No Rest for the Wicca

by Toni LoTempio

  “Gee, thanks,” I grumbled.

  He kissed the top of my head lightly. “On a more personal note, I’d like to keep seeing you, Morgan. If it’s all right with you, that is.”

  I moved into the circle of his arms, didn’t protest when his fingers started to lightly knead my neck and shoulders, washing away the tenseness of the past week and a half, and my current doubts. I leaned into him and sighed.

  Caring for a man didn’t always mean you had to surrender the best part of yourself. Sometimes, if you were really lucky, you found an equal—a compliment. I looked up into those twin dark pools and my heart began to thud in my chest, taking my breath away. The corners of my lips curved upward.

  Surrendering one small part of myself surely couldn’t hurt.

  . “Yeah,” I whispered into his chest. “Yeah, it’s all right with me.”

  Chapter 22

  I took the next two days off, spent most of them vegging in bed. A well-deserved rest, Cole called it. Thursday I called the hospital to check on Dru, learned there was no change. Xia made me tea, grilled cheese sandwiches, and had the good sense to leave me alone. I needed time to think, to rest, recharge my batteries, and try and make some sense out of recent events. Needless to say, I had little success.

  Friday morning, when I swung through the doors at PSI, the first thing my eyes lit on was the banner, stretched halfway across the hall. It was pink and lime green, two colors I hated, and there were multicolored shooting stars scattered across the boldly printed words:

  WELCOME BACK MORGAN

  Danny was at the front desk, and I shook my fist at him. “What in hell—“ I laughed.

  He swung out of his chair, came round the desk, enveloped me in a bear-hug. “Aw, it’s just a little something to show we care. Believe it or not, we missed you around here.”

  “Yeah, well, I missed you guys too,” I mumbled against his shoulder. “But next time do it up right. Electric blue and yellow.”

  “You got it.”

  I pushed out of the embrace, and he chuckled as he pointed to a stack of manila folders. “Your caseload,” he closed one eye in a wink. “Sure hope the fancy higher education you got proves to be worth it. There’s a lot of spirits and daemons trapped between worlds what need your special touch.”

  I held out my arms and he plopped the pile of folders into it. “Well, you know what they say—busy hands, etc.”

  I turned and started down the corridor to my cubbyhole. Danny fell into step beside me. “So,” he whispered, “How’d it feel?”

  “How’d what feel?”

  “You know.” He cast a furtive glance around. “Your special assignment. Working a murder case again? Did the old rush come back with a crash?”

  I sighed. “One could say so, yes. And why are you whispering? I can’t believe the gossip chain didn’t get some wind of what I was doing?”

  We paused in front of my office door. He looked at me. “There were some suspicions,” he admitted.

  “I expected as such.”

  “Petrie seemed especially interested in your whereabouts,” Danny leaned close to me. “Have to beat him off with a stick, dontcha?”

  “Like to beat him with a stick,” I muttered. “You didn’t let on, right?”

  He shook his head. “Gilley and I were under strict orders, no one other than he and I were to be aware of your real assignment. However, I’m afraid you’re in for some really bad razzing from the guys.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Frigging great.”

  Danny pushed the door open and we walked in. I paused before my desk, sniffed at the air. There was a kind of funny smell, like something had died. I dropped the folders—plop!—square in the middle of the blotter and went to open the window. I stood and breathed deeply of the fresh air, started as I turned to find Danny at my elbow.

  “You don’t know how hard it was to keep your involvement in the case secret,” he murmured. “The story’s been all over the news. It’s all anyone talks about. I mean, who’d have thought Professor Graft would be involved in such a heinous plot? What makes people do such things? I thought he’s some sort of frigging genius.”

  “Yeah, he was a friggin’ genius, all right.” A gentle breeze wafted in from the window, and I sniffed the air. The repugnant smell was fainter, but it was still there, a faint stench. “Those are the kind affected most by madness.”

  “True. The man’s mind must have snapped.” Danny shook his head. “According to the report, this girl—Dru Cooke—killed him to avenge the death of her best friend. Is that what really happened?”

