Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1)

by Margo Bond Collins

“Nice to meet you, Elinor. Are you looking to get something done?”

  “I er …” Allan elbowed me in the arm. “Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

  “Well, best to be sure, first. Or drunk. Drunk people are usually pretty sure. I just finished up a residency at a shop in Prague, and a drunk guy came in absolutely adamant that he wanted a SpongeBob Squarepants tattooed on his forehead. He’s lucky I have a policy against inking cartoon characters.” The boy on the table snorted. Bianca continued to talk to me, even as she worked on adding shading to the bones that formed the spine of the wings. “Do you live near here? I think I’ve seen you walking around the shops before.”

  “Not exactly. I actually live in London. I’m a lawyer. I’m here on an assignment for my firm.”

  Bianca glanced up at me with those big eyes, tilting her head to the side as she looked me up and down. “Interesting. I don’t tattoo many lawyers. Plenty of defendants, but no lawyers.”

  “I’m just an estate lawyer, nothing as interesting as defending criminals in court. I mostly shuffle paperwork and help the relatives of dead people get their hands on free stuff.”

  “Don’t talk like that. No one is just anything. I bet you had to work incredibly hard to get where you are. My mother used to say when she introduced me to her friends, “This is Bianca. She is a professional artist.” And then people start talking to me about Picasso and I have to show them my sleeve and explain what I really do.” Bianca laughed as she gestured to her right arm, where Van Gogh’s Starry Night had been exquisitely rendered across her forearm.

  “Your parents are proud of you?” I clamped my hand over my mouth as Bianca laughed. “I’m sorry, that came out so bitchy. It just surprises me. My parents would probably have disowned me if I hadn’t followed them into the legal field. In fact, they probably will disown me if they ever found out I got a tattoo.”

  “Oh, I admit there was a time when they were bitterly disappointed I didn’t go to art school,” said Bianca. “But they know me well enough to know I don’t do things the conventional way. Now, my mum cuts all my work out of tattoo magazines. She has a scrapbook of press clippings and she brings it out whenever her friends are talking about their kids. It’s really sweet, actually.”

  “She sounds like a cool mum.”

  “She has her moments.” Bianca rolled her eyes. “So what brings a big city lawyer to little old Crookshollow?”

  “I’m working for the estate of Alice Marshell.”

  Bianca’s eyes looked sad. “I read about her death in the paper, and Eric’s too, of course. It’s so sad that she died within days of her son, almost as if she sensed he’d gone. I actually went to high school with Eric. I had such a crush on him back then.”

  Beside me, Allan laughed. “You wouldn’t be the only one.”

  “Back then I probably was. He wasn’t exactly popular. A bit too thin and weedy, I think. But he always had those dark, dangerous eyes.”

  “And that brooding, morose personality,” Allan added. Bianca grinned.

  “What was he like?” I asked, ignoring Allan.

  “Eric? Oh, when school started he was actually kind of popular. He played on the cricket team, and was a bit of a jock, although he didn’t seem overly arrogant or anything. He was happy just following along with whatever his friends did. But then, when he turned twelve he changed. He came back from summer break completely dressed in black, his hair in dreadlocks. He didn’t talk to anyone, stopped hanging out with his friends, and started coming down onto the football fields with my group of misfits to get stoned and talk about music. He told me his father left, and that’s what made him focus on the violin as his instrument. He wanted to understand his father’s mind. Eric won all the music competitions at school, even beating out the kids several grades above him. Eric was brilliant, he came first in all his classes, but he never had many friends, and he didn’t really seem interested in making them. All he cared about was the music. The teachers called him a savant, but he never smiled when he played. I always remember that. He never smiled much at all.”

  “Hey, Bianca. I’m getting cold down here!” The boy on the table said.

  “Sorry, Carl.” Bianca shrugged, and picked up her needle again. “It’s been nice talking to you, but I’d better get back to work.”

  Allan tugged my arm. “I should probably get you home. I’m sure Bianca would like to get back to her client.”

  “Oh, sure.” I nodded, feeling foolish. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

  “It was awesome to meet you, Elinor. Come down to the shop if you ever need to get out of that creepy old house. I’m always here. I even live upstairs. We could get coffee.”

