by Tania Hutley
“That sucks,” I say.
Xander shoves both hands into his pockets and sighs. “What do you want to talk to me about?”
Before I can answer, a harsh male voice comes from behind me. “What are you doing here?” When I turn around, Dallas is looming over me. His fists are balled by his sides and his white face is blotched red with rage. He’s in the same stage of dishevelment as he was at the council chambers, with his pale white hair sticking out in all directions like a demented halo and his suit rumpled.
“Come to gloat over what you did?” he demands.
I shake my head. “Sylvia was my cousin. I have a right to be here.”
“You know more than you’re saying about the killings,” he snarls, his eyes almost fully white in the light shining down on us from the chapel windows. “Are you practising dark magic?”
“I had nothing to do with Sylvia’s death. Or Mireya’s.” It’s like I’m a broken record.
His lip curls. “The Veritas was soft on you. Wherever you go, people die. Tell me why, or I’ll kill you myself.”
Then he mutters something I can’t hear. It must be an incantation, because a cold breeze gusts across my face and my hair lifts. The space between me and Dallas is suddenly alive with power. My skin tingles with it. I glance down and see blood oozing from his palm where his fingernails have dug into his flesh. Dallas’s threat isn’t an idle one.
His air magic is incredibly strong.
I reach out and grab his arms above the elbow. He’s taller than me, but like most witches, he doesn’t bother to work out. His arms are scrawny compared to mine. When I squeeze, there’s surprise in his expression. But he mutters something else, and the breeze that’s lifting my hair turns into a wind that flicks it back and forth.
“Go on then,” I say in a low, angry voice, leaning forward into the gale that’s started whistling in my ears. “Kill me here, in front of all these witnesses. See what happens to you.”
Xander puts his hand on Dallas’s shoulder. “You’d better go.”
Dallas looks at him, the mutter dying on his lips. The wind around me slackens, becoming a breeze again.
“The mundane policeman,” he spits. “Somebody to clean up the mess.”
“I’m not the janitorial type,” Xander says through clenched teeth. “Never was much good at cleaning.”
I give Dallas a shove and he staggers backward. Xander steps between us, his bulk as impressive as ever. “Go,” he orders.
To one side, I see Magnus frowning in our direction.
Dallas sees him too, and he takes a step backward, his mouth twisted in a bitter snarl. “This isn’t over,” he hisses at me.
I have a smart-mouthed response ready to let fly, but I manage to hold it back. Just. Dallas could slam me against the ceiling with his magic, and despite my bravado, he looks close enough to the edge to actually do it.
As Dallas vanishes through the door, Xander turns back to me. “There’s something wrong with that guy,” he mutters, almost to himself.
I shrug. “He’s grieving and angry.” Some people react badly to the way Dallas looks, but I wouldn’t have thought Xander would make that mistake. “He just wants someone to blame.”
“Not just that,” says Xander slowly, like he’s still thinking it through. “In my job, I see a lot of people who’ve done terrible things. You develop a kind of sixth sense for who’s guilty when you’re interviewing people, I guess. It’s not infallible, but I can generally tell when someone’s involved in the crime.”
His words make me blink. “You think Dallas…?”
Xander lets out a breath. “There’s definitely something off about him. I noticed it when we interviewed them at the university. It’s only become worse since then.”
Could Dallas be the murderer? The idea is shocking. Dallas is on the Blood Council, for crying out loud. The ramifications of that are more than I can even think through right now. “Why would he kill his own wife and then act crazy about it?” I ask.
“People do it all the time. The husband or wife is the first suspect in any murder case, and the number of times I’ve seen a guilty husband play the part of the grieving widower… let’s just say it’s not new.”
Staring at the doors that Dallas just stormed through, I think about what he’s saying. He’s seen something in Dallas’s face, a hint of a murderer.
“Hey,” I say indignantly, realizing what else this means. “Did you look at me and see a murderer?”
