by RJ Blain
I swallowed back the lump in my throat, unable to stop myself from wondering if it would have been better for everyone if I had died in that car crash years ago. Digging my fingers into Rocky’s fur offered a little comfort.
“You got very lucky,” Dominic whispered long after the paramedic had left.
“I did, thanks to Rocky.” My relationship with Murphy and his wretched law hadn’t changed, except for the fact my bad luck hadn’t counted on Rocky being there to save me.
Dominic smiled, not at me, but at the dog. “Thanks, Rocky.”
The German shepherd ignored my agent.
“Is Marie okay?”
“I think so. She let them cart her off to the hospital, but it looks like a few bumps and bruises, and a few shards of glass scratched her. Nothing serious. Could have been a lot worse.”
I shuddered at the memory of the paramedic picking glass out of my hair and scalp. Scars were inevitable, but at least we were both alive to lament them. “Good. I’m glad. Do you think she’ll stay?”
Dominic shrugged. “For the film? Who knows. Will you?”
“I have to review the script and see a contract first,” I reminded him with a waggle of my finger. If Dominic could act normal, so could I. More importantly, if I let Dominic walk over me now, he’d never stop. “I haven’t been given a formal offer and the shoot is a wash. You’re getting ahead of yourself, sir.”
Instead of arguing with me or making some joke, Dominic surprised me by leaning towards me to whisper in my ear. “Come clean, Nicole. What’s going on? There were cops here before the dust settled. We didn’t even have to call them. They were already here, and they were looking for you.”
I winced. “Long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“And I don’t.” I don’t know why I snapped, or what made me so angry about Dominic’s question and his concern. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to be protective in the past. He was like that for all of his clients, so far as I knew. But why did it bother me now?
He stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “Nicole?”
Rubbing at my temples in the futile effort to drive away my growing headache, I tried to think of a way to smooth things over between us. “Look, Dominic, I’ve had a rough few days. Nothing personal, okay?”
“Come on, Nicole. You can talk to me.”
“I saw something I wish I hadn’t, okay? The cops are just keeping an eye out to make sure nothing bad happens. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Dominic’s voice rose in pitch before he snapped his teeth shut with a clack. “That’s all?”
“That’s all,” I confirmed, meeting his gaze. I didn’t challenge Dominic often, but if I didn’t, he’d be even more protective than the police. Apparently he didn’t get the message that I wanted to be left alone.
“What happened?”
“Miss Thomas,” Detective Harding’s voice drew my attention away from my upset agent and saved me from having to deal with him. I never thought I would have been happy to see the beak-noised police officer. I twisted around to face him without standing up.
“Detective Harding.”
“It looks like you’ve had a bad day.” While I didn’t like the sympathy in Detective Harding’s tone, it beat trying to wage war with my agent and his over-protective tendencies.
“You need to ask me questions, don’t you?” I asked in a wry tone.
His smile was apologetic. “I’m afraid so, Miss Thomas. Would you mind coming with me?”
If I had to choose between Dominic at his worst or the unwanted sympathies of an overbearing detective, I’d take Harding’s unintentional salvation. I got to my feet, meeting Dominic’s gaze. “Could you please make sure someone takes care of Rocky? And not that stupid handler.”
Dominic sighed, but took Rocky’s leash without objection. “I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. We’ll talk later.”
In the guilt-inducing way only a dog could manage, Rocky whined when I abandoned him for the relative safety of Detective Harding’s company.
~~*~~
Detective Harding took me to his office and without asking me if I wanted it, he fetched me a cup of coffee. With a lot less grace than I remembered him having, he flopped down on his chair. “You should really reconsider joining the witness protection program, Miss Thomas. From my understanding, you came within six inches of losing your life today.”
“Are you saying you think someone was trying to kill me?” It wasn’t hard to pretend I was surprised—I was.
Accidents happened on set, although not usually to the scale of the lighting collapse.
“I find it very disconcerting that someone would vandalize your car, followed up by a potentially lethal collapse at a studio you happened to be at. You’re putting yourself and others in a great deal of danger.”
I often jumped to conclusions myself, but I couldn’t understand what I had witnessed that someone would want me dead over. I knew the truth of Scott’s death.
It had nothing to do with me, not until I could find a way to cure the disease that had killed him.
The only problem was, I couldn’t tell Detective Harding anything—I couldn’t even hint that I knew the truth. For all I knew, he could be a member of the Inquisition working in the police department. I figured any sane woman would be at least a little afraid.
And while there wasn’t a crazy killer on the loose, the disease frightened me. It wasn’t something I had to fake. I swallowed. “Do you really think the witness protection program would keep me safe?”
Detective Harding propped his elbows on his desk, resting his chin in his hands. “That’s what it’s designed to do, Miss Thomas. You would be given everything you need. A job you’re capable of doing, an identity, enough money to live comfortably in another part of California. You’re an easy target right now. I know I was hard on you during questioning, but I want to keep you safe. That’s my job.”
“What about my job?”
