“He’s not in danger of the final death,” I added. “You could wait.”
Teag looked down at Sorren. Despite his real age, Sorren looks like he’s in his late twenties, because that’s how old he was when he was turned. He has blond hair, European features, and eyes the color of the sea before a storm. We were both used to him seeming nearly impervious to danger, and I could tell it shook Teag as much as it did me.
“There’s something out there strong enough to do this to Sorren,” Teag said quietly. “It’s already killed twice, and it tried to kill again. Without my blood, it could take Sorren days or longer to recover. Do you really want to face whatever did this to him on our own?”
I didn’t speak, but Teag must have seen my answer in my eyes. He used his knife to cut a shallow groove in his arm and start the blood flowing, then pressed his forearm against Sorren’s mouth, gentling Sorren’s lips open around the wound.
Reflexively, Sorren’s fangs closed onto the skin, and Teag cursed under his breath. Sorren had told me that a vampire could bite gently enough not to leave a bruise, that with enough finesse that the donor felt no pain and lost no extra blood.
That exquisite control wasn’t operational given Sorren’s current condition. Teag tried not to show it, but I could tell the hard bite hurt, and a little bit of blood trickled from the punctures.
“Bad?” I asked.
“Not fun,” Teag said tautly. “Like getting a phlebotomy intern on the first day of class.”
He tried to make a joke of it, but I was worried for both of them. I kept pressure on the gut wound, which had torn through skin and muscle, nearly eviscerating Sorren. It had been a savage blow, something more likely on a battlefield than a back-alley mugging. And here we were, just the three of us on the bloodstained floor of the shop’s back room, with no one to call for help. I’d never felt so isolated and helpless in my life.
“Whoa there,” Teag said. He was looking a little pale. “Slow it down, Sorren.”
I leaned forward. “Sorren! It’s Cassidy. You’re hurt badly. Teag’s giving you blood to help you heal, but you’ve got to take it easy. Take what you need and stop before you hurt him.”
I had no idea whether or not Sorren could hear us. Teag looked like he might pass out, but I didn’t dare leave up on the pressure I was keeping on the gut wound. Teag managed to shift position to lie down, which was better than falling over.
The flow of blood from Sorren’s belly wound had slowed, and it might have been my imagination, but it seemed a little warmer than before. I knew that with fresh blood, Sorren would be all right, but now I was worried about Teag.
“Sorren!” I said again. “You’re safe. It’s Cassidy and Teag. You’ve got to feed gently. Please—wake up before you hurt Teag.”
A moment later, Sorren’s jaw relaxed, releasing Teag’s arm. I was ready with the last of the gauze and some ointment, and got Teag’s arm bound up quickly, keeping my knee gently over the gut wound to keep up the pressure. By the time I had finished Teag’s bandage, Sorren’s wound had stopped bleeding. When I removed the gauze, I could see that the deep viscera had already closed.
“We look like we were on the wrong side of a war,” I said, glancing down at our bloodstained skin and clothing.
“I… was.” Sorren’s voice was faint, and he didn’t open his eyes, but I was just glad to hear his voice.
“Are you okay, Teag?” I asked.
Teag nodded, looking shaky but determined. “I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re up for it, let’s get Sorren into the safe room downstairs, and clean up before the cops come calling,” I said. Sorren keeps a windowless locked room in the basement of Trifles and Folly for emergencies. I figured this definitely counted.
“I can walk,” Sorren murmured. “But I’ll need help.” Usually, Sorren doesn’t speak with an accent, but when he’s under stress or very tired, I’ve heard a hint of one from his native Belgium. Now, the accent was unmistakable. Before I could try to talk him out of it, he struggled to his feet, swearing under his breath in what sounded like French. Teag and I each got under one shoulder. The narrow stairs to the basement were a challenge, but we got down them.
