Trifles and Folly 2

by Gail Z. Martin

  The image of a dark-skinned woman with sharp, handsome features began to materialize. A red and blue shawl was draped across her head and shoulders, and in each hand, she clutched a sharp, double-sided dagger. Lucinda and Caliel chanted louder, and the image of the Loa grew more solid. As we watched, Erzulie Dantor took one slow step and then another toward Alia. She moved unharmed through my fire and Rowan’s rippling power as if it was nothing to her. We halted our attack, holding our breath, watching to see what the Loa would do.

  Alia had stopped laughing, and her eyes grew wide as Erzulie Dantor stood in front of her. Then a smug smile twisted Alia’s mouth, and the power protecting her flared. The Loa stretched out her arms, and then brought both daggers down in streaks of silver, slashing through Alia’s protections. Alia gasped, stunned and weakened. The Loa’s image winked out, and both Rowan and I willed our power toward the damaged witch.

  Fire from my walking stick consumed her as the force of Rowan’s magic ripped Alia’s body apart. She burned like paper until there was nothing left. Just like that, it was over.

  We all stood frozen in our places, staring at the two piles of ash, as if we couldn’t quite believe it was over. Lucinda and Caliel’s chant had changed from petition to praise, thanking the Loas for their assistance. I felt lightheaded and sank into a chair at the head of the table. Bo’s ghost padded over to me. I reached over to pat him, although now that he wasn’t fighting, his image was insubstantial. His tail thumped, and then he was gone.

  Rowan looked dangerously pale, but she waved off my concern. Sorren was as battered and bloodied as if he had been in a bar fight, but I could see his wounds already beginning to heal as he helped Teag to his feet. Father Anne’s blisters had faded, and she stood with hands upraised and face upturned, giving thanks for our deliverance. Her boline knife lay amid Alia’s ashes. I had enough presence of mind to walk over and retrieve it, cleaning it on the ruined tablecloth, before handing it back to her.

  Teag’s lip was split, one eye was swollen, and he had a nasty gash down one arm. “Anthony’s going to give me an earful about showing up like this,” he said ruefully. “He worries a lot.” I couldn’t help but smile at him as I thought of the greeting he’d get.

  “We’d better get out of here. Someone’s sure to have called the cops about the shots and noise,” I said, glancing worriedly toward the windows.

  “Relax,” Rowan said. “My coven has been supporting us from a distance. They dampened the noise and added a spell that distracts people so we wouldn’t get any unwanted interference.”

  Chuck holstered his gun and walked over to the pile of ash that had been Brevard, sorting through it with his foot and taking back the spent shells, whistling a tune. When he realized we were all staring at him, he stopped and gave us a look.

  “What? Can’t a guy be in a good mood? Beats hell out spending the holiday with my sister and my boring brother-in-law.”

  I was taking in the wreck we had made of the dining room. There was no way Mrs. Morrissey would be able to host her post-Thanksgiving fundraiser here tomorrow night. I glanced toward Rowan. “Can you do something to put this place back together?”

  She gave me a wilting look. “I’m a witch, not Mary Poppins. Call a contractor.”

  “It’s all right, Cassidy,” Sorren said, managing a chuckle even after all we had been through. “I’ll make a few adjustments after the rest of you leave, and we’ll blame it on faulty wiring. Another check should smooth things over and pay for repairs. Mrs. Morrissey can host the meal at the Archive—she’s had larger dinners there before.”

  I was staring at the ruined feast on the table. “Did Alia really manage to poison the food, even with Mrs. Teller and Niella watching it closely?”

  Rowan walked over to the table and ran her hands along the contours of the turkey an inch or so above it so as not to come in contact. “It’s tainted,” she said. “Not something I know how to do with magic, but I’m guessing Alia had made a specialty out of it.”

  Much of the china was broken. The remnants of the feast were cold and congealed. It looked terribly sad. I took a step, and my foot bumped against something. When I looked down, I saw the gravy boat that had started it all. Without thinking, I stooped to pick it up and realized that the resonance had changed.

  “It’s gone,” I said, cradling the bowl in my hands. “The memories, the energy. It’s not there anymore. Maybe the family that owned this is finally at peace.”

