by Noel Cash
“What are you working on?”
“Nothing,” I lied, then revised it. “There’s something strange going on at Mythic Path.”
“We’ve interviewed everyone,” Brady said, an edge to his voice.
“As police, not as a member of a touchy-feely class. Three of them I don’t trust, including the owner. I’m going back Monday and dig deeper.” I wrote my name in the dust on a small table. “Sir, I need access to M.I.C.U.’s files.”
“I’ll have . . . hell, Kix can’t do it because she can’t be seen at Myth. I’ll have someone turn it on for you by the end of the day. Use your old login and password. They’ll shoot you an email when it’s ready. What else are you working on?”
I told him about the tobacco scent Kix remembered.
“Keep on that track, Rory, your nose hasn’t let us down yet. Keep me posted.”
We exchanged a few more words, then disconnected.
I stood, physically wiped out from moving furniture, and mentally confused about the newest killing.
Were they connected or had the killer made a mistake with the first Becky Turner? How had he known the two victims had the same name? Was Kix an innocent bystander or involved more than we suspected?
You’re overthinking this.
If not me, who?
“Rory?” My mother’s voice floated through the door.
“Coming.” I tore my gaze from the cobweb collection in one of the corners.
Ma waited in the empty dining room, worry etched on her face. “What’s happened? Is it bad news?”
I took one of her hands in mine. “Yes, it is. I don’t want you to hear this on television. I’m afraid another woman has died.”
“Oh, Rory.” Her eyes widened. “Not dear little Kix?”
I shook my head. “No. Come, sit down, there are things you need to know.”
I led her into the living room and sat next to her on the sofa. Using the barest details, I told her the story of the double murders and Kix’s involvement.
“I don’t want you to worry,” I said, knowing she’d chew the subject like a dog with a new bone.
She had shrunken into herself, but she took a deep breath and nodded. “You know I can’t not worry, but I’ll try. For your sake. And hers. What can I do? Should I talk to her or will the killer triangulate her position from the signal like they do on those detective shows?”
I patted her hand, noting age spots and the translucency of her skin. “I don’t think he can do that, but I’ll talk to her about getting a burner phone.”
“A what?” Her brows knitted together.
“A prepaid phone that isn’t tied to an individual or address. It can’t be traced to a specific person. You’ve seen them before at the stores.”
She nodded. “Oh. Yes. I’ve never heard that name before.”
“I’ll ask her to call you, but don’t ask questions about where she is or what she’s doing, okay? No one needs to know until we find the man who did this.”
Except for me. I need to know where she is, how she is.
“You’ll find him, won’t you?” Ma asked.
“We’ll find him.” Both Hugh Burrowes and Max Brady had promised me access to M.I.C.U. files. By knowing what they looked at, I could search in the opposite direction.
“Are you going to be all right? Are you visiting Da this morning?” Her fragility worried me, especially now that I’d added another worry to her plate.
“Oh, yes, I have to. I’ve so much to tell him.”
The media would report all the gristly details, make up lies, implicate Kix, and try to track her down.
I shook my head to clear it. “Don’t believe anything you see or read, Ma, or Da, either. If you have a question, come to me.”
“Of course. You’ll have all the answers.”
Her blind faith continued to amaze me. “I’ll do what I can. Is there anything else you need before I leave?”
Her bottom lip trembled and she glanced into the other room, laid bare except for dust bunnies and floor stains. “Oh, Rory, the dining room looks so empty. This isn’t a house anymore.”
I hugged her, aware of her fine bones. “It will be once Da returns.”
Was the house too much for them to maintain? The road of recovery from hip surgery wasn’t smooth. Had the time arrived to look into alternatives? The thought churned my stomach.
I swallowed and released her. “I’ll check in later, okay?”
She nodded. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
I left, responsibility weighing on me. Had I exchanged the duty I had to Kix and the victims for my duty as a son? Which one took precedence?
Chapter Seventeen
Gambling on the chance the killer lived in the neighborhood, I drove to The Leaf to Ash Tobacco Shoppe in the Harbor Row district.
