Winter Wolf (8 page)

I wrinkled my nose, leaned over, and snatched the paper from my coffee table. Judging from the time stamp on the top of the page, Dominic had gone back to his office when I hadn’t shown up. Not only was the sheet a brief overview of what I could expect—several screen tests, fittings, and a general audition—it was also a warning indicating I would be under a non-disclosure agreement during the filming. I flipped the page over. He had printed on both sides.

I folded the sheet and stuffed it inside of my copy of
Among Us
. I stared at the bloodstains on the pages. I didn’t need the reminder of what had happened in the bookstore; it lurked in my memories, threatening to smother me.

I needed to know the truth. Why had Scott died, and who had killed him? Until I found out, I’d never find peace, and would live in fear of the Inquisition.

Clenching my hands into fists, I marched to my bedroom to get dressed. I would find out the truth, one way or another. Fortunately, as a wizard, and there was
something
I could do. I hoped I wouldn’t regret my decision to once again meddle with the occult.

~~*~~

I took a cab to the storage facility in the heart of Los Angeles, muttering curses the entire way over the exorbitant fees. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching me. The sensation didn’t fade even after I made my way to my ground floor unit.

With a smile, I unlocked the door and lifted the door up. In the entire complex, mine was the one of the few capable of storing a car; the others had narrow hallways unfit for any vehicle.

Dust covered the tarp I’d thrown over the old Porsche. I’d picked it up as a junker, and had been restoring the car to its former glory. I longed to start it up and rev the engine just to hear it purr, but if I succumbed to the temptation, I would spend hours under the car tinkering with it rather than doing what needed to be done. Settling with patting my car’s roof, I forced my attention on what was important: Scott and his friends.

What I needed was in a shoe box buried under a pile of boxes just like it. If someone was observing me, all they’d see was a woman looking for something. They wouldn’t see a wizard pulling out her arsenal of weapons, stashed away for when they were needed. I smiled a little.

It took me over an hour to reach the precious box at the bottom. Like the others, I checked it, making a satisfied noise since nothing had disturbed my hidden cache. I closed it, added it to my growing pile of things I was taking home with me, and kept digging around. Selecting two more boxes full of random trinkets and costume jewelry, I put everything else away.

Stashing my collection of boxes in several reusable bags, I hit the streets in search of a cab.

Instead, I got a police car. No sooner had I stepped out of the storage facility, Detective Harding emerged from his cruiser, approaching me with a faint smile. Before I could shake myself free of my surprise, he held out my cell phone. “We have everything we need from this, Ms. Thomas. I thought you’d like it back.”

With wide eyes, I shifted my bags around so I could take my phone from him. “Thank you, Detective Harding. You were following me?”

“For your protection, of course. I happened to be nearby, so I took over observation duty. Do you have a few minutes? I have some questions for you.”

I had questions of my own, including why I was being followed around, but I settled with a nod. He opened the back door of his cruiser, and without a word, took my bags from me and put them inside. After settling my things to his satisfaction, he held open the front door for me.

I buckled up and tried to ignore my growing unease. Detective Harding drove in silence for several blocks, letting me stew.

“I think it would be wise if you joined California’s Witness Protection Program,” he began, his eyes on the road.

“Did something happen?”

“Two more young men were found. There were no witnesses. You’re the only witness we have who was so close. We feel it is prudent that you have the appropriate protections. That’s why I was having you followed.”

There was nothing left of the hard edge that made me dislike the man the previous night. If anything, I felt a little sorry for him. There were dark circles around his eyes, and I wasn’t certain he’d gotten any sleep at all.

“That’s terrible,” I whispered.

Detective Harding nodded in agreement. “Your cooperation is invaluable, Ms. Thomas. We want to ensure your safety.”

“I won’t run and hide,” I said, surprised by the confidence in my voice—confidence I didn’t feel. “I can’t. I worked too hard to get to where I’m at. I can’t disappear, not now.”

“What do you mean?”

I wondered about the quiet resignation in his tone. “I have a closed audition for a movie tomorrow.”

“Actors rarely accept witness protection,” Detective Harding said, his tone still soft.

“We’re not good at hiding, are we?”

“No, you’re not. And it gets people killed. We don’t want that to happen to you. Whoever is doing this is brutal and vicious, Ms. Thomas. Let us protect you.”

