by V. V. James
She was fifteen years old.
I’ll never put anyone else at risk by being rigid about how policing should be done.
“I’m thinking an independent magical investigator is what we need to move forward,” I tell him. “Search online for a reputable one. Make sure they’re based as far away from Connecticut as possible—we can’t have anyone who might know the Fenns. I’ll need permission to engage them, though. I’ll go get that in person.”
Meaning: I’ve no desire to have Chester, still less the Sanctuary rank and file, and definitely not Chief Bolt, hear me getting bawled out by my boss.
Lt. Remy Lamarr is one helluva bawler.
Twenty-Three
Maggie
It’s less than ninety minutes to Middletown along I-95, and the drive does me good.
It’s the first time I’ve left Sanctuary since I got assigned, and I feel free out on the open highway, instead of among the winding streets of the historic quarter where Sarah Fenn lives, or endless suburbs where even the sunlight is tastefully filtered through trimmed trees.
HQ is a low, smoky-glass building, stretching out in two wings like a pair of arms just waiting to wrap you in the loving embrace of the law. You can hear Remy from down the hall. I sometimes wonder if he f-bombs his children’s bedtime stories, or yells pillow talk with his husband. But the thing about Lt. Remy Lamarr is that even while he shouts in your face, he has your back.
I knock, and with a final barked command Remy slams down the phone and waves me in. He sits in his usual, freakishly upright posture as he listens to my account. I’m trying to lead him toward what I want—permission to use a magical investigator—while letting him think the idea was all his. His eyes gleam, and I wonder if I’ve succeeded, or if he’s seen right through me.
“So lemme get this right, Mags. You’ve got a kid dead and a house burned. And instead of this being what to anyone in their right mind it would appear obvious it is—a frat party gone wrong—you have half-assed allegations of homicide by witchcraft flying around. Presumably on fucking broomsticks.”
I cringe. Broomstick jokes have been ruled offensive and discriminatory language when applied to witches—an easy way to an automatic misconduct mark for any serving officer. But Remy sails on, unfazed.
“And the cherry on top of this multitiered, candy-covered, shit cake is that said homicide by witchcraft triggers some ancient rule—from back when sackcloth was a fashion statement—that the perpetrator be put to death. And your alleged perp is…a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl? What a fucking shambles.”
“That about covers it, sir.”
“So, what do you propose to do, Detective Knight? Want me to toss it to the feds? Let them fuck it up—or deal with the fallout from executing a child? They wouldn’t execute her, of course. There’s no way in hell the governor would stand for it. But even the possibility is gonna stink.”
Remy’s words send a chill down my spine. Hearing him say it somehow makes an unthinkable scenario seem horribly possible. Harper Fenn, with her haunted eyes, on death row for however long it takes lawyers to wrangle over her fate? And despite Remy’s confidence, I see no guarantee of clemency.
“I’m no lawyer, sir, but the way it’s written, I don’t think the governor would have the power to overturn it. It’d have to go all the way up.”
Our governor here in Connecticut may be a card-carrying liberal, but right now the White House and Senate are conservative. They’ve got an electorate to answer to, and red states look less kindly on witchcraft than blue states. The Supreme Court isn’t exactly witch-friendly these days, either.
“The girl’s not registered?”
“She’s not quite eighteen, but no. The school and local hospital don’t have a PMP notification, and her mother, who’s the local witch, swears she doesn’t have ability.”
“So it won’t be witchcraft, then.”
“The accuser is the town chief’s son, Remy.”
“What’s wrong with these yokels?” Remy steeples his fingers, scowling at the signet ring on his left hand. “Sure, witchcraft’s great at finding lost cats and curing earache. But the rest is superstition and placebo that our ancestors clung to in this country to help them build a life here.”
I don’t say anything. Like all cops, Remy is fiercely devoted to the things we can see and touch and prove. He thinks his million-mile-an-hour brain can solve everything. Mostly it can—he’s set to make commissioner by the time he’s forty.
But sometimes even a brain like his isn’t enough. It wasn’t on the Jenny Downes case. I know Remy was as broken up as I was by our failure to reach Jenny in time. I’ve laid emphasis on the party villa as the place where any alleged crime—or magic—happened and am hoping he’ll make the connection himself.
He does.
“How about getting a magical investigator to rule out the presence of witchcraft? That frees you to figure out what actually happened. You said the boy was clean? A fault with the property, then. Something gave way, he fell. Insurance company can take the hit of a civil suit by the parents. We all know that grief wants answers, but sometimes life just serves up shit for giggles.
“And if the witness and his pop, the chief, kick about you not taking their claim seriously, I’ll back you up. A kid throwing around wild allegations of witchcraft? He’s upset. It’s only natural. Just shows how much he cares, right? A supernice kid, not a wacko kid. Everyone comes out of this shit pile smelling like roses. Am I clear?”
“Crystal clear, Remy.”
“Good girl, Mags. See you back here soon. I’m missing our doughnut dates.”
I grin. Remy’s in the gym at six every morning, and I don’t think he’s so much as looked at a bad carb in his life.