Xander shakes his head. “You didn’t seem like a murderer. But you were at the scene of the crime, covered in blood, and in shock. It looked like you’d lifted the body, and why would you do that? The other rule in detective work is that the simplest answer is often the right one.”
At least he didn’t think I was crazy just by looking at me. “So what do we do now?” What I’m really asking is how we find out if Dallas is involved.
Xander doesn’t answer. Probably because there are no answers. Seems all we have are too many questions and nothing else.
Almost nothing else.
“I’ve been given some information,” I murmur. “But I can’t tell you about it here.” Our argument with Dallas didn’t go unnoticed and it feels like the entire funeral party is staring at us. I can’t pull out the note Aunt Therese gave me in front of them all. The words she wrote unsteadily on the piece of paper have been going around and around inside my head since I first read them. I don’t know what the hell they mean. But now I’ve got the chance to ask an actual detective to decipher it for me.
“Then where?” he asks.
“Can you come to my place tomorrow morning? Around eleven. By then Jess will be at band practice and we can talk in private.”
I’m relying on his curiosity to make him want to help me, and I’m not disappointed. I can see it in his expression. Xander has a hunger for the chase. The same hunger that made him come here even when he’s suspended, and to keep after me when his boss told him I shouldn’t be a suspect.
If the others at the station think he needed to rely on a hand up from his mother to get him to the top, they’re blind and stupid. It’s obvious Xander will do whatever it takes to get to the truth.
“Okay, fine,” he says. “Tomorrow at eleven.”
I start to move toward the door, not wanting to keep Jess waiting too long, but he stops me with a sound. “Saffy,” he says, then hesitates.
“Yes?”
“You look nice.”
I open my mouth and close it again. My cheeks heat as different responses run through my mind. Should I tell him he looks nice, too? Should I ask him to join Jess and me for a beer and some loud music?
Or should I fire back a snarky remark?
Dammit, I’m so bad at this. Jess is good at flirting. She has a different boyfriend every other week. I’ve always liked being alone so I never bothered to learn how to play the game.
After a moment, Xander’s gaze flicks back to the witches. He’s in detective mode again, assessing the suspects. And the silence has gone on too long. If I say anything now, it’ll sound awkward.
“Thanks,” I manage, one hundred percent sure it’s the dumbest response I could have given. Then I turn and walk away.
Sixteen
The next morning, Xander turns up with his chin dark with stubble, wearing an old, faded T-shirt and jeans. His unemployed clothes, I guess.
The rough look suits him a little too much. Today he’s more James Dean than James Bond. More Rebel Without a Cause than Licensed To Kill. Of all the Xander looks I’ve seen so far, it’s definitely my favorite.
“Come in,” I say, opening the door wide. His shoulders are so broad, he makes my hallway look smaller.
“You’ve still got scratches and gouges in your front door,” he tells me. “Those dogs made a mess of the wood.”
“I’ll add it to the list of jobs I need to do,” I say, waving a hand at the paint tins in the living room. “You want a coffee?”
“Th
anks.” When he sits at the kitchen counter, I pour us both a cup. Then I take the stool next to him and tug the piece of paper Aunt Therese gave me out of my pocket, smoothing it out so he can see the name scrawled across it in barely-legible writing.
“Demarcus Devlin,” he reads. “Who’s that?”
“Nobody. At least, not according to the Internet. I’m not even sure it’s a person. It could be a spell name, or a place, or the name someone gave to their car.” I rub the back of my neck with frustration. “I’ve searched as hard as I can, and I can’t find anyone or anything called Demarcus Devlin.”
“And you want me to…?”
I shoot him a hopeful look. “You must have access to police databases and things, right? If it is a person, you might be able to find him. Or her.”
“Why would I want to? Who is he?”
“Maybe nobody,” I admit.
It’s likely the name is straight out of a delusion Aunt Therese was having. She probably made it up. It might not even have anything to do with the killings. She might have been trying to set me up on a blind date.