Few tobacconists exist anymore, but West Haven’s unique myth population, especially the dwarves and goblins, kept the trade alive. Plus, the newer generation had turned to vaping, pipes, and hand-rolled cigars and cigarettes. It probably didn’t hurt business when the recreational marijuana law passed.
I parked in back and walked around the red brick building to the glass and wire-mesh front door. A politically incorrect, six-foot wooden Indian stood next to a grapevine that climbed to the roof.
The rich, earthy, warm smell of myriad tobaccos hit me the moment I opened the door. Bitter, blonde, and flavored pipe, including cherry and vanilla. The sweet, liqueur gorgeousness of snuff. The richness of hand-rolled cigars, the tobacco-impregnated papers lining cigarette cases. It smelled like an English gentlemen’s club. I stood and inhaled and dreamed I’d reached nirvana.
“May I help you, sir?”
I opened my eyes, unaware I’d shut them.
The speaker looked like a paid assassin. Dressed all in black, his dark hair impeccable, his ebony eyes like a predator. I judged him to be in his fifties. He didn’t move, but I could feel the tightness of coiled muscles ready to spring into action. A blast of his personal fragrance strode toward me, intoxicating, thick, nuanced in vanilla, chocolate, and deep woods. The blends of the tobaccos with which he worked had seeped into his pores over the decades.
I shook free of the mesmerizing spell he’d cast.
A wizard.
I didn’t see many outside of Myth, Inc.
“Rory Harper,” I said, my feet moving of their own volition, as if on a conveyor belt, as if he commanded them.
“Dimitri Romanoff,” he said with an incline of his elegant head.
Russian. His ancestry explained much of his power.
We faced each other across a glass display case, rows of cigars, familiar and foreign, locked behind doors and tobacco tins and pouches lining the walls behind him. Exotic aromas of tobacco drifted, cascading through the air. The bergamot scent of Earl Grey. Cinnamon and port wine. Oak moss and leather. Again, I thought of Victorian gentlemen gathered around a mid-winter fireplace.
“You are elf,” he said, scrutinizing me, his eyes shards of black obsidian. “And other. Human. Troll. Vampire.”
I nodded, amazed he’d chosen human as second when most myth would not have noticed. Then again, most humans cannot differentiate myth races from human. We all look alike to them. Poor, blind humans.
“I’m hybrid.” I took pride in the mixture, unlike some who campaigned for unsullied blood.
“And a non-smoker. At least, for now.” His gaze locked on mine, pulling me into his power. My will swung around him in an ever-tightening orbit, destined for its inevitable collision.
“I smoked a long time ago.” I’d quit in solidarity with Da. He’d returned to the habit, but I’d broken free.
Break free now. This man is dangerous.
I held out my right hand, palm down, my fingers twitching in a warding spell.
Romanoff noticed, and his gaze snapped from me. “My apologies,” he said with a bow of his head. “I did not realize you are so receptive.”
A crackle split t
he air as the current between us died. He’d dialed back his power from eleven to zero in less than a second. The tightness in my chest eased, and my eyesight cleared, no longer focused on him alone.
Had he held Kix and the Beckys with that gaze? Is he the killer? The theory would explain Kix’s recollection of the smell of tobacco.
I didn’t operate on assumptions.
Romanoff inclined his head again. “How may I help you, Mr. Harper?”
“Rory.” I stuck out my hand.
Damn. He’d caught me in his web once more. Or I’d thrown myself into it.
Our hands touched, but I’d had a split-second to throw up a barrier.
He took care not to meet my eyes, ratcheting back his power another notch.
He released me, the lingering pull like the tide sucking away from the beach.
“I’m looking for a gift for my stepfather.” The lie rolled off my tongue as if gliding on oil. “He rolls his own cigarettes, and I’d like to give him a variety of tobaccos for his birthday.”
“What does he use now?” In a blink, Romanoff switched from wizard to businessman.
