Dime Store Magic

by Kelley Armstrong

  I went to bed at eleven. Yes, sad but true, I was young, single, and going to bed at eleven on a Saturday night, as I had almost every night for the past nine months. Since Savannah's arrival, I've had to struggle to maintain even friendships. Dating is out of the question. Savannah is very jealous of my time and attention. Or, perhaps more accurately, she dislikes not having me at her convenience. Like I've said, stability was one of the few things I could offer her, so I didn't push it.

  Before retiring for the night, I peeked out the front curtain. Two men still stood on my front lawn, with two women in a nearby car, but the faces and the vehicle had changed. Replacement workers? Great.

  I spent way too much time that night brooding about Cary. As if dealing with a Satanic altar wasn't enough, now I had a maturity-challenged lawyer stalking me. How did I get myself into these messes? Maybe publicly humiliating Cary wasn't my brightest idea ever, but how was I to know the guy would retaliate like a sixteen-year-old turned down for a prom date?

  Then there was Travis Willard. I liked Willard, which made his cop-out only that much worse. If he wouldn't support me against Cary, who would? I could say East Falls was a typical small town, insular and protective, but I grew up in a small community and it hadn't been like this at all. If the Elders would only let me move ... but that led into a whole new area of brooding. I already had enough to last me the entire night.

  All was quiet the next morning. Not surprising, given that it was Sunday and this was East Falls. At nine A.M. the phone rang. I checked caller ID. Private caller. Whenever someone doesn't want you to know who they are, it's a good bet they aren't someone you care to speak to.

  I let the machine pick up and set the kettle on the stove. The caller hung up.

  Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. Another mystery caller. I sipped my tea and waited for the hang-up. Instead, the caller left a cell-phone-static-choked message.

  "Paige, it's Grant. I want to speak to you about last night. I'll be at the office at ten."

  I grabbed the receiver, but he'd already hung up, and *69 didn't work. I considered my options, then dumped my tea down the sink and walked down the hall to Savannah's bedroom.

  "Savannah?" I called, rapping at the door. "Time to get up. We've got an errand to run."

  CHAPTER 11

  FLYING THROUGH THE AIR

  wITH THE GREATEST OF EASE

  When we arrived at Cary's office, the reception desk was deserted. No surprise there. I doubted Cary wanted Lacey to overhear this conversation.

  Our footsteps echoed through the emptiness as we crossed the hardwood floor.

  "Hello!" Cary's voice drifted from his second-story office. "I'll be right with you!"

  I headed up the stairs, Savannah behind me. A rustling of paper erupted from Cary's office, followed by the squeak of his chair.

  "Sorry about that," he said, still hidden from view. "No reception on a Sunday, I'm afraid. The wife doesn't--" He stepped from his office and blinked. "Paige? Savannah?"

  "Who were you expecting?"

  He disappeared back into his office. I followed and waved for Savannah to do the same.

  "New client," Cary said. "Not until ten-thirty, though, so I guess I can spare a few minutes. Lacey tells me you stopped by the house last night. Apparently I bumped your car on State Street. I did go downtown to pick up some dry cleaning. I can't say I recall hitting anything, but I did notice a scratch on the front bumper. Of course, I'm extremely sorry--"

  "Cut the crap. You know what you did. If you called me here to make excuses, I don't want to hear them."

  "Called you here?" He frowned as he settled into his chair. I studied his face for any sign of dissembling but saw none.

  "You didn't call me, did you?" I said.

  "No, I ... well, of course, I was going to call--"

  "Where's Lacey?"

  A deeper frown. "At church. It's her week to help Reverend Meacham set up."

  "It's a trap," I murmured. I whirled to Savannah. "We have to get out of here. Now."

  "What's going on?" Cary said, rising from his desk.

  I pushed Savannah toward the door, then thought better of it and yanked her behind me before starting forward. She grabbed my arm.

  "Careful," she mouthed.

  Right. Barreling out the door probably wasn't the best idea. I had too little experience with running and fighting for my life. Savannah already had too much.

  After motioning Savannah back, I inched around the doorway, pressed myself against the wall, and peered into the hall. Empty.

