“Do you think it’s possible for Venus’ own father to harm her?”
“Maybe. I just don’t know. He’s not a good man, but he’s not...crazy. And wouldn’t he have to be insane to go after his own daughter for no reason? And of course, he also has to have someone else do it for him—-”
“Why would you think that?” I asked with a frown.
“Because he’s serving a life sentence,” Mrs. Stratton asked flatly.
“That’s impossible. We ran a check on your husband’s name—-”
“You’re talking about his name on Venus’ birth certificate, aren’t you?” Mrs. Stratton’s tone was tight. “Burke Centaurus Rogers?”
“Yes.”
“It’s fake,” she said flatly, “and it’s the same name he used on our marriage certificate, too.”
Thirty minutes later, and I was able to verify everything Mrs. Stratton had said. Burke Rogers was indeed a fake name, but the ‘Centaurus’ part – which was Latin for centaur – was not. He was a centaur, but his real name was Lowry Rogers, and as Mrs. Stratton had said, he was serving a life sentence.
Or rather – he had been serving a life sentence, with Lowry having died before Venus was murdered.
So what now, Blair Vavrin?
Frustration threatened to consume me, but I knew there was no point dwelling on all the false leads and dead-ends I had encountered in this case. After taking a deep breath, I began to print out photos related to the case and pinned them one at a time to my corkboard until they created a visual chart of the evidence we had uncovered – and the puzzles we had yet to solve.
Fact: Someone used a time-specific, target-locked spell to kill Venus Stratton.
Fact: Amy Wilson’s medical report confirmed that she, too, had suffered from the same poison that killed Venus, albeit to a lesser extent.
Fact: Both Venus and Amy were finalists for Ms. Silver Mist High.
Fact: The cauldron used to deliver the poison spell was a cauldron purchased from The Real You.
Fact: Venus’ biological father was a centaur.
Fact: The unidentified buyer claimed to be half-human, half-centaur.
Fact: Venus’ biological father died before Venus’ murder.
So did this mean the caller lied about his or her race type, I asked myself, or was there some kind of connection between Venus’ biological father and her murder that I had yet to uncover?
I decided to act on a hunch and made another call to The Real You. After confirming my identity and reason for calling, the receptionist – whose voice sounded friendlier this time – transferred my call to the company’s administrative office.
Some song by The Chainsmokers played in the background while I was placed on hold. After half a minute, a brisk male voice came into the line. “Good afternoon, Agent Vavrin. My name is Mark. I just got off the phone with Ellen – she expects to be out of the office the whole day, but she says you can redirect all your questions my way.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to keep it as brief as I can so I can get out of your hair–”
“Oh, no, no, please don’t do that on my account,” Mark immediately protested. “Whatever you ask should be more fun and interesting than what I’m currently doing, so please – I’m yours for as long as you need.”
“Err, that’s great, I think?” I wasn’t used to anyone showing this much enthusiasm for an interview.
“It is,” Mark assured me. “So what’s this about?”
“One of your previous clients is a possible suspect in the case I’m currently working on. I’m hoping to ask a few more questions in relation to Client 013BC.”
“I’m your man then,” Mark answered readily. “I’m in charge of handling the company’s service records, so I should be able to answer just about any client-related question you have.”
Picking up my printed copy of the transcript between Madeline and Client 013BC, I asked, “Is it true there’s no way for you to determine the authenticity of a client’s race claim?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
Cast it. INTERPOL’s files on the company had reported as much, but even so, I had hoped it wouldn’t be the case and Helen’s company could help me determine if I had a new suspect to go after.
“What about how effective your product was for a particular client? Is there any way you could track that?” INTERPOL’s files also mentioned about the company’s inability to keep track of their products’ success rate, but I asked it anyway, in case The Real You had a system upgrade in the last few years.
“Nope, sorry, I can’t help you with that either.” Mark sounded genuinely remorseful. “I mean, just between you and me, but do you really think our CEO would spend money on stuff like that?”
I suppressed a sigh, knowing that what Mark was saying was true – but I also knew that I couldn’t let myself give up just like this. If you can save the world from total destruction, I told myself doggedly, then you should be able to solve this girl’s murder.
My glance slid back to the transcript I held. What else could I ask that might give me another clue about the buyer?
“Agent Vavrin? Are you still there?”
“Err, yes, sorry. I’m just re-reading the transcript...could you give me a moment?”
“Sure.”
I went back to the first exchange between Madeline and Client 013BC.
Madeline: Hello there. How may I help you?
Client 013BC: I need a brewing cauldron that looks like this.
No ‘hello’ back, I thought. Did that mean the buyer was rude or just under stress?
Photo uploaded
My gaze flew back to the corkboard, where a printed copy of the photo was pinned, and I grabbed my notebook and wand. One click, and the latter turned to a pen, and I quickly began scribbling down a note for Lana.
Forwarding you a photo to blow up. Thanks!
The letters swirled up as soon as I put my wand down and jumped into a holographic envelope that came out of thin air and disappeared just as quickly. Magic-powered email, basically, since I didn’t have time to click on my iPhone’s mail app.
