by LAURA HARNER
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Other than the night I showed you around the building, I’ve never been in your apartment. You need to find a way to control your boyfriend. I don’t care if he reports on the sweat lodges, but you keep him away from any reporting about wereanimals of any kind.”
I stared at Quinn, momentarily speechless. Through a jaw so tightly tensed it might shatter at any moment, I ground out, “He is not my boyfriend. I do not have any contact with him, and I wouldn’t control him, even if I could.” I took a deep calming breath. “Why would you care if Jason writes about werewolves? No one can seriously believe they exist. People who pay to see something like that know it’s as fake as a haunted house at Halloween. They’re paying to be entertained. No one is that gullible.
“What in the hell are you so upset over, anyway, Sheriff? It’s me he’s trashed. He told the world I have a record, about my family. I don’t do fortune telling, and I don’t con people. It’s just a bed and breakfast, and I didn’t do anything to get caught up in any of this.”
I threw the paper down on the table and went to refill my coffee. When I turned around, Quinn was gone.
The phone rang, and my voice was sharp when I answered.
“Hey, beautiful, don’t kill the messenger.” Gregory’s voice was warm and full of laughter. I think Gregory’s voice would be warm and full of laughter if he told you your house was on fire. He was just one of those people who saw life through the funny pages.
“Hey, Gregory. Sorry I snapped. What’s up?”
“Well, I’m guessing from the sound of your voice that you already saw your boyfriend’s article?” There was a distinct edge to his smart-assed comment. Huh. Maybe not so sunny after all?
“Yes, the sheriff was kind enough to throw it in my face this morning. And Jason isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Did you fuck him? Cause he sure fucked you!”
“Gregory!” I could hear Owen’s outraged voice echoing mine in the background.
“Sorry, KC. It’s just that—” He broke off, and I heard him breathing. It sounded as though he’d just finished running. Okay, definitely not the funny papers today. This was all very un-Gregory-like behavior.
There was a long pause, but by the time he responded, his momentary show of temper seemed to be easing back. “I’m sorry, KC. I started this badly, I’m not angry with you. Owen and I would really appreciate it if you could talk to Jason. See if you can convince him to stick with the sweat lodges and palmistry. Hell, we’ll even throw in a couple of really good frauds we know about that are closer to Sedona. People will eat it up. You know they love to hear about the rich and lazy getting swindled. Just keep him out of Juniper Springs.”
I was silent for a few moments, wondering what I was missing. So I asked, “What am I missing, Gregory? He didn’t mention G&O at all. What would organic grocers have to worry about?”
“Aww, KC, don’t be daft. We just don’t want the press all over here, digging around, that’s all. Talk to him, okay, hun?”
“No,” I said. “Jason isn’t my boyfriend, he never was. He obviously holds no special place for me, since he alluded to my less than illustrious past. Personally, he could get hit by a truck tomorrow, and I wouldn’t care. You want to talk to him? Be my guest. You might have to line up behind the sheriff, though. He was pretty pissed himself this morning.”
“Mmmmm,” Gregory made yummy sounds, the good humor back in his voice. Had to give the man credit—at least when he had hissy fits they seemed to be short-lived. “I’d love to line up behind Quinn. All that tall, tan, and handsome. I don’t think I’m exactly his type. Okay, love, can’t blame a man for trying. Are we still on for our run tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. I hate it,” I laughed, “but I’ll be ready.”
We hung up on a good note, but the phone rang almost immediately. In fact, the phone continued to ring virtually non-stop for the rest of the morning. It seemed that the owner of just about every business in town expected me to be able to stop Jason’s articles. Eventually, I took the phone off the hook, turned off my cell phone, and tried to yoga my way into a peaceful afternoon.
It wasn’t until the front door opened that I realized just how impossible that was going to be.
