by Morgan Brice
“You know this isn’t really proof,” Vic said, frowning. “You could have staged that yourself.”
“I didn’t.”
“Are you afraid?” Vic asked, watching his reaction.
“I’m a gay man in the South. I’m always afraid.”
Vic chuffed out a breath and ran a hand up the back of his neck. So many instincts and feelings warred with each other, and the intensity of those emotions caught him by surprise. He’d been called to hit-and-run murders, and when his mind supplied Simon’s lifeless body bloodied and broken in the roadway, a surge of rage bubbled up. How the hell can he be so casual about his own life turned to who the fuck would want to kill Simon?
“Tell me about the library program yesterday,” Vic said, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “What happened there?”
Simon frowned as if the change of topic surprised him. “More people came for the cookies than for the information, but that’s kind of the norm for a library talk. Sold a couple of books, chatted a little, and then I headed out.”
“Why was your personal cell phone number in a dead girl’s book?”
Simon looked confused, then as the meaning became clear, he gasped and went pale, reaching to steady himself against the counter. “Katya? Oh, god. What happened?”
“What did she tell you at the program?” Vic asked. He saw Simon’s distress, and part of him wanted to pull the other man into his arms and soothe his pain. But the cop in him needed answers.
Simon hesitated, and Vic guessed he didn’t want to break a confidence. “She’s past the point of caring if you tell her secret.”
Simon glared at him. “Do you have to be such a dick?” He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply. “She said that she could overhear people’s thoughts, and couldn’t tune it out. That she had bad dreams, about strangers turning up dead. I gave her one of my books that has some techniques for shielding, and my phone number if she needed help.”
“You just give your number out to total strangers?”
“Sometimes the risk pays off,” Simon replied, refusing to look away. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”
Ouch, Vic thought. Guess I deserved that.
“Did she call you?”
“No. What happened to her?”
Vic saw the pain in his eyes and had to break off the stare-down. “Forensics is still figuring the fine points, but she was stabbed to death.”
“She was a J-one,” Simon said. “Like the others the Slitter killed.”
“We didn’t release any details—”
“Oh, come on!” Simon interrupted. “Do you think people can’t figure it out for themselves? You think we don’t talk to each other? The summer workers are terrified. They know who’s been killed, they can connect the dots. You’ve got a serial killer targeting people who won’t be missed, who can’t fight back. Iryena. Now Katya. And all the others. So why are you here talking to me? You’ve already decided I’m useless.”
Vic heard the pain beneath the anger in Simon’s voice and winced internally. “I never said you were useless.”
“You didn’t have to. Walking out made that pretty clear.”
Was it possible that Simon felt the same kind of connection between the two of them that Vic did? That might explain why the argument had a weird subtext that didn’t seem to be about the case at all.
“Shit,” Vic said. “Look, I’m sorry about that. You just…hit a nerve. I shouldn’t have walked away like that. I’m sorry.”
Simon regarded him in silence. “Did you follow up on what the ghost told you?”
“We’ve been a little busy—”
“No, huh? So you didn’t believe it was real.”
Vic opened his mouth to argue and shut it again. Simon was right. If a living witness had passed along a tip, even one that seemed incoherent, he’d have run it down. “Fair enough,” Vic replied. Simon looked surprised.
“How about a truce?” Vic suggested, although his heart and his cock wanted far more. Gotta make peace if you’re ever gonna make out. “I’ll chase down Iryena’s lead. And you—need to take the threats seriously. No more running around unarmed and alone in the wee hours if you’ve got someone who wants you dead.”
“All right,” Simon replied after a moment. The tension between them felt like it should be crackling with electricity. Vic had heard comments about “fighting and fucking,” but he’d never really taken them seriously before. As much as he and Simon had just been at each other’s throats, damned if Vic’s cock hadn’t gotten hard. Simon stood braced for an argument, and Vic’s mind conjured up much better ways to work off all that tension, all of which involved getting naked and bending Simon over that counter—
“—protect the J-ones,” Simon said.
