Small Town Witch: A New Adult Urban Fantasy (Red Witch Chronicles 5)

by Sami Valentine

  A tall ruddy-cheeked man with thick brown hair, gray-blue eyes and big ears burst from the trees—Henry Constantine. He rushed toward the cabin, raising a rifle, firing into the open doorway. A pained howl ripped through the air. Glass shattered in the distance like a window breaking. He fired again. “Shit!”

  Face pale, he spun around, and slung his rifle on his back. He ran to Vic, scooping him up. “Come on, son. It’s still out there.”

  Candles extinguished, and the smoke cleared. The circle took a collective breath as the vision faded on a full moon above an impossibly starry sky. Sniffling, she tugged her hand away from Jackson.

  “Fuck you all!” Shaking, eyes wet and jaw clenched, Vic jumped up. He barreled out of the diner and into his van.

  Lashawn sprinted after him, opening the passenger door and hopping in even as the Millennium Falcon sped out in reverse.

  Red hobbled to her feet, limbs sluggish from the emotional hangover. She wiped her face.

  Zach sighed. “That went well.”

  Blood rushing to her cheeks, she could have decked him. “Look what you did to him! Did you have to rip open the biggest fucking wound he had? That was his family, you inconsiderate jag off. What the hell kind of empath are you?”

  Zach took a step back, exchanging a startled glance with the werewolf. “I never said I was a therapist.”

  “That was fucked up!” Red flopped down in their usual booth. She typed out what she knew would be the first of many unanswered text messages to Vic, asking how he was.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Zach grabbed a tray from the bar and filled it with the tea mugs, candles, and saucepot. He took it into the kitchen.

  Eyebrows lifted, Jackson rubbed his neck, staring into the air as if the tortured vision were repeating in his head too. “Well, I don’t hate him anymore, so I guess that part worked. Jesus.”

  “That’s something.” Red snarked, putting her phone in her pocket.

  “Who the hell was that wolf?”

  “No one knows. Not anyone alive that is. Frank Lopes told him it wasn’t a feral. Doesn’t really narrow it down even if you could believe the word of an assassin.” She stood up straighter. The names connected suddenly, chasing away all other thought. Gloria Lopes had said her father had killed Archibald Fowler, a wolfmage, and kept his amulet. “You said the name Fowler. Were you talking about an Archibald?”

  “I’m not proud of it, but I studied under him for a time.” Jackson looked down at his sneakers.

  “What do you know of an amulet he had? It was a bone disk. Lopes stole it off him and kept it close to his heart, literally under his skin as a good luck charm.” She held onto the fact that her own power escaped it when it broke. Only Vic knew that.

  “So, that’s where the other one went.” Jackson shook his head. “I couldn’t believe he was dead. I had to kick the body in Texas myself. Oldest wolf I ever met, the son of bitch seemed too tough to die.”

  “Not for Frank Lopes. What happened to the second amulet?”

  “Broken in the fight. It was a nasty one too. Fowler was powerful on his own, but he drew on those amulets. Lopes wouldn’t be able to bring him down without taking out one. What does this have to—”

  Red cut him off, pressing on. “When did he die?”

  “November first of last year. At the funeral, I heard that every dog in town started howling at around 9 p.m. and wouldn’t stop until dawn.” Jackson furrowed his brow. “Why?”

  “Are you sure about the time?” Red ask urgently, her mind filled with a fire that could melt bullets. An inferno that she could no more explain than the one which had killed her mother.

  Zach came back from the kitchen, breaking her from the dark memories. “Stace is still on patrol. Hasn’t found anything yet.”

  “I better find her then.” Jackson hunched his shoulders and strode out of the diner.

  “I know you’re mad at me and might want to bunk somewhere else tonight.” Zach pulled his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll take you wherever, Red.”

  “Might as well go home. We’ve done enough damage here.”

