Be My Banshee (Purple Door Detective Agency Book 1)

by Joyce Lavene

  “Okay. I’ll be glad to help.”

  Sunshine was back as they finished speaking. She noticed how pleased Jane looked, even though she wasn’t eating. It was unusual for her. She normally had two modes—hunger and fear.

  “What did you say to Jane?” she asked Aine as they were leaving for Tattoo Hell.

  “I asked for her help with the magic box to locate O’Neill’s current lover.”

  “You don’t think it’s Malto? They seemed pretty tight—except for the honey at the pizzeria. Is that who you’re thinking of?”

  “I don’t know.” Aine inspected Sunshine’s change of clothing. “Is this what is considered necessary for the tattoo shop?”

  Sunshine looked down at her jeans and tank top beneath a gray trench coat. “This is trendier than what I was wearing. You should fit right in. You look kind of Goth, or whatever they’re calling it now.”

  “But I do not require a drawing…tattoo…on my person. In my day, a witch could be burned for such a thing.”

  “Don’t worry. Not much witch burning going on right now. You can hold my hand so I don’t scream when I get my tattoo.”

  Aine looked at her sharply. “Is that what you require?”

  “Maybe. We have to blend in if we expect to get good info.” Sunshine opened the car. “This should be quite an experience.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sunshine followed the GPS unerringly to the tattoo shop on the other side of town. Of course Norfolk, being a Navy town, had a history of tattoos and tattoo artists. Tattoo Hell was a newer store set in a bevy of psychic readers and nail shops, but it stood out with its flaming sign and giant devil’s head coming out of the middle.

  The shop wasn’t busy. Only two artists were there with a few friends hanging around comparing their recent tattoos. Everyone noticed when the women walked in.

  A younger man came to greet them. “I’m Michel.” He grinned. “Like Michelangelo?” He laughed at his own joke as he sized up Sunshine from her high-heeled, black boots to the top of her frizzy hair. “What can I do to you?”

  Sunshine giggled and put on a sweet, stupid smile. “You know, we were just daring each other to get some ink tonight. I was thinking of a simple pentagram on my arm. What do you think?”

  “Sounds fun to me, pretty lady. Step into my parlor.” He indicted a lounge chair behind him. “What about your girlfriend?”

  “I do not require your services, boy,” Aine told him. “But I will remain at her side.”

  “Okay. Let’s draw a few pentagrams and see what gets you going. What’s your name?”

  “Sunshine Merryweather.” She put her hand in his to have him help her into the lounge.

  “Awesome name.” One of the other young men wandered their way to watch the procedure. “Your parents must’ve been hippies. Or is that a stage name?”

  “Nope,” she responded. “It’s all mine.”

  Michel drew some pentacles. Some were plain while others had flourishes and embellishments on them. “You can start with something simple and add on later.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s do the basic.” Sunshine almost backed out of it when she saw the tattoo needles and ink. “Maybe even half a pentagram would be good.”

  “The Celts had tattoos, though they didn’t refer to them as such,” Aine said. “They were mostly done with woad and sharp objects used to puncture the skin. Many of them proved to be fatal through infection. But they were tribal people who lost great numbers during battle and didn’t seem to mind dying for other causes as well.”

  When she’d stopped speaking, everyone was staring at her. Sunshine laughed to break the tension brought on by the hypnotic monotone of the beane sidhe.

  “Sure. Okay.” Michel shook his head to clear it. “We’ll do the basic pattern.”

  The other two people in the shop stood close to watch. Sunshine closed her eyes and invoked a spell to help her relax and another to make sure the tattoo was safe and painless.

  As Michel focused on what he was doing, she asked about other tattoos he’d done.

  “I do hundreds a week. Some are really elaborate. Some are simple like yours.”

  “I have a friend who had his ink done here,” she continued. “Maybe you remember him, John Lancaster.”

  “Really?” One of the watchers was immediately interested. “I know that name from somewhere.”

