Ice Cold Death

by Razevich, Alexes

  Diego hiked up a shoulder. “I don’t see any magic in this case either. Those runes look more copied from a chart someone found online than the work of a witch. Did you see how they were both hesitant and precise? People who do magic all the time, runes are like handwriting. Once you’re comfortable with making them, you get relaxed. Still precise, but relaxed. Those runes were as stiff as a child’s first ABCs. No witch or wizard carved them.”

  I thought back to the marks. He was right about how they looked.

  “But that cat thing is bothering me,” I said. “I can’t come up with a natural reason for a cat with glowing green teeth and eyes flying at them.”

  “Oh,” I said as the knowledge made things suddenly clear in my mind. “It’s definitely something with the ex. His girlfriend has a large black tomcat. My guess is florescent paint and a scared woman and child magnifying what happened in their minds.”

  Diego gave me an approving nod. “That’s good. I’ll bet you’re right.”

  I knew I was right. That’s another thing about how my abilities work. Sometimes they are spot on and immediate. Sometimes not so much. The knowledge comes when it feels like it. It would have been nice to have had this kind of clarity in the rink the morning we found Brad’s body, to have known with absolute certainty who the killer was.

  “So, now what?” I said.

  “Once we turn in a report,” he said, “Tyron will put some freelancers on to watch the house and see who shows up. When the agency confirms who it is, usually a simple promise to alert the police should they try it again is sufficient. Juliana likes to visit the perps and deliver the message. I think she gets a kick out of it.”

  I caught his use of the word we again—once we turn in a report—as if we were permanent work partners.

  I felt his interest in me as a woman, too. Despite my never-play-where-you-get-paid rule, he intrigued me.

  I tsked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. This couldn’t end well.

  8

  The morning’s events had left me hungry and since there still wasn’t any decent food at my house, I had Diego drop me at the Trader Joe’s on Pacific Coast Highway.

  It was good to be alone. Quiet. I listened to the store’s background music, bought oatmeal, bananas, bread, eggs, and a couple of prepared salads—and tried not to think about Brad or his father or that scared woman and her daughter.

  I waited in line patiently, paid for my groceries, and called for a Lyft home.

  The driver pulled up in front of me in a white Prius, the Lyft sign in his window, and said, “Oona Goodlight?”

  I nodded, and he jumped out to help pull my bags from the cart and stow them in the trunk.

  The back of my neck prickled. I sent my sense toward the driver. I didn’t feel magic or evil intentions, but something was definitely off about him. With all the weirdness going on lately, I wasn’t going to stick around and try to figure out what it was.

  “I’m sorry,” I said and gave him a weak smile. “I completely forgot something I was supposed to pick up for my husband. I’m going to have to go back in the store for a bit.” I fished in my purse, pulled a ten from my wallet and held it out.

  He reached to take the money, grabbed my wrist instead and yanked me toward the open door of the back seat.

  I stomped down hard on the top of his foot. He let go of my arm and I pulled it back to build momentum and punched him hard in the jaw.

  Throwing a punch is like taking a shot on net—you don’t aim for your target; you aim behind it. Except a hockey shot feels good. Slugging someone’s jaw hurts. I shook out my hand.

  The driver stumbled backwards. The curb wasn’t far behind him. A hard shove in his chest and he fell over the curb, landing on his butt.

  A quick glance around showed that no one else was in the parking lot—a miracle considering how busy that lot usually was—but I saw an older man and woman with their cart about to come out the sliding glass door. I reached into my purse and pulled out the Smith and Wesson, hiding it from the older couple’s view behind my purse but holding it so the driver could see it.

  His eyes grew big and he nodded to show he’d seen it and understood.

  He levered himself up as the couple came up beside him, giving him a cursory but concerned look.

  “I’m fine,” he said, and laughed as though embarrassed by his clumsiness.

  “Get in the backseat,” I told him when the man and woman had passed.

  He did. I got behind the wheel of the still-running car and hit the backseat locks before pulling the car into an empty parking slot with no other cars around it—another miracle in that lot. I turned to look at him, the Smith and Wesson once again in my right hand and pointed at him.

  “So,” I said. “What’s this about?”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “Your husband, I guess it was, hired me. He’s got this whole thing set up for your birthday. I was supposed to pretend like it was an abduction or something and drive you to where he’s waiting. I guess the surprise is ruined now.”

  “Tell me about my husband,” I said. “What does he look like?”

  The driver shook his head. “I didn’t talk to him. My agent did, I guess.”

  “Agent?”

  “I’m an actor, but I do a lot of side gigs like this. You’re not the first person I’ve been sent to ‘kidnap.’ You are the first to pull a gun on me, though.”

  I repositioned the gun so it wasn’t pointing straight at him anymore but was still close and handy.

  “Where were you supposed to take me?”

  “The pier?” He said it like a question, but whoever had booked the ride needed to give a destination. And how did that person know where I was and that I would call Lyft?

  I read him as telling the truth. Questioning him more wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I got out of the car, grabbed a nearby empty cart, and motioned with the gun for the driver to get out.

  “Put my groceries in the cart and then get out of here.”

