ATwistedMagick (9 page)

He lifted his head and pierced her with his gaze. “It might’ve been better, instead of drawing out any worry you might have.”

“Drawing out my worry?” Okay, now she was starting to get mad. “Well, my worry, my problem.”

“No, it’s both of…”

“Look, feel free to head back to California and think nothing more about it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean by wanting me to take the morning-after pill? Women have the right to choose, and I would choose to let this life blossom within me, if that was the case.” She touched her stomach for a moment and closed her eyes. With a deep breath, she sought out any vibrations that would indicate a new life forming inside her. Nothing.

She opened her eyes to see Gabe cringing. Well, at least she knew where he stood on the baby topic, something she never expected to broach with him. He cleared his throat. “If there is a…” He couldn’t even say the word. “Then it would be my child too. I wouldn’t just disappear from his life.”

“Or her life.”

Staccato breath came out of his mouth. “I was speaking of both sexes.”

“If you say so.” She was just being ornery. She knew what he meant no matter how he worded it. “Look, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. I would sense it.”

Gabe shook his head. “I’d like to have a little more certainty than that. Aren’t there some pregnancy tests that can detect very early on?”

“I don’t know. Probably not this early.” Besides, she trusted her intuition and knew Gabe’s worry was unnecessary. She did feel a bit of sadness, but she wasn’t sure why.

Silence settled between the two of them as Gabe finished his tea. He stared at the fireplace while she gave him the occasional glance, noting his handsome profile, his strong hands. She let herself daydream about sitting in comfortable silence with a husband or boyfriend, knowing that person would be there day after day, having someone who accepted her as she was to trust and depend on.

But that person wouldn’t be Gabe.

He set his mug on a coaster and looked over at her. “You know, I’m going to take you up on that offer to check out that trunk in the attic. Do you mind?”

“No, but can I trust you alone up there? I think I’ll go wash up a bit.” She wasn’t in the mood to be in such a confined space with him.

He nodded. “Which trunk?”

“The only trunk. You can’t miss it—it’s mammoth.”

She showed him where the pull-down stairs were and she was nearly knocked over by the blast of cold air when he opened the trapdoor. She knew there was nothing to find in the trunk because there was nothing in the trunk to prove her a murderer. As he disappeared above, she turned to go to her bedroom for a quick shower.

* * * * *

Shylah was not kidding about “mammoth”, Gabe thought. Lifting the top of the trunk was like lifting a stone lid in a mausoleum. An inch of dust rained down on him, on the floor, and fogged the air, visible in the shaft of light from the bare bulb. Once he finished coughing from the dust, the smell hit him. Mothballs. Ugh. It reminded him of his
abuela
’s house. She’d seemed to have mothballs in every drawer and closet.

At least he hadn’t encountered any bats yet.

The first thing he found was a layer of newspapers. They seemed random and so were probably added as a cover for the other objects inside. He pulled out a wood box, very small, with a machine-cut design on it. Inside was a piece of felt to cushion a few crystals and incense cones. He set that aside. Next he found a shoe box, which he opened to see a plastic chalice with a skull on it, something you’d buy for Halloween, and a silver-plated chalice that must be the store-bought one that Shylah had referred to. It had a machine-engraved pentagram on the front but the stem was different than the one from the crime scene. Under these, with a layer of felt in between, was a dagger with a pearl handle. The screws holding on the pearl exterior were loose; it looked chintzy. Nothing like the old set she had downstairs. He could see why she’d switched. A tiny cauldron and charcoal, a couple of tarot decks and a wooden wand, polished down to show its beautiful grain, completed the collection. This was the one thing that he’d think she’d still use. She hadn’t showed him a wand among her supplies downstairs.

He pushed deeper in the trunk, through black robes and a large kerchief with a pentagram on it. Okay, the striped stockings had to be something she wore for Halloween. Ah, here was the fake nose with a wart on it. Was it politically correct for a witch to wear a derogatory witch costume? Shylah showing a sense of humor likely. The last layer consisted of books, about five deep, arranged so they best fit in the trunk. He read the authors on the top books—Farrar, Buckland, Cunningham.

Never heard of them
.

