Otherworld 11 - Waking the Witch (2 page)

I
studied the victims for some sign they’d been killed by a supernatural—puncture wounds, gnaw marks, weird burn patterns. But the only sign of trauma was the bullet holes.

Next I looked at the background for evidence that the victims had been used ritualistically. If so, then we probably
weren’t
dealing with a supernatural killer. There were black art rituals involving human sacrifice—usually high-level protection spells that required a life in forfeit for a life protected—but that’s a lot more rare among witches and sorcerers than Hollywood would have people believe.

If these were indeed ritual murders, then the most likely culprit was Hollywood itself, for suggesting that it’s possible to harness the forces of darkness through sacrifice. As if a demon really gives a rat’s ass about a dead human or two.

When humans ritually kill, though, they’re rarely subtle. Pentacles in blood are a particular favorite. Apparently, if you’re going to the trouble of proving what a badass occultist you are, you want to make sure the whole world gets it.

However, even if the killer was human, that was a concern for us. The agency takes a few calls a year from supernaturals freaked out because some lowlife in their city drained a victim’s blood or left occult paraphernalia at a crime scene. I tell them to chill—most humans are smart enough to know vampires and witches and demons are the products of overactive imaginations, and the police will quickly turn their attention to more plausible explanations.

Sometimes, though, exposure threats do bear investigating. We can never be too—

I stopped. I lifted the photos and squinted at them. Was that a faint line under each body? Part of a circle drawn in chalk and hastily erased?

“Do you have a better picture of this?” I asked, pointing at the line.

Jesse shook his head.

“What does the police report say about it?”

“As far as I know, nothing. I haven’t seen it myself, but my contact says it wasn’t mentioned.”

“Okay. But since it’s in a covered, unused area, the marks under the latest victim should still be there.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

All the magical races—witch, sorcerer, shaman, necromancer—had rituals that used chalk circles. The important part was the symbol presumably underneath these bodies. Once I’d noticed those chalk lines, I started picking up other very discreet signs of a true dark art ritual-flakes on the concrete that looked like dried herbs, a black smudge on the wall that I recognized as smoke from a burning brazier, an edge of silver, almost hidden in the latest victim’s clenched hand. A coin? An amulet?

“The cops must have seen that,” I said, pointing to the silver. “Or the coroner did.”

“I’m guessing yes, and I’m really hoping they’ll tell me what it is, but they may hold on to the information to weed out the killer from the cranks.”

I looked at the two earlier victims. One had her left hand fisted and the other’s right hand was palm down on the ground. Either could have been holding something.

“Who’s the client?” I asked.

“Me.”

When I glanced up, he looked faintly embarrassed. “See, that’s the problem with knowing Lucas. You get this urge to do pro bono work.”

“It’s called guilt.”

“No kidding, huh? I’m not a crusader, but every now and then something like this crosses my radar. A necromancer buddy with the Washington state police recognized signs of what looked like a real ritual. He can’t jump in without raising eyebrows, so he passed it to me.”

I took out my iPhone and logged in to our database, tapping the virtual keypad as he continued.

“Officially, though, the mother of the last victim hired me. I tracked her down and offered to investigate in return for her confirming that to anyone who asks.”

“A free PI. Bet she was happy.”

“I wouldn’t say
happy.
It took a lot of fast-talking to persuade her I wasn’t running a con. Even made me sign a waiver.”

“Did she seem reluctant? Maybe for a reason?”

“Nah, just a legal secretary who thinks she’s been at the job long enough to practice law herself.”

I turned around the phone to show him a list. “I plugged in what we know, and this is what I get. Eight possible rituals, more if whatever she has in her hand isn’t significant.”

“Whoa, and I’m still working from paper files.”

“Paige kludged together an app and hacked it into the proprietary software.”

“Whatever that means ...”

“No idea. To me it means we have database access on the road. Of course, I could just walk twenty feet and pull this up on a computer, but that wouldn’t be nearly as impressive. Would you like the list texted to you, e-mailed, or sent to our printer?”