  He was shaking as he loaded my purchases into the cart. When all the bags were in, I motioned with my chin for him to get in the car. He slid behind the wheel and backed out of the parking spot slowly and carefully. I watched till the car disappeared down PCH, then pulled a business card from my wallet and dialed Diego’s cell phone.

  * * *

  Diego was sitting on the sofa in the parlor and chuckling.

  “It wasn’t funny,” I said.

  He cooled the chuckle to a grin. “I know. Sorry. But he fell on his ass. The poor guy. Then you pulled a gun on him. You probably scared the crap out of him.” He gave me an appraising look. “You’re full of surprises, Oona Goodlight.”

  “Yeah, fine,” I said. “But I was scared too. Someone sent him to grab me. Who? Why? How could they know where I’d be?”

  A frightening thought flitted through my mind. The only person who knew I was at the market was Diego. I sought his thoughts, feeling for duplicity, for guilt, for any emotion that might indicate he wasn’t who I thought he was—but there was nothing like that. Concern was in him, but only for my safety.

  Diego sobered. “Good questions.”

  “And here’s something else,” I said. “I sensed magic around him, but not from him.”

  “Why do you think you felt that?”

  “Only one reason I can come up with,” I said. “Someone magical set the thing up.”

  Diego nodded slowly. “Our face-changing killer?”

  A shiver ran across my shoulders. “That would be my first guess.”

  “Does he know where you live?”

  “I’m not sure.” I got up and shut the curtains on the bay window. “Probably he does, since he knew where to be on the beach so he could show himself to me.”

  Diego watched me until I sat on the sofa again.

  I shot him a look. “I know drawing the curtains closed won’t make any difference if he already knows where I am, but it makes me feel better.”

  He
was quiet, but I could tell the gears were turning in his brain.

  Gears were turning in mine as well. I hadn’t felt the face-changing killer who I was pretty sure was behind it, hadn’t felt bad intentions being sent my way.

  I hadn’t sensed danger from the Lyft driver. Maybe because he didn’t have evil intentions himself, but maybe, too, because I’d overused my abilities since finding Brad’s body and was wearing them out. I’d never consider my psychic abilities finite, but what if they were?

  That was a worry. It was all a worry.

  Diego’s gaze slid up and focused on my face. He seemed to have come to a decision over whatever he’d been considering.

  “One of two things to do,” he said. “One, you come stay at my place while we figure out if someone is really after you or this Lyft thing today was a bad joke or a weird coincidence. Two, I stay here.”

  I shook my head slightly. “Or three, I stay here by myself and take care of myself like always. Or four, I check into a hotel for a while.”

  He crossed his legs and leaned a little toward me. “Three isn’t really an option, unless you feel like maybe being nabbed by a killer. But take your pick of one, two, or four.”

  “I won’t be run out of my own home,” I said, irrationally stubborn when I knew he had a point. But I sure wasn’t going to stay at his house. He seemed nice enough, but who knew what he’d be like after the lights went out? #Me too was a movement for a reason.

  Diego shrugged. “Then I’ll stay.”

  My teeth clenched. I didn’t want anyone cluttering up my house, taking up my time and psychological space, especially when I was still trying to sort through all that had happened this week and figure out a way to deal with it.

  “You already put up wards to protect the house,” I said. “Aren’t they any good?”

  “Plenty good,” he said. “So long as you stay inside. It’s Friday night. Are you going to stay indoors until Monday morning?”

  The mere thought of being cooped up for two days made my stomach hurt.

  I pursed my lips.

  “I’ll stay,” he said, more firmly this time. “Your guest room looked comfortable.”

  I shrugged. Sometimes you have to resign yourself to the inevitable and make the best of it. Especially when deep in your heart you know it really is the smart thing to do.

  “I’ll put on some fresh sheets for you.”

  He stood. “The wards on the house are strong. No one is going to get in that you don’t want in. I’m going back to my house and get a few things I need. I should be back in forty-five minutes or so.”

  I hadn’t wanted him to stay. Now I didn’t want him to go. I guessed I needed to make up my mind about all of this.

  Diego did some hocus pocus at the windows and the doors—laying on extra protection, I assumed.

  “You know,” I said, a sudden, uncomfortable thought flitting through my mind. “The driver could have been the killer. He can change his looks the way you might change your shirt. He could show up looking like you.”

  “Wouldn’t your psychic senses tingle or something if the killer showed up at your door?” he said.

  I pushed my hair back away from my face. “They should. I seem to be a little off at the moment.”

  “Okay,” he said. “How about a password?”

  “Swordfish.”

  It was from an old cartoon show when I was a kid, and the first thing that popped into my head.

  Diego raised his eyebrows and laughed to himself. “Swordfish it is.”

  He muttered something under his breath and turned to slightly bow in each of the four directions.

  “I hope you’re not expecting company,” he said after. “No one and nothing can cross your threshold until I get back.”

  I didn’t know if I was grateful or annoyed at all his taking charge and protecting me stuff. Grateful, I guessed. The thing with the driver had seriously frightened me, on top of everything else that had frightened me the last couple of days.

