“A box with flowers in.”
“What?” she asked, screaming excitedly. I now had her attention. “What was in it? Was there another card? A name? A self-addressed envelope?”
I laughed.
“Nothing like that. It’s a pot of African Violets, I think. The card simply follows the next part of the rhyme.”
“Violets are blue?”
“Yeah,” I said leaning against the counter and reaching out to sip my coffee. “Which is silly, because they aren’t blue, they’re violet.”
Incarra tsked me. “You’re getting flowers from a mysterious party and you’re complaining about accuracy in color spectrums?”
I switched the phone to the other ear and headed to flop down on the couch. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing, considering that my first phone call this morning was heavy breathing. It could be a very clever way to kill me, if I keep tripping over the damn boxes.”
“Do people try to kill you a lot?”
“More often than I like.”
“I’m not sure I really wanted to know that.”
“Sorry,” I said, giving a gentle shrug, then realized I was being silly; she wasn’t in the room with me and couldn’t see it.
“Did you try 1471 to see the number of the last caller?” I blinked.
“No, I didn’t think of that.”
“Humph, and you’re the heap big detective.”
I growled softly.
“That’s not just offensive to me but a whole race of indigenous peoples.”
She laughed and I found the corner of my mouth quirking into a smile despite myself. God damn it. “Just for that I’m hanging up on you to track my heavy breather.”
“Good luck.”
I clicked the call off. My mistake, it turned out, was to take a sip of my coffee before dialing. The phone started ringing as I swallowed, which blew any chance of me tracking down my earlier asthmatic caller. I wasn’t very pleased when I answered the phone.
“This had better be the voice of God or I’m hanging up.”
“Cassandra?” Simian said tentatively. Since both my numbers are unique to me, I can still receive calls from the other side. Much to my annoyance sometimes.
I sighed and rubbed my temples. “Hey, Simian, I’m sorry, caught me at a bad time. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to remind you about dinner tonight.”
I glanced over to the calendar, where I had written “Simian dinner” and doodled a little puppy dog face.
“Did you forget?”
“Nope, I penciled it in. Don’t worry.”
“We’re going someplace nice, so dress up, okay?”
“You already told me that. I will be dressed and ready and on time.”
“Eight o’clock.”
“All right. Jesus, who’s coming to this dinner? The Queen?” Simian went quiet on his end of the phone and I gasped. “It’s not, is it?”
“No. No. Of course not. I’m in my office and I’ve got calls on the other line. I’ll see you later.”
“Sure, sure.” He hung up and I put the phone back in its cradle, still a bit peeved that he’d called me. Then I reconsidered: the 1471 service only allowed you to retrieve the number of the last incoming call, and of course there were ways to block your number so that people couldn’t retrieve it at all. I probably wouldn’t have gotten anywhere anyway.
I finished my coffee, setting the empty cup in the sink before going into my room to shower. I took my time, careful to shave my legs until they were smooth and to wash every inch. I pressed my hands to the tiles, leaning into them, and let the water beat down on my back. I closed my eyes, turning my neck in circles to work out any kinks from sleep.
I thought I felt the creep of fingers against my skin, slow, sensual slides up and down my spine. It was a strange feeling, considering that it was too early for Aram to be invading my dreams and I was pretty sure I was awake. When I felt the press of lips on my neck I spun in the small cubicle, catching my head on the tiles. I crumpled to the bottom of the shower and as the light started to dim, I swear I saw a Cheshire Cat-like grin. Just a smile floating in the air, then blackness.
I woke up again when a large shudder rolled down my spine. The water spraying on me was cold, and I started to shiver. My head ached a little, but not as much as I would have thought it should have. Groggily, I got to my feet, wincing, and shut the water off. Wrapping a towel around me, I sat on the closed toilet lid, trying to work out what the hell had happened.
I leaned back, draping my arm over my eyes. Had I imagined the touch? My mind had to have been playing tricks on me. There could be no way anyone had gotten into my apartment, not without me knowing about it, and especially not into my shower. My wards were good, they’d been taught to me by the one of the best. Doubting them now would only mess with my sense of security. People should only get in if I let them in. Had I let something in? I was going to have to double check them, but the book I’d devised my wards from belonged to Virginia. I was going to have to make a list of titles and use my next pay check to secure my own copies. Not speaking to one’s mentor really was a pain in the ass. I started to dry off and pushed it to the back of my mind.
When I stepped out into my bedroom, I saw that it was seven o’clock. I must have taken one hell of a knock to the head if it took me so long to recover. I checked it in the mirror: with the water running over me, the blood had washed away, but there was still a healing mark along the line of my skull. I poked it and it stung. My phone started ringing, only adding to my headache. I grabbed the extension next to my bed.
“Hello?”
“Cassandra, it’s Hamilton. You think you could pop by my office?” I looked out of the windows onto my balcony. The sky was dark, but the night looked clear. The shudder that woke me had most certainly been the crossover. I checked my locket, it was fully charged.
“Sure, Hamilton. I’ve actually got something for you. I’ll bring it with me.”
