Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  Spike, my black-and-white tabby, greeted me as I approached the front door with my load of work. The plump cat flopped down and rolled on his back, tail twitching in excitement. Stroking his exposed belly with the toe of my shoe, I tried not to dump the box balanced on my hip as I unlocked the door. When I finally managed to get inside, Spike dashed under my feet and raced to the kitchen. No doubt he was pissed he’d been locked out the entire night.

  It had been a long thirty-six hours, and I took a moment to let the stillness of the house surround me. Nothing banished stress like a homecoming.

  I slipped off my shoes and walked through the open-plan living room to the kitchen. After a day like today I’d usually hit the liquor cabinet, but I would need every brain cell I could spare so I settled for caffeine instead.

  Armed with a large cup of coffee and the bag of charms in hand, I made my way to the library. It was the largest addition to the main house, almost doubling the footprint along the rear of the building. The large two-story room had been well-used by generations of Harmons, including myself.

  The familiar smell of aged paper greeted me as I pushed open the doors. My father’s family had all been lovers of the arcane and collected books as some people collected stamps. The library was filled with tomes on every imaginable subject and magical working. The leather-bound books and worn journals had been crammed into every possible space on the sturdy, dark wood shelves that reached to the top of the vaulted ceiling.

  I may not have inherited the scholarly tendencies of my family, but I still honored my heritage by paying homage to their legacy. If this house was my sanctuary, then the library was the altar at which I worshiped. It was where I went to find solace and answers.

  Despite its size, the sprawling room was comfortable. Two well worn chairs were tucked in the corner next to a large stone fireplace, and a cozy nook framed the window. I dumped my things on the small desk on the other side of the fireplace and scanned the shelves. Most of the books within arm’s reach covered healing and potions, my grandmother’s specialties, so I pulled out the ladder in order to reach the upper shelves where the large collection of charm books my father had amassed now resided. Within a few minutes, I’d gathered half a dozen books I thought would help, and I started my quest.

  It didn’t take more than an hour of poring over countless texts before I realized I was getting nowhere fast. There was nothing useful in any of the books I’d found. Frustrated, I was ready to give up.

  The wasted time merely served as a reminder of the poor effort I’d put into my training. Chalk it up to teenage rebellion or just youthful arrogance, but I had never found a craft that called to me, and Gran had never pushed. She had always assured me I’d find my way eventually.

  Over the years, I’ve attempted to learn all manner of crafts, picking up interesting skills along the way. I’ve learned to craft simple charms and brew a few useful potions, and even tried my hand at healing, but nothing has ever grabbed my attention. There was a time in my early twenties when I was confident I could be an inker and trained for a few weeks with a tattooist. The spell inking was easy to learn, but lacking an artistic flair I quickly discovered that wasn’t a good fit, either.

  Throughout years of dabbling, I never found my calling as witch. I had my talent under control and that’s all that really mattered to me. Or so I thought. My lack of skill had never bothered me before. During my research, as I hit one wall after another, I realized how that lack of training put me at a disadvantage.

  In a last ditch effort to identify the charms, I decided to try a simple location spell. I could never get most spoken spells to work, so last solstice Charlie had written a simple glyph for me to help keep track of my keys. Making a slight modification, I hoped it would help me find the right book. Tearing open the evidence bag, I picked up the delicate chain I’d taken from Sarah and slipped the dead stone into my palm.

  With a steady hand I traced the glyph on the small stone, adding a symbol for energy to the bottom. I concentrated on the lingering power signature and closed my eyes, pressing will into the glyph. Slowly, I traced my fingers along the spines that lined the shelves as I started my search. Olly, olly, oxen free.

  Fifteen minutes passed and I was only halfway through the shelves. Certain this was a waste of my time, I was ready to give up—but then a small tingle warmed my palm. My eyes shot open and I set my focus on the unique vibrations, slowly running my finger across the spine of each book on the shelf in front of me. The stone buzzed uncomfortably in my fist, almost burning when I fingered the binding of a slim volume with no title. The book was old and fragile, the letters on the cover long since worn away. Gingerly I flipped it open.

  The first page had some long-ago-faded hand-written notes, but I was able to make out the name Harmon. A long dead relative perhaps? I flipped to the title page. Bondage and Subservient Control: An Empath’s Guide. By Thaddeus Harmon.

  An awful feeling settled in my gut. Suddenly I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what secrets lay between the pages of this book. But this was the book I’d been looking for; the magic resonated with the charm.

  I began skimming the thin volume. There were spells and charms all focused on empathic powers, and every one involved enslaving and controlling another person. The index listed a number of magical workings, from influence and persuasion to pathokinesis. On page six, I found a list of charms. About halfway down, I found what I was looking for:

  “Slave collar - A single charm used to bond a servant for complete control. Once a slave is bonded, anyone can control them with the use of a Master Ring. Multiple collars can be tuned to one Master Ring, making this an ideal charm for any slave owner.”

  My stomach turned. I knew then Sarah Pickett had been enslaved. I turned to the section on slave collars to learn more.

