by Stacia Kane
“Ain’t can figure out whatany they all got in common, aye? Where the connection’s at.”
“Right. And there has to be one. It’s—I mean, I guess some asshole could have picked random names out of the phone book or whatever, but then he’d have to track them down and gather hair or personal items—you know the kind of shit that goes into death curses—and then find them again to plant the curse on them. And then, what, follow them around and wait for the spells to go off? I didn’t notice anybody from the restaurant outside Chuck’s last night. And those people, somebody would have noticed.”
“Them who do shit like that, doin it so’s they can watch,” he said, nodding. “Wanting getting off on it. Lookin to me like the only one at both places be you, Chessiebomb.”
The words reverberated in the way of all Truths she didn’t want to see. “Fuck.”
“What? Be a problem?”
“No, I just—you’re right. The connection is me. And like we said last night, it doesn’t feel powerful enough to kill on its own. The magic, I mean. Remember?”
When he nodded, she continued, “So what if I gave it the power? If it fed off me…my magic is more powerful right now, and it’s less controllable. I wonder if—damn it, I really want to see that first file.”
“Blue getting it for you?” His expression and tone were neutral, impassive, but her face still warmed.
He obviously saw that, too. He gave her one of those half-shrugs of his. “Who else you chatter with so early? An you gave me that Churchcop dude wanting she digits. Woulda been my thought, too, aye, calling her.”
“Except you don’t trust her.”
“Ain’t sayin that.” Then, at her raised eyebrow, “Aye, right. I ain’t trust her. Not for owing shit to, leastaways. Know she yon friend, aye, an know she ain’t get into he business, only…”
The “he” was said with a slight derisive tone, a tiny lip-curl she bet he didn’t realize he was doing. Not that he would give a shit if he was aware of it. “Ain’t sayin—guessing she aright, Blue. True thing. Only havin owes to her…just ain’t likin that one, dig? Ain’t good. She doing shit for you, what she gonna ask for payback?”
Fuck. Why did he always manage to find the weak spot, to ask the one question she didn’t want him to ask? Why was he always fucking right?
If only he was as dumb as other people thought he was—as dumb as he himself thought he was. But then, if he was that dumb she probably wouldn’t love him so much. Maybe he wouldn’t love her so much, either.
He definitely wouldn’t understand her the way he did, or know her as well as he did, because his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. That was all it took: a second of hesitation on her part, or maybe she’d shifted her gaze to the floor for an eyeblink of time, or her face colored a tiny bit more. She didn’t know what it was. All she knew was that he’d pegged her. And yes, she’d planned to tell him anyway—of course she was going to tell him anyway, before she did anything, because that was the right thing to do and she was determined to do the right thing when it came to him—but it sucked to tell him because he knew something was up instead of being able to pick her own moment, her own way to do it.
He set the water bottle down and braced his hands on the black countertop behind him, hunching his shoulders forward. The tattoos on his shoulders and biceps shifted as his muscles moved beneath his skin; something she ordinarily loved watching but couldn’t find any comfort in at that moment. “Right, then,” he said. “What’s she wanting?”
“She wants me to talk to Lex again. Not, like, to be his best friend or anything, but just to stop avoiding him. So she doesn’t feel stuck in the middle anymore.”
Silence. A long uncomfortable silence, during which she tried to read his expression but couldn’t quite manage it. He had the often-irritating ability to make his features a complete blank mask; usually she could still figure out what he was thinking, or he would give her a look or brush his fingertips against hers or something so she knew what was going on in his head, but not this time.
Then he laughed. A bitter, disbelieving laugh, while he shook his head. “Fuck. Every time that fucker’s name come out, we ain’t got fuckin clothes on, aye? Like he plan it up.”
“I haven’t forgiven him,” she said. “I won’t forgive him. Ever. And if you don’t want me to talk to him, I won’t. I haven’t, I mean, I haven’t talked to him since right after the whole Kyle Blake thing. You know that.”
