whiskey witches 01 - whisky witches (2 page)

Soundtrack (instrumental) for Whiskey Witches Season 1 Episode 1:

W
HAT WAS A
protection mandala doing at a crime scene? Moreover, why was it covered in blood? Whose blood? The victim’s? The murderer?

Detective Paige Whiskey stooped to see it better. It had been carved into the wall of the old slave shack of the Metley Plantation. The slave shack. Paige winced and peered at the space around her. Two uniformed officers shared the dark, dank shack with her; one inside, his hand on his gun, the other outside.

As if the perpetrator would risk coming back.

No. He’d left the scene, the bodies, everything here for display. He was telling a story.

So, what did the mandala say?

She didn’t know. She straightened, arching her stiff back. A couple of the lower vertebrae popped, releasing some of the pressure. Sweat soaked her white, button-up shirt and her long, brown hair, plastering strands of it to her face, reminding her why she’d moved away from the blistering heat of Texas. The South was a beast.

She was beat. The flight from Denver had taken its toll, and the drive from Baton Rouge, while not long by Colorado standards, was enough to demand a good long nap. She needed a relaxing bath or a good run to clear her muscles and her mind.

But first, she needed to fill it with as many details as she could.

Current murder victim, Eddie Lopez.

She lowered herself to one knee beside him. Her one blue-gloved hand itched to touch, to pry, to discover. The coroner hadn’t arrived yet, so the best she could do was look.

X’s carved into his eyes from brow to cheek. Dried blood traced lines down the side of his face. The man had been alive for that.

A symbol had been carved into his chest. A series of runes. She knew a few of them, but several had been drawn atop one another, sharing the same lines almost like ogham. Jera, opala, and fehu. Year, heritage, and wealth. The dried blood lines of the carvings were thin, bare trickles compared to the eyes.

A silver ceremonial knife lay beside his head, bathed in blood.

Sacrifice.

The question was, did the murderer know what he was doing?

Chances were, no. He was probably some dumb schmuck killing people and making it look pretty while he jerked off to the idea of Satan. He might even think himself smart, masking his true intentions behind ceremonial garbage that would send most God-fearing people running for the hills.

Well, if Louisiana had hills.

One way or the other, though, the killer implemented enough real symbols that even through stupidity, he’d be able to draw something to him. Demons. Angels. Elementals. Ghosts.

Worse.

“Do you understand why I asked for you yet, Detective Whiskey?”

The local police chief stepped through the door. He was tall, bald and black. Good looking, pleasing to the eye, with a low, soothing voice. He probably didn’t have to try hard to win over the ladies. She narrowed her eyes, returning her attention to the walls. “Yeah.”

“Got any idea what he’s doing?”

The symbols at the victim’s feet told the intent. “He’s trying to summon something.”

“You think the killer’s male?”

She shrugged, shifting on the balls of her feet. “Statistics say it’s more than likely. Also, each person was killed separately. If the killer is trying to summon something, that could replace the sexual drive most serial killings have in common. Each of these victims were thought out, their killing intricate, but messy. Whoever the killer is, he has a goal and each person is a piece of the puzzle.”

“What do you think he’s trying to summon?” Chief White’s foot made a soft clonk as he stepped onto a plank of old wood that had been strewn on the dirt-packed floor. “A demon?”

“Maybe.” People generally didn’t know summoning a demon required a considerable bit more than a few symbols, some blood, and a lot of candle wax. Not that she had a great deal of experience summoning demons. She’d read a few pages from people who did. She had two words for it. Labor intensive.

She shifted, the toes of her cowboy boots swirling the dirt beneath her while she took in the entire scene again. Symbols were everywhere.

“You don’t know?”

“Not yet. No.”

He rubbed his scraggly-bearded jaw, his expression grim. “Why Eddie? He chose two women before.”

“When you’re summoning demons, sex doesn’t matter.” Paige rested her elbow on her knee and pressed the knuckles of her bare left hand into her bottom lip.

Paige, a deep, thickly-accented voice said.

She jerked her attention to Chief White, the only other person in the shack.

His eyebrows rose. “What?”

She cocked her head to the side and listened. For all that she was a Whiskey, she had no abilities, no gifts, just a sharp eye. Her grandmother, mother, sister, brother—hell, even her nieces, nephews, and cousins–had gifts of some sort. But not her. So, where had that voice come from?

“Did you hear something?” Chief White asked.

Paige looked at him through her eyelashes, keeping her head tipped. “Did you?”

He shook his head, his expression similar to one Leslie, her ghost-talking sister, gave to other “psychics” every time they said they felt someone sinister standing behind them.

She stood. “Probably just the feel of the place. I’ve never been somewhere where real slaves were kept.”

He pinched his lips and pointed to the mandala. “What’s that? It’s new. Does it mean something?”

“I’ve never seen one used for evil. They’re generally used for gathering energy, or for protection.” She walked over and knelt in front of it. “It’s like he’s trying to tell us something. All these, the runes, the symbols. It’s like he’s writing a story.”

“I brought you here so you could tell it, Detective.”

She pulled her ears back and ground her jaw. “I’m aware, sir.”

“You can call me Chief.” He shoved his hand in his pocket. “Or Brian.”

She frowned at him. Calling people she worked with by their last name gave her a sense of security, kept them distant. She didn’t know him. He hadn’t earned that level of trust.

