Witch Upon a Star (A Midnight Magic Mystery) (23 page)

The office is a simple affair, just chairs, desk and window into one of the private rooms where a naked woman is pressed against the glass while a man rests on his knees, pleasuring her. Another reason Asher and Richard got along so well, they’re both voyeurs. I learned this firsthand when we were invited on Richard’s yacht during those last months. I was quite the showgirl that week.

Reading the distaste on my face, Richard shuts the blinds. “The years have made you prudish, Miss Asher.”

“The years have made me learn the value of self-worth, Lord Richard,” I say as I sit.

He lowers himself into the chair behind the desk. “He never forced you.”

“No. Not until that last time. Or did your best friend neglect to tell you about
that
?”

“Is that why you burnt him alive?”

“He’s lucky I didn’t castrate him too.”

“But you did,” he counters, “in all but body. And now you have come to finish the job?”

“I didn’t start this, Richard.
He
sent an assassin into my house.
He
tried to kill my husband.
He
attempted to harm my children.
My children
.”

“And now the goddess Nemesis has come to claim her vengeance,” he says with a sneer.

“This isn’t vengeance. It never was. I just want him to leave me alone. Nothing more, nothing less. What I did ten years ago was an act of self-preservation. He wouldn’t listen to reason then, maybe he will now. I promise I will at least try to reach that reasonable part of him again, unlike the others searching for him. I owe him that. But as his friend, you should know he has been marked for execution. He attacked two former Federal agents and their family, not to mention nobody has forgotten the events in Goodnight. There is not a single law enforcement officer in this world who does not know his face or what he is capable of.
I
might be the only person searching for him who
would
hesitate to cut off his head. And anything you tell me will not leave these four walls. My husband and I are here alone. No official law enforcement affiliation. Your name will never leave my lips, I swear on my children. And if I reneg, well, I have no doubt you can kill my whole family with one phone call. But it won’t come to that. So I’m asking, no … I’m
begging
. I just … need to find him. Please.”

Richard leans back in his chair, studying me with his cold brown eyes. “Still as determined as you are beautiful.” He shakes his head. “I did warn you both about this, if you recall. He, especially, should have known better, taking a lover so young. There are so few happy endings in our world, why compound the odds by being with one who has not settled into their own skin yet? But he always was a fool for love.” He pauses. “Of course I am the bigger fool for enabling him for so long. It has caused me naught but misery. I warned that man to leave well enough alone. To stay
dead. That the world would forget about him and move on but …”

He shakes his head again. “He came to me still raw and frail from your assault, seeking asylum. A quiet place to recover, to heal, to hide. Against my better judgment, I granted the request on the condition he retire from society until I deemed it safe. I even gave him use of my manor house on the isle of Jersey. A few trusted friends could visit whilst I did, but regardless it was exile. And as we both know, Asher does not manage peace and solitude well. You left a hole in him, Anna,” says Richard with a hard edge. “He came to me a shell and as the years wore on, what grew in that vacuum, no storybook monster was ever so frightening. Anger, depression, moodiness, nothing else remained inside him. He starved himself, refused to leave his coffin for a fortnight, even began having whole conversations with himself. Finally, a few months past, he began talking of seeking out the sun. Ending his life.

“He told me about the same urge twenty years past, and that
you
saved him. How it was driving him mad not knowing your fate. Your not knowing how much he still loved you. How simply hearing your voice and the happiness within it could alleviate some of his torment. I took my friend at his word.” Richard pauses. “So I gave him your telephone number.”

“How did you know where I was?” I ask, my pulse quickening.

“You are not the only one with powerful friends in this world,
Mrs. Anna West of Garland, Texas, former agent of the F.R.E.A.K.S,”
he says with an edge. “I kept informed for this very contingency. But I only gave him the telephone number and warned him it could go no further. He could hear your voice and nothing more. He must remain dead. I thought that would be enough for him. I assumed it was because the next time I saw him, he was up and about, even inquiring if he could renovate the manor. Brighten it up. Modernize it. He was more alive than I had seen him in a decade. I had no inkling of what he was planning, that he would have so little respect for me and all I have done for him that he would stir up the maelstrom I now find myself pulled into. Ungrateful bastard.”

