Cold Cases and Haunted Places

by Trixie Silvertale

  The photographer snapped photos in a whirl of laughing children.

  “Jim?”

  The broad-shouldered man straightened and lowered his camera. “Yeah?”

  I stuck out my hand. “I’m Jayce Bonheim. Gwendy suggested I find you.”

  He scraped a hand across his thinning hair. “Oh?”

  “You were at the chant last night, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could I see those photos?”

  He raised a brow. “I’m a little busy.”

  “It’s to do with the murders.”

  He blinked. “Murders? Plural? There was more than one?”

  “Another body was discovered this morning.” This afternoon? Between my growing exhaustion and lost time, everything was starting to blur.

  “Okay. But you don’t look like you’re with the police.”

  “The Doyle Sheriff’s Department is investigating,” I said, intentionally vague. “I’m off duty.” From my coffee shop. “Pulled in.”

  I was going to get into so much trouble for this. But only if I got caught. And I wasn’t exactly impersonating an officer, so… whatever. “May I?” I extended my hand toward the camera.

  With a show of reluctance, he handed it to me.

  I scanned backward in time until I reached the photos of the costume contest, and I slowed. Most of the shots were closeups of revelers. I paused at a photo of two goat-legged Pans. A fringe of crow-like feathers edged the left side of the picture. Shaking my head, I continued on and paused at an overhead shot of the crowd. It looked like he’d captured the entire tent.

  The skin on my hands tingled. There was something here—I could feel it. But all I could see on the camera screen were people’s heads the size of pinpricks. “How’d you get this shot?”

  “I stood on a ladder. I wanted to get people looking up at me, but no one did. Things got a little chaotic.”

  “At a chant?”

  He grinned. “After the chant.”

  Pulse jittering, I kept going through the photos. There was another shot of the crow goddess, standing beside a woman in a Celtic gown.

  I returned to the overhead crowd pictures and squinted at the camera’s tiny screen. A dark figure loomed in one corner of the tent, and I enlarged that section of the shot. The crow goddess.

  Okay, I’d known someone in a Badb costume had been at the chant last night. What did this picture get me? And why were my witch senses tingling? I scanned to the left on the enlarged photo.

  People in costume. More people in costume. And all I could see was the tops of their heads. There was nothing here.

  My breath caught. The crow again, on the opposite side of the crowd.

  Two Badbs?

  Hastily, I shifted back to the right of the photo. Yes, there was definitely a crow’s head. The feathers and beak were unmistakable, even from above.

  “That’s how she did it,” I whispered.

  “What?” the photographer asked.

  “I need to look at these on a bigger screen. Can you send the shots from the chant to my phone?”

  “Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

  “You were going to give them all to the PaganCon anyway. What’s the big deal?”

  His mouth tightened. “Fine. The camera’s got wi-fi. Let’s see if it will connect. The reception’s terrible up here.”

  I returned the camera to him, and he touched the screen with his thumb.

  A hot breeze stirred my hair. Branches groaned. Dust kicked into my eyes.

  I turned, wincing, and it was there, that cold, slithery feeling. It glided across the edges of my aura and left an unclean trail. I pressed my elbows into my sides, as if I could make myself less noticeable, as if to—

  “There—” Jim began.

  There was a pop. A wisp of smoke rose from the side of the camera.

  The photographer’s eyes goggled. “What the…?” He cursed and popped out the side of his camera.

  More dark, acrid smoke poured from the device.

  “My memory card!” The photographer tugged at the memory card. He yanked his hand away, waving it and grimacing. “It’s fried. Literally.”

  “No, no, no…” I opened my text messages. The last one was from Brayden. The photos were gone. The files hadn’t sent, and I tasted something sour.

  “Tell me you got that,” he said.

  I shook my head, my hand tightening on the phone. Nancy. She’d always been one step ahead of me.

  “This is a nightmare.” He clawed a hand through his hair. “I sent the best pics from yesterday to the con, and now… Everything I took today is gone, and so is most of what I took yesterday.” He groaned. “This can’t be happening.”