  “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starving,” Father Anne said, slipping the knife back into a scabbard on her belt.

  “We can’t go out for dinner looking like this,” Chuck said. “And besides, it’s Thanksgiving. Everything’s closed.”

  I grinned. “I had a feeling we might be hungry, so I bought one of those Thanksgiving package dinners from the gourmet market. Turkey, side dishes, rolls, and a pecan pie. Plenty for everyone. We can all go over to my place. Anthony and Maggie should be there by now, getting things ready—and setting out the first aid kit. Come as you are.”

  And that’s exactly what we did.

  Part III

  Redcap

  Redcap

  I ran through White Point Gardens as fast as I could. Behind me, teeth snapped, and feet crunched on gravel. The redcap was gaining on me. I turned and caught a glimpse of the creature that was hunting me, and let loose with a blast of cold white force from the athame in my right hand.

  The energy bolt sizzled through the air, but the redcap was gone. They’re devilishly hard to hit.

  Mocking laughter came from the shadows. The redcap was enjoying his game. He was toying with me, letting me get ahead of him, saving his speed for the kill. Legend says it’s impossible to outrun a redcap. I had hoped to draw him off, away from the homes that bordered on the garden, where there were fewer prying eyes and a lesser chance of collateral damage. I’d offered myself as bait to draw the redcap toward the waterfront. Now, I dodged around the statues and war memorial cannons, trying to out outwit a bloodthirsty pixie with a taste for human flesh.

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t the strangest way I had ever spent a Friday night.

  The redcap was chattering in excitement, stoked about getting a good feast—me. I was predictably less enthusiastic about the possibility and determined to make sure he stayed hungry. The back corner of the park was coming up, where it was a darker thanks to a burned-out street lamp. Just a few more feet.

  The redcap gave a feral cry and sprang at me, snapping his sharp teeth on my jeans and barely missing my skin. I wheeled and gave him a good kick in the face, knocking him a few feet away. The redcap howled in anger and jumped to his feet; eyes fixed on me as he sized up his prey.

  A larger shape moved fast enough to blur, and in the next instant, Sorren tackled the redcap. Sorren hung on, using his own immortal strength to restrain the redcap, who despite being two feet tall and built like a stringy old man was as tough as a tiger.

  “Now!” Sorren cried out.

  Teag darted from behind a monument. I heard the redcap scream as Teag pulled the creature’s head back and swung his blade, neatly severing the vicious pixie’s head. The redcap’s body went limp in Sorren’s grip, but the mouth kept snapping even as the head fell to the ground, and its beady dark eyes glared at us balefully until the light finally left them.

  Sorren dropped the headless body and stood up, wiping the worst of the pixie’s blood from his shirt. Teag pulled a garbage bag from his backpack and scooped up the head and body to dispose of elsewhere.

  “Third damn redcap in a week,” Sorren muttered.

  Just another weekend here in the Holy City.

  I’m Cassidy Kincaide, and I own Trifles and Folly, an antique and curio shop in historic, haunted Charleston, South Carolina. Obviously, we’re not the average second-hand shop. I’m a psychometric, meaning I can read the history, magic, and emotional resonance of objects by touch. Teag Logan is my assistant store manager. He’s got Weaver magic, wh
ich lets him weave spells into cloth or weave electronic threads of data into information—making him a wicked-good hacker. Sorren is my business partner, and he’s also a nearly six hundred-year-old vampire who founded Trifles and Folly back in the 1600s. We work for the Alliance, a secret coalition of mortals and immortals who keep the world safe from dangerous magical or supernatural objects. When we succeed, no one notices. When we fail, lots of people die.

  The redcap wasn’t the worst monster we had fought, not by a long shot. But redcaps were still dangerous, as the sudden jump in the number of missing people in Charleston attested. The murderous pixie we had battled tonight had friends out there, and they would kill again unless we did something to stop them.

  Just in case someone noticed us running around, we left the park quickly and met up back at the store, gathering in the small break room. Teag handed off the bag with the dead redcap to Sorren. “You’ll take care of this one, like the others?” he asked.

