Magic Rising

by Jennifer Cloud

  Deirdre went forward, ignoring the order to keep security unseen. She clipped the transmitter over her ear, letting the black plastic hang next to her mouth. With a flip of the switch on the transmitter, she had continuous communication with her crew.

  “BFA, shoulder length brown hair, possible wig, bright blue dress, broad shoulders. Track her, Tech. Repeat black female adult going through the crowd. Get in close.”

  Less than forty-five feet separated the woman from Tamara Haas. This seemed to quicken the woman’s pace as she marched directly toward the actress, going as far as pushing through the crowd.

  “Do you have a visual?” Deirdre asked as she brushed a stray hair from her face. The woman temporarily disappeared in the crowd.

  “Confirmed and tracking. Black, female, adult, wearing blue dress just ahead. Keep going straight.”

  Tamara Haas stood on a raised platform, holding her glass high as if thanking the room or giving a toast. In that moment Deirdre found her target. The woman shoved a waiter causing a few drinks to spill as she headed directly toward Tamara Haas.

  The situation would be tricky. If this was an excited fan, her opinion of crashing parties would be changed forever. There was no mistaking the rush through the partiers though.

  “Deirdre, target reaching into brassiere. High alert.”

  There wasn’t a moment to lose. Deirdre pounced, closing the distance between them and causing a small commotion. She grabbed the female suspect’s right hand as a dark object appeared in the woman’s left. It was a gun.

  Deirdre changed positions, taking the woman’s left hand and forcing the gun up toward the ceiling. A shot rang out, flying somewhere into the ceiling and causing the crowd to hush before a panic of bodies pushed out from the center of the room. Silence turned to screams that surrounded them while the very masculine black woman fought to bring her gun under control.

  Moving swiftly, Deirdre kept the gun raised while swinging one elbow across the target’s face. A brown wig flew off the woman’s head and hit the floor. Deirdre knew she’d found her man. He easily outweighed her by a hundred pounds. Bringing one leg against the back of his calf and applying pressure, the target went to the floor, landing hard on his back. By the time the man’s dark brown eyes met hers; Deirdre had his gun and was holding it against his head.

  “Police en route.” She heard Tech advise her through her earpiece. “We have full video.”

  The man beneath her started to struggle. “You don’t understand. That woman has to die. My daughter’s life depends on it.”

  Deirdre had heard many lies from madmen. Each suspect was convinced of the truth of some fantastical story. Not once had she ever believed their tales and usually belted them across the face for talking to her. This time, she froze. The man’s eyes were glassy pools of regret and desperation. The emotion pulled at her and she studied his tormented expression as he continued to speak.

  “Please,” he begged. “She’ll cause my daughter to die.”

  “How?”

  Sabrine and Mark were on him, leaving their respective posts while the other employees edged away, keeping their anonymity for future jobs. Deirdre climbed off the man and the two agents rolled him onto his stomach, handcuffing the target for the cops to haul away to jail. It was a standard routine that her people followed to the letter. Still, as they took him to a side hall and the designated holding area, Deirdre knew something in his words was true. She couldn’t say anything though. She trained her people to do their job, ignore the ramblings of criminals, and never feel pity. By the same respect, she led by example. Her questions would wait for another time.

  The target disappeared down the hall and Deirdre went to Tamara Haas who was being fanned by her latest suitor. A few party guests crept back in, staying in clusters at the edge of the door, curiosity kept them from leaving, but fear held them away from the main floor.

  “Are you okay, Ms. Haas?” Deirdre looked the woman over, noticing that her eyes appeared glassy and her bottom lip trembled.

  “Yes. A bit stunned-up but fine. Thank you.”

  “Good.” The timing was bad but Deirdre couldn’t resist. The target had said some things that correlated directly with the actress. “What’s your relationship to the gentleman who attempted the attack?”

  “Nothing.” Tamara Haas touched her mouth, before crossing her arms over her chest as if caught in a terrible draft. Her body language spoke volumes.

  Deirdre hated when people lied to her. Anger swelled in her bosom. Unlike the A-listers, Deirdre didn’t give a rat’s ass who Tamara Haas was or what connections she had. Her only concern was a case that felt off.

  “Don’t lie to me, ma’am. He claims that you have a connection to his daughter. He’s going to tell the cops the same story, and if I know the guys at that police station, the rumor will be in the papers by morning.”

  “I don’t know anything about him or his family. You shouldn’t listen to the stories of the insane.”

  “I probably shouldn’t.” She paused, watching the actress fidget uncomfortably. “I’ll send you my bill.”

  Deirdre turned to the hallway where the target had been taken. It was a desolate space, primarily used for storage and filing. The staff at Cotters had opened up this section for any detainees and given her the biggest room on the hall for any work. It had a few fold-out chairs and one sturdy table. The room didn’t look like it belonged in the same building as the sparkling chandeliers, crisp linens, and polished marble floors. It just goes to prove that even buildings have dark sides.

  She opened the door, seeing Mark standing guard until the police arrived. The gentleman they’d caught burst into tears and she prayed this job would be over quickly. She didn’t like to see men cry.

  “Has the target said anything?” Deirdre asked.