“Okay, now you’re just showing off. Text it.” He handed me a card with his cell number and I punched it in.

“So I’m guessing this is what you need from us—you supply the details and we’ll access our resources to figure out which ritual you’re dealing with. If we’re lucky, what she has in her hand will answer all our questions. Well, except whodunit. That’s your job.”

“See, now this is why I asked to talk to Lucas,” he said. “If I showed him this, he’d be all, ‘Hmm, this bears investigation. I take it you’re on the case?’ And I’d be, like, ‘Well, I will be, right after I finish a job.’ Then he’d ask if I minded if he looked into it himself and say he’d hate to take a job from me and I’d joke that it’s not a paying one anyway and if he wants to take a look ...”

“So you actually brought this to us hoping we’d investigate it for you?”

His cheeks colored. “Shit. Could you just channel Lucas for a minute? Please? Make me feel like a generous colleague?”

“If you were truly generous, you’d be passing us a paying case. Being the accountant for this place, I’m all about the bills.”

As I picked up the photos, my heart beat a little faster. I could take this case. My first solo investigation. I’d been asking for one since I turned eighteen. By the time I reached twenty, I realized I had to stop bugging and start working my ass off to prove I could handle it.

I had a hell of a reputation to overcome, though. I’d made more mistakes as a teen than most people do in a lifetime. Paige and Lucas knew that better than anyone. They weren’t just my bosses—they’d been my guardians. I’d been twelve when my mother died, and Paige had taken me in, and she’d gone through hell because of it.

So I didn’t blame them for only letting me assist in investigations. Here, though, was a case I could handle, working under the supervision of a guy Lucas trusted.

So I said, as casually as I could, “My schedule is clear this week. I’ll look into it.”

Jesse looked over. Sizing me up. I knew that and I could feel my hackles rising, but I kept my mouth shut because I’ve come to understand that I can’t blame people for underestimating me. Twenty-one might feel terribly grown up to me, but to others I’m still a kid, and insisting I can handle it would sound defensive, not mature.

“Lucas says you’ve been doing some investigative work,” he finally said.

“I’ve been part of the team since we opened. I’ve done research and legwork for the past five years. I’ve assisted on investigations for three. I’d even done a few small local ones myself. Yes, triple homicide isn’t small, but you’re looking for someone to do some legwork, presumably under your supervision.”

He nodded. “If you can help me, I’d appreciate that. Normally, I’d suggest you run it past Lucas and Paige but ...”

“Under the circumstances, they’re better off not worrying about me. I’ll tell Adam.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’m not dumping this case on you. I
will
jump back in as soon as I can. But this latest murder is already cooling. I hoped to get out there two days ago, but got sidetracked with this case I’m on. It’s a guy I’ve been chasing for two years now and he finally turned up in Portland. It’s just child support, but, well, the client really needs the money ...”

“And if you wait, he might bolt again.”

“Exactly.”

Frankly, I didn’t care what his motivation was. I just wanted the job.

If it was a ritual, it was magic, probably witch or sorcerer, and I was both. Add some demon blood on my mom’s side, and I was a damned amazing spellcaster. More important for this case, I had contacts in the black market and dark arts.

So I told Jesse I’d take it. I made it clear, though, that although I’d welcome his help when he was ready, I wasn’t doing the legwork and dropping the case. I was the primary on this. He agreed and left me with the file.

THE MOMENT JESSE
was gone, I pulled up his photo file on the computer. Everything he’d said fit with what I’d heard about the guy, but double-checking is standard procedure around here, where we have to deal with everything from unstable clients to Cabal assassins. So I checked the photo. There was no question that the guy I’d talked to was Jesse Aanes.

Next I looked up the murders on the Internet and downloaded everything I could find, which wasn’t much. Ditto for the victims. I got a few hits on the latest one—Claire Kennedy—but nothing on the first two, Ginny Thompson and Brandi Degas. Yep, Gin and Brandi. Call me crazy, but naming your daughters after alcoholic beverages is just asking for trouble.

