by Shyla Colt
I wrinkle my nose. “They’re careful. If Faeries crossed over, we would never ever know.”
“Yes. Faeries are far too cunning. Unless their goal was to make mischief?” He poses his question like a query.
I shake my head. “That’d be morbid. Even for them.”
“Are you sure there was nothing was unusual about the victim?”
“Trust me, Miles. We all scoured her records, house, school, and online history. The woman should be instated to sainthood.”
“Hmmm.” He picks up a packet of Jammie Dodgers, opens the wrapper, and shakes two out for me, keeping two for himself. He knows my pension for British sweets. I take a bite of the buttery biscuit with jelly filling and hum my approval.
“Perhaps,” he pauses to chew and swallow, “they were making something?”
I cover my hand with my mouth. “What?” I ask around the cookie.
“The humans. Maybe they needed the parts for a spell or a magical weapon.”
I wash down the cookie with tea. “Short of bringing a monster made of pieced together parts to life, I’d say nay. A hand of glory requires a murder’s hand. Things of that nature tend to come from beings who exude serious darkness, so it doesn’t fit.”
“Or the opposite. Sometimes what’s needed is purity.”
“Then we’d be getting into virgin sacrifices and blood magic. She was dead already. It wouldn’t do any good to take from her.”
“And we’re at an impasse.” Miles sighs. “Perchance it was a random bout of human insanity. People don’t always have a reason for their strange and horrific actions.”
“I’d feel better about leaving it at that if I knew the how.” There’s a riddle I have no idea how even to begin to solve. How does one remove a body from a grave, cause catastrophic damage concentrated in one place, and only leave behind faint footprints and a few drops of blood? What group of people could gain power from that? Is it a cult with some whacked out initiation process?
“Did you run the DNA through the database?”
He sniffs. “Of course I did.” His words are acidic. “Whoever it is has never committed a crime … that they were caught for at any rate.”
I grunt. Another dead end. “Sorry, Miles. I want to get this figured out. I know you’re a pro at what you’re doing.”
He grants me a smile. I am forgiven. “I can tell you the person who bled is a male, more than likely Caucasian. Admittedly, I garnered more information from the prints you took. You’re looking for at least three males. In between the height of five-foot-nine-inches to six feet. They range from anywhere from one-hundred and seventy pounds, to two-hundred. I can tell you the make and model of their shoes, but to summarize two were in a pair of cheap steel-toe boots, and the other in gym shoes.”
“They don’t sound like they were very organized.”
“It wouldn’t appear so. Lucky for us, or we wouldn’t have prints or blood.”
“All we have to go by is three men, possibly tall and lean. At least one Caucasian, and all of an undetermined age?” The list of suspects that fit that description could fill a stadium.
“Indeed,” he says glumly.
“That’s broad as hell, Miles.” My shoulders slump. I feel the resolution of the case slip further away. I want to solve every case, but the truth is, a good chunk of them we can’t. I can show people how to protect themselves from further harm, but tracing the source isn’t an easy task.
“It is now. Later, after we’ve gleaned more information, there may be more we’ve missed. Forensics is a puzzle. You can only get the big picture one piece at a time. This is a patient man’s game.” He sips his tea, pinky up, and I swear he has never been more British. Right now, he’s the equivalent of a vampire Sherlock Holmes. All he needs to complete the look is a pipe, a tweed jacket, and a matching cap. My lips twitch.
“Did I say something amusing?” His puzzled expression is adorable.
“No. Promise me you’ll never change, Miles.”
“Who else could I possibly be?”
“That’s the spirit, old chap,” I say, adopting a British accent as I wink. He pinches his lips together, but the humor in his blue gaze softens his sternness. I finish my tea because to him it’d be blasphemous to do otherwise. “Thank you for looking into this for me.”
“I remain at your disposal. What do you plan to do next?” He brings the cup to his lips.
“Wait. My gut tells me this isn’t the last odd occurrence we’re going to see. Mark my words, this is too weird to be a one-off.” I pat his knee. “Thanks for the cuppa.” I set down my cup and saucer, and ignore the twinge of guilt at not taking the dishware to the sink. I’ve had enough of being berated by my family for doing what they pay good money for servants to take care of. I move toward the stairs intent on a hot bath when intuition tugs me in the opposite direction.
Retracing my footsteps, I head outside to the Moon Garden. The fragrant white blossoms of all shapes and sizes and the running water in the pond soothe me. The silence is energizing. I kick off my flats, and wiggle my toes, admiring the grass and earth beneath me. Grounded, I inhale the fresh air and exhale slowly.
This bricked-in area is a slice of paradise. A calming space to combat the chaos that exists outside the four walls. From its rounded entrance to the water lilies floating in the pond with its mini waterfall effect, and the fresh herbs surrounding the water line, it’s everything I could want in an outside magical space. The knowledge that it was built by Cristobal using the memories of me he’d gathered increases my feelings of sentimentalism. Tilting my head back, I admire the moon. Full and luminous, it calls to me.