  “Slave collars are the most effective way of controlling servants. Once the collar is locked, the servant becomes anima servus and will always be bound to you. While anyone can use the Master Ring to control the slave, the collar can only be removed by the process of retexo ab anima and only by a trained empath.”

  I stared at the words anima servus, soul slave. Not just controlled bodily: the charm controlled the very soul. My hand began to shake and the book slipped from my grasp, hitting the floor with a deafening thud. Transfixed, I stood staring at the offensive manual unable to process what I’d discovered.

  From nowhere, an irrational giggle started to form in my throat. Overwhelmed with the need to get away I turned and fled the room, abandoning the book where it had fallen.

  The heavy door slammed behind me, the echo ringing through the empty house. I pressed against the hard oak surface, barricading the room as if I could keep the horror I had felt caged in the library. Unable to support myself any longer, I slid down the cool wood and came to rest on the hard floor. With my arms wrapped around my chest, I concentrated on breathing and pulled on the centering calm of the lotus.

  In. Out.

  In. Out.

  My head started to spin, and I thought I was going to throw up right there in the hall. My mind tried to deny what I had read. I had no idea such things even existed. The fact that it was an empath ability made me sick. My only solace: Scott Malone was dead. I wished he had suffered more.

  With a desperate need to clear my head, I retreated to the kitchen, turned on the stereo, and cranked the volume. I just had to get involved. Deciding it was now time for liquor, I poured myself a large Scotch and waited for the others while I tried to forget what I’d learned.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Just after five o’clock the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Rick waiting on my doorstep, loaded down with bags.

  “I wasn’t expecting you this early,” I said, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.

  “I thought I could beg forgiveness with some pork fried rice.” He grinned sheepishly and raised a bag with a bright yellow smiley face printed on the side. When I didn’t respond, his smile fa
ltered.

  My angry face was showing. He was a good hour early, and I had been counting on the extra time to finish my Scotch and clear my head.

  Ever persistent, he smiled. “I also brought egg rolls for extra insurance.” Holding up a larger paper bag, he shook it. “I’d really hate to let all this food go to waste.”

  What was I supposed to do, leave the guy on my front porch for the next hour? I contemplated just that for a long moment before my stomach started to growl, overruling my need for solitude. “Make yourself at home.” I sighed and waved him in, leaving the door open, as I returned to the kitchen to finish my Scotch.

  Rick stood in the doorway, not moving. “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Everything is just skippy. This whole damn thing, missing girls, illegal charms, bodies showing up on my property. Everything’s just jim-freaking-dandy.” I closed my eyes, fighting back a sudden onslaught of tears and working to slow my racing pulse.

  “I wish that Scott Malone would have taken a different road that night. Crashed his car somewhere else. For all I care, you and Samuel can take his things and get the fuck out of Dodge. I’m done.”

  Anger welled up in my chest, and I downed the rest of the Scotch in a single gulp. I needed to get control. I took long, steadying breaths to center myself. Breathe. Breathe. I repeated it like a mantra, trying to find my balance. The tattoo at my back burned and pulsed with every breath as I pulled on the spell there.

  I felt as though I was coming apart at the seams, and I walked over to the sink to hide the wetness pooling in my eyes under the guise of rinsing out my empty glass.

  As if gauging my internal struggle, Rick crossed the house to the kitchen and began to unpack the food, not questioning my outburst. Hints of spicy Chinese takeout began assaulting my senses, and my traitorous stomach growled again in anticipation.

  I could do this. One meal. That’s all. Then I could hand over the case and be finished with the whole mess. We had to wait for Agent King anyway.

  I took plates from the cabinet and set them down next to the bags. “The silverware is in the first drawer on the right,” I said, and went to the fridge to retrieve a pitcher of iced tea.

  “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got a little bit of everything.” There were already six open boxes on the counter as he pulled another from the bag. Fried rice, lo mein, sweet and sour something. By the time he was finished unpacking, I had counted nine total. We could’ve fed a basketball team with the amount of food he brought.

  I started to laugh. It was ridiculous, the amount of trouble he’d had gone through just to make sure there was something I’d like.

  He examined the table with me and we laughed, the warm sound filling the room. “I guess I did go overboard. At least tell me I got something you like.” His eyes met mine. The almost pleading look there made him seem pathetic.

  Totally out of character, I took pity on him. With a smile, I picked up a plate and poked through the boxes. “You did great. I’ll take some of the rice and the beef and broccoli. Oh! Orange chicken! I love that.” I started adding favorites, and the tension left his shoulders as he picked up his own plate to join me. With it piled full, he walked over to the table and sat. There was something so disarming about him—and that was his most dangerous quality.

  During dinner, we stuck to neutral topics. Music, movies, fine—but when we moved on to books, I couldn’t help thinking about the slim journal I found. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to tell anyone about the book. King was already aware Malone was dealing in dangerous charms, so I didn’t know if this was even new information. The book was dangerous; the fact that a distant relative wrote it had nothing to do with my ultimate decision to keep the book to myself.

