by Morgan Brice
“I’ve got a bunch of cross necklaces. My grandma buys me one every year.”
“Okay. Put them on. Put them all on, and say a prayer to bless them and awaken their protective power,” Simon instructed. “Do you have any sage?”
“I’ve got weed. Will that do?”
Despite the danger, Simon smiled. “Um, no. How about salt?”
“I’ve got a salt shaker.”
“That works. I want you to pack a bag—take what you can’t do without, and some clothes to last a while. Fast. Do you have a car?”
Marcus snorted. “Are you kidding? I have a bike—the kind you peddle.”
“Call a cab. Not a rideshare—a real cab. Get out of Myrtle Beach. If you can, hop a bus once you’re out of town to somewhere that’s as far from here as you can go. Stay there until the Slitter is caught or killed, because if he’s hanging around the gym, then he’s noticed you, and that’s really bad.”
Simon wished he dared go pick Marcus up, but doing so might call the Slitter’s attention even more, and besides, between the visions and the whiskey, Simon was in no shape to drive.
“Okay. Okay,” Marcus said, and Simon could hear him hyperventilating.
“Breathe,” Simon warned. “You’ve got to hurry. If your gut is telling you that you’re in danger, trust it. I think the Slitter has magic. Real magic. Don’t let him get near you. Don’t tell anyone here where you’ve gone.”
“Gonna lose my job.”
“Can’t work if you’re dead.”
“Okay, I get you.”
“There’s a cop I know. I could call him and have him escort you—“
“No cops, man. If they don’t bust me for the weed, they’ll find something to get me on, and I don’t want any ‘three strikes’ bullshit.”
Simon wanted to argue that Marcus would be safer in jail, but he knew the other man wouldn’t agree. “Call me and let me know that you’re somewhere safe,” Simon said. “But don’t tell me where you are. If I don’t know, I can’t tell.”
“Shit, you’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“As a heart attack,” Simon replied. “Hurry. Run, and don’t look back.”
He ended the call, and let out a long breath, then swallowed down more whiskey. He had traded phone numbers with very few of his Skeleton Crew, and now Simon debated calling the ones he could reach to warn them. But what if they weren’t on the Slitter’s list after all? The J-ones couldn’t run, and the others needed their jobs too much to just leave. All the more reason to find the Slitter and stop him, once and for all.
Simon finished his whiskey, letting the burn fill him and drive out the cold. He debated having another and decided to wait a while. He reached into his pocket and wrapped a hand around the jack ball and High John the Conqueror root Miss Eppie had given him. He’d already taken her advice about using the red brick dust and the Four Thieves vinegar to protect the shop and his house, and he wondered if that had helped to keep the evil at bay. But now, he needed to step up his game.
In the three years he had lived in Myrtle Beach both Miss Eppie and Gabriella had taken him under their wings, nurtured his gift. Simon didn’t have the kind of abilities they had, either as a root worker or as a bruja, but they had both assured him that with his native energy, some magic could be learned. They had taught him ways to protect himself, and some low-level spells that could be used for defense.
First, he rifled through his kitchen for basil, then went to find patchouli and St. John’s Wort from another cupboard. He ground the protective herbs together, mixing them into powder, and filled several small cloth bags, which he tied shut. Then he went to his bedroom and rummaged through his bureau to find all his protective medallions, as well as silver rings and an onyx bracelet. He brought them all to the kitchen and lit a bundle of sage, smudging the four corners of the room, then the corners of the house, and finally marking the four points of the compass before he wafted the smoke over the jewelry, invoking a blessing and visualizing them glowing with energy.
Vic would probably tell him to get a gun. This was South Carolina; getting a handgun wouldn’t be difficult. But Simon had never shot a real gun, and if his aim at darts or paintball was any indication, he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. He had his pepper spray and his silver knife. Those were helpful, but if the Slitter could throw him bodily a distance of several feet and immobilize his victims with magic, then Simon needed weapons of an entirely different kind.
