Demon Fire (Brimstone Magic Book 1)

by Tori Centanni

  “She had her quirks,” Conor said, eyes cast down into his coffee. “Perhaps that’s why she and my father were reckless enough to summon demons.”

  “A lot of witches experiment,” I said.

  His head shot up and he glared at me.

  I held my hands up. “I’m not saying it’s a good thing, I’m just saying it’s natural to be curious about your own power.”

  Conor sneered and got up from the table. And just like that, it felt like all the good will we’d built over the past twenty-four hours had evaporated. He chugged the rest of his coffee and set the mug in the sink. Then he turned and met my eyes, his expression hard. “Demons are evil. Part of that evil is to seduce people into thinking they’re harmless.”

  “I didn’t say they were harmless—“

  “Evil and power corrupt. To use demons or demon magic is to be evil.”

  I swallowed uneasily. I didn’t disagree that demons were evil. Having one take over my body for three god-awful days had made that painfully clear. But I obviously couldn’t agree that using demon magic was evil. After all, I used mine for good. And it wasn’t like I’d asked for the stupid magic in the first place. It was just a lucky consolation prize for surviving my own demonic nightmare.

  “I thought you said your parents were killed when they summoned a demon.” Maybe it was a crappy thing to throw in his face, but seriously, I couldn’t let blanket statements like that go unchallenged.

  He clenched his jaw. Turned away. Turned on the sink. He washed the coffee mug while letting me stew. Finally, he turned off the water and set the mug in a drying rack.

  “My parents were naive. They believed demons could help them achieve goals with magic they could not otherwise reach. It was before we really understood how evil and corrupting demons are. Which is why doing what they did is now illegal.” He pivoted on his heel and walked to the front door. “Anyone who dabbles in demonic magic now risks not only themselves but those around them. It’s unforgivable.”

  His words hit me like a battering ram to the chest. But at least I knew where I stood, and how he really saw me, even if he didn’t know it. I’d gotten comfortable with him too fast. I’d let my guard down. Between his dedication to solving this murder and his attractiveness, I let myself forget what he was: a Watcher, first and forever.

  I followed him out of the house, grabbing my leather coat and sword as I went, making sure I wasn’t leaving anything behind besides my ruined shirt. I doubted I’d ever be back.

  The late afternoon sun beat down as Conor’s SUV sped back toward the freeway. We didn’t get far before his phone buzzed in the center console. I was pretty sure his car had that nifty feature where you could sync your phone with your stereo system, but apparently Conor hadn’t done that. He pulled off the side of road and answered the old-fashioned way, with his hands.

  I could hear a voice on the other end, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Conor nodded, as if the person could see him and grunted a response before hanging up and dropping the phone back into the console.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “Change of plans. Rita Howell was robbed.” He put the car in drive and eased back onto the road.

  I swallowed, uneasy. Rita Howell was one of the leaders of the Magic Council. She was another member of the Board of Magic and was probably more influential over magical law than Savannah Goldsmith’s mother. Rita was old, powerful, and a force to be reckoned with. She’d been alive for ninety-six years and barely looked a day over seventy and she’d seen the best and worst of what magic had to offer, or so people said.

  I’d seen her at Council events and meetings, the ones I was obligated to attend if I wanted to keep my witch card. (Not a literal card, but still.) I don’t think I’d ever spoken to her but picturing her stony face, it was hard to imagine someone crossing her, let alone robbing her.

  “When?”

  “Don’t know,” Conor said. “But my commander wants me on it.”

  “What about Marcus Goldsmith?”

  “The dead must take a back seat to the living,” he said, jaw still tense. Maybe he was expecting me to argue with that, too.

  It wasn’t my job to solve Rita’s case, but if I wanted to tag along for the ride, I’d have to endure the detours.