“I was under the impression that you do not currently have work, Miss Thomas.”
Something about the mild way he spoke and his neutral expression infuriated me. “Do you know why I was at that studio, Mr. Harding?”
“Auditioning, from my understanding.”
“A closed audition with a screen test. And photos for character sets. In costume. The only thing missing is a contract in hand, and an offer is coming—I’m certain of it.” I clasped my hands together on my lap so I wouldn’t make fists—or be tempted to hit something. “I don’t want to lose this chance, Detective.”
“Even if it costs you your life?”
“Acting is my life.” The thought of losing what I had worked so hard to build left me feeling sick. Running away was something I had done once before when my sister had become one of them. While I had squirreled away some money to disappear again, I didn’t want to.
I hated being a coward.
“And what about the life of someone else? The young woman who was with you could have died.” Detective Harding stared at me, his eyes intense, in his effort to convince me. Guilt was a tool for him, and if my guess was right, one he wielded often with devastating effect.
I flinched at his words. Luck—and two over-sized German shepherds—had saved us from death. But I couldn’t believe it was all my fault. I hadn’t seen anything of consequence. I wasn’t anybody, not in the movie business, and nowhere else either.
Why would anyone want me dead?
There was one possibility and it chilled me just thinking about it: Had the Inquisition discovered my existence? I didn’t know enough about the organization, but accidents happened when they wanted someone gone—lethal accidents, including lighting fixtures and scaffolding falling on a pair of actresses.
If that was the case, Harding couldn’t protect me. The Inquisition would find me, likely through a contact in the police department. I’d disappear, permanently.
And Harding would live the rest of his life believing he
had helped me, while sending me to my grave. It was better for him that way, but I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel, not yet. I had things to do first.
Like proving to the book I could do something other than destroy and bring mayhem. If I saved my sister in the progress, I would die a happy woman. Maybe I had betrayed and abandoned my family in my refusal to be like them, but I still loved them. I didn’t want to see any of them die, even though I had burned the bridges of my past behind me by changing my name and running away.
If I could stop them from dying as Scott had died, I would do anything—even throw my life away.
I met Detective Harding’s gaze and I smiled. “I’m grateful you care, Detective Harding. I am. But my life is here. I’m not going to run away. I don’t mind an escort, if you think it is necessary, but I—”
The phone rang. I clacked my teeth, staring at Harding’s desk. The detective scowled and then he sighed. “Do you mind if I answer this?”
“I can step outside.”
“Stay,” he ordered before picking up the handset. “Harding.”
A puzzled expression darkened his features before Detective Harding sat up straighter. “You can’t be serious.”
I politely pretended I wasn’t listening to the conversation, twiddling my thumbs as I waited. While Detective Harding didn’t slam the handset down, he didn’t look happy. “Well, that was interesting.”
His tone invited me to question and I took the bait. “What’s interesting, Detective Harding?”
“Rusted bolts.”
“Rusted bolts?”
“I’ve been informed that the bolts holding the scaffolding and lighting to the ceiling rusted out and failed. A freak accident. That set is used by many different directors and it seems maintenance didn’t think to check the bolts for rust.”
I felt my brows rise. “They learned that in less than an hour? What about the steel safety cables that should have kept it from collapsing?”
“The first thing they checked were the bolts. As for the rest, I’m sure they’ll find out soon enough. It was likely something simple and stupid,” Detective Harding explained, dismissing my surprise with a wave of his hand. “They’ll do a full investigation, but I have no reason to doubt his findings. Rusted bolts. Unbelievable.”
“Well, I didn’t think anyone would waste their time and effort trying to do anything to me,” I said, unable to mask my amusement. “I’m a nobody.”
“So why was your car so thoroughly vandalized, if you’re a nobody?”
I shrugged. It was a good question, and I didn’t have a single clue or idea why anyone would target my car. I hadn’t given the Inquisition a reason to investigate me, not that they’d find anything. “I’d like to know why, too. Who knows? I drive a pretty common car. There are thousands of rundown Civics just like mine out there. Maybe they mistook my car for a drug dealer’s or something.”
Harding laughed. “That’s one of the best theories I’ve heard yet and probably the one closest to the truth. But being serious, are you sure you won’t change your mind, Miss Thomas?”
“I’m certain. If the bolts were rusted, it could’ve happened to anyone. It was just my bad luck that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” My grin was rueful. “It seems I have a special relationship with Murphy.”
“Murphy?”
It was my turn to laugh. “You know, the guy everyone blames for saying, ‘What can go wrong will go wrong?’ Murphy’s Law. That’s me—a constant victim of our friend Murphy.”
“I can’t really justify keeping officers watching over you for much longer,” Harding warned.
“So don’t. They’re needed elsewhere, helping people in real trouble. Look, why don’t you give me your number? If anything weird happens, I’ll call you.”
Detective Harding stared at me for a long, silent time. Then he sighed, reached over his desk to grab a business card. He handed it to me. “If you see anything at all—weird, suspicious, or just gives you a bad feeling—call me, okay? I don’t like this, but the law is the law, and you’ve refused Witness Protection.”