  My phone vibrated, and I glanced at the screen. A text file had just landed. Hand shaking, I opened it and gasped, my knees buckling. The photos from the chant.

  Hastily, I forwarded them to my sisters, to Brayden, and to Sheriff McCourt. Leaves rustled above us, and I glanced up, alarmed.

  I reached into the ground and pulled earth energy into my aura, pressed send. My screen went dark. “No!” Go through, go through, please go through.

  “What’s going on?” Jim asked. “Is some weird, invisible heat lightning messing with our tech?”

  My chest tightened. “Something like that.”

  A wave of dizziness nauseated me. The playground spun, a confused kaleidoscope.

  The photographer vanished. Darkness shrouded the playground. A swing creaked and swayed eerily, emptily.

  It had happened again. I’d lost time.

  Feet leaden, I walked down emptying trails, past vendors dismantling their stands. The con was over. I was too late. The sheriff would take me in.

  I stopped, hollow hearted, at the pumpkin patch, still blocked off with yellow tape. Had Nancy’s spell caused that dark magic feeling and the Far Darocha the lost time? Or were Nancy and the Far Darocha one and the same? Was he a part of her and she him? Did it matter?

  A deputy I knew walked past.

  “Denton?”

  The blond deputy looked up and smiled wanly. “Hey, Jayce. The sheriff’s looking for you.”

  I’ll bet she was. “I’m looking for her. Do you know where she is?”

  “She just left. If you move fast, you might catch her in the parking lot.”

  “Thanks.”

  I trudged down the darkening paths, the skin prickling between my shoulder blades. The front gates gaped wide before me. I walked through them and scanned the parking lot. Only a few cars were left.

  At the lot’s far edge, the sheriff peered into my F-150 pickup, parked beneath an oak. The tree seemed to stretch its skeletal branches toward McCourt.

  I took a step.

  A shiver of magic slipped past my auric senses.

  I stopped short. Turning in place, I studied the lot. Aside from the sheriff and myself, there was no one else around.

  But Nancy was here. I could feel the heat of her dark magic.

  I checked my phone. It was still dead.

  A ribbon of fog snaked along the ground.

  Swallowing, I broke into a run.

  Billows of fog flowed through the parking lot, swallowing the remaining cars. Mist darkened my vision. My breath rasped. Get to the sheriff. She was in this fog too and without any magical protection.

  “Sheriff McCourt,” I shouted.

  Something rose before me, and I veered away. My hip bounced painfully off a red car, and I rubbed my eyes. The fog thickened, dulling the car beside me to gray, until it vanished even though it was no more than a foot away.

  The mist pressed in on me. I drew in harsh, gulps of air, but none of it seemed enough. You’re hyperventilating. Chill.

  I slowed my breathing. Think.

  There are stories of Druids calling mists and confusing the enemy, raining down fire…

  Dammit.

  9

  I ducked into what I imagined was a fighting crouch. Carefully, I pushed my a
ura outward and felt with my magical senses. Arctic, sticky magic spiraled around me.

  My pulse raced. The mist was the spell, I realized. It was the dark magic. And it was everywhere.

  I took a cautious step forward. The world tilted and spun and I was in the circle of tall granite stones again. I lurched sideways and steadied, swallowing. How had I gotten here?

  …confusing the enemy…

  Right. That’s how I’d gotten here. My gut churned. And if someone wanted me here, it couldn’t be for a good reason.

  Nancy stepped from the mist in her business suit, a dagger in her hand.

  An ache of fear speared my chest. I took an involuntary step backward and collided with a tall stone, rough with lichen.

  Nancy raised the knife, its tip pointing to the dark sky. And I couldn’t help noticing its handle looked a lot like the one that I’d found buried in Robert’s chest.

  “Far Darocha! I invoke you with this sacrifice.” Nancy pointed the knife at me.

  Sacrifice? I held my breath.

  And…

  Nothing happened.

  I exhaled. Take that! I’m not a witch for nothing. My auric protection wasn’t a total fail.

  But Nancy’s magic had pulled me here, so it hadn’t been a total success either. And she had a knife.