  Rita’s house was, of course, impressive. It sat near the waters of Possession Sound in Mukilteo, a big gray building that looked like the modern reinterpretation of a castle, with a turret-like structure on one side with a curved staircase winding around it to the entrance on the second story, and a big upstairs deck above the garage with a view of the water. Several cars crowded her driveway and the street around her house. Conor had to drive past it and park several houses away.

  I took my sword, mid-afternoon be damned. No doubt Rita Howell’s neighbors had seen stranger things around her house.

  I followed Conor up the winding staircase. The front door was wide open and the foyer that led into the living space was crowded with Watchers in gray uniforms and other people I recognized from the Council. I spotted Savannah Goldsmith, standing next to an easy chair that held Rita Howell, at the same time she spotted me and frowned deeply.

  I waved, hoping my nonchalance about being here, and not out looking for her brother’s killer, would convince her all was well.

  “What’s going on?” Conor asked a man in a similar gray uniform.

  “Mr. Ramsey.” The man straightened. “Someone broke into this residence this morning.”

  “Through the wards?” Conor asked, incredulous. Everyone knew Rita Howell was going to have good wards. She was known for them. She was the one asked to do wards for Council events.

  “Seems so. The wards were broken. Mrs. Howell felt them snap and then heard the glass on her sliding door break. I’ll show you.” The Watcher gestured for Conor to follow.

  I stood there near the entrance, feeling more out of place by the second, especially since Savannah’s very pointed stare had drawn attention and now several Council members and prominent witches were stealing glances in my direction. I was acutely aware of how I was dressed in yesterday’s jeans and a borrowed, too-big t-shirt.

  Savannah wore a silky blue top and fitted white cropped pants that probably came from Nordstrom’s, and most of the Council members were similarly dressed in tailored pants and crisp shirts accented with silver rings and glittering jewels. Gem stone earrings and bracelets were popular because most of them were actually small charms, infused with magic for luck or energy, that kind of thing.

  Savannah excused herself from Rita and the small assembly around the witch and come toward me. I backed up against the wall of the entryway as if I could melt into it.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Savannah said, her voice full of honeyed pleasantness, though her expression was dripping with concern.

  “Just a stopover. Don’t worry, I’m focused on your brother’s case. What happened?” I mean, why miss the chance to gather intel?

  Savannah shot a glance over at Rita, who was all the way across the massive room, near a window that showed a glittery view of the Sound. “Someone stole Mrs. Howell’s antique rug.”

  “A rug?” I sputtered. I looked around and noticed that the center of the massive living area did seem strangely bare and the glass coffee table was pushed out of place. I assumed the latter had happened to accommodate such a crowd. I didn’t realize it was part of the crime scene. I watched enough television to know that mundane cops would never allow a crime scene to be so overrun by people. That was one of the reasons trying to solve crimes in the supernatural world was such an uphill battle.

  “Apparently it was quite valuable. And old.” She leaned closer and whispered, “They say it has magical properties.” She straightened and resumed a normal volume. “Mrs. Howell is devastated.”

  The woman certainly didn’t look happy, her mouth pressed into a thin white line while those around her offered reassurances the thief would be caught.

&n
bsp; “What else was stolen?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Savannah said. “Just the rug.”

  I looked around the house. There was a large screen television against one wall. Gorgeous lamps that were probably worth something. I could see only a hint of the kitchen but I was willing to bet she had some fancy appliances and a box full of valuable jewelry upstairs. If I were going to rob this house, the rug—valuable or not—would be last on my list. I’d go for something small and compact, not something large and hard to carry away.

  A woman waved for Savannah to come over and Savannah nodded, holding up a finger to indicate she just needed a minute. “Have you found anything about my brother?” she asked me.

  “Got a few leads. I’m working on it,” I said, uneasy. “I just came by to see what all the fuss was about.”

  Savannah nodded. “I’ll come by your office tomorrow evening with another payment. You can catch me up then.”

  “Sounds great,” I said, relieved she wasn’t going to grill me here. I also didn’t want to admit how closely I was working with Conor Ramsey. If she wanted the Watcher’s opinion of what happened to her brother, she wouldn’t be shelling out for my services.