A woman entered and stood looking around, practically quivering with excitement. She was shorter than my five feet five inches, and outweighed me by at least sixty pounds. With her tight, red perm, she looked like a sixty-year old Little Orphan Annie on steroids. Her arms and neck were covered with necklaces and bracelets of silver, leather, turquoise, and beads. Even with all of that to look at, it was still the neon yellow caftan that overwhelmed the visual senses.
“Hello! Is this the only bed and breakfast in Juniper Springs?” she trilled.
“Yes,” I said. I had a sinking feeling that I knew where this was going.
“Lovely. May I have a room, please?”
Mentally rolling my eyes, I wanted to tell her no. I knew she was here because of the article. She was looking for a genuine paranormal experience and she would be expecting to meet the fortuneteller. Maybe I could tell her we were booked. Gabrielle was off until tomorrow, she’d never know.
As soon as the thought entered my mind, I felt the shift in the atmosphere of the house. The air settled around me just as it had the first time I entered the Honey House and a small shiver ran up my spine. I remembered Gabrielle’s words: no one comes into the House for a room who isn’t supposed to be here. With a long-suffering sigh, I led the way to a vacant room.
As the day progressed, at least a dozen other people stopped by to look at Honey House, take pictures and walk around the grounds. None of them asked for rooms, but the House seemed pleased by the attention. Doors I’d previously closed mysteriously opened so the tourists could get a peek inside. The fountain in the courtyard began to flow, and everything sparkled. There was a definite sense of well-being hovering in the air. Weird.
On the ship, I’d spent late afternoons and evenings giving readings for the fun-loving passengers. Some were serious, some were light-hearted, and none was physically taxing. I would dance and make the tourists happy with harmless flirtations. Sometimes it was a little more than flirting, but not too often. I kept in shape by running and taking a mixed martial arts class.
Tonight, I would be lucky to drag myself to the bed upstairs. Who knew that giving tours, posing for pictures, and dodging requests for psychic readings could be so exhausting?
I went to check the front door, to make sure it was locked for the night. Just as I reached out, the door swung open and there was Jason.
“May I come in?” he asked tentatively.
“Are you here for a room?” Please say no, please say no, please say no.
“Yes,” he answered softly. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Another important life lesson: never be afraid to meet your enemy’s eyes. Otherwise, you’ll never see what’s coming.
I invited him inside and shut the door. Without any hesitation, I drove my fist into his stomach. He hunched over, trying to draw a breath and I grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to double over and drove his face into my knee.
Jason moaned in a ball on the floor. Sucking on a scraped knuckle—damn belt buckle—I gathered the sheets and towels for his room and stacked them on the floor near his head, along with a room key. Then I went to bed and slept like a baby.
****
The early morning run wasn’t going exactly as planned. “For Christ’s sake, move over, Gregory,” I said as I shoved him off the path. Gregory wasn’t laughing now. He was bent over, hands propped on his knees, throat working. He was making a horrible gagging sound. If anything was going to make me puke, it would be listening to those wet heaves, not the bloody body blocking the path.
I called for the sheriff and an ambulance before I knew whether the body was alive. I would be too bloody to hold the phone once I moved in close enough to check for a pulse. There was no level of first aid th
at would make a difference, even if whoever was underneath all that blood was still alive. The best I could do was offer comfort.
I answered the dispatcher’s questions then handed the phone to a very green looking Gregory. “Stay on the line, Gregory, but step over there. Don’t watch if you’re going to get sick. I’ll tell you if I can feel a pulse and you can tell the dispatcher.”
I carefully stepped onto the driest spot possible and reached past the collar to lay my fingers against the cool flesh. There was a thready beat against my fingers and I relayed the information. Then I tried to see if any wounds were bleeding copiously and needed pressure to stop the flow. It looked as though most of the blood was pooled on the ground already.
Through it all I murmured reassurances. “It’s okay, you’re going to be all right. What’s your name, hon? You’re going to be all right.”
