by Jasmine Walt
But there’s a first time for everything.
4
I shuffle out of the way in the very busy Chinese restaurant. I put in a large takeout order, not sure if I should feel bad about picking up dinner tonight instead of cooking like I had planned. I’ve never been very domestic, and it’s not like I’m in a traditional relationship or anything.
I still don’t know how to classify the guys. Thomas and Gilbert don’t see the need to put a label on it, and the concept of girlfriends and boyfriends without a promise of marriage doesn’t make sense to Hasan. And Jacques…I don’t know what the hell is going on between me and him.
A large group comes in, crowding the already small restaurant even more. I have twenty minutes before my order is ready, and instead of leaning against the wall and hoping no one touches me, I check the time on my phone and go outside.
I’m in a part of the city I don’t frequent too much, so I lazily walk down the block, trying to kill time before the food is ready. I make it a street over and see a New Age bookstore.
I used to scoff at places like this. I used to question the sanity of anyone who went in there. And those who worked there? Total scam artists. But now…I bite my lip and cross the street.
A bell dings when I push open the door. The place doesn’t have air conditioning, and the large ceiling fan blows the scent of books and herbs all around me.
“Blessed be,” the clerk says to me, making me force a smile and roll my eyes the moment I look away. I might have magic powers and shack up with men cursed into gargoyles, but that doesn’t mean every pot-smoking hippy in Philly who believes in magic has powers too.
I browse through a selection of bagged herbs, wondering if everything is actually what it’s labeled to be, because it all looks like chopped-up grass to me. The little shop has everything I’d expect: crystals, overpriced bohemian clothing, little fairy statues to put in your garden to “encourage real fairies to visit,” tarot cards, and various books.
A book about ghosts catches my eye, and feeling stupid, I reach out and pick it up. The image of that guy, gray and void of emotion, floating above his body, is seared into my mind. He had to be a ghost. What else could he be?
“Trying to contact the dead?” the clerk asks, striding over. Her long black skirt swirls around her ankles, and a dozen crystals hang around her neck. If she’s trying to enforce the New Age stereotype, she’s doing a good job.
“Not necessarily,” I reply, deciding to humor her, and look back at the book.
“Good. When you go knocking on the door of the dead, you never know who will answer.”
“So you have contacted a ghost?”
“I have,” she says, not trying to hide her pride over it. “But I’ve had many years of practice and know the proper protection spells.”
I need to force another smile and leave. But, shit, this is too entertaining. “What kind of spells?”
“It’s quite complicated. I fear if I went into it more it could lead you down a dangerous road. I do offer spirit communication services.”
And there it is. Some things never change. She’s a total scam artist and should be ashamed of herself for preying on the weakness of others. Because who’s desperate enough to come into this place and hire some quack-psychic to contact a lost loved one? Someone deep in mourning, heart ripped in two, lost and confused.
“Right. Well, I’ll, uh, take this.” I hold up the book, too curious to pass it up now. She rings me up, going on and on about past clients who loved her services, and practically shoves a business card in my hand.
I roll down the top of the brown paper bag and turn to leave. A young woman with long, dark hair and pretty blue eyes hurries in through the door and bumps right into me, dropping the box full of crystals and stones she was carrying.
“Oh, shit!” she swears. “I’m so sorry.” She drops to her feet and starts picking up the crystals. “I’m such a klutz sometimes. Okay, most of the time.”
I set my book on the counter and drop down to my knees, helping her scoop up the crystals.
“It’s okay. You probably couldn’t see over the box anyway.”
“Thanks for being understanding, and no, it was hard to.”
“You have a lot of crystals,” I muse, dropping a handful of oval-cut rose quartz pieces back into the box.
“I went through a phase,” she says, and laughs at herself. “I’m selling them. Lyra will take them back at half price, but it’s better than nothing, right?”
“Right.” I reach forward and pull an amethyst out from under a display of herbs.
“You look really familiar,” the girl says, straightening up. Her eyes drill right into mine and then she slowly looks me over, almost as if she’s checking me out. “Have I seen you in here before or something?”
“Nope. It’s my first time in here.”
She bites her lip and smiles, a blush coming to her cheeks. “Well, perfect timing for me, then, right?” Dropping another few stones into the box, she extends her hand. “I’m Gemma.”
“Ace,” I say, and shake her hand and then stand. Gemma grabs her box and gets to her feet.
“Are you going to summon a spirit?” Her eyes go to the book. Then she quickly shakes her head. “Sorry, my aunt says I’m too nosey. But ghosts fascinate me. I’ve seen a few before, you know.”
My first instinct is to call bullshit on her. After all, she just came into a New Age store to sell well over a hundred crystals that obviously didn’t work. Surprise, surprise, I know.
“You have?” I ask before I can stop myself. My curiosity is getting the better of me, and I know what I saw.
“Yeah. After my parents died, I kind of went looking for them. Ghosts, I mean. I really wanted to talk to my mom one more time.” She looks away, color coming back to her cheeks. “I was young then. I know how silly it sounds.”
