by R. D. Hunter
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I didn’t die. You might have guessed that already. That’s not to say I didn’t want to die. I was still in a realm beyond pain and agony, and Hawkins’ dead weight on top of me wasn’t doing me any favors.
Fortunately, Lacey found me a few minutes later and pulled me free. Of course, she grabbed me by my fractured arm to Gonne do so, which resulted in me calling her several colorful names that Gramps wouldn’t have approved of. She didn’t mind. She told me later she’d been certain she was going to find me dead. To see me alive and lucid enough to curse her out was a blessing. Then it was back to the hospital for me, where I spent the next three days recovering from my injuries, both old and new.
First things first, Bill made it out of surgery. He was actually incredibly lucky. Aside from a couple of broken bones, the internal injuries were nowhere near as severe as the doctors were afraid of. He was expected to make a full recovery.
Captain Barker wasn’t happy with me. He demanded to know why I left the hospital without a word, where I got my new wounds, and how I’d managed to haul myself out of here in the first place. I made up some cockamamie story about a family emergency in Smyrna, a little town about ten miles outside of Atlanta. As for the two extra broken ribs, fractured wrist and cuts and bruises, those were all explained by a bad tumble down a flight of stairs.
It was complete and utter B.S. and he knew it, but he couldn’t prove it. And, since I hadn’t technically disobeyed any orders or broken any protocol, there really wasn’t much left to be done about it.
Jack came to see me a couple of times, which was nice. He brought word that Isabelle was handling the cleanup at the warehouse. There’d never be any trace of Hawkins’ or his additional victims found, which suited me just fine. I felt bad for the three witch’s Hawkins had murdered before I stopped him, but the Gilded Moon couldn’t afford to have a spotlight put on their activities from the Atlanta P.D. Their remains would be seen to by the rest of the coven, I was sure.
As for Hawkins, officially the case was solved. The evidence was gathered and compiled, indictments for murder and assault were handed down and filed away, waiting for the trial that was never going to happen. He was in the wind, and only the Fringe knew he’d never be seen again in the mortal world.
My injuries healed in record time. Not only was I in the care of a team of doctors and nurses, but I also had Gramps plying me with herbs, teas and healing spells, and after a few days I was able to supplement them with my own abilities. I had to wear a cast on my left wrist for a few weeks, but all in all, I’d been dirt lucky.
I returned to work a couple of weeks later as a full-fledged detective, my probationary period officially put behind me. Everyone applauded as Captain Barker made the announcement. Even Lt. Calloway managed a few half-hearted claps, although he looked like the effort was going to make him throw up.
Oh, I got my old desk back too. Somehow, all the coffee and pastries at the new location turned sour or went bad in record time. It got so bad, no one even wanted to chance getting a mouthful of moldy danish or scorched java. It’s almost like it was cursed or something. Go figure.
Fortunately, as soon as they moved the refreshment table back to a little alcove in the corner of the room, everything straightened right out Detective Gunter could get back to stuffing his face with processed sugar.
I decided to take some time off too. Lord knows I had enough of it built up. Since I’d been working my tail off for the past several years, hoarding vacation and sick time, I had a good chunk built up, but I settled on just a couple of weeks. I used the time to open up my house proper, upstairs and downstairs. I cataloged all the magical objects, herbs and ingredients my parents left behind, and began the long process of putting the entire property back together the way it’d been in my youth.
Eventually, I even got around to asking Gramps about what happened with my gun in the warehouse battle. We were back at my place, sitting on the couch in my living room after a day of cleaning and reorganizing. He frowned a little, as he gave it some thought.
“I’d say it has something to do with the path you chose at your re-dedication,” he said slowly. I blinked.
“My path?”
“The Protector. It’s a very potent and demanding way, full of responsibility and challenges. It might even be why the elemental showed up that night, sensing what you were about to proclaim.”
“So, what happened with my gun?”
“Each path for a witch, has certain advantages. For instance, as an herbalist, I can see the way things grow. I can put herbs together in new ways to a variety of effects. And I’m a professional when it comes to a mortar and pestle. Your friend, Jack, as a mixologist, is able to combine ingredients to create potions of startling potency and variety. His tool of trade is the bottle.
‘But you, as a protector, need a weapon capable of doing battle with any who threaten those that need to be protected. This Smiling Man you mentioned, was an abomination of absolute evil. And when you brought your firearm to bear, while channeling the magic within you, magic now permeated with the path that you chose, it was able to transform into a weapon capable of defeating such evil. The same holds true with this Hawkins monster. By your will alone, you were able to strike him where it hurts, cutting him off from the majority of his power source.”
“That’s a handy little trick,” I said. Gramps nodded.
“Quite. But try not to make a habit of it, if you would,” he said with half a smile. “My old heart didn’t like seeing my one and only granddaughter in the hospital.” I leaned over and kissed his forehead.