I was pretty sure the body was a man. He was curled on his side in a fetal position, knees tucked tight against his stomach. The jeans and windbreaker were coated with blood and the red sandy dirt of the trail. The hair was matted, and caked in that Sedona red earth. The face was torn open, cut from the mandible to the left temple, and showed bone. If he survived, he would have one hell of a story to tell. The skin where I laid my fingers against his neck was cold, and I knew shock was as deadly as anything else he faced right now. I draped my jacket lightly over his shoulders and waited for the ambulance.
****
“Tell me once more how you found the victim, Miss Carmichael? Why did you vary your usual route this morning?” I sighed. Once again, Quinn took up entirely too much space. I looked at the couch cushions and he was only taking one-third of the couch. I was curled up on my cushion at the opposite end and there was still one full cushion between us. So why did it feel as though he was looming over me?
“I already answered that, Sheriff. Twice. We were running. It’s only the third time that Gregory and I have run together. We don’t have a usual route. I don’t know why we ran up the back path, we just did. Now, unless you have new questions for me, I have things to do around here.”
Quinn stared at me a long time. Cop eyes. I hated cop eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me Jason was back in town?” he asked.
I blinked, momentarily nonplussed by the sudden shift in the conversation. Heat crawled up my neck at the memory of what I’d done last night. Shit. I used to give much better blank face than that. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped now.
“I didn’t tell you, Sheriff, because it’s none of your business,” I said coolly. I made to move and Quinn was suddenly there, practically on top of me. He grabbed my wrist in a painfully tight grip.
“Not yet, Miss Carmichael. Tell me about Jason Brill.”
I stared at his hand until he finally dropped my wrist, but one look at his face told me he was not going to drop the question.
“Jason showed up last night, just before the door locked. He asked for a room. I gave him a key. End of story.” I clipped the words. I so did not want to go there with Quinn.
“Did you fuck him?”
“What? No!”
“What time did he arrive?”
The questions were coming fast now. I was familiar with the technique. The sheriff would pose rapid-fire questions and buried somewhere in the midst was the real question he wanted answered. He hoped to catch me off-guard and it had almost worked. I deliberately slowed the pace, pausing before answering, as though it required great effort of thought.
“Nine,” I said.
His phone rang and he answered, “Quinn.” After listening a few minutes he ended the call with a promising, “I’ll be right there.”
“Last chance, Miss Carmichael. Is there anything else you want to tell me about Mr. Brill?”
“No. I don’t know why you’d think Jason and I are any of your business, anyway,” I responded. Then I gave myself a mental kick for giving the cop the opening he was looking for. He surprised me. He didn’t jump at it, just looked at me, his big honey-colored eyes filled with some emotion I didn’t understand.
Quinn reached a hand, and I let him pull me to my feet. I schooled my face against any sign of discomfort as he ran his thumb over the slightly swollen and abraded knuckles of my right hand. “You’ll have to tell me who you hit when I return,” he said softly.
I think it was the tone. It was the first time today he’d spoken to me as though I was a person and not an ex-con. My eyes filled unexpectedly with tears, and I turned away, pulling my hand from his. Staring blindly out the window, I felt Quinn as he stepped close to me. His body threw off heat, a pulsing energy, as though he were a sun and I was forced into his orbit. I wanted to step away, but couldn’t. I was glad he was behind me; I didn’t want to see the look on his face.
“Jason Brill died a few minutes ago. He was too badly injured. The doctors couldn’t do anything. I’m sorry,” he added softly.
My knees buckled. Quinn caught me and carried me to the couch. That bloody thing had been Jason? I hadn’t even recognized him. I’d let him die alone.
I asked, as if needing to hear the words, to watch his face, “That was Jason? Dear God, what happened? It looked as though he’d been eaten.”
My mind flashed to the image I’d had of him when I’d performed the reading. Jason flying through the air. That awful blackness. Had I somehow foreseen this? Could I have prevented this if I’d told him what I’d seen?
Quinn looked at me, his face solemn. “It was Jason. I need to go. Will you be all right alone, or should I send Gabrielle in?”
“I’m all right. I just need some time.”
