by Tania Hutley
I raise my eyebrows. “Unusual name.”
“Protector of men,” he says cynically. “My mother had big plans for me.”
“Okay, Xander. You can call me Saffy. Now, follow me.”
I wish I’d said yes to the crutches they offered me yesterday as I hobble along the hallway to my parents’ old bedroom. Xander waits patiently behind me while I use the key I keep hidden in my dresser to unlock the door.
“What’s this?” he asks, stepping inside.
“My investigation room.”
Actually, it was my parent’s bedroom. Their bed is still here, but I pushed it against the wall so I could move in a desk that’s covered with paper. Mostly my own scribbles as I’ve tried to work things through.
All over the walls, I’ve pinned notes, pictures, newspaper articles, and anything else I could find that might help me figure out who, or what, killed my parents. Lined up on shelves are some of my mother’s weird dog figures, and her old dog paintings are on the walls with everything else. Her animal affinity was strongest with dogs, and her thesis was called Canine Art: an Examination of the Representation of Mythological Canines Throughout History.
I used to have all this stuff hidden inside the attic, especially when I was still a suspect and the police would periodically barge their way into my house. About three years ago I decided it was safe to bring everything out and pin it where I could occasionally stare at it and try to figure out what I’ve missed. It doesn’t prove anything other than I’ve been obsessively searching for answers for a long time.
I look at the clues around me, my stomach tightening with the new knowledge that some kind of dog is involved. Could it have something to do with my mother’s studies? Maybe one of the canines she was researching turned out to be not so mythological after all.
Turning, I try to assess Xander’s reaction. He’s moving around the walls, backpack still dangling from one hand, inspecting the information I’ve pinned up. It’s everything I thought might be relevant, including notes I’ve made detailing spells and magical connections.
When he stops in front of the piece of paper where I sketched out the wards around my house, my heart speeds up. The wards are broken now, thanks to last night’s pack of dogs, and I have no way to repair them. They weren’t designed to protect against mundanes, but only repel anyone or anything magical that intended harm. I wrote the details out on paper, trying to see any gaps. If somebody did kill my parents, how did they get into the house while leaving the wards intact?
Now the detective is studying my diagram, and I can’t see his expression. I’m taking a big risk showing him all this. Nobody but me has ever seen it. All Jess knows is that this is my parent’s old bedroom, and she thinks I keep it locked because their things are in here and I can’t bear to go in. No mundane is supposed to know about witches, and now I’m telling Xander everything. Breaking not just my own rules, but the council’s rules too.
I’m not even sure why I’m doing it. If Xander were a witch, I’d suspect he’d put me under some sort of spell. My mind just keeps jumping back to how he took me home from the hospital last night, and made sure I was safe. He took care of me, and he doesn’t even know me.
It might be good to have someone like that on my side.
He studies the paper in silence for a long time. When he finally speaks, he doesn’t turn toward me, so I still can’t see his face.
“Those books, that occult stuff your cousin was mixed up in. Your parents were into that as well?” The question is quiet, but tension hangs in the air.
“Yes.”
“And you? Are you into the occult?” Finally, he looks at me. But his expression is unreadable.
I shake my head. “They banned me.”
“They?”
“The council.”
He frowns. “The Baltimore City Council?”
“The Blood Council.” I catch my breath, half expecting something bad to happen now that I’ve said the words out loud. As though Magnus might be listening, planning to strike me down with a bolt of lightning.
“Blood Council? Who are they?”
It’s not until he says it that I realize how sinister it sounds. Next time I see my uncle, maybe I’ll suggest the Blood Council come up with a friendlier name.
“They’re the eight most powerful witches in Baltimore. They make sure nobody breaks the rules, and if there are any problems, they’re supposed to solve them.” I wrinkle my nose. Now’s not the time to explain how badly the council let me down.
“Witches,” he repeats slowly. “And you’re a witch?”
He doesn’t believe me, that’s obvious. He’s probably mentally measuring me up for a white jacket with long sleeves that buckle behind my back.
“I am.” I wince. “Well, I used to be.”
“You think you can do magic?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore. When my parents died, I experienced a magical overload which messed things up. The council bound my magic to keep me from accidentally blowing things up and turning people into chickens.”
“The eight people on this council, can you give me their names?” His eyes are narrowed, and I can tell what he’s thinking. He’s so busy wondering what mischief a group of crazy people who think they’re witches can cause, he totally missed my chicken confession.
“No. The council would kill me. Actually, they wouldn’t kill me, but there’s a living statue spell they can cast and believe me, death would be the better option.”
“If these people believe they can do magic, I need to speak to them. They could be involved in your cousin’s death.”
“You wouldn’t get close enough to them to talk. You’d probably forget their names and what you were doing there before you even got a word out.” I shrug. “Besides, I doubt the council know any more than I do. Except there is one thing I haven’t told you. Sylvia was attacked by some kind of dog.”
“A dog? What makes you think that?”
Ratticus’s memory is vivid in my mind. My nose wrinkles as I recall that awful stench. But I’m not going to tell him I saw the murder through the eyes of a rat. He already thinks I’m delusional.
