by R. D. Hunter
He stepped in front of me as I walked in, a 260 lb. wall of muscle, and held out a wilted flower.
“For me?” I gushed. “Chang, you shouldn’t have. Should we just skip the games and go straight to the happily-ever-after?” I flashed him my best smile, which failed to induce even the most minute expression on his rigid face.
“Make it bloom,” he said stoically. I didn’t take it personally. The President of the free world could have walked in right then and he wouldn’t have gotten past Chang without proving he was a part of the Fringe. That was his job, his function, and he took it beyond seriously. Good for him.
I took the flower in my hand and raised my power to the surface. It came easily, willingly; there was no sense of reluctance like what I’d felt at Nichole Barret’s house.
Magic only requires two things to work; a power source and a focus. The power can come from your own finite resources, which grow stronger and more developed over time, or from charged items like crystals, athames, and wands. The foci, used to harness the energy and twist it to do your bidding, can be anything from an incantation or a ritual, to roots and herbs for potions. It all depends on what the practitioner is more comfortable with.
For this, though, hardly any energy was required, so the focus didn’t have to be any stronger than my will. I took the little shriveled up daisy in one hand, and breathed a light trickle of energy into it. Almost instantly, the dirty-white petals perked up and the stem became more rigid in my grasp. Then a second stem sprouted from the first and another daisy bloomed into existence, as vibrant as the first. This happened three more times before the growth finally trickled to a halt. When it did, I was holding a mini-bouquet of beautiful, garden-fresh flowers that smelled heavenly. Apparently, the energy pathways Gramps had opened for the ritual were still in effect, which meant I had to be more careful than usual when doing magic.
Chang glanced at my creation and arched an eyebrow, causing me to shrug.
“I’ve been working out,” I said sheepishly. He grunted and took the flowers back, before unlocking and opening the double doors that led to the interior of the Lit Candle.
Inside, I was treated to the usual concrete floors, the smell of incense and the soft glow of the many lanterns that hung suspended from the giant hooks on the wall. A fire marshal would have had a field day, if there were any brave enough to come here. All the drinks were served in pewter mugs, which served to enforce the only other rule the Candle had, besides no violence indoors; no reflective surfaces allowed.
Scrying is the art of gazing into a mirror or pool and seeing other places, people or even the past or future. But it operated by opening a mini-gateway to the spirit world. Usually, the spirits didn’t take much interest in our plane of existence. But if a door were to be opened here, with this much ambient magic in the air, it was entirely possible that one come through just to see what all the fuss was about. And in this magically charged environment, it could be a real nuisance.
A cold shiver of fear traced its way up my spine as I remembered how powerful Nichole Barret’s ghost had been just from the magic in her own home.
Then, an entirely new feeling took over as I saw my ex, Jack Dobbs, diligently going over receipts behind the bar. Jack had been the first and only serious relationship of my adult life. We met shortly after I graduated the academy, at a festival of Beltane. A large fire had been kindled in an open field, and a dozen handfasting ceremonies had already concluded. Music, drink and food were in wild abundance, and more intimate were well underway in the flickering shadows.
By tradition, new and old couples alike would leap over the fire, either signifying or renewing their devotion to one another. Gramps jumped over it by himself three times, much to the delight of the crowd.
Jack and I connected about halfway through the night. He had just moved here from Australia, looking for a fresh start. His accent, combined with his angular features and tousled brown hair, made him look like a young Mel Gibson at the height of his sex appeal. Talking led to kissing. Kissing led to…other things. And, just before sunup, we stepped over the fire ourselves, which, by now, was just a bed of glowing embers.
For a time, it looked as though we might actually make it. He was a funny, smart and attentive boyfriend. But, gradually, it became all too apparent that we wanted different things at this stage in our lives. I was focused mainly on my career, picking up extra shifts where I could and going to any and all training that was offered. He wanted other things; not necessarily a wife, but a partner who was as devoted to him as he was to her. I couldn’t give that to him, so we amicably parted ways with no hard feelings
It hurt…a lot. I did my share of crying and sulking, but after a few days a very good friend reminded me that this was my choice. And I either needed to reverse it and tell Jack I was wrong, or get over it and get on with my life. I chose the latter.
Jack soon went on to work at the Lit Candle, using his expert potion making skills and aura gazing abilities to craft exactly the drink you wanted before you even knew you wanted it. His charm and attention to detail soon enabled him to work his way up to manager, and that was the man I was looking at now.
He glanced up as I came in and, for a bare instant, I was back in that field, dancing in the fire light as we celebrated new life and new beginnings.
“Hello there,” he said in his thick Aussie accent as I approached the bar, “haven’t seen you in a while. How ya been?”
“Pretty good. Keeping busy.”
“You were always good at that.” Was it my imagination or did I hear a hint of regret in his voice? “Heard you got moved up that the high-profile cases. Congratulations.”
“How did you…?”
“Your grandpa,” he said, beginning to make me a drink even though I hadn’t asked for one. “He comes in here about two or three times a week, although sometimes he looks just as surprised to be here as we are to see him. Can’t resist talking about his granddaughter, the Great Detective, though. To hear him tell it, you’ve saved the world half a dozen times since being promoted.” I rolled my eyes.