Vic pulled himself out of his thoughts. “We are trying,” he said, taking a careful tone so as not to destroy the fragile peace. “Hard to do when they won’t talk to us.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” Simon offered, looking as if he were waiting for Vic to mock the offer.
“You’d better,” Vic replied. “And the same goes for near-misses and horse heads.” He fully intended to keep an eye on Simon, and while he told himself it was just good procedure, Vic knew it was more.
7
Simon
The next day dawned gray and rainy, like Simon’s mood. Seeing Vic again had bothered him more than he wanted to admit, on more levels than he liked to think about. The way Vic had come barging down to the store to grill him rankled. At the same time, he’d caught glimpses of something else in Vic’s eyes that resonated with desires of his own he’d almost given up on.
“Shit,” he muttered, angry in equal measure with himself and with Vic. He couldn’t deny the physical attraction; even if his brain tried to lie, his cock had a mind of its own. The dark hair and dark eyes, those tats, the muscular arms—
“Nope. Not going there,” Simon grumbled, rearranging the displays and refreshing the stock to keep busy between customers. When his phone rang, he hated himself for the momentary hope it might be Vic and sighed when he recognized Tracey’s number from the coffee shop.
“Hey, babe. Talk to me,” he said, realizing that they hadn’t connected in a couple of days, which was unusual. “What’s up?”
“Had to make a trip back to Fort Mill,” Tracey said. “My aunt’s in the hospital. Turned out okay, but she gave us all a scare.”
“Wondered where you’d been. The Mizzenmast isn’t the same without you.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing,” she said, in a thick Lowcountry accent she could turn off and on as the situation required. “You’ll have to stop in. Got my braids re-done while I was home. Dyed the tips crimson.”
Simon smiled. His best friend’s love affair with hairstyles and colors knew no bounds. Tracey cycled through an endless variety of braids, cornrows, corkscrews, and other dos he could only think of as “sculptured.” His admiration had grown when she let on just how long it took to get the complex styles done. “Bet you look absolutely fabulous,” he replied.
“Nah, babe. You’re fabulous. I’m marvelous.” She paused. “So…dish. I hear there was a hot guy asking about you.”
Vic? Then Simon remembered Vic’s admission that he had gone looking for him after the ill-timed phone call that first day. “Um, yeah. It’s complicated.”
“Of course it is,” Tracey chuckled. “If it were simple, you’d have just had it hard and fast back behind the bar.”
Simon nearly choked on his coffee, and Tracey laughed. “Oh, I bet your face is as red as my tips right now,” she teased.
“Look, I’ll tell you the whole sad story,” Simon promised. “But not over the phone. Come over on your dinner break, and I’ll fill you in. Bring food. I’ll pay you back.”
“How could I resist an offer like that? I’ll be by around four-thirty,” she said and ended the call. Simon found himself looking forward to the visit. Maybe Tracey could make sense of his tangled fee
lings.
He went to the break room and poured another cup of coffee. At least the new machine seemed to be working right, a bright spot in an otherwise upsetting week. Back up front, he watched the rain sweep through and checked the forecast on his phone to assure himself that the storm would blow over and the afternoon would turn nice. He had two nearly full tours booked tonight, and no desire to have to refund for a weather cancellation.
Simon sipped the hot coffee and hoped it would wake him up. He’d stayed awake late last night trying to communicate with the ghosts of the Slitter’s victims, and Katya in particular, but no one answered his summons. That wasn’t unusual; being a medium didn’t guarantee the spirits were in the mood to talk. Katya might be too newly dead to manifest, and trauma victims were notoriously fickle about their interactions. He left the invitation and had to trust that when the spirits were ready, they would come to him.
At least he felt confident in his gift. As for Vic? Simon couldn’t get the obstinate cop out of his head, but he had no idea what to make of Vic’s reactions. Then again, maybe being a cop made it more difficult for Vic to figure out his own feelings. Last night, when Vic confronted him in the shop, he’d ranged from anger to concern, exasperation to possessiveness, all bound up in a simmering attraction that had Simon hard even when they were fighting.