Next I worked on identifying the ritual. I’d just finished plugging in ideas for the silver object in Claire’s hand—coin, amulet, key—when I glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven. If I planned to get to Columbus today, I had to get going.

I grabbed my helmet from the back room and wheeled my bike into the alley. Not a bicycle, a motorcycle. I might live in the green belt, but I’d never quite embraced the lifestyle. I drove a 1950 Triumph Thunderbird that Lucas and I had restored together. It was a sweet ride, and a lot more fuel-efficient than a car, so I could feel virtuous without sacrificing the cool factor.

I zipped home, then called Adam. No answer. That was fine—I wasn’t calling to get his approval, just to let him know. Adam wouldn’t stop me anyway. He was my biggest supporter when I argued for getting out in the field more.

Paige had baked me cookies before she left, and I was filling a box to take when my cell rang. The Doors’ “Light My Fire.” Adam’s picture popped up, a god-awful one of him snapped before his first coffee on a ski trip last winter.

I’d been in love with Adam since I was twelve. I’d grown up secure in the knowledge that while other girls dreamed about their ideal partner, I’d already found mine. I just needed to wait until I was old enough for him to realize I wasn’t just his friends’ ward; I was his soul mate.

Sixteen sounded about right. By the time I actually reached sixteen, though, I realized it was way too young. No decent twenty-seven-year-old should be interested in a kid that age. Eighteen then. When eighteen passed, I told myself the gap was still too wide. Twenty? Nope. Twenty-one. It had to be twenty-one.

We went out for my twenty-first birthday, just the two of us. That wasn’t a sign of anything—we’ve always been good friends. When he asked where I wanted to go, I said the most expensive place in town, just to give him a hard time. Then I bought a knockout dress, got my hair done, even had a manicure. That night Adam would finally realize the smart-ass, irresponsible Savannah was gone for good. I was a woman now.

If he did notice, it didn’t seem to make any difference. I
wasn’t
his friends’ ward anymore. I was his coworker and pal and that was all I was ever going to be. Take it or leave it. I’d decided to take it. That didn’t mean, though, that my heart didn’t flutter every time I heard his ring tone.

“Let me guess,” he said when I answered. “You’re bored and lonely already.”

“Nope. Got a triple homicide with possible ritualistic overtones already.”

I gave him a quick rundown.

“Jesse’s a good guy,” he said when I finished. “You could use the experience. As the senior employee in Paige and Lucas’s absence, I’m making an executive decision.”

“You like that, don’t you?”

“Anything that gives me the upper hand. I promise not to lord it over you when I get there, though.”

“You’re at a conference. As boring as it might be, you’re stuck.”

“There are just a couple more seminars I want to sit in on, so I’ll leave early and come give you a hand. Jesse’s fine, but better to work with someone you know, right? We make a good team.”

True. But as much as I loved working with Adam, I really wanted this to be my first solo case. As solo as I could make it, anyway. So I said we’d discuss it later. He was fine with that.

“Now, you’re going to stay in Columbus, right? Not commute back and forth.”

“It’s only an hour drive. I have to come back or Paige and Lucas will know something’s up.”

“I’ll say I sent you out to do legwork for me.”

“But the office—”

“—will run just fine without you. Yes, I know you’d rather come home every night, but if you really want field experience, you need to get out in the field and stay there. It’s a small town. You have to meld in, become part of the community. It’ll be good for you, getting out, mingling, trying to fit in ...”

Mingling with
humans.
Trying to fit into
human
society. That’s what he meant. Damn.

I reluctantly agreed. He made me promise to call him with an update tomorrow.

I
took the back roads to Columbus. Highways and motorcycles don’t mix. Neither do motorcycles and the Pacific Northwest. Like Lucas, though, I refuse to yield to the climate. I ride when I can, and have a rainsuit in my saddlebags. I could have taken Paige’s Prius, but the forecast was clear for the next week. So I was zooming along, enjoying the ride, when I passed a service station warning “last gas for ten miles,” which seemed odd, considering Columbus was only a few miles away. Still, I had under half a tank, so I stopped.