  I swallowed. “As far as we can tell, yeah. That’s how it went down.”

  He rubbed at his chin. “It’s a horrible experience for her to have gone through. You know, she’s kind of a hero. I sure hope she comes out of her coma. I think the Mayor will probably dedicate a street or something in her honor.”

  I smiled faintly and sat down in my chair, pushed the pile of folders back and propped my feet up on the edge. “I doubt it, but she definitely deserves to be rewarded for what she did, and not punished. I had some classes with her, got to know her pretty well. She’s—a nice girl.” And if she’s a murderer, I’ll eat that god-awful banner. “The kind you should date more often, instead of your usual bimbo.”

  He came over, patted my hand. “I’m glad you’re back. Safe and sound.”

  “Sure, sure, tell the truth. You were afraid there’d be no more free bagels.”

  He laughed. “Don’t forget the Krispy Kremes.” In the doorway he paused. “When you’re settled in, Gilley wants to see you.”

  I just bet he does. “Okay. Thanks, Dan.”

  “Anytime.”

  He went out, closing the door behind him, leaving me alone. I leaned back in my chair, and my eye fell on the wastebasket, a rolled newspaper sticking up. I picked up the paper, spread it across my desk. It was dated the day after the murder and the headline stood out in bold, black type:

  STUDENT PULLS TRIGGER ON PROFESSOR LINKED TO SERIAL KILLINGS.

  Beneath the headline was a fairly recent headshot photo of Graft and next to that were photographs of the five victims, all in a circle. In the center was one of Dru, who looked very young in the photo, I thought. Innocent. I gnawed at my bottom lip. No way did you do this, Dru. No way.

  The stench flowed over me, choking me. I sat bolt upright, gasping for air, my hands curled into claws. The vein above my left eye began to throb, and then I heard it—a whisper at first, then louder, louder, until there was a cacophony in my brain, back and forth, back and forth, so loud I was certain my head would split. They all spoke at once, words flowing into one another, as if powered by some cosmic force:

  Dru didn’t do this.

  It’s not over.

  Two more. Two more.

  The Blood of Seven – they must not get it. He must not be released.

  I reared up out of my chair, forehead slick with sweat, hands over both ears.

  “Christ,” I muttered. “I’ll bet Graft wasn’t even involved. The witch-killer is still out there.”

  Gilley watched me with tired eyes as I paced back and forth in front of his desk.

  “Trust me, Captain, Dru might talk big but when you come right down to it, she’s basically harmless. I think someone set them both up.”

  Gilley picked up his pencil, tapped the eraser end of it against his blotter. “I agree, it does seem a convenient ending Morgan, but—the evidence speaks for itself. The diary was in Graft’s handwriting.”

  “Any witch worth her salt could falsify that,” I said.

  “Granted, but—there’s no evidence of anyone else being involved. I know it all seems too good to be true, but—it had to be Graft.”

  I shook my head stubbornly. “I just can’t agree with that, sir.”

  “And what is it that makes you feel that way, Morgan?”

  I tapped my breastbone. “Here, sir. I feel it here.”

  His lips twitched. “Last I heard, witch
’s intuition isn’t admissible in a court of law.”

  I stopped pacing and flopped down in the scarred chair opposite Gilley’s desk. “Maybe it should be, sir. Dammit!” I brought my fist down on his desk, so hard his pencil cup jumped. “There’s no way she could ever kill anyone, sir, not even if she worked herself up into a real lather of a rage. It’s just not in the girl. Not unless she were under some sort of spell.”

  Gilley clucked his tongue. “Now, Morgan. You don’t know what this girl is capable of. You only knew her a few days. People wear all sorts of masks, you know.”

  I shook my head. “No. It just doesn’t jive, sir. There’s a lot of holes in this so-called solved case. For one thing, I’m not so sure I buy the fact that Graft, even if he were the killer, would write down all the details in a diary and leave it lying about for Florrie to find and take. He didn’t strike me as a careless individual. I can buy that he was involved—he might even have done some of the killings. But he didn’t work alone.”

  Gilley gave me a thin smile. “Commander Stone doesn’t agree with you, Morgan.”