  I spun and bolted between the stones. I reemerged inside the stone circle and stumbled to a halt. Mist swirled between the stones.

  Nancy raised a brow. “Nice try.”

  Now I just felt dumb. “So you are the one with the power of the Far Darocha,” I said. “Robert Darian—”

  “Was a fool.”

  “Was your boyfriend, and he dumped you. Too bad he didn’t realize just how crazy you were sooner. Is that why he kicked you to the curb?”

  I wasn’t sure why I was stalling. There was no rescue on its way. But I was in no hurry to face that knife. Brayden had told me about the knife wounds he’d patched up, or hadn’t had a chance to patch up because the victims had bled out too quickly.

  Nancy bristled. “The breakup was mutual.”

  “Sure it was.” I folded my arms, shifting the bag on my shoulder. “So you killed him for revenge and tried to frame me.”

  “I didn’t kill him because we broke up. He was the most powerful druid in our order. I killed him as a sacrifice.”

  “You—what?” My jaw hung open unattractively, and I snapped it shut. Robert had been a sacrifice? I hadn’t seen that one coming. But I guess I should have. Druid Dan had told me his Stone Age ancestors had made human sacrifices.

  “I’ve always been good at getting people to do what I want,” she said. “But once I killed Robert, all I had to do was think what I wanted, and people did it. No more cajoling. No more pressuring. And I haven’t even given Him what he really wants.”

  “Really wants?”

  “Once he receives the final sacrifice, I’ll be unbeatable.”

  And the final sacrifice would be me. Great. “You’re killing people for… votes?”

  Energy shivered behind me. A crack like thunder split the air.

  Clapping my hands to my ears, I spun toward the sound.

  A jagged fissure raced upward from the base of the largest boulder.

  Nancy gave a happy gasp. “He comes. The Far Darocha heard my invocation. He honors me. He accepts my offering.”

  I pulled my bag closer and slipped one hand inside.

  “Jayce?”

  I started and looked to my right.

  Lenore frowned at me. My sister’s long blond hair glimmered dully in the mist. Her pale sundress seemed to merge with the fog. “I thought you were going to call me.”

  No. A weight pressed on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I had to breathe. I had to get us out of here. “What are you doing here?” I croaked.

  “I got worried when you didn’t answer my texts.”

  An oily gray mist slithered from the crack in the stone. It spiraled upward, forming a vaguely human shape. The dark man.

  “What the hell’s that?” Lenore stepped closer to me.

  “The Far Darocha,” I whispered. My sister, here. The Far Darocha, here.

  Now I understood, too late. Lenore was the real sacrifice. Robert, Partridge, and I were just the warm-up acts. Lenore, who’d been to fairyland. Lenore, whose powers had grown since her return. Lenore, my baby sister.

  “My Lord and master.” Nancy raised her hands. “I invoke you. I invite you. I offer myself as your servant. Take the witch as an offering.”

  The mist darkened, the contours of a tall, hollow-cheeked man gaining definition.

  Lenore’s eyes turned black. Her face slackened. My sister stepped toward the Far Darocha.

  I grabbed Lenore’s arm. She shook me off.

  “Whatever.” Roughly, I pushed Lenore aside. I lunged, driving the railroad spike into the oily mist.

  So here’s the thing.

  Fairies really hate iron. Stabbing a fairy with iron is like pouring salt on a banana slug. It doesn’t go well for the banana slug, and it doesn’t go well for the fairy.

  My iron nail slipped through the Far Darocha like a toothpick through latte foam. It pinged off the granite, and sparks shot into the mist.

  The Far Darocha shrieked. His wail expanded, and I clapped my hands to my ears. The ground shook. Dried oak leaves drifted from their branches.

  The oily mist collapsed in on itself, and the tall stone sort of vacuumed it back inside.

  “No.” Nancy dropped to her knees. Her blade slipped from her grasp and to the ground.

  The mist around us vanished, and the ordinary con noises flowed in. The clang of a metal stand being dismantled. A bird chirping. The sound of a car starting. Lenore gasped and bent, hands on her knees.

