Soul Coin

by Laura Rich

  Soul Coin

  A Binding Witch Tale

  Laura Rich

  Copyright © 2017 by Laura Rich

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com.

  Created with Vellum

  For my Family

  Contents

  Also by Laura Rich

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Laura Rich

  The Binding Witch and the Fortune Taker -

  The Kate Roark Magic Series Book #1

  The Binding Witch and the Bounty Hunter -

  The Kate Roark Magic Series Book #2

  1

  Indira scanned the martial arts students who lined the north wall of the kalari, the studio her adopted family had run for generations. The newcomers to Kalari Valaithan were not impressed with her, the young female assistant teacher, unique as she was to the martial arts scene in Kerala. They stood on the dirt-packed floor, some scowling, some with their chins lifted in conceit. Monsoon rains beat on the roof and gave the activity within a steady, urgent beat.

  Indira felt their judgement as she led them through Angasadagathuam. The ten leg exercises helped students learn to grip the floor with their toes, keep their balance while they kicked and focused the eye on one point - the point of attack.

  “Gajavadivu!” she said, and issued the command to perform the elephant posture.

  The class complied and followed her into the low stance and maintained perfect balance and grace. Low strains of sitar music accompanied the sound of their deep breaths, forced in and out of their noses with each movement.

  She reviewed each student’s pose, then nodded in approval.

  A snort from across the room was followed by a trumpeting noise and laughter.

  Her face grew red, and she refused to look at the newcomers from a rival school, Kalari Basu, here for a competition next week among several kalari for the honor of best school. In preparation, Indira had doubled her student’s training schedule in the last three months. Winning this competition would give them notoriety and a flood of new students, which meant much-needed income for her family. “Simhavadivu!” she barked the command for the lion posture and thought of the mountain of medical bills that still remained after her mother died year.

  The twelve-year-old boys followed her instruction to perfection.

  She smirked.

  A mewing-kitten sound erupted from the Kalari Basu onlookers, and more laughter.

  Indira hissed between her teeth and rose out of the lion posture, her shoulders pinched with tension.

  The class shifted uncomfortably, no doubt wondering if she would attack her hecklers. It wouldn’t be the first time she did - Indira was often teased about being one of the few women who pursued the advanced study of Kalaripayattu, and her response was always to fight. Her students were more than a little bit scared of her.

  Rehan Valaithan, her adopted father and Asan of Kalari Valaithan, clapped his hands once.

  All eyes fixed on him, even those from Kalari Basu.

  Like all good Kalaripayattu Asans, Rehan taught to both the fitness of the body and the mind. He knew Indira’s drive for perfection often led her to fear public failure and humiliation, and the students from Kalari Basu seemed to know exactly which buttons to push to trigger the resulting rage. “Very good, Indira. Thank you.”

  Rehan’s powerful voice soothed Indira. Her shoulders relaxed, and she nodded to the Asan. She lived to please her papa, who’d found her wandering the streets when she was just three years old, dirty and tear-streaked, clutching an odd colorful coin. Rehan took her home and, over his wife’s objections, insisted they adopt her into their already large brood of seven boys. He even made the coin into a necklace Indira wore every day. It was her most prized possession.

  “Yes,” Asan Basu said, his rubbery lips flapping as he spoke. “A woman is good use of resources to teach the forms. Leave the fighting to men.” He looked around at his pupils.

  The boys, six in total, who ranged in age from eight to seventeen, grinned and nodded in agreement.

  Indira clenched her fists.

  Rehan crossed the room with short, powerful strides and put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Indira will fight in the competition for Kalari Valaithan, Asan Basu.” She was Rehan’s prize student, and the only one of his children who stayed in Kerala to help him run the family kalari. The rest had gone to seek their fortunes elsewhere, and how could she blame them? The allure of technology jobs was far more lucrative than maintaining the old ways. Indira heard him thank Durga every day that she stayed to help with the kelari, and for the dwindling monthly remittances from her inattentive brothers that helped keep the doors open.

  Asan Basu made a face. “Perhaps she would like to show us her skills in a friendly spar with–” He gestured to the youngest of his pupils.

  ”No.” Indira pointed to the largest of his pupils, a young man named Gaurav. “Him.” She’d fought him in the past and lost, but this year she was stronger and better than ever, plus she had taken this time to study his movements at other sparring matches. She knew how to beat him and show that big fat Basu what Indira Valaithan could really do.

  Gaurav’s face grew red.

  Her class whispered in hushed tones, and Asan Basu laughed. “Ho ho! Perhaps I have misjudged your little teacher, Asan Valaithan!”

