He had settled into the ceramic house beside my bonsai tree, but the excitement of living with so many others made him jumpy, and the electrical breakers kept blowing out. I hoped this was something he would eventually get under control. For now—candles.
I set a timer for the root and leaf concoction to steep in the beer. Then I cleaned my blade with a soft cloth, looking for nicks. It had been with me for so long. Silencing the blade felt like a betrayal, but the days of the Valkyrie were long gone. I couldn’t let the sword lust after blood any more than I could Emil. It wasn’t safe for anyone.
I thought about Leighna’s admonishment that I needed to embrace my heritage. And I thought about Angus trying to teach me about my dryad magic. Why was nothing ever easy?
The timer went off and I sighed. Time to get this done.
I washed the blade in the brew, covering its entire length. The next step called for coating the blade in blood. I glanced at the steak bleeding pink juice onto a plate. Would it be enough blood?
My mother was a terrific cook, one of those who could taste a stew and know instinctively what was missing. We hadn’t been rich growing up. Mom’s poor health made more than one job disappear, and we learned to make do in the kitchen. To improvise. I kept that skill into adulthood. It was an ability that made me good at my job.
So the sword wanted blood? I would give it blood.
I took a smaller blade from my first aid kit and washed it in the candle flame, then cut across my left forearm. The blood welled, and I held my arm over the steak, letting it drip into the meat. Then I folded the steak around the blade and rubbed it from hilt to tip while focusing my magic. Leighna hadn’t included any ritual words to be spoken, only a note advising that I had to be calm and infuse the blade with my will, then tell it to sleep.
The blood, beer and herbs had woken the blade’s curiosity. It tasted them and was partially sated. I dug deep into my life-force, enfolding the sword in an embrace of power. The sword’s magic flared once, and it went still. Really still. I hadn’t realized how irritating its constant buzzing was until it fell silent.
“That’s disgusting.” Gabe’s big frame filled the kitchen doorway. Willow followed him in and jumped onto the table to lick the meat coated in my blood.
Gabe wrinkled his nose. “If you died and no one found you for days, she’d totally eat you.”
“Totally,” I agreed.
I shooed the cat away and dumped the meat and beer into a slop bucket for Clarence. He wouldn’t touch it until the meat putrefied.
“I’m heading out for some errands. There’s a girl waiting in the office for you,” Gabe said. “She looks upset.”
“A customer?”
“I don’t think so. Said her name is Betsy.”
The tavern wench. “I’ll be right there.”
“Sure. I’ll tell her you’ll see her after you clean the blood off your hands.”
“You’re lucky I already threw out that steak, buster, or you’d have gotten it right in the face.”
Gabe backed away with his hands held out in surrender.
“Just go!” I laughed.
Before washing, I wiped down my blade with an oiled cloth. Just because I was tired of its neediness, didn’t mean I wanted it to rust out. It was still a good weapon, even without magic.
I scrubbed my hands, rinsed them, scrubbed again, and then hurried to my office. Betsy was leaning over Clarence’s cage when I arrived.
“Is that a snake or a chicken?” she asked.
“Both. He’s a basilisk. And he’s not feeling well.” Clarence opened his eyes, let out a little wuffle and went back to sleep. Molting was hard work.
I steered Betsy to a chair. “What can I help you with?”
“It’s Maeve. My sister. She’s missing. Maybe.” Betsy sat on the edge of the seat, clutching a small canvas sack. She still wore her tavern wench uniform, and the apron was stained with a day’s worth of rushed food orders and spilled beer. “I get off early on Sundays, and I went home, hoping we could spend some time together, but she was gone.”
“You said she likes to wander. When did you last see her?”