I opened the hidden door to the safe room, and turned on the lights. I’d never been inside before. There was a bed, a chair and a writing table, without any decoration. We gentled Sorren into the bed, and I checked his bandage, but the gut wound was nearly closed.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice a bit stronger. “I’ll tell you all about it… later.”
“You’ve got something in your hand,” I said. Sorren’s fist had never unclenched.
“Too dangerous to give you just now,” he replied, sounding like he was on the edge of sleep. “Tomorrow… I’ll explain everything.”
We left him then, knowing that he would take care of bolting the door from the inside when he felt up to it. Teag helped me clean up the floor, and we changed into the spare outfits we kept in the shop. Our work gets messy. I took the bloody rags and our blood-stained clothing to burn in my garden fire pit.
“Mrs. Teller was right—she said there’d be more blood,” I said, washing my hands in the sink.
Teag nodded. “The problem is, it’s not over yet.”
* * *
By the next evening, Sorren was sitting in my living room, looking remarkably healthy for a dead man. He had gotten a shower and clean clothing, and the attack of the night before seemed like a bad dream. Except we all knew it had been terrifyingly real.
“Nothing mortal should be able to sneak up on me like that,” Sorren said. My little Maltese dog, Baxter, sat on his lap. Sorren had glamored the pup to keep him from barking at him, and now Baxter gave Sorren a look of goofy admiration usually seen on star-struck pre-teen girls at a concert.
“What makes you think it was mortal?” I asked.
“Because when I hit back, the damage was regrettably severe,” Sorren replied. “I fought like I had been attacked by another vampire, or a demon minion. It turned out to be a mortal, possessed or influenced by something that increased its strength and speed but not its invulnerability.”
“I hacked into the police blotter,” Teag added. His color had come back and he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt to hide the bruises and wounds on his arm. “They found a dead man covered in blood with a snapped neck, down by Whiteside Gardens. The report said he had a bloody machete. They’re checking hospitals to find the victim.”
That victim was sitting on my couch, petting my dog. “Did they identify who it was?” Sorren asked.
“Steve Alderman, a local real estate agent,” Teag said, checking his notes. “No prior record, no history of violence or mental illness—just like the other attacks. Everyone’s stunned.”
“I think I met him once or twice, at the Merchant’s Association,” I said. “Not the kind you’d expect to find in a dark alley.”
Teag frowned. “That’s the third time the Merchant’s Association has come up,” Teag said. “Think it’s significant?”
I shrugged. “Kristie, Becca, Karen Hahn, and her boss, and Steve Alderman all worked downtown, on King or Market Streets. It’s not surprising that they would be members.” I thought about it for a moment. “I can ask around.”
“You asked me what was in my hand last night,” Sorren said, and reached into his pocket. “I’ve got it here, but Cassidy mustn’t touch it without preparation. Even without her gift, I’m fairly certain it’s got nasty resonance.” He withdrew a small piece of cloth and opened it up to reveal a handful of the keypads from a vintage typewriter, then set them out on the coffee table that sat between us.
“I don’t get it,” Teag said, peering at the keypads. They were made of glass with a letter reverse-stamped in gold on a black background, and rimmed in chrome. I’d seen plenty of Underwood and Smith-Corona typewriters from the early 1900’s with keys like that. The old machines were solid workhorses, usually still functional if you could find ribbons for them, and priz
ed by collectors for their film noir look.
“He was wearing a bracelet of them when I grabbed his wrist,” Sorren said. “It broke. I knew they might be a clue, so I held onto them.” He shook his head ruefully. “I didn’t stick around, after I got him to stop stabbing me. As you saw, I wasn’t in much shape to even take a look at his body.”
A glass of iced sweet tea sat on the coffee table in front of me. Here in Charleston, we like our tea sweeter than honey and strong as a hurricane. Using my psychic gift takes a lot out of me, but I’ve found that having some sweet tea handy speeds my recovery.
“I helped you two get back on your feet last night,” I said with a nervous chuckle. “Don’t be surprised if you get to return the favor now.” I drew a deep breath, and grabbed one of the keypads, folding it into my fist.