As I filled up, a couple of truckers stood outside a rig, the younger one checking me out, the older one checking out my ride.

“Marlon Brando,” the older guy said, nodding at my ride. “That’s the bike he had in
The Wild Ones.
”

The younger guy’s gaze slithered over me. “So are you a wild one, hon?”

The older one shut him up with a glare, then turned to me. “Where you heading? There isn’t much around out here.”

I doubted these guys were from Columbus, but if they were on this back road, they were probably familiar with the area.

Channeling Paige, I pasted on a big, friendly smile. “Columbus.”

“Why?” the younger guy said. “Nothing there for a girl like you.”

“And not the safest place either,” the older one said. “They’ve had themselves a few murders in the past year. Young women.”

This was easier than I thought. I only had to say, “Seriously?” and I got all the details. They didn’t tell me anything I didn’t read in Jesse’s reports, though. Not until they’d finished, and the older man said, “If you ask me, there’s something hinky going on in that town.”

“Hinky?”

“Buddy of mine stopped there last fall, making a delivery. Went in the wrong building and found one of them satanic rituals.”

“In progress?”

“Nah, from the night before, he figured. But it was all there. Pentacles. Black candles. Dead cat. He tore out of there like the devil himself was after him. Won’t stop in that town ever again.”

SATANIC RITUALS. I’D be a lot more excited about that if the ritualistic signs left near those bodies suggested anything like a black mass. Still, it was a start—a hint that something supernatural might be going on in Columbus. Which was good, because from the look of the place, I’d never have guessed it.

The articles on the murders had given me a good image of Columbus. Your typical small town struggling to survive, the kids shipping out to Seattle or Portland as soon as they could. There would be a subdivision for commuters, but mostly you’d see streets of small postwar homes fronted by tidy postage-stamp lawns. The downtown would be a patchwork of basic-service businesses that had been there for three generations.

As I drove into town, though, I joined every local kid in chomping at the bit to be someplace else, anyplace else. Ghost town was too fanciful a term for Columbus, conjuring up visions of porch swings creaking in the breeze and tattered vintage Coke signs flapping. This place was a zombie, rotting before my eyes, dead but still somehow functioning.

The population sign looked as if it had recently been reduced from four digits to three, even that estimate bearing an air of desperate optimism. I drove past three businesses on the outskirts of town—a boarded-up bowling alley, a used-car lot with three mud-mired clunkers, and a darkened gas station.

The residential streets came next, if one can still call them that when there’s little sign of actual residents. Maybe a quarter of the lots bore the kind of tidy postwar homes I’d envisioned. Almost half, though, had For Sale signs, most faded or fallen, all hope abandoned. As for the others, it seemed the homeowners hadn’t even been able to work up the confidence to put their house on the market, the yards overgrown, windows boarded up or broken, as if the residents were resigned to the fact they were stuck here, but resentfully, refusing even to do basic maintenance.

I didn’t need magical powers to cast my mind’s eye out to the other edge of town and see a closed sawmill or factory along the rail tracks. Columbus was the kind of place that wouldn’t have anything to recommend it
except
good-paying industrial jobs. It was an ugly town in a beautiful state. Portland was close enough for commuting, but so were lots of other, better places, with highway access.

As I rode down Main Street, I started wishing I’d rented a car-something old and rusty, something that would fit in. Normally, I’m all about the attention, but the heads turning my way, the eyes narrowing, the lips tightening, wasn’t the kind of attention I needed if I was about to poke my nose into local murders. Everything about me screamed big city, proof that the world was chugging along in relative ease outside the town limits.

I rode down a quiet secondary road where the only business still operating was a pawnshop. Finally, I spotted the building where Brandi, Ginny, and Claire had died. According to my notes, it used to be an office. I couldn’t tell—it looked like it’d been closed for a decade. It’d probably been the town eyesore for years. Now it fit right in.

