Midsummer Law

by Megan Derr

  Midsummer Law

  A Tale of Midsummer's Night

  Megan Derr

  Being Sheriff is a hard job, even in a town like Midsummer. The law is the law, and when magic is thrown into the mix, everything gets more complicated. Kirby is lonely and worn out, and his latest unpleasant duty is contacting the brother of a recent suicide. Given the complications surrounding the tragedy, and just how loathed the deceased man was in Midsummer, meeting his brother is not something Kirby is any hurry to do.

  But when he arrives, Merry is nothing like his deceased brother—nothing like anything Kirby has seen in a long time, and quite possibly a reason to feel things Kirby thought he’d never feel again.

  This is Book 3 of the Midsummer series.

  Book Details

  Published by Less Than Three Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Drowning London

  Cover designed by Megan Derr

  This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Electronic edition July 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Megan Derr

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-936202-29-4

  Midsummer Law

  Kirby dropped his pen and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. Reaching for his coffee, he grimaced when the mug was ice-cold to the touch.

  He could make another pot, but really he should just go home. It would be warmer there, even if he'd just go stir crazy the way he always did, roaming around his empty house.

  Making a face, he picked his pen up again—but his attention was then caught by the pale green post-it on which the pen had landed. The note had been stuck to his phone, but it must have fallen off at some point.

  Merry Greyling was the name printed on it in his secretary's tidy hand, with a phone number beneath. It had taken Kirby a week to learn that Kerry had a brother, and another week to track him down. It had been an interesting phone call.

  "Hello. My name is Kirby Hindon, I'm Sheriff here in the town of—"

  "Midsummer, I know. My brother is dead. I would imagine that's why you're calling."

  "If you don't mind me asking, how did you know he was dead, Mr. Greyling?"

  "My name is Merry. I felt it, Sheriff. So what did the fool do, try to leave or try to break my curse? Never mind, we'll discuss it when I get there. Thank you for calling."

  Kirby shook his head, still not certain what to think of it all. A brother, and one who'd felt it when Kerry died. Not to mention the voice…he had sounded like Kerry, and yet completely not. Despite the grim nature of the phone call, and the strangeness of it…he could not get that voice, somehow cool and smoky, out of his head.

  Sighing again, he tried to focus on his paperwork, but his concentration was shot now. May as well head home, then. Still, he managed to stall a good three minutes by straightening and organizing his desk, and another five cleaning out the coffee pot and getting it ready for the next day. Eventually, though, he had no reason to linger.

  Nodding goodnight to the man on duty, he bundled up in his coat and gloves and slipped outside. Though technically it was still fall, it was wasting no time turning into winter. The air was biting, and biting hard. Turning left outside the police station, shivering, Kirby walked the four and a half blocks to his little townhouse.

  Climbing the steps, he placed a hand on the frosted glass top half of the door, then softly whispered the words to release the protective spell he habitually placed on his home. Too many punks pissed off at the Sheriff for 'ruining our fun, man' had made him more than a little cautious. Slipping inside, he closed and locked the door, then reset the protection spell.

  That accomplished, he began to remove all the accoutrements of Sheriff, setting the harmless stuff on top of the little cabinet-table in his entryway, putting the more dangerous items safely away inside the cabinet. Lastly, he hung his work hat on its hook next to the black Stetson he wore when he was off duty.

  Finished with the first routine of the night, he dragged himself upstairs to go through the second—shower, pajama pants, stand around trying to decide what to do the rest of the night. At least, he thought with some satisfaction, his heating wards seemed to be holding. Three days now and his house was still toastier and cozier than central heating alone could make it, even after Ferdy had fixed the furnace. It was just below freezing outside, but inside he could stand around in just an old pair of black sleep pants and be perfectly comfortable.

  If the wards continued to hold, he'd have to try extending them to the front porch; then he wouldn't even have to get dressed to fetch the morning paper.

  Yawning, wishing he wasn't too keyed up to sleep, he abandoned his bedroom and padded downstairs to the kitchen. He deliberated there a moment, staring at the coffee machine, then gave a shrug and a silent fuck it and set a pot of hazelnut coffee to brewing.

