Chapter Twenty-Three
I had the coffee brewing. Devin and Malinda would be up any time. Of course, it was a Sunday. If they wanted to sleep in, I wasn't going to wake them early. Kevin, the funeral director, was supposed to e-mail us that bulletin. But again, it was a Sunday. I doubted he'd be in his office. We might have to wait another day if Kevin remembered to do it at all.
As the coffee pot gurgled, depositing its last drop into the waiting pot, I sat on my couch and turned on my laptop. No response to my e-mail I sent the detective. It was just as well. I opened my browser and typed in "Heather Morgan" to the search bar.
Apparently, the resurrected soul-collector shared a namesake with a country music artist. I'd have to scroll a few pages to find anything about the woman if there was any record of her online at all. As an older woman, I suspected, there wouldn't be as much as if she was younger. All I'd found the night before was her obituary. Of course, then, I'd added the word "obituary" to the search query. This time, I figured, I'd try a broader search. Maybe she had some social media profiles. Some records, somewhere, that might be accompanied by a photograph.
The second page of search results was still populated by articles and blogs about the country singer. I clicked over to the next page. More of the same. Eventually, I found Heather Morgan's obit again. There were a few references to various people with the same name on different sites, but nothing turned up any helpful information.
I heard some shuffling back in the bedroom. I closed my laptop as Devin stumbled out into the kitchen area and, like a zombie seeking brains, went directly for the coffee pot.
"Good morning, sunshine," I said.
Devin yawned. "Morning, babe. Find anything on your computer?"
I shook my head. "Couldn't find anyone in the club who remotely resembled a woman in her eighties. Google wasn't much help, either. I'm guessing we won't even get that e-mail from Kevin today, either, since it's a Sunday."
Devin took a sip from his cup. "Probably not. But let me check my phone."
Devin grabbed his phone off the counter where he had it charging. He tapped at the screen a few times. "Well, how about that."
"What?" I asked.
"He sent it over already. I'm opening the file."
I stood up from the couch and walked over toward Devin. His brow was furrowed.
"What is it?" I asked. "Is there a picture?"
Devin nodded. "And I've seen this woman before. But her name wasn't Heather Morgan."
Devin handed me the phone. An old woman in black-and-white, her hair in a perm, stared back at me. I had to admit, though, that something about her was familiar. Had I seen her before and didn't realize it? "How did you know her?
"She was a member of the church where the Order meets. Remember, when you first met me, that group of quilters?"
I chuckled. "Couldn't forget. That's when I first met Mina, too."
"I knew her as Mary. She wasn't a part of the Order, so far as I knew. Maybe she was. But she used to knit and crochet with those women who were members of the Order. Only she died a couple weeks before we met."
"But her name wasn't Heather Morgan?" I asked.
Devin shook his head. "Mary Mattina, I believe. She knew about the Order, of course. Couldn't be a part of that group without sharing in the gossip. She was especially close to my dad."
I bit my lip. "That would explain, perhaps, why he chose her. Why he buried the grimoire with her."
Devin nodded. "Still doesn't answer how she might be connected to the deaths at the club."
I cocked my head. "Something about this woman is familiar. Can you zoom in on the image at all?"
Devin grabbed the phone, made some kind of gesture with two fingers on the screen, and enlarged the image. He handed it to me.
It was more apparent, now, why I recognized her. "She had a birthmark at the corner of her eye."
Devin nodded. "I suppose she did. But you know. Older folks have a lot of age spots. It wasn't something I really paid much attention to."
I shook my head. "She's more wrinkled here, so it's not as clear to make out. But it's vaguely shaped like the state of Florida. Rose, one of the new singers, had a beauty mark like that."
"Rose? But she's what, maybe twenty-five at most? I didn't get a good look at her. But she certainly wasn't even half the age of Mary or, I suppose, Heather Morgan."
"You said her name was Mary Mattina?" I asked.
"Right," Devin said. "Not sure why she'd have a different name."
"I'm not sure how I know this. Probably from my former life. But Mattina is the Italian word for morning. Morgan, though spelled a little, differently, is the German word for the same."
"Connected to the Order of the Morning Dawn, perhaps?"
I shrugged. "Maybe. And are you sure her name was Mary? What if it was Rosemary?"
Devin shrugged. "It's possible, I suppose."
"Heather is also a kind of flower. And I remember on Rose's resume, her last name was Madina. Not Mattina, but it's close enough. I can't help but think it's connected. What if Rosemary Mattina is Rose Madina. And, follow my reasoning here, what if that wasn't her real name at all? Rather, something she derived based on her true name as something of an alias with the Order?"
Devin nodded. "A lot of hunters in the Order use pseudonyms. My dad didn't, too proud and self-assured, I suppose. But it's not uncommon. Since hunters tend to have a lot of enemies, a lot of them use different aliases with the Order to protect their families."
"It's only a theory. But given the fact she has a beauty mark like the Rose I auditioned at the club, and since Rose was there all three nights in question, what if she's the same person?"
"But sixty years younger?" Devin asked.
I sighed. "I don't know how to explain that. But we're talking about some kind of resurrection spell, right?"