  Mentally, she was miles and months away on the rooftop of Moon Enterprises, facing a firing line of Michel’s minions, bullets jetting toward her. She had picked over the encounter, wondering how the laws of physics had been thoroughly defied, theorizing that her magical instincts must have subconsciously solidified air to block the bullets and summoned fire in a rush of mortal terror. How she’d had the strength always eluded her.

  Red couldn’t have known that an amulet shattered in a fight between werewolves across the country on the same night. The stolen magic returning to its owner at the right time. It was an answer that only led back to the same question—how did Archibald Fowler get amulets containing her magic?

  16

  Yawning between sips of coffee, Red walked to the Charm Police Department.

  She’d tossed and turned all night. Neither Vic nor Lashawn had returned her text messages. The morning call from Aisha Callaway was a relief even if it was about a murder victim. She’d left the house while Zach showered, unprepared to talk to him so soon after how messed up last night had been. Not without a few cups of coffee in her, anyway.

  Stace’s house looked isolated next to the cemetery on the edge of the village, but it was only a thirty-minute walk to the police even with a stop in a small cafe. Exercise took the edge off her sour mood. The station had a historic brick visage that matched the rest of the quaint village. Its small lobby had authentic 1930s fixtures and the filing system to match. There weren’t even computers at the front desk.

  The sheriff met her in the front and brought her into a low musty hallway, brown moisture damage marring the ceiling tiles. “I hope you weren’t planning on breakfast after this.”

  “Once you said you found a body, I switched my schedule around. Where did you find the victim?”

  Callaway pushed open a door to a basement staircase. The smell of death and chemicals wafted out. “A groundskeeper did at the cemetery at a quarter past seven. They dropped the body in an old sealed well. He was removing a dead fox when he noticed the broken lock.”

  “How many days had they been in there?”

  “More like hours.” The sheriff walked past a wall of metal cabinets to a covered body centered on a long table, a recessed drain in the corner. “The lab is analyzing insect eggs found on the body to determine the time of the death more precisely, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened moments before that portal opened.”

  “Did you find a stone circle?”

  “It wasn’t set up like the others—strung up or draped over a rock. The killer dumped the body.” Callaway shook her head, pulling back the white sheet on the victim to the waist. “She was a teacher at the high school—Lisa Kelly.”

  Gray hair damp and eyes closed, stern lines around her mouth, the victim seemed more perturbed than afraid. Angular Etruscan markings marred her nude bony chest. Not with the smooth edge of a knife, but the horrid drag of a sharp fingernail. The symbols for Orcus and Culsu were etched above her belly button. No defensive wounds on the hands or face. You didn’t need to be a doctor to see the cause of death was the ragged laceration across her throat, gristle of the windpipe visible.

  Red ran a hand inches above the woman, adjusting her third eye to scan for any magical traces. Dark energy radiated over the wounds. Thinking out loud for Callaway’s benefit, she examined the incisions. “The Etruscans believed the death gods could grant curses, if they were sent with the right messenger. This was usually sealed in a tomb with a fresh body like a hitchhiker to the underworld. Sometimes they tossed their pleas to the darker gods in wells, figuring it must lead to the same place. This offering is like paying extra for speedy shipment.”

  “If this were a normal serial killer, I’d say they were evolving their methods.”

  “These symbols are identical to the ones on the last body, but the setup is different. The killer might not know Alari
c’s ritual as well as we expected. He obviously isn’t getting the same result. This is an experiment.”

  “Are they getting closer to cracking the code?”

  “I need to go over the Bard report on Alaric to be sure, but I get the feeling that the killer is winning over the gods.”

  “Why?”

  Red analyzed the dead woman’s face. Was her last sight the mysterious blond vampire pleading with the gods? Did she feel them answer his prayers? “A riftquake opened quicker this time. The other rituals took days to work.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  Callaway shut away the victim and led Red out of the morgue and to her office. She presented a surveillance video of the well on her laptop. The moving camera missed the body being dumped and only caught the lid closing. She clicked open another file. “That isn’t the only spooky footage I’ve found around town. Wendy at the magic shop showed me this. It was before business hours on the day Benston had her spending spree. She didn’t buy up all the crystals. Some were already missing.”