It had been a while since Simon had practiced what Gabriella had taught him, and the little he could do was paltry compared to the bruja’s abilities. But if he was gathering his defenses, then he was determined to use every advantage he possessed.
Most of his lessons with Gabriella had been on shielding and warding, learning how to create boundaries with the spirits. She had helped him focus his energy, place protective wardings on his house and the shop, and cleanse himself from the stain of despair and malice that some ghosts brought with them.
But Gabriella had also taught him what she called “rote magic,” spells that he could work drawing not on any special powers but on his own life energy. They were more than magician’s tricks but far less than a true witch could do. Still, the Slitter might not expect any magical defense from Simon, and surprise could be a life-saving advantage.
Simon stilled his mind and took several calming breaths, centering himself. He held out one hand palm up and focused all his concentration on willing a small flicker of flame into being. It took several tries—he was rusty—but finally, after he had started to sweat and his head began to pound, he managed to bring a tongue of fire to life in his palm, no larger than the flame of a taper candle, but real and burning at his command.
Simon released the flame with a gasp at the effort required and leaned on the back of the nearest kitchen chair to catch his breath and still the ache in his head. He was heartened by his ability to work the minor spell despite how out of practice he was, and knew he needed to refresh his few other workings.
He gripped a paper towel in one hand, held it at arm’s length, and focused once more on his inner energy, the core from which he drew his mediumship and the source of his visions. Simon pictured his hand growing warm and then hot, not burning his flesh but radiating enough heat to singe the paper. Once again his head pounded and his vision blurred, but Simon knew he would be working under much worse conditions if he ever faced off with the Slitter.
Gradually he felt heat rising from his fist, higher than a fever until he could smell paper scorching. He cried out and relaxed his grip, and the napkin fell to the floor, with the faint brown outline of his hand imprinted where he had burned it.
Simon stumbled and almost fell, but he caught himself on the kitchen chair. His head throbbed, and he felt far more light-headed than he could blame on the whiskey, but he had one more spell to try, and then he would head to bed if needed to crawl to get there.
Simon summoned his waning energy and stood in an open space in the kitchen where he had a few feet of empty floor around him. He closed his eyes and visualized himself inside a glowing circle that pulsed with silver fire. It took several tries, but finally Simon felt the power answer his call, and when he opened his eyes, he saw a thin shimmering curtain of energy surrounding him. He only held the protective ring for a few moments, just to assure himself he could sustain it, and then dismissed the magic with gratitude. He did not know how strong a barrier the energy curtain would provide, or what kind of attack—if any—it might stymie, but at least he didn’t feel like he might face the Slitter entirely unarmed.
Simon’s phone rang. He answered without looking at the ID. Unlike the phone for the shop, Simon gave his personal number to very few people, so he had a short list of who might be calling. “Hello?”
For a second, the line was silent, and Simon thought it had been a wrong number. Then a heavily filtered voice came on the line. “You can’t stop me. Your time is coming.” The line went dead.
&n
bsp; Simon swallowed hard and realized he was shaking. He checked his phone history, but when he tried to return the call, he got a recorded message that the number was out of service. He thought about calling Vic and decided against it if he didn’t even have a number to trace. Vic would worry without being able to do anything about it. He already knew Simon was in danger; the caller’s vague threat provided no clues to stop the killer.
Simon had never been big on true crime books, but he had watched enough TV to know that serial killers liked to toy with their victims, enjoying the mind games as much as the actual murder. He shuddered and went to check that the locks were in place. Simon put on several of the blessed medallions, tucked one of the bags of protective herbs into the pocket of his sweatpants, and set both the pepper spray and his knife on the nightstand. He fell into bed, utterly exhausted, but too afraid to fall into a restful sleep.
Simon headed to work the next morning, still groggy from a night of waking at every noise. He wore several of the amulets and tucked the rest around his house and saved some to bring to the shop, adding the herb bags for good measure. But when he approached the store, he saw a dark stain just in front of the door.