Confusion threatened to overwhelm me. The lights seemed too bright, the noises too loud, all of it crowding into my head, making me feel as if I were drowning in some horrible dream. I was seeing, feeling what the owner of the keypad bracelet had experienced, and it seemed like the verge of madness.
Rage seethed through my blood. I wanted the satisfaction of making someone else pay, making everyone pay. The litany of grievances that had led to this point was too large to dwell on, but it had nurtured cold anger and a thirst for vengeance that could only be sated with blood.
He knew that killing would make him feel better. It had before. Watching through the eyes of whoever had possessed the keypads, I knew that he wasn’t new to doing murder. He had enjoyed it, refined it, learned to savor the anticipation of a kill and bask in its memory. He had killed in the past, and he would keep on killing, because it felt so good to kill—
“Cassidy!” Teag was calling my name in a tone that told me I hadn’t responded. Baxter gave a low growl, like he could see something behind me that he didn’t like. Sorren had gently pried open my hand to remove the keypads.
I let out a long breath and collapsed back into the couch cushions, shaking. “He was a killer, a stone cold killer,” I said when I found my voice again. Teag pressed a glass of iced tea into my hand, and I paused to take a long drink.
“Who? Steve Alderman?” Teag asked. “I told you—police database says no priors, no fingerprint matches, no parking tickets.”
I shook my head. “I know what I felt. Those keypads belonged to someone who had killed more than once—someone who enjoyed killing.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Steve’s memories you saw,” Sorren said. “Maybe it’s whoever used to own those keypads, and the typewriter they came from.”
As soon as the words were out of Sorren’s mouth, I knew the truth of them. “Oh my god,” I said. “Kristie loves to make jewelry out of found objects. She’s bought a lot of things from the shop over the years and turned bits and pieces into gorgeous stuff. What if she got her hands on a typewriter that had belonged to a psychopath, and made jewelry out of it?”
“And that jewelry carried the bad mojo of the psychopath,” Sorren mused. “It would have to be extremely strong to force a normal person to start hacking people down with a knife.”
I nodded. “Maybe whatever it is also possessed the psychopath,” I speculated. “You said it made Steve Alderman fast enough and strong enough to attack you without warning.”
“There was another object you wanted me to see, one that came in yesterday,” Sorren said. “What was it?”
“A ring,” I replied. “One that was used quite a lot by a very bad man. The guy who sold it had bought it—”
“At the police auction,” Teag finished my sentence. We both looked at each other in stunned silence.
“Can you see what items were sold at the auction?” I asked Teag. “See if there was an old typewriter?” I frowned. “Would the auction site say which person or crime the item was associated with?”
Teag shook his head. “No, although they’d probably make more money that way. There was a post on a blog about it a while back. Said the police didn’t want to sensationalize the auction, or inspire copycats.”
“We have trouble every year with stuff from there,” I told Sorren. “Only it’s never been this bad before.”
Teag got busy typing on his laptop, and in a few minutes, he looked up with a sad smile. “Got it,” he said. He turned the screen around so Sorren and I could see.
On the screen was a picture of an old Underwood typewriter, circa 1920. It was a beauty, in good shape with all its original gold paint scrollwork, just the way collectors like. There was a second photo looking down on the keyboard, and I could see that the keypads Sorren had grabbed from his would-be killer matched exactly.
“Who owned it?” Sorren asked. His voice carried a hint of an accent, and I knew he was still feeling the effects of the previous night.
Teag went back to hacking, and had an answer in a few minutes. “Oscar Anderson Kenworth,” he replied, scanning down through the information he had found online.
My eyes widened. “The Slitter?”
Teag nodded. “Yeah. It fits. He attacked his victims with knives, had a very aggressive style, and seemed to enjoy every minute of it. Serial killer. Psychopath. Shot himself while sitting at the typewriter that he used to type the taunting notes he wrote to his victims and to the police.”