  “Earth to Olivia.” Rick waved his hand in front of my face. “Hey, where’d you go?”

  “Nowhere. I was just…” I looked at the clock. Agent King wouldn’t be here for at least another fifteen minutes, and I thought it would be a good time to pump Rick for some information.

  “Agent King told me you worked with him. He wasn’t happy to hear that you were here. Why?” My interest in the story increased when I noticed him flinch.

  “Let’s just say we had irreconcilable differences.”

  “Over?”

  “After our talk about your work, I was curious, so pulled your registration.” He stood and dumped the remaining food on his plate into the trash, not looking in my direction. The fact that he’d changed the subject wasn’t lost on me. I was really starting to wonder what those differences had been.

  “You just recently registered,” he continued. “Didn’t you train at an academy?”

  “No. No one in my family has trained at an academy. We’ve always passed our knowledge down. My grandmother did most of my training, and I think it was for the best. I don’t think I could have gotten into an academy if I wanted to.”

  “I’m surprised your family held on to that tradition. Academy training has almost become a requirement for any public jobs. When a child shows any aptitude on the Hecate scale, most families ship the kid off. It’s a shame too, there’s so much to be learned from older generations.” He rinsed his plate off and began packing up the leftovers. “Was your mother an empath? Maybe your grandmother? Those types of traits tend to be familial.”

  “I thought I was the only one.” Realizing what I’d said, I glanced up to see if he noticed. He continued closing up the small white boxes, unaware of my identity crisis.

  I was suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation, so I went over to fill the sink with warm soapy water. Did I come from a line of empaths? Were they involved in slave trading? I wished Gran was here so I could ask. At moments like this I felt most alone.

  When he joined me at the sink and slipped the rest of the dishes into the soapy water, I realized I hadn’t answered his question.

  “My mother was a pleb. The gene comes from my father’s side. After my father's death, my mom sent me to live with his mother. The Harmons were healers, mostly. Gran ran the town clinic, and her mother before her. I guess you could say my father was the black sheep. He was brilliant at charm craft. Too bad I never picked up his gift.”

  I turned off the water, deciding to let the dishes sit, and grabbed a towel from under the sink. Rick stood next to me watching my every move. As I dried my hands, he reached down and touched my ring. “Did he make this for you?”

  A hot bolt of power surged up my arm and down into my torso, settling low in my gut. “It’s nothing special. I did… the charm, I mean.” I seemed to have lost the ability to string together coherent thoughts.

  He caressed the silver band, making promises with his touch. I met his gaze, studying, unsure how this conversation had become so intimate.

  “It’s a shame.” He leaned in and whispered into my ear. “You don’t have to hide.”

  There was a loud knock on the door, and cold reality came rushing back. I stumbled back, chest heaving, trancelike state broken, and stared at him, trying to assess what just happened. He took a deep breath and shook his head, seeming equally affected. Another knock echoed in the silence between us.

  “You’d better get that,” Rick said, calm and collected once again. The knocking sounded more impatient this time.

  I turned and headed for the door, irritated with myself. What had I been thinking?

  NINE

  January sixteenth.

  I opened the door to find a scowling Samuel standing on the porch. Evidently he didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  “Agent King. So glad you could make it. Please, come join the party.” With a half-hearted wave, I invited him to follow.

  He only made it a few feet before stopping dead, eyes fixed directly on Rick. As he looked between him and me, his already menacing expression soured even more.

  “I wasn’t aware you were on intimate terms with Inspector Bishop,” he said. The disapproval was evident in his tone. “I came here to speak with you about the c
ase. This is FPD business and none of the Order’s concern.”

  I heaved a mental sigh. Let the fun begin. “I invited Rick because I’ve found a few things that may help his case.”

  “It’s not your place to share confidential information with the public.” He stressed the last word to make sure I didn’t miss his point.

  I grimaced. I didn’t need to be reminded I was going against protocol, but I was standing my ground on this. “There’s more going on here than you led me to believe. This isn’t just about illegal charm trafficking.”

  Agent King shifted uncomfortably, but he didn’t look away. Seeing that he wasn’t going to volunteer any additional information, I went on.

  “There was a third person in that car, and I think it was the missing girl Inspector Bishop is searching for.”

  Samuel looked from me back to Rick and shrugged. “So? Malone could have had the whole Colts football team in that car, and it still wouldn’t change the fact that the charms he may have been transporting are my top priority.”

  “Would it make a difference if I told you I believe she killed Scott Malone?”

  He narrowed his eyes at this news, and I knew it wasn’t what he expected to hear. “Murder is something that can be handled by your local sheriff,” he finally said. “Unless you have something else, my time is better spent tracking down the supplier.”

  “Hold on. You asked me to do a reading, and I did. Those girls didn’t just run off with Malone. He was holding them against their will.” I fished the silver chain out of my pocket and handed it to him. “This charm was used to bind Sarah Pickett.”

  “I see.” He focused on the small charm. He didn’t seem surprised to see it; perhaps he even expected it.