I forced my hand through that roil of energy, gripping her hand. The spell tried to surge through my skin up my arm. There was nothing to see with the eyes, but just as you can see things in your dreams, so I could sense a faint darkness trying to creep up my arm. I stopped it just below my elbow and had to concentrate on peeling it down my arm like stripping off a glove. It had breached my shields like they hadn’t been there. Not many things can do that. None of them human.
She was staring at me with wide, wide eyes. “Wh . . . what are you doing?”
“I’m not doing anything to you, Mrs. Norton.” My voice sounded a little detached, distant, because I was concentrating on peeling the spell off of me so that when I let go of her hand none of it would cling to me.
She tried to take her hand back, and I wouldn’t let her. She started to tug on it, weak but frantic. The other woman said, “Let Frances go, now.”
I was almost free, almost ready to let her go, when the other woman gripped my shoulder. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I lost concentration on my hand, because I could sense Naomi Phelps now. The spell poured back over my hand and was halfway to my shoulder before I could concentrate enough to stop it. But all I could do was stop it. I couldn’t push it back because too much of my attention was on the other woman.
You never touch someone while they’re working magic, or doing psychic stuff, unless you want something to happen. This more than anything told me that neither woman was a practitioner or an active psychic. No one with even minimal training would have done it. I could feel the remnants of some ritual clinging to Naomi’s body. Something complex. Something selfish. The thought that came unbidden to my mind was gluttony. Something had been feeding off of her energy, and it had left psychic scars behind.
She jerked back from me, cradling her hand against her chest. She’d sensed my energy, so she had talent. Not a big surprise. What was surprising was that she was untrained, maybe totally untrained. Nowadays they go into preschools and test people for psychic gifts, mystical talent, but it was a new program in the sixties. Naomi had managed not to be spotted, and now she was over thirty and still hadn’t dealt with her abilities. Most untrained psychics are either crazy, criminals, or suicides by the time they’re thirty. She had to be a very strong person to be as together as she looked. But this very strong woman looked at me with tears trembling in her eyes. “We didn’t come here to be abused.”
Jeremy had stepped closer to us, but was being careful not to touch any of us. He knew better. “No one is abusing you, Ms. Phelps. The spell on Mrs. Norton tried to . . . leach onto my colleague. Ms. Gentry was merely trying to push the spell off of her when you touched her. You should never touch anyone when they’re working magic, Ms. Phelps. The results can be unpredictable.”
The woman looked from one to the other of us, and her face said clearly she didn’t believe us. “Come on, Frances. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”
“I can’t,” Frances said in a voice grown small and submissive. She was staring up at me, fear plain in her eyes, but it was fear of me.
She felt the energy wrapped around our hands, pressing us together, but she thought I was doing it. “I swear to you, Mrs. Norton, I am not doing this. Whatever magic has been used against you, it thinks I’m tasty. I need to peel it off of me and let it flow back into you.”
“I want to get rid of it,” she said, voice high with a faint edge of hysteria trailing around the edges.
“If I don’t pull it off of me, then whoever did this to you will be able to trace me. They’ll be able to find me. They’ll know that I work at a detective agency that specializes in supernatural problems, magical solutions.” It was our slogan. “They’ll know that you came here for help. I don’t think you want that, Mrs. Norton.”
A fine trembling started in her hands and spread up her arms, until she stood there shivering as if she were cold. Maybe she was, but it wasn’t the kind of cold that an extra sweater would fix. No amount of outer warmth would cure the coldness inside. She’d have to be warmed from the damaged core of her soul out to her fingertips. Someone would have to pour power into her, magic into her, a little bit at a time, like thawing some ancient body found frozen in ice. If you thawed it too fast, you’d cause more damage than if you just left it alone. Such delicate use of power was beyond my abilities. All I could have done was give her a measure of calmness, taken some of her fear—but whoever laid the spell on her would sense that, too. They wouldn’t be able to trace me by it, but they’d know she’d been to see a practitioner, someone who’d tried to help her on a psychic level. Call it a hunch, but whoever laid the spell wouldn’t like that. They might do something rash, like speed up the process.