Madeline: That won’t be a problem. May I have your race type, please?
Client 013BC: Why do you keep asking about that?
I shot up in my seat. Keep asking? Didn’t that suggest this wasn’t the buyer’s first purchase?
“Hey, Mark?”
“Yep?”
“Can you look through your records to see if there was any other purchase made by a half-centaur, half-human client?”
“Let me see.” Mark’s fingers clicked on the keyboard. “There’s one, made three weeks ago.”
A new mail popped up in my inbox, and I clicked on the attachment to read the transcript Mark emailed. The first thing I noticed was the date, and my gaze shot back to the timeline I had created on my corkboard.
Gaea bewitched!
The date of this transcript was just a few days before voting for Mr. and Ms. Silver Mist High officially ended – and Lowry Rogers’ death.
Winnie: Hello. How may I help you?
Client241CQ: I need a piece of paper that looks like this.
Photo uploaded
There was more to the transcript, but I didn’t need to bother reading the rest. The photo was all I needed to see – a small, white voting sheet, with a girl’s name written under the category of Ms. Silver Mist High.
Amy Wilson
The name had me audibly sucking in my breath in shock, and Mark asked in a startled tone, “Are you alright?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes, sorry about that.” My voice was vague, with memories of the conversation I had with Amy and her mother fast taking over my mind.
I remembered the younger girl expressing her surprise about being a finalist –
I honestly think someone only put my name in as a prank, and I have no idea why so many people still voted for me.
And then there was how Mrs. Wilson acted aggressive and defensive at the same time about
the whole thing –
Why are you looking at my daughter like that? You don’t think she deserves to be a finalist?
If this spell was meant to make Amy a winner, then why had she also suffered from poisoning? What if this was all meant to frame Amy so that people would ask fewer questions about Venus’ death? Or even about Lowry Rogers? What if –
“Agent Vavrin?”
Mark’s sudden insertion put me on guard, and I asked immediately, “What is it?”
“Our system flagged this particular transaction, so I thought I’d do a little digging. Apparently, this transaction was updated with an addendum coming from our higher-up.”
“You mean Ellen?”
Empusa, Mark coughed under his breath, and I flinched at the reminder of what Helen’s business was founded on.
“Apparently, Client241CQ hasn’t completed the required offering yet.”
“That’s possible?” Empusa seemed like a pay-first kind of goddess, and I couldn’t see the deity lending her power to spells for free.
“It’s in our T&C, but of course clients rarely bother to read this.”
“What happens when they don’t make an offering in time and the spell has been cast on their behalf?”
“What else?” Mark’s voice was resigned. “Their offering requirement increases in proportion to the delay.”
“I...see.” But actually, I didn’t. Or rather – I was hoping I had misunderstood what Helen’s man-in-charge for records was saying between the lines.
Because if it wasn’t –
“Umm, Mark?”
“Yes, Agent Vavrin?”
Swallowing hard, I asked, “What kind of increase are we talking about exactly? Is it like – the initial offering was one drop of blood, and so I need to offer an extra drop for every additional day of delay?”
“You wish,” Mark said with a snort. “This isn’t a charity. When we talk of offerings, we’re talking about the kind that no amount of Band-Aids can heal.”
Our call ended a few moments later, although for the life of me I couldn’t remember a single thing I said after the bombshell Mark dropped.
If this had been Aphrodite or Dionysus we were talking about, I wouldn’t have even batted an eyelash – the goddess of beauty and love was fairly easy to please, and one only had to show up inebriated in the latter’s temple to make the wine god happy.
But unfortunately, we weren’t talking about any of the nice gods and goddesses dwelling in Mt. Olympus and other gated communities of immortals.
Instead, we were talking about Empusa – a forsaken goddess whose vileness was such that many of her fellow deities feared her very presence. With Empusa, only one kind of offering was acceptable, and with the first spell purchased having yet to be paid – it only meant one thing: I needed to find who Venus’ killer was before more dead bodies showed up.
A frantic blur of activity ensued as I started making calls. Non-human agencies like ours never had the same numbers as human law enforcement institutions did, which was why inter-agency operations happened more often out of necessity. It took a lot of negotiating over resources I could share and offer in exchange, but I was able to eventually find a couple of rookie agents to do a well-being check on Mrs. Stratton and another to tail Vincent and ensure his safety. Meanwhile, I also had tech support try to locate Mrs. Wilson and her daughter, and I allowed myself a small sigh of relief when the former was still at work while Amy was on her way home.
I paced the length of our office while my gaze remained trained on my corkboard. My guts told me that Lowry Rogers was the missing link here, but what I had a hard time working out was what two things the man were linking together.
Deciding that I needed to know more about our dead centaur, I forwarded Lana the recording of my calls with Mark and Mrs. Stratton and added a postscript – Can you look up Lowry Rogers for me? I want to know everything about him. Thanks.
Paul called at around five in the afternoon, but I pleaded off having dinner. “I doubt I’ll be able to concentrate until I find my perp.”
“Then just text me when you’re ready to call it a night. And if you need anything from INTERPOL, tell me.”