“Aye.” His left hand rubbed the back of his neck for a second before dropping. The gesture stabbed her heart. That was what he did when he felt vulnerable, or when he was upset about something.
She crossed the floor to press her forehead into his chest, resting her palms on the warm, smooth skin of his waist. “I made my choice.”
“Aye,” he said again. Silence for a moment, while she felt the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat strong in his chest, and then the even-more-comforting weight of his hands on her back. “An you get my thinkin on it. Just—fuck, Chess, ain’t wanting shit with he again, aye? Every time he fuckin name come up, means problems coming too. Just sick of wonderin what problems gonna be this time.”
“I told Blue I’d say hello to him. I didn’t say I’d be his friend. There won’t be problems this time because we won’t let there be.” She turned her face up to look at him, to look him in the eyes. “I mean it. He is not going to be part of my life again.”
She did mean it, too. She just hoped it was up to her.
4.
SHE WAS STILL HOPING—STILL worrying, really—when she parked her car outside Johnstone Accounting, which turned out to be in a stubby two-story office building four blocks away from the restaurant where she’d met Blue the day before. Okay, that had to mean something, right? No way could that just be a coincidence. It might be even less of a coincidence if she knew where the first victim had come from, or worked. Or rather, when she found out, because that shit was going to happen.
A bell rang when she opened the door of the building and stepped into the foyer. Kind of weird, that, because there was no main receptionist or anything, just a row of mailboxes and one of those directories with the little white plastic letters. This one, encased in a glass cabinet with a lock, informed her that Johnstone Accounting was in 204, next to a therapist and a place called “Exotique Visions” that Chess hoped was something to do with porn because otherwise it was a horrible name for a business.
Aside from the chilly air conditioning and that odd smell office buildings had, like a combination of dust, paper, and generic cleansers, nothing about the place seemed unique or unusual in any way. Her tattoos didn’t make the slightest peep, so to speak; not a twinge, not an itch, not a tickle, and the only feeling she got from the atmosphere around her was the general boredom of office work.
That nothing-special ambiance didn’t change when she reached the second floor and entered 204. Shit. She was going to have to tell them about Harmony, wasn’t she, because it didn’t look like Rosa had called them. Not that she could blame her for that, it just sucked. Death notification wasn’t part of Chess’s job, as a rule, and to say that breaking bad news and dealing with people’s emotions was not one of her strengths…that was an understatement.
She didn’t do too badly, though, and luckily—awful to feel lucky about it, but still—Harmony hadn’t been there long enough to become a well-loved part of the Johnstone Accounting family or whatever bullshit offices like that liked to say. The frowsy redhaired woman behind the desk covered in cat pictures got upset, and Irvin Johnstone sat down rather suddenly, but no one burst into hysterical tears or anything.
Chess gave them all a few minutes to absorb the news and then said, “Can you think of anyone else in the building who knew Harmony? I want to notify as many people as possible, while I’m here. Anyone she spent a lot of time with? Maybe somewhere she went for lunch regularly?”
No one could. Damn. “Can I see her desk?”
One of the women led her to it. Vict
oria, in fact, the woman Rosa had said didn’t get along very well with Harmony. Chess opened the top drawer of the desk and pretended to examine the collection of pens, paperclips, and rubberbands there as she spoke, like she was just making idle conversation. “Did you know Harmony well?”
“Not really.” Victoria was smug and overly made-up, and Chess bet she hadn’t paid for those stupendous breast implants herself. She looked like she belonged at Exotique Visions rather than an accounting firm.
More than that, though, the calculating way she sized Chess up set Chess’s teeth on edge, or it would have if she’d met Victoria socially somewhere. As it was, Victoria’s inherent bitchy sense of competition was useful. Chess hadn’t thought it would be so easy.
“Harmony doesn’t seem like someone who had a lot of friends,” she said casually. “I mean, from what I’ve picked up so far this morning. Kind of a sad sack, really.”