But there’s something in my gut that’s telling me this is important. Something about the way Aunt Therese squeezed the paper into my hands poked at my long-dead intuition. “If we can find out what it means, it could give us vital information about the case,” I add, trying to sound more hopeful than I feel.
“Where did the name come from?”
I take a gulp of my coffee to buy time, because I don’t want to answer. When she gave me the name, Aunt Therese acted like she was passing on a huge secret.
But how would she know anything Uncle Ray didn’t? Unless there’s something going on at the council she doesn’t want to tell him. Or maybe she can’t tell him. Perhaps she’s been spelled to stop her revealing the secret to anyone important, and writing down this name for me was the only way she could pass on the information.
“I’d prefer not to say,” I tell him finally, putting my cup down. “But if you help me check it out, we could find something that’ll help the case. Catch the murderer and they’ll probably lift your suspension, right?”
“I could pull in a favor, but I want to know why. It’s not a game, Saffy. I won’t use police resources lightly.”
“I keep being accused of murder,” I say, with more bite in my voice than I’d intended. “That’s not a game either. And I refuse to sit around and wait to be accused again. For all I know, this Demarcus Devlin might be the one who killed my family. Are you going to help me find him or not?”
He hesitates, running one hand through his hair. I glare back, arms folded, until he sighs. “Just tell me this name didn’t appear in a puff of smoke from a magical spell.”
“You’ll just have to trust me,” I say impatiently, uncrossing my arms. “If you can’t bring yourself to accept magic is real, then at least believe me when I say this is important.”
He shoots me a narrow-eyed look. “If magic were real, wouldn’t you be able to wiggle your nose and conjure your cousin’s murderer?”
“Wiggle my nose? Like the genie in I Dream of Jeannie?” I huff out a loud, disgusted breath. “Way to insult me.”
“Well, what can you do? What can you show me?”
My indignation falls away. “Nothing,” I admit.
“Yeah, you conveniently can’t use the magic you claim to have, except to turn people into chickens.” He shakes his head, but he’s also tugging out his phone. He dials a number. “Hey, it’s me. I need a favor. Can you run this name for me? Demarcus Devlin. Yeah, that’s right.”
He spells out the name for the person on the other end, then hangs up.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Now we wait.”
“I have donuts from the place down the road. You want one?”
“Sure.”
As I put a donut onto a plate for him, I catch movement from the corner of my eye.
Agnes.
Somehow she’s managed to climb up to the kitchen window and she’s sitting on the sill, peering at the detective. She flaps her wings, trying to get his attention though he’s facing the other way. Then she taps her beak against the glass.
Xander frowns, glancing around, but Agnes is just out of sight.
Before Agnes can rap on the window again, I cross to the brand new stereo I’ve just had to pay a small fortune for. “You want to hear some real music?”
“Do I have a choice?” he asks around a mouthful of doughnut.
“Nope.” I flick the switch and the opening notes from Thrill Me start playing. I love this intro. It’s like the calm before the storm.
“What’s this?” he asks, already wincing though the loud part hasn’t started yet.
“The Flaming Buttholes. Jess’s band. They’re going to be huge.”
“Huge what?” His shoulders hunch. “Do they have the market for hearing aids cornered? If so, they’ll be millionaires.”
“The really good part is coming up.” I twist the volume knob higher.
His phone rings and he makes a cutting off motion with one hand. “Got to answer this,” he shouts over the music. When I turn it off, he pretends to wipe perspiration off his forehead. “Saved by the bell.”
I shake my head sadly at his lack of musical taste as he puts his phone to his ear.
“Trent speaking.”
While his attention is focused on his call, I cross to the window and open it, pushing Agnes off the sill. She flaps to the ground and glares up at me while I close and latch the window.
The detective has tugged a worn notepad and pen from his pocket and is scribbling an address. “Thanks. Yeah, yeah, I owe you.” He hangs up and taps the address with the pen. “That Devlin guy owns a thrift store on a street I know all too well. It’s a bad area.”
