by Josh Lanyon
“Yes. That is, we’ve met.”
“When did you meet?” Yes, she was definitely wary—but also puzzled.
“At a dance club. Misdirections.” I clarified, “It was before I married John. We danced a few times.”
Something in her expression sent a feeling of unease crawling down my spine.
“You danced with him?” she asked, and now she was doing her best to give nothing away. “He was here? In San Francisco?”
“Yes.” And now I was the one trying to give nothing away. “He was nice. Charming.”
“He is charming,” she agreed automatically.
“And he’s mortal.”
After a moment, she nodded. “Yes. He’s mortal.”
“How does that work? Does he know about you? About the Craft?”
“Yes,” she answered reluctantly.
I could see there was more—a lot more she wasn’t telling me. I could see that every moment we spoke, her worry was mounting. No. More. She was frightened. She was putting two and two together and making a connection I had not yet drawn…and it was frightening her.
“How does he know about the Craft?”
She considered not answering, but then seemed to give up. “Both parents were witches.”
“But… How can that be? Both parents witches and he’s mortal?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s not possible.” Actually, I had no idea whether it was possible or not. I’d never heard of it before.
“Clearly it is.” Her expression twisted. “Believe me, it’s possible. Had there been any trace of magic in him, it would have been found. There was nothing he wanted more. Nothing any of us wanted more for him.”
“Was he tested?”
She said impatiently, “Of course!”
We eyed each other, neither speaking for a moment or two.
She said carefully, casually, “By any chance, do you know how to reach him?”
I shook my head. “He gave me his card, but I didn’t keep it.”
She let out a soft breath. “I see.”
I said, equally careful, equally casual, “Does he have friends here in San Francisco?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in two years. We…fell out.”
“Over the Craft?”
“No. Yes.” She shook her hair back restlessly. “Yes and no. When we were growing up, everything was fine. He—we all—believed his powers would manifest with time. They never did, and he grew bitter about his lack of…ability. But then a few years ago we joined the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm.” Her green gaze met mine.
“Yes. I’m confused as to how that works with being a practicing witch.”
“You know as much as you need to for now.” She was still following her own troubled thoughts. “SPMMR gave Chris focus and purpose, but gradually he became so…aggressive in his approach. We disagreed more and more as to how the Craft should be policed.” Genuine pain glistened in her eyes. “Eventually, we stopped speaking.”
“Aggressive?” I questioned.
She added with a hint of her own aggression, “He’s not alone in feeling that way.”
“Aggressive like…violent?”
“Of course not!” She was not terribly convincing.
“There’s more here than you’re telling me.”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
“Valenti, if what we suspect is true—”
“No,” she said quickly, fiercely. “There is no we. This will be handled within the organization. If there’s anything to handle. I don’t believe there is. This is… Anyway, you’re wrong. It isn’t true.”
I was following my own thoughts, slowly working it out. “But it makes sense. An outsider who isn’t really an outsider. Someone who knows the inner workings of the Craft. Someone who could perhaps fake his way—”
“You need to go.”
“That’s how he chose Jinx. You’re the connection,” I said. “You connect all the victims, including Seamus. He’s been following you.”
“Get out.”
“It isn’t just everyone around you. He could turn on you too. He probably will. If he thinks he’s on a mission—”
“Get out!”
“My leaving doesn’t change—”
She raised her hand, and the row of tall windows flew open, lifts banging against the sash locks. A sudden wind whipped around the room, billowing the curtains, buffeting me, pushing me toward the hallway.
I let it scoot me across the polished floor and down the hallway.
I stumbled out the front entrance. The door slammed shut behind me.
John’s cell phone rang and rang and then went to message.
I was pretty sure he wasn’t blocking me. For one thing, I was calling from our house number, so he’d have been blocking his own number, and for another, I felt certain that after Paris he would take my calls, even if he didn’t want to be married to me anymore.
It was worrying because in the four—now five—weeks I’d known him, he never turned his phone off.
I was stumped for a minute or two, and then I remembered that old standby, the phone directory.
There was a good chance the number might not be listed, but no, there it was: Bergamasco, P. followed by the correct street address.
I dialed the number, and after a couple of rings, the sergeant’s deep voice said, “Bergamasco.”
“Hi, Sergeant. Is my—John there?”
He hesitated.
“I think he’ll talk to me, but you can tell him it’s police business. It’s related to the Witch Killer case.”
Bergamasco sighed. Heavily. “He’s in the shower.”
“Okay. Well.”
“I’ll tell him you called,” Bergamasco said.
“Thank you.”
Dial tone.
Chapter Nineteen
Fifteen minutes later, John phoned back.
“That was a long shower,” I said. “There’s a drought going on, you know.”
He was all business. “Pete said you have something urgent relating to police business to discuss.”
“I have a lead on who the killer might be.”
Far from being excited, his tone was resigned. “What kind of lead? Where did this lead come from?” I didn’t have to be able to read minds to know he believed I was coming up with excuses to phone.