“Then he’s crossed the line from exaggeration to outright lying. Most of what I’ve been doing is clerical duties and grunt work. Nothing ‘world saving’ about it.”
“Well, that stuff’s important to. Here, on the house for an old friend.” He set down a mug full of a bright, blue swirling liquid. As I watched, snow white bubbles burst to the top, making the mug turn frosty in my hand.
I took a sip. It was sweet, but not cloying, and went down smooth as silk. The bubbles continued to detonate all the way down, spreading a delicious cool feeling all over my body. I closed my eyes and sighed in contentment.
That is, until a brackish voice behind me said, “When’s the last time you gave us free drinks, Jack? Aren’t we old friends?” I watched my ex-flame’s face go rigid as he looked at the speaker
“No, Patricia. We’re not,” he said in a deadpan voice. I turned and saw a younger woman in her early twenties, decked out in black leather and with enough piercings in her face to give a metal detector a heart attack. Her hair was cropped short and a myriad of artificial colors. Her blackened lips were pulled up in a tight sneer, and behind her were two other women who obviously took their fashion cues from her.
“It’s just ‘Trisha’. No need to be all formal,” she said, sliding up and leaning on the bar before looking over at me like I’d just taken a shit on the stool. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Mel,” I said simply. A witch’s name given from her own lips can be a powerful thing if used in the wrong way. Apparently, Trisha knew this too because she gave me a nasty smile and proceeded to look me up and down with barely disguised scorn.
“Well, Mel,” she said my name like it was bitter on the tongue, “Jack and I have some important matters to discuss. So, why don’t you run along and find a quiet place to finish that drink. When you’re done, you can leave the same way you came in.” Oh, bitch.
�
��There’s nothing for us to discuss, Patricia,” Jack said before I could come back with an appropriately debilitating insult. “I told you, I’m not going out with you. I appreciate your business, and you are always a welcome customer, but that’s all you’ll ever be to me.”
Nice shutdown. Final, but not cruel. No room for interpretation. At least, that was what I thought.
Trisha gave a little giggle, which somehow sounded crueler than her words had been up to this point. She leaned over a bit more, showing more cleavage than was decent in a strip club.
“Silly boy,” she purred. “I didn’t say come on a date with me. I said, come on a date with us. As in, all of us.” Behind her, the other two girls giggled, played with their brightly colored hair and did their best to look sensual and desirable. I probably should have intervened right then, but I was having way too much fun watching this play out.
“That’s not going to happen, Patricia,” Jack sighed. He looked like he wanted to crawl under a rock and hide.
“Are you sure? I promise, one night with us and you’ll never even dream of another woman.” She slowly ran her tongue around her lips, which caused me to sputter rudely into my drink as I choked off a laugh.
She turned back towards me, the lustful vixen-routine dead in the water. Now she was all malice. Pissed at him for turning her down. Pissed at me for laughing about it, and I was the easier target. Or so she thought.
“Got something to say, Bitch?” she spat. The minions behind her took appropriately terrifying poses, crossing their arms and glaring at me dangerously. “You might have managed enough magic to get in here, but we all know that musclebound twit out front has more tattoos than brain cells, so don’t pat yourself on the back too hard. Us, we’re the real deal. Screw with us and we’ll curse you in a dozen different ways that will make your mama cry when she sees you.”
“First of all,” I said, “that’s just adorable. But see, this whole high school bully thing you’ve got going on, it’s been done. No one’s impressed by it. Everyone here has dealt with darker powers than you before our seventh birthday. And while we’re on the subject, you might want to be careful what kind of curses you fling around, because those things have a habit of returning three times as strong as when you conjured them. And if you’re thinking there’s no way you can suffer more than you already have because Daddy never told you he loved you, think again. So, be a good little girl and go watch The Craft for the hundredth time because, quite frankly, you’re giving us real witches a bad name.” I smiled sweetly at her and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack bite his lip to keep from laughing.
Trisha turned red, then purple. The other two members of her bitch-witch squad stood there with their mouths hanging open at seeing their cruel and fearless leader orally filleted and served on a plate. The air grew warmer as she began raising her power, probably intending to curse me to oblivion
“You…you filthy, fucking cu…”
“CHANG!” Jack yelled, cutting her off in mid-witty repartee. The huge Asian was there in half a second, folding his impressive arms across his massive chest and glowering as if it were the end of the world.
Trisha’s tirade cut off with a little squeak and she and her minions shrank back from his enormous presence. Despite her bluster and delusion of invincibility, she could see that Chang was no one to be trifled with. That didn’t stop me from having a bit of fun, though.
“Hey, Trisha,” I whispered loud enough for the whole place to hear, “tell Chang that bit about the tattoos and brain cells. Go ahead. He’ll laugh. He has a great sense of humor.” I could hear her breaths coming, sharp and deep, as she glared at me.
“I think it’s time you ladies head out,” Jack said, ever the voice of reason. “Come back when you’re feeling a little more pleasant.”