Aunt Therese didn’t make the name up after all. “Let’s go,” I say, my excitement rising.
He insists on finishing his coffee and donut before we go out and get into his car. And instead of starting the engine right away, he pauses with his hand on the key, giving me a half-smiling look.
“I think you’ll like this,” he says. “It’s a lot better than those Fiery Bottoms, or whatever they’re called.”
“What?”
He starts the engine. A song blares out of the stereo, the sound turned up loud.
“This.” He shouts over it, grinning at me. “Michael Bublé. He’s contemporary. Hugely popular. Millions of fans can’t be wrong.”
With a groan of pain, I clap my hands over my ears. Overly dramatic, maybe. But the song is so sweet and syrupy, I can feel my brain liquefying. And not in a good way.
“I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done to deserve this torture,” I shout. “Please turn it off.”
Xander cranks the sound louder and as he pulls out from the curb, he starts singing along to the song with so much enthusiasm I can only laugh. He has a nice baritone. If only he’d sing along with something good, I’d be able to enjoy it.
Three dreadful songs later, I’ve worn out my entire repertoire of groans and pained expressions and I’m almost ready to give up all semblance of dignity and good taste, and start singing along with him.
Almost.
Thankfully, before I can, he parks across the road from a dingy-looking store and switches the car off. I stare through the dirty window at the piles of junk inside the store. Used furniture, mostly, although I can see a bookcase full of what looks like old car parts.
It’s a funny place for a store, because the street is mostly lined with boarded-up houses and there’s a couple of shifty-looking guys hanging out on the corner who may as well be wearing name tags that say, ‘Hello, I’ll be your drug dealer today.’ This isn’t a place I’d come alone.
“You wait here. I’ll go in and ask some questions,” says Xander.
“I’m coming too.” I get out before he can object and jog across the road in front of him. No way I’m waiting in the car by myself.
When I open the shop’s door, a li
ttle bell jingles merrily into the gloom.
Junk is piled high in stacks, with chairs teetering on top of tables. The walls are covered with pictures, signs, and hanging ornaments. A large tin chicken sitting on an armchair sends a pang of guilt through me. I’ve been reasoning with Agnes every day, trying to convince her to let me try again. But she keeps well clear of me, and I haven’t been able to get close. I’m still not talking to my uncle, but I suppose I’ll have to swallow my pride and call him for help to change her back.
The bell jingles again when Xander comes in, and he looks around before picking a path through the junk to the counter in the back. A middle-aged man sits behind it, reading a book about card tricks. In contrast with the layer of grime in the store, he wears a neatly-pressed white shirt. His long, blonde hair is tied back from his face and he has long, elegant fingers that probably come in useful for hiding aces in his sleeve. I can’t sense any real magic, though. This guy isn’t a witch.
“Can I help you?” he asks, not looking up from his book.
“I’m Detective Trent from the Baltimore Police. I have a few questions to ask.”
The guy’s eyes jerk up and his gaze narrows on Xander. “What kind of questions?”
“Are you Demarcus Devlin?”
The man gives the tiniest of nods, his expression suspicious. “Why are you asking?”
“Do you know a woman called Sylvia Black?”
“Never heard of her.” One of his hands disappears in his pocket and Xander tenses. But surely Devlin’s pants are too tight for him to have hidden a gun or knife in there.
“Interesting book.” Xander leans closer, his eyes sharp. “You like doing magic?”
“A hobby, that’s all. Card tricks at parties. That kind of stuff.”
The man pulls his hand out of his pocket and pops the top off a small vial. The smell of burnt matches lingers in the air, and all my hairs stand on end. Magic.
Xander straightens, his expression going bland. “Okay. Thanks for your time.” He turns and walks to the door.
I’m opening my mouth to protest when I realize Demarcus Devlin must have cast a spell that only worked on Xander. I don’t want to give myself away, so I follow the detective out.
