Redmond broke out into a hearty laugh. “So, we’ve moved on from middle school to high school.”
I wrinkled my nose at him.
“That is not funny,” Dad said.
“Gang bangs are never funny,” Jerry agreed.
“Gang what?” Dad furrowed his brow, perplexed.
“No one answer that,” Redmond ordered. “We’ll all be locked in our rooms without food for the rest of the day if someone explains that.”
“Not Aisling,” Aidan said. “She’s Dad’s favorite today.”
That was a new development. I can’t remember ever being Dad’s favorite.
“She certainly is,” Dad agreed.
Griffin looked surprised when a maid slipped a full plate – omelet, hash browns and toast – in front of him. “Thank you.”
“It’s good,” I prodded him. “We spare no expense on food preparation.”
Griffin smiled and tentatively took a bite. “This is good.”
“I told you,” I said. “See, Griffin is glad we have omelets.”
“Well, bully for him,” Braden grumbled. “You know I don’t like eggs.”
“So eat the hash browns and toast,” I suggested.
“How long do those happy pills last?” Braden asked. “I prefer Aisling grumpy and sexually repressed.”
“Hey!”
Griffin’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Dad didn’t seem to appreciate his reaction.
“Why are you here, Detective Taylor?”
Griffin swallowed. “I just wanted to see if Aisling remembered anything else,” he said. “I’m guessing, thanks to her meds, that’s probably not going to happen today.”
“No,” Dad agreed.
“I was wondering if you could verify the clients she was meeting at the hospital, though?”
“Of course,” Dad replied, not missing a beat. “David and Cynthia Braxton. I was in contact with them this morning. They don’t mind me passing their name and contact information over to you.”
Dad must have been busy with some finagling this morning.
Griffin looked surprised at how gracious my father was being. “Um, great.”
“Isn’t it?” Dad said, his eyes bright with faux innocence. “Stop it, you two.”
I glanced down the table and saw Aidan and Jerry sharing food from each other’s plates.
“We’re not doing anything,” Aidan complained.
“Well, stop doing whatever it is you’re not doing,” Dad ordered.
“He’s such a killjoy,” Aidan muttered.
“I heard that.”
When breakfast was over, I managed to get to my feet – even though my equilibrium was clearly off – and I walked Griffin to the front door. “I’m sorry you had to sit through that.”
“It’s fine,” Griffin said, reaching over and pushing a strand of hair from my face. The small gesture caused a flood of heat to rush to my cheeks. “I like seeing you with them, even if you are a little high on life this morning.”
“Why? They’re idiots.”
“Idiot is a strong word.”
“You have a better word?”
“Family,” Griffin said, shrugging. “You’re a family. Even Jerry.”
“Yeah, Jerry might be actual family before it’s all said and done,” I grumbled, my eyes narrowing at the thought.
Griffin chuckled. “Something tells me that’s going to be all right.”
Something told me that, too – even though I didn’t want to admit it out loud.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember anything,” I said.
“I am, too,” Griffin admitted. “Maybe you will, though, in time.”
“Maybe.” Probably not.
Griffin opened the door and moved to step through it, stopping before I could shut the door behind him.
“I know there’s something going on here you don’t want to tell me,” he said. “I have a feeling your whole family – and probably Jerry, too – is in on it. I just want you to know that, when you’re ready to tell me, I’m ready to listen.”
It was a nice offer – and part of me really wanted to take it – but it wasn’t an option.
“Um, okay, thanks.”
Griffin took a step back in my direction, his lips hovering a few inches from mine. Instead of pressing them together, though, he brushed them against my forehead before pulling back. His face was flushed with color and he looked embarrassed at his own brazenness. “So, uh, feel better.”
I had lost all rational thought, so all I could do was wave goodbye. What is going on here?
Twenty-Four
When I got back to the dining room, I found it empty. I followed the sound of voices until it led me to Dad’s office. Everyone, including Jerry, was congregated inside. Since my mind was still mulling the near-kiss, Jerry’s presence didn’t strike me as particularly odd.
“What are we talking about?”
“Is your friend gone?” Dad asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he kiss you?” Jerry asked, barely containing his excitement.
“He better not have,” Dad said.
Jerry shot a disappointed look at my father. “Why not?”
“Dad doesn’t like him,” Redmond said.
“Why not? He’s hot.” Jerry wasn’t going to let this go.
“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” Dad replied. “He’s still a police officer. A police officer investigating Aisling and Aidan in conjunction with a murder, I might add.”
“So?” Jerry really can be clueless sometimes.
“So, it’s not like she can be honest with a cop,” Dad said.
“Why not?”
“That’s what I said,” Aidan interjected. “He’ll probably be a little put off at first, but I think he can handle it.”
“Why would he?” Now Dad was the one being oblivious.
“Because he’s warm for Aisling’s form,” Jerry replied.
“Stop saying that,” I snapped.
