by Clare Kauter
Maybe I'd found my first case as a police officer. Good, something easy then. Just finding the girlfriend of a homicidal vampire magician determined to kill me. Nothing to worry about.
When I stepped out of the forest, Henry (in wolf form) was standing by the stairs.
"Evening," I said. "Fancy seeing you here."
He smiled and transformed into his human self. "Evening."
"So, what's The Department got you doing now?" I asked. "Spying on me?"
He shook his head. "No. They seem pretty satisfied that you're not dangerous."
"Really? Whatever gave them that idea?"
He nodded towards the church. "Testimony from a couple of witch cops, I believe."
"Liars."
He smirked. "Besides, would the kind of person they thought you were really join the police force?"
I shrugged. "Maybe. If they had ulterior motives. Which I don't, of course."
"Of course."
"Do you think Hecate and Daisy are just worried that if they turn me in, I'll turn them in for all the illegal shit I've seen them do?"
"It's a definite possibility."
"Mutually assured destruction."
"Something like that."
We fell silent for a moment, just listening to the eerie sound of the wind whistling through the eucalypts.
"Shall we head inside?" Henry asked.
I nodded. "Soon. I need some more of those choc-chip cookies in my life."
He smiled. "It's the lavender that really gives them that lift."
"I should have known you were the one who baked them. They're far too delicious to be anything Maude or Lavinia could come up with."
"I could give you the recipe."
"Or you could just keep making them for me."
He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. "You're so demanding."
"Before we do go back inside, Henry, I need to ask you something."
He exhaled loudly before replying, "I thought this might be coming."
"Do you know how your clouding spells were broken?"
"Yes."
"Did I cause it?"
He hesitated. "You caused them to weaken, I believe."
"Is that your opinion or did someone tell you that?"
"Someone told me that."
"And was that the same someone who then removed the clouds completely?"
Henry looked pained, like he wished he could be anywhere but here. "Yes."
"And that same person warned you not to turn me in."
He sighed. "Yes, but I wouldn't have anyway."
I smiled, and Henry looked relieved for a moment. Then I asked the next question and his face fell.
"And who exactly was that person?"
The red light of the moon shone down on me, illuminating the cobblestone path under my feet. Using the portal in the Black Forest, I'd made my way to Hell. Ed had been surprisingly good-natured about me showing up unannounced and stepping out of the cupboard in his bedroom. Maybe the look in my eye had scared him. I hadn't seen myself since Henry had delivered the news, but I felt like I was experiencing a full-body eye twitch of anger.
Rather than turn right at the next intersection and head up to the main strip of Hell where the library was located, I continued straight. I could research this King of the Damned business another time. Right now I sought answers of a different kind.
As I neared my destination, the moonlight grew dimmer and the stones underfoot grew slippery, slick with water. The air changed from its usual dry heat to an uncomfortable humidity and I stepped through the gates of the graveyard. At least, it looked like a graveyard. I still didn't know if there were any actual bodies buried here, but it seemed unlikely. Why would anyone be buried in the afterlife? That didn't make sense.
I took the cross country path across the grass to avoid the slick mossy deathtrap of the stone walkway. I'd been here enough times to know that going that way could lead to serious injury. Eventually I drew up to the crypt guarded by a large stone scythe. I slid my finger over the tip of the scythe, breaking the skin and causing a little blood to ooze out. When the blood made contact with the blade, the door slid open, inviting me into the home of the Grim Reaper.
Death had been the one to break Henry's clouding spells, and I didn't have a clue why. What stake did he have in this? Why did he care? Death must have gotten involved because there was something in it for him. He certainly hadn't done it to help me.
So what the hell was he up to?
HEY THERE, LOVELY READER!
You're looking mighty fine today. Have you done something with your hair?
I'm here to ask you a massive favour. In return, you'll receive my eternal love and affection...
If you liked this book, will you please leave a review for me?
OK, so you'll get my eternal love and affection anyway, but I would appreciate it so much if you'd take the time to write just a sentence to let people know what you thought of the book. That way more people will be able to find it and read it, and I'll be able to afford to pay rent. And eat. And boy, do I love to eat.
Eternally, lovingly and affectionately yours,
xx Clare
HAVE YOU JOINED THE READERS’ GROUP YET?
No? Then you should head over to clarekauter.com/freestuff immediately.
Why?
Well, friend, because you'll get:
A FREE copy of the Charlie Davies prequel 'Short Fuse', PLUS 'Losing Your Head' if you haven't picked up your copy yet
TWO EXCLUSIVE EXTRAS: an interview with Satan (based on the 'Damned Girl' series), and Charlie's school counselling report (which her counsellor would probably also describe as an interview with Satan)
SNEAK PEEKS into new books before they're released
INSIDE INFORMATION about upcoming sales
BEHIND-THE-SCENES of writing my books (which to be honest is mostly me lying on the couch covered in crumbs, but hey – you'll be right there with me. I know, the glamour is too much!)