  To make sure she didn’t see us leave together, I decided to wait outside. I watched the glittering blue water of Possession Sound sparkle beneath the late afternoon sun and thought about Marcus dead, next to a dead demon, and a gaggle of murderous mages. How was it all connected?

  Chapter 11

  “What are we doing here?” I asked, as Conor pulled into the parking lot of a giant outdoor shopping mall, the kind that bundled together dozens of shops and funneled customers through winding sidewalks to get anywhere in hopes they’d spend more money when stuck on the meandering pathways.

  “I have a lead,” Conor said.

  “A lead on Marcus’ murder?” He’d spent the drive ranting about the theft of Rita Howell’s rug and vowing to catch the robber, which was a noble goal, but not really my priority at the moment.

  “Yes,” he said, parking in the first open space he came to.

  I had trouble even picturing Conor Ramsey, demon hunter, walking around an outdoor shopping center, let alone anyone at, say, the Jamba Juice having information on demons and mysterious witch deaths. But Conor was dead serious so I followed him through the parking lot, regretfully leaving my sword behind since there was no way carrying a weapon through an outdoor mall wouldn’t attract attention. I envied the concealability of Conor’s daggers, but my sword was powerful, supernaturally sharp, and I’d been using it for years.

  It was around seven o’clock in the evening and the sun was still high, the summer heat not letting up. Crowds spilled out the door of a chain burger restaurant, waiting for tables. My stomach growled.

  At the very least, maybe I could get a soft pretzel while we were here.

  Conor walked briskly through the crowds. A few people gave him odd looks because the Watcher uniform had a military air about it despite its bland gray palette, but no doubt they shrugged him off as some kind of security guard.

  The store Conor led us to was called “Home and History.” It was in a shop wedged between the Starbucks and a bigger department store, with a Pier One across the walkway. Home and History’s window display featured a wicker outdoor love seat with colorful blue cushions on an ornate blue rug. My hackles rose at the rug and I seriously hoped Conor wasn’t leading us on a goose chase for a robber who had nothing to do with the Marcus’ untimely death.

  A bell on the shop’s door announced our arrival. The shop was on the smaller side, a rectangular space that was deeper than it was wide. “Crowded” was the first word that came to mind. It was filled to the brim with all kinds of kitschy home furnishings, from antique dressers covered in old fashioned lamps to sofas that looked like they’d been pilfered from Versailles in the late 1700s. Only a minimal effort had been made to keep a pathway down the center of the shop clear, though in several places things spilled into it.

  Immediately the hair on the back of my neck stood on end and my fingers tingled with the urge to do magic. There was a heaviness in the air and a strange energy buzzing through the shop. A wave of nausea washed over me. It felt like demon energy, the kind of energy that filled a circle when a demon was summoned.

  I glanced at Conor, who stood stoic. If he noticed anything strange, he wasn’t showing it. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

  A man came rushing down the center to greet us. He was thin with a narrow face, sharp nose, and cagey eyes hidden halfway by thick-rimmed glasses. He wore a black suit and tie and smiled a plastic salesman smile which dimmed when he spotted Conor.

  “Mr. Ramsey. It’s been a while.” He glanced at me. “I don’t suppose you’re here to pick out a new coffee table? I just got a lovely piece in from New Orleans.”

  “Unfortunately, no, Brett,” Conor said gruffly. “I’m here to ask you a few questions. Got a second?”

  The man swallowed visibly and glanced around nervously, as if worried there was a customer lost in this mess who might overhear. Which, to be fair, was possible, given how hard it was to see into the stacks of stuff. “I suppose I could spare a few. Who’s she?” Brett asked, hooking a thumb at me.

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said, answering for myself. “Dani Warren.”

  Brett’s brow furrowed. But then he brushed past and locked the front door of the shop, flipping the open sign to closed. He squeezed by again and headed for the back of the store.