“I won’t run or hide,” I repeated. My confidence strengthened, making my voice clipped and clear with little evidence of my laryngitis.

Detective Harding stared at me, startled into silence for a long moment. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

I sighed. Most people didn’t realize I hadn’t always been a pretty face with a sandpaper voice. Deciding I didn’t want to press the point, I shrugged. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t accept it, Detective.”

“For the next few days, I’m going to assign a patrol to keep an eye on your apartment and wherever you go, just to make certain you’re not a target.”

Was a protective detail normal? I didn’t know, but something about the whole thing sent shivers down my spine. Scott’s death wasn’t natural; I knew that, and anyone with half a brain knew it too. But why protect me?

I hadn’t seen anything.

“So long as they don’t interrupt my work.”

Detective Harding scowled. “They won’t.”

I was a little relieved at his hard tone; it was more what I expected from him. “Then I’m fine with them keeping a watch. I just won’t run and hide. I hope you understand.”

“I wouldn’t either.” This time, I heard respect in his voice. “Why aren’t you afraid?”

“Who said I wasn’t? I am.” I wasn’t scared in the way he thought I would be. I almost wanted Scott’s killer coming for me. So long as I saw him—or her—coming, I’d take a perverse amount of joy in eradicating them from existence.

“Maybe you’re a better actress than I thought.”

“Why thank you.”

Detective Harding dropped me off in front of my apartment building. He held the door open for me, and waited with infinite patience as I organized my bags so I could carry them inside.

“If you have any questions or remember anything, call me,” he ordered, handing me a business card. I took it, dropping it into one of my bags.

I wouldn’t call him, but he didn’t need to know that.

When I went back inside my apartment complex, Detective Harding pulled away. A dark, unmarked car took over the parking spot in front of the building. I shivered and once again felt watching eyes on my back.

Shuffling inside, I paused at the entry to dig out my card. A chill swept through me as a second black car joined the first on the other side of the street. I hurried inside.

Chapter Five

Back in my apartment, I paced the main room, circling my couch as I tried to decide what to do. There was nothing I could do—not without using magic. I didn’t know anything about being a detective. I certainly didn’t know anything about how to pull off a murder as horrific as Scott’s. What I did know bothered me.

Magic and blood got along a little too well. Blood represented life and death, and it was a direct manifestation of a person’s existence. With Scott’s blood, I could scry into the past and learn the true circumstances of his death. I couldn’t trust the police to do it, either. They meant well, but how could they hunt down a killer who defied the laws of science?

I had to act. I had to do
something.
While I couldn’t bring the dead back to life, with Scott’s blood, I could find his killer. I clutched my bloodstained copy of
Among Us
to me. I could still back out.

Changing the past was outside of my abilities, but maybe I could experience it, study it, and learn from it. Maybe that’s why the Inquisition feared wizards: Death, destruction, and fire were my domains, and all I needed to fuel my powers was electricity.

When I thought about it that way, maybe the Inquisition had it right, and I deserved to be put down for existing. I hadn’t killed anyone—not yet—but unless I kept firm control over my abilities, it would only be a matter of time. I shook my head and tried to push aside my morbid thoughts.

It didn’t work.

I drew a deep breath and sighed. I couldn’t delude myself anymore: I
was
dangerous. I could be dangerous.

I was so tired of being a coward, hiding whenever anything threatening came my way. If I was going to be hunted because I endangered others, I wanted to be dangerous. At least there’d be cause for what I endured.

Underneath my guilt and anguish, anger simmered within me, primed to boil over in the sort of violence only a monster—or wizard—was capable of.

Hunting the killer by trekking into the past was dangerous at best, and foolish of me to even attempt it, but I couldn’t wallow any longer. Once I started, I couldn’t quit until I finished. I’d either succeed, or I’d die.

I shook my head at the unpleasant thought. Death was a threat I endured each and every day. The Inquisition would inevitably discover me, and they’d execute me. At least this way, I’d be guilty of a crime before they pulled the trigger. If I could bring Scott’s killer to justice and make—Her? Him? It?—pay for Scott’s death, I was willing to pay the price for my actions.

That was something I could live with.