  "Is something wrong?" Cary asked.

  I reached for Savannah. Tugging her at arm's length behind me, I ventured into the hall. We sidestepped along the wall, moving toward the stairs. Halfway there I stopped and listened. Silence.

  "Are you in some kind of trouble?" Cary's voice fluttered from his office and echoed down the hall.

  I slipped back to the office and closed the door, then cast a lock spell to seal him inside. I needn't have bothered. Cary obviously had no intention of risking his neck, and chose instead to sit behind his big desk and play dumb.

  The hallway was fully enclosed, flanked by rows of shut doors, with the stairs along the left wall. I motioned for Savannah to follow, then quickstepped across the hall and wheeled around so my back was against the other wall. Again, I slid sideways, this time stopping two feet from the stairs.

  "Wait," Savannah whispered.

  I waved her to silence and leaned toward the stair opening. Savannah grabbed my sleeve and jerked me back, then gestured for me to crouch or bend before looking out. Okay, that made sense, instead of sticking my head out exactly where someone would expect to see it. I crouched and glanced down the stairwell. Empty. I scanned the waiting room below. Also empty. Five feet from the base of the stairs lay my goal. The front door.

  As I pulled back, I caught a glimpse of reflected sunlight, froze, then checked again. The front door was open an inch or two. Had Savannah left it ajar when we came in?

  I turned to Savannah.

  "Cover," I mouthed.

  Her lips tightened. Defiance flashed in her eyes. Before she could open her mouth, I locked glares with her.

  "Cover now," I hissed.

  Another flare of anger, then she lowered her eyelids. Her lips moved and, when they finished, she was gone. Invisible. So long as she didn't move, no one would see her. I paused a second, making sure she was staying covered, then crept into the stairwell.

  It took an eternity to descend. Step down, pause, listen, duck and look, step down again. Coming down a staircase is more dangerous than you'd imagine. If the stairs are enclosed, as these were, then someone standing on the lower level will see you long before you can see them. Hence the stopping, ducking and looking, which made me feel safer, though I doubted it would have saved me from anyone standing below with a gun.

  Actually, I wasn't too worried about guns; supernaturals don't usually use them. If Leah was down there, she'd more likely use telekinesis to yank my feet from under me and drag me down the stairs, breaking my spine so I'd still be alive, lying at the bottom, paralyzed, when she crushed me with a flying file cabinet. Much better than being shot. Really.

  When I finally reached the bottom, I lunged for the door handle. I grabbed it, yanked--and nearly flew face first into the wall when the door didn't move. Once I'd recovered my balance, I looked around and tugged the handle again. Nothing. The door stood an inch open, yet would neither open nor close. A barrier spell? It didn't seem like one, but I cast a barrier-breaking incantation anyway. Nothing happened. I grabbed the door edge. My fingers passed through the crack without resistance, but I couldn't pull it open. I cast an unlock spell. Nothing.

  As I stood there I was keenly aware of time passing, of standing here in plain sight, yanking on the door, an easy target, and of Savannah hiding in the upper hall, undoubtedly losing patience. After one last round of breaking-spells, I flung my back against the wall and caught my breath.

/>   We were trapped. Really trapped. Any moment now, Leah and Sandford and God knows what other kind of supernaturals would arrive and we'd--

  For God's sake, Paige, get a grip! The front door's barred. Big deal. How about another door? How about windows?

  I glimpsed sunlight glinting through the doorway behind Lacey's reception desk. Staying close to the wall, I eased a few feet left, so I could glance through the doorway. It led into a large meeting room and at the back of that room was a huge set of patio doors.

  I hunkered and bolted across the room. Then I inched along the opposite wall toward the doorway. As I slipped into the other room, a shadow flashed across the sunlit floor. I ducked behind an armchair, barely daring to breathe, knowing the chair did little to hide me. I cast a cover spell.

  The shadow danced across the floor again. Had I already been spotted? I glanced left, being careful to move only my eyes. The shadow returned, skipping over the floor. Realizing it was too small to be a person, I looked up and saw tree branches fluttering in the wind just outside the patio doors.