“What happened?”

“Four nights ago he arrived at this very club, no warning given, once again in need of my assistance. He revealed the entire debacle: hiring Fourtnier to assassinate your husband, to abduct you and the children so you could reside with him in
my
Jersey home, but that the plane had never left Texas. That something had gone wrong.”

“So what did you do?”

“The only thing I could: I told him to run far and run fast from
my territory. That he was no longer welcome, and that I would aid him no further. He failed in the one thing I had asked, to not draw attention to himself. He could clean up his own bloody mess.”

“So, where did he go?”

“There I cannot help you. Plausible deniability, Mrs. West. I remained ignorant, so I could answer with all honesty I have no inkling where he has gone to ground. Nor do I care to know.”

“Could he be back in Jersey?” I ask.

“No. He was not even allowed to return for his clothing. I made it clear, under no uncertain terms, if he failed to comply with my edict, I would take his head myself. And that, Mrs. West, is the extent of what I know of our mutual acquaintance. If I had to venture a guess, he is still in Europe, or he will return to the continent as soon as word reaches him
you
are here.”

“Well, I’m not waiting around for that to happen. As they say in football, the best defense is a good offense.”

“How quaint.”

“Well, if you don’t know where he went, do you know anyone who might? Others who may be in a charitable mood?”

“No. With INTERPOL and every supernatural police squad on high alert, no one would be so foolish to involve themselves in this quagmire. He is well and truly on his own now.”

Merde
.

I rise from the chair. “Well, please contact the Rogue’s Gallery if you hear of anything else. You may earn some Brownie points with them. Can’t hurt, right? I’ll back you with whatever you tell
them, on that you have my word.” I nod. “Thanks for all your help.”

“I did not do it for you.” Richard pauses to scowl at me. “You destroyed him, you know. You took a strong, powerful, fierce warrior and ground him into dust.”

“I didn’t destroy him, Richard. I meant what I said when I signed that contract. I trusted him. I wanted nothing more than to be by his side until the sun burnt out. I loved him with everything I had. It just wasn’t enough for him.
I
wasn’t enough. So I didn’t destroy him, I simply refused to let him destroy
me
. If that makes me selfish then … we both know who I learned that from, huh?” I manage a smile. “We’ll be gone by tomorrow and you will never see me again. That I promise as well. Goodnight, your Lordship.” I turn and walk away. “As always, it was an education.”

Nathan waits right beside the door. We both let out long sighs as I shut the door. When I stepped in there, I really did put my chances at leaving without bloodshed at 70/30. Nathan did as well, as his bony shoulders finally relaxed in time to our sighs.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’ll be better when we get out of here.”

“Amen to that.” My husband takes my hand and leads me down the hall. The scowling bouncer removes the rope to let us pass, and Nathan helps me with my coat. I blow a kiss to the glaring Byron before stepping out into the cold night. It is still far chillier in there than out here.

“So, does he know where Asher is?”

“I don’t think so. He seemed … done. Everyone has their limit, and Asher sure does know how to push people to theirs.”

“Then what’s our next move? Monte Carlo?”

“Yep. By way of Jersey.”

“Jersey?”

“It’s a little island between here and France. It’s where Asher’s been living. If living is the right word.”

“You think he’s there now?”

“Richard says no, but Asher left in a hurry. It’s worth a look.”

“Then Jersey it is. I do love the beach. You want to leave tonight?” Nathan asks.

I wrap my arm around my husband’s waist as he drapes his over my shoulders. “What I want is to call our boys to wish them a good night, then have my sexy husband ruin my hair and make-up. At least twice.”

“You read my mind, Mrs. West.” He pecks my lips and we continue to stroll the streets of London. Out of nowhere, Nathan bursts into giggles.

“What?”

“N-nothing,” he laughs. “It-It-It’s just … I just met Lord Fucking Byron.” He shakes his head. “Oh, Annie. Boring you ain’t.”

the isle of jersey

It doesn’t take much
investigating to locate Richard’s manor. Everyone on the isle and their mother apparently knows about the strange, agoraphobic tenant at the cliff side Lionheart Manor. Some have even claimed to have seen the thin, pale man creeping about town or strolling the beaches. At night, but no one has the memory of actually meeting or saying a single word to him. And that’s just what we learn from a resident on the ferry ride to the island. The lovely woman even invites us to tea with her and her husband. Close communities, gotta love them.