I eyed the keypads. “The typewriter Kristie bought at auction,” I said quietly.
“I thought you said there had been three killings,” Sorren broke in. “I can understand the effect the typewriter might have had on Kristie who bought it and worked with the keys, and on Steve Alderman, who was wearing the bracelet. What about the other victim?”
“If there’s so much bad mojo associated with the typewriter, why didn’t it make the police start killing each other while it was locked away in the evidence room, or wherever they keep stuff like that?” I asked.
Teag dug in again. “Uh oh. Police report lists the personal property surrendered by Karen Hahn when she was taken into custody. It mentions earrings made from old-fashioned typewriter keys.” He searched a little longer. “Kristie was wearing the keypads in a necklace.”
He looked up. “As for why it didn’t affect the cops while they had it, I’m guessing it’s because items that are held for high-profile crimes or long-running cases gets packed up and shipped off to a warehouse in a salt mine somewhere in big crates, like at the end of that Indiana Jones movie. It’s not in a place where there are a lot of people around day-to-day.”
“And I suspect that, if you were to identify the storage site, you’d find higher-than-average suicides, domestic violence problems, and substance abuse,” Sorren said. “That kind of psychic stain lingers, and it taints whatever it touches.”
Teag sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you think the cops have connected Kristie’s jewelry with the other deaths? They know about the earrings and the necklace. And if they find any of the links from Steve’s bracelet—”
“If the victims were all wearing the same thing, maybe,” I said. “But the killers? How likely are the cops to decide that the devil made them do it because of their jewelry?”
“I’m more worried about what will happen if the police seize that typewriter and bring it back into a heavily populated police station,” Sorren said. “As I recall, back when The Slitter was on a rampage, there were a lot of unsolved or suspicious deaths around the same time, until the Alliance could shut him down.”
“You were involved in that?” Teag asked. Sorren nodded.
“Then maybe it wasn’t an accident that you were attacked,” I said. “Maybe Oscar’s spirit was headed for Trifles and Folly, looking to even old scores. And it found you on the way.” I shivered, thinking of how bad it would have been if Teag and I had been caught unawares.
“Possible, although I don’t like the sound of that,” Sorren admitted. “It means we’ll have to be extra careful, since we don’t know how many of those keypad-jewelry pieces are already out in the marketplace.”
“We can get the answe
r to that pretty easily,” I said. Both men turned to look at me. “Kristie didn’t work in her apartment. She had a studio-workshop on the outskirts of town.”
“Think the police have already gone there to look for the typewriter?” Teag asked.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Sorren replied. “But we need to do some preparing before we go. We already know how dangerous this spirit can be.”
Two hours later, we had regrouped. Teag had his martial arts staff, and he was wearing a short rope with several macramé knots in it on his belt, a way for a Weaver like him to store magic power to use later. He also wore a vest he had woven himself, incorporating his magic to give it a strong positive resonance. I saw that he was wearing both his agimat and hamsa protective charms. I was wearing my agate necklace, along with an obsidian ring and a bracelet of small brass spirit bells, all of them good for protection against evil. Just in case, I had an obsidian knife.
All three of us had specially-made faceted mirror pendants, called hexenspiegel. It’s a type of mirror that can trap a spirit, and we had agreed that whatever was haunting Kristie’s typewriter needed to be bottled up as quickly as possible. Sorren also provided a lead-lined chest, something he hoped would shut down the Slitter’s ghost until we could destroy the typewriter for good. And as always, Teag and I came prepared with plenty of salt and charcoal for protection.
There was a knock at my door, and I jumped up to answer it, expecting the fourth member of our group. There in the doorway stood a woman dressed all in black, with short auburn hair in a pompadour, understated makeup, and colorful tattoos on her left arm, just beneath her short sleeves. The Reverend Anne Burgett—known to her flock as Father Anne—assistant rector of St. Hildegard’s Episcopal Church, was ready for action.
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