  Then he went to the fridge to investigate the possibilities for a late dinner. He didn't turn up a whole lot, but there was enough to make a couple of turkey sandwiches. He stifled a sigh. He'd have to go grocery shopping soon, but ugh, that was where Mrs. Holly always cornered him. He was really sick of her poor attempts to settle him down with this nice boy or that sweet girl.

  Not a single person in Midsummer was his style. The closest he ever saw was a bunch of wannabe and poser high school kids, and that was not even remotely the same thing at all. He supposed he should just get over himself, but…

  He glanced toward the hallway, where he still kept the picture of him and Randy together—the last one. Three months later, Randy was dead, and Kirby had eventually left Midsummer for college because staying had been killing him.

  God, first Randy, and now Joni was dead. It made him tired. He should have made certain she'd just run off, instead of simply assuming—

  But, well, it had hurt a lot, looking at her and seeing Randy. He hadn't tried to look for her because some part of him was relieved she was gone, and now he'd have to live with that. Shaking his head, feeling way older than thirty four, he set all the sandwich fixings on the table and went to go pour a cup of coffee.

  He'd just taken his first sip when the doorbell rang. Damn it. He really hoped there wasn't some emergency. Now that he was actually home and warm, with fresh-brewed coffee, he didn’t' actually want to go out again.

  Even if he didn't exactly want to stay in and go crazy.

  Sometimes, he made no sense even to himself.

  He set down his coffee and walked out of the kitchen to the entryway, unlocking the door and opening it—and staring in surprise at an all but vibrating Nicholas, the fifteen year old son of the couple who owned the diner on Main Street. "What's up, Nic?"

  "Sheriff! Sheriff! There's a man what's here to see you. He's real strange, Sheriff. But dad told him where to find you, and I think Officer Kent pointed him here, and mom and dad told me to come let you know—that's his car now!"

  He pointed at a sleek, sporty little black number rumbling down the street.

  "Thanks, son," Kirby said, amused as always by the speed at which news traveled in a small town. "Run along home now, I can handle this."

  Even if he was in only his sleep pants, with nothing more than this mother's amulet for magic and protection. Who the hell would be coming to see him at this hour? And from out of town, at that.

  He stood waiting on the stoop as the car parked on the street in front of his house, stifling a groan as he anticipated the neighbors talking up a storm about this one. He'd have to dodge Mrs. Holly for two weeks straight.

  Bu
t all thoughts of Mrs. Holly and everything else fled as the driver stepped out of the car. His entire body went tight with immediate want and he struggled in vain to regain his equilibrium, but holy shit. He couldn't see much of the man's face in the dark, with the way his shoulder-length hair fell across it, but the rest of him…

  The rest of him was all that the kids tried so hard to emulate with torn lace and black make-up, but never really achieved. He wore well-fitted leather pants and heavy boots, and a leather jacket cut to mid-thigh and as beautifully fitted as the pants. Beneath it, he wore a shirt that could have been a perfectly ordinary button-down except that it was made of layers of black and red lace. Around his throat was a silver chain threaded with more black lace.

  As he drew closer, Kirby could see the ruby studs in his ears, the various rings on his fingers, the bracelets on his wrist. He wore purple eye shadow that should have looked bad against the touches of red, but really only looked damned good, and black lipstick that made it damned hard to stop looking at his mouth.

  But as he reached the stairs and looked up, even lust could not keep Kirby from a startling revelation. "Holy shit. You didn't say you were Kerry's twin brother."

  The black lips twisted bitterly. "Not by choice. You must be Sheriff Hindon. My name is Merry Greyling. Is now a bad time to find out how and why my brother's dead?"

  Kirby shook his head and stepped back, motioning him inside. "No. Come in, please. I'll go get dressed. There's coffee and sandwiches if you want them."