The same invitation is extended by the couple at the pub where we enjoy lunch. They were full of gossip about the so-called Phantom of Lionheart. He was a former solider wracked with PTSD, he was a burn victim who didn’t want others to see his scars, he was an exiled prince with a price on his head. Strangely, all fairly accurate. Per the bartender not even the cleaning staff who went into the manor once a week had met the phantom. They received their orders from the caretaker Philip and his wife Ellen, even during the massive renovation. It was still the talk of the town, the fact the mysterious recluse finally allowed strangers into his house to prepare it for his long-lost wife and children to join him, or that was the most widely spread rumor. How Nathan and I managed to maintain our smiles through that story is beyond me.

We need to catch the five p.m. ferry to reach our train in Normandy, which should then reach Monte Carlo by midnight, so there’s no time for sightseeing on the picturesque island. Though it’s in the high forties and chilly, the sun has deigned to make a rare appearance today. The blue/green water twinkles in the light as it crashes against the clean, sandy beach. After renting a car for the day, and getting directions from the clerk, we drive along the narrow streets lined with interconnected brick shops and over
hilly green glens as we venture across the small isle. As far as places
to be exiled goes, Jersey would be top of my list.

Our drive ends at the twenty-foot tall wrought-iron fence, chained
and padlocked, with only the top of the dark brick manor visible from this far away. “What you think?” Nathan asks from the passenger seat.

“Well, we’re not exactly invited guests. Pop the lock and sneak in?”

“Breaking and entering. Mama would be so proud. Let’s do it, Bonnie.”

I reverse the car back up the driveway to park on the street. “You got it, Clyde.”

Car concealed from anyone inside the compound, we sprint back to the fence and I use a spell on the lock. Easy as pie. Nathan and I hustle along the iron until we can use the tree line for cover to reach the manor. It’s much smaller than I envisioned, only about half the size of the F.R.E.A.K.S. mansion, yet far more imposing. Dark gray brick with ivy snaking up the mortar, and even strangling so
me of the gargoyles on the corners of the flat roof. The few windows are blacked out either from heavy drapes or shutters. I’d hate to see what this place looked like before he began renovating. Norman Bates wouldn’t even feel at home here. But what really damn near knocks the air from my lungs is the literally shiny, glittery new playset next to the stone veranda. Two swings, monkey bars, see-saw, even a fake castle with a slide. I very much doubt Richard in
stalled that.

“Jesus Christ,” Nathan says as he stares at this happy monstrosity.

“Come on,” I say, taking his hand.

We enter the house of horrors through the magically unlocked glass veranda doors. Just stepping inside brings chills, as if he’s imprinted on the walls, watching us. Or that could be the mirrors along the wall with a
barre
lining the same wall. It takes my overwrought mind a moment but a horrible realization finally breaks through. The bastard recreated my dance studio from our house in Holland. The same grand piano with green padded bench, a stereo with a CD stand filled with classical music, and a gray wingback chair in the corner. He’d sit in that exact chair and watch me, sometimes for hours, or would accompany me on the piano as I glided around the room, always completing my performance with a deep kiss to my audience of one. How could something that made me so joyous then turn my stomach now?

“Wow,” says Nathan.

I don’t linger. If I do I’ll give in to my intense desire to throw the boom box against the mirrors, and I probably won’t stop until I’ve earned a thousand years of bad luck. We’re here to search for a Rolodex or any paperwork that may generate a lead: deeds, bills, treasure map, anything to track him down. The living room is far less disturbing, save for an entire wall of VHS movies and the copy of
Moby Dick
left open on the ottoman. It’s as if he’s just popped out to run errands. There’s nothing here of interest except for the dozen or so pictures of me in frames scattered around. Me at nine working on a puzzle in our flat in Cairo. In Paris at the
barre
. In Galway as I helped him make dinner. A snapshot of us kissing I took myself when I was sixteen. At least he kept the naked ones hidden.