Gabe tried to return everything the way it had come out of the trunk. Had he been up there half an hour already? He shut the trunk top and turned in a slow circle, head bent because the ceiling was just a bit too low for him to stand straight, scanning what else was up here. Nearby was a medium-sized U-Haul box, flaps open, and inside appeared to be a dozen or more of those blank books that people used as journals, a couple with pentagrams or dragons on the covers, others with simple flowers. He pulled out a couple from the top and glanced at the pages. The handwriting was loopy and like the Script font on a computer. Pretty readable. The inside front cover read “Book of Shadows” in silver marker.

The first page of each journal showed the dates it covered, like June 08 to September 08, etc. And each entry inside was dated. Some entries were a paragraph, some were pages long. Many seemed to be poems or spells followed by thoughts on what she learned from these. He was interested in the journal that would cover her time in New Orleans, so he pulled out and checked each one, making a stack next to him on another box. She must have her current journal in her bedroom, since it wasn’t with this bunch. This box of journals went back to 2001, but there were two other boxes labeled “BOS” sitting nearby. How long had she been at this stuff?

Since the floor of the attic was mostly joists with insulation stuffed between, Gabe found a clear patch of plywood to sit on and began to read. He lost track of time. It was the story of Shylah’s experience with her New Orleans coven. She compared her new experiences with her mentor Alain to the family coven she had practiced with up until college. She felt like her brain had been cracked open with information and spirit pouring inside. Her writings seemed very optimistic in the beginning, but the tone changed as Gabe read further.

“Several New Age wannabes have left the coven now. Good riddance. Alain wants us to perform serious magick and for that we need more experienced witches. We placed classifieds on some Pagan sites and found several folks who had been with their own covens for a long time but outgrown them. Just who we needed.”

“Hey, did you fall in?” Shylah popped her head above the plywood floor, still standing on the pullout stairs. Her hair was damp and her face dewy; she’d obviously taken a shower.

Gabe felt like he’d been caught taking sugar candy off his family’s Day of the Dead altar. He tucked the journal behind him.

She went on. “Hard work, was it? Need a breather?”

He smiled and imagined it wasn’t a very convincing one. “Lost my breath with all the mothballs.”

She peered at him closely, suspiciously. “Yeah, that’s why I don’t come up here, except to stuff more boxes. So, did you find what you were looking for?”

“I found that your tools don’t match each other or those found at the murder scenes.”

“I’d be a pretty stupid murderer if they did. Well, come back downstairs. It’s quite chilly up here.”

Gabe hadn’t noticed the temperature until she mentioned it. Yeah, going back downstairs sounded like good idea. Did he dare tuck the journal in his pants out of sight?

“I’m coming down,” he said, and waited for her to step down the stairs, taking her out of his line of sight. Then he tucked the journal in the back of his jeans and pulled out his shirt to cover it. Maybe closer examination of this journal would tell him how or if Shylah was involved in Wanda Nance’s murder. If her coven dealt with dark magic, perhaps she knew or suspected the guilty person…if she was innocent.

Downstairs he decided a quick getaway was in order. He said goodbye and backed out the door before she had the chance to say anything else. Good thing his mind wasn’t on romance, because he wasn’t treating Shylah with the respect he would treat any other lover.

* * * * *

Okay, that had been weird. Gabe had come out of the attic looking guilty and then practically run out of the house. She’d expected him to at least want to warm up in front of the fire. She’d known better than to hope for a kiss, like a lover saying goodbye. She’d wanted to slap herself for giving in to her desires once again. At least he would eventually leave Virginia, and she wouldn’t be caught up in a complicated relationship. And he’d left her body sated, so she would be grateful for the physical pleasure and not dwell on the fact that she shouldn’t be having sex with the enemy.

But he had looked guilty, so Shylah decided to go back up to the attic and see if anything was missing. Not that she remembered what was up here exactly.

She pawed through the trunk and smiled at the Halloween costume. She’d deconsecrated her old tools, so she didn’t get any vibrations from them. She shut the trunk again and peered into the shadows created by all the junk up here. She was getting vibrations from something. Ah, the boxes with her Books of Shadows.

The idea of having a thick, yellowed BOS, with vellum pages and a leather cover like her parents’, had appealed but had been impractical. Instead, she’d bought cheap, blank books as she needed them. Maybe when she was older, she’d neatly copy the important spells and notations into a pretty book with archival pages, make it into something she could hand down to her children, but so far she hadn’t gotten up the gumption to follow through with that plan.

