Charming People

by A. L. Tyler

  His eye twitched. “Find it.”

  My eyes went wide as I stared around. “You’re asking me to find a cricket at a rock concert! And even then, the magic concentrated in totems is significantly less refined than the final product produced by—”

  “You can’t find it.”

  I felt it should have been obvious. “No, I can’t find it.”

  He nodded with a jerk. “Fine. This isn’t what killed Molly Wolffkyn?”

  “No,” I said with certainty. “I would have heard it. Molly was poisoned.”

  “But not the rest of us.” He turned to me. “We’re going to check the rooms again. Both of us. Then you’re going to use whatever you need here to make a preventative antidote.”

  I wasn’t sure that was possible. I didn’t want to say it out loud until I knew for sure. “Okay.”

  “Then you are going to review the background record of every person in this house. If we can’t find the hex, we have to find the opportunity and the motive.”

  But that was the problem. We already had the motive. Everyone had a motive. Even the dead bodies had motive.

  Amos and Molly were after money. Skyla and Cal had lifelong resentment. Molly’s husband was a jealous man. Rogers and Shaina were the only ones beside Axel with access to the artifacts.

  But Axel, Molly, and Shaina were dead now. That left Skyla, Amos, Cal, and Rogers.

  Motive. Opportunity. Means. No one was lacking.

  I made the rounds with Nick. He didn’t pause at any of the doors, and I trusted his sensitive hearing the same as he trusted mine: everyone was still asleep. When we finally came to a stop outside of Rogers’ room, Nick hesitated.

  He shook his head. “He’s asleep.”

  “Should we wake him?”

  Nick’s eyes lingered regretfully on the door. “No. There’s no point. We should let him sleep. After he knows, he isn’t going to be sleeping much anymore.”

  “Unless he’s the killer.” I crossed my arms defiantly.

  “Unless he’s the killer,” Nick conceded. “But you saw them together. It would take a psychopath to pull a stunt like that using someone you love for the sake of cover.”

  “Such psychopaths do exist,” I said dryly. “They were sleeping together.”

  Nick took a deep breath. “Rogers isn’t one of those psychopaths. I lived with him for years. I would have seen it. True enough, they were sleeping together. But I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt, because even I didn’t hear Shaina until she set off the wards.”

  I nodded. I started to follow him down the hall, but something—a small, familiar ringing like a cat’s bell—made me pause. It was so quiet and easy to miss amongst the rest of the noises in the house, but this was a sound intimately ingrained in my subconscious. I went back and pressed my ear to Rogers’ door.

  Nick was at my side. “What?”

  “Shh...” I closed my eyes. The little ring continued, persistent, from the other side of the door. “He’s using a sleeping charm. My father used to use a similar one.”

  Nick’s eyes lit with interest. “He’s always been a heavy sleeper. Maybe that’s why he didn’t notice her leaving the room.”

  I looked sharply over at him. “Or, he might have used it while she was providing a distraction. An instant alibi to stay he was sleeping the whole time.”

  Nick frowned. We were really up the creek on this one.

  I hit the books hard, researching everything I could find about claustrophobia hexing and cross-referencing with bleeding stone.

  Bleeding stone was a favorite of the Packs, but only in the Mediterranean. Claustrophobia hexes took several forms, but most originated in Eastern Europe, India, and the American south-east. I focused in on curses from Eastern Europe, but they were verbally construed. If the hexer stopped chanting, the hex died.

  Not our curse.

  The Indian hexes hadn’t been seen in more than five decades, and the specific practices were lost. The hexes from the South East required deserving victims.

  Deserving? According to who? I laid my head on the desk. Sleep was creeping in on me again.

  The Bleak weren’t overly concerned with religion, as long as the worshipers of any particular denomination didn’t become a threat to them—the Rite of Athena was a notorious exception for that very reason. A hex in the American South East meant it could have derived from any variation of African or French pagan beliefs. It could be a reference to any judgment held by gods or belief systems of any native tribe. It could be Voodoo. For all I knew, it could be Aztec or Mayan in origin.