There’s power to be gained on a night like this. My core temperature rises and my skin itches. I feel feverish. A low, inaudible hum of power travels up through the soles of my feet. I walk deeper into the garden, opening myself up to what the universe has to tell me. Warded, and spelled, this place is my sanctuary.
I sink onto the grass beside the pond, cross my legs, and inhale. I turn the issues weighing me down into smooth black stones. Mentally, I chuck them into the water and watch the ripples. Not all go so easily. I shed the worries like a snake slips an ill-fitting skin. Clearing my mind is kin to escaping a fog. After a time, I gain true clarity for the first period in days.
With the shroud of uncertainty, stress, and fear lifted, I’m free to connect properly with my surroundings. The moonlight caresses my skin, filling me with strength and calm. I lean back on my elbows, soaking up the rays like a beach bunny settling in to worship the sun. The moon is my goddess of choice, and her cooling tranquility is a blessing. A sudden wind ruffles my newly dyed pink tresses. The brisk breeze is an anomaly in the muggy weather. I sit up.
Nothing that means harm may enter this space. That doesn’t mean a curious spirit can’t. A prickly sensation climbs its way up my spine and down my arms. A lily-white feather floats down in a graceful back and forth motion before landing on my lap. I peer over my shoulder, sensing another presence at play. Hair falls on my face. I tuck the fuchsia strands behind my ears and remain still.
A gentle touch on my cheek brings my head back to the right. The air sparkles. An image flickers in and out of focus. I get the impression of a woman in a cream-colored maxi dress with two tiers of flapper-styled fringe at the bottom and along the bodice. I gain my feet as the being solidifies. Delicate beading and embroidery along the bodice and waistline create a butterfly and floral pattern.
A headband of white daisies around her forehead places her firmly in the 1930s. With her almond-shaped dark eyes, caramel colored-skin, and dark curls framing her slender, oval-shaped face, she’s familiar. I search my memory for her identity as she offers a sweet smile. Gentle waves of affection, peace, and kinship wash over me.
“Alida Esçhete.” This is Mémé’s younger sister. I remember her from old photos in the house.
I place a hand on my churning stomach as the scene around me settles. A black and white world surrounds me. Like a ghost, I watch the people move, unable to see me. This is the city of Cypress as it was in the twenties. We move at a moderate pace that allows me to see the changes time has wrought. Old-fashioned cars traverse the roads. Storefronts have large windows that house elaborate displays. Men and women are dressed as if they’re headed to a church service. We end up in a wooded area where a man and a woman stand. Despite the years, I know Mémé instantly.
“Are we not friends?” The voice and the face click. Percival?
“If that were all that lay between us, this wouldn’t be so difficult.” Mémé’s voice wavers.
“Cypress is a small town. There’ll be no avoiding each other. We must take care in public.” Percival sighs. “Tell me what you know.” His voice and his eyes are soft as he leans into her. Alida stands a few feet back, watching them. Silent, yet observant.
“Yes, you’re right. I’m here now for my family. Nothing more. We agreed distance was best.” Mémé clears her throat and holds her head high.
“Of course, family always comes first.” Percival sneers.
“Can you say your lord and his court come second?”
Percival growls. The foreign scowl makes me jerk. “No. But my people aren’t so narrow-minded.”
“We all don’t have the benefit of decades under our belt.”
Points to Mémé.
Alida clears he throat. “We’re not here for this.” Mémé and Percival turn toward her. “This is bigger than a failed romance not meant to be. People are disappearing on both sides.”
Mémé seems to deflate. “Alida’s right.”
“How can I help?” Percival asks, suddenly looking ancient as the fight leaves him.
“Do you know anything about the witches who’ve disappeared?” Mémé questions.
“No.”
“The unease in the witch community is growing. We’ve never been attacked in our hometowns before. I fear what they may do soon.”
“They think this is vamp related then?” he asks.
“It’d be the best bet.”
“If we were the ones causing this, why would our own be affected?” Percival reasons.
“Panic has never bred common sense.”
He grabs her hand. “I will investigate further and see what I can find.”
The scene fades, and we return to the garden.
“You want me to talk to them about the past, don’t you?”
Alida nods. I turn the scene over in my mind. Mémé alluded to having a crush on Percival, but what I saw was much more than that. Perhaps I don’t know my family as well as I thought. Alida was killed in the Reaping, the second wave of witch hunting; no one likes to bring it up. The scars physical, mental, and other run deep. With the ancestors are getting involved, the choice was taken from me. I need to prepare to have an uncomfortable conversation. Alida flickers out of view.
Soon.
Chapter Four
Seated at the long wooden table, I carefully strip the dried herbs from the stems and place them into their proper glass containers. Replenishing inventory is a tedious affair. We pride ourselves on having the freshest. Ensuring that statement is true costs hard labor and stiff fingers. Vain creatures that we are, it’s a point of pride that keeps us harvesting throughout the year.
After an hour, I’ve found a rhythm. The stripping and sorting are almost cathartic. My mind is blissfully blank while I work. Today’s hectic morning shift was exactly what I needed. That kind of pace makes worry impossible. That’s the best part about helping others. You’re literally too focused on others to worry about yourself. Today Mémé is in the shop. She only comes in twice a week, so it’s always abnormally busy. At ninety, she deserves more time off.