“You saw her wounds,” I say. “Those were bite marks. I think a dog ate her heart right out of her chest.”
His mouth tightens and I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
“I have something else to show you,” I say before he can argue. “There’s a book in that backpack. Take out it and put it there, on the desk.”
He does what I ask, moving aside my papers to clear a space for it. The grimoire is still humming, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“What do you see?” I ask.
He shrugs. “A book with a black cover. Not very informative.” He reaches out and before I can stop him, flips it open. “Black pages inside. What kind of book is it?”
“Plain black pages?” I ask. “Nothing moving?”
He frowns at me, puzzled. “You see something different?”
I edge closer to it, wary of its power. “Clouds and shadows,” I murmur, trying to make out what’s beneath the blackness that swirls over the pages like an inky mist. “The book’s hiding its spells underneath that dark layer.” Not to mention that its pages are rising and falling like a sleeper’s chest.
Xander shoots me look that’s as clear as if he asked, ‘Are you kidding me?’ out loud.
“Show me,” I mutter to the book, picturing the spell I glimpsed in Sylvia’s athenaeum.
The book’s pages rustle, but don’t turn. The blackness doesn’t budge.
It wants my blood. I don’t know how I know this, I just do. It’s keeping itself hidden on purpose, hoping I’ll give it what it wants. What would happen if I cut my hand and squeezed a drop of blood into the book’s dark pages?
Nothing good, I’m sure.
“So it’s a magic book,” says Xander in a disbelieving tone. “Do you need to say Abracadabra to make the words appear?”
“You can’t hear it?
” I ask. “You can’t see the pages move, or the mist swirl? It wasn’t icy cold when you touched it?”
He gives me another one of those sideways looks, but before he can tell me how crazy I am, his cellphone rings. He tugs it out of his jeans and answers with a gruff, “Yes.” He pauses to listen, then asks, “Okay. What does that mean?”
His eyes flick to mine as I watch him. Hopefully the call isn’t about something that’ll make me suspect number one again. I’ve taken enough of a risk showing him this room as it is. I don’t want him to try and take it all downtown as evidence.
“Good. Do that. Bye.” Xander’s words are short and terse. I can’t tell from his expression what he’s thinking when he tucks his phone back in his pocket.
He stares at me for a moment. “They tested for foreign DNA on your cousin’s wounds and found saliva that wasn’t human. Matched with some distinctive tears in her flesh, they think she could have been mauled by a dog or wolf.”
I let out a breath.
“How did you know that?” he demands.
“I told you. There were bite marks.”
“But how did you know it was a dog and not some other animal?”
“Like what? You think Ratticus could have done that kind of damage?”
“Maybe the same dog bit you.”
“No.” I motion to my leg. “This is an ordinary dog bite. Whatever killed Syliva...” I can’t exactly tell him about the rotting dog stench I smelled, so I change what I’m going to say mid-sentence. “The dog that killed Sylvia had to have been bigger.”
“I saw the one that attacked you, remember. It was a monster.”
I shake my head. “When it attacked me, I accidentally made it bigger. Okay, I know you’re not going to believe me. But I’m certain it wasn’t that dog.”
I can tell by his expression that he thinks I’m knitting with only one needle.
“Hard to believe it was a dog attack at all,” he says, mostly to himself. “An animal would usually maul a body in several places, not just the middle of the chest.”
“Did they find dog saliva in my mother’s wounds too?” I hold my breath for his answer. If I’d known about the dog connection years ago, maybe I’d have made more progress.
He shakes his head. “They weren’t able to collect any usable DNA evidence from your mother’s body. The heat from the fire…” He trails off, glancing back at the piece of paper where I’ve detailed the house’s wards. “How many of your occult friends have dogs?”
“I know someone who might know more about what kind of dog it might have been. A lecturer who worked with my mother at the university. Mom studied dogs, so it’s a big coincidence if she was killed by one. Her friend might know more about what my mother was working on when she died.”
“Tell me who it is and I’ll go question her.”
“She won’t talk to you. I’ll need to go too.”
The idea sends a rush of enthusiasm though me. After all these years, I’m finally making some progress. And I’m glad I have something to do other than messing with a dark magic grimoire. The thing gives me the chills, and I don’t know enough about magic—my own, or any other kind—to feel safe around it, or around the man I’d thought to take it to. I’d rather lock it in here for safekeeping and follow a different lead.
He shakes his head. “You can’t come with—”
“I’ve been looking for the answers to what happened for years. There’s no way you’re leaving me behind.” I stare into his baby blues, hoping he sees how serious I am. “If you don’t agree, I’ll just go and talk to her on my own.” Not that I can drive with my mangled leg, but I’ll find a way to get there.
He sighs. “Has anyone ever told you how stubborn you are?”
“That’s my best quality.” Though I’ve been standing too long and my leg is aching, I hobble to the door. “Let me change into my last pair of jeans, then we’ll take your car, okay?”
Eleven
“I don’t see why you had to bring that damn chicken,” Xander grumbles as we drive along the highway toward Maryland University with Frank Sinatra crooning about flying to the moon on the radio. I’m itching to change the station, but manage to control the urge.