  “My friend,” Sunshine continued. “Do you know him, Michel?”

  “Yeah. I remember him. Big man. Dark hair.” He didn’t look up from her arm. The drone of the tattoo gun hummed.

  “He was killed this week. They found him dead in an alley by the mall.” Sunshine watched his face closely. “Did you hear about it?”

  “No. I didn’t hear that. I’m sorry. He seemed like a good guy.”

  Aine discerned a slight variation in his tone and a small twitch to his mouth. “Did you know John outside this establishment?”

  “I only met him once. He was Harley’s customer.” Michel’s gaze wandered for an instant. “Are you cops or something?”

  “We’re not cops,” Sunshine assured him. “But we did hear that something bad happened to Harley today. I’ll bet you know about that too.”

  “Look, I have to concentrate to get this right. I can’t talk at the same time.”

  “I understand.” Sunshine knew they were getting to him. “We can always talk when you’re done.”

  Michel looked even more nervous at that idea. His hand shook a little, but the spell kept the pentagram straight. The other tattoo artist urged the remaining customers out the front door and slowly put up the closed sign.

  Aine watched his furtive movements as he moved away from the door to a cabinet at the side of the room. She could hear his heart beating fast—too fast for his slow movements. He was trying to throw them off and was planning an attack.

  She stood to her full height, the hag taking over her appearance as she raised a skeletal arm and pointed at him. “Stop,” she commanded. “You shall not move.”

  The artist stopped in full stride, eyes glazed, mouth hanging open. There was a small caliber handgun in his grasp.

  “I didn’t know you could do that,” Sunshine said to her. “There’s definitely more to you than just a pretty face.”

  “Pretty face?” Michel stared at Aine in horror. “Who are you two? What do you want?”

  Sunshine sat up on the lounge and examined the finished pentagram on her plump arm. “Not bad. I might want to come back for a few of those flourishes. But for now, I want to know what you and your friends have been up to.”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. We haven’t done anything. You have the wrong place.”

  “You don’t know anything about your clientele being werewolves, shifters, that kind of thing? Is that what you want me to believe?”

  “What?” He stared at both women, but quickly averted his gaze from Aine’s horrific countenance. “There’s no such thing, right? I mean, those things don’t exist.”

  “You tell me.” Sunshine put a carefully manicured purple fingernail under his chin. “Do you think they exist?”

  Her magic swirled around him. Aine could see it, and saw the change that came over him.

  “Okay. We get a lot of talkers in here. People get comfortable, and they want to tell you their whole life story. A few of them told us some wild tales. Then Harley was approached by some chick who offered him money if he’d help her do a few things.”

  “What kind of things?” Sunshine asked.

  “It sounds goofy, but she gave us names and asked us to stick them and collect some of their blood. It wasn’t much—just a dot on a napkin. She was willing to pay a lot of money. What difference did it make? It didn’t hurt them or anything.”

  “What difference indeed,” Aine growled.

  “Blood magic.” Sunshine nodded. “If you were doing what this woman asked of you, why is Harley dead?”

  “I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. John was the first
one that we took a drop of blood from. We didn’t think it had anything to do with his death. I mean, how could it?”

  “Who is this woman that hired you?” Aine asked.

  Michel laughed nervously. “Harley was the only one who made contact with her. I don’t know who she is or where she comes from. That’s the truth. We were scared when we heard he was killed. We figure that chick was bad news. She might’ve even killed him. She might come after us too.”

  “That’s all I can think of.” Sunshine glanced at Aine. “You?”

  “They may have the names of their next victims,” Aine replied. “Perhaps a list that Jane can look up on the magic box.”

  “Good idea.” Sunshine grinned. “Mr. Bad was so right about you. Michel, give us that list.”

  He moved away from the fingernail that had held him in place and scrounged around in a drawer until he found a list of five names. Only John’s name had been crossed off.

  Aine sniffed the list. “Written in human blood.”