I’ve got the permission I needed. And I’ve got Remy’s support.
I’ll have this straightened out soon.
Twenty-Four
Abigail
It’s been a week.
A year. An eternity. Every day feels endless and unendurable since Dan was taken from me.
His team has a game tonight—the “handover,” when all the graduating players face off against the upcoming talent that’ll be replacing them.
Do I want it to be its usual riotous fun to distract me? Seeing Dan’s beloved friends—Freddie and the rest—will surely lift my spirits.
Or do I want an evening of grief and mourning, to know the boys are all equally devastated? Can I measure their love for Dan in their sorrow now that he’s gone?
Coach greets me and Michael before the game and keeps us talking. I’m convinced we’ll miss the kickoff, until he checks his watch and leads us to our seats—and then I understand. As we enter, the crowd in the stadium rises to its feet. Down on the field, the band strikes up the Spartans’ fight song. Only no one’s singing. They’re all silent. The boys lined up on the field have their hands over their hearts.
My breath catches. The huge digital scoreboard is showing a photo of Dan. It’s his team portrait, his grilled helmet tucked under his arm. The strapline at the bottom displays his name alongside the Spartans’ insignia. There are figures below it, but they’re not, as usual, his performance stats.
They are his birthday and the date a week ago. The day he died.
I stifle a sob, and Michael’s arm comes around me. He pulls me tight. Too tight. He’s trying to stop me from doing something stupid, like bursting into hysterics. Or tearing my shoes off and hurling them at the scoreboard, because I don’t want to see those dates there. I want to see Dan’s passing yards, his touchdowns and completions.
The boys take their positions. I can’t bear to look at the former student they’ve drafted to take Dan’s place on the senior team. With a final flourish of the drum, the game begins.
Michael is at my side. His eyes track the players, but I’m not sure he’s taking much in. He was neve
r a bleacher dad. He’d be at home or in the lab, working. Does he regret that now? I study his face for any clue, but it’s been years since I could tell what he was thinking.
Without Dan on the field, the game holds no interest for me, either, and I’m glad when it’s over.
As the two teams mingle for the post-game handshake, I hear Dan’s name over the loudspeakers. I recognize the voice: Freddie McConaughey, the Spartans’ best wide receiver and Dan’s closest friend, after Jacob.
“…and his parents are with us tonight. Mrs. Whitman, Professor Whitman, I speak for the whole team when I say that Dan’s loss has left a massive, massive hole not just in our offensive line, but in our hearts and our lives.”
The whole stadium has gone quiet, and the floodlights have been dimmed. There’s just a spotlight on Freddie, microphone in his big, ball-catching hands. On either side of him, the Spartans have lined up, helmets off and heads bowed. The coaching team and the refs have their caps in their hands.
Coach takes the microphone and describes Daniel’s talent. How he knew, from the first season he saw him play, that he had amazing potential.
“He’ll always be part of this team,” Coach says. “Spartana semper.”
Coach holds out the mic and the stadium crowd roars it back at him: “Spartana semper!” Always a Spartan.
Now each of the Spartans is taking turns to say a sentence or two. What they learned from Daniel. How much they liked and admired him. A few tell funny stories, and the stadium reverberates with affectionate laughter. These boys are as devoted to Dan’s memory as they were to him in life.
Which is when the thought comes to me—could I use that devotion?
“Please stand, everyone,” Freddie says, reclaiming the mic. “We were silent before the game, but now let’s sing this so loud that Dan can hear us up there.”
A girl steps forward, one of the team’s cheerleaders, and lifts her voice in a soaring soprano rendition of the team fight song. Everyone around me rises to their feet. Somewhere close by, a girl is sobbing and smiling. Men’s voices are hoarse.
Photos of Dan flash on the scoreboard. Laughing with his teammates. Reaching for the ball. Concentrating as he lines up a throw. Beaming as he shakes hands with the scout who matched him with his college team.
“Dan the Man!” Freddie bellows. “We love you!”
He leads the stadium in three rousing cheers that make the stands shake. The boys jog off the field, and their energy thrums through me, too.
It feels like anything is possible. Anything at all. I just have to make it so.
I slip from my seat and go find Freddie. There’s useful work he and his teammates could do.
Twenty-Five
Sarah
I think all witches, unconsciously, are waiting for the day something like this happens. It’s a when-not-if situation that all magical parents prepare their kids for.
I have protections on the house, of course. But they’re not strong—they can’t be, given how cheek-to-jowl properties are in this old part of town. Our house fronts the sidewalk, which means I can’t put wards around it. The charmed bundles that hang above the doorways and windows ensure that someone needs me to open up for them to enter.
But we’re not permitted to do much more than that. Unlike guns, “defensive” use of magic isn’t recognized by law. Witchcraft is considered offensive in all circumstances: even in self-protection if assaulted, even under stand your ground if attacked at home.
This was no assault. There was no violence in the things they used: eggs, flour, and paint. But there’s menace in it. Contempt and threat.