  I beamed. “Thanks. I may just do that.”

  As we left the shop, I punched Allan playfully in the arm. He rubbed the spot, pretending to be hurt. “What was that for?”

  “For taking me in there. For getting me out of the house. For making me forget about Eric’s awful death for a few hours.”

  “Next time, keep your thanks to yourself.” Allan grinned, his eyes sparkling. We turned into the driveway, and he led me up the steps to the porch. “I had a really great time tonight.”

  “Me too,” I said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gone on an actual date. Usually my encounters with guys are drive-by gropings on the dance floor.”

  Allan laughed. “Those guys are idiots. You deserve to be treated like a lady, Elinor.”

  Before I could blink, Allan had closed the space between us, and his lips were pressed up against mine. All night I’d been staring at those lips, wondering what it would be like to be with him, what it would feel like to play with that tongue stud. But when Allan tried to prise my lips open and shove his tongue between my teeth, all I could think about was Eric. Kissing Allan … it felt wrong, like I was betraying Eric somehow. I closed my eyes and tried to push the thoughts away, but all I could see was Eric’s face in my mind. I wish it could be you.

  I pulled away, shaking my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t—”

  Allan looked confused. “Is there someone else?”

  “Not exactly. I’m just—” I didn’t know what to say, how to explain. “I am sort of getting over someone. I like you a lot, Allan. It just feels too soon to be kissing someone else like this.”

  Allan wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pressing my face against his broad, muscular shoulder. “It’s OK. I won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

  I stared down at a spot on the railing, my face growing hot with embarrassment and emotion. I felt like such an idiot. “I need to go inside now. I really am sorry.”

  “Please, Elinor. Forget it. Can I see you again?” Allan asked hopefully.

  I looked up at his bright eyes and earnest face. “You want to see me again, after I … after I ruined our date?”

  “You ruined nothing. You’re worth the wait, Elinor. I have some business that will occupy me for the next couple of days, but could I be your date for the funeral on Saturday? It would be nice to have a supportive person there while I give the eulogy. I know that sounds like a really morbid date, but trust me, Eric’s funeral isn’t your normal prayers and hymns affair.”

  “Sure.” I smiled, my hand gripping the door handle. Eric’s funeral. How would I make it through that? Maybe I’d just get really, really drunk, and then everything Eric and I had done the other night would become just a dream. Maybe by Saturday I would be over this weird thing between Eric and I.

  Allan waved at me, and jogged up the drive, his black-clad frame disappearing into the darkness, so that all I could see was the bright halo of his white hair growing smaller. I sucked in a breath, willing my legs to stop shaking, and went inside.

  ERIC

  The attic only had two small, filthy windows that faced the front of the house, so I came down to my bedroom and watched through the round window as Elinor and Allan walked up the drive. The moonlight made his bleached hair gleam like a giant white orb. Allan leaned close to her
and whispered something in her ear, and she threw her head back and laughed with abandon, her brown locks rippling down her back. I balled my hands into fists.

  They disappeared under the porch, and I listened for the creak of the front door opening, but it didn’t come. Of course, they were on a date. They were doing the kinds of things people on a date did on the front porch.

  Allan, you bastard.

  A deep rage rose up from within me, and heat coursed through my body. I lashed out with my foot, flinging a wild kick at the trunk at the foot of my old bed, desperate to let my frustration out. My foot hit the side of the trunk, sending a shooting pain up the side of my leg.

  “Ow,” I grabbed for my foot, my eyes watering from the pain of the impact. I hopped on the floor while I gripped my throbbing toes, my good foot disappearing a few inches into the floorboards each time.

  Hang on a second …

  I stared down at my throbbing foot. It really had happened. I’d kicked the trunk, and it had felt solid.

  I took a cautious step toward the trunk, reached out with my fingers. My hand passed right through it, as though it wasn’t really there. Although, of course, I was the one who wasn’t really there.

