Murder by magic: twenty tales of crime and the supernatural

by edited by Rosemary Edghill

  “Sigils, please,” Cherig said from behind her.

  Galen stooped over the low altar in front of her and took up the little leather bags of corn flour and wheat flour, rye flour and ground malted barley, making the sign around the altar with lines of ground grain. She was beginning to feel good, even with Cherig here. The snake had started to crawl up her spine. She’d sworn she would never deal with him again, but for old time’s sake, maybe this once. It had been so good. Once.

  Don’t you think it’s time you called?Galen heard the words and danced herself down onto her knees to bow down low to the ground and whisper to the bosom of the earth. Let the snake come, Mother. Please. Open up the gate, and let me pass through to him, so that we may consort together, and I may gain in wisdom to serve your children better. She had the eggs ready; she had decorated them herself with paprika and ink, determined not to succumb to the temptation that the Taber rite represented. She would do it clean.

  Galen sang and Galen chanted, but nothing was happening, and she could sense the confusion of the spectators even as she fought to concentrate. It wasn’t working. She couldn’t do Taber. Taber couldn’t be cleanly done. She offered whiskey and gunpowder and cayenne and nothing happened except that the sky grew darker as twilight deepened, and Cherig sounding bored and contemptuous behind her paced her ritual with clear disgust, fatalistic resignation. Of course you can’t do it, Galen. You don’t have what it takes to dance Taber.

  But Austin hadn’t, either. It took hatred and resentment and frustration to call out the Kinsey snake, and Galen had never wanted that energy in her life. She didn’t want that energy in her life now, but the snake had her. He rose halfway up her spine, and she began to see the red mist in front of her eyes and took the dish up in her hands with savage abandon.

  She’d never dealt in blood in her whole life, though when she’d been much younger, she had flirted with it—blood, and the King-snake, beautiful and savage and destructive, the joy there was in being absolute mistress of her own environment even at the expense of those around her. Austin had known the call; she’d wisely turned her back to it. How could Austin have lost her moral compass—

  It wasn’t the snake’s fault, the King-snake whispered to her. Cherig left him half-wild. Galen couldn’t quite grasp his meaning, but she didn’t care; she had more important things on her mind. She had to be careful. There was so much power here, it could go wrong so easily; but she was drunk on him.

  She spilled his drink out across the picture she had made, the crude geometric lines appropriate to the sigil of the King-snake in the Taber rite. She heard him, but in front of her now, and she could hardly believe it—she hadn’t thought she had it in her to dance Taber, especially with so little preparation. The snake was coming. Galen knelt down and sang to him, passionately longing for his forked-tongued kiss, and saw him coming through the underbrush to taste his dish. The snake.

  He looked just like Austins cheerful self-contained Folliet, just like him. But a Folliet snake would never come to a Taber working. So he wasn’t a Folliet snake, after all; he was a Kinsey snake, he had killed Austin.

  “Shit,” Galen heard Cherig say behind her. “I don’t believe it—” Of course Cherig didn’t believe it. Cherig would never have expected Galen to have what it takes to call the snake out in a Taber rite.

  Or was there another meaning behind Cherig’s curse? Galen wondered; but she didn’t have much time to think about it, because as the snake came out of the underbrush to coil itself around its dish and taste the offering to bless it, the herpetologist reached over Galen’s shoulder with his viper hook and snagged it around the body just behind its head.

  Nobody had taken the herpetologist by the hand to lead him in; Cherig hadn’t warned her. The sudden break in the ritual space shat­tered the chords of the sacred dance. The collapsing energies struck Galen like a blow to the stomach; the snake was gone. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. There were things to say, charges to deliver, energy to direct—an incomplete ritual was the worst hangover she had ever had. What had happened to Cherig?

  The tall policeman raised her gently by her elbows, helping her up off the ground, walking her through to the house with his arm around her to support her and to shelter her, settling her down in her favorite of Austin’s chairs in the front room. She didn’t see Cherig anywhere, but it wasn’t Cherig’s fault, not really. She should have planned for this, Galen realized, half-addled. She should have realized that the ritualwould not run its course. And now she owed the King-snake for having spoiled his ritual; she, who wanted nothing to do with him.