“Blue Monsoon,” I said, remembering a brand I’d found on a quick internet search.
Distaste flashed across his face. “Ah, very popular,” he said, recovering.
“But not unique. I thought something full-bodied, maybe European. He doesn’t like flavored tobacco.” Thinking of Eddie Renart, I hoped to ease into mentioning any Balkan blends Romanoff might offer.
“Magma Venom,” the tobacconist said with a slight smile. “It has a robust and smoky aroma, with a full, leather, peaty taste.” He reached to his right and brought down a 50gm black tin. On its lid, a red cobra rose out of boiling lava. He opened it like a sommelier decanting a vintage wine.
I hadn’t prepared for the strong aroma and sneezed.
“Perhaps too potent,” he said and offered another tin. “Divine Transcendence. Dry, buttery, woody, moderately spicy Turkish. The cavendish cut burley provides a little nuttiness, toast, and earth in the background.”
I nodded because his persuasive power didn’t allow me to compartmentalize my Schnoz, as I normally did.
“Anything Balkan?” I struggled to bring my senses under control.
His eyes lit, the first sign of anything non-menacing. “Forged Blacksmith. The bold burleys are toasty, nutty sweet, woody with a slight dry bitterness and a hint of spice.”
The scent came close to what Eddie Renart had offered me the night before. With some experimentation, I narrowed the selections to five blends and put them aside for Kix to smell later.
Each choice chipped away at Romanoff’s haughtiness, lowering him to a likeableness that seemed more normal. Or, he’d cast a spell to catch me in his web.
He stood on a ladder and reached for a yellow tin. “My gift to you,” he said, placing it in my palm. “Golden Coale. It will take you to mystic places and not bring you home until it’s damn good and ready.”
Did he reference the tobacco or himself? I’d received strong wizard vibes from him, but maybe I’d misinterpreted?
“I don’t smoke anymore.” I attempted to hand the tin back to him.
“Not yet. You will. It will call you home like a siren.” He added it to the pile of purchases.
I didn’t argue for fear he’d voodoo me into accepting. “Fine. Thank you.”
I’d achieved my goal, collecting samples for Kix to identify and possibly tie to Eddie Renart. Thrown in for good measure, I’d added another suspect to the list, one who might devour me rather than kill me.
Romanoff followed me to the door, his personality one-hundred-and-eighty degrees from when I’d entered. Then, he’d struck me as a cool assassin. Now, I saw him as a voracious viper.
“Thank you,” I said, oddly wanting to prolong my departure.
Escape while you can.
I shook myself but not his preferred hand and turned my back.
On the sidewalk, the crisp February air pushed against the spell, or spells, he’d woven. They didn’t dissipate until I’d driven out of Harbor Row.
What just happened?
I’d escaped with my life. Had the Beckys failed to do so? Was Dimitri Romanoff their killer? How had Kix avoided their fate?
As if to answer the last question, my phone rang. Regardless of the illegality of driving while talking on a cell phone, I picked it up to read the display.
Kix.
Chapter Eighteen
I pulled into the nearest parking lot, a pharmacy, crowded on a Saturday morning. “Kix?”
“Rory?” Her voice shook, and I pinched the bridge of my considerable nose because I wasn’t with her.
“Where are you? How are you?” I asked.
“I’m in a place with high security. Don’t worry.”
Yeah, like that will happen.
“Of course I’m worried. Brady told me what happened. Kix, I’m sorry you were dragged into this.”
“Dragged. Pulled. Jerked. I wish I could say kicking and screaming, fighting back in some way, but the brute didn’t give me an opportunity. I hate this, Rory. I hate it so much. It makes me so damn angry. How does a random stranger dare to hurt me, kill Becky—” Her voice shook, and she paused. “Then . . . use my gun to kill someone? I’m so angry I could spit nails.”
I smiled at the image but couldn’t relay my amusement across the airwaves.
“Hey, I know what he did is upsetting, but don’t blame yourself.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Her voice rose. “I won’t give him the satisfaction of ruining my life. He isn’t worth it.”