My face burned, but I said briskly, “It’s a guy named Chris Huntingdon. He’s Valenti Garibaldi’s stepbrother, which is why, even though I don’t have the kind of proof or evidence or whatever it is you would need, you have to take a look at him. I’m worried about Jinx.”
“I’m worried about Jinx too,” John said, “but I can’t start rounding up citizens on your say-so alone. You’re going to have to give me more.”
“Okay, well, here’s the problem. I’m not a detective, and I don’t know how to get you what you would need. I’m telling you this so that you can order the right people to find the evidence.”
John said impatiently, “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Well, this time it has to. The connection between all these cases, including Seamus’s murder, is Valenti. She’s the V. in his emails. I don’t know if they were actually having an affair or not, but something was going on between them. Enough that Seamus came to Chris’s attention.”
“All right, look,” John said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I’ve already asked Chief Morrisey to have Iff and Kolchak take a second look at the Reitherman case—which did not go over well, for the record, but which is being done. So, if that’s what this is about, you already got what you wanted.” He added grimly, “And you may have put yourself back in the crosshairs achieving it.”
“If you’ll—not you personally, obviously—but if your detectives will focus on Chris, I won’t have to worry about that because Chris is the killer. I know it. I can’t prove it, but I know it.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said very quietly, “Is
this a witch thing?”
“Yes. Which is why I can’t give you much more than I already have. I shouldn’t even be talking to you, John. That’s the truth.”
“Why shouldn’t you be talking to me?”
“It’s… It doesn’t matter, really. If you could just focus on Valenti as the nexus of these crimes, I’m confident you’ll find the evidence you need. But it would be better for everyone if you didn’t drag your feet.”
To my relief, he didn’t argue. Granted, he didn’t agree. But at least he seemed to be thinking it over.
“And also, I think you should get Jinx out of Valenti’s house as soon as possible.”
“I’d like nothing more, but I can’t force her.”
“You don’t have to force her. You could try persuading her. For starters, why don’t you tell her what’s really going on with us, so she understands it’s not that you don’t want her staying here. I mean, if we’re getting divorced, we can’t hide it for much longer anyway.” Thankfully, my voice stayed steady and calm even on the word divorce. Maybe I was finally coming to terms with the situation.
“Why shouldn’t you be talking to me?” John asked again. I could hear the frown in his voice. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
I said lightly, “Nothing a good divorce lawyer can’t fix.” It didn’t sound light, though. It sounded bitter.
John didn’t say anything.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to talk about us. I just want you to please, please listen to what I’m saying and find Chris. Find him before he hurts anyone else.”
“Do you have any idea where to find him?”
“No. He gave me his card, but I threw it away. I’ve looked for it, but the trash has been emptied since then.”
John said slowly, carefully, “He gave you his card?”
I expelled a long breath. This was the part I had really not wanted to get into. Not now anyway. “Yes. I met him at Misdirections the night of my stag party. We danced, he wanted my number, I didn’t give it to him. But I ran into him—”
I stopped, remembering that Valenti had still been sitting in the bar when Jinx and I had bumped into Chris at Spruce. Had Valenti been lying about not seeing him for a couple of years? She’d seemed to be telling the truth. Either way, whether Chris had been following her or meeting her, I felt this confirmed my conviction that he was Seamus’s murderer.
“But you ran into him?” John prompted.
“At lunch with Valenti last Friday.” It seemed like a million years ago. “He gave me his card and asked me to call if I ever wanted to grab a coffee or something. I threw the card away.”
“I see. You don’t remember anything from the card? Area code? Was it a PO Box?”
“Sorry. I really don’t remember anything about it.” I cleared my throat. “I should maybe mention he also showed up at Blue Moon.”
“What?”
“He was still pushing for coffee. He seemed to feel there was some connection between us.” A chill ran down my spine. “At the time I thought he was sincere. Now…”
“Does he know you’re a witch?”
“Given what I know now, it seems highly probable.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic.” John said crisply, “Okay, I’ll make sure there’s a black and white parked outside the house. You’re not to open the door to anyone who isn’t a cop or you don’t know personally. Got it?”
I said uncomfortably, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
He wasn’t listening. “And I’ll get Jinx out of the Valenti woman’s place if I have to carry her out myself.”
“And that’s definitely not a good plan.”
But I was talking to myself. John had already hung up.
“You’d have liked that little Familiar in Paris,” I was telling Pyewacket as I undressed for bed.
Pye flicked an ear, watching through slitted eyes as I went over to the window and peered down.
As John had promised, a black and white police car was parked right in front of the house. The car had an official gleam in the moonlight. A pretty good deterrent to any potential evil-doer, I’d say. I wasn’t worried, in any case, because I knew there was a very sturdy obfuscation spell on the house, courtesy of my father. Not enough to fool a witch, but we weren’t dealing with a witch.
