Dead Witch on a Bridge

by Gretchen Galway

  “Of course,” Livia said. “I have four. One of them always hides. Why, are you allergic?”

  I took a step back. “I’m afraid so. I better not come in.”

  “But you have a cat,” Birdie said. “Don’t you?”

  Both women stared at me, waiting for an explanation I couldn’t give.

  Chapter Six

  This was one reason I didn’t have friends. It was easier to avoid people than avoid lies. I took a moment to concoct a partial truth.

  “Not full time,” I said. “I have to get loaded up on antihistamines first before I let her in the house.”

  Livia gestured to a patio set of redwood furniture. “I suppose we can sit out here. The wind isn’t too bad. It might be therapeutic to get out of the house. I’ve been crying nonstop since I got the news at three this morning.” The chairs had yellow-and-white-striped cushions, which seemed impractical in a forest. “Should I make coffee?”

  “Not for me,” I said. “I can only stay a minute.”

  Although she obviously hadn’t wanted my company in the first place, now she was offended I wouldn’t stay. “Why not?” she asked. “What could you possibly be doing that’s more important than grieving for a decent, generous man who was—who was—struck down at the prime of his life?”

  I clenched my teeth together. Livia wasn’t a witch, wasn’t a demon, wasn’t family or employer, but somehow the woman always got under my skin. Born to wealth and privilege, Livia instinctively judged everyone, especially people she thought weren’t very smart or hardworking. Like me.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets to stop myself from doing something I’d regret, such as inflicting a rash of posterior cystic acne. Livia was irritating, but she’d just lost the man she’d loved. Or her idea of the man, anyway.

  “I have a dog in the car,” I said. “And a friend’s expecting me.” Not quite true but close enough.

  “A dog? Well, I suppose you would. It’s not like you have a job.” Livia closed her eyes and held up a hand. “Sorry, that sounded critical. All I meant was, you’re home a lot.”

  That wasn’t all she’d meant. Born with money, Livia was suspicious of people who seemed to survive without it. In some ways she was right to be suspicious—I must have some source of income to buy food and pay the rent on my house, however small. The beaded necklaces and bracelets I sold at the farmers’ markets around Sonoma County and in the Bay Area shouldn’t be enough to live on. Since she didn’t know they were magical and therefore cost more than they looked, she assumed I must get my money from somebody else, somebody who wasn’t as stupid and lazy as I was. Uncle Sam, perhaps, or—possibly her deepest, nastiest suspicion—the late, great, generous Tristan Price.

  “Speaking of jobs,” Birdie said. “That’s where I met Tristan. I rang up the purchase order for the new kitchen he had put in last winter. Nice of him to shop local, don’t you think? The boss always says that. She loves Tristan. Contractors come into the store all the time and put things on his account.”

  Birdie worked at Cypress Hardware, the biggest store in town, a general hardware, arts and crafts, agricultural and pet supply, and do-it-yourself retailer that managed to compete against the big-box chain stores in Riovaca. As if by magic, people said, which is exactly what it was. If you got lost driving out of town, you tended to shop local.

  “You need to make sure everyone at the store is invited to the service,” Livia said. “If nobody from the Price family steps forward, I’ll arrange it myself.”

  I didn’t think there would be any Prices showing up to throw a funeral in Silverpool. The only time Tristan had mentioned family had been in the past tense.

  The Protectorate, on the other hand, would have some kind of gathering, but it would be private, and there wouldn’t be any tears. The witches at the top of the Protectorate weren’t the emotional type—another reason I didn’t work there anymore. The witches at the bottom weren’t supposed to have feelings—unless those feelings helped them murder demons.

  Sorry. Exterminate. Like killing cockroaches. Just doing everyone a favor. The only person who had ever understood how I felt about that was Jasper. I wanted to talk to him now more than ever. Being with nonmagicals could be exhausting.

  “I really do have to go,” I said, glancing at Birdie.

  She mouthed a silent apology: Please forgive me. I never should’ve asked you for a ride here. I know what she’s like. I’m so, so, so sorry. Can I make you muffins?