What are you waiting for? Join me in the Readers' Group! It's like a cult, but less terrifying.
ALSO BY CLARE KAUTER
DAMNED GIRL
Deadhead
Sled Head
Hell's Belles
Loch Nessa
A Damned Girl Collection: Books 1-4
THE CHARLIE DAVIES MYSTERIES
Losing Your Head
Unfinished Sentence
Graceless
Higher Learning
Santa's Little Helper
Undetected
A Charlie Davies Collection: Books 1-3
Short Fuse (Prequel Novella)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Clare Kauter is a semi-professional lawn bowls champion and compulsive liar who writes books in her spare time. She describes her books as "mystery with a twist-ery and fantasy with banter-sy" – and advises that if you don't like puns, you should back away now.
Clare began writing her first novel at age thirteen, and eventually that book was published as 'Losing Your Head' (the first of the Charlie Davies Mysteries). She also writes the 'Damned Girl' series, set in a modern fantasy world.
FIND ME ONLINE:
YOUTUBE: youtube.com/yamfaceon
INSTAGRAM: @clarekauter
SNAPCHAT: clare.kauter
@clarekauter
clarekauterwriteswords
www.clarekauter.com
[email protected]
WHAT NOW?
Now that you've finished this book, you're probably wondering what comes next on your reading list. I'm guessing that since you've made it this far, you're a fan of light-hearted mysteries.
If so, I have a suggestion for you…
How do you feel about a touch of magic alongside your mysteries? How about a bucket-load of magic? If that sounds like your kind of thing, keep reading. I've included the first chapter of my book 'Deadhead', which you can pick up in its entirety for free from clarekauter.com/freestuff.
If you're unsure,
why not give it a try? After all, it's free. What's the worst that could happen?
LOSING YOUR HEAD
CHAPTER ONE
Why is it that every time you do something you hope no one will notice, you get found out? I once read that the probability of someone watching you is directly proportional to the stupidity of the action. I know this is true, because I screw up a lot and I have never, not once, gotten away with it. It has been that way since the day I was born – when I did a poo during my first ever bath, which my father kindly documented on film so that he may bring it out at dinner parties forevermore – and it will probably be that way until the day I die. (My prediction is that I'll have a heart attack while I'm in the bath, and that I'll turn out to be one of those people who defecate when they die. Closing the circle.) I know I can't be the only person who gets embarrassed, but I seem to receive more than my fair share of public humiliation.
Just look at my time in high school. I did a lot of stupid things in the space of those six years. All were noticed. All were highly embarrassing. As early as my first school assembly the rest of the school learned my propensity for, as I like to call it, 'bad luck' (others call it 'stupidity' or 'failing at life'), when I was called upon to receive an award. The laughter started the second I stood up and began walking towards the stage. I ploughed on regardless, hoping against hope that there was some event entirely unrelated to me that was causing this hysteria. I made it up to the stage, peals of laughter ringing throughout the hall, and accepted the certificate. That was when the man presenting the award leaned forward and whispered, "Your skirt's tucked in at the back."
Right, I know what you're thinking. OK, that's mildly embarrassing, sure. It's hardly next-level though. To be honest, I was expecting a little more.
Well, my friend, you will not be disappointed.
Realising that my bottom was on show to the entire school, I whipped around, trying to hide it. Unfortunately, however, my feet had become tangled in the microphone cord and I tripped right into the man presenting the award – also known as the school principal. We both flailed awkwardly for a time, but it was in vain – down we went, right over the edge of stage left, taking out a few members of the school band on our way down. Luckily, I came out relatively uninjured. The teacher I had landed on top of – one leg either side, straddling him – was less lucky. He tried to hold back the tears, but I saw them glistening in the corners of his eyes. He kind of took the brunt of the fall.
He transferred schools not long after.
From then on the other kids at school were always quick to ask whether my 'boyfriend' would be giving me another award at the next 'arsembly'. I don't even remember what the award was for. I just remember that I made sure I was at the bottom of the class in every subject for the rest of that year, out of fear that I may one day be called upon to receive another one of those dreaded certificates.
Even after I'd finished Year 12, if I bumped into someone down the street who knew me from Gerongate High (teachers included), I'd still get that same line. Honestly, it was getting a bit old. I mean, c'mon, I'd finished school two years ago. Why the hell would I be at arsembly?
There are many other occasions when I have found myself as the centre of attention through less-than-comfortable circumstances. Take my last job interview.
Things got off to a bad start for me when I was walking into the interview room and realised – would you believe – my skirt was tucked into my undies at the back, revealing them to the world. (Oh yes. Again.) Whilst I was attempting to untangle the clothing that was – or, rather, wasn't – covering my backside, I was also trying to remain balanced in my brand-new stilettos. I had worn them in the hope of making a good first impression, although I hadn't quite learned to walk in them yet. I was nearly to the chair when, wouldn't you know it, one of the heels clean snapped off my shoe. I fell face first and whacked my head on the table on the way down. I hadn't shut the door on my way in, so everyone got to admire me as I lay face down on the floor, unconscious, with my hand still resting on my arse, outlining my failed attempt to pick my skirt out of my crack.