“It’s a deal.”
It was the last night of my vacation. My wounds had mostly healed, and tomorrow I’d head back to work and take on a fresh case load. I wouldn’t say I was excited, but I was more prepared. I was confidant in my abilities as a witch and as a detective, and the newfound balance in my life gave me a clarity I’d been missing for a long time. But there was still one more thing to do.
We were back at Nichole Barret’s place. It was me, Beth and the girls. Since she didn’t have any close family, Nichole had left the house to all four of them jointly, and they’d sort of adopted it as an unofficial coven-gathering place. I think Nichole would have approved.
We were in the room that housed her sacred space. Not much had changed. They’d added a few more books. There were some more crystals scattered about, and we drew from those now as we stood in a circle with our power raised and our voices echoing into the night.
“Sister lost
Soul full of pain
Appear before us
Upon the mortal plane.”
We repeated it five times, and then Nichole was with us. She looked the same as I’d seen her last; dark hair, athletic figure, overly large eyes that now regarded each of us in turn. But whereas earlier her gaze had been filled with pain and confusion, now there was only a gentle peace that came from knowing her earthly works were done.
All of the girls were crying openly now, myself included. I hadn’t known her before her passing, but seeing the love my new friends held for her told me everything I needed to know about her.
After a few minutes, Beth composed herself enough to step forward.
“Nichole, I want you to know that you were the best friend anyone could ever hope for,” she said shakily. “You were like a sister to all of us, and we will carry your memory until the day we die and are reunited. Blessed be, Sister.”
“Blessed be,” the other girls said in unison.
Nichole smiled, a kind, joyous smile touched with only a hint of sadness. Then, before she left for her new existence, she turned and regarded me alone. I felt naked under her gaze, but forced myself to meet it and not break contact. After a few moments that stretched towards eternity, she nodded slowly, then vanished where she stood.
She was gone. Every trace of her presence disappeared with her, and we all knew that we’d never see her again in this life.
We spent the rest of the night eating pizza, drinking wine and generally just hanging out. Lacey showed up a little later and we watched a movie together. If this kind of camaraderie was what a coven was all about, maybe I hadn’t been giving them a fair shake, although I seriously doubted Isabelle and her lackeys had such a connection.
I knew there were things I should have been doing. I still needed to look into how a treasure trove of witchcraft objects could exist under my roof for years and escape my notice. Why had the Smiling Man been so afraid of Tilly? What other abilities did I have, now that I’d chosen my path? And what was the real reason Henry Mason was paying good money to get a witch on his payroll?
All of these were good questions. All of these needed answering. But then Lacey handed me a slice of pepperoni pizza and I pushed it all to the side. There was time, and I needed this right now.
After all, you only live once.
THE END
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CURSE & PROTECT
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CHAPTER ONE
The man had fought for his life. That much was certain. There were scrapes on both knuckles, and dried blood crusted around his nose and mouth. I had a feeling if I lifted up the sleeves of the heavy, brown coat he wore, I’d find bruises and other signs of defensive wounds. He hadn’t gone quietly.
But he had gone, which was why I was here, crouched over his dead body in a narrow alley just a few blocks south of Five Points. A thick beard and weathered features made it tough to tell his age with any degree of accuracy, but I had a hunch the man was pushing sixty. The rancid smell of body odor mixed with the coppery scent of blood told me he hadn’t bathed in a while, a common practice among the homeless population of Atlanta. I didn’t have to look hard to find the cause of death.
The back of the man’s head had hit the pavement hard when he went down, causing a thick red pool to congeal under his skull. Maybe he’d slipped or passed out, but my money was on the two tranquilizer darts sticking out of his chest as having something to do with his fall. Charley Sawyer, the leader of the forensics team, came up to stand behind me, patiently waiting for me to finish my initial inspection. Finding nothing else, I straightened up and greeted him with a smile.
Charley was a good guy. A bit on the heavy side with deep, laugh lines around his mouth, he’d always treated me with respect and professional courtesy. I was glad to see his team on this scene. They had a reputation for thoroughness that often made the difference as to whether a case was closed or remained unsolved. “Hiya, Mel,” he said by way of greeting.
“How ya feeling?” I barely kept myself from wincing at the question.
On my last case, my partner and I had been blown up by a psychotic madman, powered up on magic crystals and hellbent on destroying the Fringe Society, the secret supernatural community of which I was a card-carrying member. I’d stopped him, barely, but had gotten more than a little beat up in the process, forcing me to take a few weeks off. Thanks to a few potent healing rituals overseen by my grandpa, my recovery had happened in record time and deemed nothing short of miraculous by several of the doctors.
In fact, this was my first case since returning to active duty, and the third time in the past hour I’d been asked how I was feeling. I was getting a little tired of answering the same question over and over, but squashed my irritation. Charley’s concern came from a place of friendship, and that was a good thing. “I’m fine, Charley,” I said brightly.