  I stepped on the blade. “Are you okay?” I asked my sister.

  “No,” Nancy whispered and folded forward. She curled like a dried leaf onto the ground.

  Lenore nodded and called the sheriff.

  Nancy didn’t try to take the blade I was still standing on. She didn’t resist when the sheriff arrived and two deputies hauled her to standing. And she didn’t argue when I told the sheriff how Nancy had talked her assistant into wearing a double of the raven costume at the chant, and then slipped away to murder her ex as part of a ritual sacrifice.

  “Yeah,” Sheriff McCourt said. “I figured out the costume bit when I got those photos.”

  “You got them?” Relief!

  Sheriff McCourt shook her head. “I was sure she’d killed him because he’d dumped her. But I guess that explains why she used a ritual dagger.”

  “I know. Right?” I said. “I mean, who does ritual sacrifice these days?”

  The sheriff shot me a sharp look.

  “Well,” I said, “not me.”

  “Me neither,” Lenore said quickly.

  The sheriff gazed pointedly at my sandaled foot. “Do you mind?”

  “Oh.” I stepped aside, and a deputy bagged the dagger.

  Lenore’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen and handed it to me. “It’s for you. Brayden.”

  I grabbed the phone. “Brayden, I’m—”

  “I’m at the airport in Kabul. I’ll be home in eighteen hours.”

  Lenore edged away, giving us privacy.

  “No,” I said, “it’s okay. The sheriff caught the killer. Everything’s okay. You can stay.”

  “I don’t want to be away from you another minute. I’m coming home.”

  The line went dead. I sucked in a breath, my muscles tensing. Not again. Not the Far—

  A text pinged on my phone. Brayden.

  RECEPTION ROTTEN. SEE YOU IN 18 HOURS.

  I sagged. It had only been a dropped call.

  “Druids,” the sheriff was saying in a disgusted tone. “What next?”

  “She’s not really representative,” Lenore said. “Human sacrifice went out with the Stone Age.”

  “If you say so.” The sheriff and her deputies dragged Nancy away.
r />   Lenore stared at the cracked boulder. “So he’s real,” she said faintly.

  “He’s gone now. I have a feeling he won’t be coming back. Not without another host making sacrifices to him—and what are the odds of that?”

  “Impossibly low, but… the Far Darocha is a thing.”

  I shrugged. Brayden was coming home and all was well with the world. “Whatever.”

  Note from Kirsten:

  Not a lot is known about the ancient druids. The best we have is info from the Romans. It appears ancient Druidry was based in a type of shamanism, and the battle magic described is rooted in historical texts. Today’s Druidry is more of a spiritual than magical practice.

  Follow the magic with the Doyle Witch trilogy, starting with book 1, Bound. Each book has its own complete mystery and romance told from a different sister’s point of view, and Bound, Down and Ground can all be enjoyed independently, with a magical storyline weaving through the three books. The Doyle Witch stories, however, have expanded a great deal beyond the initial three books, including as of this writing six novels, six novellas, and even a book of Lenore’s poetry.

  And escape with The Melancholy Detective, a free novelette in Kirsten’s Riga Hayworth paranormal mystery series, by joining the Ravenous Society. Society members will get other free short stories, exclusive reads, and random goodies. Sign up and become a member today!

  A haunted asylum. A twisted legend. Can this psychic sleuth save the Halloween partygoers? Mitzy Moon wants to unwind and celebrate, but the spirit world has other plans. If she and her ghostly Grams can't solve the mystery of Great Lakes Haven, her mischief night treats could play deadly tricks!

  1

  Is it wrong to say that an asylum looks inviting? Before you answer, allow me to explain.

  It’s All Hallows’ Eve and our fair city’s newest arrival, Otto Mumler, a Michelin-starred chef who was run out of Chicago by his vindictive former partner, is footing the bill for an extravagant bash as a way of building buzz for his next venture, The Haunted Hamlet Resort and Bistro. He hopes to springboard off the legends of hauntings at the should-be-condemned Great Lakes Haven Asylum, and parlay them into an eatery that will make the world beg to be deliciously terrified.