“I agree,” Dad said. “In fact, if I hear that come out of your mouth again, I’m banning you from this house. We have bigger problems right now.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, wedging myself between Braden and Cillian on the couch. “What did you guys find out last night? Besides the fact that alcohol and information gathering don’t mix?”
“I’ll have you know that we had a very successful information hunt last night,” Redmond countered. “We found out a ton of stuff.”
“Were any of them real blondes?”
Redmond narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t want us to start talking about Griffin again, I’d be very careful.”
“I’m injured,” I reminded him. “You can’t be mean to me.”
“That’s right,” Dad said “Let’s get back to what you guys learned last night.”
“Well, what we learned wasn’t good,” Redmond admitted.
“Not good how?”
“There have been at least seven wraiths sighted in the area,” he said.
“How can they be sure? It’s not like they look different from each other.”
“No,” Redmond agreed. “Two different people have seen them in a group, though.”
Uh-oh. “I thought wraiths didn’t like each other.”
“They don’t, under normal circumstances,” Dad said. “These are clearly not normal circumstances.”
“Why don’t wraiths like each other?” Jerry asked. “I would think that if you’re a soul-sucking Dementor, like these guys, you would want someone to hang out with. Someone who understands the issues associated with being a soul sucker. Someone who knows makeup tricks to hide pale skin.”
“What’s a Dementor?” Dad looked confused.
“They’re from Harry Potter,” I explained. “They’re … well, they kind of are like wraiths.”
“And Harry Potter is a book?”
“And movies,” Aidan said. “Pretty great movies, actually. You should watch them. I think you’ll find you have a l
ot in common with Voldemort.”
“Aren’t they for kids?” Dad asked, the Voldemort reference flying over his head.
“And kids at heart,” Aidan replied, tapping the left side of his chest for emphasis.
“Maybe, when this little disaster has passed, I will.”
“Can we come back from movie hour?” I griped. My meds were clearly wearing off.
“Right,” Redmond said. “Anyway, at least two people have seen seven of them in a group. That means there could be seven of them, or there could be more.”
“What do they want?” Aidan asked.
“I don’t know,” Redmond said. “I do think it has something to do with Brian Harper’s missing grimoire, though.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked. I didn’t doubt him, but it seemed like a big leap.
“Well, that’s where I come in,” Cillian said. “I managed to find out exactly what grimoire Brian Harper had in his possession.”
“How did you do that?” Dad asked.
“I found him on a buyer’s list from an auction house in England last night, right before we got the call about Aisling,” Cillian explained. “The name of the grimoire was in the auction catalog.”
“Why do I think this is going to be bad?” I asked.
“Because your meds are wearing off,” Braden said, rubbing my knee.
“It’s the Torth Grimoire,” Cillian announced.
That name meant absolutely nothing to me. A glance around the room told me it didn’t mean anything to anyone else either. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
“The Torth Grimoire belonged to a seventeenth century witch named Genevieve Torth,” Cillian continued. “She lived in Salem, Massachusetts.”
“Was she burned at the stake?” Jerry looked excited at the prospect.
“No,” Cillian said. “She was never suspected of being a witch until after her death. In fact, she was the one naming names to the witch hunters in Salem. Also, not to be a pain, but the witches in Salem were hanged, not burned at the stake.”
“That’s not nearly as exciting,” Jerry grumbled.
“So she was hiding her identity by pointing a finger at others,” Redmond mused, turning the conversation back to the point. “Nice lady.”
“Exactly.”
“That sounds evil,” Jerry said.
I had to agree.
“Anyway, Genevieve Torth left Salem just as the witch trials were dying down,” Cillian said. “That in itself is not particularly interesting. What is interesting is that once she was gone, Salem residents claimed they had made the accusations against these supposed witches because they were under a spell. They also said that Genevieve had three demons in her employ – seven-foot-tall demons that bear a striking resemblance to what we now know are wraiths.”
“Wait a second,” I interrupted. “When we initially were talking about the grimoire, you said it was an eighteenth century book.”
“I’ll get to that,” Cillian said. “Anyway, nothing much is known about Genevieve Torth in the decade following her departure from Salem. She seems to have just fallen off the face of the Earth.”
“I’m guessing recordkeeping wasn’t that great back in the day,” Aidan said.
“No,” Cillian agreed. “However, in 1708, a Jennifer Torth appeared in London, England. She was believed to be the daughter of Genevieve Torth, even though Genevieve Torth never had any children, according to anyone who knew her in Salem.”
“So Jennifer Torth was Genevieve Torth? How does that work?”
“It wasn’t exactly hard to change your identity back then,” Cillian said. “Jennifer Torth lived in London for ten years and the historical anecdotes about her time there seem to signify that she didn’t age. When people started to question her about it, Jennifer Torth moved from London and disappeared like her supposed mother.”
“Where did she go?” Jerry asked, clearly enthralled by story hour.
“She disappeared,” Cillian said, his voice lowering as he played to his audience.
“Is that the end of the story?” Braden looked disappointed.