“Fuck,” he muttered, then rolled his eyes at his Freudian slip. So what if he’d been jerking off to thoughts about Vic since they’d met? That might be as close to the real thing as he’d ever get with the difficult cop, if things kept up the way they’d been going.
Maybe it’s me, Simon thought. Jacen’s betrayal had broken his heart, dented his pride, and shredded his ability to trust. His own parents had taken Jacen’s side, and their comments about how they knew Simon’s interest in “that occult stuff” would cause trouble still hurt. When he’d moved to Myrtle Beach, he had decided to steer clear of all entanglements until he got his head on straight again. Three years later, he was stuck in a safe but lonely rut.
Then again, maybe it’s him. The truth was, if Vic didn’t believe in Simon’s talent, they’d never have more than a roll in the sheets. Jacen gave lip service to Simon’s abilities as a medium and clairvoyant, but Simon had always suspected that his ex- thought the whole thing was an elaborate parlor trick. For Simon, his psychic abilities were as much a part of his core self as being gay or liking history. He’d learned the hard way that none of those things could be shoved aside or hidden without a cost Simon was no longer willing to pay.
Was Vic even out? Simon couldn’t help wondering. Maybe Vic never was interested in more than being fuck buddies. The thought hurt Simon more than it should. Not that it mattered, since Vic seemed to consider Simon suspect just for trying to help. With a sigh, Simon went back over his script for the ghost tours, even though he could give the talk in his sleep. Anything to keep his mind off what he couldn’t have.
Several minutes later Simon’s cell buzzed, and he did a double-take at the number. “Hello, Miss Eppie. What can I do for you?” Ephigenia Walker, the most accomplished root worker and Hoodoo practitioner in Myrtle Beach, did not have time for idle chatter.
“Sebastian.” Miss Eppie was the only one of Simon’s new circle who called him by his given name, insisting it held truer to his energy. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
Simon choked, trying to figure out where to begin. “Quite a bit, actually. How do you mean?”
Miss Eppie might be in her seventies, but she did not suffer fools gladly. “I’m not talking about the new man who’s put you twitterpated. That will sort itself out in its own time. But I felt a surge of dark magic, and my spirit guides sent me word I should speak to you. Don’t make me come down there and pound it out of you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Simon replied. Since no one was in the shop, he told her about the black SUV and the niding horse, and about Katya and the ghosts.
“You have that jack ball I made for you?” Miss Eppie asked.
Simon reached into his pocket and found the protective ball of yarn and wax that was a powerful, personal Hoodoo talisman. “It’s with me.”
“Good. Keep it on you at all times,” she said. “How ‘bout that High John the Conqueror Root I gave you some while back? Wrap it in one of those little bags you put the crystals in and put it with the jack ball. It will strengthen your gift, and might could also solve that man problem of yours.”
“My ‘man problem’ isn’t a performance issue,” Simon replied, feeling his cheeks color. “It’s more of a showing up issue.”
Miss Eppie’s laugh was like honeyed bourbon. “Child, showing up is the first part of any performance. But you and that man who’s caught your eye gotta live long enough to worry about such things. So you keep those charms on you, and you say the protection spells I taught you. You remember those, don’t you?” she asked, her voice suddenly sharp.
“Yes, of course.” Simon felt as if he’d just been called to the principal’s office.
“Now you listen to me, Sebastian. I’m not talking to hear myself speak. I know you’ve laid down salt along your windows and doors in that shop. Best you do so at home as well. And not just salt; get yourself some good Four Thieves vinegar and sprinkle it at every place something could come in and out. That means fireplaces, too,” she ordered.
“Then you take that red brick dust I know you bought from me, and you fill up a wash bucket, and you scrub the entrance to your house and the shop. Mind you do it before dawn. Sprinkle the red brick dust onto the wet steps, and write the name of a policeman on a piece of paper. Burn the paper, and sprinkle the ashes with the brick dust. That will keep all but the strongest evil at bay.”