The library proves more fruitful. There isn’t a treasure map in his desk, but I do locate a spate of invoices for the renovation and checkbook with the name Jay Asher printed on the checks. He has at least one credit card in that name as well. The phone bill only has numbers for England but I stuff it in my bag with the rest. We’re going to have to call Dr. Black to have them chase the financials and alias.

We go room-to-room on the first floor, finding nothing else of interest but antiques and a ridiculous amount of photos of me, before venturing up the dark, creaky stairs. The first few bedrooms haven’t been touched in decades. Most of the furniture is covered in white sheets to protect from the dust. Nothing, nothing and more nothing. What we have is good, useful, but there has to be …

I open the fourth door and gasp.

Oh, Asher.

It’s as if a toy store exploded. Trucks, train set, a Matchbox car track, football paraphernalia, video games galore, everything two little boys could dream of to pass the time in their prison cell. I’m stunned into silence, Nathan too, because we check the two closed doors attached to the sitting room without a word: just a bathroom with Mickey Mouse towels and a bedroom filled to the brim with more toys and twin beds, one with “Max” and the other with “Joe” written above them. My stomach is so knotted that stranglehold is the only reason I’m not vomiting all over this abomination. I rush back to the hallway with Nathan a step behind.

Two more rooms. Just two more. It can’t get much worse, right?

Nothing behind door number five. But number six … the four poster bed with blush colored canopy, my favorite color, is fit for a king. And if I didn’t want to sleep there, then there was always the matching pink coffin with space for another judging from the empty stand beside that pink monstrosity. “What the hell?” asks Nathan.

“He was going to smuggle us here in caskets, remember? Mine would just be more a permanent sleeping arrangement.”

After a pause, Nathan whispers with disbelief, “He was going to turn you.”

“Probably. What better way to keep me close?”

“That sadistic fucking …”

“It doesn’t matter now. Come on, let’s get this over with. Go check the bathroom, I’ll take the closet.”

It seems the photos and furniture weren’t the only remnants of our nights in Holland he smuggled in during exile. My clothes from over a decade ago take up half the closet with his right beside. The scent of his aftershave and cologne knocks me back a dozen years. One whiff and I’m back in our living room curled up in his lap with my head on his shoulder listening to Puccini and inhaling his aroma like a coke addict. Heaven. Then. Stomach churning now. I shut the wardrobe.

“Nothing in the bathroom,” says Nathan as he steps out, “except some fancy shampoo and a bidet.”

“Nor here. I’ll check the dressers, you get the nightstand.”

Waste of time on my part. Nothing in the dresser save for a few pieces of lingerie with the tags still attached. Ugh.

“Hey, Annie. Check this out.” Nathan holds up a leather-bound
notebook and envelope from the nightstand as he crosses the room toward me. “Found this. The return address is from Garland.
Vinnie Spano P.I. Agency.”

Inside the envelope are surveillance photos. Over a hundred shots, most taken with a telephoto lens, within the space of the week judging from the variety of clothes. Me picking up the boys from the bus stop. Nathan and I out to dinner. Another dozen of me and the boys around town. Me with my friend Audrey chatting on the sidewalk. Nathan at his desk at work. The boys, my mother-in-law, and Nathan when he collected them from her house two weeks ago. Me at the dance studio teaching. Along with the photos is a log of all our activity that week. School pickups, duration of shopping trips with what I purchased, Nathan’s appointments with locations, addresses of the boys’ friends. A damn roadmap of our lives.

“Jesus wept,” Nathan mutters. “How did we not know?” I put everything back into the envelope, shoving it into my purse. “How did I … how—”

I touch his cheek. “Hey. If this isn’t my fault, it sure as hell isn’t yours.”

“I am the man, Annie. I am supposed to protect my family, and I let this … psycho fuck sneak back into our lives, our
home
. He’s been stalking us for almost two months. I was a goddamn Federal Agent for four years. I should have sensed this. I should have … I should have …” He shakes his head.

