by Evelyn Snow
“Phoebe, the last thing we need right now is to have to deal with your hysterics.”
“I am not hysterical.” She released her death grip on the molding. Her hand only trembled a little.
“It’s for your own good.”
Her lower lip trembled, but she stood her ground and pointed to Wolfgang. “Instead of snapping orders, Delano, don’t you think you should read the message?”
She was right. Distracted by my uncle’s fury, I hadn’t noticed a message coming through the device.
As the paper scroll slowly turned on the spindles inside the piano’s casing, inky black letters materialized as if written by an invisible quill pen. Oddly, even though the keys on the keyboard were still moving up and down, music no longer played. When had that happened? I didn’t remember, and the effect was eerie.
In an icy tone, my uncle asked, “You want to read the message for us, Evie?”
“Why are you assuming it’s for me?”
Aunt Phoebe reached for his hand. “There’s no one left on the other side who’d want to talk to us. Can you say the same?”
Cautiously, I approached Wolfgang. While the spindles kept turning, and the paper revolved, I couldn’t read the letters. Lacking a wand, I chose a basic spell to solve the problem. “Sand and symphony, read it to me.”
After Wolfgang coughed up another gust of dusty air, a scratchy voice sounded. “Agent 9909, you are hereby ordered to investigate the anomalous readings at …”
In the long pause that followed, I kept my eyes on Wolfgang.
The heat of my uncle’s gaze burned like a brand on my shoulder. “Evangeline Jinx, what have you—” His voice broke off as the voice began again.
“Ah, yes, here it is—1712 Mulberry Street. Something’s going on there. I don’t like the readings I’m picking up. It’s probably nothing, but better to be safe than sorry. Vigilance! Now, let me see … that would be authorization number … Oh, drat, where did I put it?” There were rustling sounds, and then, “Agent, never mind the number. Take a look around. You can let me know what you find after the bridge reopens tomorrow morning.”
The silence that followed was profound. It lasted so long I imagined I could have ducked out for a sandwich, returned some library books, stopped off for a pedicure, and returned home to find my aunt and uncle still frozen in the same position. Well, not frozen, actually. If my uncle had been frozen, his face wouldn’t have turned that alarming shade of red. He wouldn’t have that vein throbbing at his temple. When was the last time he’d had his blood pressure checked? He really should have it checked. Wasn’t hibiscus tea supposed to be good for blood pressure?
Gradually, my pulse slowed, and my brain stopped babbling. Time to stop avoiding the obvious.
“So”—I gestured toward the settee—“why don’t you both sit down.”
They didn’t move.
“Or not. Stay right where you are. That works, too, because this won’t take long.”
Uncle Delano pointed at the scroll inside Wolfgang. “Who was that jackwagon?”
“He didn’t say his name so I can’t be sure, but I think—”
“Can’t be sure? Can’t be sure?” My uncle released his wife’s hand and advanced on me. “Whoever he is, he didn’t say his name because he didn’t need to. He didn’t need to use your name because who needs a name when you’re Agent 9909.”
“The number is news to me, too.”
“Nonsense!” He thrust his face up close, blasting me with coffee breath. “I want the whole story. I want it now.”
“The short version or the long one?”
“I want the truth. I told you not to go across today. Obviously, you didn’t listen.” He made a noise of disgust. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Here’s the truth—I passed my test to become an agent with the MBI. That would be the Magical Bureau of Investigation, Aunt Phoebe. I didn’t know they had assigned me an agent number or that they would contact me through Wolfgang or … anything. It’s only been a few hours.”
“Whose voice was that?”
“The bridge tender. His name is Ballard Kepler.” Apparently, he hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d collect on my alleged debt. Unless this was an actual MBI mission that had nothing to do with Ballard’s petty scorekeeping.
“Delano, you need to see this.” Aunt Phoebe held up her phone.
“This is not the time, Phoebe.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist,” she said in a firm voice. “Look.”