I glanced back at Pye. “There’s something about French Familiars. Very sexy.”
He opened his mouth in a silent laugh, showing all his white, wickedly sharp teeth.
“I think we’d be happy in Paris. Remember how much we liked Domrémy? Anyway, it would just be for a year or so. Just to get a little…emotional distance.”
…
“True, but it’s probably safer for John, if you think about it. If I’m not around, I’m clearly not divulging additional sensitive information. Really, there’s a good chance he’d forget all about—”
Meow.
“Okay, well, maybe not. But there’s a good chance they’ll forget about him.”
…
“Anyway, I think it’s for the best. The move, I mean. I can’t stay here, and I don’t feel like I can fit back into my old life. I think a fresh start, a change of scenery, is exactly what we need.”
…
“Right? My thoughts exactly.”
I climbed into bed, turned off the lamp. The shadow of Pye crossed through the bars of moonlight and curled on the pillow behind me. I settled my head more comfortably.
I’d spent the hours after my conversation with John trying to use a finding spell to locate Chris, but despite my best efforts, I hadn’t been able to come up with any clue to his whereabouts. He remained an uncomfortable blank whenever I tried to reach out toward him.
Anyway, I’d done what I could. The rest was up to John and SFPD.
It felt like weeks since I’d really slept, but I didn’t think all the worry and heartache in the world could keep me awake tonight.
I closed my eyes. Pye placed one velvety paw on my forehead and began to lick my hair…
S-s-s-s-s-s-s-s…
A snake-like hiss next to my ear.
I jerked awake, opened my eyes to darkness and the tiny warning squeak of the doors of the 19th century wedding armoire.
I knew instantly what had to be happening, but my mind rejected it as impossible. Because even when you believe in magic, some things simply don’t feel real—until it’s too late.
I rolled over to snap on the lamp—I had some confused idea of trying to get the attention of the police car parked outside—as Chris sprang out of the armoire.
“Wait,” I cried. “Wait, don’t do this!” Neither original nor useful.
He was laughing, and it was one of the most terrifying things I’d ever seen. “I can’t fucking believe it,” he said in perfectly normal tones. “I’ve been trying and trying to find you, and you summoned me.”
I blinked at him, trying to understand.
Horrified realization dawned.
The finding spell. This is the problem with being out of practice. I had apparently messed up the spell. I had located Chris, all right, and then I’d brought him straight to me.
“See?” he said. “There is a connection.”
I stared. The upper half of his face was still red from the pepper spray. Following my gaze, he sobered and put a hand up self-consciously. “That little bitch tried to pepper-spray me. Luckily, she mostly missed. I’m allergic to it. She could have killed me.”
Clearly, the irony was lost on him.
I knew I should keep him talking—except, what was the point of keeping him talking if nobody was coming to rescue me? And nobody was coming to rescue me. The police would not try to break in based on my turning on my bedroom light. I didn’t see how I could get to a phone before he grabbed me. But then again, he didn’t seem to have a weapon…
I said, mostly because I needed to say something, “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“Somebody has to. Fo
r God’s sake. The situation is only getting worse. If you read history, you can see the trajectory. Half of you don’t even hide it anymore. You’re right out there on TV, performing your rituals and celebrating your Sabbats.”
“You’re talking about Wicca. That’s not even the same thing.”
“It’s all the same thing.”
Right. Now I understood something else. Why he had seemed to focus on Wiccans rather than Witches. Witches were more difficult prey. Harder to find, harder to catch, harder to kill. It was that simple.
Belatedly, I started inching toward the bedroom door. If I could get downstairs to the postern, I could vanish within a couple of seconds. Unless he was hanging on to me. Out of shape though I was, I thought I could guarantee he would not.
Reading my intention correctly, Chris grinned and moved to cut me off from the doorway, matching my little shuffling steps, mimicking my distracted expression.
The mockery did it—snapped me out of my paralysis, angered me. I said, “Were you hunting me at Misdirections?”
He got a funny look on his face. “No. I wasn’t. I didn’t even realize what you were—and what your friends were—until I noticed your jewelry at your shop. The bracelets, the amulet, right there in the open where anyone could see. I even thought for a couple of minutes that maybe it was a sign. A sign for me to stop. That if we were fated… But we aren’t. That wasn’t the sign.”
“And then you followed me to Paris and tried to drown me.”
“Huh? I’ve never been to Paris.” He seemed honestly surprised.
It surprised me too. I’d taken it for granted that whoever had pushed me into the Seine was part of the same conspiracy, but it turned out there was no conspiracy. There was only one psycho on a mission.
It seemed even Ralph had been telling the truth.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Now? Now you’ll try to run, and I’ll hit you with my hammer.” He drew a perfectly ordinary-looking hammer out of his jacket pocket. “Or we can do it the more civilized way. You hand over your athame, we sit down and share a bottle of…”
He was still talking, but I didn’t hear what he said. I stared at the hammer, stared at Chris.