  I was annoyed, too. I was no damsel in distress. I’d dealt with the driver. I could take care of myself.

  Diego pulled his car keys from his pocket. “How would you feel about learning some magic? I can teach you a few simple defensive spells that could come in handy.”

  “Sure.” My thoughts were still churning on the Lyft driver incident and the who, what, and why. Grinding on the annoying need for protection.

  “Such enthusiasm,” he said.

  I blew out a breath. “I get it, Diego. You’re a goalie—the last and ultimate point of defense. But I’m a wing. Offense. It’s my nature to drive forward, overcoming whatever and whoever tries to stop me.”

  He tossed his car keys from one hand to the other. “It takes offense and defense working together to win the game, Oona. Knowing a few spells to protect yourself isn’t a bad thing.”

  I sighed. He wasn’t wrong. And he was getting my misplaced anger again.

  I dropped my voice to a near whisper. “I hate being scared, Diego. Hate the need to learn spells to protect myself. Hate that Brad is dead. That a base-shifter is out there killing people and might have a thing for me. That I feel helpless.”

  Tears sprung to my eyes. “I hate every damn thing about this.”

  9

  I made up the bed in the guest room and did the dishes while waiting for Diego to return. The time and activity helped me calm down and see the wisdom of learning some protection spells. Knowing more ways to defend myself didn’t make me weak—it made me stronger. More competent. More capable. More independent.

  And just to show that I’d put my dark mood behind me when Diego returned, I asked for the silly password before I’d open the door.

  He walked in carrying a handsome dark-brown leather overnight bag with brass clasps. Either Danyon and Peet paid really well or he had another source of income. Whichever it was, he clearly liked to spend it on himself. My purchases tended toward the plain and utilitarian, but I could appreciate someone who spent the extra dollars to get nice things. It was a bonus that he had good taste. I don’t think I could have tolerated a weekend houseguest who paraded strikingly bad taste.

  “The guest room is upstairs,” I said and led the way, though he already knew that, having been in every room when he sage-smudged the house and first set the wards.

  “Nice,” he said when I opened the guest room door.

  It was a nice room. My great-great-grandparents, Charles and Audrey, had only two children but it seemed pretty clear that they’d planned on more. The beach house they’d built—my house now—had three bedrooms, each large enough to have housed several boys in one and several girls in another.

  Diego stood a moment taking in the ocean-blue walls, sand-colored ceiling, the king bed covered by my grandmother’s handmade quilt with a large compass rose at the center. He probably hadn’t paid much attention when he’d been in here before, since his mind was occupied with laying the wards. Or maybe he was just polite.

  He’d been unfailingly polite, I realized. Evidently wizards raised their children to have good manners.

  A family antique writing desk and chair and a wide chaise were also in the room, along with a bedside table with a good reading lamp and a bookshelf with books covering a wide swath of subjects and genres.

  Some of my drawings were framed on one wall and he walked over to look at each one, spending extra time in front of an abstract of ocean. The drawings weren’t signed but my hands still got sweaty and nerves jangled all over my body. I was glad he didn’t ask who had done them. I was extremely shy about my art. I’d taken a few classes in college but I wasn’t really trained. I drew what I felt as much as what I saw. Sometimes, when my psychic impressions got stuck or their meaning wasn’t totally clear I’d draw to bring them to the surface. Some of those drawings were on the walls as well. I wanted Diego to like my work but I didn’t want to talk about it. That didn’t make a lot of sense, but no one ever went wrong thinking humans were contradictory.r />
  He looked up at the skylight above the bed.

  “Stars at night or sun during the day,” I said, glad his attention had moved on. “If you don’t want one or either, there’s a button on the nightstand that will draw a shade.”

  “Pretty cool,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I want my guests to be comfortable.”

  Diego spent his money on nice cars, upscale suits, and fancy overnight bags. I spent mine on my house.

  “I’ve been thinking about the best way to approach the problem,” he said after he’d settled his things in the guest room and come down to join me in the parlor.

  I looked up from the book I’d been more leafing through than reading. “Did you come to a conclusion?”

  He sat on the other end of the sofa from me. “I think I have a solution, though you may not want to do it.”

  The back of my neck prickled. I knew what he had in mind, and he was right—I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do it either, which made the prospect more daunting.

  “Have you done it before?” I said. “Pushed that much magic into someone?”

  “Not quite this much magic, no. And not into someone like you—empathetic and a psychic. There might be side effects.”

  I could guess at the side effects. The afterglow thing, stronger than I’d felt it before. Strong enough that I’d be almost irresistibly drawn to him.

  “No offense,” I said. “You’re good-looking enough and I like you and all, but you’re not my type. So, no worries.”

  Which was a lie. The more I knew Diego, the more attracted to him I felt. The more attracted I felt, the more I found myself annoyed with him. Sometimes I wondered if there was something wrong with me.

  “The magic will make you stronger,” he said. “More capable with spells and better able to use your psychic abilities to know when danger is near. If we’d done this before I dropped you at the market you never would have gotten near that Lyft driver. You would have known sooner that something was wrong.” He paused. “You can do other things, too, with the extra magic.”