  “Only ranting about his daughter. When are those cops going to show up?” It seemed the target’s reaction bothered Mark too.

  “Soon. Tech called them as soon as I took down the target.”

  “I am not a target. My name is Shope. Jack Shope. You have to stop Tamara. She’ll get my daughter. My baby can’t die.” Without the wig, he looked like any normal man on the street. His hair was cropped close to the scalp, nearly military. His eyes were wide, glassy, and his muscular form hulking in his dress and heels. His black skin looked even darker beneath the bright blue dress. “I’m not crazy. I’m only protecting my daughter. You have to believe me.” His words cut through Deirdre’s shell and touched her heart.

  Protecting his daughter. That was a familiar sentiment.

  She couldn’t get involved. Everything had to be kept at a distance. The criminals were “targets”, nothing more, no names, nothing personal. The people who hired them were called “clients”. There could be no emotional attachment to either for Deirdre to do her job efficiently. She knew it was the one rule to never break, almost never.

  “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Lora Shope.”

  Mark looked at her, appearing shocked over her question. They’d worked together since she’d started Security Specialists. Not once had she ever addressed a target. She’d never had a client tell her a complete lie about the association with a stalker either. Tamara Haas had told Deirdre too many lies to be an innocent victim.

  “Deirdre, the police have arrived.” Sabrine stepped to the side and motioned to someone behind her.

  There were other questions Deirdre wanted to ask but the timing was bad. The daughter’s name didn’t mean much to her but perhaps asking made the target feel better. A man in a dress shouldn’t cry in jail. Nasty things could happen when the guards weren’t looking.

  “Let’s prepare the target for transfer.”

  A uniformed officer entered behind Sabrine. He seemed too taken with Sabrine’s backside to say anything at first. Sabrine was a spunky girl who, in Deirdre’s opinion, was built for sex but had martial art skills that would drop half the police force if she felt so inspired. S
abrine kept her hair short, rising in a three-inch spike on the top of her head and dyed fire engine red. It added to her tough exterior, one that she’d practiced for years.

  Without turning, Sabrine addressed the officer. “If you’re done ogling, I’d like to get my cuffs off the target.”

  The officer stepped around her mumbling something incoherent. Sabrine followed, removing her cuffs while the officer placed his around the target’s wrists, and searched him. With the transfer completed, the target had become the official property of the Lawrenceton Police Department.

  “Well if it isn’t Deirdre Galiena Flye? When we got the call I thought I might see you.”

  The detective who entered the room wore a cheap suit, cheaper cologne, and had irritated Deirdre since the first moment she laid eyes on him six years ago.

  “Hello Farmer,” remarked Sabrine with an equal amount of distaste.

  “Just call me Deirdre. The rest is too long.” This guy had been a major thorn in her side since he made detective. “Do you think you can take this guy to jail without losing him?”

  “Whenever you have time to give me a statement.”

  “You know Tech handles that. He’s upstairs and is currently making you a copy of the surveillance video. That will be sufficient.”

  He started to say something, then closed his mouth. Deirdre had special arrangements with the local authorities and they made concessions where she was concerned. She protected people with power, those with media connections, and people who could get the mayor re-elected. Few locals messed with Deirdre.

  Except for Ryan Farmer.

  Farmer stepped closer, apparently in the mood to start trouble. She hated how he enjoyed talking close, forcing her to endure the scent of old cigarettes and coffee breath. When he first did this, she thought he was about to come on to her, but no. This guy must’ve picked it up from a bad PI movie where the jerk spoke low, sharing secrets no one else in the room was supposed to hear.

  “I researched you Deirdre Galiena Flye. I know all about you. Flye, that’s Irish right? You’re a little tall but I could see you being Irish, Deirdre Galiena Flye.” His words were an obscene whisper that sent waves of repulsion down her spine. She hated when he said her name. That’s probably why he kept doing it.

  “I have no idea if the name is Irish.” She tried to shift away from him without being obvious. “It sounds like you’ve been busy checking up on me.”

  “I know about the fire. I know about that house you’re from.”

  She swallowed hard, her heart sounding in her ears like a drum. The thought that someone else had found out made her blood run cold, but she couldn’t let Farmer know that.

  It was difficult but she steadied her voice. “Fire? You’re going to have to be more specific. Are we talking candlelight or are you trying to pin some forest fire on me now?”

  He laughed a whiny grating sound that ended in a snort she’d never heard in a person. He leaned in again, making her smell him for the second time tonight.

  “I mean the Stone House fire.”

  “You’ll have to give me more than that.” She smiled and fought the urge to grit her teeth.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “It would help me know what you’re talking about.” She felt Mark come forward, standing as her backup. That was the reason she kept Mark around. He was always quick to react and knew that the appearance of his large, muscled body was enough to end a conversation.

  “We’ll have this discussion another time.” Farmer glanced at Mark then at the officer holding up Mr. Shope. “I’ll catch you later. I really will, Dragonfly.”

  She stiffened at the old cult name, the one she’d left behind when Stone House burned. That was the name of the dead.

  That’s what she felt like sometimes though. She felt dead inside. There were moments when she believed she had also died in that damned building. All she had now was the ghost of who she could’ve been.