  Three deaths. Three people have died. Could we have prevented it?

  Axel warned us. We thought he was crazy.

  Then we thought it was personal, and Molly died.

  Then we thought it was poison, and Shaina died.

  I thought. I thought it was poison, and now Shaina’s death weighed heavily on my mind.

  Rogers had lost his soon-to-be wife. Skyla had lost her mother, and Amos, his father. I had to figure this out before this maniac destroyed any more lives.

  I forced my chair back and pulled the mineral kit from the drawer. In the warm light of the library, I stared down at the stones.

  Black basalt, white pumice, yellow sandstone, green talc.

  Gold. Breccia. Copper. A rainbow of jasper and garnet.

  I picked up a teal fluorite crystal, closing my fingers around the rough edges of the natural stone. Perfect.

  It had been a long time since I’d practiced any alchemy, but I still knew a proper channel when I saw one. I found the book I needed—a standard Bleak-issued text—and tried to remember the hacks my lab partner at the academy had manufactured.

  Immerse a natural fluorite into ocean water...

  Moving water. Not ocean. I went to the sink and let the tap run over the fluorite and into the cup before dropping it in.

  Three drops of peppermint oil. A swatch of living moss. Three hairs from a hare’s pelt.

  Five was better. Any more and the drinker might not sleep for a week.

  Touch the immersed stone and focus on the intent. Non-natural users must use the Latin verbal intent, expergiscimini dies.

  And that’s precisely what the potion did: awake for days.

  I dipped my fingers in focused on my need to banish my exhaustion. The cup whooshed like air rushing through a warehouse fan.

  Magic coffee. It would taste almost as gnarly as the real thing, and I didn’t have any creamer, sugar, or whip on hand to take the edge off.

  There was probably some in the kitchen. Knowing something in there was probably poisoned, though, I decided to pass. I also foresaw myself whipping up a batch of anti-hunger in the near future.

  One hour to brew. Someone should have thought that one through before making this the go-to beverage while tired.

  I returned to my research. I poured over volume after volume of curses, hexes, and causes of claustrophobia. I read every background piece I could find on the guests. I was staring at the clock, counting down the last ten minutes to completion, no closer to finding the answers I needed, when I reached for my cell phone. I needed a distraction to keep my brain alert.

  It was a bad idea. I double-tapped my camera by accident and ended up in my snapshots, staring at Samson Grift.

  Suffering a stronger mental fog than usual, I wondered who he was. Nick and I had an understanding that his security clearance meant he knew things that I didn’t. He lied to me out of need, because telling the truth meant both of us could end up imprisoned.

  Or worse.

  But this was my life. The Bleak took my father away when I was a teenager, and that one event defined everything I was today. It led me down the road to becoming a criminal, and then straight to Nick. And as much as I wanted to let it go, for everyone’s sake, because Nick said he didn’t know anything... This was important.

  He’s lying to me.

  Nick’s voice startled me when he spoke over the phone speaker.
>
  “People are waking up,” he said. I glanced at the clock, surprised that it was morning already. I shoved my phone in my pocket. The conspiracies in my brain would die when my wakefulness returned. “I’m going to ask them to stay in their rooms until further notice. I need you with me when I question Rogers.”

  “I’m coming.” I screeched my chair back as I stood, grabbing my potion.

  Nick was in front of me before I’d taken three steps. He tilted his head, gaze lingering on the cup in my hand.

  Straightening his posture, he sighed. “We’re in a hostile situation. I need your mind clear.”

  “My mind’s clear.” The fog was surrounding me, and I didn’t like his tone. My left eye twitched. “Let’s go.”

  “You don’t even know what I gave you earlier.”

  I gave a quick nod. “Preventatives. You’re always taking them.”

  He cracked a smile. It annoyed the hell out of me. “It’s not going to mix well with that.”