“It’s not.” Gemma looks to be around my age. No matter how many years have passed since the death of my own parents, the wound still hurts. Not knowing who killed them has haunted me more than any ghost ever will.
“Have you ever tried it before?” she asks, looking over her shoulder as she walks to the counter. She sets the box of crystals on the counter. Lyra tells her she’ll go through them and will get her a price later in the day.
“Tried what?” I look at the door, wanting to just leave.
“Summoning a spirit.”
Lyra eyes me with fake concern. Bitch, we both know you just want my money.
“No.”
Gemma hikes her oversized purse up over her shoulder and walks over to me. “Be careful. The first time I tried contacting my mom, someone else answered.”
I just nod, remembering the saying “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I think she’s a crock of shit, but that’s her belief and I respect it.
“You don’t believe in this stuff, do you?” She grabs the door and pulls it open, standing aside to let me through first.
“Some of it,” I say, being honest. “But most…no.”
“Then why’d you get the ghost book? Sorry, being nosey again.”
I laugh. “It’s all right.” I start in the opposite direction of her, holding the book under my arm. I make it a few yards away when I hear Gemma yelling. I turn around and see a large man in a hooded sweatshirt grabbing onto her purse.
“Hey!” I yell, and take off after him. He sees me, shoves Gemma back, and starts running. Gemma stumbles, the heel of one of her shoes catching on the other. She did say she was clumsy, and heels are the devil. She stumbles back and hits the exterior wall of the building, catching herself before she falls to the ground.
Letting the ghost book drop to the sidewalk beneath my feet, I run after the guy. He’s fast, but I’m faster. He’s a good fifty feet ahead of me, weaving around the busy sidewalk without caution.
He bumps right into a mom carrying a baby, who almost falls off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic.
; Asshole.
I race around her, jumping over boxes and dodging around a food cart. The guy ducks down an alley, and a car comes screeching out, slamming on the brakes at the last second to avoid hitting him. I don’t stop as fast, and my hands slap against the hood as I slide across, sprinting down the alley, which dead ends against a chain link fence.
Realizing he’s cornered, the guy ditches Gemma’s purse and pulls a knife from his pocket, flicking out the blade. Heat tingles the tips of my fingers. I clench my fist to try and quell the flames, but the guy advances and I throw my arms out to block him from slashing me with the knife.
I take a quick step back, fire breaking out along my fingers, and raise my leg up, bending my knee and kicking him hard in the back. He recovers quickly and spins around. His eyes widen when he sees the fire surrounding my hand, and for a split second, I think he’s going to tell me to stop, drop, and roll.
And then he realizes I’m the one controlling the fire.
“What the hell are you?” He raises the knife, stance going from predator to prey, needing to protect himself from me. I’d be lying if I said the power didn’t feel good. Deep down, I know that’s a bad, bad thing.
But right now, there’s a large man with a sharp knife feet from me.
“Freak!” he sneers, and slashes the knife through the air again. The fire burns brighter around my hand. I can feel the heat, but it doesn’t burn me or cause pain.
“Drop the knife,” I order, holding my hand out in front of me just like I would my own gun. “And put your hands on your head. You’re under arrest.”
I slide my feet forward, getting closer to him. The flames rise higher, the heat too much on his face. The knife clatters to the ground and he puts his hands up. Using my foot, I slide the knife away and bring my right hand down, shaking it to get rid of the flames. I need to call this in and have the guy arrested.
Before I can even get my phone, I hear the familiar sound of sirens, and a car door slamming shut right outside the alley. Shit. I clench my other fist, but it does no good. My heart is still pounding, adrenaline still pumping. Motherfucker.
I’m running out of time. I suck in a deep breath and slowly let it out, imagining my hands looking normal again. It’s a bullshit meditation Jacques has had me doing, and it actually works this time.
The flames go away not a moment too soon.
“Who the hell are you?” the guy asks again, oblivious to the officers coming at him.
“That’s something we’d both like to know,” I say pointedly, and step away so he can get cuffed. I’m still unclear on my new identity as a witch.
Once the guy is arrested, I pick up Gemma’s purse, brushing off dirt and gravel, and turn to go back to the street. She’s standing on the corner near the alley, face pale and looking visibly shaken. She looks at me, the purse, and then my hands.
She couldn’t have seen.
Or could she?
No. There’s no way. It happened too fast…right? Goddammit. I need to learn how to control my powers.
“Thanks,” she says, voice weak, and takes her purse. “You just…you just went after him like it was nothing.”
I shrug, never one to be comfortable with compliments. “It’s my job.”
Gemma gives me a blank stare.
“Literally,” I go on. “I’m a detective.”
The officers bring the guy out of the alley and head to the cop car. “Nice work, Bisset. There’s been a warrant out for him for two weeks now,” one of the officers says.
I brush off that compliment too. “I was in the right place at the right time.” I look back at Gemma, and if I thought she was pale and stricken before, I was mistaken. Because right now she looks like she might pass out.
“Gemma?” I reach out for her, thinking I’m going to have to scoop her up before she hits the pavement.
She jerks back, eyes going wide. A weird feeling starts to form inside the pit of my stomach, warning me something bad is coming.
