by Martha Woods
She looks taken aback, her brown eyes wide. “Oh, okay,” she says quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push your buttons.”
I sigh. “It’s okay. I’m fine. Thank you.”
I wander off, sulking, and go straight to my office. Who the heck is talking about me? this isn’t high school. If someone wants to say something, they should talk to me directly, not to some newbie, too-chipper receptionist. That girl doesn’t know me from Adam. I think I don’t like her.
Fuming, I start reviewing evidence from the other two cases. They’re being handled by different investigative teams because of jurisdiction, but I find the information easily in our database. Indeed, Chessy and Miriam’s crime scenes all look eerily similar to Erin’s. As I think on this, Rick wanders in. He sets a mug of coffee on my desk.
“Thank you,” I say, turning to look at him. “To what do I owe this treat?
“I know you love the stuff,” he says. “Where’d you go yesterday?”
I think about Vivienne’s weird comments and consider telling Rick the truth. If they all think I’m having some kind of nervous breakdown anyway, maybe it would be good to just admit that there is some really weird stuff happening in my life lately.
Rick is a long-time investigator. He’s surely seen some very strange things in his career, right? Maybe he will believe me if I tell him that werewolves and vampires and witches exist. And that ghosts follow me around until they get vengeance for their deaths.
No, all of that sounds crazy, even to me, and I’m the one living it. If I tell him, he will have me on a one-way bus to crazy town. Then people really will have reason to think I am having a mental breakdown.
“I went to get the DNA I lost when I upended that tray,” I say.
“And?” he asks.
“And I don’t think the guy killed his girlfriend,” I say. “At least, I don’t think he was in his right mind if he did.”
“So you went where afterward?” Rick probes.
I sigh and slump back in my office chair. “I went to Centerfold Club.”
“I assume not for a lunchtime peep show,” he quips.
“Definitely not,” I answer. “I was covering my bases. The girl worked there and, look, this Jimmy guy can’t remember the incident and he said his girlfriend was upset about two of her coworkers dying recently. Don’t you think that’s weird, Rick? That three women from the same establishment have been murdered in the same month?”
Rick tilts his head, “Tell me more.”
“They were all stabbed to death by people they knew. This morning, I looked through the database and the scenes are almost identical. The witness reports are almost identical. Don’t you think that’s weird? We have these supposedly open-shut cases that are so similar it’s eerie, and the victims all worked together?”
“Okay, yes, that is strange,” he concedes. “So against my orders, you went to the place where they all worked?”
“I did,” I admit, giving him a sheepish look. “But listen, there was something off about the place. I couldn’t do much without a warrant, but I definitely want to keep an eye on the place.”
“When you say something was off, what do you mean?” he asks.
I take a deep breath and rub my temples. Do I tell him the truth? Or some, acceptable, human version of it? I decide on the latter. It’s easier. For now.
“I can’t put a finger on it,” I say. “There’s a chatty bartender named Brian, and his sister, Alexis, is the manager. She didn’t seem upset at all that three of her dancers had been murdered in the past month. She was professional about it, but there was almost no emotion underneath. Three women, Rick, all dead at the hands of people they cared about, all dead in the same manner. They were all stabbed.”
Rick contemplates this. “So your Spidey-senses are tingling, even though there is really no evidence that these are connected.”
“I guess, if you want to put it that way. Please. Let me investigate what these three murders have to do with that strip club. I really believe there is a connection, despite what we see on face value.”
“I can’t send you in on a hunch, Amy. The teams know I pulled you off of direct field work. They will not like it.”
“I don’t give a damn what they like or don’t like,” I say fiercely. “Just talk to them. Tell them to give me a week. If I don’t find anything, I’ll concede defeat. I’ll even take a leave of absence, a mental health break.”
“What will I tell them?”
“Tell them that I found some evidence that I want to rule out before they move forward,” I say. “One week, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Amy, I want to say yes, but…”
“Then say it,” I interrupt. “Please. Just give me a week.”
He looks up at the ceiling, his neck cracking. “Okay, fine. One week. Give me some good work Amy. Show me that my best investigator is still around.”
I grin. “I won’t let you down.”
* * *
With a bit more slack on the leash, I decide to head into Faye’s shop for a visit.
Today, Faye’s hair is a tall, spiky mohawk in fluorescent green. She’s paired it with a dress covered in characters from an anime series, and her eyes are rimmed in purple liner. She’s using needle nose pliers to fashion a piece of metal into jewelry.
“Hello, Amy,” she says as I walk in.
“Hey there, Faye, how’s it going?”
“It’s going,” she says, not looking up at me. “I wanted to tell you that it is going to be time to push the boundaries of your abilities soon. It would be good to do some work to help you control your energy and explore your inner power.”
My magical mentor, everyone…she lacks in social skills but seems to know just exactly when it is least convenient to throw a magical wrench in my life.