He nodded, passed a surprisingly gentle hand across my forehead, smoothing my hair away from my face, then left.
Chapter Five
The woman wore a neon green caftan today and had decorated herself in coral and silver jewelry. The contrast was startling between the two, and she brought to mind a giant parrot. Scary. She hovered as I busied myself around the great room, and it wasn’t long before she made her intentions clear.
“I’ve been waiting until the hubbub died down to speak with you, dear,” she chirped in my direction. “I wonder if I might have a reading today?”
“Listen, Mrs. Kensington, this just isn’t a good day for me. Besides, I don’t do readings anymore.”
“Oh, but darling, you must. We have so much to talk about,” she said.
Why is it people don’t want to take no for an answer? They think they can just rephrase the question and despite any of your misgivings, you’ll suddenly say, “Sure, I’d love to.” Well, I wouldn’t love to. I’d let Jason talk me into it and I’d seen something. Something remarkably similar to the reality of his bloodied and beaten body. I never wanted to “see” anything again. I needed to be polite; after all, she was a guest of the Honey House. On the other hand, no means no. She needed to accept that I wasn’t going to do a psychic reading for her.
“I’m really sorry you’re disappointed, Mrs. Kensington, but I won’t read for you or anybody. Would you like me to ask Gabrielle if she knows of any good psychics in the area?”
“Oh, child. You really don’t understand. Please, let’s find some privacy. I have a great deal to tell you.”
“About what?” I was being less than polite, but I didn’t want to be tied up in a conversation about palmistry all afternoon. I needed time to sort through my thoughts about Jason. Plus, I knew Quinn would eventually return to ask more questions than he’d asked this morning.
Up until now, I’d taken Mrs. Kensington as a piece of tourist fluff, a woman completely absorbed by her own interests. Now, I was forced to reevaluate my initial impressions. Somehow, she’d pulled energy like a cloak around her. Her shoulders lowered and chin rose, so that she looked positively regal. She looked at me a long minute and it made me feel young, caught in the act even though I’d done nothing wrong. I was uncomfortably reminded that the House wouldn’t have let her stay if it hadn’t wanted her here.
“We really must talk. J
oanne was a friend of mine. There are things you need to know. Please, can we go somewhere private?”
Surprising myself with the offer, I said, “Let’s go into the library.”
The library was a wonder. Located in the exact opposite corner of the House from my apartment, it caught the afternoon sunlight. Joanne’s books covered two walls, floor to ceiling. I loved to read, and I’d intended to spend a great deal of time in here when I first saw the room. So far, the details of running a bed and breakfast had consumed me. Looking around, I was reminded of the attraction.
“Please, have a seat,” the woman said, as if this was her place, not mine. She indicated two low-slung leather and wood chairs that faced catty-corner in front of the large window that held a spectacular view of one of the more famous red-rock formations. The kind you usually only saw on post cards.
I sat and waited for her to begin. She had certainly aroused my curiosity.
“Have you found Joanne’s Book of Shadows?” she asked without preamble.
“Book of Shadows?” I repeated.
“Yes,” she nodded. “It’s a book used by the Wiccan and witches to record their work and research. Joanne’s contained a list of her herbs and their uses, the moon cycles, our Sabbats and holidays, and even her spells. I take it you haven’t found it?”
“Joanne was a witch?” I asked. Without waiting for an answer, I pressed on. “Mrs. Kensington—”
“Please, call me Amelia,” she interrupted.
“All right. Amelia. Why are you here?” I asked, cutting to the chase.
“The question, child, is why are you here? You’re a very unusual young woman, KC,” Amelia said.
I waited. She sighed. I waited some more.
“Either you are remarkably uncurious or you have iron control over your nerves. I wonder. You know, I never thought you’d come. When Joanne returned from the cruise, she told me all about you. She was quite impressed with your innate power, although she reiterated you were barely aware of it yourself. I didn’t believe that could possibly be true, but I see now that she was right.