by Kevin Hearne
Ha! He asked to come inside anyway. Not gonna happen, buddy. “Oh, it’s such a nice morning, let’s just talk out here,” I said. “What brings you to my door today?”
Jimenez frowned. “Mr. O’Sullivan, this is really best discussed in private.”
“We’re plenty private right here.” I grinned at him. “Unless you’re planning to shout. You aren’t going to shout at me, are you?”
“Well, no,” the detective admitted.
“Great! So why are you here?”
Resigned, Detective Jimenez finally got to the point. “Do you own an Irish wolfhound, Mr. O’Sullivan?”
“Nope.”
“Animal Control says you have one licensed under the name of Oberon.”
“That’s true, I do; well done, sir.”
“So then you do own one.”
“Nope. He ran away last week. I have no idea where he is.”
“So where is he?”
“Didn’t I just say I have no idea?”
Detective Jimenez sighed and pulled out a notebook and a ballpoint pen. “When, precisely, did he run away?”
“Last Sunday. That would be a week ago, as I said. I came home from work and he was gone.”
“What time was that?”
“Five-fifteen p.m.” Time to play the bewildered citizen. “Why are you asking about my dog?”
Jimenez ignored my question and asked me another one. “When did you leave for work that day?”
“At half past nine.”
“And where do you work?”
“At Third Eye Books on Ash Avenue, just south of University.”
“Where were you on Friday night?”
“I was here at home.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“Well, that can hardly be any of your business.”
“It’s precisely my business, Mr. O’Sullivan.”
“Oh. Are you going to tell me what this is about now?”
“We are investigating a murder committed Friday night in Papago Park.”
I frowned and squinted at him. “Am I a suspect? I didn’t do it.”
“Do you have an alibi?”
“I wasn’t in Papago Park Friday night. Isn’t it supposed to be closed at night?”
“Who saw you Friday night?”
“No one. I was home alone, reading.”
“With your dog?”
“No, not with my dog. He ran away last Sunday, remember? You wrote it down in your little book.”
“Would you mind if we verify that your dog is not at home?”
“How do you mean?”
“We’d like to take a look in your backyard and your house to make sure he’s not at home.”
“Sorry, I’m not entertaining houseguests today. Especially ones who assume I’m lying.”
“We can come back with a warrant, Mr. O’Sullivan,” Detective Fagles said, speaking up for the first time. I turned my head to glare at him.
“I’m well aware, Detective. If you’d like to waste your time, go right ahead. My dog is not here, nor will he be here if you come back. Why are you looking for my dog, anyway? What led you to my door?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss details of the investigation,” Jimenez said.
“It sounds like a pretty good one. Colonel Mustard did it in the park with the wolfhound, eh? I can hardly believe you’d be checking every single wolfhound owner in the valley. If you heard I still had a wolfhound from my neighbor across the street, he’s not exactly a reliable witness. Last night he was cited by Officer Benton of the Tempe PD for making a false 911 call.”
The two detectives exchanged a glance, and I knew that was it. Mr. Semerdjian was at it again. I’d have to ask Oberon to leave him a present on his front doorstep. He’d do it camouflaged too, so that even if Mr. Semerdjian was watching—and he probably would be—it would appear to be undeniable, physical evidence that, sometimes, shit just happens.
“Have you checked the animal shelter for your lost dog, Mr. O’Sullivan?” Jimenez asked. Fagles went back to glaring at me from behind his sunglasses.
“Not yet,” I said.
“Aren’t you concerned about his welfare?”
“Of course I am. He’s properly licensed and has my phone number on a tag around his neck. I’m expecting a call any minute.”
They stared at me stone-faced for a few moments to let me know that the sarcasm wasn’t appreciated. I stared back to let them know I wasn’t intimidated. Your move, youngsters.