  Chapter Two

  Deirdre parked in front of her house, which was situated in the boring subdivision where she’d lived for five years. It was a house she considered normal, average. It was a cookie cutter with beige stucco and a manicured lawn. Her subdivision only had three variations of houses making everything blissfully generic.

  She’d chosen this place specifically because it looked like nothing out of the ordinary could ever happen here. No chants would wake her in the night, no screams, no blood. Magic seemed to have been banned by the very nature of the mundane. She supposed that could be a bad thing. People still wished on stars, they continued to look to the heavens for answers. Magic still existed in a child’s laugh or a bird’s song. Unfortunately she was unaccustomed to recognizing these simple constructs. All she’d experienced was the dark side of things.

  She pushed open her car door and walked to the front door. Here, even the darkest shadows would hide only a sprinkler head or perhaps a lizard looking for a snack. This made her feel a little better after the difficult day she’d experienced. It made her feel normal.

  Not like Dragonfly.

  As she approached her door, she heard the leaves crunch. Branches moved to her left. She jerked, checking the ground. A moment later a white blur jumped at her feet, latching around her calf and climbing up.

  She nearly punched the thing until she recognized her neighbor’s cat. For some odd reason it had adopted Deirdre. She wasn’t sure what to do about it. She plucked it as lovingly as she could from her leg, listening to the rip of her pants as she did it. With a gentle push, she released Snowball back into the bushes.

  I can stop bad guys but a single cat can kick my ass.

  The door unlocked with a slight metallic sound. She pushed it open and hung her keys on the hook. First thing, she grabbed a pouch of food that she kept by the door. Before Snowball could make a second attack, she opened the peace offering. The cat appeared at the sound of the pouch being opened, looking pleased and purring loudly.

  With her offering paid, she stepped inside. She kept a black candle on the table by the entrance. It was her routine to light it the moment she came home. This she did with a scratched match and the scent of sulfur.

  Most religions had some special use for candles. She’d heard of everything from healing to breaking curses. She lit this candle to absorb the negative energy, not that she expected it to work. Her rite had more to do with habit than any belief.

  The only thing Deirdre truly believed in was herself. Everything else in this world had failed her. Of course she turned from her upbringing at Stone House. Christianity had a kinder spin on things than the dark arts practiced around her when she’d been a child. Still, some things made her feel better, like lighting the black candle.

  She went through the house to the kitchen where she grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Deirdre returned and flopped into a large chair in front of the television. The overstuffed gray chair with its wide cushions was her favorite seat. There were two short matching couches but this was her spot to let the job melt away.

  Kicking off her high-heeled boots, she curled her legs beneath her, and wiggled her cramped toes. High heels were killers on the job but she liked the added height. Deirdre was hardly petite. Her long lean frame stretched out to five foot eight, but three inch heels helped her survey a room.

  Her rumpled clothes were uncomfortable and smelled of rich peoples’ perfumes that all clashed, mixing in her shirt. She was too tired to change yet though. All she wanted to do was to relax. Deirdre flipped through a few channels settling on some standup comic whose last jokes brought a rousing crash of laughter.

  What a night. A strange bust and then Farmer.

  The deal with Farmer bothered her. She didn’t like people digging through her past. There really wasn’t much he could’ve found. Then again, she didn’t think he would find any connection between her and Stone House, much less the fire that had killed so many people.

  Ryan Farmer was an asshole who reminde
d her of a Pez dispenser. No other way existed to describe the beady eyes peering out from thick cheeks. He wasn’t fat anywhere but his face and the distortion gave him a strange appearance, like his head belonged on a different body.

  She had met Farmer when he was only a rookie and she started taking security assignments. He messed up and lost a target after she turned custody over to him. The police failed to notify her or her client that the target was back on the street. Forty-eight hours later the target scaled a wall, and fired into the client’s bedroom window killing her. Deirdre made a stink and nearly had Farmer fired. From that point forward, he’d been after her. He seemed to have picked up a new zest for hating her over the last few weeks. It was strange that time had increased his anger rather than numbing it.

  I won’t let it bother me. He can’t know. It’s not possible.

  For a moment she remembered that place, the smells. She’d witnessed them taking the energy of the dying. The blood…

  No. I can’t think about that now. They were mortal men. They all burned.

  Deirdre usually avoided watching the news because the sight of human atrocity depressed her. The lame comedic routine grew bothersome so she risked it. Tonight she wanted to see if her earlier escapade had made it into the media. The local affiliates were playing old movies but she found a national station and watched. Fifteen minutes passed before the story she was waiting for came on, only she didn’t expect the spin they touted.

  “An attempted attack on actress Tamara Haas’ life was thwarted by a local security company. The name of the suspect, who was killed at the scene, has not been released.” The woman with stiff hair smiled as if the subject were pleasing. “Ms. Haas was unavailable for comment.”

  Great, the news had messed up another story. That figured. They rarely got things right, but this was the first time they incorrectly announced the death of someone Deirdre had brought down during a job. Maybe Ms. Haas had that added that for more publicity. She has been unavailable for comment.