  She hadn’t believed it could have been a Kinsey snake, not even with the evidence she had seen, Austin’s agonized form and the coroner’s report. She hadn’t believed that Austin had really done it. And she hadn’t believed that she could, either. Nor had Cherig, Galen was sure of that. Where was Cherig?

  Now Austin was lost to her so much more completely than the mere fact of her death in the body. An Austin who could have been seduced into the Taber rite wasn’t Austin at all.

  Galen wept with the sorrow of her bereavement. The women of Austin’s circle gathered around her and wove the safety net, catching the rogue energy that she had to purge from her body in sticky-threaded chant, seeing that it harmed no one.

  Now she’s not sure,the King-snake said very quietly, for her ears alone. She knows she traded snakes safely when she found Austin’s body. But now she has to go and check again. And it is her fault that my priestess is dead. King-snake was always talking riddles. Galen didn’t have the energy to wonder what he was on about. She curled up in the chair and went to sleep, with women chanting soothingly around her.

  The police came back early in the next afternoon, with the snake and the herpetologist in tow. “There’ll be a report in the evening papers,” the senior policeman said. “We’ve removed the Kinsey snake from the pet shop. This one’s Miss Austin’s Folliet, after all.”

  Yes, the snake looked like Austin’s Folliet; he was smiling sleepily at her, wanting to go back into his backyard. But to have a dish of milk first. “I don’t understand,” Galen said. Her body ached from head to foot; as she had feared, this was the worst hangover she had ever had. This if nothing else would have convinced her that the Taber rite was not for her. “If Folliet isn’t a Kinsey snake, what killed Austin?”

  The policeman exchanged a glance with the herpetologist, who shrugged. “Your associate was keeping a Kinsey snake at the pet store, it seems,” the herpetologist said. “One of the part-time employees found it on her body in the back room when she opened the shop this morning. This snake—” The herpetologist lifted Folliet out of his travel cage and handed him to Galen. “This one I took last night, this snakeis legal. All I can think is that she thought she could just switch the snakes to pass the audit. It didn’t work very well in the long run.”

  And he didn’t want to talk about it. So much was obvious. There were things unspoken that Galen didn’t understand; the policeman excused himself and left her alone with Folliet, who nosed around her face looking for milk. Austin used to hold milk in her mouth for Folliet. Galen wasn’t about ready to go that far; but if this was truly Folliet, if Folliet was an honest snake, why had he come to a Taber rite?

  She carried Folliet out to the back, stopping in the kitchen as she went through for some milk. Pouring him a dish, a plain dish, an honest kitchen dish, Galen set him down beside the willow for him to find his favorite place.

  The sound of the scales hissing in her ears from behind her did not surprise her. “What happened?” Galen asked the still air. “I don’t understand.”

  You did your part,the King-snake said. Cherig was willing to put my priestess at risk to hide the snake. Now the balance is restored.

  Reality blinked away from Galen’s eyes like the membrane across the eye of the snake, and she saw it all. Cherig’s snake. Austin dead when Cherig came to smuggle Folliet home and take her Kinsey back, after the auditors ha
d gone. The Taber furniture, so that was what Cherig had been storing here; a cover-up. It was hard to tell the difference between Kinsey snakes and Folliet snakes, especially in a hurry.

  When Folliet had come to Galen last night, Cherig had run to check, to be sure, to confirm for her peace of mind that she’d retrieved the Kinsey snake: and it had killed her. “Austin never touched the Taber rite,” Galen said, more glad than she could explain. “It was a frame.”

  She heard his scales whispering across the ground. There was a shadow on the far side of the willow tree: a tall white man, with long hands. My priestess is avenged, Galen. And Folliet has always liked you. Who will sing to him now?

  Folliet had finished his milk and crept away to nap. Galen looked out over Austin’s back lot, remembering how it had been when she was much younger. It hadn’t been the King-snake’s fault. He could still move her when he took her. He’d proved it. “Well,” Galen said, “I suppose I could give it a chance.”

