“Go home and wash up,” I said. “Where is home, anyway?”
“The only home I deserve is inside that ugly body you saw earlier today. When I get out of this witchy house, I’ll track him down again.” He walked to the front door, rubbing his mouth with my bath towel.
“Could he be dead?”
Seth closed his eyes. “Not now,” he said. “You gave me the wellspring water. That saved both of us.”
“Great,” I said flatly.
“I suppose I’m grateful.”
“I suppose I’m not,” I said.
He laughed. “Alma, I’m going to miss you.”
Before I could stop him, he’d thrown the second towel against another gargoyle and walked out the front door.
I hurried after him to see where he went, but he’d already disappeared.
At 11:59 p.m., I received a summons from the Protectorate. A male witch in his late teens roared up my driveway in a motorcycle, banged on my back door, and greeted me in a black leather jacket heavily decorated with silver zippers, gold buttons, steel snaps, buckles, and chains. Even the thread had strands of silver woven into it.
Barefoot and groggy, I wore only an old T-shirt and running shorts. I’d intentionally left my staff out of sight inside the doorway and locked Random in the bedroom, where he now barked furiously. As soon as I’d woken and seen the time, I’d known what kind of summons this was.
To put up any resistance would be to invite violence upon my person.
“Alma Bellrose, you are hereby instructed to deliver yourself to the San Francisco Diamond Street office,” the boy said. He had very short hair and warm brown skin and looked about fifteen, although I hoped he was older. The Protectorate wasn’t supposed to give a silver jacket to anyone under sixteen. And he wouldn’t be alone; another pair of witches, more powerful and important than he was, would be waiting outside the periphery of my protected property. I hadn’t heard their vehicle, but they were there.
“Now?” I asked.
“You are expected at first light,” he said.
First light. Seriously? The ancient operating procedure had made more sense before everyone was forced to drive motorized vehicles on crowded six-lane highways to get around. The witches in the olde dayes had been imagining a stroll across the village green, not a two-and-a-half-hour slog in bumper-to-bumper California traffic.
I glanced at the night sky. “When is that on a real clock, exactly? I don’t live by the old ways anymore.”
Without moving his head, he glanced to either side, obviously unsure. He’d been given a message and nothing more.
I raised my voice. “When is that on a real clock, please? Hello? You guys probably know.”
A man’s voice, unsure and annoyed, called out from the darkness. “Can’t you Google it?”
“I lost my phone. I need you to look it up for me.” I watched the boy in the jacket, considering how much power it would take to drive him off my property. It was tempting. I was angry. But it was probably wiser to be difficult in less obvious ways. “You don’t want me to be late for some stupid reason like that, do you?”
“Just show up early,” a third voice shouted. It sounded as if she was halfway down the street. They must’ve heard scary stories about me from Phoebe, which made me happier than I wanted to admit. When I’d left the Protectorate, everyone had been laughing at me for being weak.
Pushing aside the rosemary branches, I stepped out next to the messenger in the silver coat. He jumped back about three feet.
“And wake up Lorne before he’s ready?” I called out again. “You want to be the one to knock on his bedroom door?”
“I’ll look it up,” the kid said, holding up his phone. “Just… stay in your house.”
“But I thought I was supposed to go to San Francisco.”
He took another step backward, glancing nervously between me and the phone. “At first light, which is…” He tripped over an overgrown agapanthus.
“Just be there at six a.m.,” the other man called out. “We’ll tell him we said six.”
“You’re sure?”
“Raynor will tell him. Don’t worry,” the kid said.
“Hey,” the man said. “I told you not to share my name.”
I knew Raynor by reputation. An Emerald-level agent based out of New York, he was considered the best demon hunter in the United States.
Lorne had sent Raynor to bring me in? I had to admit I was flattered. Amazing what a little pee floor wash would do.
“I’ll be there,” I said. “By the way, what’s the charge?”
