Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society

by R. D. Hunter

  There was no way I could raise my power. Even the simplest workings required a measure of concentration, and all my energy was focused on not suffering a debilitating brain injury.

  After what seemed like hours but couldn’t have been longer than a minute or two, Trisha’s satisfied voice rang out again.

  “Get her up. I want her to see this.” Things 1 and 2 complied, gripping me under both my arms and hauling me to my feet to see what fresh hell their leader had in store for me.

  Mistake. They thought all the fight was gone out of me, that I was too hurt or too scared to resist. Time to show them the error of their ways.

  As soon as my feet were back under me, I hooked one of them behind Thing 1’s leg and threw my weight into her. Caught off balance and with no way to right herself, she crashed to the pavement in an awkward heap.

  Thing 2 issued a violent curse and pulled back, probably to punch me. I didn’t give her the chance. I whirled on her, pulling her close and smashing my elbow into her face. There was a loud crunching sound as the cartilage in her nose shattered and she dropped to the ground, shrieking in agony.

  “Get her! Get her!” Trisha screamed, right before Thing 1 wrapped herself around my knees and pulled me back down to the rough concrete. But this time, I didn’t have to worry about protecting myself. I could go on the offensive.

  Thing 1 started crawling her way up, probably looking to pin my arms to the ground or something since her partner was incapacitated. I squirmed a bit and waited until she was within range, then brought my elbow down on her collar bone with as much force as I could muster. A sharp CRACK sounded off like a gun shot, and Thing 1 rolled off me, wet tears already forming as she cried in agony. It must have hurt like hell but I had very little in the way of sympathy at that moment.

  I scrambled to my feet and faced Trisha, ignoring the stabs of pain in my back and chest. My head swam slightly, but I pushed it aside and brought my hands up in a defensive posture, ready to counter any punch or jab she threw my way. But, I realized, her attack had been underway from the beginning. I’d just been too preoccupied with getting my ass kicked to see it

  In her left hand, she held a tiny, felt doll; a poppet. With her right, she was wrapping strands of hair around its midsection in a figure 8 pattern while chanting under her breath. To my horror, I realized that it was my hair she was using. She must have plucked it right before I kicked her away.

  You might know a poppet by its other name; a voodoo doll. It’s a small doll, usually made from cloth or wood, that has been magically linked to a person through something of theirs; usually hair, fingernail trimmings, or some of their blood. Gross, huh?

  Basically, the doll acts like a miniature version of them. Whatever happens to one, happens to the other. And, just like most magical workings, it can be used for good or for evil. Not so long ago, it was used to perform surgery on patients without actually having to perform surgery on the patient. Other uses included wrapping the doll in cloth to keep it protected or combing its hair to prevent it from falling out. Judging by the cruel expression on Trisha’s face as I felt the spell begin to coalesce around her, I was pretty sure she wasn’t going to use it to give me a makeover.

  I launched myself at her in a panic and drove my palm into her nose. The nose is a great target because it breaks easily, bleeds profusely and causes the eyes to water uncontrollably. If you were expecting me to conjure a fireball or summon lightening from the heavens, sorry to disappoint. Those kinds of feats require an enormous amount of energy and preparation, and I’m shit at elemental magic anyways.

  Trisha screamed and clamped her hands over her face, dropping the poppet as she fell backwards. I managed to catch it on the way down and Those kinds of feats rip the strands of my hair away. The completed spell swirled around us at it attempted to take hold. But with no tag lock to connect the doll, it had no purpose. Time to give it one. I hated to see a good bit of magic go to waste.

  My hand was sticky where I’d just given Trisha a new nose job, so I wiped a bit of the red stuff on the doll and let the spell do its thing. There was a sense of something clicking into place, and Trisha stopped rocking back and forth to look up at me with tear-stained eyes.

  “You…you didn’t,” she stammered. Her voice sounded nasally through her swollen nostrils.