Saying it made her feel like an asshole, but Victoria snatched up the cue like it was an engagement ring from a terminally ill millionaire. “She was. Really mousy, you know, really eager to please. Always worried about what people thought of her, trying to make them like her. I had to talk to her a couple of times about her ridiculous crusades around here.”
On the desk was a picture of Harmony and Rosa, snuggling on a couch and smiling at the camera. Chess looked away from it; she couldn’t talk while those happy faces watched. “Crusades?”
“You know. She was always trying to take leftover food from the fridge to give to street people, or something. Once she even invited some dirty person into the building to sell crappy handmade jewelry.” Victoria flicked her long, highlighted hair off her shoulder in a perfect shiny curtain. The gesture showed off the large diamond studs in her ears, studs Chess was willing to bet were real. “Why didn’t she just gather up all of our valuables and hand them to him, while she was at it? Invite all his friends in to rob the place?”
Handmade jewelry. Hadn’t Rosa said something about Harmony wearing new jewelry the night before? A lucky necklace or something, and she’d bought a dress to go with it? Magical jewelry in the wrong hands, or made by the wrong hands, could sometimes cause problems. She’d never heard of it causing people to combust, but it still might be worth looking into. “Was—did anyone buy anything?”
“Harmony did. Nobody else. I told the guy he’d have to leave before he got five feet through the door. The last thing I want to do is call the exterminators because somebody brought lice into the place.”
In that, Chess could heartily concur. Lice, ugh. She could heartily concur with the folly of inviting strangers into her workplace or home, too; in Downside a stranger was just a killer you hadn’t met yet. But for some reason she doubted Victoria’s assessment of this particular street vender, and hell, she just didn’t fucking like Victoria much, so she was going to think the woman was a snobbish asshole anyway. “Do you know—had you seen this person before? Is he around a lot?”
“Why?”
Damn. She couldn’t really answer that one honestly, especially since her newly-formed semi-theory about jewelry was so tenuous as to be absurd. And if it turned out to be as ridiculous as it probably was, she didn’t want everyone thinking some poor innocent jewelry seller was killing people. “It’s illegal to do that sort of thing. I thought I’d keep an eye out, since I’m here anyway.”
The idea of the man being carted off to prison obviously appealed to Victoria; her face didn’t change, but cold satisfaction flashed in her eyes. Oh, she was a delight, that one. “Well. I see him pretty often. He walks up and down the street here, bothering people. There are some restaurants, you know, and hair salons and stuff, so there’s a lot of people he can try to sell his junk to.”
“Great. I’ll look for him. Thanks so much.” Chess gave her what she hoped was a “This business of being horrible, don’t we love it,” kind of smile, and left.
☠
UNFORTUNATELY, SHE HADN’T THOUGHT OF a good way to ask the accountants if any of them had heard of other deaths in the area, especially fire-related deaths. And none of them had volunteered said information, either, so she still didn’t know who that first victim had been.
Maybe that was important, maybe not. Maybe the first victim was the key to the whole thing; hell, maybe Will was busting somebody right that second.
Until she knew that for sure, though, she was going to assume that wasn’t the case. And while she didn’t know who the first victim had been, she did know who the second victim was. She could be more direct with her questions there, too, because the restaurant employees already knew how Ella died. Maybe they would also know if Ella had bought any jewelry off anyone recently, or any other sort of item or trinket or something. Maybe they could give her a better idea of who Ella was, so if she was wrong about the jewelry thing she’d have something else to go on, some way to connect her to Harmony.
She hesitated in the office building parking lot. Should she walk, instead of taking her car? Yes, it was hot as fuck outside, but it was only a couple of blocks. And walking would give her a chance to peer through the windows she passed, get a better look at what was going on inside. She was familiar with a couple of the convenience stores—she was vaguely familiar with the whole area, since it was so close to Church—but she didn’t know any of them well enough to know who—of course.