“About six hours ago. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot, and yes, she often goes out alone, sometimes all day, but…” She wrestled with the bag to open the drawstrings and pulled out a ragged stuffed unicorn. “Maeve doesn’t go anywhere without Mr. Pointy.” The unicorn’s head drooped as if it had lost most of its stuffing. “After my shift, I came home to find her gone. He was sitting on our front stoop. You probably think I’m silly for worrying. Maeve isn’t a child, I know, but she’s…special. She’s too trusting.”
Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. She looked down and one dripped onto the unicorn. “I had no one else to ask for help.”
By the One-eyed God, this was exactly why I had a house full of strays. I needed to work on my saying-no skills.
“Why don’t I drive you home and we’ll see if Maeve has returned?”
Betsy nodded, clutching Mr. Pointy so hard that his head arched back. I swear he was grinning at me.
*
I left my sword in the umbrella stand with Jacoby babysitting it. It was a test. If the sword was truly dormant, great. If not, Jacoby would teleport it to me. He could find the truck anywhere in the city by now.
We drove east along the old highway toward Talon Street. I braced myself for the psychic scream of my sword, but it didn’t come. I was still aware of it, like there was a trail of magic breadcrumbs leading back to it, but I felt no agitation from our separation.
Thank you, Leighna. That was one problem solved.
“Has Maeve ever been gone for more than a day?” I asked.
Sitting in the front seat of my truck, clutching the stuffed toy, Betsy looked like a scared kid.
“Once. That was before Mom died. We found her sleeping in the park. She said that Mr. Pointy wanted to watch the stars.”
But she had left Mr. Pointy this time.
“Maybe she’s finally outgrown toys.”
Betsy shook her head. “You don’t get it. Routine is important to Maeve. Really important. If we don’t eat supper every night at exactly seven o’clock, she throws a tantrum. Once, when the shops were out of her regular soap, she refused to bathe for a week.” She wrinkled her nose. “It was gross.”
“That must be very stressful for you.” I didn’t imagine that Betsy had much of a social life.
She shrugged. “We manage.”
We drove in silence until we neared her neighborhood.
“Turn here,” Betsy said. “And the next left. My house is the third one on the right.”
I pulled up in front of a single-story house with a neat lawn. Kids played street hockey in front of the next house. Rows of red brick bungalows and small cottages hid among old maples. Some had peeling paint, but most were well kept. It was an affluent neighborhood by the looks of it. Not the sort of place I’d expect a tavern server to be able to afford.
As Betsy reached for the passenger door, I stopped her, holding out my widget with the picture of Cyril and Lorraine.
“Do you know either of these people?”
Betsy studied the image and frowned. “No. Why? Are they missing too?”
“Not exactly.” I didn’t want to tell her they were dead. “Just another case I’m investigating.” There was probably no connection to Betsy’s missing sister. Probably.
Inside, Betsy called out for Maeve, but I could already tell the house was empty. It was silent on a level that went past normal hearing. The rooms smelled of years of home-cooked meals and the decor was decidedly old-fashioned for two young women living alone, with dark wood furniture and floral prints on the sofa and curtains.
“You inherited this place from your parents?” I asked.
“Yeah. Dad passed away eleven yea
rs ago and Mom four.” Betsy bit her lip and looked around as if seeing the place for the first time. “I could sell it and move somewhere smaller, but Maeve likes it here…” She picked up a throw pillow that had fallen on the floor and placed it back on the couch, then fussed with some knickknacks on the side table. Her shoulders heaved as she tried to hold back tears.
“Why don’t we start in Maeve’s room?” I said gently. Betsy nodded and led me down a narrow hallway to the bedroom at the end. It was small and made smaller by all the clutter. A single bed was tucked in the corner by the window, with three rows of stuffed animals neatly lined up against the pillows. One entire bookcase housed dozens of snow globes, some simple, others with ornately carved pedestals. At first, it seemed like total chaos—a riot of toys, books, and junk piled on every surface—until I noticed the pattern. Items were sorted into clusters of five. Five snow globes to a shelf. Five books separated by a stuffed animal, then another five books. Five mobiles hung from the ceiling. Their arms dangled stars, planets, animals, fish and butterflies, and they twirled gently in the breeze from the open window.