The kid in silver, moving away without ever showing me his back, paused and looked at somebody over his shoulder, then back to me.
“You’re a person of interest in the murder of Protector Tristan Price,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-Six
So, they were going to try blaming me for everything. Surely they knew I hadn’t done anything, but simply wanted to punish me to get to my father—right?
I wished I knew for sure.
Raynor and the woman left first, leaving me with the kid and his Ducati. Teens could be dangerous driving a family minivan; an Italian sport bike would be suicidal. And I wanted a few hours to prepare.
The moment he roared away, I ran to my bedroom to soothe Random and prepare him for a trip to Birdie’s house. I had no idea how long it would take them to be convinced I hadn’t killed Tristan—several well-equipped mages at the Protectorate office could get the truth out of most people in a few days—but they might keep me longer if they’d discovered I’d found the body and hadn’t reported it. An agent would’ve called Diamond Street office immediately. A fired agent, in my opinion, had no such obligation.
It was almost one in the morning when I brought Random and his food over to Birdie’s house. He was happy to trot over to her place and jumped up on her enthusiastically when she opened the door.
“I’m so sorry if I woke you, but—” I began.
“I wasn’t asleep. I got all turned around, being in jail and then napping all day.” Birdie squatted down and laughed as Random licked her face. “His breath isn’t very good. Do people ever give dogs mouthwash? I’ve never had a dog. I’d be tempted to get out the mouthwash, but maybe that would kill them. That would be horrible, to kill a dog just because their breath smelled nasty. That wouldn’t be right. Cruel and unusual—”
“Listen, I need to ask a favor. I need to go away for a little while, hopefully back by tomorrow night, but—”
“No hurry. I can keep him forever.” She smiled behind Random’s busy tongue.
“It won’t be forever.” I hoped. “I plan on being back as soon as possible.”
“Right, right.” She scratched Random’s skull, gazing down at him, and they gave each other melting, openmouthed smiles.
“I brought his food.” I set a tote bag just inside the doorway. “And his bowls. He likes to go on walks, not that I’ve been able to—”
“We will so go on walk, yes we will, yes we will,” she exclaimed, using a high-pitched voice that made Random lose control of himself, running and jumping and panting.
“Thanks so much,” I said.
“Is there anything else?”
I stared at her, then at Random, who had trotted into her house and was sniffing the floor, making himself at home. “No,” I said. “Thanks again.”
Birdie closed the door, and her cheerful voice continued. A pang struck my heart, and I considered knocking and asking for him back—he could come with me to San Francisco, stay at Helen’s again—but that would be selfish of me. I needed to face this challenge by myself.
Knowing I would need to be sharp, I tried to grab an hour or two of sleep before I left, but it was hopeless. Around two in the morning, shooting a final, longing glance at Birdie’s dark house, I hit the road. I could get to San Francisco more quickly leaving early, and it might give me time to talk to Helen. If she was willing to answer the door, she might tell me if she�
�d overheard anything through the window.
If she was willing. I couldn’t risk bringing the remaining wellspring water with me to pay for her information; the Protectorate agents might find it on me and have a real crime to charge me with. Witches passed around tiny amounts all the time, but if they wanted to charge me with something, it would be a convenient excuse.
Even though I was anxious, I almost nodded off a few times as I drove south in the dark, quiet night. A can of coffee helped a little. So did chewing on a bouquet of peppermint leaves that made my lips numb.
When I was in the city, several blocks away from Diamond Street, I parked at the top of a steep hill overlooking Castro Valley, perpendicular to a sidewalk that was so steep it had stairs. Lorne wouldn’t be expecting me for at least two more hours.
I took a roundabout path to Diamond, finally walking down a hidden pedestrian stairway through an urban forest in the middle of the block to reach Helen’s house. If she could tell me what Lorne thought he knew—
“Alma Bellrose,” Raynor said, stepping out of the shadows on the stairs. A colossal man, he could look down at me even from several steps below.