  It was much longer than any unvoiced message should ever be. Only my magic allowed me to understand it.

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for the memorial,” I said as my first foot hit the stairs, just because I felt like I had to say something else before I could escape.

  “Thank you, Alma,” Livia said. “I will.”

  Tactical error. I didn’t look back, just kept walking. In general, I’d be happy to help with a memorial service. But for Tristan? With Livia?

  I shuddered and pulled out my car fob. When I climbed into the Jeep, Random jumped at me, tongue extended for a kiss, his entire body quivering as if he’d given up hope of ever seeing me again.

  “I know how you feel,” I said. “It felt like a long time to me too.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jasper lived in a bungalow a half mile west of town on an unmarked private road. Redwood and cedar surrounded the small olive-green house, hiding it from casual drive-bys. He grew apples and pears on a sunny slope behind the house and gave the harvest to the fairies. He’d learned to do that after his first winter solstice in town, when the Vago River had jumped its banks and flooded his home with high-tide sludge.

  A gravel driveway curved around the back to a detached one-car garage. His old blue Prius wasn’t the only car parked there. Behind it was a small white BMW I’d never seen before.

  Who could that be? Jasper was almost as solitary as I was. Officially, he taught guitar, piano, digital music software. Secretly and more profitably, he taught magic. But on the morning after the Protector’s murder? Unlikely.

  With his little driveway already full, I had to park my Jeep on the road with my wheels in the drainage ditch. I looked at Random to see if he had an opinion about where I’d brought us, but he panted and stared straight ahead, giving nothing away.

  “We’re at Jasper’s house,” I said, still hoping for a response.

  He glanced at me and kept panting.

  “Let me know if you think of anything,” I muttered, getting out of the car. I held my door open for him to climb over and follow. He turned away and looked at the handle on the passenger side.

  “If you insist.” I slammed my door and had to walk down into the ditch to open the door he apparently preferred.

  He jumped down to join me, furiously wagging his tail. I shut the door and watched for any sign of familiarity with Jasper’s property, but he stood where he was, waiting for me to lead the way to Jasper’s front door.

  If he’d known Jasper, surely he would’ve rushed ahead on his own?

  I studied the BMW as I walked past, saw the San Francisco dealer tags on the license plate frames. Although the city seemed light years away, it was only about seventy miles. A local person might make the trip to buy a luxury car if it was a really good deal.

  I put my hand on the door, muttered a quick spell to probe the space inside, and detected a faint thrum of latent magic. Not Jasper’s fingerprint, so his visitor’s. A witch.

  A witch with a BMW from San Francisco had to mean—

  The door opened. Jasper stood there with a bright, unblinking look on his face that was trying to tell me something without saying it. “Alma. I’m so sorry about Tristan,” he said. “We were just talking about him.”

  “We?” I asked.

  A petite woman a little younger than me appeared behind him. If her face hadn’t been red and splotchy from crying recently, she would’ve been stunning. With the tears and snot streaks, she was merely beautiful.

  S
he held out a small hand. “Phoebe Day,” she said softly. Bird-boned, golden-skinned, wavy-haired. Her almond-shaped eyes were the brown of black coffee.

  “I’m Alma. Sorry, am I intruding? I can come back later—”

  Jasper looked unsure, but Phoebe shook her head violently. “No, no,” she said. “You have to stay. You have to. Please.”

  I glanced at Jasper, who smiled tightly and stepped away from the door to usher me in.

  Then he saw Random and smiled. “You got a dog?”

  His question was warm and natural, as if the dog was just a dog, one unknown to him.

  I paused, not wanting to say anything until I knew who Phoebe was. “Long story. Is he allowed inside?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course,” Jasper said. “Not safe for him otherwise. The fairies have driven away the feral cats I was feeding. Who knows what they’d do with a nice puppy like that. What’s his name?”

  “Random,” I said.

  The dog immediately sat down, rigid with attention.

  “Come here, buddy,” Jasper said, patting his thighs.

  Random, eyes on me, didn’t move.