I could tell they didn’t quite know what to make of me. Seeing the world through a perp filter as they did, I must look to them like a sullen stoner punk pretending to attend college, but I wasn’t behaving like one. I was too alert, too sharp. Maybe that made me a dealer. Perhaps they assumed I wasn’t letting them in because they’d find my hydroponic weed operation and psychedelic mushrooms in the closet, or maybe a three-foot-tall bong made of blown glass in Day-Glo hippie colors sitting on the coffee table.
Finally Jimenez broke the silence. He gave me a business card and said, “We’d like you to call us if you find your dog.”
I took the card and slipped it into my pocket without looking at it. “Good day, gentlemen,” I said, giving them a broad hint to get the hell off my porch. Jimenez took the hint, but Fagles remained. Apparently he wanted to have a staring contest or mutter a threat to me. What an idiot. I knew how to be patient. I put my hands in my pockets and flashed him a fake smile. That got a reaction.
He uncrossed his arms, pointed a finger at me, and said, “We’ll be watching.”
Please. Whatever. I kept on smiling and said nothing.
Jimenez paused in the street and turned around, that being the point where he was supposed to realize Fagles hadn’t followed him off the porch.
“Detective Fagles, we have other people to talk to,” he called.
What a lovely straight line. Keeping his voice pitched for my ears only, Fagles said, “Yeah, like the judge.” Gods Below, did this routine work on anyone? With one last aggressive clenching of his jaw, Fagles turned and stepped off the porch. As he did, he turned his head toward the east side of the lawn, where all the pink grass was. Just looking around. No reaction. The grass probably didn’t look pink through those tinted sunglasses of his. Good job, Detective! Jimenez was oblivious as well. He was watching me to see if my body language screamed “GUILTY!” Then he strolled unhurriedly to their unmarked Crown Victoria once Fagles had caught up.
I returned inside once they had driven off, and Oberon nuzzled my hand at once.
he said, very pleased with himself.
I chuckled and scratched him behind the ears. “Yes, you were. Genghis Khan would have admired your craftiness.”
I lifted the camouflage off him so that he would feel comfortable, and then I sat back down to a half-eaten lukewarm omelet and a cup of coffee I had to warm up to make palatable. After cleaning up, I set about looking for anything the cops would find incriminating should they come in here with a warrant. They would be supposedly searching for a dog, but that wouldn’t stop them from snooping around either, unless I had a lawyer here. Even then, they might stumble across something or damage something in the process of their search that I didn’t want them to—mostly my books. I had some pretty arcane titles behind glass in my study, with paper so old it was ready to crumble. Cops wouldn’t be gentle with those if they wanted to rifle through them; I’d need to pay Hal $350 an hour to camp here and make sure they didn’t look for Oberon inside my books. What a pain in the ass. Well, they should owe me some time after all that blood I gave Leif last night. That battle had taken much less than an hour, and the cleanup lasted maybe another, so I should be paid up for ten hours already. Speaking of blood, I put the scrap of paper with Radomila’s blood on it inside an old collection of stories about the Fianna and locked it away in the glass bookcase in my study.
To be safe, I camouflaged my herbs in the backyard so it looked like I had nothing along m
y fence but empty shelves. No telling what the cops would think about all the plant life back there; they’d probably assume some of it must be illegal and confiscate the lot of it to have it analyzed, and I’m sure it would come back to me half dead or worse. Fagles would do it just to get back at me for staring him down.
While it was a load of inconvenience, I couldn’t get myself too angry with them. They were only doing their jobs, and, after all, I really was the bad guy in this case—or, at least, Oberon was.
Satisfied that I had hidden what needed hiding, I put in a call to Hal on his cell phone and explained my extraordinary needs for a Sunday. If Jimenez could get a warrant on Sunday, then I could get a lawyer. Hal said he’d send over a junior associate to guard the castle.
“Is he a pack member?” I asked.
“Yes. Does that matter?”
“Just tell him to keep a sharp ear and nose out. If one of my pantheon is behind this, then there might be some magical skulduggery going on. The police might bring someone along who isn’t entirely human, for example.”