  A video opened on the screen of the tables of mystical merchandise. The bust of Janus and selenite still stood on the shelves. The view flicked to the side suddenly as if slapped, the camera now stuck on the collection of East Asian artifacts. Callaway paused the video and switched to another program where she had blown up the image of the gong. “Look at the reflection.”

  The bronze only captured the lightness of the hair and vague contours of a gaunt face, but Red recognized him—the mystery vampire from last night. She gulped, the bruises on her fingers aching at the sight. “Keep watch on the town wells, but don’t let your deputies approach him. He’s old, clever, and thinks he has a destiny.”

  ---

  Walking down Main Street, Red spotted the black van parked on the curb at the Winded Whaler. She stepped inside.

  Heat from the swinging kitchen doors steamed over the narrow diner area separated by two rows of compact wooden booths. Chatter bounced off the walls. Waitresses in old fashioned green skirt uniforms mingled with the regulars, hauling out trays of bacon and eggs or doling out black coffee at the counter. It wasn’t the kind of place where you’d get a cappuccino.

  She recognized some of the patrons from the reunion. Herman the possum shifter read a newspaper in a back booth, wire glasses on his currently human face. Josh the comic shop owner nodded to her, passing with a takeout carton.

  Mullet pegging him from afar, Vic faced away from her on the last stool at the lunch counter with a half-eaten plate of breakfast potatoes. A fork lay forgotten at his side.

  She sat next to him. “How’s the grub here?”

  Without meeting her gaze, he lifted one shoulder. The hard edge in his eyes was enough to convince the friendliest villager to leave the silent stranger alone.

  “A rousing endorsement.” Red quickly ordered a coffee from a young waitress who studied them curiously as she poured a mug. After thanking the woman, she spun on the stool to face Vic.

  “How’d you find me?” he asked.

  “It’s not a big town. Hard to hide. I was coming from the police station.” Taking a fortifying sip of java, she arched an eyebrow at him. “You gonna tell me what happened after you left?”

  “Drove around with Lashawn. You can guess what we talked about.”

  She glared over her mug. “I cussed Zach out last night.”

  “I might still wring his neck. At least I know what bug is up Lashawn’s ass. I gave him a complex. Some big brother I am.”

  “At least you can do something about it now.”

  “Not anything that counts.” He sighed. “I went to mass this morning.”

  “You’re not Catholic.”

  “They were open, and I needed a place to think.” Vic chuckled somberly. “I know when a guy starts talking about Jesus people clear a room, but do you know why I go to church?”

  It wasn’t really a topic they discussed. On the road, they were in such close quarters that they carved out alone time when they could. Red would sleep in on Sundays and he caught a sermon in whatever town they were in. She thought of it as his ‘me time’ just another one of his quirks like the occasion cigar but more wholesome.

  She tried to be as delicate as an agnostic pagan heathen could be. “To talk to God?”

  “J.C. is part of it, but no. I go to talk to my folks. If the preacher is good, I might pay half attention but most of the time, I give them an update. Try to think about what they would say back. Sometimes if I get really quiet in my head, I think I can hear it.” He smiled sadly. “They had faith, they were good people, volunteering with the congregation to feed the homeless, even though my dad worked long hours at a tech startup. I’m lucky, I had two sets of really great parents.”

  Her heart broke for him. “I think they would be proud of you.”

  “Do you?” He dropped his head. “Watching Lashawn like this… It’s my fault. Don’t try and cheer me up. I know it.”

  “You’ve been through dark times before and always came up swinging,” Red said. “Even when you were in a wheelchair.”

  “That was another stupid cocky move. I couldn’t follow the plan with Michel either. You never would’ve made that trade-off with Novak if it wasn’t to help me. I’m like the worst kind of Teflon, shit slips off me to stick to the few people I actually care about.”