  “If I may say so, Commander Stone isn’t very broad-minded, sir.” I mumbled. Impulsively I reached for Gilley’s hand. “Captain, couldn’t we contact Dean Robbins? Explain the situation? I know he’d help us.”

  Gilley sighed. “Explain what exactly, Morgan? Your gut feeling the real perp hasn’t been caught? You haven’t a clue as to who might have been working with Graft. Your other two prime suspects didn’t pan out. Erdos was a wash, and Morrow was under surveillance and nowhere near the premises. There’s no other candidates.”

  “Are we certain about Morrow?” I persisted. “He might have snuck out without the detective seeing him.”

  “He might have, but he didn’t. Seems Professor Morrow likes to record himself doing his daily exercise, so he can go back over the tapes and see what he can do better. According to them, he was doing sit-ups at the time of death.” He leaned back heavily in his chair. “Face it, Hawkes, you’ve got nothing. Take the rest of the day off—“ He held up his hand as I opened my mouth to protest. “No buts. Take it off, get yourself together. Tomorrow there’s a troll down in Surreytown who needs your help exorcising his uncle’s ghost from an air vent. You’ll need your wits about you.”

  I bit my lip. “But sir—“

  He gave me what amounted to his equivalent of an evil eye. “No buts, Hawkes. Dismissed.”

  “Are you going to eat something, or just sit there and stare at the wall all afternoon?”

  Xia stood in the doorway of my den, a plate in one hand, glass in the other. I’d come home from work, gone straight into my den, and had been sitting there in the dark for the last two hours. The dark, the quiet usually aids me in getting my thoughts together when I’m in a tizzy, but today nothing seemed to help.

  “I’m not very hungry,” I murmured. I picked up a pen, started doodling aimlessly on the yellow pad in front of me. “It doesn’t fit,” I sighed. “It just doesn’t jibe.”

  Xia set the plate and glass down on a low table, settled herself into a high-backed chair near my desk. “Want to talk it out? Sometimes voicing your thoughts makes them…more cohesive.”

  I turned my head slightly, offered my cousin a small smile. “I hate to bother you with all this…investigative business. I know you don’t like it.”

  Xia waved her hand. “It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not. Five girls—five sister witches—and one innocent are dead. If bouncing your theories off a sounding board will help, I’m here to listen.”

  I flashed her a grateful smile. “Okay.” I stood up, dragged my hands through my hair, and started to pace. “Let’s go back to the beginning.”

  “Okay.” Xia settled back in the chair. “You got a call from Gilley your services were required—“

  I shook my head. “No. I mean the very beginning. Tell me about Darla.”

  Xia’s eyes flew open. “Darla? What do you want to know?”

  I laced my hands behind my head. “Apparently, she was versed in both white and black magic.”

  “True.” Xia’s finger traced a circular pattern on the arm of her chair. “She followed the Wiccan code mostly, but she was fascinated by the dark side. None of us could deny it. We—we all warned her, told her those morbid fascinations would get her into trouble one day.”

  “She was really into the Satanism?”

  Xia compressed her lips. “Darla knew how we felt about it, and she never pressed her little hobbies on us. But every now and again she couldn’t resist the urge to talk about something she’d read, discovered. And—“ she expelled a long breath. “She loved to research ancient spells. She excelled at such things.”

  “What exactly did she delve into?”

  “You name it. Dark ceremonies, the Black Mass, drinking of blood, human sacrifice—“

  “How about the calling up of daemons?”

  Xia’s chin lifted, and her eyes met mine. “Yes. Even that.”

  “Did she perform any rituals?”

  Xia squirmed a little. “I couldn’t say for sure, but—I believe she tried. Whether or not she had any success, I couldn’t say.”

  “So she did mix Wiccan and black magic—or tried to, at least.”

  “We warned her. But she thought she knew best.”

  Aha. Now I’m getting somewhere. “I don’t suppose Darla ever mentioned any of these daemons she was so fond of by name?”

  Xia furrowed her brow. “No, of course not. She’d never mention such a thing around us. Why? Don’t tell me you think she planned to call up the daemon herself?”

