“As I said, I can look into it, but I’m thinking black magic.”
“I thought I heard somewhere that magic wasn’t good or bad.”
“Technically? No. Magic itself is just a force, a power that is completely neutral. It’s the wielder that determines whether or not it’s for good or for bad. Unfortunately, you can’t escape calling it black magic; it’s just the most common term.”
Hamilton rubbed the bridge of his nose, seeming tired. He said, “I don’t know how many more we can expect; we’re no closer to finding who’s behind it than we were three weeks ago. I’m just at a dead end.”
“There is absolutely no connection between the victims?”
“Apart from the fact that they are all women in their twenties? They are all different shapes, heights, races, hair color, eye color. None of them knew each other, they didn’t go to any clubs or activities in the same places, none of their occupations were the same. One was married, the next lived alone, the other lived with a roommate.”
I put my hand up in a stop gesture. “It’s okay. I get the point.”
“I should have come to you sooner. I knew this was weird the minute it landed in my lap, but…”
I couldn’t read his mind, but I could read his face. “You didn’t want Rourke sticking her nose in. This would be something she would fight you for.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been doing this job for a long while, Cassandra, and the job never gets done when departments end up fighting among themselves. She’s so determined to get out of PCU that it affects her work.”
I leaned my head against one hand. “Yeah I had noticed that. You can take these.” I pushed the folders back over to him.
“How long do you think it will take you to find something?”
“If I start on this tonight, maybe a day. I can call in a favor to get me to the materials I’ll need.”
“Anything you can come up with,” he said, standing. He reached across the desk and we shook hands; then I rose to my feet to show him to the door.
“I’ll come by your office tomorrow night.”
“All right.” I held the door open and he stepped out into the corridor, turning back to look at me.
“Cassandra,” he said, “be careful, okay? This guy’s only apparent criteria is females in their twenties.”
“I know. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself. Try to get some rest, you look exhausted.”
He gave me a watery smile and headed off down the steps. I closed the door and pressed my back against it. This case had to really be bothering Hamilton; he hadn’t suggested we go out on a date even once.
I went back over to my desk and dug out my little black book; I kept all the numbers I needed in it, various contacts throughout the magical communities of Worcester. I didn’t often call the number I was searching for, which was the only reason I didn’t have it programmed into my phone’s directory. I held one finger under the number and deftly maneuvered the phone free of its cradle and under my left ear with my free hand.
The other party picked up after three rings.
“Hey, it’s Cassandra,” I said by way of greeting before jumping straight to my point. “I need a favor.”
Chapter Ten
I stood outside the occult bookstore, waiting. Luckily, it was summer, so the night wasn’t particularly cold; I hated waiting in the cold. Not that I would bring it up, because I was being granted a huge favor. Eventually I heard the sounds of heels on stone as the woman I was waiting for approached.
Truth Charity Mallory was born blind. This, however, did not affect her in the slightest as she was gifted with a kind of second sight. She could read people as auras; she saw the truth, so no one could hide who they were from her. She was a tall slim elegant woman who dressed a bit like she belonged in a Victorian steampunk novel. Her brown hair bowed around her pretty face, lacing into a chignon, and her sable lashes were enough to detract from the fact that her eyes were filmy white. She was wearing a long dark coat buttoned up to her throat, and from it flowed a deep burgundy skirt that looked to be made of rich velvet. She had Victorian button-up boots on her feet and a miniaturized top hat pinned on top of her locks. It had a small veil of netting that could be pulled down to shield her eyes. She had a cane in her left hand, mahogany wood up to the handle, which was shaped like a bird’s head and made from some yellow material. She smiled when she sensed me.
“Ah, Cassandra, your aura gets more and more like a burning beacon of light every time I see you. I could never mistake you for anyone else.”
I took that as the compliment it was.
“Thanks, Tru, and thanks for agreeing to come out here and open up for me at this time of night. You have the largest collection of dark works that I know of, and if I’m going to find what I have to, then it’ll be here.”
“Well, that is only the truth.”
Truth was wealthy—old money wealthy. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and used that to chase the occult all around the world. She’d had a very blessed existence and as such often couldn’t get along with normal people. Most found her haughty and rude; I saw her as precise and to the point without sentiment or waffle. She took a key on a silver chain from her pocket and walked toward the door. I didn’t offer to help her; she had been doing this for years and would have found such an offer insulting.
Her shop, Grimoire, was a magical emporium. She sold basic, simple spells to tourists who were looking for a cheap thrill, but she also had a collection of more dangerous magical items. She had a huge collection of texts on magic and the occult; the wizarding council would have loved to get their hands on some of the books, but Truth wouldn’t donate them and the council wouldn’t pay her prices. Truth was a businesswoman and didn’t let anything go for nothing. She considered helping me out to be charity, and if I came across anything she wanted, I would slip it her way. She had travelled the world in search of her treasures. If you needed it, and it was out there, Truth could find it; but sometimes it was best not to ask her how she got it.
The lock clicked and she pushed open the door, a little bell above chiming as it brushed past. Flicking on the light, she ushered me inside.