To their credit, they didn’t argue. None of them dared to even utter a syllable with Chang looming like the right hand of doom.
With Trisha in the lead, they pulled themselves up with as much dignity as they could muster, nodded politely to everyone but me, and went out the side door. Chang resumed his post after looking around to make sure there were no other potential troublemakers in the place. There weren’t. The few customers who were here actually seemed pleased to see Trisha and her posse gone.
“I’d forgotten how sharp that tongue of yours can be,” Jack said, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Well, I aim to please,” I said, then forced myself to get serious. “It’s great to see you, Jack, but I’m actually here on business.” I pulled out a picture of Nichole Barret I’d lifted from her file. It showed her alive and smiling, the picture of health. “Do you recognize this woman? She ever come in here?” I asked, showing it to him.
All the charm and humor vanished from his face, to be replaced by a look of guarded suspicion. I didn’t take it personally. Despite our past history, the Fringe took their privacy extremely seriously. For some of us, it was the only way we could survive. If it got out that the manager of the Lit Candle was giving away a person’s comings and goings to the police of all things, this place would empty out faster than a sinking ship.
“Why? What did she do?” he asked in a neutral tone.
“Died, horribly. I’m trying to find out more about her but there’s precious little to go on. I need to talk to someone who knew her, someone she was close to.” I saw the shock register on Jack’s face.
“Oh, wow. That’s terrible. Yeah, I mean, she came in here some. Quiet lass, I never caught her name. Hung around with Beth and some of her lot. Good people.”
“Beth who?”
He looked troubled. A witch’s name wasn’t something to be given out lightly, even to someone you trusted. It didn’t have as much kick, magically speaking, as when you gave out your own, but there was still that element of familiarity that could be used by someone looking to cause harm. Which raised the question, did he not trust me anymore?
I put that on the back burner for later.
“Look, I’ll…I’ll give you her address. You can go talk with her. If there’s anyone who knew that girl and what was going on in her life, it’s Beth.” He pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled on it for a few seconds before handing it to me. I recognized an apartment complex not too far from here.
Wait a second; how did Jack have her address? I arched a quizzical eyebrow at him, but he returned the look with about as much expression as a rock, daring me to ask the question. I didn’t. The nature of their relationship, past or present, was their own business. It was Beth’s relationship to Nichole Barret that concerned me.
“Thanks, Jack,” I said, folding the piece of paper and tucking it in my coat pocket. “I owe you one.” He shook his head.
“Just find out who killed her. That’ll be more than enough for me. And don’t be a stranger, ya hear? Visit more often than a blue moon on the solstice.” I patted his hand in a friendly gesture, letting my fingers linger a moment before pulling away.
“I will, I promise. Talk to you soon.”
My head and my heart were all over the place as I left the Candle and headed to my car. My head was going over the connection between this Beth person and Nichole. If there was a coven involved, could this be a power-struggle kind of thing? Inner fighting among a coven wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, but it seldom led to murder. Dead bodies attracted too much attention, something the Fringe always tried to avoid.
My heart, on the other hand, was still pounding from the brief contact I’d had with Jack. Part of me wished to the stars we’d never called things off, while another part was thankful for where my career was and where it was headed.
I was a smorgasbord of conflict, which is why I didn’t sense the attack coming until I was halfway across the parking lot. And by then, it was far too late.
CHAPTER SIX
Something hard and blunt hit me right behind my right ear. Lights flashed in my head and my knees buckled, even as my hand instinctively went to my s
ervice weapon. A second blow right above my right elbow landed home, though, sending numb tingles down into my fingers and I knew I’d never be able to clear the holster and fire with any sort of accuracy for at least a few minutes.
A hand wrapped itself in my hair and I instinctively kicked back, feeling a flush of satisfaction as it connected with someone’s midsection and I heard a feminine grunt of pain.
“Get the bitch,” a familiar voice said. It wasn’t hard to place. Trisha had waited around for her revenge. I was an idiot to think I could mouth off to her like I did and not expect some payback. I just didn’t think she’d be so brazen as to do it in the parking lot of the Lit Candle. Granted, there was nothing forbidding violence outside of the establishment, but it was generally a good idea not to be throwing fists or spells within spitting distance of it.
Her faithful cohorts, Thing 1 and Thing 2, stepped up and began kicking and stomping on me. There was nothing I could do except curl up in a ball and protect my head, so that’s what I did. If either of them had a clue as to what they were doing, I would have been in trouble. Fortunately, for me, the only real experience these gals had at fighting was watching Chuck Norris action flicks on the T.V.
Half the time, their blows glanced off my body or missed entirely. When their kicks did land, most of the time they were too weak to do anything other than jostle me around.
Still, the couple that hit home really hurt. About halfway through the beat down, Thing 1’s foot connected solidly with my solar plexus, causing all the air to leave me in a rush and my lungs to actively resist the call to take in more oxygen. A second later, Thing 2’s shoe came down on my spine, sending ribbons of pain coursing down my legs. All in all, I’d had better days.