“And how do I fight the strongest evil?” Simon asked. Miss Eppie’s abilities were well-known throughout the Lowcountry, and he felt privileged to be her friend, even more so for his safety to be of concern.
“The only way anyone ever does,” Miss Eppie replied. “With what you have inside you. It will have to be enough. But remember that two stand stronger against an enemy than any man alone.”
“Thank you,” Simon replied. “I’ll do it. I promise.” He paused. “What are you going to do?”
Miss Eppie sighed. “I’m gonna keep setting protection spells and selling amulets and charms and lifting curses. But I’m staying home to do it because I can’t run as fast as I used to. I have helping magic, but it’s not fighting magic, since I don’t hold with cursing folks, unless they really, really deserve it.”
“I understand.”
“You’re a good boy,” Miss Eppie said, making Simon feel as if he were five instead of thirty-five. “Don’t let yourself be addled, and you might just do all right.”
Tracey showed up at four-thirty on the dot, and Simon put up the “Back in 30 Minutes” sign and led her to the back room. “I brought subs. That okay?” she asked. Tracey Cullen was only an inch shorter than Simon’s five foot eleven, with a toned body like a competitive runner. She had a brilliant grin and a razor-sharp sense of humor. Her red-tipped braids contrasted with cocoa-brown skin and eyes so dark they might have been black.
Simon inhaled and groaned in happiness. “That’s awesome. And…did you get them toasted?”
“Yep. I don’t forget these things. I’d be the perfect boo for you, if I just had a dick,” she joked.
“Speaking of boo, where’s Sheyla?” Simon asked. Tracey’s long-time girlfriend had an office job downtown with a real estate company and often worked late.
“She’ll be along in a bit, but I was hungry now,” Tracey replied. “I’ll just nibble on a salad if she wants to go out.”
“Thanks,” Simon said, unwrapping the still-warm sub filled with ham, turkey, sliced veggies, and some honey mustard. “Believe it when I say this might be the best part of my week.”
“Better than the hot guy you just met?” Tracey joked.
“A lot less complicated,” Simon replied, taking a bite and making an exaggerated, orgasmic
moan as he swallowed. “At least I know where I stand with the sandwich.”
“I just spent three days dealing with enough family drama for a Netflix series,” Tracey said as she chewed. “Fill me in.”
Simon talked and ate, catching her up on meeting Vic, the unfortunate psychic reading, and the hot/cold attraction that was driving him crazy.
“You two just need to have a hot night together and get it out of your system,” she said. “It’s pent-up frustration. Probably been too long for both of you. Once you do, then you can walk away—or not—without twisting each other up.”
Could it be that simple? Simon doubted it, but he didn’t feel like arguing with Tracey. “Yeah, well. Not sure that’s going to happen. Oh, and then I almost got hit by a car,” he added, ready to change the subject.
“Seriously? Did your hot cop rescue you?”
Simon rolled his eyes. “No. Actually, a ghost told me to jump, or I’d have been road pizza.”
“You have a strange life, Simon.”
He told Tracey about finding the niding horse, but didn’t go into detail about Katya or the other deaths, more to protect her than to keep from having to think about the grisly particulars. Tracey wasn’t a J-one, but the killer could always change his pattern, and right now, it felt like no one was safe.
“So someone’s tried to kill you—or at least warn you to go away—and you’re just here at the shop, like usual?” Tracey finished her sub and balled up the paper.
“What am I supposed to do? Go into Witness Protection? I can’t prove anything, and if the cop who maybe wants to get into my pants doesn’t believe me, why would anyone else?”
“Uh huh. I think you need to work on the cop angle.” Tracey sat back in her chair and took a long drink of soda through her straw. “Maybe if you’re sleeping together, he’ll be a little more protective. You know, like a live-in bodyguard.”
Simon snorted. “Maybe I’ll get a dog. Simpler.”