  A breeze lifted the skirts of the willow tree. The King-snake passed,leaving her with a contented floating feeling in her body and the only very mildly mocking sound of his words in her ear. I knew you’d come around. We’ll do very well together, I can promise you that, priestess.

  He’d used her, yes, but he did have a right to protect his own. Priestess. She was Austins heir in fact, perhaps Austin had always wanted her to reconcile with the King-snake.

  Galen picked Folliet’s dish of milk up off the ground and went into the house.

  Double Jeopardy

  M. J. Hamilton

  M. J. Hamilton began crafting fantasy at an early age. While other little girls dreamed of becoming nurses or mommies, M. J. wanted to grow up to be Tinker Bell. When wings failed to sprout from her back, she turned her creative mind to writing.

  And she taught her all her mysteries And gave her the necklace which is the circle of rebirth.

  You must pass the amulets to your successors within twenty-four hours to prevent any permanent damage to the balance of good and evil. Full responsibility is yours until your duty is fulfilled.”

  I really didn’t want to assume full responsibility. I didn’t have a choice. I adjusted the receiver on my ear and met my grandmother’s steady gaze. “I’ll honor my vows.”

  “Flight reservations have been made for you,” Vesta continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I will meet you at the gate and take you to the farm. Everything will be ready when you arrive. After your private ritual, we’ll celebrate success and your induction into the Council.”

  I jotted down flight numbers and time schedules as they were recited to me, then let my mind linger for a moment on the upcoming transfer of power. On a hill in remote English countryside, I would perform a ritual to pass the talismans to the next set of identical twins fated to serve the gods. And assume my role on the Council.

  I knew what that meant. When I passed the amulets on, my grandmother would die. I would take her place on the board of remaining twins.

  “You must succeed,” my grandmother said when I lowered the receiver to the cradle. Tears coursing through the wrinkles in her pale cheeks, she lifted a gnarled hand, palm out.

  “I will.” I pressed my hand to hers to seal the pledge, then hugged her frail body and gave her one last kiss. Grief and anger battled with duty and responsibility as I left the room and hurried from the elite nursing home.

  Light rain fell from the murky sky. Malice and greed slithered through the mist. The chill of danger snaked down my spine.

  Turning up the collar of my denim jacket, I jogged to my car, sinking one Reebok in a puddle in my haste. As I slipped the key into the lock, the side door on the van parked beside me slid open.

  The face of my murdered twin flashed before me, and her voice called out a warning.

  I whirled around, reaching for the gun in the holster at the small of my back. A fist slammed into my temple. The blow would have knocked me to my knees, but a huge muscular arm closed around my waist and yanked me into the van. A needle stabbed through my jeans and into my thigh, followed by the sting of fluid flowing into my leg.

  A man who looked remarkably like Popeyes nemesis, Bluto, quickly bound my wrists and ankles with duct tape, slapped a strip across my mouth, then climbed into the driver’s seat.

  I teetered on the edge of consciousness during a long and bumpy ride, the ethereal voice of my twin giving me strength for my coming ordeal. The amulet between my breasts emitted a pulsating warmth that healed my wounds. But it couldn’t melt the ice from my soul.

  The van eased to a stop and Bluto honked the horn. Moments later the sound of a large metal door rolling on tracks drowned out the noise of the idling engine. Bluto pulled the van forward, then turned off the ignition. The door rolled again and the light dimmed. The goon got out, opened the side door, and leered down at me.

  A short fat man stepped up beside him, his bald head gleamingunder the overhead lights. “Put her over there in the corner,” he said with a wave of his hand. “And no rough stuff.”

  “Sure, Arty.” With a smack of his lips, the thug leaned down, threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and carried me to a back corner. He moved his big hairy hands over my body as he lowered me to the floor, then stood at my feet, his mouth pulled into a feral grin. “Now, ain’t you something? Worth a million bucks and I get a quarter of it.”

  I held my wrath in check, biding my time. He was a lesser villain in this play for power. Not worth the expenditure of energy this early in the game.

  “Tony! In the office!” Arty yelled, his voice echoing off the walls.