A neat path in the clutter led from the door to the bed. Betsy indicated that I should go first. I walked in, careful to keep to the path so I didn’t disturb anything. From Betsy’s descriptions, it didn’t sound like Maeve would be happy to have a stranger going through her things.
I bent over to examine the snow globes and found a terrarium on the lowest shelf. A basket was upturned on a base of sand, and as I peered into the enclosure, several small blue lights emerged to whip around the basket in a frenzy.
“What are those?” I asked.
Betsy shrugged “Maeve calls them fifollets. She found them at the park.”
Fifollets. Interesting. That was the phonetic corruption of feu folle or false fire. They were will o’wisps, usually found in bogs or marshes. Some people believed they were a product of swamp gas, but on closer inspection, I could see that each light was actually a tiny, fat creature encased in blue light.
I stood up and turned to take in all the toys and childish art pinned to the walls.
“How old is Maeve?”
“Twenty-three.” Betsy leaned against the door frame as if unwilling to step into the room. “But after Dad died, she sort of just stopped. I don’t know. It’s like she got stuck there as a twelve-year-old girl.”
Now I realized what was bothering me. The room wasn’t still. Apart from the mobiles swinging in the wind, other things were in perpetual motion too. Red and yellow lights swirled in the snow globes. A lava lamp standing in one corner continually morphed between purple, red and orange. A dipping bird, bowed to a pretend birdbath, stood straight up and bowed again. Over and over. Maeve liked motion. Several other kinetic sculptures were lined up on her desk, and, each sculpture seemed to be engulfed in flames. I leaned over and ran a finger through the fire but felt no heat. They were illusions. I looked into the snow globes. Each little winter scene was also on fire.
I pointed to a black scorch mark on the carpet. “What’s that?”
Betsy shifted uncomfortably. “Maeve did that by accident a long time ago. I wanted to change the carpet, but she wouldn’t let me.”
I nodded. Maeve liked fire.
I let my keening out and tasted her brand of magic. It was spicy, like cayenne pepper, and agitated. The room was filled with magic. I glanced at the neatly made bed and imagined Maeve sleeping there every night, unconsciously emanating energy in her dreams until it seeped into the walls, the bedding, and the stuffed toys, like someone had taken a giant bucket and sloshed magic across every surface.
Unfortunately, this extra sense gave me no indication of where Maeve went, but if I ever met her, I’d know her magic signature as well as any bloodhound on the scent of a fox.
“Anything?” Betsy asked. The hope shining from her eyes made me feel like a heel. I’d led her to believe I was an investigator, when really I had no idea where to start looking for her sister.
“No. I’d like to interview the neighbors and then maybe you can show me the park that Maeve likes to go to.”
Betsy nodded, but the light of hope in her eyes had dimmed. She didn’t believe we’d find Maeve, and the wriggling doubt in my gut agreed.
Chapter
19
As I got ready for my Thursday dinner date with Susanna, Angus showed up carrying a small potted plant. Gita greeted him while I dithered about which of my t-shirts to wear: the one with the angry hedgehog or the one with the cute dragon. I didn’t know why it was so important. I was unreasonably nervous, like the unpopular girl in middle school who just got invited to her first boy-girl party. In the end, I dumped both t-shirts in favor of the one with the kitten in a wizard hat.
In the living room, Angus and Gita huddled together by the plant stand. Gita squeaked and jumped back in surprise, making Angus laugh.
“Don’t that just beat a dead horse,” he said.
“What are you guys so excited about?” I stuck my chin over their shoulders to see the plant Angus had brought. It looked like a fern, with clusters of small dark green fronds.
“Watch this.” Gita touched one a frond and it closed up like an umbrella. She giggled.
My banshee giggled.