I could feel the sucking energy of the spell, trying to breech my defenses, to feed on me, too. It was like magical cancer, but as easy to catch as the flu. How many people had she infected? How many people were walking around with this spell draining little bits of their energy? Someone who was only a little bit psychic might know something had happened, but not what. They’d avoid Frances Norton because she’d hurt them, but they might not realize for weeks, months, that the tiredness, the vague feelings of hopelessness, the depression, were being caused by a spell.
I started to tell her what I was about to do, but staring into her wide eyes, I didn’t bother. She’d just tense up, be more afraid. The best I could do was make it as invisible to her as possible. I would try to make sure she didn’t feel it slide back inside her, but that was the best I could do.
The spell had grown thicker, blacker, more real, just from those few extra moments of sitting against my skin. I began to peel it down my arm. It clung like tar, and it took a lot more concentration to push it back, rolling it back on itself like thick cloth. Every inch of my skin that I freed up felt lighter, cleaner. I could not imagine living totally encased in this thing. It would be like going through your entire life faintly oxygen-deprived, shoved in a dark room, where the light never came.
I had freed my arm, my hand, and began to slowly pull my fingers away from her hand. She stayed utterly still against my skin like a rabbit hiding in the grass, hoping desperately that the fox will pass her by if only she can lie quiet enough. What I don’t think Frances Norton realized yet was that she was halfway down the fox’s throat, with her little legs kicking in the air.
When I pulled my fingers away, the spell clung to them, and then fell back into place around her with an almost audible sound. I wiped my hand on my jacket. I was clear of the spell, but I had a terrible urge to wash my hand with very hot water and lots of soap. Ordinary water and soap wouldn’t help, but some salt or holy water might.
She collapsed into the chair, hiding her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. I thought at first she was crying without making any noise. But when Naomi hugged her, she raised a face devoid of tears. Frances was shaking, just shaking, as if she couldn’t cry anymore, not because she didn’t want to, but because all the tears had been drained out of her. She sat there while her husband’s mistress hugged her, rocked her. She was shaking so badly her teeth began to chatter, but she never cried. It seemed worse somehow because she didn’t cry.
“Excuse us for a moment, ladies. We’ll be right outside,” I said. I looked at Jeremy and headed for the door, knowing he’d follow. In the hallway he closed the door behind us.
“I’m sorry, Merry. I shook her hand, and nothing happened. The spell didn’t react to me.”
I nodded. I believed him. “Maybe I just taste better.”
He grinned at me. “Well, I don’t know from experience, but I’d almost bet on it.”
I smiled. “Physically, maybe, but mystically, you’re as powerful in your own way as I am. Lord and Lady, you’re a better magician than I’ll ever be, yet it didn’t react to you.”
He shook his head. “No, it didn’t. Maybe you’re right, Merry. Maybe it’s too dangerous for you.”
I frowned at him. “Now he gets cautious.”
&n
bsp; He looked at me, fighting to make his face neutral. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not going to be the cold-hearted bitch I was hoping for?”
I leaned against the far wall and glared at him. “This thing is so malignant that we’ll be able to get some police help.”
“Bringing in the police won’t save them. We don’t have enough to prove it’s the husband. If we can’t prove it in court, he doesn’t do jail time, and that means he’d be free to work more magic on them. We need him locked away in a warded cell where he can’t harm them.”
“They’d need magical protection until he was in custody. This isn’t just a detective job. It’s a baby-sitting job.”
“Uther and Ringo are great babysitters,” he said.
“I guess.”
“Still not happy. Why?”
“We should walk away from this one,” I said.
“But you can’t do it,” he said. He was smiling now.