  Merry only nodded, and strode past him, and despite everything Kirby was sucker punched by lust again as the smells of leather and lace and a hint of lemon and strawberries washed over him. He swallowed, hard, and went to get dressed.

  Upstairs, he moved to the bedroom window and opened it, letting the cold air jar him.

  Kerry had a twin brother. Twin hobgoblins. Christ. No fucking wonder Kerry had been so powerful, and the curse on Kerry was so complicated. Twins were a powerful thing in any supernatural race. Ugh, and the hobgoblin downstairs in his kitchen looked like he could have been descended from the notorious Puck himself.

  His cock twitched, and Kirby groaned. He had no goddamn business lusting after Kerry's twin brother. Not when he'd been the one to tell Kerry that Joni had been pregnant with Kerry's child. Not when those words had driven Kerry to suicide.

  What a fucking mess. Like the whole problem of Kerry wasn't hard enough, without his gothed-out beauty of a twin showing up in the dead of night like something out of a story.

  Or a wet dream, he thought sourly. Slamming the window shut, he moved to his dresser and yanked out jeans and his favorite blue sweater. He wondered what sort of half-wit yokel sheriff impression he'd made greeting Merry in his pajamas, caught getting the freshest gossip from the son of the diner owner.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he pulled out some socks, then forced himself to stop hiding and go back downstairs.

  Merry sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped loosely around a cup of coffee—the old, pale blue one his mother had liked to use, and Kirby noted he took his coffee black.

  At some point Merry had discarded his jacket, and Kirby did his damnedest not to stare—but Christ the man looked good. His lean shoulders fitted the lace shirt entirely too well, and the long throat looked made for the chain-and-ribbon necklace. Oddly, his blonde hair wasn't dyed. The contrast looked damned good, though, so he supposed Merry had good reason for leaving it alone.

  Hoping he wasn't staring like a half-wit with his first crush, the way he suspected, Kirby crossed the room and extended his hand. "Kirby Hindon. Sorry for the unorthodox greeting. I'd say welcome to Midsummer, but, well, I'm only sorry it's tragedy that's brought you this way."

  Merry shook his hand, grip firm, brief—nails painted a deep, deep crimson. "I’m sorry to arrive so late. I could see you were headed to bed. This can wait until the morning, if you like."

  Kirby smiled despite himself, as he sat down. "Nah. This is Midsummer. Midnight ain't too different from midday."

  "I see. So what happened to Kerry?"

  His momentary levity faded, and Kirby toyed with his own coffee mug a moment. "Your brother committed suicide."

  Merry's mouth tightened. "I see. Did he bother to leave a note as to why?"

  "Wasn't necessary," Kirby said, feeling tired all over again. "The matter is a bit complicated."

  "Of course it is," Merry said, voice biting, but for the briefest flicker of a moment, he looked as weary as Kirby felt. "Everything is complicated when Kerry is involved." He took a sip of his coffee, then another, and finally a third, before he said, "Tell me what happened."

  Kirby took a sip of his own coffee, then started to tell the story, staring with how Ferdy had been working on the clock tower, and then one afternoon was suddenly cursed. "The clock tower was rigged with all sorts of traps when we got a look at it, shortly after a wolf was hit bad by some bane. All the traps were meant to discourage anyone from finding the body hidden beneath the floor right below the clockwork mechanism Ferdy had been disassembling."

  "I see," Merry said. "Why did he kill her?"

  "He said it was an accident, and, to be honest, I believe him. She wanted to leave town. He couldn't. They fought. She fell down the stairs and landed at the bottom with a broken neck."

  "He's a liar," Merry said, voice as frigid as the air outside. "He's murdered in cold blood before, and I'd hoped he wouldn't do it again—"

  "She was pregnant," Kirby cut in. "She didn't tell him, only god knows why. The way he acted when I told him, I do believe that. He could take killing her, but not his own child. It was his, of that we were certain. When I dropped the binding I put on him so he could break Ferdy's curse, he broke his own instead."

  Merry said nothing for a long time, simply frowned at his coffee. Kirby was usually good at reading people; his job relied on it, but not so much a peep of Merry's thoughts gave itself away on his face.