I loved her shop. It wasn’t one of these New Age stores that were all tan walls, airy colors and smelled distinctly like someone had been smoking a bit too much wacky baccy out the back. This shop was dark and musty and dingy, like an occult store ought to be. It played on the dramatic gothic themes: a skull with a red rose between its jaws sitting on a table decked out with black candles and a purple cloth with a silver pentagram on it. Another table held rough cut crystals, precious stones and geodes with uncut gems hidden in the cracks.
The shelves held all the books you’d expect about magic, and some you wouldn’t. There were original editions of works by Edgar Allen Poe and manuals on reading Tarot cards correctly. Best of all was the smell: musty and ancient and magical all at the same time. It’s hard to put what magic smells like into words, and it smells different to different people. Each practitioner also carries their own unique scent. When I’d first met Truth, she had asked me to do magic before her just to prove that I was a witch. She had told me that my magic smelled like sunshine, peaches, rose petals and summer rain all at the same time. Her magic, to me, smelled like tea leaves and Chanel Number Five.
I watched as she unpinned her hat and laid it gently down on the counter. She unbuttoned her coat, unerringly hanging it up on the coat stand behind the counter. She was wearing a black short sleeved top, which from the collar bone up seemed to be made of some intricate pattern of lace. Her throat was elegantly encircled by what I could assume was a real pearl necklace.
“So,” she said, clasping her hands and rubbing them together. “Where would you like to start?”
We walked to the back of the shop as I explained to her about the killings. She let me talk all the way through what I knew without interrupting, which was something I had always liked about her; she saved questions
until the end. At the back of the shop was a flight of cast iron steps that led up to a mezzanine loaded with tall bookcases filled with Truth’s personal collection of occultist law. She had no intention of selling the priceless volumes; I had asked her before why she kept them at the shop. She’d told me that her insurance policy was better for the shop than for her home; she wanted people to come here if they decided they would try to rob her of something. She, like me, was a woman who liked her privacy. Strange people in her home had no appeal to her. We stopped at the foot of the stairs.
She said, “I would suggest starting with Michael Hopkin’s definitive work on blood magic to see if he references any other works.”
“Wasn’t he the one in Suffolk?”
Truth laughed. “No, the one in Suffolk was Matthew Hopkins, the witch finder general, and he was a ridiculous man. Three nipples indeed,” she said with a derisive snort. “I do, however, believe that his hunts inspired a fascination with the occult in his lineage. Michael might be distantly related. I never thought to find out. Cup of tea?”
I accepted the offer merely out of politeness; I much preferred a cup of coffee, but Truth was never one to drink that. I knew she would return with two pristine china cups filled with Earl Gray or oolong, or some other kind of tea that had a funny name and tasted just as bad.
I headed up the stairs, stepping over the worn velvet rope at the top that was supposed to stop customers from crossing. I wasn’t sure at first if I could find the book she meant, until I remembered that she was a stickler for alphabetizing. I found the book and relaxed into a beanbag that graced the mezzanine floor, leaving the chair with the reading table vacant for Truth.
Michael Hopkin’s book, titled Blood Magic, was indeed a definitive guide to magic involving the use of blood and blood letting. It wasn’t a heavy volume, and it was bound with a fairly modern cover, which told me that it was published sometime in the last half of the twentieth century. I found a curious little spell called “fire in the blood” that was supposed to be a protection against vampires draining you, by making your blood literally taste like they were consuming flames. As flames are nearly deadly to a vampire, that wouldn’t be a pleasant sensation. I made a mental note of the incantation in case I ever needed it.
I closed the book with a sigh as Truth appeared at the top of the stairs with the tea in her hand; she bent carefully to offer me the cup.
“It’s green tea with honey, it should be more appealing to your palette.”
I smiled, thanking her, holding the cup between my hands and enjoying the heat that radiated off it. I indicated the volume.
“Nothing in here.”
She took a sip of her tea, placing the cup down very gingerly on the table next to her. “Are you sure you’re looking for a human perpetrator? It couldn’t be a Kumiho or something?”
“What would a nine tailed fox shape shifter from Korea be doing in Worcester?”
“Holiday?” she asked with a rare grin that told me she knew how silly that sounded.
“Besides, if I’m not mistaken, they turned into beautiful young women to seduce and eat the hearts of men. All the victims were female.”
“You know more about them than I would have thought,” she said.
“I came across a paragraph or two on it while I was researching other things.”
“About your new nature?” I stared blankly at her, a little in shock. “Rumors abound, my dear. Whether you like it or not, you are a prominent figure in the supernatural and magical communities, and we do all love to gossip.”
“What rumors are these?” I asked, momentarily pushing my search to one side.
“That you nearly burnt down the Full Moon bar because you went up like the Human Torch.” I opened my mouth to say something and she held a finger up to stop me. “Yes, I know who the Human Torch is; I am not completely behind the times. May I finish? Another rumor is that you have come back from two things that should surely have been the death of you.” Truth stopped, indicating it was my turn to verify or deny the rumors.