He shrugged. “Or just Chief.”

She nodded, her lips pursed and out, returning her attention to the important things. “The only thing out of place is this mandala.”

Chief White knelt down in front of it. “I don’t understand what any of this means.”

“I doubt you would. First you have the sun in the center. Usually, that’s denoted and captured by color. Simplist meaning? Power. The next ring is frogs. Could be metamorphisis, especially since we know he’s trying to summon a demon. The most common meanings are that and rebirth. The next one is where the real key in the meaning of the mandala lies, though, I think.”

He leaned in closer. “They look like runes.”

“They’re not. They’re Sanskrit symbols for alchemy.”

“Sorcerers?”

“Have you been watching Sherlock Holmes?”

He glared are her, his lips flat.

She flicked her eyebrows and pointed without touching. “That’s silver, I think. Mmm, moon, I think, so something feminine. This is sulfur. I see it a lot. It means ascension, kind of. And this little crescent moon shape is actually platinum, I’m pretty sure, mean resilience. There’s a few other things here I don’t immediately recognize, but you can already see a little insight.”

“Okay.” The chief swatted at a fly buzzing around his head, a bead of sweat trickling from his shining head, his gaze unfocused. “What could this thing protect against?”

“Evil spirits? General bad luck? From this, I’d say you have a case of someone messing with stuff he doesn’t understand. There’s bad rune mashings, this . . .” She flailed with one hand.

“So, a waste of your time.”

She met his pale brown gaze. “Well, no. Even with someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, having someone who does is always a good thing. I could maybe see what he’s trying to do before we lose another person.”

“Well, that would certainly be something.”

She stood up too fast, the blood rushing to her head. She caught herself against the wall with her bare hand.

The world rotated with a slow-churning lurch. The dust-ridden sunlight streaming through the slats in the window above her head dissolved into nothingness. The brutal heat became bone-setting chill.

Then everything disappeared. Something slammed into her skull from the side, applying pressure to her eyes until she thought they’d pop.

Silence.

Stillness.

Peace.

The moon hid behind a thick blanket of clouds. Fog rolled in and gentled away only to fold itself around her again. Trees rose from the earth like prickly fingers. The ground lay dormant beneath her bare feet. Chill from the late afternoon rain seeped through her numb toes.

She pulled her black cloak tighter around her. Her earth-bound form did not feel chill or heat, was unphased by a strong wind. She felt the energy, the tug towards darkness. Her demon heart froze in fear—

She fell back, blinking hard to regain her bearings, landing on her butt. Her gaze latched onto Chief White’s round face, using it like a lifeline to bring her back.

“Detective!” He grabbed her arm. “What happened?”

Who are you? A dark voice punched through her mind like a bull. Who interrupts my memories?

“Jesus.” White pulled her to her feet by her armpit.

She staggered. What just happened? A dull ache grew in the base of her skull and at her temple. “I need air.”

Chief White didn’t argue as he guided her out of the shack.

The blistering Louisiana breeze hit her full in the face, resting cool fingers along her sweat-dampened clothes and face.

“What happened?”

She gulped in a breath of calming air. “Probably just the heat.” She gestured to the sweatbox behind her. “I’m not used to this.”

Chief White’s expression lacked emotion. “You saw something.”

She ran her palms along her sweaty hair.

“You’ve got the same look about you as my momma did when she’d get a vision.”

Paige stopped, her fingers intertwined on top of her head. “I don’t get visions.”

“I know your background, Detective. This is Louisiana. Nothing you say can shock me.”

But it might her. Growing up with no gifts, wishing to be like everyone else in her family, and then having an experience like this? Yeah. It could shock the ever-lovin’ shit right out of her.

“What did you see?”

A thought like smoke curled through her mind, whispering like a lover. Her hands dropped, her muscles relaxed, and she found herself walking back to the shack. She had no control over her body. She couldn’t blink, couldn’t jerk her feet to go elsewhere.

The policeman at the door stepped out of her way.

She struggled to regain control of her body. Her body.

Her feet stilled just inside the door.

She saw the victim, his blood soaking the dirt.

He disappeared.

Short spring grass shone in the moonlight. A circle and a pentacle had been drawn in salt. Candles lit each point of the star. A small cauldron reigned in the center.

Fear clawed at her, fueled her hands. She turned to run.

Soul-fire burned the side of her face.

She staggered back from the boundary of the trap.

Trapped.

How could this be? She had to get it back, protect it.

Protect what?

Something gleamed in the grass. An old and twisted knotwork of metal lay on the ground. Weak energy shot from it like the light of a distant star. The key.

The key. The key! She had to protect the key!

Hands grabbed her.

She was stuck—tied to the earth. She couldn’t move. She had been rooted in place. This wasn’t her world. This wasn’t her dimension. She belonged somewhere else, not here. The witch and the angel had chained her to this spot, helpless to keep the gates closed. She had to find a way out, had to get away. She had—

A slap across the face brought her back to reality. This reality. She sat in the passenger seat of Chief White’s unmarked car. He stared up at her with concern.

Her stomach churned. She pushed him out of the way, collapsing on her hands and knees, retching. She heaved until nothing was left. Smoke rose from the spilled contents of her stomach and the stagnant smell of sulfur penetrated her nostrils.

She wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. What the fuck just happened?