Nice and cold.”

I took a deep swallow. The beer glided down my throat. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and leaned forward. “I need some information.”

His eyebrow went up. “Information? Do I look like a directory?”

“Not particularly, but I’m not fussy. Bartenders know everything, right? And I’ve been told this is the watering hole for the vamp community.”

“We get our share.”

“Great.”  I leaned across the bar. “I need to find Cole St. John.”

His eyes narrowed into mere slits. “
St. John
, huh.
Who needs to know?”

My hand shot out, gripped fabric. I pulled him to me in one motion. “I do. I’m an investigator. I need to find him.”

He shook my hand free. “Investigator, eh? If you belong to Special Forces, you should know where to find him.”

I pulled at the lapels of my jacket. “Did I say I was Special Forces? I said I was an investigator.”

“And she is,” Came a buttery smooth voice behind me. “A paranormal investigator, Jake. One of Central City’s finest.”

Jake splayed his beefy hands across the counter and eyed me. “Paranormal investigator? You mean PSI? Hah!” He gave a deep chuckle. “Since when did they get such fancy titles? I thought they were just little ole Ghostbusters.”

I turned. In the pale bar light, Cole’s eyes seemed blacker and more dangerous than before. He’d changed out of the suit he’d worn earlier and now had on jeans which seemed molded to every muscular curve, a black t-shirt, a leather jacket that probably cost more than I made in one week.  I turned back and stared into my brew.

“Like to make dramatic entrances, don’t you?” I muttered.

He laughed, a rumble from deep in his throat. “And you like to butt in a lot, I’m noticing.” He raised one finger at the bartender. “Scotch, Jake. Neat.”

Jake nodded, moved off. Cole slid onto the stool next to me. For a few minutes neither of us spoke. A small bowl of peanuts sat on the counter. I dove my hand into it, fisted some, and pushed them into my mouth, chewed slowly.  Just when I thought the silence would go on forever, Cole’s breath brushed my ear. “How’d you know where to find me?’ he asked.

I shrugged. “Most cops come to a bar to relax after a tough day. I figure you Special Forces types, you have it a lot tougher than the rest of us. It didn’t take much to figure out Club Noir was your place of choice.”

“Club Noir caters mostly to Inheritors,” he said softly. “Well, now I’m truly impressed with your powers of deductive reasoning,” he said. Jake set the Scotch in front of him and he fingered the glass a moment before lifting it to his lips, downing the contents in one swallow. He pushed the shotglass back down the counter. “Another,” he said.

While Jake got his refill, I took another swallow of brew and took a moment to study Cole, who looked even more handsome in this dim light than I remembered. Hot. Sexy.

Good lord, Morgan, get a grip
.
It’s now or never.

“I’ve reconsidered,” I blurted.

Something dark flickered in those eyes, and his lips parted to reveal his always pearly white choppers. “Reconsidered? What, exactly?”

I drew a breath, gripped the handle of the mug. “Come on,
St. John
. Are you really gonna make me beg. I’ve reconsidered your offer of earlier today.”

His brows drew together, and he tapped his upper lip with his forefinger. “Offer? Offer? Sorry, I’m drawing a blank.”

I threw up my hands.  “Okay, okay.  You know damn well what I’m getting at.  If you need to hear me actually say it, I will.  I’ve reconsidered your offer to help with…the case.”

“I see.” He took the second Scotch, downed it more quickly than he had the first. He fixed those incredibly black eyes on me. “What made you change your mind?”

I hesitated. Now didn’t seem to be the right time to voice the suspicion that, at the moment, was little more than supposition. I widened my eyes, batted my lashes. “Can’t a gal have a change of heart?”

“She could.” He studied me a moment.  “So,” he twirled the glass between his long fingers, watched the smoky liquid swirl. “What makes you think the offer is still open?”

My neck snapped up and my eyes went wide.  “Because…because you need me.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I need you! Wow! What a good one. You really do have an offbeat sense of humor, don’t you, Morgan. Need you. Ha, ha, ha.”

“It’s not funny,” I grumbled. I took another hit of beer. This wasn’t going well, not at all. I started to slide off the stool. “I see I made a mistake—“

“Not so fast.” His hand encircled my wrist, and he applied a subtle pressure. I winced, slid back on the stool, put my chin in my hands.

“If we’re to work together—notice I said
if
—I’d like for you to be honest about your motivation for seeking me out, after hours.”

“Oh, alright.” I balled my hand into a fist, brought it down on the counter, so hard my mug and his shot glass jumped. “Someone attacked my cousin today. At the University.”

He studied me for a moment, nodded. “I know.”

My eyes widened. “You do. How—oh, I forgot,” I said bitterly. “Inheritors, particularly Special Forces Inheritors—know everything, don’t they?”