“Not even close,” Cillian said. “In 1822, a Sarah Torth surfaced in the New Orleans area.”
“Another descendant?” I asked.
“That was the assumption, even though Jennifer Torth was also childless. Sarah Torth became entrenched with some locals, creating a religion that has some striking similarities with modern voodoo.”
“But it wasn’t voodoo?”
“No,” Cillian shook his head. “It was a religion that Sarah Torth invented – but she managed to amass more than a hundred followers, many of whom disappeared under mysterious circumstances during her years in the city.”
I could see where this was going. “She was feeding them to the wraiths.”
Cillian frowned. “You’re ruining my story.”
“Sorry. Continue.” He’s so touchy sometimes.
“After more than twenty of these religious followers disappeared, a bunch of people banded together and went to Sarah Torth’s house,” Cillian said. “They were going to burn it to the ground. Five tall figures in robes, though, stopped them. A lot of people were left dead and those who survived swore that they were attacked by demons.”
“More wraiths,” Redmond breathed.
“Yes.”
“So, what happened after that?” I asked.
“No one knows,” Cillian said. “Sarah Torth, Genevieve Torth and Jennifer Torth were never heard from again – at least that I can find mention of, that is.”
“Then how did the grimoire get out there?”
“That’s a really good question,” Cillian ceded. “All we know is that the Torth Grimoire first went public in 1920, when a housewife in Detroit, of all places, discovered it in the basement of her home. A local historian dated the book to the eighteenth century, which I think we all can agree was an error, not that it matters now.”
“So we have no idea what happened to Genevieve Torth?” I asked.
“No,” Cillian said, but I could tell he was holding back.
“What do you suspect happened to her?”
Cillian rubbed his hands together. “I think, and I have no proof of this mind you, but I’ve been thinking about it all morning and I think I have an answer.”
“We’re hanging on your every word,” Redmond prodded him.
“I think that Genevieve Torth discovered how to control wraiths,” he said. “Not only that, but she fed them people to keep them in her servitude.”
“I think we all figured that out.”
Cillian shot me a dark look. “I also think, as part of the endeavor, that Genevieve Torth managed to utilize the immortality of the wraiths, thus keeping herself young for decades.”
Well, that was more impressive. “But we have no idea how she finally died? Or how her grimoire ended up in Detroit?”
“No.”
“So, what does all this mean?” Jerry asked, his gaze wandering from drawn face to drawn face.
“It means we’re in trouble,” Dad said. “It means that someone here has gotten their hands on the Torth Grimoire and they’re trying to continue what she was doing. They’re amassing wraiths in an attempt to gain immortal life, although I’m not sure how that works. That seems like the best supposition with the facts in front of us, though.”
“Up until now,” Cillian said, bobbing his head up and down. “The wraiths have slid under the radar because they’ve been sucking souls that weren’t on our lists, so we weren’t aware of what was going on.”
“They’re getting bolder,” Aidan said.
“Yeah,” Cillian agreed. “Either they don’t care that we’ve found out, or that was part of their plan all along. We really have no way of knowing.”
“The question is why,” Dad said, running his hand through his hair. “If they do want us to know – and I find it hard to believe that they don’t – what is their ultimate goal?”
“Is there any way we can
find that out?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” Dad said. “I honestly have no idea.”
I turned to Cillian, but he merely shrugged in response. “I don’t know either.”
Well, this isn’t good.
Twenty-Five
“I’m sorry, what are we doing?”
Redmond had informed me about Dad’s way of distracting us from our current dilemma, but I thought he was playing a joke on me.
“Dad wants to go golfing,” Redmond said, matching me shrug for shrug.
“Golfing? I don’t golf. It’s a stupid sport. It’s really just whacking a ball and walking after it.”
“You can drive the cart,” Redmond offered.
“Is that legal on the meds I’m on?”
“At least it will be entertaining.”
“Don’t any of us have to work today? I know I’m off the schedule for a few days because of my little incident, but the rest of you should have to work,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I guess there were only six names to deal with today,” Redmond explained. “Dad contacted the Grimaldis and they’ve agreed to cover for us.”
“So Dad is actually organizing an event that encourages us to shirk our duties? Has he been possessed?”
“Funny,” Redmond poked me in the ribs, making me cringe because of my back. “And I’m a little worried, too.”
“I don’t think it’s a good sign,” I said. “It means he thinks we’re all going to die or something.”
“God, you’re so dramatic.”
“Am I wrong?”
Redmond swished his lips as he considered the question. “Let’s just humor him.”
“So, you think we’re going to die, too?”
“We’re not going to die,” Redmond laughed. “Is it so wrong that he wants us to go out as a family?”
“He’s taking us to the country club,” I reminded him. “That means we have to dress properly.”
“So?
“So? So I don’t have any short pants here.” Or anywhere, for that matter.
“Yes, you do,” Jerry said, breezing into the room. “I went to the store and picked some up for you.”
Witchy Dreams Page 38