  Tony? “Bluto” better suited him.

  I closed my eyes, felt him hesitate, then sighed with relief when he turned and walked away. The fact that I was still alive reinforced my convictions. This wasn’t a simple case of rape, murder, and theft. It was much bigger than any mortal crime.

  After several minutes, I opened my eyes and brought my surroundings into focus. Not an easy task when tripping on a drug powerful enough to put most people under. Wooden barrels reeking of dill and brine tainted every breath I took. No hope of rescue, even less for escape if I were an ordinary individual.

  Ordinary I’m not. And I took personal offense at the manhandling used to subdue and dump me in the pickle warehouse. I’m a good P.I. Natural talent aided by the supernatural makes a dynamic combo. But sometimes it’s best to assume a Columbo personality. I would have been a willing abductee if he’d given me a chance to cooperate. Oh well—I now didn’t have to waste precious hours finding the site and possibly missing the transfer.

  All part of plan A.

  The injection had come as a total surprise.

  Plan B drifted in and out of my mind, concrete one moment and elusive the next.

  I sat quietly, listening to the voice of my sister gently coaxing me to stay calm and gather momentum, waiting for the drug to wear off. Not much else I could do under the circumstances. Although I have special talents, I am human. But I wasn’t as comatose as I pretended.

  I heard heavy footsteps approaching. Tony coming to check on me. The thought of his oily black hair and bad teeth made my stomach lurch. The moron sauntered through the maze to ogle my body again. I knew he didn’t expect me to make a run for freedom, not bound with duct tape.

  I wouldn’t. Not this time.

  He stopped at my feet, his thick black eyebrows drawn together and his nostrils flared in anticipation. “Ooh, she’s got her eyes open. Feeling a little feisty? Maybe I’ll get me a piece of you right now while I’ve got the chance. Arty don’t care. I doubt his client will, either, since I’m supposed to kill you and stuff you in a barrel with enough concrete to sink you to the bottom of the bay.” He straddled my legs and rubbed his crotch. “I bet you’re even better than your sister was.”

  I gazed up at him, blinking as if I couldn’t quite bring him into focus. Not far from wrong. Rage distorted my vision.

  Hoping for a little more time to gather my strength, I clo
sed my eyes and let my head loll to one side, praying he wouldn’t force the issue. Willing him to leave me alone and let me do my job. I had to face the enemy and restore the balance. I had a lot to lose if I failed. Had lost too much already.

  Mankind stood to lose even more.

  “Tony!”

  Arty was obviously the boss of this operation. Which meant he had the amulet. A small teardrop made from strands of intricately woven silver. Worn by Isadora, my twin, on a long silver chain. Identical to the one I wore, with one exception: the stones inside the teardrop. We received the ancient talismans at age twenty after our Great-Aunt Mauve died in a car accident.

  Isadora had died only hours ago, and already I sensed a change in the atmosphere. Storms brewing within every nuance of nature. Natural disasters building to shake the earth. Unnatural changes in store for the flora and fauna of the future.

  An impending doom that had nothing to do with the pervert standing over me. But I would not be raped. I peered at Tony through my lashes, waiting.

  Tony unbuckled his belt, staring down at me, salivating. He unzipped his fly.

  I would kill him if necessary to achieve my goal, and accept the consequences. If I had to pay threefold for taking his life, so be it. Nothing the Council could say about Fate would erase the fact that he murdered my sister. My grandmother would be taken from me at midnight. With the amulets in the wrong hands, freedom would become an archaic word in Webster’s dictionary.

  Fortunately, my captors knew nothing about the power of the amulet. They knew it was important enough to steal. Important enough for Arty to hire Tony to commit murder. The promised proceeds were great enough to feather their retirement nests against the worst scenarios.

  I doubted they knew or cared what would happen to our everyday world if Arty turned the amulet over to the woman who orchestrated the plot. The Witch who sought to rule the world.

  I hated both men. The Council demanded I spare them my wrath. If it hadn’t been Arty and Tony, someone else would have taken the job. I had to play it their way if possible, use my inborn abilities aided by the amulet I wore, and bring my nemesis to justice.