His brows shot up. I was singing his song. “Go on. I’m listening.” He cocked his head like a dog, bringing the weight of his intense stare onto me without a hint of tact.
“I need to find anything about a place called Thendara,” I said.
His answering look was blank.
“It seems to have been a sort of place named during an abortive attempt to build a canal through the mountains?”
That rang a bell. “Okay, now I have something to go on.” His hands were flying over a keyboard at his desk. He hit one last key with a triumphant clack and turned back to me. “I’ve never heard of it, but we have a single mention in our database. It isn’t a book, though.” He hmmmmd and resumed his punishment of the keyboard. “It’s not a newspaper, either.” His narrative deteriorated into stylized grunts as he searched, eyes locked on his computer screen. “Not that, no. Nor that. Nope, not a painting . . . maybe. . . .” After a long rumination, he snapped his long fingers with a crack loud enough to make me jump. He really had impressive digits, and I found myself looking at his pianists’ hands with something akin to fearful respect. “We have plates.”
“Plates?” I asked dumbly. The idea of scanning dishes from yesteryear to solve a murder was one of the more unorthodox ideas I’ve encountered, but I was game.
He shook his long face with a muffled laugh, inferring my confusion at his answer. “Not dinnerware. Photographic plates.”
My knowledge of photography consists of me pointing my phone at something and tapping the screen. It’s not my strong suit. When Brendan saw the blank look on my face, he spread his hands apart in a resigned gesture. “I know a little about them, we actually have quite a few. Okay, they’re glass, not paper. Good so far?”
I arched one brow at him to tell how close he was to either being hexed or kicked. He hurried on when he saw my eyes flash with anger. Librarians can be a little full of themselves. They’re like Alex Trebek that way.
“They’re glass plates that are coated with one of two chemical compositions. Ours here are mostly wet plates; it’s a kind of silver salts that are sensitive to light. They make beautiful negatives, really quite crisp.” His tone was admiring, and I found myself wanting to see these relics.
“Can I see them, or are they too fragile?” I asked. I respect my library and their collections. It’s a habit born of practicing magic. Take care of the things that take care of you.
“Sure. The wet plates are a thicker glass, you can hold them up to light and get a clear image, even if it is reversed.” Brendan rose and we made our way upstairs.
The stairs uttered mellow creaks, and the railing felt smooth and a bit oily under my hand, like the wood was alive. In a way, it was. Many people touching something could imbue a sort of echo in an inanimate object. I trailed my finger along the railing, wishing it could speak of the hands who have lain upon it.
We stopped at a room I’d never been in. Brendan turned on a light that flared to life with a sullen pop. It was a square space, with wooden cabinets that went to the ceiling. Looking up, I glanced meaningfully around for a ladder and found none.
“They’re down here, you don’t need to, ah, reach for anything,” he said, a smile playing at his lips. Short jokes never get old, it seems, but any biting retort died on my tongue when he took an old wooden box from the bottom cabinet. It hummed with magic, and I had to stop my hands from reaching for it. I put the blandest smile I could muster on my face and thanked him as he left, telling me to just leave the plates out when I was done.
I let the room settle around me before I opened the box. I cleared my mind, feeling that delicious tingle of something otherworldly that only witches can sense. After a long moment, I slid the thin lid up and out. It was a cleverly designed puzzle box with two steps, no doubt intended to keep the fragile glass in place.
The tops of twenty sections of glass winked up at me in the harsh light of the room. They stood upright, separated by a ridged bottom that kept each plate a quarter inch apart. As I began to lift the first one out, there was the faintest tinkling as some of the glass moved within the wooden tracks. It sounded like chimes made of bird bones; a hollow, off-putting noise that was somewhere between nature and man.