  “Hey, I don’t blame you for how that went down.” Agreeing to let Kristoff bite her so he’d have the blood supply to heal Vic’s legs wasn’t a trade she’d ever undo. Considering how it felt, she didn’t exactly see it as a hardship. Then or now. “I made my choice. Just like Lashawn did.”

  “I hope it works out better for you than him.”

  “It already has. I have regrets, but you’ve never been one of them.”

  He grunted. “Yeah, sure.”

  She poked his shoulder. “I’m serious. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you. That’ll always make you a hero in my book. Nothing I saw last night changed that.”

  “Thanks, kid.” He wiped his sleeve against his nose, sniffing, looking away from her. “So, you did some real work this morning. What did you find out at the station?”

  Red detailed in hushed tones about the body in the well and the evolution of the killer’s methods.

  “No fang marks? This can’t be a young vampire, not with that much blood going to waste.”

  “The one who found me at the country club was old.” She raised her hand, the bruises purple on her pale fingers. “He did this with a flick of his wrist. I’m surprised my phone survived.”

  Tired face growing thoughtful, Vic set down his mug. “You didn’t get any help with that from Kristoff, I see.” He was talking about her drinking from the vampire. It wasn’t something that they could say openly. The power of Kristoff’s gift was more dangerous than the usual ones of shifting into a bat or into mist. It was something that could get him hunted for those seeking cures or to use his blood in spells.

  “No. It hurt but it’s not an emergency.”

  “Good, good. We do what we gotta do to get the job done, but you don’t need another favor to the Novaks over your head. I already put you in deep with him.”

  “It’s not like that. You’ve got enough to worry about without adding me to the list.”

  “You’re still my intern. At least in my head. I’m going to worry.” He chuckled into his coffee. “It’s the big brother in me.”

  ---

  After leaving the Winded Whaler, Vic dropped her off at the house, saying he was going to a hunter’s bar on the outskirts of town.

  The place was empty except for a note saying that Stace and Zach were at the diner and asking if she could research more on Alaric’s ritual. She texted them about her illuminating morning with Callaway. The mysterious blond vampire had solidified his place as her top suspect. Hopefully, Kristoff had gotten more intel about his whereabouts from Gavin.

  Going into the study, hoping to find a record matching the descript
ion, she plucked one of Gina McGregor’s journals from the bookshelf. The late Bard’s record of her tenure in the rift-zone filled almost three shelves, with some years spanning multiple notebooks dated on the spine. Bound dossiers on specific cases were set below. She collected the reports on her supposed death and vampire uprising and settled at the table.

  The last battle at the summer camp had ended when the unlikely hero Emma Peters closed the rift, the doorway cutting Alaric in half as it closed. Yet the drama had started earlier when riftquakes erupted over Charm in the spring of her junior year of high school.

  Quoting McGregor, it was a harbinger of what was to come.

  The rumors of the Alaric Order’s movement to America brought Quinn Byrnes to Charm to join forces with the teenagers to investigate. This only brought him into a dark trap. The tide had turned when Delilah, Selene, and Lucas appeared.

  Red found her cell phone. Gina McGregor had meticulously researched her reports, but there was one insight that she’d never had—the insider’s.

  “DB Models, this is Linda speaking, how may I help you?” The polite tone didn’t quite cover the stress underneath the words.

  “Hey girl, why are you working the phones?” Red asked, imagining the beleaguered office manager in her Jimmy Choo designer shoes. Was the usual apathetic-looking front desk receptionist on a lunch break?

  “I’d love to chat, but I’m putting out fires all over the place. Someone is on the other line. I’ll just forward you on to the boss.”

  Red braced herself. The last time she had seen Delilah, the vampiress had looked rough. She was going to poke at an old vampire right in the sorest spots in her history. If losing Quinn had changed Lucas, she couldn’t comprehend how the death had hit his wife of centuries, doubting it had sweetened her temper.

  A smoky voice came onto the other line. “This had better be good news.”

  “It’s not, but you’ll want to know anyway.”

  “Oh, it’s you. Lucas already asked me who was still alive in the family tree. He should have told you that the Blood Alliance snapped the important branches off.”