“You’re Detective Ace Bisset?” She swallows hard and lowers her eyes to the ground. “The same one who caught the vampire murderer?”
“Yeah. Disappointed?”
A few seconds pass before she forces a smile and looks up. There’s something in her eyes, something she’s trying hard to repress. I can’t place it, not yet.
“No, not at all. I just, uh, thought you’d be bigger, that’s all. You just look so…so normal.”
I laugh. “Thanks, I think.”
“But good for us girls, right? We can still kick ass.”
“We can.” The bad feeling winds deeper, and I look out at the street behind her.
“I should go,” she says suddenly, and takes a quick step back. Her face tightens, and I’m finally able to place the look in her eyes.
Regret.
“Thank you.”
“Sure,” I say, voice lost as she hurries away.
I set the bag of takeout on the dining room table and go back into the kitchen to grab a stack of plates. Now that the sun sets later, I start getting dinner ready so the guys can eat as soon as they wake up. They’re always hungry, and once we get eating out of the way there’s time for other things before I have to go to sleep.
It took a couple of weeks, but I finally adjusted to a new sleep schedule. This whole only being awake at night thing sucks ass. After setting the table and filling up glasses with ice water, I go outside and look at the sky.
The sun won’t set for another ten or so minutes, and the humidity brought out every single mosquito, driving me back inside. Settling in the library, I pick up the one book I keep out on the coffee table. The cover is worn and the spine has seen better days. I can’t actually bring myself to read this copy of Jane Austen’s Emma, and I can’t be certain my mother even held this copy in her own hands, but the book has enough significance to me on its own.
I was so young when my parents died, and my mom was a minimalist before it was trendy. I don’t have much to remember them by, just a box full of old photos and two sealed jars full of their ashes. I never found a good place to spread them, and keeping the ashes sealed off and hidden away in a box became easier over the years than continuing to search for a place for them to rest.
The one framed family photo I have of us sits on the fireplace mantel. The photo was taken a month before my parents were brutally murdered. Jacques found the frame when I was unpacking my belongings and told me I should honor the memory of my parents. I think it was his way of telling me repressing the past isn’t going to get me anywhere.
I bring Emma to my chest, eyes shifting to my mother’s face. Tears brim my eyes, and I shut them tight, refusing to cry. Crying doesn’t solve anything. It’s a waste of time and energy.
Nothing is going to bring them back.
Nothing can block out the memory of finding my mom and dad lying in a pool of their own blood.
I clench my jaw and tighten my grip on the book, turning my sadness into anger. Their case is still cold. Swept under the rug like it’s nothing. I vowed to solve the case, but going back means reopening my own wounds. But for them, I’d cut my own heart right out of my chest.
The front door opens and closes, echoing throughout the large house. I set the book down, run my hands over my face, and get up, holding onto the anger.
Being pissed is easier than being sad, after all.
“Hey,” I say to Jacques. His deep brown eyes meet mine, and his brow furrows ever so slightly. Damn him for being so perceptive.
“Acelina.” His voice is deep, rattling something inside me. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, fine. Hungry? Food is ready.”
He knows I’m lying, but won’t push me. The rest of the guys come into the house after that, and sitting around the table with them makes me feel better almost instantly. It’s been a while since I’ve had a family, but being here with the guys, who know me—the real me—and don’t judge a single thing I do, it feels like one.
“How w
as work?” Gilbert asks, spooning fried rice onto his plate. “Find any bodies?”
“Try to show a little empathy, brother.” Thomas eyes Gil.
“Fine. Did you empathetically find any bodies?” Gilbert says again with a smirk.
“Actually, yes. And it’s an interesting one.” I break my egg roll in half and dip it into duck sauce. “It was set up to look like some sort of occult-related murder, but everything was a mess.”
“Aren’t murders usually messy?” Thomas quips.
“Not if they’re done right,” Hasan says matter-of-factly, not looking up from his food.
“Everything about death is messy,” Jacques counters.
I take a drink of water. “Physically, yes, it was a mess too. But I meant the setting. The body was placed on an altar like it was trying to look like something from a horror movie.” I go on to explain the crime scene, and all the guys agree with me that it’s a setup.
Jacques sets down his fork and leans back, pressing his wings against the back of the chair. They say it doesn’t hurt, but it looks so uncomfortable to sit like that.
“Someone set up a fake crime scene with animal blood, and now there’s a body. Do you think they’re connected?”
“I already considered that,” I tell him, digging back into my fried rice. “And so far, nothing connects them other than being out there when it comes to murder. If there’s a connection, I’ll find it.”
Jacques looks me right in the eye and gives me a small smile. “You will.”
5
I snap a hair tie around my wrist and grab my running shoes from the closet. It’s still humid as fuck outside, but I need to go for a run. Wearing just a sports bra and shorts, I jog down the rear staircase, coming into the kitchen. Jacques is sitting at the table in here, head bent down over my grimoire. He’s been translating it into English for me, and the process is slow going. Mostly because he only has a few hours to work on it before he gets turned into stone again.