“I’d hardly say burnt it down, I don’t think I even singed the floor. I have had some very near calls in the last year. I’m a survivor—what can I say?”
“What about the rumor that claims you entered a hospital seriously wounded, glass embedded into your back, but walked out the next morning with barely a scar to show for it?”
I stared at my hands and thought about it. I wanted to know who the hell was talking about me. “Where did you hear that?”
“I can’t tell you who it was from originally, Cassandra. It’s always something heard from the friend of a friend. The supernaturals here are engaged in one long game of Chinese whispers; things get more exaggerated with each time it’s repeated, and you seem to be a hot topic at the moment. I have to suppose it has something to do with the media coverage. Your picture has been in the papers a few times.”
“So what? I’m suddenly the pinup girl for all the weird and wonderful?”
She brought her cup back up to her lips, smiling. “Something like that.”
“The glass thing wasn’t as bad as the doctors first thought.”
She tsked immediately. “Do not try to lie to me, Cassandra.”
“Yes—fine. It healed overnight.”
“Do you know why?”
“I have some idea as to why. I’m researching, trying to find my family, and I would rather not get into it until I know more.”
She nodded as though she understood that and I took my first sip of the tea. It was fresh and sweet. I actually liked it.
“The other fascination is your love life.”
I sprayed tea. None of it reached her, so I was hoping she wouldn’t notice it as I mopped up the spill with the cuff of my shirt.
“You people have nothing better to do than discuss my love life?”
Truth shrugged. “Why do we talk about any celebrity’s love life? Who’s dating who? It’s a weird fad but it’s a long running one, this obsession with knowing people’s business. Are you still with the elf? No, wait, I heard somewhere you were seen in the company of a vampire. My last assistant said the picture of you in the social pages was quite stunning.”
Truth went through a lot of assistants. She had a tendency to treat the norms that applied for the job like butlers. They grew sick of it, and she ended up running the shop by herself, which was taxing on her.
“I’m not currently seeing anyone.”
“But you do not lack for suitors?”
“Perhaps not,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Speaking of. I got some roses from an anonymous source. Make all this gossip useful and tell me if there is anyone pining for me that I don’t know about.”
Truth stroked her chin, apparently thinking about it. “Most men speak of you admiringly. You are quite attractive, even if you don’t see that yourself. I agree, your aura alone is drawing. I suppose if I saw your face I might very well be taken with you, myself.”
“Truth!”
She giggled. Honest to God giggled. I wasn’t sure that I had ever heard her do that before. “Oh, calm yourself. I am a lover of men, mostly. From what I hear tell, you have the interest of your vampire and a few wolves; any others who desire you are keeping their cards very close to their chest. I could not tell you where these flowers came from. You could use tracing magic, but that would, sadly, only lead you to where the flowers were grown, not where they were sold or to who purchased them. Are you sure they came from no one you know?”
“No, they were the wrong color for Aram, and he’d have taken credit. I can’t imagine them coming from the werewolf who’s spoken his interest.”
“True. They are much more likely to pee on the steps of your building to keep other potential mates away than buy flowers.”
I pulled a face and shuddered, then rose to my feet and slipped the book back onto the shelf.
“Let’s get back to work before you give me any more unpleasant mental images.”
“All righ
t. What makes you so sure that you are dealing with a human perpetrator?”
“The hearts were cut out with a knife. Monsters have claws; they don’t need to use a kitchen utensil to get through flesh. It was precise, little mess, and the heart was taken, not consumed on site.”
Truth stood to run her fingers along the spines of her books, then reached up to pluck a black, leather-bound book from the shelf above her head. “You said there were four victims?” I nodded. “Actually, and very sadly, might I add, that does begin to sound like painfully familiar, very dark magic.”
She flipped through the pages by holding her hand over it and using a soft wind to make them flicker back and forth. Her fingers settled on a page and lightly stroked the image there. She turned the book, offering it to me.
“I think you might be looking at three more victims to come,” she said.
“That would make seven,” I said, squinting at the illustration. It looked like a ritual. The words were in another language. “I can’t read this. What is it?”
“Scandinavian. It’s magic to keep a coven young.”
“Oh, not again.” I had dealt before with some witches who were killing children in order to devour them for their youthful properties.
“Not quite. This is not the same as with the dark witches you met. They were physically young, but their appearance was still that of age. This spell requires the heart of a young woman for not only the essence but the beauty. A true youth spell. I guess at size because it is the typical number for a coven; seven is considered mystical.”
I looked harder at the drawing; the way in which the spell appeared to be wrought would require a sacred space of a decent size to be able to perform it.
“So, some coven wants to be young forever?”
“Not forever. These sorts of spells are never forever. They always have stated duration because they go against the natural order of things. I would suggest that it would be an annual thing. One heart, one life, one witch and one year.”
I shuddered. I hadn’t heard of murders like this in Worcester before, which meant the coven would be traveling to avoid being caught. There might be a record in some other city of crimes that matched these. It was an angle that Hamilton could work on.
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