  As I was easing from behind the armchair, footsteps pattered across the front hall. I zipped back and cast another cover spell. The steps turned left, receded, then returned, went too far right, nearly vanishing into silence, then came back again. Searching the rooms. Were they coming my way now? Yes ... no ... they paused. A squeak of shoes turning sharply. More steps. Growing louder, louder.

  I closed my eyes and prepared a fireball spell. When a shape moved through the doorway, I launched the ball. A fiery sphere flew from the ceiling. I tensed, ready to run. As the ball fell, the intruder yelped, raising her arms to ward it off. Catching sight of her face, I flew from my hiding spot and knocked her out of the fireball's path. We hit the floor together.

  "You promised to teach me that one," Savannah said, disentangling herself from my grip.

  I clapped a hand over her mouth, but she pulled it away.

  "There's no one here," she said. "I cast a sensing spell."

  "Where'd you learn that?"

  "Your mom taught me. It's fourth level. You can't do it." She paused, then offered an ego-consoling, "Yet."

  I took a deep breath. "Okay, well, the front door's barred somehow, so I was going to try that one." I waved at the patio doors. "They're probably jammed, but maybe we can break the glass."

  Again, we moved against the wall, in case someone outside was looking in. When I reached the doors, I peeked out. The patio opened into a tiny yard, grass-free, low-maintenance, covered with interlocking brick and raised beds of perennials. As I reached for the door handle, a shadow flickered across the yew hedge at the rear of the yard. Assuming it was another waving tree branch, I stepped forward. Leah was standing against the bushes. She lifted a hand and waved.

  As I whirled toward Savannah, time slowed and I saw everything, not in a blur of movement, but in distinct, slow-motion frames. Leah raised both hands and gestured toward herself, as if beckoning us closer, but her gaze was focused on something over our heads. Then came the crash of glass. And the scream.

  I lunged at Savannah, slamming us both to the floor. As we rolled, a dark shape plummeted toward the ground outside. I saw the chair first--Cary's chair--dropping like a rock. No, faster than a rock; it flew so fast it I heard it hit the brickwork before my brain had processed the image. In my mind, I still saw the chair in midair, tilted backward. Cary sitting in it, arms and legs thrust forward by the force, mouth open, screaming. I could still hear that scream hanging in the air as the chair slammed onto the brick, and bright drops of blood sprayed outward.

  As I lifted my head, Leah caught my gaze, smiled, waved, and walked away.

  I scrambled to my feet and raced out the patio doors, which opened without resistance. Even as I ran to Cary, I knew it was too late. The force of the impact, that horrible shower of blood. Two feet away, I stopped, then doubled over, retching.

  I squeezed my eyes shut against the sight, but it was too late. I could see it against the backdrop of my eyelids. Grantham Cary, Jr., toppled from the chair, spread-eagled on the ground, his head crushed like an overripe fruit, bursting into a puddle of blood and brains. The force so great that a huge shard of glass had impaled his stomach clear through; so great that his arm, striking the corner of a perennial bed, had been severed, his detached hand still gripping the arm rest. I saw that, and I remembered Leah, smiling, waving, and I wasn't sure which was worse.

  "Paige?" Savannah whispered. Looking up, I saw her face, stark-white, staring at Cary as if unable to look away. "We--we should go."

  "No," said a voice behind us. "I don't think you should."

  Sheriff Fowler stepped through the open patio doors.

  CHAPTER 12

  LAWYER ROULETTE

  Leah had framed me for the murder of Grantham Cary. Take a woman accused of witchcraft and Satanism, a woman known to have engaged in a public feud with the murdered man, who then accused him of intentionally hitting her car and injuring her ward. This woman conspires under false pretenses to meet her former lawyer in his office, on a Sunday when his wife will be at church early. The police receive a call--a neighbor worried about the angry shouts emanating from the lawyer's office. The police arrive. The lawyer is dead. The house is empty except for the woman and her ward. Whodunit? You don't need Sherlock Holmes to figure that out.