Agnes is secured in a large cardboard box on the back seat. I asked Xander to find a box that was big enough, and when I went to the courtyard to get her, I discovered her busily spelling out the word HELP with pebbles. As soon as she saw me, she launched herself at my face with claws and beak outstretched.
I’m glad Xander wasn’t with me to see it, because I would have had to tell him the truth about her and he’d still refuse to believe me.
Fun fact I’ve learned about chickens: darkness makes them go to sleep. That means she’s not currently trying to kill me. I did collect plenty more scratches to add to my collection while I was getting her in the box, though.
“I’m hoping Mireya will be able to help me with Agnes,” I say, glancing over at Xander. “Not that she’ll want to. But I’m hoping to convince her.”
“Help you with the chicken?”
“You’ll see,” I tell him. At least he will if I can talk Mireya into changing Agnes back into a person again.
I shoot another sideways glance in his direction. We stopped at Xander’s place so he could shower and change, and he’s wearing a suit again. I much prefer him in a T-shirt and jeans, but whatever cologne he put on smells amazing. And though I’m a big fan of stubble, he looks just as good clean-shaven.
“It had better not get out and mess up my back seat,” he warns.
“Don’t worry.” I wave my hand airily. “Your car isn’t that fancy.” In fact, his car is the kind of sensible, dark-colored sedan I’d expect a police detective to drive. Completely inoffensive, except for one thing.
Frank Sinatra.
Blurg. It reminds me of the kind of tedious music they play in department stores that’s designed to lull people into a compliant stupor.
“Tell me about this friend we’re going to see,” Xander says, oblivious to my mental pain.
“Mireya’s not exactly a friend.” I finally give in and lean forward to change the station. There’s only so long I can be trapped in a confined space with Frankie.
Nothing happens when I push the button and I realize it’s a CD. Who listens to CDs these days? Especially CDs of Frank Sinatra.
“You have any other music?” I ask.
“Nope. Who’s this woman if she’s not a friend?”
I frown at the speaker as Frank warbles about filling his heart with song. His clichés spew forth like diarrhea after a bad Mexican takeout.
“She was my mother’s best friend, but she might not want to help us.” I frown at the speakers. “Who listens to this music? Seriously, are you a hundred years old?”
He glances at me then back at the road. “Why are we going to see her if she’s not going to help us?”
“I thought you might be able to use your charm.”
He barks out a laugh. “My charm?”
“I’m assuming you have some, despite never having seen it myself. How else did you get to be a homicide detective so young?”
Instead of being amused by my teasing, his jaw clenches. “Through hard work and solving cases,” he says through gritted teeth.
I raise my eyebrows. “Did I hit a nerve?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice is still tight.
“Someone tell you that you’re not charming enough?”
Shaking his head, Xander keeps his eyes on the road. “Tell me about this friend of your mother’s.”
I watch him for a moment, wondering whether to push it. But it’s not worth annoying him over, especially as he didn’t want to bring me along in the first place. “She’s a horticulturist, a biologist, and a historian. Lots of degrees. She lectures on the role of plants and animals in different cultures and traditions.”
“I doubt your mother’s research into ancient dog myths could have had anything to do with the d
eaths. We’d be better off talking to someone who studies animal behavior.”
“Trust me,” I say. “The answers we need aren’t something a mundane can help with.”
“A mundane?”
I motion to the stereo as another song starts, this time with a different dude singing the same rotten elevator music. “What fresh horror is this?”
“Dean Martin.” He shakes his head, frowning. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you don’t like this. Everyone likes Dean Martin.”
“Everyone in the old folk’s home. Don’t you have anything good?”
“Like what?”
“Preferably something with guitars and drums.” I tell him. “Slip Knot, or Marilyn Manson, or Eagles of Death Metal. Although anything from this century would be an improvement.”
“So instead of the soothing and uplifting tones of Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin, you’d rather listen to a cacophony of discordant noise created by untalented musicians who can’t sing or play an instrument?”
“Sounds perfect. Got any of that?”
We spend the rest of the way to Maryland University arguing about music. But when he finally pulls the car into the university campus, we’re both laughing.
“I win,” he says, a grin splitting his features. His awful music is still playing, and I’ve been singing along in a high falsetto, pulling exaggerated faces and clutching at my heart.
“I don’t think so,” I sing in the same falsetto voice, my laughter almost ruining the effect. The last few days have been full of shocks, and laughing feels strangely cathartic right now.
I’m almost sorry we’ve arrived.
Climbing out of the car, my leg is stiff and sore. Xander sees me wince.
“You okay?” he asks. “Need me to help you walk?”
“No, I’m good. Can you bring the chicken?”
“Bring the chicken,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I don’t know if you’re the crazy one, or I am.” But he gets the cardboard box out of the back.
I hobble next to him up the path to the main building, and ask for Dr. Mireya Oswolde. Her office is just down the hall, which is lucky because my leg is killing me. When we get to the door, I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. Last time I saw her, Mireya said some nasty things to me. Maybe it was the shock of her best friend being killed, but there’s a good chance she believes I ripped my own parents to pieces. Xander shifts the cardboard box he’s carrying to one arm, then leans over and knocks for me.