  “Okay, Michel and—” she glanced sharply at the second tattoo artist still frozen under Aine’s spell—“what’s your name?”

  Aine nodded and freed him.

  “Ike.” His voice broke like a teenager’s.

  “Michel. Ike.” Sunshine gazed at them with unforgettable blue eyes. “All of this is going to seem like a dream to you after we’re gone. Forget the list. Forget the mystery chick. Forget John. None of this ever happened. Mourn your friend. Keep doing these awesome tattoos. Don’t be so greedy.”

  Both men blinked as they watched two women walk out of Tattoo Hell.

  “I need a drink.” Michel ran his hand around the back of his neck. “That last one took a lot out of me.”

  “I think it looked great though, man,” Ike said. “I could use an early night.”

  * * *

  “Human blood,” Aine said when they were in the convertible and headed back to the agency. “We must be mistaken about the magic. It has to be a witch tearing people to shreds. I know of no other creature that would use blood in this manner.”

  “No way. There’s no way a witch did this. I would’ve sensed it. I would’ve felt the magic.”

  “I think your bond with the wolf clouds your judgment.”

  Sunshine glared at her. “I don’t care what you think. I’m not blinded by my love for John. And if that were the case, why couldn’t you sense the magic at the crime scenes? I’m telling you this is something else that uses blood magic.”

  “Perhaps you’re correct.” Aine understood her partner’s agitation over the death of her lover. “I do not know of any other creature that uses blood to hunt for their victims and destroy them in such a manner, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

  “Werewolves sometimes use blood to hunt for their victims,” Sunshine agreed. “But I can’t imagine one of them planning something this way. Usually if they want to kill you, they kill you. But since this is like nothing I’ve seen before, I could be wrong about that too.”

  “Is there a pack? Could this be a pack dispute for leadership?”

  “I don’t know. I can ask around. But John wasn’t the pack leader and had no interest in taking that position. He usually didn’t stay in one place that long. He was a loner.”

  “It could be possible that the pack leader misjudged John. A few carefully placed questions could bear fruit. I would be happy to undertake this for you. I know your heart is not in it.”

  Sunshine pulled the convertible into the agency parking lot. “My heart might be broken by John’s death, but the rest of me is ready for revenge. You don’t have to worry about my commitment.”

  “I shall await word from you on that inquiry then.” Aine inclined her head.

  “Thanks.” Sunshine grabbed her bag. “You really had my back in there. I appreciate it. You’re going to make a wonderful partner. Will you contact O’Neill tonight?”

  “Yes. The time is right for him to know me—and himself.”

  “Well, let me know how that goes. Maybe once he knows you and himself he’ll get off our tails with his homicide investigation.”

  * * *

  After spending hundreds of years as the beane sidhe for the O’Neill family, Aine was nervous as she prepared herself for that night. It was absurd, almost beyond belief, that her hands would tremble as she thought of the task ahead of her. How many O’Neills had she gone to this way? It was true that most of them were adolescent, but it should make no difference.

  She stared at the crescent moon in the black sky above her. It was possibly the only thing older than her in this city. “How many times have you stared down at me?” she asked the glowing white circle. “How many dreams did you take from me?”

  It was also unusual for her not to be in the same dwelling with the O’Neill she haunted. She’d been with the family for so long it was getting difficult to remember when she didn’t serve them. It was no great hardship for her to go to his home—Aine was not a creature of flesh and blood unless she chose to be. The woman who would enter Sean O’Neill’s dreams would be the ghost of her former self.

  Because it was customary, Aine stood outside O’Neill’s home and moaned in her most piteous voice. She stared at the second story window where his ‘apartment’—Sunshine’s words—was located. She reached for him with long gaunt arms and wept for his ultimate death. It was the way of the beane sidhe to begin the long process.

  No one ventured close to their windows that night to discover where the terrifying sound came from. Some in the building turned on their lights and shivered beneath their blankets, praying for morning.