  So how come I felt my foot connect with the box? How come my toes were throbbing? The pain felt as real as anything I could remember. The only other thing that had felt as real to me was Elinor—

  What was happening to me? Was I a ghost or wasn’t I?

  I wound my foot back, pulling my thigh up toward my chest. Then, releasing all of my might, I flung my leg out at the trunk. I cried out as I sailed straight through the wood, toppling over myself and landing with my head through the ceiling of the room below.

  Rage bubbled up inside of me. Why did I keep getting close to something real, only to have it torn away again? Why did this stupid ability to feel objects and people keep coming and going? Why didn’t I have any control over it?

  You’re getting all emotional, Eric. I scolded myself. Approach this like Elinor would, with common sense. Use all that air between your ears and think. What happened differently all the times you managed to move something?

  I ticked them off in my mind. I twisted the lock in the door. Elinor touched me and I lifted the cup. I kicked the chest. Elinor and I ...

  I couldn’t see any common element between the events, apart from the fact they all happened to me and they had all occurred since Elinor arrived in the house. But that didn’t seem like enough of a connection. If Elinor and I were talking, I could ask her about it, and I bet she’d come up with an answer, but I didn’t feel like talking to her right now.

  Speak of the devil … I heard the front door click shut and footsteps padding up the staircase. The light in the hall clicked on. A few minutes later, Elinor appeared at the door, her face flushed from the cold, her hair a wild tangle around her face. “There you are,” she said, her voice stilted, nervous. “It’s good to see you downstairs again. Why are you holding your foot like that?”

  “Oh, no reason.” I let go of my toes. I felt a pang in my chest as I looked at her beautiful face, flushed with colour from the cold night air and whatever Allan had been doing to her. I wanted to tell her about kicking the chest, but I could hardly bear to look at her, knowing she had the scent of Allan on her lips. “How was your date?”

  “Please, Eric. Don’t be like that. It wasn’t really a date. I met someone you knew tonight,” she said. “Bianca Sinclair, at Resurrection Ink.”

  Bianca? The quiet, arty chick turned badass tattoo artist—the only other remotely interesting person to come out of Crookshollow Grammar school? “Is she still around? I would have thought she’d be running some huge shop in London or Stockholm or Berlin now. She has a rare talent.”

  “She said she just got back from a month guesting in Prague, but she likes her small-town roots. She’s invited me to come hang out with her. Would that be OK?”

  “You don’t need my permission,” I growled. You didn’t ask me if it was OK to go out with Allan. Because it’s not OK.

  “I know, but I didn’t want it to be weird for you, me hanging out with people you knew while you were—” she bit her lower lip. Damn, she looked so hot when she did that.

  “You didn’t think to ask me when you went on a date with my drummer.”

  “That was different. Allan is clearly distraught about your death. I wanted to offer support.”

  “And your kind of support is spreading your legs for him?”

  “You’re such a dick, Eric Marshell.” Tears pooled in her eyes. Elinor spun on her heel and fled the room. A few moments later, the door to the study slammed shut.

  I hurled myself down the stairs, ready to go after her and apologise, but just before I could float through the door, I changed my mind. Why was I running after her? She was the one who hurt me.

  “Fuck!” I yelled, screwing my hands into fists.

  Let her sulk in there and miss out on my big news. It serves her right for taking up with Allan when she knew I ...

  But whatever I told myself, I couldn’t shake the horrible feeling in my stomach that actually, I was being a dick. I knew I should go and apologise, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I pictured Elinor naked beneath me, those bow-shaped lips parted with a sigh of ecstasy. I remembered the way her body nestled so perfectly against mine. My chest ached. We could have had a chance, if Elinor hadn’t rejected me for Allan.

  But Elinor was right. We had no chance. That’s what hurt most of all. She could have no future with me, and she wasn’t the kind of girl who could just abandon herself to the moment. She needed a plan, a future, and I could give her neither. She’d made her choice, and it was Allan.

  Somehow, if I was going to get her help in bringing Helen Manning to justice, I had to find a way to deal with that.