“So no one will be following me around?”
“That’s correct, Miss Thomas.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said because that was what Detective Harding wanted to hear. It was easy to like him when he wasn’t bombarding me with questions. “Can I get a police report from you about the vandalism to my car? It’s not worth much, but you know how insurance companies get.”
“I’ll have one written up for you right now.” True to his word, he picked up the phone, dialed a number, and ordered someone to write it up. He rattled off the case file from memory. “It’ll be a few minutes. I apologize for not having it for you sooner.”
“With everything else going on?” I shuddered at the memories associated with meeting Harding. I doubted it. Judging from the haunted expression on Harding’s face, I suspected he was wondering the same thing.
“I really wish you’d reconsider.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry,” I whispered. I heard the ghost of my old voice, soft and smooth. I think Harding heard it too, because his eyes widened a little, but he said nothing.
Chapter Eight
If the devil had a den, it was located in a small shop on Hollywood Boulevard, tucked between two prestigious clothing stores. It took me until well after dark to make my way from the police station to the store, as I switched between cabs and public transit to make it more difficult for anyone trying to follow me.
The last thing I needed was for the wrong person to learn I was visiting a store dedicated to herbs, incenses, and witchcraft—the place responsible for my transformation from human to wizard. To the average person, the store looked like it belonged to a fortune teller, with crystal balls and tarot cards decorating the front window. A beaded curtain blocked my view of the wares within.
Before I could second guess myself, I ducked inside, bells chiming as I pushed through the door. I slipped through the beaded curtain. A woman dressed in a gypsy costume watched me from the register. While I had gotten most of the blood off of me and changed into my regular clothes, I felt like a survivor from a war zone, though no one paid much attention to me.
“We’re closing in half an hour. If you’re looking for healing ointments, they’re over there.” A bracelet of bells circling the woman’s wrist jingled as she pointed to the other side of the shop, where a wall of old-fashioned pottery jars awaited.
“Healing ointments might be nice,” I admitted ruefully, staring down at my bandaged arm. It throbbed, but the pain wasn’t as bad as I feared it would be. “But I was actually looking for something else.”
“Oh? What are you looking for, child?” There was a bit of wariness and condescension in her tone, but I ignored it. She probably saw all sorts of cracked nuts coming in and out of the shop and had no idea who or what I was. It was better for me if she never found out.
I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t have much choice. “A friend told me about this place and she thought you might be able to help me.”
“A friend told you,” the woman replied, her eyes narrowed and one brow elegantly arched. She came out from behind her register, the bells dangling from her skirts tinkling with her movement. The chiming was soothing as she flowed across the floor to stand at my side. “How unusual.”
The book was the closest I ever got to having a real friend and I had locked it up in my storage closet for years, all because I was afraid of it, and of myself.
I forced a smile for the woman.
I think she saw through me, because her expression changed. Some of the hardness faded from her dark eyes to be replaced with sympathy. I didn’t want to acknowledge the pity, but it was there, too.
“I need something to change my luck,” I said, lifting my bandaged arm. “I’m a magnet for bad things, and I thought…”
“You thought you could find something here, because luck is not so easy to fix,” the woman said, nodding her head in unde
rstanding. Maybe it was because she was warming up to me a little, because she lost the brisk Californian accent in favor of a Western European one to go with her gypsy attire. “I might have some things for you. Meditation stones, prayer beads, incenses, things of that sort. And, of course, healing ointment.”
“I could use some,” I admitted, giving her a shy, rueful smile. “Can you tell me about the meditation stones? And prayer beads? I’ve some incense at home, but I didn’t realize it could help with something like my luck.”
The gypsy clucked her tongue, but her disapproval softened when she smiled. She didn’t speak, instead prowling the shop in search of something. I followed and kept my mouth shut.
It gave me a little time to think. Stones were on my list of things to acquire, though I couldn’t tell her why. I knew witches used stones to focus their power, but I wasn’t sure if they used them the same way I did—and I couldn’t ask. Before I had known I was a wizard, I had thought I was a witch, like my mother, until nothing witches did worked quite right for me.
I had shattered quite a few crystal balls before coming to the conclusion I used the stones in a different way than witches did. While witches could store energy in stones like I could, it was easier for me, but also more likely to go awry. Then the book had truly awoken, and taught me how to avoid destroying whatever I touched. It hadn’t spared me from burning down my first apartment, though. I had been lucky. The insurance company had blamed faulty wiring for the fire.
The gypsy woman halted at a display case full of colored balls. “Crystal balls are for more than seeing the future. They can focus attention, provide calm, and help with insight. Concentration. Meditation. Some can heal.” She unlocked the case and withdrew a small, yellow sphere. “This is citrine. It is a special stone, sharing properties with our sun. It represents many things, but for you, I think it may serve as a representation of new beginnings and good fortune. A new life for you, protected by its power.”