  He looked away before he started staring at Merry for other, wholly inappropriate reasons.

  "So my good for nothing brother was capable of caring about something besides himself."

  Kirby said nothing. What was there to say?

  "What did you do with him?" Merry asked.

  "We went ahead and cremated him. Seemed the right thing to do." He didn't have to add that with paranormal creatures, that was the standard practice. No good ever came from leaving them somewhere a normal would find them, and it happened more often than anyone liked.

  Merry nodded. "Where are the ashes? I'd like to take them home to be with my parents, unless there's a reason I can't?"

  "No reason at all. You can take them," Kerry said. "I've got them locked up and warded in the office. We can go get them now if you want."

  Merry hesitated, then finally nodded and said, "Probably best. The sooner this is all done, the sooner I and my brother can cease to be trouble for you. And I am sorry for the trouble, Sheriff."

  "It's not your fault. Though, if I may, I would like to know why you cursed your own brother that way."

  "Because he deserved it, and because I honestly thought it would help. I'm afraid the rest I do not feel like discussing, unless of course the law demands it, Sheriff."

  Kirby felt a flash of annoyance and disappointment. Sheriff, he was always Sheriff. It wasn't fair, of course in these circumstances that's the only way Merry would regard him—but people always made those damned jabs about 'the law' like he'd only ask because of it. Like it was impossible he might simply want to know. Hell, he hadn't hated Kerry. The man had been an ass, and he'd treated Ferdy like shit, but it wasn't hard to see the man had been kicked by life as often as he'd done the kicking.

  "I'm not bringing the law into it," he finally replied, not quite able to keep all the stiffness from his voice. He finished his coffee and stood. "If you'll just come along, we'll get your brothers ashes and then Midsummer will cease to be a bother to you."

  In the entryway, he got his boots out and
sat down on the stairs to pull them on and lace them. Stamping them into place to settle them, he then shrugged into his black corduroy jacket. Then he grabbed his wallet, keys, pocket knife, and lastly his black Stetson. He slid it onto his head as Merry joined him in the hallway.

  Why did looking at Merry keep leaving him feeling sucker punched? Honestly, why did he have to have such a thing for that goth look, and why did Kerry's twin brother of all people have to do it so fucking well?

  Biting back several choice curses, he turned toward the front door and yanked it open, then motioned. "After you."

  Merry gave him the briefest puzzled look, then nodded and brushed by him. Kirby was again struck by his scent—that oddly bright and spring-like strawberries and lemon smell. He was never going to sleep tonight, he thought as he settled his hat more firmly on his head against the breeze that had kicked up. He reset his protections, then joined Merry on the sidewalk.

  Definitely no sleep, he thought again, looking at Merry. Not without doing dirty things while thinking about Merry, and was a more direct route to hell possible? He didn't think so.

  "Station is only about five blocks this way," Kirby said, pointing a thumb up the street. "You good for walking, or would you prefer to drive?"

  "I'm capable of walking, Sheriff."

  "I didn’t ask if you could walk, I asked if you were good for it. I'm sure you've been driving for hours, to get here as quickly as you did. You must be tired, not to mention you're only here because your brother is dead. So, are you good for walking?"

  Merry seemed to slump for a moment—but like every other crack in his armor, it was gone in the very next breath. "Yes, I am fine for walking."

  Nodding, Kirby started walking, remaining silent as Merry fell into step alongside him.

  "I'm sorry about the girl and the baby he killed," Merry said a couple of minutes later.

  "It's not your fault, but thank you," Kirby replied.

  Merry shook his head. "I am somewhat responsible, since I am the one who chained him here."

  Kirby shook his head. "He made his own choices; you're not responsible for those. That was quite the curse, though, hobgoblin. He always hid it, but you don't—the magic blazes off you." Something he'd only really just noticed, his brain too clouded by lust and guilt and aggravation. But, it was true; Merry was about as subtle with his magic as he was with his dress. He didn't think Merry did subtle very often.