I hadn’t felt the slightest hint of him waiting in the shadows. Apparently the demon killer deserved his impressive reputation.
“It’s hours before first light,” I said, brushing past him. Like me, he reeked of coffee.
“Lorne will appreciate your consideration in coming early. He’s eager to talk to you.” He followed less than a step behind me, as if I’d try to run away.
I didn’t look at Helen’s house as we walked past it to the Protectorate building, but I sent a silent alarm in the form of a rattling window, exaggerating the noise from an approaching garbage truck.
The Protectorate house windows were lit, even the room upstairs I used to inhabit when I worked there. That, more than anything, made me nervous. Midnight was a popular time for witches, but at four in the morning, even the youngest, most energetic witches should’ve been asleep.
I walked up the steps to the portico and waited. Knocking would be redundant. They knew we were there.
“Touch the plate,” Raynor said. Next to the door was a shiny metallic square about the same size as the button for an automatic door but freshly polished. “Like this.” He held up his hand, palm out, fingers splayed, but didn’t touch the plate himself.
That was new, and I didn’t like it. Formal submission to metal at the doorway put me in the power of the witch who had cast it until I left the building.
I looked up at Raynor. He was at least six five, with every muscle that magic, DNA, and nonmag science could get him.
He gave me a pitying smile. “You have no choice. And we both know you’re no match for me. You may have had power over Lorne and a Flint in your own kitchen, but here, with me—” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t bother trying.”
I put my face in my hands and sighed, trying to look as if my Incurable Inability was the great tragedy of my life. Meanwhile, I brought up a generous mouthful of spit and licked the skin of my palms. If I was lucky, it would form a protective barrier. The bushel of peppermint I’d consumed should help strengthen the potency.
The first birds had begun to sing, and I was exhausted. I didn’t have to fake my yawn as I tapped my palm on the plate. I hope he didn’t notice the wet smear on the metal.
“Good girl,” Raynor said. “Now give me your silver.”
“I don’t have any.”
“The chain of your necklace.”
The door opened to a young male app in a gray suit. He said nothing but bowed to Raynor.
I didn’t want to give up my power so easily. “The chain is too thin to matter,” I said. “Surely.”
“Don’t waste Mage Raynor’s time,” the app said.
Nodding, I reached up to my wood bead necklace with its silver chain, stepped into the doorway, and gave the young witch a painful butt pimple right before I unclasped the necklace and handed it to Raynor.
“So sorry,” I muttered.
The app in gray was tugging at his trousers as we walked past him.
“Lorne’s office is—” Raynor began.
“I know where it is.” I strode past him, took two short steps to my right, opened a glass door, and then climbed up a steep, narrow staircase to the top floor. From there I walked left, through another small door, down a hallway, and then to another door. Helen’s house with its rooftop garden was on the other side of the wall to my right.
I put my hand on the plaster and sent out a thought—
The door opened.
“Alma, child.” Lorne stood before me. Like his app downstairs, he wore a gray suit, although his clothes matched his gray hair and gray eyes. Even his teeth were gray. Seriously, the witch was a black-and-white photograph.
“You must be terrified,” he said.
“Of you?”
His phony smile froze on his face. “Of the fae. If you help us, you have nothing to fear.”
“The fae?”
He jerked his head for me to enter. “Let’s talk. I really hope you’ll be cooperative.”
Knowing he would have other mages working to determine the truth of anything I said, I chose my words carefully as I stepped over the threshold. “I’ll help if I can.”
What I was capable of doing was a gray area, which gave me wiggle room to tell half-truths. Since gray was his favorite color, he should’ve liked it.
“You were smart to come right away,” Lorne said. “Silverpool has gone wild, and much of the North Bay is simmering with fairy mobs. Sporadic fae violence has been reported over the Bay Area.”