Shit, of course. If any of these places had lost an employee recently, they’d be looking for somebody to take her place. Which meant they might have a HELP WANTED notice in their window. If she saw one she could go in and act official, and see if they gave her anything. And it would be further confirmation of her theory; maybe not about the jewelry vender, but at least that there was some specific thing that happened on this street that had caused the deaths.
She hit pay dirt on the next block. A travel agency had one of those red-and-white signs tucked into the corner of their display, right between a generic-looking beach poster and a faded list of their current specials. Was four nights in the Bahamas for six hundred bucks a good deal? She didn’t know. Vacations weren’t something she spent a lot of time contemplating; the idea of jetting off to someplace where she might not be able to score if she needed to didn’t really appeal. Sure, she could stuff her pillbox full and hide a bag in her luggage, but what if it got lost? What if she got robbed? What if some sort of natural disaster occurred and she ended up stuck there for an extra week? Withdrawal in a strange hotel room somewhere wasn’t her idea of fun.
Either she wasn’t the only one who thought vacations away sounded hellish or Lipton Travel didn’t offer good deals after all, or both, because the place was empty except for a man in a cheap suit in the back of the room, and a woman with frosted hair set in a careful helmet sitting behind a desk just inside the door. She must have been a family member; the nameplate on the desk said WANDA LIPTON.
She looked up hopefully when Chess walked in; her smile faltered slightly when she saw the tattoos up and down Chess’s arms and across her chest that identified her as a Churchwitch, but she bravely pasted it back into place. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” Chess raised the pitch of her own voice, softened it and added a hint of Wanda’s cadence, enough to make the other woman comfortable with her. What the hell. Either this was the right place or it wasn’t, so she might as well just bring up the fire immediately. But deferentially, too, because she didn’t want Wanda asking any questions about why she was there by herself after the Squad had already—presumably—come and gone. “I’m looking into the fire? Do I speak to you about that, ma’am?”
Wanda’s eyes, already large and watery behind sparse lashes, watered even more. “Oh. Poor Alice. I still can’t believe it. And her daughter about to get married…”
Yes! Well, not “Yes!” like she was thrilled a woman was dead, but yes, this was the place, and that was awesome.
She was careful to keep that sense of accomplishment out of her eyes, though, as she nodded sympathetically. “How awful
. I’m sorry for your loss. Were you here when it happened?”
“I was.” Wanda tugged a handkerchief from her voluminous bosom and held it ready in her hand, like she was just waiting for a spare tear to escape its ocular prison and run down her cheek so she could mercilessly obliterate it. “She was just sitting down with a new customer—haven’t you been told this? Her customer was a witch, too.”
Chess quickly grabbed her notebook from her bag, glad that looking down gave her a chance to hide her triumph. If Alice’s new customer was a witch, and if that witch was female…score another point in favor of her theory. “Her customer works for the Church?”
“Well, I sure think so,” said Wanda. “She was all marked up like you. We give special discounts to you folks, you know, anyone who works for the Church. You ought to take a brochure, honey, I bet you’ve got a real nice man in your life who should take you away somewhere romantic. We could all use a little romance, couldn’t we?”
As if Terrible needed to take her away somewhere for that. As if anything could be more special, could matter more, than going to sleep and waking up beside him. Or riding in his car while he drove with his hand resting casually, possessively, on her thigh, sometimes telling her to shift the gears so he didn’t have to move it. Or watching some old movie on the couch with their bodies tangled together, his chest warm and hard against her back. Or when she had a bad dream and he woke up to hold her and talk to her, to remind her that he was there and nothing bad would ever happen to her again. Or—or too many times to count, too many things to count. They may not all have been some stereotypical greeting-card idea of “romance,” but they sure as fuck were love, real love, and that was way more important as far as she was concerned. Any asshole could buy flowers and dinner. No one could do the things Terrible did, the way he did them.