  I tapped my forefinger against my chin. “No, but I do think she realized the significance of the spell. Graft probably sold her a line of goods, told her he needed the spell to cement his research—make the link between the voodoo world and Satanic.”

  Xia nodded slowly. “Darla would have fallen for such a line. She always said she wanted to make some sort of contribution to the world.”

  “Graft preyed upon her feelings, I’m certain. So, let’s see. She wants to ensure she’s given the recognition she deserves, so she decides to meet up with Graft before your meeting and work out the details. We know she gave the book to Florrie—maybe she threatened Graft with not giving him the volume unless he capitulated—maybe she even threatens to start blabbing to other people about what’s in the book. Maybe she runs a bluff, tells him she’s got other interested parties. The coroner said the job wasn’t as neat as the others—maybe he panicked, killed her. He knew she had the blood, so it wasn’t a total waste—someone else was spared that night.”

  Xia’s hand went to her throat. “So, when he attacked me, he didn’t intend to kill me? He just wanted to get away before I saw him?”

  “He didn’t want to kill you,” I muttered. “We know it know. One sacrifice at a time, on those nights of the moon phases.” I leaned back, rested my bare feet on the coffee table, crossed them at the ankles and looked at Xia. “Maybe it wasn’t Graft who attacked you. Can you tell me exactly what happened that night? As best as you remember?”

  “Sure.” She hunched forward, hands twisting in her lap. “I went to the room where we were supposed to meet. It was dark, and I groped on the wall for the switch.”

  “Did you say anything when you entered?”

  Furrowing her brow, she nodded. “Yes. I opened the door very slowly, and said, “Hello? Darla? It’s Xia. Are you here? Then, as I felt along the wall, I heard a strange sound—a flapping of wings. I felt something brush against my hand for a split second, and I looked upward. I thought I saw a shadow of a large bird, with a tremendous beak—I was startled. I gasped, I guess, and took a step back and the next thing I knew, a pair of strong hands went round my throat—then I blacked out.”

  I swung my feet off the coffee table and sat up straight. “You didn’t say you saw anything before, Xia.”

  She licked at her lips. “I know. I—I was afraid to, because I—I’m really not certain. You
know how sometimes your eyes play tricks on you, and you think you see something, but it’s all in your head?”

  “Many times,” I said. “This is important, though, Xia. Think, really think hard. Did you actually see a bird?”

  Xia hesitated. “It all happened so fast. I—I’m really not sure. But—“ she twisted her hands in her lap. “Yes,” she said suddenly. “Yes. I did. ”

  “A bird,” I muttered. “Now that’s interesting.” I rolled my shoulders, leaned my head forward, let it drop into my hands. I sat still for a few minutes, letting my thoughts coalesce.

  “Morgan.” Xia touched my shoulder. “Are you allright?”

  My head jerked up. “Zeus,” I cried. “I think I’ve got it.” I scrambled to my feet. “Come with me.”

  In my office, I went to my large walk-in closet and pulled the box containing my father’s papers off the shelf. I slammed it on the desk, tore the top off. The journal lay where I’d put it, right on top, and I snatched it, started to thumb through it.

  Xia looked at me anxiously. “What are you looking for?”

  “You’ll see when I find it,” I remarked, then suddenly gave a little cry and passed the book to her. “Look at this. Does it look like what you saw?”

  Xia studied the drawing. “Well, as I said, it was very dark, and I only had a fleeting glimpse, but—yes. Yes, it does look like what I saw. Exactly.” She passed the journal back to me. “What is it?”

  “This,” I said, as I tucked the book back into the box, “Is a drawing of Ogau’s familiar—the large, winged bird he uses to commune with his followers.”

  Xia’s eyes widened bigger than saucers. “You mean—the daemon was in the room with me? But I thought he had to be summoned?”

  “He does. What you saw wasn’t the daemon himself.”

  Her eyes clouded over. “I don’t follow.”

  “You don’t have to, not really.” I dragged my hand through my hair. “It fits—it could fit.” I looked at my cousin. “If I’m right, the danger’s still out there.”