  Indira stomped her foot. “I meant I will fight him, not–”

  Rehan glared at Indira. “I’d say that is enough demonstration for one day.” He clapped his hands again. “Let us gather in fellowship with our friends from Kalari Basu at the dinner. The rain has stopped, so Durga smiles on our actions.”

  Asan Basu nodded and laughed as he shoo’d his students out the door of Kalari Valaithan and down the street to the nearby restaurant. Indira’s students followed, and soon she heard the happy chatter of reunion. Indira did not move.

  Rehan shook his head at Indira. “You, too, Daughter.”

  Indira shot him a look, then dropped her eyes. “He made fun of me, Papa.”

  “And you must learn not to take every embarrassment as a call to arms. Maybe you should spend some time at the Durga Temple and pray about what real justice truly means. It is not about flying into battle over every little slight. It is a complex concept, and it requires balance and patience.”

  Indira took this in without a word, then nodded.

  “I know this tournament will bring in new students, but in addition, I think I may have found an investor who can help us recover from this debt,” Rehan continued. “So while I want you to behave graciously to our guests, I also want you to beat the tar out of them this weekend.”

  Indira did a double-take. A slow smile spread across her father’s face, and she grinned. “Got it.” They needed the prize money, and she wasn’t about to let him down.

  Rehan nodded. “Good.”

  Father and daughter walked silently together down the street alive with birdsong and remnants of rain dr
ipping from roofs and trees. They arrived at the busy, casual restaurant just as the first course was served. Indira fled to a seat between two of her students, which easily buffered her from both Asan Basu, who ignored her anyway, and Gaurav, who began shooting her curious glances as soon as she walked in. Indira breathed in the heavy, warm scent of spices and realized she was starving. She tore into the naan on the table and stuffed her mouth. She just had to get through this stupid dinner, and she could get back to training. Indira planned to be at the kalari until late tonight so she could train to beat Gaurav and anyone else Asan Basu threw at her.

  Two of the younger Basu boys argued over the remote control for the television mounted on the wall of the dining room. Gaurav reached above their heads and plucked the remote away from them just as the channel landed on the news. He tilted his head at the program and turned up the volume.

  “Quiet!” he said. “Hey, listen to this!”

  Indira narrowed her eyes at him, but turned along with the other diners to watch the report. A quiet descended on the dining room as the reporter’s voice rose:

  “The presence of a potential serial killer was announced today in Uppala when a second victim was found holding the same coin. Police are investigating any and all leads. If you know anything about the victims, Vivek Patel or Deepak Mehta, or this coin, please contact the department crime hotline. All reports are confidential.”

  A picture of a coin flashed on the screen. Silver with a jeweled inlay design, it depicted flower with a purple center surrounded by five pointed petals in red, yellow, orange, green and blue.

  Indira’s mouth went dry. She swallowed her naan and stared at the screen. The room fell away.

  “So?” said one of the younger Basu students.

  “So,” Garuav shot back, “isn’t that coin like the one on Indira’s necklace?”

  Everyone at their table turned to stare at her.

  “It’s just like mine,” Indira whispered in disbelief, her hand at her neck.

  2

  The table erupted in bedlam, and the smallest of the boys crowded around Indira and tried to touch her necklace. She drew back and stood with her hand clasped over her coin and cast around for an anchor for her turbulent feelings. Even though all attempts to identify it had failed, she’d kept it and treasured it. The coin was the only connection she had to where she came from. Part of her always wished for more answers about her family, but not this way, especially if the answers were ugly. Her eyes met Rehan’s, and he rushed to her side and ushered her to the lobby of the restaurant. The nightjar’s eerie birdsong met them with their strange pinging call that sounded like a stone skipping on a frozen lake.

  “You are distraught,” he said.

  “Why” –a sudden rush of emotion caused her voice to catch– “does the first time I see another coin like my own have to be connected to a murder?”

  “My child, I do not know. These things happen for a reason, though. Would you like me to visit your uncle at the police station and see if he can tell me what they know about the coin? We haven’t made inquiries about it in a while. Perhaps more is known about its origin now.”

  “Uncle Rishaan?” Indira sniffed and pulled away from her father’s embrace. “That’s actually a really good idea.”

  “I have them sometimes.” Rehan smirked.

  “I can go myself. You have to stay and entertain Kalari Basu.”

  “Can I convince you to wait until tomorrow?” he said, though he knew the answer.

  Indira was old enough to understand that people talked about how much freedom her father gave her. ‘Too liberal,’ they said, just within earshot, but he didn’t seem to care, so neither did she. “You know I can take care of myself, Papa.”

  He nodded. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  “Don’t worry.” Indira smiled into Rehan’s deep brown eyes. “And no matter what I find out about this coin, you’re still my papa.”

  “Always and forever.”

  She turned and ran towards the town center.