Angus leaned back and fluttered his wings, pleased with himself. Errol, who was sitting with his legs hanging over the rim of the bonsai’s pot, thumped his walking twig in approval.
I couldn’t resist. I reached out to touch one of the fronds and watched it shrink away.
“It’s a mimosa plant.” Gita wiped tears from her eyes and smiled.
“What’s it for? Some new potion?” I asked.
“Only if you’ve got raging diarrhea,” Angus said. “But no, I brought it for you to practice on.”
“Me?”
“The wee plant will react to magic just as easily as the touch of a hand. Watch.” He focused on the plant. I keened his magic lashing out, and another frond jerked closed.
“Amazing. And you think I’ll be able to do that?”
“With practice. Every day.” His bushy brows lowered over his eyes. “I want you to practice reaching for it. Don’t talk to it. Just touch it with your magic. You’ll know as soon as you do.”
The green man was a genius.
“Thank you. I’ll try it. But not right now. I’m meeting Susanna at her lab. It’s in the same building as Gerard’s, so I’m hoping to snoop a bit.”
Angus frowned. “I should come with you.”
“Not this time. Susanna isn’t exactly a friend. At least not yet. She might find it odd if I have a gargoyle tagging along. And besides, this is just recon. If I find anything interesting, I’ll let you know.”
We walked toward the front door.
“That reminds me,” he said. “You were right about Cyril and Lorraine. They were friends. And Lorraine was definitely working for Gerard, but on what project?” He shrugged, rustling the leaves on his head. “Who knows?”
“So what if Lorraine found out something…something that scared her? She didn’t know what to do about it, so she went to her Guardian friend for advice. Gerard found out and killed them both.”
“Oh, aye. You paint a pretty picture, but it’s pure conjecture at this point.”
“So, we’d better find some proof.”
Angus stopped at the front door to skewer me with his best Guardian stare.
“You just be careful. People are dying like hotcakes.”
*
The alchemists had taken over the old school buildings behind Abbott’s Agora. These were offices and archives with a few labs. Most of their labs were on Perrot Island, ostensibly to protect the citizens of Montreal from any experiments that went horribly wrong. But keeping the labs outside the ward also meant that the alchemists had no oversight from Hub. They did as they pleased on their little island. And spying on
them would be near impossible. So I had to settle for snooping at the more public offices.
Susanna had to work late and had called to ask if I would pick up dinner and bring it to her. Angus’s arrival set me back, and it was almost eight o’clock by the time I paid for vegetarian curry and made my way through the winding path to the Penfield Building behind the market.
It was a boxy construction of red brick that only seemed quaint because it was old. Built in the early twentieth century, Penfield had originally been a college. To the right, as I walked up to the door, more red-brick buildings sat dark and abandoned. These were the old dormitories. The alchemists had bought the entire campus intending to expand into the other buildings eventually. For now, they sat empty but for the class two and three fae who dared to squat so close to the alchemist stronghold.
I buzzed the intercom on the door and a bored voice asked who I was there to see.
I leaned into the speaker. “Susanna Coulter.”
“Please send your identification.”
I tapped my widget to the pad beside the speaker and it beeped. Then I waited while the security guard checked that I actually existed. It always amazed me that one bit of encrypted code could validate my entire existence.
Eventually, the door clicked and opened slowly outward. I stepped inside and smiled at the guard sitting at a kiosk just past the doors. He scowled and pointed to my bag.
“Food must stay in designated areas. Labs marked with this sign,” he held up an image of a person in full hazmat gear, “are off limits without proper escort. Basement is there.” He pointed to a door marked “Stairs.”
I thanked him and headed down. The stairwell was well lit, but I couldn’t help feeling that I was being watched. Probably because I was. Cameras were fitted to every corner of the hall. I noted them all.
Dervishes Don't Dance: A Paranormal Suspense Novel with a Touch of Romance (Valkyrie Bestiary Book 2) Page 16