Muddy Waters (Otherwhere Book 1)

by Sara O. Thompson

  Spells. Now I had to write some spells. But not at half past five in the morning. I finally hit a wall of sleepiness, so I tidied up and wrote a to-do list.

  Satisfied, I took my yawning self to bed. Dorcha, back from her nightly wanderings, rolled over in her sleep and made a contented sleepy kitty snort in my face.

  We were here from out of town, and wanted to check out the local Other scene. The Queen of Hearts did not disappoint! Our party was treated to attractive and attentive staff, an elegant yet discreet environment, and gourmet food. After an enchanting meal (always order the house special―ours was assorted pickled livers, raw green peppers and onions, and the filet of soul. Mouthwatering!!!!), the house troupe performed a lively and inventive floor show, complete with Demon burlesque and a (simulated!) disembowelment. Our bill came to fourteen lies and half a broken heart, including gratuity. We’ll definitely be back. Four stars!

  ―Yelp reviewer JezziBelle666

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  he phone woke me earlier than I would have liked. Without checking who it was, I growled in a sleep-scratchy voice, “I’m wearing a silk nightie and no panties. Talk dirty to me.”

  After a silence, Qyll wryly obeyed. “The crime scenes are all filthy. Is that dirty enough?”

  I rolled over on my stomach, grinning. “Look at you, with your Human sense of humor. Why are you calling so early? And don’t you, like, hate phones?”

  “Tessa, it’s eleven a.m. That isn’t early. And it turns out the Human victims from the Koby house do have something in common―they are all members of the Church of the Earth.”

  “Ohhhh… treevangelists, huh?”

  “Yes. And the others are indeed Bacchus and Jezebel Demons. All, incidentally, completely undocumented.”

  “So if there’s an investigation into Antaura, she can be brought up on charges of employing illegals in Earth?”

  “Certainly seems that way, yes. But I’m not sure that’s enough of a motive for her to make this big of a mess. It’s not her style.”

  “Maybe.” I had crawled out of bed and wandered toward the living room, yawning.

  “I’ve emailed you the victims’ names.”

  “Swell. I’ll look at them in a minute.”

  I heard him sigh. In a low voice, he said, “McReynolds is here, and she’s on the warpath. She came in spitting fire because the local police let it leak that the crime scenes were muddy so the papers are all talking up the “Mudman Murders.” And of course, we’re nicely in the dark. Mind you, if you listen to her, it wasn’t magic that killed those people. Couldn’t have been.”

  McReynolds. The thorn in the side of the SI. I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting her, but boy, I’d heard stories.

  “Oh?” I snapped to. “And how does she come to such a conclusion?”

  “Says there’s been a serial killer working the southeast for the last ten years who skins vics.” He sounded uncharacteristically irritated. Qyll keeps his cool like no one I’ve seen before. “Yet, she seems to possess exactly zero understanding of a serial killer’s M.O. How does she account for the inconsistency in the number of victims? For things like the destruction and mess? How, exactly, is our killer finding or choosing victims?”

  “Qyll, you need to go to Pryam and get her to take this to a higher up. McReynolds can’t do this. An Assistant Director in Charge or not, she cannot. It’s… it’s… illegal! Right? Even I know post-Rift law requires the department heads―”

  “Tessa.” His voice, smooth even in irritation, stopped and calmed me.

  “What?”

  “I know. The bottom line is this: we need to get this case figured out sooner rather than later. I tried to question West about the card. He won’t talk to me because I’m very obviously Other. Pryam is getting the permissions to bring him in for questioning. And she’s had no luck with Antaura.”

  “Surprise, surprise.” I flopped down on the couch. “She paid me a little visit yesterday. Made a big show of how powerful she is. That reminds me, you guys need to beef up my security protocols. Because trés rude!”

  “My apologies for…” Qyll cleared his throat. “Right. Pryam just messaged. She wants you to go butter up West. If he won’t talk to you, we’ll escalate. For now, she’s having a little trouble justifying dragging him in. Insufficient evidence to tie him to the case. Those business cards of his, they’re a dime a dozen.”

  “Oh great. Send the new girl in with the scary zealot man.”