  “Why?”

  Nick reached for the cup. I jerked away, less coordinated than I felt.

  I gave him a look of warning. “I need to drink this.”

  His eyes were calculating. Careful.

  He’s getting ready to lie.

  I shut my eyes and tried to be reasonable. It was a lot harder in the absence of sleep and food. I took a deep breath before speaking again. “What did you give me?”

  “Spider’s tears and ripped shackle.”

  “Spider’s tears.” I didn’t blink. “That’s a poison suppressant that works by speeding metabolism and shedding via sweat and urine. I’m unfamiliar with ripped shackle.”

  “It’s a personal blend based on broken chain remedies that prolong the effects of any magic attack you come under. So you experience curses in chopped bits instead of all at once.”

  I sighed in defeat. “I can’t take that with an upper.”

  Nick flashed a smile that seemed a little too placating. “No, you can’t.”

  My head was pounding. “I’ve got to do something!”

  “Shake it off, Driftwood.”

  I glared at him, but I didn’t even have the energy to tell him off. I set the potion on the workstation and stared at it hard, debating how bad it would be if I just drank it.

  Bad. I knew that.

  Too risky. Was it riskier than falling asleep or making a mistake out of exhaustion when people’s lives were on the line?

  Nick grabbed the cup and dumped it into the sink.

  “No!” I gritted my teeth. Tired tears started to form in the corners of my eyes.

  Nick frowned at me, and I saw the tick of disgust in the creases at the corners of his eyes. He tried to put his hands on my shoulders.

  I pulled away.

  “Sit. Stay here.”

  I stayed standing. When he got back, he set three cans of soda in front of me. I stared at them and shook my head.

  “Drink it.” There was no humor in his voice.

  The edge of the desk dug into both of my palms as I leaned over it, crouching like an animal as I considered my options. My thoughts were slower than molasses. I was well aware that Nick was as awake as ever.

  And he was ordering me around. I didn’t like the precedent he was trying to set.

  This is why you don’t mix business with pleasure.

  “Agent Driftwood.” He said it with particular emphasis. “This is a life or death situation. Your presence here might save lives, and I need your expertise. But if you’re not going to help me, I will lock you in a closet for your own protection and carry on without you.”

  I exhaled slowly through my nose, and my lips twitched.

  “And if you fight me, I will win.” It was like he was reading my thoughts. “I will subdue you. I will restrain as required for the safety of everyone here. Drink it. You can sleep when you’re dead.”

  I glared down at the drinks. “These could be tainted. I’m not drinking it.”

  He crossed his arms and stretched his neck. “Jette, I don’t want to have to do this the hard way—”

  “I don’t need it,” I said, walking for the door. “I’m feeling more awake now.”

  My heart pounded in my chest. I couldn’t hear him, but I knew he was following me. He was angry. In my current state, he could most definitely take me in a fight.

  What are you doing? I stopped and turned.

  Nick was there, right behind me. So close that I should have heard his wards and felt him breathing down my neck. His eyes were dark. He didn’t look amused.

  “I’m sorry.” I had to force the words out. “I’m just tired.”

  I didn’t look away from his intense, unblinking stare as he opened the can in his hands.

  “Apology accepted.” He held out the can, daring me to refuse. “You’re worried about poison, and this was a sealed can. I washed the exterior using the protocol you established, though I agree we really shouldn’t make a habit of risking it. I’ll make time for you to sleep later.”

  He was still speaking like he was in charge of me. He was in charge of me—he was the handler in an active murder investigation. He was my boss now, and I needed to get over myself.

  And while his logic was sound, he didn’t know that. He was ordering me to drink something that could potentially kill me. All hail the Bleak.

  I said a quiet prayer and reached for the can.

  Nick didn’t let it go. “How dangerous is that?”

  I pulled. He still didn’t release his grip.

  “Are you testing me?”

  “Maybe,” he said gravely. “You’re acting off lately. Is there something we need to discuss, Agent Driftwood?”