“They probably won’t show up at all. I’ve never heard of a search warrant for a dog. You may be the most paranoid man I’ve ever met.”
“I’m certainly the longest lived you’ve ever met.”
“Point taken. I’ll tell him.”
I showered and dressed, cast camouflage back on Oberon, and slung Fragarach across my back. I was anxious to visit the widow’s house and make sure she was okay.
Nothing looked amiss from the street. The blood had washed away or soaked into the asphalt sufficiently. Going around to the back, I saw nothing, not so much as a disturbed patch of ground. With a shudder, I considered the likelihood that the Morrigan had eaten him. Shaking my head to clear the grisly image, I walked back to the front, Oberon panting softly behind me. I knocked on the widow’s front door and she answered after a minute, looking spry and chipper.
“Ah, me dear boy Atticus, ’tis a pleasure to see ye again and that’s no lie. Have ye killed any more Brits for me?”
“Good morning, Mrs. MacDonagh. No, I haven’t killed any more Brits. I hope you won’t be talking about that with anyone.”
“Tish, d’ye think I’m daft? I’m not there yet, thank the Lord. It’s all due to clean livin’ and good Irish whiskey. Would y’be havin’ some with me? Come on in.” She opened the screen door and beckoned.
“No, thank you, Mrs. MacDonagh, it’s not yet ten in the morning, and it’s Sunday.”
“An’ don’t I know it? I have to be goin’ to Mass soon enough at the Newman Center. But the father can drone on at times, and he keeps preaching to the youngsters what go there, all those ASU kids, y’know, who have those merry sins of the flesh to worry about, so I find a finger or two o’ the Irish helps me bear it with patience.”
“Wait. You go to church drunk?”
“Mellow is the word I’d be usin’, if y’please.”
“You don’t drive there, uh, mellow, do you?”
“Of course not!” She looked affronted. “I get a ride from that nice Murphy family what lives down the street.”
“Oh. Well, that’s fine, then. I just wanted to make sure you were all right, Mrs. MacDonagh. I have to go to work now, so you can go, uh, get mellow, and enjoy your day. Peace be with you.”
“And also with you, m’boy. Are y’sure I can’t convince ye to get baptized?”
“Quite sure,” I said. “But thank you again for the offer. Bye now.”
It means a priest dunks you in some water and when you come out you’re reborn.
No, you’re not literally reborn in the physical sense. It’s a symbolic thing. Your spirit is supposed to be reborn because you’re washed clean of sins.
Oberon took twenty yards or so to consider this, his nails clicking on the sidewalk as we turned right on University Drive.
Like I said, it’s symbolic. And it’s a different belief system.
I laughed. Yeah. Kinda like that.
I put Fragarach on a shelf underneath my apothecary counter, let Oberon circle around a few times and get himself settled, and then opened the door for Perry, who looked appropriately gloomy for a Goth guy this morning.
Sundays at the shop were usually decent business, as if all the non-Christians wanted to make a point of buying something pagan while everyone else was in church. You could always tell the ones who had been raised in a strict Christian environment: They’d put their books on Wicca or Aleister Crowley down on the counter and grin nervously, amazed at themselves for having the stones to buy something their elders told them not to buy. And their auras almost always churned with arousal, which I did not understand when I first opened the shop, but eventually it made sense: For the first time in their lives, they were going to read about a belief system where it was okay to have sex, and they could hardly wait for the validation.
By the same token, you could always spot the ones who were a part of the serious magical community. They had auras that shouted their mojo, for one thing, but they also wore one of three expressions on their faces when looking at the magical wannabes buying their first pack of Tarot cards: They either sneered contemptuously, grinned faintly in amusement, or looked nostalgic for a time when they themselves were clueless.
Emily the snotty witch was the contemptuous, sneering sort. She stormed into the shop dressed like a pampered horror from Scottsdale and promptly stuck her tongue out at me.