“No, I can’t do it.” There were lots of detective agencies in the United States that said they specialized in supernatural cases. It was big business, the preternatural, but most agencies couldn’t back up their advertising. We could. We were one of only a handful of agencies that could boast a staff made up entirely of magic practitioners and psychics. We were also the only one that could boast that all but two employees were fey. There aren’t that many full-blooded fey who can stand to live in a big, crowded city. L.A. was better than New York or Chicago, but it was still exhausting to be surrounded by so much metal, so much technology, so many humans. It didn’t bother me. My human blood allowed me human tolerances for steel and glass prisons. Culturally and personally, I preferred the country, but I didn’t have to have it. It was nice, but I didn’t sicken and fade without it. Some fey would.
“I wish I could turn them away, Jeremy.”
“You’ve got a bad feeling about this one, too, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Yeah.” But if I cast them out, I’d see her trembling, tearless face in my dreams. For all I knew, they might come back to haunt me after whoever was killing them finished the job. They could come back as righteous ghosts and bemoan me for having knowingly taken their last chance at survival away. People always think ghosts haunt the people who actually killed them, but that’s just not true. Ghosts seem to have an interesting sense of justice, and it would be just my luck to have them following me around until I could find someone to lay them. If they could be laid. Sometimes spirits were tougher than that. Then you could end up with a family ghost like a banshee howling at every death. I doubted either woman had that kind of strength of character, but it would have served me right if they had. It was my own sense of guilt that made me walk back into that office, not fear of ghostly reprisals. Some people say that the fey have no souls, no sense of personal responsibility. For some that’s true, but it wasn’t true for Jeremy, and it wasn’t true for me. More’s the pity sometimes. More’s the pity.
Chapter 3
NAOMI PHELPS DID MOST OF THE TALKING WHILE FRANCES SAT THERE AND shivered. Our secretary got her hot coffee and an afghan. Her hands shook so badly that she spilled coffee on the afghan, but she got some of it down. Whether it was the warmth or the caffeine, she looked a little better.
Jeremy had called Teresa in to listen to the women. Teresa was our resident psychic. She was two inches shy of six feet, slender, with high sculpted cheekbones, long silky black hair, skin the color of pale coffee. The first time I’d seen her, I’d known she had sidhe blood in her, along with African American, and something fey that hadn’t been high court. The last was what gave her the slight points to the tops of her ears. A lot of faerie wanna-bes get cartilage implants to make their ears pointy. They grow their hair down to their ankles and try to pretend to be sidhe. But no pure-blooded sidhe has ever had pointed ears. It’s a mark of mixed blood, less than pure. But some bits of folklore die harder than others. To a vast majority of people if you were truly sidhe, you had to have pointed ears.
Teresa had that same delicacy of bone that Naomi did, but I’d never been tempted to hold Teresa’s hand. She was one of the most powerful touch clairvoyants that I’d ever met. I spent a goodly amount of energy making sure she didn’t touch me for fear that she’d learn my secrets and endanger us all. She sat in a chair to one side, dark eyes watching the two women. She hadn’t offered to shake their hands. In fact she’d walked wide around them so that she didn’t accidentally touch either of them. Her face betrayed nothing, but she’d felt the spell, the danger, when she walked into the room.
“I don’t know how many mistresses he’s had,” Naomi was saying, “a dozen, two dozen, hundreds.” She shrugged. “All I know for sure is that I’m the latest in a long line of them.”
“Mrs. Norton,” Jeremy said.
Frances turned her eyes up to him, startled, as if she hadn’t expected to be asked to contribute to the story.
“Do you have any proof of all these women?”
She swallowed, and said in a voice that was almost a whisper, “Polaroids, he keeps Polaroids.” She stared down into her lap, murmuring, “He calls them his trophies.”
I had to ask. “Did he show these pictures to you, or did you find them?”
She looked up, and her eyes were empty—no anger, no shame, empty. “He showed them to me. He likes . . . he likes to tell me about what he’s done with them. What each one is good at, better at than me.”