And as though that wasn't bad enough, the only pair of clean undies I could find that morning had been a G-string. Oh, no. I'm not joking.
The good people at the office dialled 000, and were advised to leave the injured exactly as she was until the professionals got there, to prevent them from causing any further damage.
As a side note, I feel I should tell you that not all of my humiliations involve bums and/or poo. Just most of them.
For the record, I didn't get the job. Not that I wanted it after what happened. Things would have been kind of awkward around the office, and I probably would have been a major Occupational Health and Safety risk. OK, I definitely would have been a risk. All in all, I wasn't too surprised about not getting it. But I haven't bought shoes from Payless since.
Like I said, you can't screw up and expect not to be noticed. It just doesn't work that way. Even if you think no one sees at the time, sooner or later things are going to start to unravel and everyone is going to find out what you've done. That is life and, like it or not, that's just how things go.
Sometimes it can be a good thing. Like when someone commits a crime. A murder, for instance. Obviously, it's not great news for the person who did it, but someone's bound to see something. There will be some evidence, some hint, no matter how hard you try to hide it. Of course, somebody has got to figure out what those clues mean, and that doesn't always happen. Which is how people get away with things.
That's what I've learned about crime. At least, that is what I learned from my first case. (Did I just say my first case? Cringe. It sounds like a Fisher Price toy.) It isn't like I'm a professional or anything. I really only did it to prove that I could and I'll admit that I made a few mistakes, but hey, how else are you supposed to learn? So, anyway, my first 'case' – the murder of old Frank McKenzie.
Gerongate wasn't an exceptionally large place. I mean, it was a city, but with only 300 000 people, well, it wasn't exactly New York. Even by Australian standards, it was fairly small. It was big enough, though, that you could never know everyone like you could in a country town. You'd get people who seemed to know everyone, but that was just because they always did the same thing and never saw anyone new. I guess I noticed this during the time I spent working at Gregory's Groceries (George Street, Gerongate – just so you can avoid it).
Every customer had a regular shopping day and time, so by the end of the first month I knew everyone's name. Two months and I knew all about everyone's immediate family. Three and I could name everyone in their extended family as well. Four months and they started to let me in on the latest gossip. Five months and my job really pissed me off.
On the rare occasion that we got a new customer, it was normally just one of the regulars' kids who'd grown up and left home. That was fine, but if someone entirely new came in, watch out. The amount of foul looks they received was enough to ensure that they would never return. The way people reacted to newcomers, you'd think that they were criminals. Then again, in the parts of Gerongate that I'd been in, change pretty much was a crime.
So I was about to do something illegal.
I guess this is about time for the boring introduction – don't worry, I'll keep it short. My name is Charlie Davies. I'm nineteen, and I have sometimes-curly, sometimes-straight blonde hair (it still hasn't decided on its true identity), and dysfunctional blue eyes (read: I have to wear glasses). Being roughly 5 feet 3 inches, most fully-grown humans are taller than me. Some people think I have anger-management issues. I disagree with this. I disagree with most things.
If you want a concise assessment of my general personality, you could just look at the sum of notes written in my file by the high-school counsellor over the course of my two-year stint of sessions. It was part of the anger-management program that the head of the P.E. department (is it me or is 'physical education' just an exceptionally creepy name for a school subjec
t?) stuck me on after I attempted to assault a guy two years up from me with a hockey stick. Not that it was my fault. He had it coming. Anyway, the counsellor didn't have much to say about me when I took a sneak-peek at the folder while he was out getting coffee one time. All he had written was 'snide, jaded – would not date.'
Ta-dah, my psychological profile when I was fourteen. Yes, fourteen, and I was already bored with the world. (And also apparently not worthy of the attentions of a paedophile, which is somehow both comforting and offensive.) I haven't changed much since then, except that I'm slightly taller. Roughly a centimetre.
I glanced down at the clock display on the checkout computer. Ten to five. Ten minutes and then my shift was over. I'd been a checkout chick at Gregory's Groceries for four years now. Four years of employment at a supermarket that barely passed health regulations. Oh, joy. You'd think that after working somewhere for that long you would at least have a bit of cash saved up. Only in my dreams.
I cast my gaze around the supermarket. Not that you could really call it that, being that there was nothing exceptionally 'super' about it. Supersized rats emerging at night, maybe. Perhaps you could say that the owner had superpowers in his ability to sweet talk health inspectors. It amazed me that they didn't close Gregory's the moment they entered and were confronted by the cat-sized cockroaches guarding the front door.
I stood there surveying my surroundings, trying to spot the owner-slash-founder-slash-manager of this gem of a store, Mr Gregory himself. Strangely enough, the man's real name was Jeremy Martin. Apparently there had been a misunderstanding when the sign was printed and he was too cheap to get it redone, so the store remains Gregory's to this day.