As soon as she touched the top of the open box that held the notebooks, she knew why Gabe had looked so guilty. He’d taken one. Had to be the one with the dates around Wanda Nance’s murder.

“Damn him!”

She trailed her fingers over the other books, trying to remember what she’d written about the murder. The books contained explicit descriptions of coven activities and spells, her way of working out what had occurred and how she felt. Had she mentioned being interviewed by the cops? She couldn’t remember. She certainly hadn’t mentioned researching human sacrifice, but had she talked about blood magick?

She sat down with her back against the box, her cheeks warming with sudden embarrassment. She probably hadn’t written about Alain’s talk of blood magick, but she most certainly had gone into detail about the sex magick. She wasn’t ashamed about the magick or the pleasure and would have no problem talking to another witch about it, but Gabe wasn’t another witch. He’d probably think she’d been having orgies.

“What’s another nail in the relationship coffin?” she mused as she got up and made her way back to the ladder. She tugged the string to turn off the light and climbed back down, feeling instantly warmer once she shoved the steps and trapdoor back in place.

So, she was officially mad at him and planned to never have sex with him again.

No matter how badly she wanted it.

Gabe sat in a corner chair at Starbucks, sipping his coffee and fingering the pages of Shylah’s BOS, as he’d gathered these books were nicknamed. He hadn’t read anything yet. He was still feeling a bit of guilt over stealing something so personal from her, especially in light of them just having sex, even if he “borrowed” it in the name of truth. He glanced at the bustling line at the counter and the chattering folks who filled the chairs around the coffee shop, as he pulled out his wallet and a picture of Lalia with his cousin Angie’s arm wrapped around her. He recognized the bit of house and yard he could see in the picture as the old one, pre-divorce. Lalia’s dress was pastel pink and poofy, and she wore white patent leather shoes. They were both laughing, probably at the photographer, Lalia’s father. The back of the frayed photo read “Easter” in Angie’s neat script.

Even if he doubted Shylah could hurt a fly, Lalia deserved a thorough investigation with every possibility exhausted, no matter how unlikely. The likeliest paths had already been explored by the first detectives. He now had to think of new ones, as well as new ways to approach those that seemed dead ends. For this reason, he would read Shylah’s journal. He doubted she’d shown it to any of the previous detectives. He flipped the book open, flipping past the pages he’d glanced at in the attic. The important dates were in the center of the spiral-bound notebook, but he might need some context to understand what was going on. A quarter of the way through he started reading.

“We did it! I wasn’t sure it would work. But we all focused the cone of power on repairing Leslie’s leg, and what looked like a full break healed to a hairline fracture just like that. The doctor changed his mind about her needing a cast and said she just needed to stay off the leg for a couple of weeks. Outsiders might call it coincidence, but if they believe in the power of prayer, how is this harder to believe? And I felt it the minute the leg reset—I swear I did!

“We accomplished all this during the
esbat
circle, where we tried sex magick for the first time. Yeah, I was worried. Alain and Claire have performed the Great Rite before us several times, and I have to admit concentrating on the God and Goddess was harder with the arousal I was feeling. I hate to admit it, but every time I watched them, I wanted to touch myself. Then Alain broached the subject of sex magick, reading from several sources about its power. It was most often used alone by consenting couples, but he’d found two obscure sources denoting the power of the whole coven participating, building magick through arousal. We all flipped out at that idea, but he broached it month after month, saying he was casting a circle every week on his own, hoping that we would come to understand the need to branch into new magick.

“Well, I’d left Mom and Dad’s coven, the witches who had raised me after they died, for just this reason, to branch out in magick. I talked to the other conveners one by one to get their thoughts and discovered there were only two holdouts. Mindy admitted to me in confidence that she had been raped by three men at a party, and she would leave the coven before consenting to participate in this. And Astrid, the oldest member of the coven at forty-five, was uncomfortable going skyclad in circle. She did, however, feel going skyclad was part of worshiping the earth and sky. She confided in me that she was starting to go through menopause, and she was uncomfortable with sex even with her own husband, much less with many others. These reasons made total sense to me, so I explained them to Alain in private.

“At the next circle Alain said most of us seemed interested in trying the new method of magick, but asked that those uncomfortable with the idea stay in the circle and hold hands to complete the power. He asked folks to speak with him alone if they had a problem with that.