The smell told him what the liquid was before he had time to think about it. Blood, quickly turning sour in the heat. Bile rose in Simon’s throat. He had no idea whether the blood was human or animal, but he did note that it did not cross the protective line he had set down with Miss Eppie’s Hoodoo vinegar.
Again, Simon debated calling Vic. He knew he should report the vandalism. But…Simon was afraid of drawing the attention of Vic’s fellow cops, whom he felt certain wouldn’t give him the same benefit of the doubt. If they found out the things he’d told Vic, things no one should know, he’d end up as a suspect. Maybe they’d think he dumped the blood himself, as a red herring. Simon shook his head, coming to a conclusion. He couldn’t afford the scrutiny, not if he didn’t want to end up as a convenient fall guy.
“Shit,” Simon muttered. He went around to the back door, relieved to find there was no similar vandalism, let himself in, and turned off the security system. While the alarm had cameras on the inside of the shop, none of them faced outside. Simon thought maybe that was an oversight to correct, and he’d ordered another camera, but it hadn’t come in yet. Right now, he needed to wash down the sidewalk before anybody noticed.
He went to the utility closet, grabbed a gallon of bleach, and mixed it up with water in a scrub bucket, then attached a hose to the faucet in the mop sink, and dragged the hose with him out the front door. He opened the door and found Jay from the tattoo shop eyeing the mess.
“Did you piss someone off real good?”
Simon shrugged. “Maybe one of the feral cats got a rat.” He took a photo with his phone, although it showed little than a dark stain.
Jay raised an eyebrow. “If all that blood came from one rat, then we need to call in the National Guard instead of Animal Control.”
Simon waved for Jay to step back, and sluiced the bleach-water down over the stinking puddle, washing it away. He sprayed it with the hose until long after the last of the blood was gone, and poured straight bleach on it for good measure before rinsing it again.
“You gonna call the cops?” Jay asked.
“What are they going to do?” Simon asked wearily. “They’ll think it’s just some dumb frat boy prank.”
Jay gave him an appraising look. “Maybe starting the neighborhood watch made someone nervous.”
“Could be,” Simon said, winding up the hose. “I got a threatening phone call last night, but it must have been a burner phone, and the number says it’s disconnected. Nothing to trace.”
“Damn, boy. You better watch your step. I haven’t seen that guy with the scarred hands you asked me about, but maybe he got wind that you were looking for him.”
“Maybe,” Simon replied, sure that was the case. Or else, as the late-night caller had warned, he was just being reminded that he was next in line to die. “Thanks for helping keep an eye out.”
“Just part of being in the neighborhood.” Jay shrugged and ambled off.
Simon took his bucket, bleach, and hose back inside and then went back out front to set down another line of Four Thieves vinegar at all the doors and windows. When he was finished, he lit one of his protective candles behind the counter and placed some of his blessed charms and herb bags near the register and in the break room.
Once he’d finished his second cup of coffee, he made a call. “Cassidy?”
“Hi Simon! That lore you called me with helped a lot with the cursed box. Thanks!”
“Glad to hear it. Hey, do you have a minute?”
“Always,” she replied. “What can I do for you?”
Simon had spent the past hour trying to figure out how to get more information than he gave away, mostly because he didn’t want to drag Cassidy and her friends into his mess, even if they did have some occult skills. Simon was still mostly certain the Slitter was more criminal than cryptid, and more a problem for the police than for monster hunters. Mostly.
“I know lore, but you’ve got a lot more hands-on experience,” he said. “Is it possible for a person to steal magic from someone else?”
Cassidy paused. “Are you sure the thief is human?”
Simon found himself nodding, even though he knew Cassidy couldn’t see him. “Yeah. At least, I think so. He might have some rote magic, but I don’t think he’s got much natural power. But he’s causing problems, trying to leech off other people’s magic.”