The note of command underlining the last two words only made me shake my head. “Trust me – I’m so desperate right now that if I think there’s some way INTERPOL could help, I won’t even wait for you to offer help. I’d be demanding it.”
A call from reception came in at six in the evening, and I had She-Ra switch to loudspeaker since both my hands were occupied adding all the bagged bits to the cup of instant noodles I had taken from the pantry.
“Hey, Blair. The local police station just called – they say a certain Amy Wilson wished to speak with you.”
Amy?
After thanking Leona, the river nymph working as the night receptionist, I abandoned all thoughts of dinner and instead called the number listed for the Wilsons’ residence. Amy was the one who answered, and the sound of her weeping voice instantly had me on my toes. “Amy? What is it? Are you okay?”
“It’s Mom,” the girl whispered in a stricken voice. “She’s not acting right.”
Chapter Twelve
Bright light peeked out of the windows from most of the houses lining up the Wilsons’ street, but even so the night still felt eerily quiet when I stepped out of my car. Stop being paranoid, I warned myself. A young girl had asked for my help, but what good would I do her if I acted like I was scared of my own shadow?
As I came up to the Wilsons’ front door, I was about to ring the doorbell when it suddenly flew open. Amy was in front of me, pale and shaking, her eyes red-rimmed, her hair in disarray, and her shirt showing stains of sweat.
“Oh, thank God!” Amy’s voice was high-pitched and tense. “I need to show you something before my mom comes back.”
“What’s wrong?” Apprehension crawled down my back as I followed her inside and watched Amy hurriedly shut the door closed behind us and slide the deadbolt into place.
Amy started biting her nails. “I don’t know how to explain what I’ve just seen–”
“What have you seen?”
She slowly raised her arm, and my heart banged hard against my chest as I followed its movement and realized what she was pointing at.
Brooms and sticks. The door Amy was pointing at was slightly ajar, leading to a dark place that could only be one thing. Forcing myself to sound calm, I asked, “It’s in the basement?” Paranoia threatened to overwhelm my thoughts at her nod, but I determinedly shoved it away.
Wood creaked under our footsteps as we carefully made our descent, and I only stopped holding my breath when we reached the last step and I saw that the basement wasn’t as cluttered as I expected. A neglected couch in one corner, boxes lined against one wall and steel shelving on the other, and finally, at the far end of the basement, twin flames flickering from candles that seemed to be floating in the air.
Was that real?
I had to squint several times before I realized why they appeared to be floating. The candles were resting on top of a black altar – and that was never a good thing.
“Do you see it, Deputy Vavrin?”
Amy’s whisper almost had me jumping in shock, and I fought hard to recover my composure as I turned to her, asking, “The black altar?”
“It’s Mom’s.”
My heart fell to my stomach.
“There’s something else, too.”
And of course, the hits just kept coming.
“Be careful,” I immediately warned when I saw Amy start to move away from the lone light bulb hanging overhead and farther into the shadows until I could barely make her out.
“I’ll be quick.” Amy’s muffled voice was so faint I had to strain my ears to understand what she was saying. “I just need to show you this before Mom gets home.”
I couldn’t help fidgeting while I waited for Amy to reappear. I also tried to resist the urge to keep staring at the altar, but it was futile. Something
about it nagged at me – but what?
There was no insignia of any kind on the altar, which meant it could be used to present an offering to just about any deity. The candles – white, beeswax, and standard length – didn’t look anything special either, which meant the only thing left to study was...
The candlesticks, I realized tensely, were bronze.
A shiver slithered down my back as my overactive imagination suddenly injected an image of Empusa into my mind. Blood-dyed hair, soulless eyes, and mismatched limbs: one leg resembled that of a goat’s while another one appeared to have been carved from tarnished bronze.
The image, albeit made-up, was so horrible I found myself instinctively stepping back and struggling to regain my balance as I fell through the thick, dark curtains. As I straightened, I heard a barely audible whimper, and the hairs at the back of my neck immediately stood up.
Oh my Gaea.
I slowly made myself turn around, terrified to find Amy’s mother waiting to stab me like some Mrs. Bates wannabe, but knowing as well I had no choice.
So here goes –
A bound and gagged Mrs. Stratton was staring at me with wide-eyed fright. A moment later, her gaze darted to somewhere behind me –
Cast it.
I turned around, knowing it could only be one person.
And it was – only it was much worse.
Amy had a knife in her hand – and a goat’s mask covering her face.
I managed to pull my wand out just in time to deflect the murderous slash of her knife.
Yeeeeees—-
But then I saw her knife slice my wand into two, rendering it useless in an instant.
Nooooo—-
Amy let out a cackle at the look of shock on my face. “Did you think you’re the only one who has magic?”
I kicked her out of my way instead of answering, and Amy, taken by surprise, let out a cry of rage as she fell against the wall. Knowing that it would be suicidal to turn my back on her while she had a knife, I didn’t even think of running up the stairs but instead moved backwards towards the altar, keeping my gaze on her while I frantically tried to think of what magical or non-magical weapon I could –
A Season of Gods and Witches Page 17