Gently, I held the negative up to the light. It was a disappointment. I stared at the reverse image of a forest and a scene that could have been anywhere in the Adirondacks. There were the requisite trees, a patch of sky, and nothing else. I slipped it back into its berth and selected the next. More sky, less trees, and precious little of interest, although there appeared to be a hillside spring flowing in the upper left of the image, judging by the intense green around the smear of moistened rock. I spent the next hour repeating this process until there were only two plates left. I could feel myself getting bored and a little bit hungry; for me that’s a deadly combination. I’m glad I have strong hands, because if I didn’t I would have certainly dropped plate number nineteen to the floor.
It was a ring of trees; huge, massive things that soared up and out of the image, each trunk a thick column that spanned ten feet across at the minimum. A natural tumble of stones spilled from the ravine behind the grove, and the canopy was so thick that hardly any light seemed to reach the forest floor. I recognized it instantly, and looked down at the lower right-hand corner of the plate. Someone had scrawled Thendara in a looping, feminine script, and there was a small but clear thumbprint underneath the writing. It seemed accidental, and I drew so close to the plate that my breath fogged the glass as I examined every whorl of the mysterious person who, for all I knew, had taken this picture some century and a half before. I placed the negative back with exaggerated care, wishing I had some fresh air.
It was the last plate that brought my mind into a kind of clarity that almost always signifies danger. The scene was the same, albeit from a slightly closer vantage point. The hulking chestnuts stole all the light, leaving a murk that cast sludgy shadows over everything. It was later in the day, but somehow I knew it was the same day.
His face was round, and young. A sweet boy, I could tell. He might have been twelve, just on the cusp of those awkward years where girls begin to look good and the world begins to look like a challenge. Blood flowed down the side of his face, staining the plain work shirt that was untucked from his britches as if he’d been in a fight. One finger of his right hand was nearly severed, and he stood at an odd angle as if his legs were injured. I noticed two things quickly: I could see through the boy into the forest beyond, and when I drew close enough to the plate that I might examine this lost soul, he waved one hand at me in a pleading manner as his lips mouthed, please, come find me.
Chapter Six: At Any Distance
I love the moon. That’s why I love the fact that a full moon isn’t just one night, it’s more like two. Sure, there is some minor waning by the second dawn, but it was nearly four in the morning and there she was in all her glory. I sat on the kitchen floor, watching the panel of moonlight elongate to a rhombus across my legs. Walking home from the library, I’d felt that tickle at the back of my neck that told me I needed my magic. I wanted the surety of it; to feel the power in my fingers and let my mind be swept inward with that beautifully painful concentration that spells bring.
There was something wrong in the woods. Not the distant, forlorn place that had once been Thendara, but someplace closer. I could feel a gap in the presence of the world around me, as if something was intentionally shielding itself from my awareness. In my experience, not everything that is hidden wants to be found. I reached out and let my power wander like a child on an endless lawn, and eventually, I felt something push back. At the first sense of this presence, I withdrew. I sat for a long moment to let my breathing return to something like a normal state, and my palms were moist. It was fear, plain and simple. My body reacted to that which my mind would not admit. I was afraid.
I am a witch. I am called, not commanded, but I respect my magic as much as I love the woman who gave it to me, and I decided rig
ht then to respond to fear with strength. I placed a small stone in the moonlight, watching the beam set fire to the quartz chips that ran through it. In seconds, I could feel my will gathering to a point, traveling through my body, and dancing along the skin of my arms like St. Elmo’s fire. It was exquisite. I rolled my eyes as the tension began to leave me and was replaced by something else. The pebble began to crack, silently, and then fell into a fine powder as the bonds of the earth gave in to my spell. Now why does it matter that I can master the stones? My thoughts refocused on the small pile of fine grit, glistening cheerfully in the moonlight. I had bested the most powerful bonds of the physical world, even if on a tiny scale. I was filled with a sense of achievement; an occurrence that was completely alien to me, which was strange and a bit off-putting. Magic satisfies me, but it doesn’t make me smug. Why did I feel such a wash of relief at turning a small rock into dust?