We did.
Then I took the phone from her. She’d called up the online edition of the Montemar Times-Journal. I scrolled, skimming the story about a gas line explosion at a residence in our neighborhood earlier this evening.
I handed the phone to my uncle. “It’s the same address as in the message: 1712 Mulberry.”
Uncle Delano looked up from the phone, frowning. “I sent a photographer to cover the story. Why would anyone on the other side—let alone the bridge tender—care about anything that happened over here?”
I threw up my hands. “I have no idea. Keep in mind, Ballard said he thought it was probably nothing. If it was anything important, they wouldn’t ask me. I’m too new.”
He folded his arms, tucking the phone out of sight. “If you’re so new, why would they contact you in the first place?”
“Just guessing here, but I’d say it’s because the bridge is closed, and they don’t have anyone else.”
“If it’s nothing, why have anyone look into it at all?”
“The gas line explosion wasn’t big news. Why did you send a photographer?” I countered. “You’re short on staff. Why bother?”
“Fires make great visuals, and I knew the television stations would be all over it. I wanted to beat them to the story and get something up in the online edition first for a change.” He rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “You’re right about staff problems. After the layoffs, it’s getting harder and harder to cover what we need to with fewer reporters. My guy who monitors the scanner told me the fire department was worried about casualties with this one. Sad, but true—if people died, it’s a bigger story. News is news, big or small. It’s what we do.”
“It’s the same with the MBI,” I said, diving into the opening he’d offered. “Magic is magic, big or small. It’s what they do. Something registered on the bridge sensors. Probably not anything to do with a fire, but Ballard is super cautious. I can see him wanting more information to be on the safe side. He knows I’m available, so he asked the newbie to check it out—end of story. Besides, you’re partly to blame. Last night you told me to use my abilities for good and investigate the murders.”
Aunt Phoebe gasped. “Delano, how could you?”
He released an exasperated sigh. “I was speaking in general, you know, theoretically. Back when Evie was in high school, she talked about becoming a journalist. Is it so horrible I want her to have a real career instead of wasting her time with magical nonsense? Besides, that project or whatever it was she was working on last night looked ridiculous.”
Poor Marley, he couldn’t catch a break. RIP.
Turning back to me, my uncle said, “If you’d been around this evening, I’d have sent you out to cover the fire.” Every time I ran short on cash, which was all too often, he dangled freelance opportunities in front of me. “Looks like you’re getting my wish, anyway. Make no mistake, I don’t like this MBI business or that they gave you a badge. You need to give it back. Walk away.”
My aunt sniffled as tears formed in her eyes. Guilt twisted my stomach into knots. Why did I keep demanding they understand a foreign and magical world when I barely understood it myself?
Judging my aunt for her paranoia and her fears had become a habit. I comforted myself that I was the voice of tolerance and reason. Who was I kidding? The magical world kept rejecting me for stupid and intolerant reasons, yet I kept going back for more—as if gaining their approval and acceptance would fix everything.<
br />
It came down to one thing: I needed answers about the death of my parents and the bridge collapse. No matter where it led, I had to see it to the end. Even if it turned out to be busy work or worse, if Ballard was setting me up for a fall. I’d embarrassed him in front of Ashmore. This “assignment” could be his way of getting revenge. That would be just like him.
Then again, I could be falling for the same trap as the vigilantes and seeing something that wasn’t there. Self-doubt was getting me nowhere.
“I know you love me and want the best for me,” I said in a halting voice. “You’re right that I can’t keep working part-time, dead-end jobs and drifting through life. But what I choose to do is not your call. This is my life and my choice. Whether you know it or not, working for the MBI is a big deal. They don’t offer the opportunity to many people. I honestly don’t know why they gave me a chance, but they did, and I don’t want to blow it. I want you to be proud of me.”