“That is, as usual, sufficiently vague,” I say. “And until you have more information, I will move on to the reason for my visit today. I was out at Centerfold the other day investigating a case. Three girls dead, three suspects, but the witness accounts and crime scene details are identical. And when I walked in, the place nearly suffocated me with dark magic. Heard any good gossip lately?”
She stops working and looks at me, her head to one side like a bird. “Gossip? About dark magic?”
I raise my eyebrows in response.
“Hmm,” she grunts. “Interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” I ask.
“Well, there has definitely been a spike of power in the community lately. All of our powers are more magnified, which usually means someone is tapping into something they shouldn’t be.”
“I didn’t know that was a thing,” I say. “Our powers are amplified by other witches’ activities?”
“They can be,” she says. “If what they’re tapping into is strong enough.”
“Why would they be gathering power like that?” I ask.
“Sometimes people get power-hungry. They like the feel of it, what they can do with it. Sometimes they have a specific purpose – vengeance or whatever.” She shrugs.
“Could someone be committing murder to harness power?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “Sacrifice has always been a way to tap into dark magic.”
“You don’t seem too worried about this,” I say.
“This is my worried face,” Faye says, giving me a bland look.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” I answer.
“I have not been led to any conclusion on this matter as yet. I sense that this activity has a purpose but not yet what the purpose may be.”
“Okay, well let me know if anything comes up that you think I should know about,” I say. “I’ve got three spirits attached to me now and I’d like to set things right for them.”
“Yes, I sense them,” she says.
“Faye,” I say, changing the subject, “There are three former witches, now vampires, in a local coven. They offered to train me. Do they play into your feeling th
at my abilities may be pushed soon?”
“I think that there are many avenues through which this could occur. Exploration can be messy and painful,” she answers, going back to her metal work, effectively dismissing me.
I roll my eyes. Faye is cryptic on a good day. Would a simple yes or no, do this or do that, be too much to ask?
If nothing else Faye has said is certain, I feel even more sure than before that there is something going on at this strip club. Someone is harnessing dark energy, doing strong enough magic to amplify all of our abilities? These murders have to be part of it, and I’d be willing to bet our witch Alexis is at the center of it.
Chapter 7
“I’m telling you, I don’t want you going alone,” Damon says.
We’re naked again, both standing in the kitchen where we started our argument while making dinner. Somehow, I don’t think that taking off our clothes during arguments is as effective as it once was. At least, it is not the deterrent that it once was. Though I do always enjoy the sight of a naked Damon.
“Fine, then I’ll enlist Ivanka, Joseph, and Mika to help me. They’re former witches; they’ll be able to tell me what they sense in the club.”
“I like you working with vampires even less,” he says, pouting. “Why do you insist on acting like they are anything but bloodsucking murderers?”
“Why do you insist on acting like they can’t possibly have personalities or feelings?” I counter.
“Because they are undead monsters!” he explodes. “They are killers. Killers don’t have feelings. Dead things don’t have personalities.”
At an impasse once more, I turn away, stirring the now-mushy pasta that has been over boiled while we went round after round about the same thing we always fight about lately. I am, according to Damon, a vampire sympathizer and therefore unable to make rational decisions about for myself. He is, in my estimation, kind of a close-minded jerk who thinks he can control everything I do under the guise of protecting me.
I feel that we could probably be in a sitcom at this point. We are literally naked; I am stirring pasta; and we keep arguing about the same things over and over again. It actually makes me smirk, despite my best efforts not to let my argument for freedom and tolerance be derailed.
Of course, my smirk does not go unnoticed.
“Why are you laughing?” he asks.
“Because this is so stupid,” I say. “We are literally having the same argument over and over again. It feels like Groundhog Day.”
“Huh?” he asks, perplexed.
“Groundhog Day? The movie with Bill Murray where he has to live the same day over and over again until he changes his ways?”
“Haven’t seen it,” he says. “And seriously, are you still stirring that pasta? It looks like mashed potatoes.”
I laugh, an unexpected, short, shrill sound. “You need a movie education, boy. Do Hunters not watch movies or something?”
“Of course we watch movies,” he says, like this should be obvious. He wanders up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and nuzzling my neck. “Why can’t you just ask me for help?” he asks quietly. “Why do you feel like you have to go it alone all the time? Or worse, ask others for help instead of me?”
“One, I don’t want you getting pulled back into this world when you’re obviously trying to get out of it,” I say. “Two, I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“And I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says. “How is that different? You keep me out of your plans to keep me safe, but if I do the same, I’m a sexist jerk who’s trying to control you.”
I wiggle out of his embrace, taking the lumpy noodles to the sink and pouring them into the colander. “I think these are dead.”
“Yep, definitely dead,” he agrees, peering at them with distaste. “Chinese or pizza?”
“Chinese,” I answer.
He picks up his phone and dials in our usual order. When he’s done, he faces me again. I stand with my back to the refrigerator, closing my eyes and resting my head on the cool metal.
He’s right. I’m being a total hypocrite.
“Okay, you want to help?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“The club is hiring a bouncer. Get the job and do some recon. Tell me what you feel, see, smell, and hear,” I say. “Keep an eye on the girls and whoever comes around them. And watch that Alexis Alexander.”