  Sorren nodded. “I’ll handle it.” Sorren’s blond hair was cut short, playing up his high cheekbones. He looks like he’s in his mid-twenties, although he’s centuries older.

  “Where are all the redcaps coming from?” Teag asked as he checked my calf to make sure the pixie hadn’t broken the skin. Lucky for me, I had been just fast enough to escape those razor-sharp teeth. I poured us both a glass of sweet tea, and we toasted the success of tonight’s hunt.

  “I don’t know, but I’m never going to look at Santa’s elves with their little red hats the same way again,” I said, collapsing into a chair. Now that the danger was over, I felt a little weak in the knees.

  It was a week until Christmas, and Charleston was beset with ugly little evil pixies. There was nothing jolly about it. “I thought redcaps were only in England and Scotland,” I said, and took a sip of my tea. There are few things in life—even counting murderous elves—that can’t be made a little better with a good glass of sweet tea.

  Sorren raised an eyebrow. “Next you’ll be telling me that vampires are only in Transylvania.” Before he was turned, Sorren was the best jewel thief in Belgium.

  “Plenty of people who settled in Charleston came from the British Isles,” Teag replied. “As we’ve seen, when people relocate, they bring their gods, ghosts, and monsters with them.”

  Sorren frowned. “Maybe,” he said. “But creatures like redcaps can also be summoned if magic is strong enough.”

  “You don’t think the redcaps are working by themselves?”

  “Unlikely, since they haven’t historically made Charleston their home. They prefer abandoned castles,” Sorren replied. “After all these years, I doubt they suddenly decided to relocate. Supernatural beings tend to be creatures of habit.”

  “What would someone get out of bringing redcaps here?” I asked, and took another gulp of the sweet, strong tea. “There doesn’t appear to be any connection among the people who’ve gone missing.” The police might still be looking for missing people, but I was certain they wouldn’t be found. Redcaps ate their prey.

  “The only reasons I can think of are to sow fear, or get revenge,” Teag replied. “As far as the police are concerned, the disappearances are random.” Teag’s magic makes him one hell of a hacker, and that includes an ability to get past protections on law enforcement sites. Since the police wouldn’t believe us if we tried to tell them what was really going on, we couldn’t count on cooperation, so we handled problems ourselves.

  “I agree,” Sorren said. “And unfortunately, that casts a wide net.”

  “And your sources haven’t heard anything?” I set my empty glass aside. Sorren is well-connected in the supernatural community in Charleston and around the world. He has contacts everywhere, and they feed each other information like a paranormal intelligence network.

  He shook his head. “Nothing, at least not that I’ve heard. I’ll make some more inquiries.” He hefted the bag with the dead redcap. “I’d better get this taken care of. Keep me updated on what you find. I have a feeling we haven’t seen the worst of this yet.”

  “Don’t you love the holiday decorations?” Drea Andrews asked as we stood in line at Honeysuckle Café for a morning latte. “I think they’re prettier than ever this year.” Drea is a good friend of mine, and she’s also the owner of Andrews Carriage Rides, a tour company that is very popular with the hordes of tourists who vacation in Charleston.

  “I’ve been so busy; I’m ashamed to say I haven’t paid a lot of attention,” I admitted.

  Drea grinned. “Don’t feel bad—it’s part of my job to notice that kind of thing. But I agree with the tourists—I think the beautification committee outdid themselves, especially on the Market area. Magnolia garlands, sweetgrass stars, sea shells, and those long-needle pine wreaths—it’s all fantastic.” No one outdoes Drea on enthusiasm.

  “How’s Valerie?” I asked. Valerie works for Drea, and she’s one of the top tour guides.

  Drea’s light-hearted mood suddenly sobered. “You didn’t hear?” When I shook my head, Drea continued. “Her cousin went missing last week. Valerie is absolutely beside herself, and she asked for a few days off to help with the search.”

  My heart sank. “Where was her cousin before she disappeared?”

  “Here in Charleston. That’s what makes the whole thing so strange,” Drea replied as we inched up toward the counter to order our coffee. “It’s not like we’re New York or New Orleans. People don’t just up and disappear here.”