Devin pressed his lips together. "Biblically speaking, the resurrection of the body is supposed to be our hope at the end of days, when our bodies are fully restored. What if the resurrected body is restored to its prime rather than the age at the time of one's death?"
"Yes!" I said, a bit more enthusiastically than I should have, considering we were identifying a murderer after all. "I suppose that makes sense. Why would anyone want to be raised into a new body for eternity that was old and decrepit? And Rose struck me as an old soul. She sang opera, old arias. Even her resume was odd. Again, mostly operas. And she sang the national anthem at a preseason Chiefs game."
Devin shrugged. "Who knows how many years ago that might have been."
I sighed, "I gave those resumes to the detective. They were the only copies I had. But Katie, the other singer, said they recently met but quickly bonded. She acted like they were best friends. Rose sort of discounted that idea, almost like she found Katie a bit annoying."
Devin nodded. "Perhaps she was using Katie to get closer to you? Maybe she knew Katie had plans to audition, and she buddied up with her to learn more, to join her on the audition?"
I shook my head. "We have to find Katie. If that's what happened, and Rose was only using Katie to give her some kind of cover to get into the club, I'm worried Katie might not be safe. Especially now that the club is closed and neither of them will be getting in any time soon."
"And if Rose really is collecting souls, and if she needs them to stay alive, she'll have to eat, pardon the expression, eventually."
"Katie might be easier to find," I said, sliding Devin's phone back to him. "You're better at this stuff. Can you see if you can find a Katie Troyer somewhere local?"
Devin tapped at his screen a few times. "She's on Facebook. Want me to send her a message?"
I nodded. "See if you can get an address. So we can meet up with her. I can only pray she's safe. That Rose hasn't gotten to her already."
"So you found the killer?" Malinda asked. I didn't know how long she'd been standing behind me. I turned around. Her hair was all over the place. I knew better than to comment on it.
Hell, my bedhead could be just as bad, if not worse.
"I haven't found her yet," I said, shaking my head. "But I'm pretty sure we know who she is."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Katie responded to Devin's message in a matter of minutes. Of course, she did. Young people these days and their phones. It's just a matter of time before the things are hooked right into the brain, and escaping the devices becomes impossible.
It was a relief. I half-expected we wouldn't ever get a reply. That we were too late.
Devin got her address. Malinda insisted on going along with us. Not a bad idea, I supposed, to keep her nearby. So long as Rose, aka Heather Morgan, was on the prowl, we couldn't be too safe. Especially since I suspected that, for whatever reason, she was fixated on me. Now that the club was closed, if she was sucking souls from people in my orbit, I certainly wasn't inclined to leave Malinda home alone.
"I call shotgun!" Malinda shouted as we approached Devin's car.
I shook my head. "No, you don't."
"But I just did!"
"I'm six feet tall. You're barely over five. You're sitting in the back."
"You're such a heightist!"
I snorted. "I don't think that's a thing."
"Actually, Nicky," Devin said. "I think it is."
"What? I've never heard of that."
"Then Google it!" Malinda insisted, tossing me her phone.
I typed "heightism" into the search bar. Sure enough. It was a thing. And it actually made some sense. "Do we really need a word for every kind of possible bias or discrimination?"
Devin shrugged. "Labeling something is the first step in identifying it."
"Why can't we just say that most people suck, at some unconscious level? This article says even babies start to associate height with power and authority. It's not like babies are bigots."
"It's not about bigotry," Devin said. "There's a difference. Bigots embrace their discrimination and articulate their hate. But you're right. We all have unconscious biases. Labeling it helps us recognize it so we can consciously try to overcome our biases."
"As Cain would say about dreams," I added, "it's good to bring the subconscious mind into the domain of the conscious. So we can gain an understanding of ourselves and others." "Exactly," Devin said. "You heightist, you."
Malinda giggled.
"Shut up. I wasn't being heightist. I was being practical. If anyone's heightist, it's whoever designed the backseat of this car. They must hate tall people."
"The other way around," Malinda said. "They knew that 'the man,' the system dominated by tall people, would force shorties, like me, into the back. Put us in our place."
"Damn the man!" Devin shouted, shaking his fist.
I smiled. "Of course, it's not like this is the only car available on the market."
"Right!" Malinda said. "Devin, I mean Dad, if you bought a minivan, there'd be plenty of space for Nicky in the back. And I could ride shotgun!"
"Wait," Devin said. "So now it's my fault?"
"Heightist!" I shouted, shaking my fist back at Devin, mimicking the gesture he made before.
"That's not fair!" Devin protested. "I bought this car when I was a single dude. I didn't care about the back seat! I wasn't thinking about whether tall people could fit back there. I was thinking about gas mileage."
Malinda giggled. "Let me guess, you don't see height. Isn't that sort of like saying you don't see color? Trying to make yourself sound like you have no bias as a way of discounting the history of discrimination against oppressed persons?"
Devin rolled his eyes. "I don't think extra tall people have been historically oppressed the same way as racial minorities. It's different."
"You don't think the system, from the height of doorways to the backseats of cars, doesn't implicitly favor people of average height?"