“What kind of problems?” Cassidy pressed.
“People have gotten hurt.”
“If it were a creature, there would be ways to kill it, but that’s a lot harder when the monster is human,” Cassidy replied. “This sounds like it might be more in line with your witch friend.”
“Gabriella had to go out of town for a while,” Simon replied. “I’m the last deputy left in Dodge City.”
“And I don’t have a good answer for you,” Cassidy admitted. “The police won’t consider it battery or theft, and you can’t warn everyone with a bit of psychic gift. Encourage people to wear protective jewelry and strengthen their personal defenses. But even if you could throw a person like that in jail, he’d be able to draw off the energy of other inmates—gifted criminals can have magic, too.”
“Okay,” Simon agreed, knowing his reluctance was clear in his voice. “I thought the same thing, but I figured I’d bounce it off you.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Cassidy might not have clairvoyance, but sometimes Simon swore her psychometry managed to work through the phone.
“Yeah,” he lied. “I’m fine. I just thought you might know how to get this guy to stop bothering people.”
“If you need help, Teag and I can be there in an hour and a half,” she offered, including her best friend in the offer. But since Simon had never heard tell that either Cassidy or Teag had powerful magic of their own, Simon would be putting them in mortal danger by bringing them to the Slitter’s attention. This was a battle Simon knew he was going to have to fight himself.
“I appreciate that,” Simon said. “And if I need help, I’ll holler. But you gave me everything I needed for now. Stay out of trouble,” he added affectionately.
“You, too,” Cassidy replied. “And figure out when you can come visit. There are a couple of new restaurants I know you’d love.”
Simon ended the call with a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep and tried to shift his attention to the store since it was time to open for customers. He had ghost tours to lead that night, and once again sign-ups had been busy, so the tours were full.
Today he noticed that more locals than tourists came into the shop, heading right for the protective candles and amulets. Simon had already placed a reorder but wondered if he would run out before the replacements arrived. With the Slitter’s death toll climbing, even the city’s PR department couldn’t keep word about the killings from spreading, and while
the tourists didn’t seem to be worried, Simon could sense a new tension in the air among the merchants and regulars on the boardwalk. Everyone was waiting for the next murder and wondering why the hell the cops didn’t do something.
Several times throughout the day, Simon had the feeling of being watched, but when he looked around the shop, he saw no one staring in his direction. The wardings he had done at the doorways were supposed to keep evil out, and Simon hoped that included crazy serial killers. But he couldn’t shake the apprehension that kept him tense, and when he glimpsed the top of a baseball cap through the store window above a crowd outside, Simon ran for the door, standing on tip-toe to spot the wearer.
If there had been someone outside his window, they were gone now, and Simon couldn’t see any caps in the mass of sunscreened beachgoers. He went back inside, apologized to the customer he’d been waiting on, and tried to calm down. But his gaze repeatedly strayed to the window.
Get a grip. He’s playing with your mind, Simon told himself. It’s a psych-out, and if he can get you flustered, he wins. Intellectually, Simon knew that was the truth, but his senses spun every time he thought he saw someone linger outside the window.
He jumped when his phone buzzed. A glance confirmed it was Vic, and Simon felt both relief and guilt.
Having a good day? Vic asked.
Pretty quiet so far. You?
Another day in paradise. Are you okay?
Simon swallowed, hating to lie to Vic, but until he could turn up real, solid evidence the police would believe, he needed to keep his own counsel. I miss you. That was true.
Miss you, too. They’ve got us pulling double shifts, so I don’t know when I can come by. Don’t forget about me.
Who? Simon teased. No danger about that happening. Just, be careful.
You, too. Stay out of trouble.
If I don’t, can we play with your handcuffs? Simon flirted.
Now my pants are tight. I’ll see you as soon as I can. Be good.
Simon stared at the screen for a moment after Vic ended the call. He wished he could confide in Vic, and he promised himself that he would, just as soon as he had something he could prove.