I blamed the Inquisition: It hadn’t protected me when I had needed it. If they had done their job, I never would have become a wizard, I never would have become their prey. While it hadn’t been their fault I had been desperate to salvage my ailing voice, I never should have become a wizard.

The book that had stolen my humanity should never have fallen into my hands in the first place.

It, and the items that had transformed me from human to aberration, waited for me to use them once again. One by one, I removed them from the shoe box and lined them up on the coffee table.

My silver pentagram looked the most menacing of the lot, although in reality, it was the least dangerous piece in my arsenal. People had the wrong idea about the symbol, and belief had power—just not as much power as many thought. The most lethal of my trinkets were the gold and copper
debens
I had stolen from a museum dedicated to ancient Egypt. Age gave things power, and I hadn’t been the first to use them.

They
remembered.
I could feel it in the tingling in my fingertips when I touched them, though I never managed to quite grasp what they had witnessed in their long years.

Setting the
debens
aside, I arranged the last of the items in front of me. The silver mirror would capture my reflection and serve as a gateway into the past. The bronze Celtic knot would bind my soul to my body, so I could return when I finished. I hesitated when I touched my mother’s brooch, which I had stolen when I had fled home. It would anchor me to both the present and the past, allowing me to defy the laws of nature, space, and time.

Finally, I took out the quartz, moonstone, and sun stone crystals that amplified my power. It had been years since I had charged them by feeding them electricity and my blood. I could feel pulsing static when I touched them.

I also heard it as a quiet song in my head.

At the bottom of the shoe box was the book. With shaking hands, I lifted up the innocent-looking book bound in blue leather. It didn’t contain spells, and maybe that was why it had escaped the Inquisition’s hounds. Instead, it was an encyclopedia, an instruction manual, and a guide.

And it had stolen my voice.
~Nicolina,~
it purred to me in my head.
~How may I serve?~

There was something inherently disconcerting about hearing things others couldn’t, made worse by the knowledge it used my voice.

After so many years of coping with my hoarse rasp, the soft and smooth sounds brought tears to my eyes—and reminded me that all magic came at a cost. It was a double-edged sword thrust through my chest. The book had granted my wish to have power, but it had taken what I had loved.

This time, I would be more careful about how I bargained with the book.

“I need the truth,” I whispered, and in a moment of worry that someone listened out in the hallway leading to the parking garage, I stared at my door. I concentrated, and didn’t sense any unexpected electronics outside. If the police were watching me, they weren’t close.

~The truth of what, Nicolina?~
the book asked, taunting me with the sound of my voice.

I tried to focus on what I needed, not what I had lost. “A murder.”

At first the surprise I felt from the book startled me. It didn’t respond for a long moment—long enough that I wondered how a
book
was capable of thought.

~You wish to learn of the past.~

“The whole truth and nothing but the truth,” I agreed.

~You wish to break the laws of magic.~

While the book had caused me more trouble than I cared to think about, one of the first things it had taught me about magic were the rules everyone had to play by.

The second lesson was about the few people, like me, who could break those rules. Its third lesson had been a warning about the Inquisition, and what awaited me if they discovered my existence. Because I could change the nature of magic, death was the best I could hope for from them.

Wizards were dangerous.

I lifted my chin and glared down my nose at the book. “I do.”

The book laughed in my head.
~Nicolina,~
it murmured, its tone affectionate.

“I want justice,” I snarled at it, deciding I didn’t care if someone was lurking outside of my door.

~What do you wish to see?~

I grabbed my copy of
Among Us
and set it next to the leather book. “This is Scott’s death blood.”

~Powerful.~
Once again, the book fell silent for a long time, as if considering the bloodstained novel and my request.
~You wish to learn the circumstances of this shed blood.~

“All of the circumstances of his death,” I whispered.

~Then you shall know them all, my daughter of magic. I will guide you. Create the pentagram, Nicolina.~

I hesitated. “At what price?”

~Paid in full.~
There was amusement and smug satisfaction in the book’s tone—in what had once been my voice.
~You can offer me nothing more valuable than the voice of an angel.~

“Indeed,” I rasped.

~The pentagram, Nicolina. Place the shed blood beneath the mirror. Form the shape with the
debens,
brooch, knot, and moonstone. I trust you did remember to attune the stones as I had instructed.~

“I did,” I grumbled. I had done it years ago, as directed, before I had locked them away in storage. I felt them as I felt electric outlets—a source of power waiting for me to devour it.