  “Let’s find out.” I thumped the doll in the forehead and watched with some pleasure and Trisha rocked back from the force of the blow and laid flat on the pavement, staring dazedly up at the sky. “Appears so.”

  “But you…you can’t…” I wasn’t interested in hearing Trish the Bitch tell me what I couldn’t do. I was hurting all over, especially in my right arm where the second blow had connected at the onset of the fight.

  “I just did,” I growled. “And if I ever see you or your cronies at the Candle again, or hear about you causing trouble, I’ll drop this poppet in a bowl of battery acid and watch it dissolve into a greasy puddle. Understand?”

  I wouldn’t really have done it…probably. But I would have shaved all it’s hair off and left it sitting out in the sun for a few hours. Being bald and sun burnt would be no picnic, and Trisha was smart enough to know it.

  She nodded glumly, tears still leaking from her eyes. Behind me, the Things were still on the ground, not looking to get up anytime soon. I jerked my head in their direction.

  “Help your friends, then get the hell out of here.”

  I watched as she struggled to her feet and went over to the Things. Instead of helping them up, her idea of assistance was to kick and curse at them until they both shambled to their feet, glaring daggers at me and her alike. Then they hobbled into a white SUV and pealed out of the parking lot, causing me to breathe a sigh of relief, then wince as more pain shot up my side.

  I could have arrested them, I supposed. Charged them with assault and battery on a law enforcement officer. But this was a Fringe matter, and we handle our own whenever possible. Besides, I had enough paperwork to do already and Nichole Basset’s killer wasn’t going to sit around and wait while I was padding my arrest count.

  Of course, that’s not to say that I didn’t memorize their license tag on the way out and wouldn’t pass it down to some of my buddies in traffic enforcement. Not all battles had to be fought fairly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The funny thing about being in a fight is that most of the pain doesn’t hit until the fight is over. Don’t get me wrong; being punched or kicked by someone who knows what they’re doing hurts like hell, but in the heat of the moment, with all the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the pain takes a back seat to everything else. Of course, it comes back later with a vengeance, as I found out shortly after I made it back to my car.

  I was sitting in the driver’s seat, recovering my breath, when the full scope of punishment I’d endured began to show itself. My whole body felt like one big bruise. The Thing sisters, while not overly concerned with the quality of their blows, had more than made up for it in quantity.

  My chest felt like I was breathing in liquid fire every time I took a breath and the slightest movement made me want to sink down into a bathtub filled with Ben Gay. By far, though, the greatest pain I felt was in my right elbow that had been whacked at the onset of the fight. It was swelling nicely and made a little clicking sound whenever I straightened it. That wasn’t good.

  I checked myself in the mirror and instantly felt worse. I looked like I’d been in a plane crash. My hair hung around my face in limp threads. Crusts of blood and dirt covered every inch of bare skin, and I had an ugly-looking shiner developing under my right eye. My clothing was torn and disheveled, but underneath it all I was grinning like an idiot.

  I’d won. I’d come out on top. It had been three against one and I’d used my physical skills and magical ability to gain the upper hand and send them running for Mama. I was flushed with excitement, even as my body aches relayed the price I’d paid.

  Well, nothing to be done for it now. I still had a j
ob to do and a promise to Nichole Barret to keep.

  I used some handiwipes I kept in the center console to clean my face and hands off as much as possible. The alcohol disinfectant served to highlight every scrape and open wound it encountered. I ran a brush through my snarled hair, cleaning out specks of dirt, grime and blood, then threw on a spare jacket I had in the back and zipped it up.

  There, no one would ever guess I was just in a fight to the death against a triad of witches. Just another day in the plain, ole’ vanilla world. I threw the Trisha doll in the glove box to keep it safe. It might have bumped it’s head a bit during the process, but I didn’t dwell too hard on it. Shit happens.