I opened my mouth, closed it, because I couldn’t think of a single helpful thing to say. I was outraged for her sake, but it was Francis Norton that needed to be angry on behalf of Francis Norton. My anger might help us solve the immediate problem, but it wouldn’t make her strong again. If we could take the husband out of the picture, that wouldn’t heal all the damage he’d done. There was a lot more wrong with Francis than just a spell.
Naomi touched her arm, comforting her. “That’s how she met me. She saw my picture, and then we just ran into each other one day. I caught her staring at me in a restaurant. He had woken her when he got home and told her what he’d done to me.” It was Naomi’s turn to look down into her lap, her hands lying upright and empty against her legs. “I had bruises showing.” She looked up, met my eyes. “Frances came over to my table. She rolled back her sleeve and showed me her bruises. Then she just said, ‘I’m his wife.’ And that was how we met.” She gave a shy smile at the last, the sort of smile you give when you’ve explained how you met your lover. A tender story to be related to others.
I gave her blank eyes, but I wondered if the bond between them was more than just the abuse and the husband. If they were lovers, it could change how the healing was done. So often in mystical things the emotions have to be taken into account. Because love and hate have different energies, you work with them differently. We’d need to know exactly what the bond between the two women was before serious healing work was begun, but not today. Today we’d listen to what they wanted to tell us.
“That was very brave of you,” Teresa said. Her voice, like everything about her, was somehow soft and feminine with an underlying strength, like steel covered by silk. I’d always thought Teresa, though she’d never traveled farther south than Mexico, would have made an excellent Southern belle.
Frances’s eyes flicked to her, then back to her lap, then up, and her mouth moved. It was almost a smile. That one small movement made me feel better about the woman. If she could begin to smile, begin to take pride in what strength she’d shown, then maybe she would be all right with time.
Naomi squeezed her arm and gave her smile of pride and affection. Again, I got the impression that they were very close. “It was my salvation. From the moment that I met Frances, I started trying to break away from him. I don’t know how I allowed him to hurt me. I’m not like that. I mean, I’ve never, ever let a man abuse me.” Her face showed the shame she felt, as if she should have saved herself.
Frances put her hand over the other woman’s hand, giving comfort as well as getting it.
&n
bsp; Naomi smiled at her, then turned puzzled eyes to us. “He’s like a drug. Once he’s touched you, you crave his touch. Not just him either. It’s like he wakens you sexually, until your body aches to be touched.” She looked down again. “I’ve never been so sexually aware of other people. It was embarrassing, and exciting, at first. Then he started to hurt me. At first it was just little things, tying me up, then . . . spanking.” She made herself look up, forced herself to meet our eyes. Such anger, as if defying us to think the worst of her. There was a great deal of strength here. How had this man tamed her? “He made the pain part of the pleasure, but then he started doing worse things. Things that just hurt. I tried to get him to stop the kinky stuff, and that’s when he started beating me for real, no pretending that it was part of sex.” Her mouth trembled, eyes still defiant. “But beating me did excite him. The fact that it didn’t excite me, that it scared me, he liked that, too.”
“Rape fantasies,” I said.
She nodded, her eyes wide as she tried to keep the tears glistening in her eyes from falling. She held herself very still, trying to hold it all inside. “Not just fantasies at the end.”
“He likes to take you by force.” This from the wife.
I looked at both of them and fought the urge to shake my head. I’d spent the years from sixteen to thirty in the Unseelie Court, the years of my sexual awakening, so I knew about combining pleasure with pain. But the pain was shared, and it was never done against anyone’s will. If the other person didn’t think pain was pleasurable, it wasn’t sex. It was torture. There is a vast difference between torture and a little hard sex. But for sexual sadists, there is no difference. In the extreme forms they are incapable of sex without the violence, or at least the terror of their victim. But most sadists are capable of more normal sex. They can use that to fool you, but in the end they can’t keep up a normal relationship. In the end what they truly desire must come out, and they must have it.
Meredith Gentry 01 - A Kiss of Shadows Page 2