  When the preliminary announcement was made, Aine allowed herself to drift into O’Neill’s bedroom.

  He was alone in his room. He’d been asleep for a few hours. A smaller version of Jane’s magic box was open on the bed beside him with a picture of the Purple Door Detective Agency on the screen.

  There were other accoutrements of his life and profession. He slept with a gun under his pillow. His gray suit was carelessly tossed on a chair. There were pictures of his parents on a nearby dressing table—no photos of a sister or brother. He was the last of his family line.

  Aine watched him sleep for a moment, realizing the profound change his life would take when he realized he was not alone and would never be alone again in his lifetime. The secrets she would impart to him were for him alone and could never be shared with another. That was the sacred vow between them.

  “Ach! I am happy beyond words to be here at your side, O’Neill. Prepare yourself. I am coming for you.”

  O’Neill sat up in bed, gun in hand, and faced her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Chapter Ten

  Such a thing had never happened to Aine in all her long years of haunting the O’Neill family. She gaped like the goldfish in the bowl for a moment before she found her voice.

  “Go back to sleep,” she hissed. “You cannot be awake at this moment. Sleep, O’Neill.”

  As beane sidhe magic went, it was poorly done, but her excuse—to find him awake and staring at her—was enough. What should she do if he didn’t fall unconscious?

  “I think I need to be awake right now. What’s your name—Ann?” The gun stayed steady on her face as did his suspicious and angry gaze.

  “I am Aine of Ulster,” she corrected. “And you cannot be awake. The first time must be in a dream. I cannot come to you with glad tidings while you are awake.”

  “Glad tidings?” He got to his feet slowly, glancing around the room as he turned on the bedside lamp. “Is it Christmas already? You don’t look like an angel. Let’s try again. What are you doing here?”

  Aine was nearly beside herself trying to decide how to correct the situation. She had never faced another like it. It was possible that she would have to give up this poor attempt at communication and leave him. She must have been more affected by coming to this foreign place than she realized.

  “I apologize, O’Neill.” She sli
ghtly inclined her head. “I shall return at another time.”

  “Stay where you are,” he commanded. “I’m calling for backup. I knew you had something to do with those murders. You and Little Miss Sunshine. Did you really think you could rip me apart too? Was I getting too close to the truth for you?”

  “No.” Instead of guilt and remorse, anger suddenly came to her at his ignorance. “I am not here to harm you, fool. I am here to offer you a great gift—a gift you have never seen the like of before. You are the last of your bloodline to receive this gift.”

  Alarm changed the focus of his attention. “Did you already kill Malto?”

  “I have killed no one as of late, though I am sorely tempted to snap your neck at this moment. Surely the O’Neill bloodline has thinned and grown cold to have produced the likes of you. Perhaps in your last dying moments you would comprehend. I have never known even an O’Neill to be as stubborn.”

  He’d picked up his cell phone as she spoke and punched in his partner’s number. “Malto? Are you okay?”

  “Who is this? O’Neill? Have you got a mental problem? It’s two a.m. Go back to bed.”

  When his partner had abruptly ended her side of the conversation, O’Neill stared at Aine again. “You’re lucky she’s still safe.”

  “I have no reason to harm her.”

  “I’m calling the station.”

  As he began to use the phone again, Aine waved her hand, and the phone died. He hit it against the edge of the night stand a few times, but nothing happened.

  “That’s okay. Sit down in that chair.” He waved the gun toward the chair with his suit on it. He grabbed two ties and prepared to strap her to the seat.

  She laughed, turning from the middle-aged form in black to the hideous crone. “You will not bind me, O’Neill. Sit down. Put that weapon on the table.”

  Her ghastly voice and commanding form brought compliance. He tried to look away from her after he was seated, but she had compelled him to face her. “What do you want from me? How can you change the way you look? Did you inject me with drugs while I was sleeping? That’s a felony, you know. You could spend the rest of your life in prison.”