“Good, good. I knew I could count on you.”
“I’ll be by in a little while.” He hung up, and I went to my closet to get my little black dress. I stood staring at it for a little bit, thinking how I wore too much black. I held the hem in my hand and concentrated.
“Mutatio.”
I willed the fabric to change color. Red bled out from where my fingers touched the fabric until the whole dress was scarlet. I grinned appreciatively. I had read in a magazine that it was red, not black, that men found the most attractive color on a woman. So, now it was a little red dress instead of a little black one.
It was still the same dress–fairly short and off the shoulder with full length sleeves–but seemed brand new. I didn’t waste a lot of money replacing my wardrobe by spending hours and hours in changing room cubicles, trying clothes on. I didn’t need to; with a little power I had a brand new outfit without having to spend a penny.
I hoped it would be appropriate for wherever we were going to dinner.
Chapter Thirteen
I heard the argument even before I walked through the door into Homicide. A few heads turned my way and there were some appreciative murmurs. I’d styled my hair as best as I could, running too late to attempt to take straighteners to it. I’d chosen my thigh high black boots to go under the dress, my black jacket and my purse over one arm, in case it was cold later. I’d done a little bit more with my makeup then I did for everyday wear, and was proud of how put together I’d looked when I had left my apartment.
I was still a little shaken from my fall in the shower, but my miraculous ability to heal myself meant that I didn’t even have a headache; although I soon might if this argument continued.
The door to Hamilton’s office was only open a crack but I saw Rourke’s massive form pacing back and forth in front of his desk. Rourke looked like the spoils of a misbegotten night of passion between the Hulk and a prima ballerina. She had a pretty face and delicate hands, but everything else between them was heavily muscled. She w
as one of these women you saw at the gym and just wanted to coax them away from the weights with a piece of full-fat cheesecake in an effort to save them from themselves.
I often played devil’s advocate amongst my dieting friends. People who believed they needed to diet when they were a size eight, I thought, had greater problems to face than the fact they could pinch an inch.
DS Hodgeson, Rourke’s usual tagalong, was leaned against a wall, watching his boss through the gap in the door. Benjamin Hodgeson was a rugby player gone to seed, with a bad attitude and a narrow-minded world view. I could say this about him with confidence, because he and I had dated. I’d watched him scrub his hands with bleach after he’d learned that he had just shaken hands with a werewolf; seeing as that werewolf happened to be a good friend of mine, it hadn’t boded well for our relationship.
To say that he was bitter about our breakup would be to say that water was wet. Most of the time, he spouted off how much of a fool he was to ever date a witch, if he’d even admit it at all anymore.
If he only knew.
Whenever we saw each other now, it usually ended in insult tennis. He’d say something horrible to me and I would bat back. It’d only come to blows once, and I’d been made to promise never to hit him again. The only two people I knew who fought worse than me and him were the two people he was watching through the half closed door. Strangely enough, they were ex-lovers too. More so than Benjamin and I, as I’d never actually slept with him–and thanked whatever divine presence there was in the universe for that every day.
When I turned to look at him again, he’d noticed me. He was, in fact, looking me up and down. He might not like me any more, but he wasn’t above appreciating the view. His eyes eventually made it to my face. He gave a gruff cough and looked back to the door.
“You cut your hair.”
“Yeah, thank you, Captain Obvious. Care to tell me what they’re fighting about?”
Benjamin crossed his arms over his chest and huffed as though he was trying to stay calm.
“The case. Rourke wants it, and she has every right to ask for it if there’s a supernatural element. It’s our jurisdiction.”
I leaned against the wall next to him–but a fair arm’s distance away.
“She only wants it because it has the potential to be high profile. She wouldn’t bother otherwise. This shit is getting old.”
He didn’t say anything, which was unlike him. I scowled, wondering if the big oaf felt all right. He appeared to be counting under his breath.
“What’s with the counting?”
“I had to enter anger management. We had our annual psych evals and I was deemed too aggressive.”
“You did try to hit a civilian, namely me.”
He turned his head to look at me, clearly daring me to say that I hadn’t deserved it. I hadn’t, but I’d egged him on enough times that with his temperament, it had only been a matter of when he took a swing at me, not if.
“You know Rourke won’t ever get him to agree to hand over the case. There is nothing decisively supernatural about it at the moment.”
“Yet you’re here.”
“Hamilton is a man who likes to cover all his options. After eliminating the impossible anything remaining, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
Benjamin snorted. “Hamilton is hardly Sherlock Holmes.”
“Neither is Rourke.”
We stared at each other in silence, each daring the other to be the one to look away first. Benjamin failed when his eyes dropped to my cleavage.
“You’re dressed up a bit too much for this to be just a business call.”
“I’m on the way to dinner with friends.”
“You have friends?”
“More than you do. I’ve seen your Facebook page, remember.”
Benjamin bit his lips as if keeping in a growl. His friends list didn’t even make double digits. It was kinda sad really; almost made you feel sorry for him. Almost but not quite.
I pushed away from the wall; I didn’t really have the time to be hanging around with people I could barely tolerate. “I’m going to have to interrupt them.”