~The night and the past are very similar. The moonstone will align your soul so you might see clearly.~

“What do you mean by that?”

~Some laws of magic cannot be broken, not even by a wizard. You cannot live the same life twice. If you want to see the past, you cannot go as you are now. But there are ways around it. Should you be one with the night, you may learn what you wish to know. Otherwise, all you will do is experience the past as it was for you the first time.~

“Great, just great.” The night meant a lot of things, as did the moon, but the first thing to come to mind for me were the Fenerec. Werewolves.

I had enough trouble without borrowing more.

~Do not worry. I will guide you.~

The book’s promise didn’t comfort me at all. If anything, the confidence I heard in its voice worried me. I bristled a little at my acceptance I couldn’t steal back what it had taken from me.

~I speak the truth. I will guide you to the past and bring you safely back again, with no debt owed. The complete truth will be yours.~

“Why do I feel like there is something you aren’t telling me?” I muttered.

~That is because you are wise, Daughter.~

I chose to ignore its claim on me. I knew who my mother was, and no matter what the book said, I wasn’t going to let it become a replacement for my family—even though I had been the one to abandon them.

“So what am I missing?”

The book didn’t answer me.

“Asshole.”

~I cannot say, but I’ll tell you this much: There is a reason that meddling with the past is taboo.~

“I don’t want to meddle. I want to learn.” There was a difference. Meddling was what others did to get their way. I wasn’t going to change the past.

What was done was done. Knowledge was good enough for me—with it, I could avenge Scott’s death.

~Knowledge is power, and with power comes corruption or responsibility. It is far easier to become corrupted than it is to take responsibility.~

I didn’t want to know what the book was feeling, but I was aware of its emotions. It was worried about me. In turn, I worried about me too. I was already a wizard. How much more corrupted could I become?

“I couldn’t save him,” I whispered, and hoped that’d be enough to make the book understand why I needed to do what I needed to do.

~Wizard is not a word for infallible. Everything dies eventually.~

“He shouldn’t have died. Not like that. No one deserves to die like that. I’ll see justice done, damn you.”

~And what is justice, child?~
There was something nasty about the overly sweet tone the book used with me.
~Is it revenge? Absolution of your guilt?~

I flinched. “No one deserves to die like that.”

~You don’t want justice, do you?
~

The book’s words stunned me like slaps to my face. My mouth dropped open, but I couldn’t force out a single word.

~Justice isn’t good enough for you, is it? You were always a protector,~
the book continued, amused.
~Or maybe a predator? Hmm. Very well. Come then, and stare into the mirror. May the truth illuminate you and guide your path. But be warned, all things have a price—especially the truth.~

~~*~~

Returning to the past was easier than I thought it would be, and that scared me. Moments after staring into the silver mirror, there was a stomach-churning lurch, and then I was staring at myself—the me from the bookstore, holding a pristine copy of
Among Us.

I was saying something, but from my new vantage, a little taller than I was used to, I couldn’t hear what. It was drowned out by a thundering in my ears. Then, with a start, I realized it wasn’t
my
ears hearing the low-toned rumble, but Scott’s.

I watched myself walk away towards the registers and Scott followed. Each step made me more aware of the body I inhabited, that it wasn’t mine, and I had no control. Then I became aware of Scott’s emotions.

Lust wasn’t something I thought about—sex didn’t appeal to me. Sure, I liked looking at beautiful men as much as the next girl, but I didn’t
want
them. Not like Scott wanted
me.
He wasn’t following me; he stalked me with the intensity of a predator, until he was close enough to catch my scent.

I—no, we—smelled the cinnamon and lilac from my shampoo and hand soaps. There was another scent, something far muskier, but I didn’t know what it was. Scott’s nose was far more sensitive than mine; I could even make out undertones of contamination—mold?

The longer I remained as a passenger within Scott, the more that I picked up from him. His focus was on me, but he identified and ignored the other scents around him without thinking about it. When he finished cataloging what his nose was telling him; someone nearby wore terrible and strong perfume. It wasn’t mine, so Scott filed it away and forgot about it. The intensity of Scott’s need grew, smothering all other thoughts with possessive desire and blood lust.