“Okay then,” I said to calm her down from not being upset.
She blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me, Kix.”
“Yes, I do. This morning started out terrible and turned worse. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Tell me something funny so I can forget.”
I turned on the front window defroster so I could see out. “I think a wizard just hit on me.”
“I hate it when I miss all the fun. Tell me the details.”
Embellishing the story to make her relax and laugh, I relayed my encounter with Dimitri Romanoff.
“Yeah, he had the hots for you,” Kix said when I’d finished, her tone improved. “So, did you make a date with him?”
I watched a young couple, his arm around her shoulders, exit the pharmacy. A pang of jealousy shot through me. “I didn’t. Waiting for better things, I guess.”
“She’s out there, Rory.”
Remembering she’d called me a good friend at our last meeting, I chose not to pursue that branch of our conversation. She might downgrade me to pal, and I didn’t know if my heart could take it.
“How are you? How is your bruise? Are you still dizzy? Did the crickets singing in your ears disappear?” I babbled to fill the dead air.
Dear Gods, I had to find a way to talk with her face-to-face.
“The dizziness comes and goes. The bruise is an interesting shade of green. It’s hard to coordinate my wardrobe. Should I match the color or contrast against it? So many decisions when you’re hiding from a serial killer.”
She tried to joke, but I knew her seclusion rubbed against her independence.
“Make a fashion statement,” I said then remembered she had to keep a low profile.
The inside air took longer to heat with the car in idle, and I fiddled with the controls. The silence grew, an anomaly as she and I either fought or hummed like an electric line.
“I have six tobacco tins for you to sample,” I blurted. “To smell, not smoke, I mean. May I bring them to you?”
Silence.
“Kix?”
“You have too much to do. Give them to Captain Brady,” she said, crushing my suggestion like a Sherman tank. “He’s checking on me several times a day. Against my wishes, but I have to be sensible, right?”
“Right.” I closed my eyes for a moment and digested her rejection. When would I ever learn? “I’ll track him down and give him the samples. I have to report my interaction with Romanoff, anyway. He’s a potential suspect.”
I would be honest with him, breaking my tradition with M.I.C.U. I didn’t regret keeping the truth from the previous head, Lt. Mike Mickelson, or Penny’s husband, Jack Trades, both less than competent.
Thoughts of Penny stirred up a patient guilt. I cleared my throat.
“Are you able to help me investigate?”
“Give me a day or two to knock out this headache, and I can start,” she said. “It hasn’t been a week since he hit me on the head. As mad as I am and as eager to catch the killer, I shouldn’t push the try-too-hard-and-you’ll-make-it-worse rules.”
“Who are you kidding, Kix? Isn’t your motto, ‘Rules are meant to be broken’?” A few popped into my mind. Dating my ex-boss’s sister. Satisfying my curiosity on whether pixies danced naked in the moonlight. Violating her personal space, again and again, with mutual satisfaction.
I blew on my freezing fingers, thinking of several places to warm them.
Don’t go there, Harper.
“Do you remember anything more about Monday night? Did the hypnotist or the witch’s memory spell work?” Making normal conversation traveled down the same tracks as an oncoming train. Every time I detoured, someone threw a switch and routed me back to disaster.
“The hypnotist was a bust,” she admitted. “I was bored out of my mind. Some people aren’t affected, and I’m one of them.”
“What about the witch? Captain Brady seemed confident she could work her magic, pardon the pun.”
“We’ll have to wait until Monday or later. The best one around lives outside of Duluth and the area is snowed in. No myth is strong enough to teleport any more, so we have to wait until the storm subsides and the snowplows get to her.”
“That’s too bad.” I’d hoped that either session would free Kix’s memory and reveal clues we could use to catch the killer.
“We’ll see,” she said. “We’ll see. In the meantime, short of joining you and pounding the pavement, which I can’t do because I’m as weak as a kitten, what can I do to help? I know you have a few tricks up your sleeve.”