“At first Astrid and Mindy did as he suggested to keep the power balance in the circle, but I know they won’t stay for it the next time. I only hope they don’t drop out of the coven.

“Gotta get to work. More details later.”

Gabe didn’t know what aggravated him more, the idea of group sex or the more basic idea that an intelligent woman like Shylah could believe this bunk. He admitted to himself, just barely, that reading the details of this sex magic would turn him on, something he didn’t want to happen while at a coffee house. But he felt shame for Shylah that she would participate in something like that. However, she had been in her early twenties, a time for experimentation in many people’s lives. He’d done some seriously stupid things himself when he was that age. He shook his head as he walked down the sidewalk to his car. Seriously stupid things, like winding up in the hospital getting his stomach pumped from taking strange drugs given to him by a hooker.

Gabe smiled to himself, not about that particular memory but about the time he’d picked up two ladies, best friends, at a bar and wound up in bed with them both at the same time.

Okay, he needed to be a little less judgmental of Shylah’s exploits in light of his own.

He had an appointment to speak to the principal of Lalia’s school next. It had taken some convincing since Gabe was only one of many detectives to tackle this case. He finally won out by admitting he was Lalia’s cousin. He also managed to get the teachers gathered into two groups or shifts, rather than taking them all out of class at once. That was fine with Gabe. He’d track down the cleaning staff after school. He wanted to speak to Lalia’s and Matthew’s classmates and friends, but he would need parental permission since he had no official standing.

“So what can I tell you that could possibly shed more light on this than I already have?” The principal had a very deep voice and an expression that immediately engendered trust. Gabe needed to look beyond the façade to see if there was a hidden personality that could commit murder.

“I’m sorry to take you over the same ground again. I want Angela to know I’ve turned over every rock before giving up. You understand?”

“Of course. I’m just glad she’s not spending money to beat a dead horse, if you know what I mean.”

“I would’ve come out sooner, but my job kept me away.” Gabe paused to gather his thoughts. “So, let’s start with how much contact you had with Lalia and Matthew in school, and if there was any contact outside school—same church or whatever?”

“I didn’t see the children outside of school unless it was for a school-related activity, like Field Day or if I was chaperoning a field trip, but I do that rarely and I can’t remember a situation where I was with Lalia or Matthew. This is a small-town school, so I knew them and their parents by sight, but that was all.”

“What is your impression of their parents?”

“Very attentive to their education.”

“That sounds like a platitude to me. Let’s get deep here.”

“Well, Matthew’s parents Lisa and Michael Horton went to school here, prom queen and star quarterback. Everyone expected them to hook up, and they did. Michael is a hard worker for VDOT, but Lisa has a bit of a reputation…”

“As?”

“I hate to say this, but she seems to have dated at least half the men in town. Michael is her third husband, you would think the last, but I’ve been hearing rumors that she’s been cheating with someone else.”

“Any idea who?”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m not really in the loop on that sort of thing. I hear gossip in the break room usually, from other teachers.”

“Any teacher in particular?”

“Sadly, it usually seems to come from Candice Self. She’s a very judgmental woman.”

“I see. So have you lived in Smith Creek all your life? Did you teach here?”

“No, I’m from Richmond, got my degree at VCU as did Eva Hector. I taught in Henrico County for a few years before applying for the job of principal here.”

“So it was an upward move for you?”

“Definitely.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes, met my wife at college. She works in an office in Goochland.”

“Any trouble with the law or fired for any reason? Keep in mind I can look this stuff up.”

“I think you’ll find my background a clean slate. My wife and children are my first priority, followed by administering to this school. I have no reason to screw that up.”

“Okay. Now tell me, what are your impressions of the teachers at this school? Don’t hold back. This isn’t about reputations; it’s about two murdered children.”

The principal nodded. “My impressions have to do with teaching and the break room. Oddly, I never socialize with the other teachers outside of school. I don’t live right in town and most of my extended family lives in Richmond.”

“I understand.”

“As I mentioned, Candice Self is a gossip, full of herself and very judgmental. She’s very involved with her church from what I understand and she tends to preach to anyone she can get her hands on. She’s especially attentive to Shylah since she’s Wiccan and therefore needs to be saved from the devil.”

“You know Wiccans don’t believe in the devil, right?”