  “I’ve no doubt in your abilities on that front, Agent Reddick.”

  I snorted, “You’re killing me here, partner,” and felt more than heard him smile on the other end.

  “I must go. I hear the stomping of little mudtroll feet.”

  “Margie McReynolds, eh? You do that. I’ll see how far I can get with West. Call you later?”

  I turned on my computer to indeed find the email from Qyll, a mishmash of information on the Koby victims. Paul Courtland. Cara Courtland. Husband and wife, he an accountant, she a secretary. Dana Sykes, a retired schoolteacher. Gislette Ghyslain and Porphyria (no last name), both Jezebel demons. Besides Koby, Dularc Johnson was also a Bacchus Demon. He was listed as having no permanent employment, immigrated to Earth two months ago.

  After coffee, a shower, and clean clothes, I put a sign on the shop door saying, “CLOSED UNTIL THE NEW MOON.” I figured with Bartley’s money, I could shutter the place for a couple of days and not worry too much about keeping the lights on.

  Next item on the ever-growing agenda: a trip to see Gardener West. I had hoped to look into my own case and you know, maybe clear my name, but that would have to wait. I guess my history wasn’t going anywhere. After five years, a few days wasn’t going to make a huge difference.

  I do try to stay out of news and politics, unless it deals with Others’ rights or something. Isaiah West stands out as the figurehead for a huge organization that wants to send Others back to their homelands and keep them there. Rebuild the veil or at least get some border guards to keep out the unwanted. Even the naturalized and documented citizens of Earth like Qyll. Even the ones born here. West found himself in a little quandary when it came to Angels in that they’re on the list of deportees, although apparently welcomed in his church while they’re here. To a point. West says that Satan disguises himself as an Angel of light and quotes the Bible with a silver tongue. So really, every Other’s a suspect.

  And here I was, wading into enemy territory.

  The Louisville branch of Church of the Earth nestled in the eastern suburbs near I64. The place was huge. Ironically, it looked like a spaceship. There is a reason they call these places “megachurches.” The black glass windows and burnished copper roof glinted in the early afternoon sun. The parking lot was a ridiculous size. You could fit six or seven naval aircraft carriers in it and have room for a good part of the Grand Canyon. For a church named for the Earth, there wasn’t much of it to be seen after the asphalt ocean had been put down.

  Outside, a group of Fervor loitered in a loose glob, staring at the building, a security guard keeping a wary eye out.

  Steeling myself with a deep breath, I ducked through the doors into the cool interior.

  “Ma’am? This way.” I didn’t get two steps in before they stopped me.

  I held up my FBI creds to the guard. “Agent Tessa Reddick.” (I still wasn’t used to the coolness factor.) “I’m here to talk to Gardener West.”

  The guy was short and bald, but had an enthusiastic goatee. “You’re not going anywhere until you’re cleared.”

  Another guard ushered me through a metal detector. When it lit up like a Christmas tree, he got on his walkie-talkie. “We have a code red here, Greg. CODE RED.”

  I crossed my arms. “How did you know my nickname is Code Red?”

  “I’ll need you to remove your bag and stand here.” Bald Goat pointed to a seal of Solomon painted on the carpet. I snorted.

  “Cute. Real cute.” I obeyed, for expediency’s sake.

/>   “No speaking until you’ve been processed, ma’am.” So we waited for Greg.

  Inside, the place looked like a brightly lit shopping mall, with escalators, a coffee shop, and a huge welcome desk. There was a giant waterfall cascading from the second-floor into a pool with actual fish. People milled around, talked. Some trotted along, purposefully. Posters advertised meetings and events. Huge screens up on the walls played what appeared to be taped services and appearances. There he was, Gardener West in technicolor hi-def.

  On a smaller screen to my right, the volume was up, so I actually got to hear the fearless leader. He was preaching fervently, a headset mic blaring his voice to the gathered flock. “Thank God for the hurricanes on the East Coast! Thank God for the two thousand dead Mosquitoes and Fangs now fertilizing the ground over there. Two thousand so-called ‘Vampires,’ those Mosquitoes! And Fangers, nasty ‘werewolves.’ This is how the Lord deals with His enemies. And, folks, the Lord has got Himself some enemies, doesn’t He?” The crowd roared.