  ELINOR

  I could hear Eric cursing through the floor above me. I wanted to go back upstairs and assure him that I wasn’t involved with Allan, but his words from earlier still stung. So I stayed in the study most of the night, drinking bourbon beside the fire, listening to Ghost Symphony through my headphones and texting Cindy about the new guy she was seeing. She wouldn’t tell me much about him, but she seemed pretty smitten. When I went up to bed at 2am, Eric was nowhere to be seen. he’d probably gone back up to the attic again.

  Good riddance, I told myself, although I didn’t believe it.

  ***

  The next day, Eric wasn’t there when I went down for breakfast. I made some toast, poured some coffee, and read through the news headlines on my phone. There was a notice that the police had released Eric’s body ready for his funeral on Saturday. They still had not located the other driver. They were calling it vehicular manslaughter, which meant they still had no idea about Helen Manning. I started to walk up the stairs to tell Eric about it, but then I heard him yell some kind of curse again, and something crashed against the floor, and I decided against it.

  Eric’s funeral.

  He was upset enough already about Allan. I shouldn’t add to his distress by discussing the funeral. When his body was buried in that mausoleum and everyone came and said eulogies and there was cake, that seemed so … final. It was already Tuesday. We only had a few more days to bring Helen to justice before Eric’s body was interred.

  I went to the study, jammed some house music on the speakers, and worked for a few hours, but my mind wasn’t on the task. I kept imagining Eric’s body still and stiff in a coffin. Helen’s ticket stub was lying beside me on the table, its presence reminding me that I wasn’t any closer to finding the killer.

  Next to the ticket stub was the letter from Eric’s lawyer. Taking a deep breath, I called the number and spoke briefly with Thomas Pinchton of Pinchton & Son. He curtly confirmed that the letter was legitimate and Eric Marshell had left both Tristan and Isolde to Allan. I thanked him for his time and wished him well, although he’d hung up before I even finished my sentence.

  “Die in a fire,” I snapped
at my silent phone. At least that cleared up Eric’s ridiculous notions about Allan’s motives.

  Sighing, I decided it was time for a break. I sat down beside the large bay window with a cup of tea. I’d opened the heavy curtains and grey light streamed into the dark study. The gardeners were already hard at work on the front garden. A huge skip sat on the driveway, nearly overflowing with trailing weeds. One of the gardeners was wheeling an industrial-sized ride-on mower down from the back of a truck. Above their heads, I could see sunlight desperate to peek through the clouds. It might actually be a slightly nice day out there. I looked at my watch. Lunchtime. I decided to head down the road to grab a sandwich, and see if Bianca was at home.

  Eric floated down the stairs just as I was pulling my coat on.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded in his possessive tone.

  “Out,” I snapped, instantly on the defensive. How dare he act like I owe him an explanation after the way he acted yesterday?

  “Are you going to see Allan again?”

  “That’s none of your goddamn business.”

  “Fine,” Eric floated into the study, the door slamming shut behind him. I cringed at the sound. But he could be as angry as he wanted. I resisted the urge to yell something about his funeral through the closed door, but that wouldn’t be right. I would wait until we made up. If we ever did.

  I gathered my bag and sketchbook and went down to the corner shops. I brought some fish and chips and mushy peas from the takeaway, and headed over to the tattoo parlour. It was early, but the door was open a crack. I went inside, but the shop was shut up, a metal grate pulled down over the entrance. Next to the door, a small staircase led up to the second-storey flat. I climbed up and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” a sleepy voice groaned.

  I pushed open the door, not sure what I expected to see. Bianca’s apartment was tiny—a small shoebox of a living-room greeted me, lit by sunlight streaming in from a floor-to-ceiling window. A single bench on the back wall and a tiny table beneath a sunny window served as a kitchen. Down a short hall I could see a bedroom, and that appeared to be the only other room in the place. But despite its size, the place was homely and colourful. Every spare inch of wallspace was covered with artwork—paintings in gilded frames, sketches and scraps of paper, road signs, postcards, hubcaps, clippings from magazines, all sorts of things. Bianca’s sofas were covered in ethnic blankets in stripes of red and gold, and her coffee table was a long, dark mahogany box covered with stacks of books and magazines and several candles in various stages of melting.