“I read up on it as soon as I realized that Shylah practiced it, which was only a couple of months after she came to teach here.”

“She told you voluntarily?”

“It came up because of a parent comment about her holiday display.”

“Did she put up pentagrams or something?”

“No, no. She created a very cross-cultural display, but when she was explaining the history of the Yule log, she mentioned her religion. I’m completely satisfied knowing it is an earth-based religion, very focused on ecology, and that they believe in not harming others because of karma. Most Christians seem to have a hard time following that.”

“But you fired her?”

“Honestly, it was parental pressure. Candice made flyers to send home, informing the parents of Shylah’s religion. Not until after the murders, of course. From then on I got continuous phone calls from parents and finally from the school board. School politics—I had to give in.”

“So did you know anything about Shylah’s previous coven?”

“No. Detective Hain mentioned it during questioning, but I still know nothing about it.”

Gabe had closely watched Principal Acker’s face throughout the interview and he was satisfied that he was on the up and up. He offered his hand as he stood. “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me. I know you’ve been done to death with questions on this subject.”

He stood also and shook Gabe’s hand. “I really do want the murderer found, but, other than Shylah, the police seem to have no other suspects.”

“Do you think Shylah could’ve done such a thing?”

“Absolutely not. She was a conscientious teacher who wanted to broaden her students’ minds. I can’t imagine any reason why she would hurt any of them.”

“What about janitors or anyone else who works around the school, even contractors who were only here for a certain amount of time?”

“We only had two contractors in during the first half of the school year and the cops questioned both. I can write down their contact information if you want to talk to them too. Our head janitor is an older, semi-retired lady. She’s worked for us for fifteen years. Only complaints about her have been from students she’s caught smoking in the bathrooms. She’s got two younger guys working under her, both checked out by the police.”

“Do you think she’d have time to talk to me later today?”

“I’ll call her and let you know.” The principal pulled a sticky note off the stack and wrote himself a reminder.

“Thank you,” Gabe said, standing. “I’ll find the first group of teachers in the gym?”

“Yes, and I’ll send the second group in as soon as you need them.”

“Thank you.”

Gabe asked the receptionist out front to point him in the direction of the gym, but first she made him sign in officially and stick a nametag on his shirt. He wondered if security had been boosted since the murders. The gym was at the back of the school. Gabe stepped into the hall as the bell rang and was suddenly surrounded by a swirling mass of students. Several paused long enough to give him a curious glance. Lockers slammed, laughter and shouts bounced off the walls, and every kid seemed to be texting on a cell phone.

Just as Gabe reached the double doors leading into the gym, a second bell rang, and the classrooms sucked up the students in seconds. He opened the doors and entered, noting that the sound of whispers ended abruptly. Six teachers sat on the bottom bench of the bleachers. They watched him as he strode over. He introduced himself. One of the teachers did the same for the group.

“I’m Cat Mann and I teach science,” the redhead said. She was petite with pale skin sprinkled with freckles. A very pretty woman. She gestured to each of the others in turn. “This is Clement Wann—math, Eva Hector—social studies, Emily Donovan—music and art, Al Porter—English, and Candice Self.”

The short woman in a brightly flowered shirt butted in. “I teach Life Studies.”

“Life Studies?”

Candice lifted her chin in the air. “Yes, I teach the students how to become better people by learning to cook, do laundry and follow a budget.”

Hopefully not also teaching them to be superior and judgmental. Gabe tried to look interested as he noted the overly large cross on a gold chain around her neck. “You teach this for the whole year?”

“Students rotate by quarters, so I manage to see them all by summer.”

“Including Lalia and Matthew?”

“Not this year, but I did have them last year.” She crossed her arms and straightened her spine.

Gabe turned to the others. “Did any of you have Lalia or Matthew in your classes?”

Mr. Wann half lifted his hand. The man looked Chinese but had a slow Southern drawl. He was from farther south than Virginia, Gabe guessed. “This school year, I had them for math in different periods, and Al had them for English.” He glanced at Mr. Porter, a plump, balding man, who nodded.

Willowy Emily Donovan leaned forward. “I’ve had them both for art and music since fifth grade. Lalia paints beautifully and Matthew is in Glee Club.” Her blue eyes glistened and her lower lip trembled. Cat patted her hand. “I suppose I knew them the best.”