I parked in the lot across the road. The only other car there was a BMW. An older model but in AI shape. I wasn’t surprised to see an out-of-state plate on it. Texas.

As I got off my bike, I could see the driver in my mirror, checking me out as he climbed from the car. Even though my back was to him, it was a discreet ogle, almost reluctant. I played to my audience, tugging my helmet free, giving my long dark hair a toss as it fell over my back. Yes, I’m an attention whore. It didn’t hurt that the guy was worth checking out himself.

He looked taller than me, which was always a bonus. A lean build. Wearing a suit that straddled the line between department store and designer. Short dark hair. Chiseled face. Glasses, maybe worn for effect; a guy who wanted to be taken seriously and hoped the glasses would help.

I considered introducing myself, making some wry comment about a fellow out-of-towner. I have no problem approaching guys. I figure if they’re intimidated by a woman who makes the first move, then I’m not the girl for them. Before I made up my mind, though, he headed toward Main Street.

I left my bike secured with a perimeter spell. It sucked as a long-distance alarm, but nothing was better for close range.

In case anyone was watching me, I headed for the pawnshop, then zipped back to the old office under cover of a blur spell. Lucas and Paige always say never to use it in a public place during daylight. While seeing a blur might make someone rub his eyes, I figure it’s safer than seeing a stranger breaking into a crime scene.

Another spell opened the locked front door, and I slipped inside. The place was cool and damp, reeking of mildew. I spell-locked the door behind me and cast a sensing spell. It came back negative. I recited another incantation and a ball of light appeared, hovering in my path.

Yep, that’s a lot of spells in a short period of time, but that’s what life is like for a witch. We can go days without exercising our powers, then we’ll encounter a situation—usually involving the words
threat
and
danger—
and it’s a regular paranormal power fest.

With the light ball illuminating my way, I searched for the basement stairs, weaving past the occasional piece of office furniture that people deemed too crappy to steal. I tried to picture what had happened here, with Ginny and Brandi and then Claire. Lucas would say trying to visualize what happened to a victim was yet another way to leap to unwarranted conclusions, and Paige would agree.

But they aren’t me, and imagining the crime helps me see the victim as a person, not just a problem to be solved. For Paige and Lucas, empathy is never a problem—they’re bursting with it. Me? Not so much.

The articles hadn’t speculated whether the women had died here, but having seen the blood pools under them I was going to take the leap and say yes.

I tried to imagine what might draw me here. For Ginny and Brandi, the possibilities were endless—anything from a drug deal to a party to a hookup. If they were willing to trade a blow job for a hit, this would be a good place to do it.

The problem was Claire Kennedy. A college student on summer break, according to the paper. Honors student. Arts major. Wrote for the college paper. Quiet and straitlaced was the impression I got from the account. Looking around, I couldn’t imagine anything that would bring
me
to this place—and
straitlaced
has never been an adjective applied to me. So what brought Claire?

That led to the bigger question. What brought a girl like Claire to Columbus at all? According to the article, she’d been here two weeks, coming right after her finals. Short of two broken legs, nothing would keep me here that long. Hell, with two broken legs I’d drag myself the twenty miles to the highway and hitch a ride.

I took out the crime-scene photos. Unlike the other two, Claire wasn’t lying in her own blood. So shot and moved seemed a reasonable assumption for her. If she’d been killed elsewhere in the building, there would be blood trace—I couldn’t imagine the owner had sprung for much in the way of cleaning afterward. I could search, but the cops would have already done that. I’d get the details from them.

When I finally located the basement door, I cast the sensing spell again. There was no sign the cops were still securing the scene. Jesse said they’d been here only yesterday, though.

My spell did detect small presences, but that was to be expected in a rat hotel like this. I searched for the big “ping” that said human and ignored the rest.