“Emily!” a voice snapped from the open door before I could say anything. A frowning woman stepped in after the classic parenting reprimand—just shout the kid’s name in public and let the tone do the work—and Emily’s eyes widened a bit. She knew she was in trouble.
Chapter 13
I assumed that the frowning woman must be Malina Sokolowski. She looked to be in her early thirties, but if Emily was the youngest of Radomila’s coven, then Malina’s real age had to be pushing a century or more. She was a true blonde, with pale yellow hair cascading past her shoulders in soft waves that shampoo companies like to put in commercials. It looked glossy, fragrant, and utterly mesmerizing. It fell onto a squarely cut red wool coat, which would be too warm to wear for another month or so but which provided a magnificent contrast in both color and texture.
At that point, my amulet shut the noise down and I snapped out of it. Whoa. She had some kind of beguilement charm on her hair. It was something the wards on my shop weren’t designed to take care of, but the cold iron of my amulet caused it to fizzle. That meant it was not the everyday sort of witches’ magic. Cool. Scary, but cool.
Her hair really did look good, but now I was able to look away from it and assess the rest of her. Pale eyebrows, just a shade or two darker than her hair and now drawn together in disapproval, provided a roof for a pair of startlingly blue eyes. She had a patrician nose and what looked like a generous mouth, but now it was drawn tightly down, lips painted to match the color of her coat. Pale skin—not the unhealthy pallor of Goths, but the white porcelain sheen of European nobility stretched over a faint blush—made a pillar of her neck, which betrayed a hint of a gold necklace before it disappeared underneath her coat.
Nonverbal signals are so powerful at times that I wonder at our need to speak. Without looking at her aura, I already knew that Malina was classy where Emily was not; far more mature, intelligent, and powerful; and was reluctant to give offense where Emily could not wait to give it. And I also knew she was more dangerous by several orders of magnitude.
“I thought I had made it clear you were to offer no offense to Mr. O’Sullivan,” she said. Her Polish accent was more pronounced than it had been on th
e phone, perhaps owing to her irritation. Emily lowered her eyes and muttered an apology.
“I’m not the one who needs an apology. It’s Mr. O’Sullivan you have insulted. Apologize to him this instant.” Wow. She was scoring points with me already. But then I remembered that she was a witch, and they might have planned this whole scene ahead of time. Still, Emily looked as if she would rather mate with a goat than apologize to me, so I was enjoying it, even if it was a performance. Other customers were looking around at Malina’s raised voice, their gazes lingering on the two women. They were difficult to look away from, albeit for very different reasons.
When Emily took too long, Malina’s voice lowered to a threatening growl so that only Emily and I could hear. “If you do not apologize to him right now, then I swear by the three Zoryas that I will measure your length on this floor and put you in breach of contract. You are in so much trouble already, you will be cast out from the coven.”
Apparently that was worse than mating with a goat, because Emily suddenly could not be more sorry for her behavior and hoped I would forgive her discourtesy.
“I accept your apology,” I said at once, and the tension in their shoulders eased.
Malina finally turned her attention to me. “Mr. O’Sullivan. I am so embarrassed by our entrance. I hope you will forgive me as well. I am Malina Sokolowski.” She smiled brightly and extended a hand to me—gloved, I noticed, in brown leather—and I shook it once.
“Forgiven,” I said, “though there is really nothing to forgive. You’re welcome to look around if you’d like, or if you’d simply rather wait for the tea, you can sit at one of the tables over there while I make it.”
“That’s very kind, thank you,” Malina replied.
“It will just be a couple of minutes.”
“Great.” She gestured toward the tables and gently pushed Emily in that direction. “After you, miss,” she said.
Oberon said from behind the counter.
I busied myself making Emily’s tea and spoke to him through our link. Yes, well, she’s decided to take the high road, so I’ll be happy to walk it with her as long as she likes.