“Glad to be back to work. Your team find anything?” He shook his head.
“They’re still going over everything. The body was discovered about half an hour ago by a sanitation worker. We don’t even have an I.D. on the victim yet. There are some bags of belongings over there,” he pointed to a small bundle about a dozen yards away. “We think they belong to him. We’re going through them now and will let you know what we find.” I nodded.
“What can you tell me about these darts?”
“Right now, not a damn thing. They appear to be stuck deep, probably fired from a high-powered rifle like the kind they take on safaris. Once I get them back to the lab, I’ll be able to tell you more about what was in them.”
I absently rubbed my left shoulder. It still ached occasionally, a holdout from the injuries I’d recently sustained. I was lucky that was all I had. My partner, Bill Perkins, was still recovering.
“Any witnesses come forward?” I asked hopefully. Charley shook his head.
“Not so far. There’s a small tent city under an overpass about two blocks from here. Uniforms are combing the area, asking questions, but I’m not hopeful.”
“Me neither.”
There was a strict code of silence among the homeless population. They saw any kind of authority figure as the enemy, someone to be distrusted and shunned on sight. The possibility of a uniformed officer casually strolling into their camp and getting answers was next to zero. Maybe I’d have better luck.
“Can you finish up here?” I asked Charley. “I’m going to go ask around, see what I can turn up.” The forensics leader looked uncomfortable.
“You sure that’s a good idea, going alone? I could come with you.”
Gods save me from the overprotective patriarchy! I got where he was coming from. I’m a 5”6, 120-pound female in her mid-twenties. I look like a stiff breeze would blow me over, and during the four years I spent as a beat cop, regularly had to prove myself as more than just a pretty face. But I was tougher than I looked. I’d been taking Krav Maga, a brutal Israeli martial art, for several years now and could handle myself in most physical confrontations. I also had my sidearm, a Glock 40 caliber handgun, concealed in a holster on my right hip and within easy reach.
Plus, there was the tiny, hidden fact that I was a witch, able to summon and manipulate the invisible forces around us in a variety of ways. I probably should have mentioned that earlier.
I smiled fondly at Charley and patted him on the shoulder.
“Thanks, but I’ll be ok. Finish up here and let me know what you find.”
“Will do.” He still didn’t look happy about letting me go alone, but he respected my choice. Like I said, he was a good guy.
At any given time, there are roughly 3,000 homeless people in the city of Atlanta. They come from all backgrounds, all walks of life, and live on the streets for a variety of reasons. Many of them have substance abuse or mental health problems. There were several shelters, of course, publicly and privately funded, but none could hope to accommodate so many people with such varied conditions.
Still, the streets can be a dangerous place for anyone, so buying into the fact that there’s safety in numbers, temporary tent cities sporadically spring up all over the city. Usually no more than ten or twelve dome, canvas structures, housing anywhere from one to five people, would spring up overnight in empty parking lots, under highway overpasses, or even in abandoned buildings. They provided some protection from the elements as well as a degree of privacy, but no one in their right mind would call them comfortable. This was where I found myself now.
This particular tent city had manifested less than a week ago, underneath the Highway 20 exchange. It was one of the larger tent cities I’d seen. I counted more than fifteen temporary structures and several more sleeping bags scattered around the camp. Several people were milling around, talking, and keeping a sharp eye on the new intruder to their community.
I walked up to a group of m
en, sitting around in camping chairs and asked if they’d heard about the murder that took place a few blocks away. They all looked at each other and took several moments to respond.
“Yeah, we heard about it,” one said uncertainly. He was an older man wearing a camouflage jacket, flecks of grey showing in his short, dark hair and deep lines running through his face. “We didn’t do it, though. Don’t know nothing more about it.”
“I don’t think you did it,” I said quickly with as much sincerity as possible. “I was just wondering if you saw or heard anything or if any of you know the victim.” A series of looks passed between the men before the speaker answered.
“His name’s Birdshot.” I blinked.
“Birdshot?” The man nodded.
“Yeah, that’s what everyone called him. He always told this story about the time he got caught in bed with another fella’s wife, some years back. He hightailed it out the window and down the street in nothing but his underwear, but the guy unloaded some birdshot into his ass before he got clear. He said he couldn’t sit right for a month of Sundays.” A flicker of a smile played along the man’s lips. “So, everyone on the street just called him Birdshot. He seemed to like it well enough.”
“I see. Did…Birdshot have any family or close relations?” There was much awkward shuffling and mumbling before I got an answer.
“Miss, he didn’t talk about his personal life much,” the Speaker said. “And we didn’t pry. He was a decent guy, shared what had when he had more than he needed, but that’s all we wanna say about it. We’d appreciate it if you’d just move on somewhere else.” The others nodded their heads in agreement.