"Yeah," Devin said. "I think systems generally favor the majority. It wouldn't make sense to made doorways eight feet tall just in case Andre the Giant happens to come to visit."
"What about ceiling fans?" I asked. "A passive-aggressive trap instituted by the man in a conspiracy to behead the tall!"
"Or placing the most desirable products at the supermarket at the eye height of average people," Malinda said. "They're trying to starve short people! Or relegate us to generic brands!"
Devin rolled his eyes. "I think it's a pretty small percentage of the population who can't reach the Raisin Bran and have to settle for the toasted flakes with raisins."
I snorted. "You know. I hear that a lot. Why worry about trans rights? It's only, what, like one percent of the population?"
Devin sighed. "That's not what I'm saying, Nicky."
"But you have to ask, what's the threshold? How many people have to live within a system that doesn't accept them before reaching a high enough percentage of the demographic that warrants accommodation? I don't know about super tall or super short people, but whatever percentage of the population happens to be trans doesn't change my experience in the world."
Devin nodded. "I know that. But you're the one always trying to discount people's hate. Like when that funeral director was obviously looking at you with disdain, and you thought he was into you."
I sighed. "Look, I know he wasn't into me like that. But why should I let someone who doesn't understand my lifestyle rent space in my head?"
"You shouldn't," Malinda said. "Doesn't mean he was right to look at you like that."
"Of course it wasn't," I said. "But Devin, in your bible, doesn't it say to kill with kindness? Like, if people hate you, be extra nice, and it will be like tossing burning coals on their heads?"
Devin nodded. "In not so many words."
"I think it's wise. There will always be people who harbor biases and discriminations. I can choose to react with anger if I want. But what good will that do? I go for the burning coals approach. I gave Kevin tickets to my show. In my mind, if I believe love should conquer all, I have to allow love to overcome my anger. So, I choose to challenge people who don't accept me by offering them an invitation into my world, opening them up to new experiences that might confound their assumptions."
"But you still hunt vampires, Nicky."
I nodded. "But I also have some vampire friends. Like Hailey and Mercy. Even Alice, which I never thought would be possible."
"And my mom," Devin said, sighing.
"It's not what someone is that defines them. At the end of the day, everyone, even vampires, can choose to either embrace the worst of one's nature or fight against it."
"That might be true concerning vampires," Devin said. "But what about a soul collector, like Heather Morgan? If her ongoing existence depends on killing people, consuming their souls... I think we have to be willing to admit there are evils in the world that can't be loved into change. Sometimes evil has to be resisted."
"Like the Order of the Morning Dawn," Malinda added.
I nodded. "I agree. But even then, is Heather to blame personally for what the grimoire did to her? Is Mina not still a person who could change? Heather isn't the one who is evil. Neither is Mina. It's the grimoire. It's the Order and its warped ideology. You saw it last night with Nicholas. We saw it happen with Alice. Redemption is possible."
Devin pulled his car up next to what I assume was Katie's house. "But there isn't some ideology, some motivating speech, that you can give Heather Morgan to change what she is, what she's doing."
I nodded. "Which is why the answer isn't in defeating Heather Morgan. The answer, as I was told in my dream, is to destroy the grimoire."
"Even then," Devin said. "Heather isn't without blame. She could recognize the truth and help us destroy the grimoire. Even if it means her life, as she currently experiences it, would end."
I nodded. "You're right. But asking someone to give up their life for what is right, for the sake of others. That takes character. It takes a love that transcends one's very nature."
"I think you're right about the grimoire," Devin said.
Devin took his keys out of the ignition. "That, too. But I mean that the grimoire was not written by the Nazarene. His blood was shed, at least according to the Bible, for the sake of love. He gave up his life for others. What this grimoire does, warping the power in his blood, is the opposite. It creates creatures, soul collectors, who steal life."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Katie lived in a small house in Raytown—a suburb between Kansas City, where I lived, and Lee's Summit, where my club was located. It was an old house, circa the nineteen seventies. Some of the brown paint on the trim was peeling. The concrete steps leading to her front door were crooked and cracked.
I pressed the doorbell. It ding-donged. About five seconds later, Katie opened the door.
"Nicky!" Katie said. "Good to see you!"
I nodded and glanced past her. The house looked like it had been decorated circa the nineteen seventies. Pea-green couch. Doilies all over the place. Even some vases and pictures on the wall didn't fit Katie's youthfulness and spunky style. "You, too. I suppose you heard Nicky's is closed for now, right?
"Saw it on your Facebook page. Not surprised, really. I mean, how freaky is that? Two people two nights in a row?"
"Are you doing well? And have you talked to Rose?"
Katie bit her lip. "That's the thing. I don't know. I mean, I thought we were like besties. But I can't get hold of her."
"How well do you really know her, Katie?"
Katie shrugged as her eyes shifted back and forth. "Pretty well. We met at another audition. She thought, you know, maybe we could try out together at Nicky's. Since my music is more your style. Thought it was strange. You know, since her music isn't exactly what you'd expect in a club like yours."
No Shift, Sherlock: A Vampire Hunter Urban Fantasy Mystery (The Legend of Nyx Book 3) Page 13