“There is nothing you could have done, Nathan. There was no way to prepare for this. To foresee it. And you’re here now.
We’re
here now. We will find him, and we will make sure he
never
comes near us again.”

“You’re damn straight he ain’t gonna bother us again, because I’m gonna kill him,” spews my husband through gritted teeth. “I swear to God or whoever or whatever is listening, I am going to rip out his black, rotten, corroded heart and make the bastard choke on it.”

“Hey. Hey,” I say, pulling the man I love into my arms. He hugs me tight. “
I’m
supposed to be the dark dour one. You’re Mr. Sunshine,
remember? Don’t you
dare
let him take that away from you, okay? Not for a second. We’ll find him.” I kiss his neck. “I prom—”

The creak of wood in the hallway cuts my sentiment short. Nathan drops his arms and steps away, hands at the ready to fry any oncoming monster. I pull out the silver nitrate Mace, though with the shutters open I doubt there’s a vampire coming toward us. Stuff still stings though. There’s another creak. “Who’s there?” a man shouts from down the hall. “I have a gun!”

Merde
. Nathan glances at me, and I shrug. “Woodbury?” I whisper.

“Lodi.”

I nod. “Please don’t shoot,” I call as I slip the Mace back into my coat. “We’re friends of Richard’s! We’re not armed!”

The barrel of the rifle rounds the corner first and we hold up our hands, palms out in Nathan’s case. Saved our bacon in Lodi with that witch, though probably not needed today. An elderly man with wild gray hair in a brown wool jumper and equally old, short woman literally cowering behind him step into view. “Who are you?”

“A-Anna. Asher. I’m Anna Asher. You must be Philip and Ellen. Pleased to finally meet you both.”

Both sets of eyes narrow on my face before growing wide once more. “It is you,” the man says, lowering the shotgun.

“Who’s he?” Ellen asks.

“My valet.”

“Are the children here too?” the woman asks.

My jaw tightens, as does Nathan’s, but I somehow shut my anger away. We need them on our side. “No. Just us. For now. May we please lower our arms?” The man nods, and we all relax as best we can. “We’re sorry for startling you. Richard didn’t phone to tell you that we were coming?”

“No,” says the woman. “And surely he told you Asher is no longer in residence.”

“No, he did, but Richard said we could come have a look around anyway,” I lie.

“He did?” Ellen asks.

“How else would we find this place if his lordship hadn’t told Miss Asher about it?” Nathan counters.

“It’s very important we locate Asher before anyone else does,” I say. “There is a literal bounty on his head, and he has many,
many
enemies. We don’t want him harmed. If there’s anything you can tell us, anything at all. You were the two closest to him all these years.”

“We weren’t close,” Philip says with a huff. “We got his blood, he told us what to do about the house, and we did it. Nothing more. He weren’t exactly Mr. Friendly.”

“Until a few months ago he moped about, just reading or watching the telly when he got up at all,” Ellen adds. “At least until a month ago when he told us you and the boys were coming to live here.”

“You mean when he kidnapped them all,” Nathan snaps.

“What? We don’t know nothing about no kidnapping,” Philip says. “All he told us was you and the two boys were going to live here, that we needed to fix this place up for you, and to start searching for a governess for the children. Mr. Asher left five days ago saying you and the children were coming back with him, but the night after that Lord Richard phoned and told us to close up the house. That Mr. Asher weren’t allowed on the property no more, and if he did show up, we were to phone his lordship immediately. He hasn’t come back though.”

“He hasn’t called or sent for his clothes?” I ask.

“No,” says Ellen.

“What about his friends? Does he have an address book?” Nathan asks impatiently. “There has to be
someone
through the years who came to visit or someone he mentioned who he could turn to.” The couple shake their heads no. Nathan steps toward them, his scowl deepening. “Come on! Think!”

Philip begins to raise the shotgun again, but I grab Natha
n, receiving another electrical shock but still holding on. “Stop it,” I warn. He ceases moving but still fumes, breathing heavily in and out through his nose like a bull. In ten years of knowing him, through over fifty cases with the F.R.E.A.K.S. exposed to the worst humanity has to offer, I’ve never seen him this enraged. “I’m so sorry for my friend. This has been most upsetting for us all.”