  “Go ahead,” I said softly. He jumped up and trotted through the doorway, tail wagging, and went over to sniff Jasper and then the pretty, weepy Phoebe.

  “You’ve done a great job training him,” Jasper said.

  I smiled faintly. “He was a natural.”

  “Oh, what a sweetheart,” Phoebe said, stroking Random’s head as he jumped up, trying to lick her face. “Dogs are so empathetic, aren’t they? They really do sense distress.”

  “It’s been a rough day,” I said. “Were you close to Tristan?”

  Jasper flung out a hand, gesturing at the sofa and chairs under the front window. “Let’s sit. Phoebe was just telling me a story.”

  We filed into the room to sit. Unlike me, Jasper had new furniture. The sofa and chairs were a set. The area rug was color coordinated with the paintings and earth-toned walls. The two table lamps were identical twins. And everything was in all-natural, expensive materials: leather, oak, wool, jute, silk, hemp. When I’d first been over, I’d been surprised—he was messy and tended to wear thrift shop T-shirts and jeans—and he’d explained a former student of his had done the decorating in exchange for tutoring.

  I took the chair closest to the door and tilted it to have a view of the street. I hadn’t been an agent for over two years, but the training went deep. Well, the stuff that I liked. Phoebe sat on the couch and invited the dog to sit with her, but he broke away and sat at my feet. Jasper looked as if he’d rather stay standing but then took the other chair.

  “It’s a sign. Your showing up, I mean.” Phoebe gave me a big-eyed, melting look. “I was just begging Jasper to introduce us.”

  “Us?” I asked. “You wanted to meet me?”

  Phoebe nodded. She looked as if the tears were going to start falling again. “Yes,” she whispered. She paused to take a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed her high cheekbones. Thick silver and gold bangles rattled against each other on her wrists, marking her as a metal witch. Most agents were. “You have no idea what I’ve been going through. I don’t know who to go to, who can help.”

  I shot Jasper a questioning look.

  “Phoebe works at the Protectorate in San Francisco,” he said, not giving me much.

  “My sister’s ex-boyfriend knew a guy who studied with Jasper,” Phoebe said. “He said he was really nice. Really helpful. I’m sorry I can’t remember his name. It’s been so stressful. You have no idea.”

  “I’ve had a lot of students over the years,” Jasper said. “I’m sure I can’t remember their names either, and I knew them personally.”

  Phoebe gave him a grateful look, and Jasper flushed and sat up straighter, obviously not immune to her beauty. So far as I knew, Jasper hadn’t had a date since I’d moved to Silverpool.

  “You need a focus string?” I asked, trying to get to the point. “I do make them, usually out of redwood beads, but they’re not powerful enough for solving big problems.” Metal and stone witches usually held the less flashy botanical elements in contempt.

  Phoebe shook her head and turned to Jasper again. “You can explain much better than I can.”

  Jasper looked as if he wanted to argue, but Phoebe blasted him with another gooey look. His gaze darted back to me. “She thinks you can help her,” he said. “Something big was stolen from the Diamond Street office yesterday.”

  “It’s actually rather small,” Phoebe said.

  “Something valuable.” Jasper shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and studied the tasteful colors of the rug under his feet. “The way it was stolen suggests a pro.”

  I dug my fingers into Random’s thick fur, seeking comfort in his solid warmth. “Does this have anything to do with Tristan Price’s death?”

  “God, I hope not,” Phoebe said. “That would… No, I’m sure it’s just a horrible coincidence. Your—” She bit her lip.

  An awkward silence filled the room.

  Sounded like Malcolm had been busy yesterday. Sometimes he would go on a thieving rampage, like a pub crawl, hitting multiple victims in one night.

  “You think my father stole it?” I asked. I kept my voice casual, like it had nothing to do with me because it didn’t, not anymore. Even if he’d just been in my own home the night before trying to steal something. The only way I could survive with my criminal father walking the earth was to isolate myself from whatever he did.