At the bottom of the stairs, I realized that finding the basement didn’t mean finding the crime scene. I should have stopped at the police station first to let them know I was in town, so I could have sweet-talked some cop into telling me exactly where in this basement the bodies had been found.

I took out the photos. Concrete floor. Concrete wall. Yeah, that narrowed it down.

I started walking, the light ball illuminating the photos as I compared them to my surroundings, as if I were a TV detective, able to identify a speck of
Flora whateveris
on the photo and match it to one on the floor. I scanned the floor, searching for ... oh, I don’t know, matching dirt patterns? Then I caught sight of a torn piece of yellow plastic taped to a pillar.

“Or you could just look for crime-scene tape, stupid.”

As I spoke, something scuttled to my left. I wheeled, hands poised to launch an energy bolt. I peered into the darkness, but couldn’t see very far. I listened for the chattering of rats. Instead, I heard breathing.

I took a step. The breathing stopped. A long pause, then a gasp, like he couldn’t hold his breath anymore. I murmured the sensing spell under my breath. It agreed something was there, but not a human-sized something.

I took another sliding step. The breathing came faster, as if in fear. I cast again, to be sure, and this time when I got the same result, I realized it
was
sensing a human, just a smaller one than I expected. I extinguished my light ball and walked toward the breathing sounds.

“Okay, kid,” I said. “I know you’re there, so—”

A flash blinded me.

“Don’t move,” said a girl’s voice, squeaky with fear. A pale arm reached from the darkness, clutching a cell phone, finger over a button. “Take another step and I’ll send your picture to the cops.”

Smart kid. Bluffing, I was sure, but smart nonetheless.

“You’ve got a cell phone?” I rolled my eyes. “Kids these days. I wasn’t allowed one until I was sixteen, and then I had to pay for my own plan.”

The girl turned on a plastic flashlight, stepped out, and gave me a look that said she wasn’t lowering her guard, no matter how friendly I seemed. Yep, smart kid.

Tiny kid, too, which explained the spell feedback. I’d put her around eight, maybe nine, probably the smallest in her class. She was skinny, with a thin face and twiglike arms, but not undernourished—her eyes were bright and her freckled face glowed. Her hair was her best feature, gleaming blond and tied back with a strip of pink lace that hung over one shoulder. She wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt with a worn decal. Hand-me-downs, but clean, the jeans patched with a rainbow on one knee and a skull and crossbones on the other. Interesting ...

“So did you do it?” she asked, her gaze holding mine.

“Do what?”

She waved at the crime-scene photos clearly displayed in my hand.

“Shit! I mean ...” A better choice of language escaped me and I flipped the photos over fast and tried to shove them back in the envelope.

“I read somewhere that killers sometimes come back to the scene,” the girl said, matter-of-factly, like she was telling me that elephants are the largest land mammal.

I kept fumbling to get the pictures in the envelope.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve seen them. Tim Bruyn from school showed me. His grandpa is the police chief. He’s investigating the murders. Or he’s supposed to be, but he’s doing a lousy job.”

“Is he?”

She nodded solemnly. “Everybody says so. Even Grandma. Not in front of me, of course, but I heard her say it on the phone, and she never says bad stuff about anyone.”

“A good policy.” I smiled, but she only stared at me, as if she could tell I didn’t mean it.

“So that’s your cell phone?” I said, pointing to it. “Pretty cool. Mine doesn’t have a flash.”

“It’s my mom’s.”

“And she lets you use it? Very cool.”

Again, she just stared at me with those appraising eyes.
Come on, kid. Help me out here.

“Well, I’m not going to ask how you got in here,” I said. “But it isn’t the kind of place for kids to hang out, so I’ll walk you upstairs—”

“I’m not hanging out. I’m investigating.”

She tugged a backpack off her shoulder, reached in, and pulled out a pad of paper. She flipped to a page, then, pen poised, looked up at me. “Your name, please.”

“Savannah Levine. Private investigator.”

“License?”

I started pulling out my ID. She gave me a look that called me a moron.

“
Private investigator’s
license?”