My eyes were pulled beyond the moonlight to the hulking darkness of the mountain and the vast sea of trees. I felt good because I had caused something from the wilds to bend to my touch. I wondered at such feelings, and closed my eyes while dipping one fingertip into the small, tidy pile of dust. I felt good because of where the bad was located. It was out there, among the mountains. I had proven that my magic could manipulate the elements and, somewhere deep within me, I knew that was important.
Whatever was happening, it would be far from the floor of my kitchen. I took along look around the comfortable gloom and shuddered, knowing that soon, I would be vulnerable.
And whatever wanted to hurt people was much deadlier than a simple rock.
Chapter Seven: Carbs and the Constable
I saw Anna stroll into the diner, and I smiled. I say she strolled because sashay sounds a bit lewd, even though men tend to lean out of their chairs to watch her pass. She’s a small woman, like me, but with short hair and a slippery grace that I’ll never have. She moved to town enormously pregnant two years ago, had a daughter, and then attacked her baby weight in a unique manner. Anna began, of all things, hula hooping in her garage while listening to electronic dance music.
It was a transformation that the town hasn’t quite adjusted to, and might never. She immediately began collecting interesting tattoos that ranged up and down her left arm in a brilliant spray of colors; there were leaves, a vine, and berries in their autumn hues. It was an arresting display, made more interesting by the fact that it gave men and women alike an excuse to examine her more closely. Anna is not a shy, retiring blossom. The girl who began as a cute but pudgy brunette became something like a Balinese dancer, her frame muscular and erotic, and frankly, I was a bit disgusted that I hadn’t thought of it first. Anna took excellent care of her new body by smoking and drinking soda all day. She really was a dedicated athlete. When she wasn’t standing in front of the diner chugging the remains of her current can of pop, she was flicking a cigarette butt away with the kind of civic disdain that only really hot girls can get away with. Then, she would invariably enter the diner, smile at me, and sit down to eat three pancakes, eggs over light on top, and a side of syrup to dunk the whole mess into. Oh, and coffee. A bucket, if we had it, but a constant refill would work, too.
I should probably mention that I’m almost certain Anna is a wood nymph or some other truly exotic creature. There are elements of her life that simply don’t add up, but I haven’t had an occasion to pin her down in conversation and ask her, rather pointedly, if she’s a creature of myth and legend, or just gifted with incredibly good genes. Yes, I’m a bit jealous. I don’t know how she maintains a winter tan, I don’t know how she eats . . . well, everything, and I cannot fathom why, of all things, she decided that the hula hoop was the key to her newfound legendary hotness. It’s a mystery.
By the time I personally delivered Anna’s usual to her, she was on her third cup of coffee, chatting amiably with a bewildered older tourist who looked like he’d been thunderstruck. She was asking him a question about the pattern on his shirt—a hideous, but kitschy cool array of fish, canoes, and crossed paddles. I listened to him reply that he’d owned the shirt since 1967, and it was most likely polyester, but he couldn’t be sure. Anna cheerfully leaned over and lifted the well-worn tag from the collar to investigate, unintentionally giving the man a close-up view of her pert breasts. It was all quite a bit to take for the senior citizen, but he smiled in a bemused kind of way, sensing that Anna was just possessed with a relentless curiosity rather than being flirtatious.
“And before you ask, young lady, I purchased it in Dayton, Ohio, and no, the store doesn’t exist. It burned down in the late 70s, well before you arrived on this planet.” His grin was a touch smug, but friendly, and he unconsciously straightened his collar with a delicacy that told me he liked his shirt just a little bit more now that Anna had fussed over it.
As I slid the plate before her, I ventured a not-so-subtle question while the moment was right. “Yes, Anna, surely you must have been born in the 1990s, how could you possibly know such vintage clothing?”
She wrinkled her nose in a nice try kind of gesture and began eating the pancakes like she’d just been released from a hunger strike.
“Hmmph.” I raised a brow, pointed at her with mild threat, and went back to the kitchen. I’d grill her at some later time, but now I was certain she was magical in nature. I still said smart money was on her being a wood nymph, but I was open to other possibilities.