  According to the address Jack handed me, Beth lived in a modest apartment complex just a few miles from the Candle. I found it without too much difficulty and glanced at the mailboxes on the way in. Hers read B. Tiller. Good to know. I went up two flights of her stairs to her door and knocked politely. A second later, it opened about two inches with the chain still attached inside.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” a blond girl asked. Her yellow hair was pulled back into matching pigtails and she wore more makeup than was strictly healthy, especially around the eyes. An over-large T-shirt that read “GREEDO SHOT FIRST. FIGHT ME!” hung down to her knees and she was looking at me with the kind of suspicion that only a member of the Fringe can manage when talking to an outsider. I should probably nip that in the bud.

  I focused inwardly and raised my power to the surface. It still came easily, but not all in one rush as before when I passed Chang’s test. Gramps’ tea must have been wearing off.

  Beth’s eyes grew wide as she sensed the change in the air, then they narrowed again as they regarded me with a new wariness. This was to be expected and I didn’t take it personally. For all she knew, I was there to put a spell on her or draft her into my league of evil. The fact that I still looked like I’d gone ten rounds in the octagon with the reigning female champ probably didn’t help matters.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I’m Detective Graves with the Special Criminal Cases,” I said, careful not to give me full name. She was a witch too, after all. “Do you know a Nichole Barret?”

  “What about her?” She expertly dodged the question, neither admitting nor denying anything. I sighed. We were never going to get anywhere like this.

  “Look, Mrs. tiller, I need to talk to you and I need to do it without you ready to blow a hole in me with the gun you’re undoubtedly holding on the other side of this door. Can we call a truce?” A look of shock passed over the young girl’s face, then a flash of embarrassment as she lowered the firearm that had been pointing at me, just out of sight. I’d been guessing, but it panned out.

  “Sorry,” she said. “A girl can’t be too careful.” I gingerly fingered the developing shiner under my eye.

  “Don’t I know it. May I come in?” I could see uncertainty fighting behind her doe eyes.

  “Just a sec.” She closed the door and I heard muffled movements behind it. A second later, it opened again, this time all the way, and Beth stood there holding a granola bar and cup of milk. “I offer Hospitium.” I took the offered food and drink.

  “Your offer is well received.” I took a bite of the granola and drank the milk. It was cold and refreshing. The ceremony over, Beth opened her door wider to allow me entrance.

  Hospitium is an ancient (and I mean ancient) custom, by which a host offers their protection to a potential guest by giving them food or drink from their table. It can’t be poisoned or tainted in any way and, when the guest takes it into their body, they enter into a contract under the sight of the gods. Neither the host nor guest could offer any harm or inconvenience the other to any notable extent. There were a lot of other laws and bylaws covered under it, but those were the main ones that counted.

  It had largely fallen out of style over the past couple of hundred years, but it was still widely used amongst the Fringe. Failure to honor the laws of Hospitium meant that you were shunned by the entire society until you made proper amends. Then, there was also the wrath of the gods to consider. They hadn’t bothered to make their presence known in any overt way for the past millennia, but spitting in the eye of a celestial being is not a good idea. You never know when one might be paying attention.

  Beth’s apartment was a textbook lesson in contrast. There was no dirt or garbage anywhere to be seen, but the entire living room was taken up by a sophisticated computer system, order forms and sketch pads, and a large machine in the center that I knew to be a T-shirt printing press. A tall stack of blank T-shirts and sweat shirts stood in the corner, waiting for their turn to be stamped. Several completed piles were on the couch and recliner, which she cleared off hastily and invited me to sit.

  “What is your relationship with Nichole Barret?” I asked once I’d sat. The sofa was surprisingly comfy.

  “Sorry, but why do you want to know?” she answered uncertainly. Although we were bound under a guest/host relationship, that didn’t mean she was under any compulsion to answer my questions, and vice versa. I could have been here to gather information on her friends to use against them later. Unfortunately, convincing her otherwise without a lengthy series of questions and answers meant I had to drop a truth bomb on her.

  I looked at her carefully and said in a very quiet voice, “Because I’m trying to find out who killed her.” Any lingering suspicion I had that Beth was involved in Nichole Barret’s death went right out the window as I watched the young girl’s reaction.