  “I am so, so sorry to come to you like this, but he doesn’t realize what the torc can do. They barely explained it to me. It’s a very powerful amulet.” Phoebe leaned forward, delicate hands spread over her delicate knees. “If you could just tell him it’s dangerous—”

  “You don’t know it was him. It could be”—I thought wildly—“Freewitches. For all you know.”

  Freewitches were the scapegoat for any witch-related activity the Protectorate didn’t like: Shadow magic, crimes against nonmag populations, indigestion. I’d never actually met one. It seemed like the Protectorate called any witch they didn’t like a Freewitch so they could claim authority over them.

  Phoebe shook her head. “That was my first thought, but the way the torc was stolen…” Phoebe sounded as if she genuinely regretted having to say any of what she was saying. “I’ve been told it has his fingerprints all over it.”

  “Metaphorically, you mean,” I said.

  “Magically,” Phoebe said, more sharply. “The spell signature reminded my boss of one he’d found when your father stole a book from the Berlin office.”

  “Let me guess.” I moved my hand away from the dog, who might get injured if I kept using him as a stress ball. “Lorne. Thomas Lorne is your boss with the sharp detective instincts.”

  “Naturally, as his daughter, it would be hard for you to admit his guilt.”

  I concentrated on keeping my expression blank. If I told this ambitious young thing that Lorne was not only my father’s enemy but also my own, she might not believe the lie I was going to have to say next.

  While I silently prepared the spell to lie convincingly, Jasper clapped his hands and made kissing noises to Random, who bounded over and began barking.

  Thanks to the distraction, I was able to keep myself from gagging when I said, “Lorne is a very powerful witch. A great man.”

  Phoebe’s face lit up with a dazzling smile. “I’m so glad you agree. Yes, yes he is. A great, powerful mage.”

  Some of the metal and stone witches at the Protectorate called themselves mages, but most of us thought it was silly. Hard magic wasn’t necessarily more powerful than soft magic like herbs and other biological materials, but those types liked to puff themselves up.

  “You must be very proud to be working for him,” I added.

  “I am. I thought that with your own, you know, history, you might not appreciate him.”

  “How could I not?” I felt bile rising in the back of my throat. Lorne had be
en the one to fire me. “I’m sure he has excellent reasons to suspect Malcolm of taking this thing—what is it?”

  “A torc.”

  “And what is that?” I asked.

  Jasper frowned at me, probably wondering why I was playing dumb.

  “A large, open ring you wear around your neck.” Phoebe brushed her throat with a slender fingertip. Multiple shiny silver rings adorned each finger. “Most are a thick collar that’s open at the bottom, under your chin. This one is gold.”

  “Then I doubt my father would want it,” I said. “He’s never liked wearing jewelry. It’s too hard to teleport with. I guess the metal is a challenge.”

  Phoebe’s upper lip twitched, an unhidden sneer. Her opinion of me, which was probably already low from whatever Lorne had told her, was sinking.

  “He didn’t want it to wear,” Phoebe said slowly. “He wanted to sell it on the black market.”

  I made myself blush. “Of course. How silly of me.” Let her think I was a failed agent, totally harmless; she might leave me alone. If the Protectorate went after my father, I could get caught up in the dragnet. Again. Honestly, what was the point of having a parent?

  “Have you seen him recently?” Phoebe asked. “Jasper said you don’t see him very often.”

  “I haven’t seen him in over a year,” I said.

  When Phoebe’s truth spell wafted around me, measuring my truthfulness, I let it swirl over my skin and return to its sender as pure and honest as it had arrived. I wasn’t the most powerful witch in the world, but I had my talents. A Protectorate agent, even younger than I was, wasn’t a match for me and my beads.

  “And you haven’t heard from him? A letter, an email, a phone call—nothing?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Phoebe sent another spell. I deflected it easily as I had the first one. She would’ve benefited from one of my focus strings, not that I was going to offer her one.

  Apparently confident in her truth-sniffing powers, Phoebe buried her face in her hands. “That’s it then. I’m finished. You and Jasper were my only hope. I don’t have any other way to track your father down.” She looked up. The tears were falling again. “I had to come up here and ask.”