I shook my head. “I’m saying this badly. What I mean is, I’m doing my best to figure things out. Sometimes I screw up. Okay, I screw up a lot, but if I do, it’s because I’m a witch raised outside of any supernatural tradition. I was born over there. I grew up over here. I have a foot in each of two worlds. Do I think one is better than the other? I don’t know. I need to figure out where I belong.”
Aunt Phoebe brushed at an invisible spot on her apron. “For a minute there you looked and sounded just like your mother.” She sighed and leaned in to the moment of silence before continuing. “The only thing we’ve ever wanted for you was to be happy and live a full life. I suppose it’s time for us to realize we might have a different vision of what that life looks like, which doesn’t mean yours is wrong. Delano?”
“You’re right, as usual.”
With his words, the energy in the room shifted. The heavy feeling in my chest lifted. I could breathe again.
“Don’t let the witch side take over your human side,” Uncle Delano reminded. “No matter what those witches tell you, you’re a Jinx through and through. That means something. We’ll always be here for you.”
Aunt Phoebe drifted over to Wolfgang and pushed the sliding door closed, hiding the spindles and the paper scroll from view with a snap of wood on wood. She clasped her hands before her and said, “Tell your friends on the other side I’d appreciate it if they’d come up with another way of contacting you. If that thing goes off at all hours with no warning, I’ll lose my mind or what’s left of it.”
“I will,” I promised.
“Whatever you do, my dear, I know you’ll make us proud.”
Chapter 14
Uncle Delano wanted me to wait until morning before leaving to check out the house. While it wasn’t a bad idea, I was too stressed to sleep. Morning would bring other local authorities to the site. Despite my shiny new badge, I wasn’t sure how to present myself. It seemed better to check the situation for Ballard now. In the morning, I’d be ready with a report as soon as the bridge reopened.
By the time I reached the 1700 block, the fire trucks were long gone. With the full moon and nearby streetlights, the scene was bright enough for a basic inspection. Yellow tape stretched between saw horses placed along the sidewalk and between the houses on either side of the site. In the yards across the street from the fire, lawn chairs were still set up, although everyone had gone indoors for the night. Earlier, the neighbors must have watched the house burn like a live feed of reality TV.
While the flames must have been intense, the fire department had done a good job and saved the adjacent structures. The siding on the houses on either side looked pristine with no visible burn marks, bubbling or scorching. The fire trucks must have arrived minutes after the initial gas explosion. Even then, wouldn’t there have been some damage on the other houses? How could the destruction be so extensive and yet constrained at the same time? I wasn’t sure why the detail seemed important, but I didn’t know squat about forensics, and I didn’t work for an insurance company.
The house at 1712 was simply gone. All that remained was a smoking ruin. Where there should have been a basement, there was a gaping hole in the ground. Concrete front steps that must have led up to a porch at one time now stood alone. A wrought iron handrail led to open air.
The explosion had blasted all but about four vertical feet of what had been a brick chimney into crumbles. Where there should have been scattered bricks and parts of bricks in the vicinity, I saw only charred ground. All that remained of the foundation was the section below ground. The air reeked of an odd chemical odor and wet ashes.
While I didn’t know much about fires, it seemed there should have been more … of everything. More broken glass and shreds of insulation that had escaped the flames. More ruined drywall and flooring and heavy structural beams too thick to have burned all the way through. Where were the objects that wouldn’t have burned at all? A range or refrigerator, a ceramic commode, a bathtub or two? Even if the tub or shower surround had been made from vinyl or composite, wouldn’t those items have melted? Melted, but not vanished…
I was still trying to figure out what had happened when I noticed the ghost.
Dead Guy floated over what had once been the basement. He was about fifty percent solid, which meant the jagged line of the blasted chimney was visible through his filmy body. He’d died wearing a dark suit with a white shirt, no tie, and still had on a pair of black oxfords. “Where is she?”
Instead of answering as he drifted closer, I counted under my breath, waiting for it…
One, two, three … Bam.