“How are you doing back here?”
Speak of the devil. I glance up at Mémé and smile. “It’s coming along. Did Mom come in to relieve you for a bit? I know Felicite is good, but the mini-mob was lined out the door.”
“She did. It feels like everyone and their mother choose to come in today.”
I hum in agreement. “It made the time fly, though.”
“That it did.” She takes a seat in the chair beside me, and I’m hit with thoughts of Alida.
“Mémé, I had an interesting visitor in my Moon Garden the other night,” I say casually.
She chuckles. “What critter did you catch messing with your flowers? Do you need an old remedy to get rid of them?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a living being.” I study her from beneath my lashes.
Her eyes flicker toward me, and her pupils dilate. “You’re seeing the dead now?”
I nod my head. “Only this one so far. I think it was more her projecting than me gaining a new skill.”
“Anyone I know?”
I set down the herbs and turn my body toward her. “Alida.”
“My sister?” she whispers. The color leaves her face.
My stomach twists like a tornado, and I question my judgment call. Mémé is not a young woman. Should I be burdening her with this? There’s a reason I’m taking over her position in the family.
“What did she say?” Mémé whispers.
“She never actually spoke, but she did show me a memory of you and Percy talking about missing people.” Blood settles in her cheeks and neck. “What was Percival to you exactly? Because he seemed like much more than some school girl crush.”
“The one who got away, but never stayed gone. The ultimate temptation that’s haunted me.” The depth of her feelings leaves me speechless. “An ally in the darkest of times. My best friend.” Her voice cracks. The longing and regret I once glimpsed in Percival’s eyes goes both ways.
“I think she wants me to ask you about the Reaping.”
Mémé fists her rose-colored, floor-length skirt. “Those were terrifying days.”
“I know, Mémé. I would never ask this of you if Alida hadn’t shown up.”
“It changed everything, morphed people into strangers and friends into foes. Those troubled times turned brother against brother and mothers against children. We were so divided. It’s a miracle they didn’t slay us all. There were two major groups of thought. Those who saw it as every man for themselves, and sought only to protect their own, and others like me who understood together we’d be stronger.” She trails off, eyes seeing something I can’t.
“What happened to those people?”
“They were slaughtered.
“Their ignorance and rigidity made them vulnerable to attack. We lost so many. I tried to tell them this was more than a witch-hunt. It was too broad and well organized. Everyone was being hit. In order to survive, we needed to be bigger than our prejudices and band together with the others, the way the hunters had.” The horror etched on her face burns itself into my brain. I’ve never seen her so distraught. Her entire body is trembling.
“They let people die. Pride was chosen over everything else. So much blood spilled.” She places a hand on her neck.
“What changed?”
“Our numbers dwindled, and I came into power because Maman fell. I went against them all, brokered the treaties we now live by, and fought the resistance. I stood my ground. I had to. I severed connections that would have led to our demise at a great personal expense to myself. I’ve gone over it so many times in my head since that night. I can’t stop wondering if I could’ve done it differently.” A sob erupts from her throat.
Jumping from my chair, I move to embrace her.
“Mémé?”
“I tore this family in two. Every time I think of how few of us remain I blame myself.”
I rest my cheek against her head, wishing I could take her pain away. “What would have happened had you not stood your ground?”
“None of us would be here now. It took all of us working together to defeat the hunters.” She sniffs.
“A wise woman once told me, being a leader means making the hard calls, and pissing people off.”
She gives a half laugh. “Using my own words against me?”
“When you learn from the best, there’s no reason to deviate.”
“I’ve held on to these secrets for a long time. Perhaps it’s time I air my dirtiest laundry.” She straightens and wipes her face. “It starts off benign. A difference of opinions. Each family member picked a side. It was as if someone had drawn a line straight down the center of us all.”
“Mémé. We have Fae.” My cousin’s panic-stricken face appears in the doorframe. The whites of her eyes stand out against her brown irises. Her dark hair falls across her forehead.
“We can’t keep them waiting. Send them back.”
What the hell is a fairy doing here? I stand.
Mémé raises her hand. “Stay, Lou.”
Confused, I return to my seat. I try not to gasp when the porcelain-skinned goddess with flowing, wavy, black hair, pointed ears, and a perfectly symmetrical heart-shaped face slinks into the room. Her movements transcend gracefully and fall into the otherworldly category. Her skin is luminous, lit from inside as if she swallowed the moon.
Her black gown shimmers as it trails out behind her, rippling like a living ink stain with every step she takes. Two steps behind her twins follow in her wake. Their eyes are a shade of black no human could ever hope to possess. Full of reflected light and the knowledge of ages, they make my blood run cold. Despite their beauty, these men are deadly. Bone straight, black hair tumbles around their sharp, angular features. A strong jawline and thin lips lend to their androgynous appearance.
“Sebile.”
“Witch.” Her voice is like wind blowing through the trees, haunting and eerie.