  That might have been true before the redcaps showed up, but unless Sorren, Teag, and I put an end to the killer pixies, Charleston might end up being the missing persons capital of the U.S. “Were there any leads?” I asked.

  Drea shook her head. “Beth—that’s Valerie’s cousin—went out for a run one night and didn’t come back. Her suitcases and clothing—and her car—are still at Valerie’s place. She didn’t take her wallet or keys, or her credit cards and ID. Valerie swears her cousin seemed happy, no big romantic break-up, nothing like that. The police took Valerie’s report, but they haven’t turned up anything yet.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. Odds were good that Beth had been one of the redcap’s victims. “I’ll keep an eye out,” I replied. “Are there flyers?”

  Drea reached into her bag and pulled out a poster with a picture of a young woman on it. “I know Valerie would be grateful if you’d put this up in Trifles and Folly.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Anything to help.” Although I was almost certain Beth was beyond our help, at this point.

  My mood was gloomy as I walked back to the store, still brooding about Beth. I had to force myself to pay attention to the decorations Drea had mentioned. Charleston does holiday décor right; after all, that’s part of what tourists come to see. We err on the side of classy and elegant, which goes well with Charleston’s beautiful architecture. I tried to push visions of redcaps out of my mind as I walked, noticing the beautiful wreaths on doors and gates, the garlands hung around doorways and the glimpses of lit and decorated trees in the windows of houses and stores.

  What would bring a bunch of redcaps to Charleston? Why now—and why here?

  I swung through the City Market, taking the long way back to the shop. The City Market is in the heart of the historic district, with three mostly open-air permanent pavilions filled with artists, bakers, jewelry makers, and gifts of all kinds. It’s always a treat to walk through, better than ever with Christmas right around the corner. Just smelling the pine wreaths and the scent of cinnamon lifted my spirits.

  “Cassidy! I was hoping you would come by.” Mrs. Teller and her daughter, Niella, weave some of the best sweetgrass baskets in Charleston. They have a spot on one end of the main pavilion, where they can set out a display of their beautiful work for shoppers.

  “I hope your baskets are selling like hotcakes for the holidays,” I replied. Mrs. Teller sat in a lawn chair, fingers flying as she wove the intricate baskets. She made it look easy, but her skill came from a lifetime of prac
tice. She has magic of her own as well. Mrs. Teller and Niella are root women, Hoodoo practitioners skilled in old African magic to bless, curse, and protect. They knew all about what we really did at Trifles and Folly.

  “They are, child. They are,” Mrs. Teller replied. “Been some problems around town I hear,” she said, dropping her voice as Niella moved to where she could make sure no one interrupted or overheard.

  I was certain she meant the redcaps. “What are you hearing?”

  Mrs. Teller shook her head. “I’ve sold more gris-gris bags and jackballs than baskets in the last few days, that’s for certain.” Those were protective talismans, which meant word had gotten around about the killer pixies. “People are scared. Folks are goin’ missing. You know anything ‘bout that?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “Sorren called the things ‘redcaps.’ We don’t know where they came from or why they’re here, but they’re dangerous.”

  “Sure are,” Mrs. Teller agreed. “And there’s something else you need to know. Got a new vendor in the Market, and there’s something wrong about his merchandise, sure as I’m born.”

  I felt a chill go down my back. “What do you mean, wrong?” I asked.

  Mrs. Teller slid me a look like I was dim. “Wrong,” she repeated, with enough emphasis for me to know she meant in a supernatural way.

  “I grabbed a flyer,” Niella said. “Had a feeling you’d want to see it.” She handed me a piece of paper with an advertisement for “Hearth Hobs,” appealingly homely little statues.

  “Put a Hearth Hob beside your fireplace to welcome Father Christmas,” the flyer said. “Or set one on the windowsill to watch for flying reindeer. Perfect for your holiday decorating!”

  “Just don’t feed them after midnight,” I muttered. Something about the adorably ugly figures gave me the willies.

  “Did you see these Hearth Hobs yourselves?” I asked.

  Niella shook her head. “We’ve been too busy to leave our spot. But a man came through early this morning passing out flyers, and I heard someone say the artist was going to sell out fast.”