“But—”
“Since Tristan’s death, nonmag police departments we monitor have reported an increase in minor acts of vandalism. Theft. Inexplicable alterations in the landscape.”
He couldn’t seriously be blaming me for weird fae activity like that. “Landscape?”
“Seemed to erase Mount Tamalpais. Obviously they couldn’t keep up the illusion for more than a few seconds, but that was long enough to alarm the nonmag populace.”
I looked around his office. He’d replaced all the ornate Victorian décor and woodwork with hard modern angles. Lots of glass and steel, everything in gray and white, as colorless as he was. I chose a chair near the wall, just in case Helen was there listening. “What could any of that have to do with Tristan’s death? Or me?”
“The torc was stolen the same night,” he said.
“Look, I don’t know anything about the torc.” I said it loudly and clearly. Let them sift through every syllable with the best magic they had. It was true.
He paused, as if expecting an agent to rush into the room and tell him I was lying.
But he finally said, “We know your father took it.”
“Why not blame the fae? We don’t know how powerful they—”
“We know it was your father, Alma. We know it.”
I clamped my mouth shut. If I tried to argue with him, the verity spells would catch my insincerity.
“Why all this activity now that it’s stolen?” I asked finally.
He cleared his throat. “Tristan reported the poisoning of some kind of fairy in Silverpool two weeks ago. We have evidence of additional fae deaths in the past week.”
“Deaths,” I whispered, thinking of the mob in the forest. Only magic could kill the fae. “And now they want revenge.”
“Yes,” he said.
“OK. They’re upset. What does that have to do with me?”
“Alma, please,” he said. “Surely after all this time you aren’t loyal to your father. When he wasn’t dragging you into his life of Shadow, he abandoned you with strangers.”
“I’m not loyal to him,” I said. “That’s why you should believe me. I don’t know anything about him, the torc, the poison—”
“But Tristan did. And now Tristan is dead,” Lorne said.
“Yes. I know.”
He steepled his fingers. “What do you know
about a witch named Sheila Zalek?”
The abrupt change of topic unnerved me. “Who?”
“You claim not to know her name?”
“I don’t know the name,” I said. “Never heard of her. Who was she?”
“You were seen sharing a meal with her nonmagical boyfriend. He wore a witch’s chain that was visible to all who saw him.” He gave me a gloating look. “I’ll be generous and allow you to change your statement now. How long have you known Sheila Zalek? Where did you meet?”
Nick’s ex-girlfriend was mixed up with the Protectorate? And now he was dead. What did that mean? “I only met Nick Takata that once to ask about a carpentry project. I noticed the witch’s chain, and he said it was his ex-girlfriend’s. That’s it. I didn’t know her name, and I certainly never met her. He wouldn’t talk about her.”
“She was Freewitch, as I’m sure you know. We found her body yesterday after tracking the chain on Nick Takata’s body to her house in Belvedere.” He held out his hands. “So you see, we know nearly everything. We just need you to fill in the gaps. For your own sake. Your confession is the only thing that will save you.”
Hadn’t Nick said he was working on a job in Belvedere? Maybe he saw his ex-girlfriend more often than he’d implied. And she’d killed him, or somebody had killed them both…
“Well?”
“I’ve never met her,” I said. “I’ve never heard that name before.”
Lorne glanced expectantly at the empty couch. Then he frowned at the empty air and snapped his head to face me again. “How well did you know Tristan?”
I shrugged. “I slept with him.” That wasn’t admitting anything important. After all, who hadn’t?
“Tristan hired Malcolm to steal the torc.”
I tried to look shocked, although it was what I’d suspected when I’d found the cabinet. “Hm.” Where had he put it? Who had it now?
“Your father stole the torc for Tristan but then killed him to keep the money and the torc for himself,” Lorne said.
“My father would never kill anyone,” I said. I still believed that. “Not even for— What exactly does the torc do?”
Dead Witch on a Bridge Page 22