  At the very back of the shop the junk piles stopped, leaving a good six feet of area for a sales counter, which Brett stood behind as if we were customers.

  “How can I help you?” he asked genially, though I noticed sweat beading on his upper lip. The oppressive air and weird energy swirled around my head. I wanted to peer into the shadows but I was afraid of attracting Conor’s attention. I’d already risked it before and gotten lucky when he hadn’t noticed. My luck couldn’t hold out forever. It never did.

  “What do you know about a rug that was stolen from Rita Howell this morning?” Conor asked.

  I groaned inwardly, resisting the urge to bang my head against the nearest armoire. I didn’t have time for more detours about a stupid rug theft. I needed to have something concrete to offer Savannah tomorrow night.

  “I know nothing, I’m afraid,” Brett said. “I don’t sell stolen goods, despite what you believe.”

  Conor snorted, clearly not buying that. “I’m not asking if you’ve seen it, I’m asking what you know.” He pulled out a photo. I glanced over at it. It was a photo of Rita and some other women, shot in Rita’s living room, taken a while back, though the rug was clearly visible in part of it. Conor tapped it. “This is the rug. What can you tell me about it?”

  Brett examined the photo. “It’s valuable. Probably hand-woven in the sixteenth century. Certainly a lovely design. I can keep an eye out for it if you wish.” He handed the photo back and shot us a pointed look.

  “Why would someone steal it?” Conor demanded.

  Brett shrugged. “How would I know?”

  “Is it magical?” I interjected, remembering Savannah’s words. Both men looked at me surprised, as if they’d forgotten I was there. Thanks a lot.

  “I cannot tell from a photograph,” Brett said, his words dripping with derision.

  This was pointless. Even if Brett had personally stolen the rug and had it stashed in his back room, we had more important things to worry about. “What do you know about a gang of punk mages using brimstone to increase their magical power?”

  Conor’s eyes slid to me, his jaw clenched. I ignored him and stared at Brett, who fidgeted with a pen, clicking the top of it in rapid succession.

  “Well?”

  “I haven’t heard anything about that,” Brett finally said, not meeting my eyes. “I sell furniture, ma’am. I’m not the person to ask.”

  He was lying. And the dark energy in this place was palpable. I could practically smell br
imstone.

  I turned on my heel and marched out. I was done wasting time with this guy when we had real leads to check out.

  Conor found me at the pretzel stand, waiting for my salted pretzel and cheese sauce.

  “You’re angry,” he said.

  I stared back because the only verbal response I could think of was “duh” and that sounded too immature. The girl behind the counter handed me my giant pretzel and container of oozy cheese. Since I felt ridiculous standing around holding a pretzel bigger than my head, I found a table. I’d waited for Conor to take me on this stupid detour. He could wait while I ate my snack.

  “Rita Howell was a dear friend of my mother’s,” he said, taking the seat across from me at the metal table. “And frankly, I’d like to know who has the balls to rob her.”

  I looked up as I tore off a hunk of pretzel and dipped into the creamy cheese. I popped it into my mouth and chewed. It was heavenly. The cheese was the same gooey, processed cheese found on gas station nachos and I could eat a vat of it when I was this hungry.

  Conor sighed.

  “Want a bite?” I offered after I swallowed.

  He eyed the cheese sauce suspiciously. “No, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” I ripped off another chunk of the pretzel and went to town.

  “I sensed demonic energy in the shop,” Conor said. I stopped mid-chew and looked up at him. He was staring at his hands, head bent down, dark hair falling in his eyes.

  Some of the tension evaporated from my shoulders. “Me, too,” I said, through a mouthful of pretzel. I hadn’t been sure he’d sensed it and I’d been afraid to point it out in case it made him suspicious.

  “Impressive,” he said. “I only sensed a small amount. Probably coming from one of the objects in that infernal mess. He buys junk from any supernatural market he can find. Some of it is bound to be cursed or possessed.”