  Indira smiled at the thin man with the thick mustache who manned the wooden counter at the police precinct. “Good evening, Officer!” Officer Singh had worked at the precinct as long as her uncle, and seemed to have no aspirations beyond greeting the public at his counter, so that’s where he stayed for over twenty years.

  He glanced up and did a double-take. “Is that Indira Valaithan? It can’t be! She is only this tall!” He held his hand up to his chest.

  “I’ve been a meter and a half for at least a year now, Officer Singh.”

  He gave her a reproachful look. “Has it been that long since you’ve been up to see us?”

  Indira shrugged. “Maybe it has. I’ve been busy at the kalari helping Papa.” After she finished her compulsory public education at age fourteen, she fled school for the kalari full-time and never looked back. Rehan had tried to get her to continue and learn proper English like her brothers, but the classroom could not hold her attention.

  “You are a good daughter,” Officer Singh said. “I bet you want to see your uncle?”

  “Yes, is he here?”

  “Yes. You remember the way to his office?”

  Indira was already through the swinging door to the inner rooms of the precinct. “Yes! Thank you!” she called behind her as she made her way around the confounding arrangement of desks in the open area that seemed to thwart any effort to go in a straight direction for more than three feet. When she reached the office on the far wall, several officers filed out. She waited to the side for them to leave and peeked in. “Uncle?”

  “Indira!” He smiled in the sad way he did when he worked on a tough case. “Come in! How are you?”

  “I’m good.” She slipped in and took the chair in front of his desk, which was still warm from the previous occupant. “How are you, Uncle?” Gray had almost completely overtaken his full head of black hair, and the dark circles under his eyes had deepened.

  “Busy.” He drummed his fingers. “But you know I prefer that.”

  “I do. Actually…that’s why I stopped by.”

  Rishaan peered steadily at her through his glasses and nodded. “I assumed I would see you after we allowed the news to run the story about the coin murder.”

  “Why,” she laughed. “Am I that transparent?”

  “Yes,” he said, and laid out three folders in front of her. “Are you ready for this?”

  Indira’s smile faded. She hadn’t expected to get the answer out of him so easily, and the fact that she did made her even more uneasy than finding out a coin like hers was involved in a murder. Her eyes darted between the plain Manila folders and her uncle, and she swallowed. “Yes”

  Rishaan sighed and opened the folders. They each contained a picture of a different man. Their names were listed at the top, along with their birthdates… and dates of death. He pointed at the first two. “Malhotra and Jain. These are the recent deaths where heart failure seems to be the cause. They were all men who were very successful in their careers in the ten years prior to their death. Each was also married with a family.”

  “What about that one?” Indira pointed to the third file.

  “Paresh Patel,” he said after a pause. “This case is twelve years old. Unsolved as well, but in another precinct. I found him when I ran a cross-check on known associates, socio-economic status and unexplained deaths across the state.” Rishaan looked at her. “He wasn’t found with a coin, but I think he is related to the coin murders, even though his death was not the same.”

  “Ok…” she said. “How did he die?”

  Rishaan cleared his throat. “He was burned to death in his home, along with his wife and two children.”

  “Oh! That is so sad.” Indira shook her head. “But how is Patel relevant?”

  “He had three children.” Rishaan said slowly. “After the fire, no one could find his three-year-old daughter… dead or alive.”

  3

  Indira wrinkled her nose. “I don�
�t see the connection.”

  “Niece, this death occurred in the district where your father found you wandering around with your coin twelve years ago.”

  The weight of Rishaan’s words pressed on Indira. “Are you saying you think I survived a fire that killed my family?”

  Rishaan studied her. “Yes, I think it is just that.”

  “You’re sure?” Indira whispered.

  “The timeline matches when and where he found you in the city. And take a look at Patel again.” Rishaan said. “You have his nose and mouth. And look,” he pulled out a picture from the file of Patel with his wife and three children. “This is you, Indira.” He tapped the smallest girl in the photo. “This is how I remember you the day your father brought you home.” He shook his head. “Same dress, but so dirty.”

  Indira’s hand shook as she reached for the photograph and stared at the little girl. The child’s eyes sparkled, and her black hair floated around her head like a fluffy cloud. She looked directly at the photographer with a determined smile that Indira saw in the mirror every morning.

  She flipped over the picture and studied the writing on the back. Along with the date the photo was taken, which was within weeks of Patel’s death, were the names of the people pictured: Paresh and his wife, Vandana, their son Pallab, elder daughter Prisha and Indira, the youngest. Indira said their names to herself, then the words: Father, Mother, Brother, Sister. She realized Rishaan had a duty to report the relevance of this case along with the others to the Central Bureau of Investigation for review as a serial murder investigation. “Are you going to tell the CBI about me?”