Like a running dog on a short leash, he jerked to a halt above the line of what had been the house’s foundation. He cast about wildly. “Something’s wrong!”
“What was your first clue?”
He thrust his head and arms forward, then pushing back as if rowing a boat. His efforts didn’t help. Adding leg action didn’t improve his situation. He tried harder and rowed faster but remained stuck.
When he finally gave up, I pointed. “You’re still wearing your shoes.”
“My shoes? What…” He hesitated, frowning, and then understanding took over his expression. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no. I can’t be trapped here. Oh, no. For all eternity? Screw that. Not me. It’s not happening. I’m out of here.” Again, he thrust forward only to make zero progress.
“I’m afraid it’s true. The shoes don’t lie.”
He moaned. “This is just the worst.”
I had to agree. Waking up dead was bad enough. Waking up dead and discovering you were permanently nailed to the scene of your recent and untimely demise was a drag—literally. Dead Guy wouldn’t be able to leave the immediate area without help from a witch or wizard. This was where cleaners came in or, in the case of recently dead criminals or sorcerers, bounty hunters.
Removing his shoes would free him from the location. Then they’d help him move on. Everything I’d read on the subject had been vague about what came next in terms of afterlife.
I felt bad for the guy that all I was permitted to do tonight was to observe and report. “What’s your name?”
He reached inside his jacket only to pull his hand back out again empty. He stared at his hand as if it had offended him.
“Sir, could you tell me your name?”
“I know this will sound strange, but I don’t know.” He shook his head and shoulders like a wet dog.
“Anything?”
“No.” He patted his chest again. “There should have been something in here, something with my name on it, but it’s gone. I lost it, and that’s a problem.”
His chest heaved and his body wavered in and out of view. Then he vanished. He was gone for a full two minutes while I hoped he would stay gone. I didn’t want to be cruel, but after all, he was dead. Wasn’t it better to just get on with the afterlife?
When he popped back into the world, he said, “Where is she? I can’t find her.” Plaintive moans followed his cry. They were loud enough to bounce off nearby
houses. Even though I knew better than to assume a ghost could hurt me, the sounds made the fine hairs along my arm stand up.
I didn’t have to be a ghost expert to know something was off about this guy. More information could only help. “Can you remember her name?”
“Echo.”
“Is that her name?”
He nodded and his brows knitted. “Echo should be here, but she’s not.” Which was a relief in a lot of ways. One not-quite-dead person was enough of a problem. He turned in a slow circle, taking a long time to come back around to face me. “Do you know why Echo isn’t here? Is she just late?”
Holding tight to the spirit of offering comfort, I said, “It might be difficult to put this together right now, but it’s good that Echo isn’t here.” From the look on his face, I missed the mark.
“This is all my fault. She was here because of me. I brought her here. I did this to her.” He pounded his ghostly chest while his expression crumpled, and he began to cry
He drifted lower, sinking until most of his body was hidden behind the foundation wall. Brightly colored scorch marks covered the old concrete blocks. I thought of the colors left on pavement by a spill of gasoline. The hues here were more intense and almost chalky in appearance.
Resting his chin on the line of concrete blocks, Dead Guy said, “I ruined everything. This is all my fault.”
With his name and the hickory wand from my backpack, I could put him to sleep for a time and give him temporary relief from the horror of his situation. That had to be better than haunting the place where a woman he’d obviously cared about had died.
If he was responsible for what had happened, I needed to know that, too. The information spelled the difference between calling in a cleaning team versus a team plus a bounty hunter. Death might be final for the human justice system. MBI bounty hunters answered to a higher authority—one beyond Rhiannon’s Wheel—which was one source of their conflict with the Wheel.
“What matters now is remembering. If you give me your name, I can help you.”
He bobbed higher, spouting ethereal streamers of indignation. “Help? From you? Don’t be ridiculous. That was my job. I was supposed to help her. I should have—” His eyes flashed with a green fire. “Yes! That’s it.”