  Again, the East Falls police department wasn't equipped to handle such a case, so they called in the state cops, who took me to their station. The police interrogated me for three hours. The same questions over and over, badgering, bullying, until I could still hear their voices echoing in my head when they left for a cigarette or a coffee.

  They'd taken everything I'd done in the last two days and twisted it to fit their theory. My tirade about Satan ism? Proof that I had a wicked temper and was easily provoked. My bakery blowout? Proof that I was paranoid, misconstruing a simple coffee invitation as a sexual proposition. My accusation about the car accident? Proof that I had a vendetta against Cary.

  All my arguments about Black Mass were now seen as protesting too much, denying the very existence of Satanic cults so I could cover up my own participation in such practices. Maybe Cary had learned the truth and refused to represent me further. Or maybe I'd hit on him and thrown a shit-fit when he rebuffed me. Maybe he had made a pass at me, but did I really expect them to believe he'd been upset enough over my rejection to slam his new Mercedes SUV into my six-year-old Honda? Grown men didn't do things like that. Not men like Grantham Cary. I was paranoid. Or delusional. Or just plain crazy. Hadn't I stormed off to his house like a madwoman, shrieking wild accusations and vowing revenge? What about Lacey's reports of electrical malfunctioning after my visit? Not that the police were accusing me of witchcraft. Rational people didn't believe in such nonsense. But I had done something. At the very least I was guilty of murdering Grantham Cary.

  After the third hour, the two detectives left for a break. Moments later, the door opened and in walked a thirty-something woman who introduced herself as Detective Flynn.

  I was pacing the room, my stomach knotted from three hours of worrying about Savannah. Was she here at the station? Or had the police called Margaret? What if this was Leah's plan, to get me locked up while she grabbed Savannah?

  "Can I get you something?" Flynn asked as she stepped inside. "Coffee? A cold drink? A sandwich?"

  "I'm not answering any more questions until someone tells me where Savannah is. I keep asking and asking and all I get is 'She's safe.' That's not good enough. I need to know--"

  "She's here."

  "Exactly where? Savannah is the subject of a custody battle. You people don't seem to understand--"

  "We understand, Paige. Right now Savannah is in the next room playing cards with two officers. Armed state troopers. Nothing will happen to her. They gave her a burger for lunch and she's fine. You can see her as soon as we're done."

  Finally, someone who didn't treat me like a tried-and-convicted murderer. I nodded and
took my seat at the table.

  "Let's get it over with, then," I said.

  "Good. Now, are you sure I can't get you something?"

  I shook my head. She settled into the seat across from me and leaned across the table, hands almost touching mine.

  "I know you didn't do this alone," she said. "I heard what happened to Grantham Cary. I doubt Mr. Universe could do that to a person, let alone a young woman your size."

  So this was the good cop. The one who was supposed to make me spill my guts, an older woman, maternal, understanding. I wanted to leap to my feet and tell her to take her act and go.

  As I sat there, I realized why such an overused police routine worked. Because, after hours of being yelled at and made to feel like a lowlife degenerate, I was desperate for validation, for someone to say, "You're not a cold-blooded killer and you don't deserve to be treated this way."

  I knew this woman didn't give a damn about me. I knew she only wanted a confession so she could high-five her colleagues watching through the one-way glass. Yet I couldn't help wanting to confide in her, to gain a smile, a look of sympathy. But I knew better, so I fixed her with a cold stare and said, "I want a lawyer."

  A smirk tainted Flynn's warmth. "Well, that could be difficult, Paige, considering he's just been taken to the morgue. Maybe you don't understand the seriousness--"

  The door opened, cutting her short. "She understands the seriousness perfectly well." Lucas Cortez walked in. "That is why she's asking for her lawyer. I will assume, Detective, that you were just about to honor that request."

  Flynn pushed back her chair. "Who are you?"

  "Her lawyer, of course."

  I tried to open my mouth, but couldn't. It was sealed shut, not by desperation or fear, but by a spell. A binding spell.

  "And when did Paige hire you?" Flynn asked.

  "It's 'Ms. Winterbourne,' and she retained my services at two o'clock P.M. yesterday, shortly after firing Mr. Cary for sexual harassment."