“Go ahead, your funeral.”
I sighed at his mocking tone and pushed through into the room. To say all sound stopped when I walked in would be an understatement. It went deathly quiet; you could have heard a pin drop. Unfortunately it was the pin for a grenade and I was never quick enough to duck and cover. Rourke turned back to Hamilton.
“If she’s bloody here, then I know you’re keeping a supernatural element to these murders from me!”
Hamilton looked at me with a martyred expression on his face. I had the feeling that they were going around and around in circles about this for a while.
“I asked Miss Farbanks to look into the possibility of a mystical angle, but nothing definitive has come to light so far. If it does, I will let you know. I have a meeting now, so if you’ll excuse yourself.”
Rourke crossed her arms defiantly over her chest and shook her head, making her short blonde hair sway menacingly.
“No, I will not. I want to know what she’s brought you,” she said, glaring at me for all she was worth. None of us added on the missing words of her sentence: this time.
I had been involved in a number of cases for the police over the last six months, each of which had me walking in with a supernatural explanation to a crime that happened to be on the money. It had meant being forced to listen to them bicker for hours before agreeing to work together, and Rourke had been adamant in trying to shunt me from the case.
Hamilton looked between me and Rourke, who had perched herself on the edge of his desk, refusing to move. He called me forward with a wave of his hand.
“Did you find anything?”
“I did, but–” I threw an apprehensive glance at Rourke. “It’s not going to make you happy.”
I reached into my bag, pulling out the piece of paper that Truth had given me, and smoothed it out on top of his desk. Rourke’s avid gaze ran over the image, hungrily searching out the elements of the picture that could be deemed mystical.
“I found a spell–”
“There! Proof that I’m right…” Rourke began.
I slammed my hand on the desk. I was abruptly tired of both of their attitudes.
“I don’t really give a flying fuck which one of you stops these murders from happening; I really don’t as long as they get stopped. Now can I please finish sharing what I know so I can get the hell on with my day?”
Rourke, struck mute, nodded. I glanced at Hamilton to see if he was going to interrupt me; he motioned for me to continue.
“Now, as I was saying. I found a spell. It’s nasty black magic of the worst kind. Seven hearts are used to restore the youth of a coven. I know you think we’ve seen this before, with those cannibalistic witches before Christmas, but this spell, I’m told, focuses less on the strength of youth, more on the appearance.”
“So, you’re saying that some witches have moved into town and are killing young girls as some sort of anti-wrinkle cream.” Rourke looked stunned and sickened.
“Vanity is a deadly sin, Rourke.”
“How do we go about tracking them down?” Hamilton asked.
“In all honesty, in a city this size, with no commonality between victims or location, I don’t know. I can’t even for proof positive say this is what’s happening. There have been no rumors circulating about a new coven in town, and you can’t hide a fair sized coven like that without someone hearing about it.”
“So, what the hell do we do with this information?” Rourke threw her hands up, frustrated. I looked at her sideways.
“Do you honestly want my opinion, or are you just having another hissy?”
Rourke glared at me.
“I want your opinion,” Hamilton said, chiming in before Rourke could say anything to the contrary. I looked at the drawing, straightened my back and looked between the two of them.
“I
would suggest you talk to the Enforcer offices and see what they can do to help.”
Enforcers were essentially magical police. They only dealt with cases that were related to the misuse of magic or perpetrated by wizards. They were highly trained and could be absolutely ruthless. They also had a tendency to act as the Wizarding Council’s lap dogs.
“I suppose that means you are staying on to arrange all that and liaise,” Rourke said sarcastically.
“No.”
Rourke’s mouth flapped open. I’d surprised her twice in one night.
“I’ve given you my opinion and my information. What you chose to do with it is your business. I want as little to do with the Wizarding Council as possible.”
“Cassandra,” said Hamilton. He looked more worried than shocked. “Is everything all right?”
“Honestly, I’m tired. I am tired of this routine. I work my ass off to bring you something, I offer to help, and then I watch you two bicker like children while you insist I’m on the case,” I said, pointing to Hamilton, then swinging my finger around to Rourke, “and you insist I’m not. I’d rather not do this right now. I brushed off another case because I thought you were going to need me. You can wire me my consultation fee.”
I shifted my bag up onto my shoulder, switched my jacket to the other arm, and turned to go.
“That’s it,” said Rourke, seeming even more puzzled. “You’re not going to fight to be on this. You’re just going to walk out and leave us to it.”
“Yup. I was not born to be your referee. Work together, don’t work together. I will come if you call, but only if you call. I’m not going to stick my nose in only to get it bitten off.”
“Where are you going?”
“To dinner.”
Chapter Fourteen
The guilt of having walked out of the police station had left me by the time I reached the werewolf community and had been let in by the guard on duty. I gave him a thorough evaluation–after all, the last guy that had guard duty had turned out to be part of a bitten-were coup. I wondered if this guy had heard the story of what had happened to his predecessor and the other conspirators. I wondered if he was giving me the same kind of evaluation.
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