  Horror dawned on her face and tears welled up in her eyes before streaming down her cheeks. She raised both hands to cover her nose and mouth and I could almost feel the tragic grief emanating from her as her shoulders began to shake from violent sobs. Looking around, I saw a box of tissue on the table and handed her several.

  “Beth, I’m sorry for your loss, but I really need you to answer a few questions for me now, okay?” I said as tenderly as possible. Beth sobbed a few more times, then wiped her eyes and took some deep breaths. Finally, she nodded.

  “I’ll answer what I can,” she said shakily.

  “How did you know Nichole?”

  “We did spells together sometimes; me, her and a couple other girls.”

  “Like a coven?” She shook her head.

  “Nothing so grand. We don’t have any formal hierarchy or anything like that. We’re more of a social club, really. Hell, the first Friday of every month is bowling night. I doubt we’re even on the Gilded Moon’s radar.”

  The Coven of the Gilded Moon was Atlanta’s main coven and oversaw any and all major workings inside their territory. We never got along, mainly because they think I’m undisciplined and disrespectful and I think they’re a bunch of overblown egomaniacs who care more about how their hair looks than the quality of their craft. They’d largely left me alone the past couple of years because of my focus on my career coupled with my reluctance to use magic, for which I was very grateful.

  “Who else is in this social club?” I asked. Beth shook her head again.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.” I started to protest, but she held up a hand to stop me. “These girls have lives. Some have families who have no idea they’re witches. I won’t endanger that by revealing their identities. I swear to you, none of us had anything to do with Nichole’s death. We loved her. She was the best of us in a lot of ways, certainly the most powerful. She always had time to help when one of us ran across a spell we couldn’t do or just needed someone to talk to.”

  “She sounds like a really great person.”

  “She is…or, she was. God, I can’t believe this. I just talked to her last night.” A fresh round of grief shook the girl’s shoulders, and I waited a few moments before continuing.

  “Did she say anything strange or act out of the ordinary in any way lately?”

  “There was something,” Beth said after a pause. “A week or so ago, Nichole asked to borrow some vetiver and white s
age. Her stock was low. Of course, I agreed, and when I asked what she was doing she said she’d had an uneasy feeling the past week or so, like something was watching her.” I raised my eyebrows.

  “And this didn’t trigger any alarms for you?” Beth shrugged uncomfortably.

  “Not really. A couple weeks ago we all went ghost hunting at the Oakland Cemetery. Got some crazy poltergeist activity. Nichole just thought one of the spirits had attached itself to her, so she was going to do a cleansing. She didn’t need my help for that and I never heard anything about it again, so I assumed it’d worked.”

  “Was there anyone in Nichole’s personal life who might have wished her harm?” I asked, going for my next point. “Any bitter exes, jilted lovers, or pissed off clients?” Beth shook her head again, to my growing frustration. I felt like I was grasping for straws in a typhoon.

  I sat back and thought for a second. According to Beth, who my gut told me was as honest and sincere as a person could be, Nichole Barret was a well-liked witch, not affiliated with the Gilded Moon or any other large coven. She had no enemies in her personal or public life to speak of, and no one with a possible motive for murder. The only thing she’d done outside of her routine in the past week was a cleansing ritual to dispel some negative energy around her, possibly as a result of a ghost hunt.

  But what if it wasn’t? Magical practitioners usually have a highly developed sense of awareness. It’s what allows us to access the power within ourselves and other objects to be used in our spell work. Some even develop this talent further and become sensitive mediums or viewers.

  If Nichole Barret had been as talented as Beth let on, the negativity she was picking up might have been from a physical person, rather than a ghost or spirit. If that was the case, a cleansing might have watered down whatever malicious intent they had, but it almost certainly wasn’t enough to banish it completely. It would require several witches working in concert to influence a person’s will after they’d already set off down a chosen path.