  That’s getting annoying fast. “No there is not, Agent Warren.”

  “Good.” He released the can into my hand. “If you are comfortable drinking that, and you deem it safe, I would enjoy knowing that your wakefulness and blood sugar have been attended to.”

  I took a drink and followed him as he started to walk. “It’s very comforting to know you’re thinking about my blood, Agent Warren.”

  He ignored the slight. “What did you know about this curse?”

  As much as I tried to stay behind him, he kept changing his pace until we were side by side. I gritted my teeth and put up with it.

  “It wasn’t used on Molly. The killer switched methods for her.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What else?”

  I shrugged. I hated to admit it, but the soda was helping. And it was probably safe since I wasn’t dead yet. “The totem is North American in origin. Probably.”

  “That’s all?”

  I stepped in front of him, stopping him in front of a massive suit of medieval armor wrapped in archaic runes. “I’m doing my best here.”

  Nick’s nostrils flared as he looked over my head, nodding. “I’m aware. Do better, Driftwood.”

  He stepped around me and kept walking. I stood there, soda in hand, at a loss for words.

  I turned to stare at his retreating back. “You are an asshole. You are a terrible boss.”

  He didn’t pause, raising a hand to gesture me to hurry up. “You’re a terrible subordinate. I’ll fire you later.”

  Chapter 18

  Rogers stood in the open doorway to his room, glancing back and forth down the hall. He didn’t put so much as one blue velvet-loafered toe over the threshold to avoid setting off Nick’s wards.

  I ditched my empty can behind a large quartz geode with an enchantment that sounded like a pop singer doing warm-ups before Rogers could see it. It wasn’t worth the fight to tell people what they probably could and couldn’t eat, and the storm would clear before actual starvation set in. The rule was that no one was eating anything.

  Rogers pulled his robe tighter around his pajamas when he caught sight of us. “I suppose you’ve come to question me next?”

  Next. I swallowed my apprehension. I worked as an evidence tech during the day, and delive
ring the news that a loved one had died—especially in such a grim fashion—wasn’t something I was familiar with.

  It wasn’t something I ever wanted to become familiar, either.

  “You’ll need to sit down.” Nick nodded toward Rogers’ room. Rogers’ jaw went slack, and he gave one more cursory glance down the halls before turning to lead us in.

  “I don’t know why you’re being so secretive about this, Warren. Shaina was gone when I woke up, and we both know the only place she could be is with you for questioning.” He scratched the back of his head before taking a seat at a small table in a corner.

  Nick continued to stand. I did the same.

  “Did you wake up when she left?” Nick asked. He kept his voice subdued and his tone cautiously gently.

  “No.” Rogers looked from Nick to me and back again. “No, I use a spell to calm my thoughts, or else I never sleep. Too many logistics to worry about here. Why? What’s happened to Shaina?” His calculated gaze fell on me, and I wilted beneath the laser-focus of his stare. “No. No. Warren?”

  Nick exhaled a long, slow breath. “I came when the wards were violated. I came as quickly as I could—”

  “No.” Rogers swallowed. His hands gripped his robe with white knuckles, and that was where I let my gaze rest to avoid the shock and sorrow on his face.

  “—I tried to stop her,” Nick said matter-of-factly. He let out the gruesome details. “She managed to tear free from my grasp. She threw herself out a door. She’s dead.”

  A choking noise escaped Rogers’ throat as he turned his face toward the windows. Light rain still fell against the glass.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Nick finished.

  The rain fell harder, and I wondered if we should leave. Rogers’ tears were quiet in the soft, dimly-lit room. He was a heap, hunched over with his face in his hands, and we were intruding.

  Nick looked genuinely sorry. “We believe there’s a hex at work. Something that functions on a time-delay. I’m sorry to have to press you for information now, but—”

  “Of course,” Rogers drew in a sharp breath. “Any of us could be next. I understand. But, Shaina... May I see—?”