My witchmark serves a couple of purposes. The first is the hair that grows from the scar. Every color is represented, and I use the individual strands as critical components of my offensive spells. I also use the hair when I need to bind something to myself. It’s more boring than it sounds, but after you’ve lost your house keys for the millionth time, you learn that magic can be put to work in unimaginative but useful ways. The second thing my witchmark does is act as a sort of early warning system. There’s something about the accrued magic of our family that lets me know when things are about to get dicey, and I felt that unwelcome fizz through the skin of my mark just as the door opened behind me.
The detective who’d been staring at me the day before was standing in the door, surveying the diner with that falsely-casual nature that cops use when they’re trying not to spook someone. His brown eyes swept the room in a pace that was slow and easy; this was something I sensed he’d done many times before. He wore a white shirt, tan slacks, and shoes that looked like he could run in them. I noticed all of these things because he was only five feet away, and before I could recede into the safety of my kitchen, he locked eyes with me and took two quick steps in my direction, his hands loosely held at his sides.
I stayed relaxed. Whatever he was, it wasn’t magical, and I’m not afraid of cops. Humans can be rotten to the core, and I can deal with them, but this guy just seemed capable and a bit smarter than his facial expression was letting on. I adopted a bland look of my own and stood silently, letting the bustle of the diner protect me from an awkward pause in a conversation that hadn’t yet started. I’m patient when I need to be; I learned it from dealing with Gus.
“Carlie?” he asked, but he wasn’t really asking. He already knew my name.
I thought it was interesting that he called me Carlie. I nodded, waiting. He looked around easily, then made an internal decision. “What’s good here?” He smiled, and I sensed that he was actually going to eat. Whatever he wanted, his hurry wasn’t so great that breakfast needed to wait. I decided that was good.
“What are your feelings about waffles?” I tilted my head at him, watching.
He held up three fingers. “I am pro-waffle. I am pro-coffee. And I am, most certainly, pro-maple syrup, but only if it’s real.” His voice was mild and friendly.
“Did you know that the fine nation of Canada has a maple syrup reserve?” I asked him.
“I do. It’s a critical market item that they consider more than just a symbolic issue.” When I raised my brows, he added, “I read a lot.” Then he stuck out his hand and said, �
��I’m Jim Dietrich.”
“Hi, Jim. Why were you watching me?” I gave him a level stare. I don’t like feeling cornered.
He busied himself adjusting silverware, giving his knife a cursory glance, and then placing it pointedly back on the counter. When he looked up, his eyes were fixed on me with far more than simple curiosity. “Call it a professional interest.”
I wasn’t exactly intimidated, so I jerked a thumb over my shoulder and said, “Enjoy your breakfast. I need to cook.”
His hand shot up, palm outward. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have been lurking, and I really do want to eat. I’m not a police officer, or special secret agent or anything like that. I mean, I was, but not now. I need your help, nothing illegal, and if you’ll give me a moment of your time, I would consider it an act of kindness, not an obligation.” He folded his hands and waited, brows raised to indicate he didn’t know what I was going to say.
That made two of us.
I put a hand on my hip as my eyes narrowed. I still felt something was unusual, but there wasn’t imminent danger. “I get done at two. I’ll be available for five minutes, and then I have things to do.” I nodded in dismissal and turned to reclaim the grill. I was getting a bit tired of men waiting for me after my shift. There didn’t seem to be any good news, just weirdness, and my instincts told me it was only going to get more intense.
***
I was right. Jim Dietrich had been a cop—a state investigator in Maryland, and I was asking him why he left. He didn’t hesitate with his answer, which was always a good sign, but I had a minor weakness spell locked and loaded just in case. I kept one hand at my side as we leaned against a tree across the street from the diner. I imagined the phone lines were sizzling with calls to Gran, and made a note to see her as soon as possible to head the rumors off at the pass.
Halfway Dead (Halfway Witchy Book 1) Page 6