  “And let us not forget Others. Filthy Others. Filthy, disgusting Others!” The crowd went nuts. “And the Lord said to Satan, ‘From where have you come?’ Do you know what he said, brothers and sisters? Satan answered the Lord, ‘From going to and fro on the Earth, and from walking up and down on it.’ That, my friends, is what faces us today.” He preached with an intensity at once frightening and charismatic.

  Earthers are fond of referring to Vampires as “Mosquitoes” and Weres as “Fangers.” It’s the post-Rift equivalent of calling a gay person a “fag” or someone with a mental disability a “retard.” Yep, I was certainly in the right place.

  The strangest part about setting foot in here was what I felt. Rather, what I didn’t feel. Sure, I felt all kinds of revulsion and horror, and I was nervous as hell. The thing is, with most places of worship, whether on this side of the Rift or the other, I feel something. It could be anywhere from a temple to praise a sun god or a humble Protestant chapel. As long as people connect with a supernormal being, there’s something. A signal that a powerful being is present―in the minds of the congregants, anyway. When you call something from Otherwhere, some part of it is bound to come. Theoretically, any church where the congregation believes in a god literally is calling that god, who responds by being present in some way. It’s just how things work.

  I’ll let you in on a little secret. What most people either don’t know or won’t accept even in the face of stark screaming reality, is whatever they call “god” is the same god everybody else calls god. Really. Everybody is right when it comes to that part. God is a Celestial―the biggest, strongest one―and lives in a part of Otherwhere that is so far away from Earth, I don’t even know how to explain it. “Heaven” and “Hell” are real; they’re just more really far-away parts of the Otherwhere. Satan is real (sort of, it’s a long story), he’s just in the opposite far-away part.

  In order to keep the peace, there can’t be an imbalance. You can’t have too much good or too much evil in Earth. Humans (and a bunch of Others) wouldn’t survive. There’d be just too much power. Sort of like standing on the Sun while surrounded by ten thousand nuclear bomb detonations.

  Way back in the day, the Powers That Be put a series of protections in place to keep Humanity safe because Humans can’t stand to be in the literal presence of the beings we refer to as God and Satan (I’m speaking in really loose terms here). So the big cheeses delegate to their trusted advisors who delegate to their governors and on down the line. At some point, you reach the ones who can navigate boundaries more easily, by being less absolute, and not upset the balance. The further down the chain you go, the less pure good or evil they retain, and the easier it is for them to cross the Rift into Earth.

  You’d have to punch a pretty big hole to get the really powerful entities through. A lot of folks think the Rift was the breaking of one of the protections. Neither side is claiming it, though.

  So for now, we’ll just call it complicated.

  To get back to my original point, I felt nothing especially holy or powerful in the atrium of the Church of the Earth.

  “Can I help you?” An elderly woman whose nametag read DARLENE JONES stood in front of me, blinking through thick glasses like a particularly curious owl.

  “I’m here to see Gardener West, please.”

  “I said, no talking.” The metal detector guard snapped.

  Darlene eyed me cautiously. “Does she have an appointment?”

  “I’m FBI.”

  “I said, shut it, Witch.”

  I turned to face the man. “Look, Wayne.” I jammed my hands on my hips. “I can see by your beer gut if I so much as skipped away, you wouldn’t be able to keep up with me. Also, your gun hasn’t seen much use, the safety is on, and I’m willing to bet you’re a terrible shot. Plus, caffeine makes your hands shake, Wayne.” I pointed to the half-full Mountain Dew bottle on the counter. “I showed you not only my credentials but a certain degree of social courtesy since I have been in your presence. I have seen neither from you, Wayne. I get it. You want to protect your prophet. But if you impair my investigation in any way, shape, or form, I am legally authorized to use appropriate force to remove that impediment. Now, I’m still kind of new at this, so maybe I’m not exactly sure what appropriate is in this case, Wayne. You might end up in a serious headlock and who knows how much pressure you can take. You look like you’re on the verge of an embolism anyway, so let’s just agree to let me do my job, okay?”