“Done,” he says. “I’ll go down tonight and apply.” bouncer
I nod.
He takes a few steps to me, leaning down to kiss me. “I love you Amy,” he says. “I hate fighting.”
“I know,” I say. “Me too.”
His hands caress my breasts while mine play with his growing erection. I rub him against my sex, the want for him growing as his mouth joins his talented fingers, pinching and biting at my nipples. When I’m good and wet, he lifts me up like I weigh nothing, impaling me. I cry out at the delicious invasion, wrapping myself around him as he pushes me against the cold steel of the refrigerator.
“You feel so good, Amy,” he breathes. “Like you were made for me.”
I don’t say anything in return, preferring to enjoy the feel of him inside of me, the build of orgasm swelling inside my core.
He pushes me closer and closer, his hands on my backside, my breasts pressed against his chiseled chest. When I release, I let out nonsensical, sexual cries and he follows right behind me.
We stay there, attached to one another, for some time, trying to catch our breath, coming back to reality.
Reality comes to us, though, when the doorbell rings.
“Maybe we should answer the door just like this?” I ask.
“Definitely,” he says with a wicked grin as he sets me down and grabs for his pants. He winks and says, “ Dinner first…then dessert.”
After dinner and some nice, slow shower sex, Damon sets out to apply for a new job while I get online and search for information about Alexis. She doesn’t seem to have an online profile at all. This is uncommon in today’s day and age, and it makes me suspicious. I mean, I don’t have an online profile either, but that’s because I’m a cop.
Damon calls an hour later and says they were desperate for help and hired him on the spot. He’s staying to work and won’t be home until after two.
He actually sounds excited and I can’t tell if it is because he got a job, because he got a night job, or because he is helping with my investigation. Maybe all three. Damon is a guy who is used to being busy, physically active, and awake at night. This transition has been hard for him and, frankly, is probably playing into his desire to be in my business all the time lately.
I am actually happy for him to have something to do. Hopefully it will be helpful to my investigation while also keeping him busy. This could be a win-win, if he continues to shy away from staying in the Hunter brotherhood. Being a Hunter is in his blood. I know he has a lot of motivations for staying away, but I hate that our bond and relationship means he cannot be part of what he was born to do. Investigating something for me, with a probably supernatural connection, might just be the next best thing.
* * *
I am not good at sitting around. I think about going to the gym, but decide, instead, to call Cara to see if she’s free to meet up for a drink.
When I call, I can hear in her tone that she wants to say no. Her reluctance practically takes solid form, and I almost let her off the hook, but before I can, she sighs and suggests we meet in thirty minutes.
We meet at one of our favorite bars, the Cosmopolitan, where we go when we are not interested in getting hit on, especially by the owner, Adam. Even though I do owe him a huge favor. Cara slides into the booth with a martini, looking gorgeous. Her cheeks are fuller, her eyes are brighter. She has her hair up in an elaborate, braided style. She wears an expensive, cashmere sweater with skinny jeans and sky-high heels. Her handbag probably cost more than my rent for the month.
“You look really great,” I comment.
“It’s hard to get back to normal after something so traumatic,” I say. “I’m really happy to see you like this.”
“I look like I always do,” she says, but she won’t meet my eyes. “I mean, how I usually do.”
“I saw you when you were with him, Cara,” I say. “It wasn’t good. I was really worried about you.”
She stares into her drink, stirring her olives around idly in the murky mix of vodka and olive juice. She swallows a few times before she speaks.
“I never thought I would get caught up with someone who would hurt me,” she says quietly. “I always thought I was stronger than that.”
“There is no shame in it,” I say. “I have seen so many battered women in my job. They come from all walks of life. And it’s not your fault.”
She looks up at me. “Amy, I’m sorry we’ve drifted apart.”
I reach across the table and she takes my hands. “I am too, Cara. I mean it. There’s so much I wish I could tell you, but I need you to know that in spite of all the weirdness in both of our lives lately, I still love you like a sister. I need your friendship. Can you forgive me for making you feel abandoned?”
She sniffles. “Yes, of course.”
That’s how real friendships work. Cara and I are very different in many ways, but we are always going to be there for one another. And I meant it when I said I need her friendship. With so much uncertainty, I need one thing that is real and solid. And after what she went through – much of which she does not remember – I know she needs me, too.
“It’s so strange to me,” she says. “I can remember his face and…how he made me feel. But he’s just…gone. Like he disappeared. And while I know that I was unhealthy when I was with him, that the relationship was unhealthy, I can’t quite remember the details. It’s all very hazy.”
I can feel the way my face scrunches, my eyebrows pushing inward, my mouth turning down at the edges in a concerned frown. It’s a face I wear when I see a murder scene for the first time. It’s not a face I ever thought I’d wear with my best friend, but when I think of the way Cara looked when she was in thrall to Charlie, I realize just how close she was to being a victim, another body for me to investigate.