I felt sick when I first saw it. They came to our home in the middle of the night and did this. Thank the goddess Harper wasn’t here.
I’d actually been woken in the early hours by whooping from the street. But in Sanctuary, as in many places, the “historic” district also means the tourist district. There are hotels and bars down this way. Things do get a little rowdy. So I turned over and willed myself back to sleep.
I saw it the minute I came downstairs, though. My first thought was that it was blood, dripping down the windows, and I called the cops. A patrol car dropped off that nice Greenstreet boy. His grandma is an occasional client.
He’s a calming presence as I swing between outrage and fear at what this might mean. We’re both surveying the damage when a second car pulls up—the detective on Daniel’s case.
“Any idea who did this to you?” she asks. “And any idea why?”
“The fact that it’s you here and not a routine patrol shows that we both know why. But as for the who…”
She nods. What kind of person is she, this cop? She went to the hospital to intercept Harper, rather than speaking to my girl at home when I could be present. Why would she do that?
She will have heard Jake Bolt’s accusations. Does she believe him—the son of her law-enforcement colleague? Does she find him a credible witness?
How does she feel about magic?
I can’t read Detective Maggie Knight’s face as she studies the mess of my house. Then she frowns.
“What’s the significance of that, there?”
Mostly the paint has been splashed on. But there’s one bit plainly done by spray-can—a slanted downward slash, then an even more skewed vertical, like a toppling V.
Chester Greenstreet is watching Knight as she mimes the movement: down, then up. Down, then up. As she does so, I recognize what mark she’s making—or starting to.
She’s got it, too. And that tells me this cop is good. I don’t know whether to be relieved or even more anxious. Will she use her skill to prove my daughter’s innocence, or to build a false case against her?
“It’s the first two strokes of a pentagram,” she says. “But then they stopped. Interrupted maybe, which could mean someone saw them. Or they stopped themselves because they realized the consequences.”
“Ma’am?”
“It would be a hate crime, Chester. Marking out witches because of their identity. If it wasn’t an interruption, then they didn’t finish it because one of them was smart enough to know that.”
“One of them? How do you know it was more than one person?”
Knight points out the various substances adorning my house. “Paint. Flour. Eggs. You ever tried running with all of those in your arms, or a grocery bag? I wouldn’t recommend it. And you’d want to get it all done quickly before you’re spotted. Bam-bam-bam. Many hands make light work.”
She turns to me. “I need photographs and a sample of that paint. Sergeant Greenstreet here will get that done right away—there’s an evidence kit in my car, Chester. Then you can get this cleaned off. Is there someone who can help?”
“Pierre,” I say immediately. “He’s a friend. A home renovator, does decorating, that sort of thing…”
“Good. Give him a call.”
My fingers shake as I dial Pierre. He’s often busy on a job. But I needn’t have worried. He picks up promptly. I explain things as matter-of-factly as I can, and he promises to be right over. Only when I end the call do I burst into tears.
What is this tawdry threat? Why did someone do this, and why now? It can only be because they believe the allegations against Harper—that pentagram tells me as much.
The detective plainly thinks so, too, because she asks where my daughter is, saying she wants to speak to her again.
“Harper’s out, Detective. She goes running early most mornings, and after that, her comings and goings are a mystery. Teenagers are like cats—you just have to trust they’ll find their way home.”
She nods, plainly surprised that I don’t know Harper’s every movement, or have her under lock and key. But that’s not our way of child-rearing, whether the child is magical or not. My daughter is a free spirit.
I avoid the stares of my neighbors as the det
ective gives her sergeant instructions, and none of them have the nerve to ask what happened. It’s a relief to see Pierre’s van round the corner.
He’s outraged at what he sees.
“Jesus, Sarah!” He turns to the detective. “I hope you plan on finding the creep that did this.”
Maggie Knight is staring at him. I mean, plenty of people stare at Pierre. He’s a good-looking guy, his physique kept strong by the work he does and shown off in the T-shirts and jeans he wears to do it. But she’s staring like she recognizes him.
“Mr. Martineau,” she says, holding out a hand for him to shake.
I hadn’t mentioned his surname, but then I notice it’s written on the side of his van. Stay calm, Sarah. Don’t get paranoid.
“I met your daughter a few days ago,” the cop is saying. “Isobel, right?”
“Izzy?” And Pierre’s face breaks into the smile he can’t suppress when his daughter is mentioned. “My little muppet is still fighting off mono. How was she?”
“She was well enough to answer the door to an officer of the law. She’s a sweet girl.”
The cop is smiling back. Maybe she was only staring for the same reason all the women do. Jeez, Pierre is such a charmer. I feel better just having him here.
I hope the cop will leave us to it, but as Pierre gets to work unloading a ladder and a can of paint solvent from the back of his van, Detective Knight turns to me.
“I really need to speak to Harper, Ms. Fenn. Would you mind if I stepped inside to wait for her to come back? I’d appreciate a chat with you, in any event.”
And well-trained witch that I am, I know better than to refuse a police officer.