  Every time I sneered his name, his face got a shade purpler. His maw gawped open, no doubt to let me have it.

  Luckily for us all, Greg appeared. (Greg, according to his nametag.)

  “I’ve got it, Wayne. Darlene, thanks. Right this way, ma’am.” The man reached out as if to grab my arm then appeared to rethink that decision, probably from the expression on my face. One does not simply grab a Witch.

  I gave Wayne one last glare then found myself in an office under the escalator, seated at a desk with a pile of forms. One asked after my “heritage,” which meant, “Which OTHER are you?” One asked for any convictions of crimes against Humans. My address, my height, weight.

  “Excuse me, Greg,” I said. “I’m just here to speak with Dr. West. I’m not applying to be a member of your congregation. I feel these forms are an invasion of my rights as an American citizen.”

  “It’s a safety precaution, ma’am.”

  “Right. Well, I was really hoping to see him today. If I fill all this out, we’ll be here a long time.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Just fill in the blanks, ma’am.”

  I whispered a quick spell that filled out every last line. And every last word was gibberish. I handed the papers to Greg.

  “That was fast.”

  I smirked. “I’m quick with a pen.” Then I got up.

  “Hey, you’re not going anywhere yet,” he huffed.

  A female security guard trotted in. She had a poufy bottle-black hairdo, long red nails, and a disingenuous smile. I was losing my patience fast.

  Greg left. Poufy said, “Now, honey, I just need all your weapons.” She snapped on blue latex gloves with a business-like thwap.

  “My what?”

  “Weapons. No guns, wands, staves, swords, knives, bolines, athames, spears, or clubs. No potions, powders, pills, herbs, or bottled substances of any kind, including prescriptions from an Earthside doctor. No spell sheets, grimoires, books of shadow. No familiars, homunculi, crystals, broomsticks, cauldrons, or other heretofore unnamed magical objects. Should you spellspeak, chant, incant, or recite anything that may cause harm to any Human within the premises, we are authorized to shoot to kill.” I hoped my little form-filling spell didn’t count.

  With that, she began to pat me down.

  “HEY.” I backed up. “You don’t get to do that. Are you people insane?” My cheeks flamed. “You’re violating, oh, I don’t know, THE ENTIRE FUCKING CONSTITUTION!”

  She smiled again and kept patting. �
��Oh honey, if you think you’re going to see Gardener West on these private premises without being certified secure, you have another think coming. Now come on, I haven’t got all day. If you want to leave, you can. But you’re not getting past me to see him until you’ve been inspected.”

  Just play by their rules, I said to myself. Repeatedly.

  Poufy asked me to take my wallet out of my bag, which I did, grudgingly. She fished out my driver’s license, read it carefully, looked at me, and put it back. She kept my cell phone, but I managed to lock it before she snatched it from me. Then she left me fuming in the little office. After what seemed like a million years, Greg appeared and gestured for me to follow him.

  We headed up the escalator. Banners hung from the ceiling with slick marketing photos of trees and mountains. One read, “Find God’s place for you on this Earth.” Another proclaimed, “Of the Earth, by the Earth, For the Earth.” The church had come under a lot of fire for its stance on Others. So much pre-Rift Christian dogma was misogynistic, homophobic, racist, and plain pro-Old Testament Bible: women didn’t work, men had final say in everything, God hated gays, and so on.

  Post-Rift was a different story. Churches like this, whose congregations called themselves “Earthers,” are built on the idea that Humans alone are God’s chosen people, and that magic, when not performed by specific prophets (read: Jesus), is a perversion of nature. Post-Rift, the whole resurrection story (even though, hellloooo, Jesus was an original badass magician) sort of took a backseat to the passages about not suffering Witches to live and so forth. They’ve stopped calling their leaders ‘Reverend’ or ‘Pastor’ and have taken to referring to them as ‘Gardeners’ or, I’ve heard sometimes, ‘Father Farmer,’ for tending the garden of Earth or something like that.

  Hell, I can’t keep up with it all.

  “How long have you been a security guard, Greg?” I asked as we went down a hall. He ignored me. “Seems like a big job, guarding a whole prophet.”