Hell's Belle

by Marie Castle

  * * *

  Day Three

  “Catherine Eleanor Delacy, you get your butt right back here!”

  My left eye twitched. Aunt Helena’s voice was usually slow, sweet, and full of that Southern drawl that always seemed to charm men, especially men who didn’t know better than to be charmed by a Southern woman with a legendary temper. But on days like today, when her mood was boiling, my aunt’s voice could compete with a banshee’s wail. And I mean that literally. I’d seen my aunt’s banshee secretary, Elvira, cringe in the face of her boss’s vocal intensity. Not surprisingly, Elvira had stayed in Europe for a “vacation.” The woman had probably jumped at the opportunity to have an ocean between herself and her sometimes cranky boss.

  “I’ve gotta run, Auntie. I’ll be back by ten,” I yelled over my shoulder, bumping the foyer table while rushing to the front door. I grabbed for a toppling vase, barely making sure it was steady before exiting, not waiting for a reply.

  I was of a like mind with Elvira. Distance really did make the heart grow fonder. And it didn’t hurt the ears none, either. Which was why I’d headed for the door the minute Aunt Helena had started yelling about how that advertisement—the one I’d successfully hidden from her until she’d picked up a paper in town—would endanger the family. Her argument would’ve worked, except I knew when my aunt said “family” she meant me. There was no family. Nana was on a endless RV tour of the country. My Grams, my great-grandmother who’d lived next door and helped raise me, had passed away over five years ago, two years after we’d lost my grandpa who I’d been especially close to. I had more than one fond memory of him teaching me to parallel park that old unwieldy ’83 Silverado, which was now my work truck. And Aunt Helena was only home a few weeks out of the year. Even our closest neighbor, Dr. Wellsy, who was like an adopted uncle to me, was away guest-teaching at a university in Virginia. I got in my rebuilt yellow Jeep, Susie, and headed down the long gravel drive, turning north once I hit the highway.

  Only Mynx lived full-time with me in the Delacys’ ancestral home, an old, sprawling two-story farmhouse. Hundreds of years older than the rest of us, Mynx was a Delacy in name and heart, if not blood. And with her own unique abilities, the green-eyed brunette was more than capable of protecting herself. And my mom…I pushed down my grief. We didn’t know where she was, which meant she was probably dead. I knew my mother—she would’ve gone through hell to get home to us. That was what Delacys did.

  The truth was that my aunt thought advertising that our agency was now taking Supernatural cases made me a target. But she was wrong. We already had ties to the Supernatural community, and it was these ties and not a small piece of print that had brought me Sunday’s run.

  It had been less than two days since I’d made my deal with Carmel to locate his bosses’ missing money. I was meeting a possible lead at Mag’s, a bar on the outskirts of Hattiesburg (The Burg), Mississippi. The Burg and New Orleans (NOLA) were about three hours apart. Luckily, my home in Gandsai, Miss. was smack-dab between the two. It was good that I had an appointment, because just walking outside wouldn’t have been enough to escape Aunt Helena’s temper.

  At that thought, I glanced in my rearview mirror, but there was only an empty stretch of blacktop. The old farmhouse was miles away. Until the Supernatural’s governing body, the Council, had told the world about us, most Sups had moved from city to city to hide their longer lifespan. Our house and the long number of generations raised there were a testament to my family’s ability to blend in over the years. The space had often been lonely, but I had to admit that the house’s white clapboards and green roof made a charming picture. Charming and expensive. And now mine. Keeping up a house that size cost more than I could make taking on your average cases, which was another reason for my recent advertisement.

  My ancestral home was far enough southwest of The Burg to still be in a rural wooded area. Gandsai was private enough for a witch’s needs but close enough to neighbors to satisfy the town gossips. Yet the house wasn’t so far from NOLA or The Burg that a client couldn’t drive out, which was why the faxed request, from a Council operative no less, had come as a surprise.

  All I knew was that I was to meet the Council’s local sheriff, Josephine Fera, for a retainer and further details. There’d been no phone number, so I couldn’t call to decline. The fax said simply that it involved a man named Nicodemus and that I’d want the case. Presumptuous. The message had intrigued me, especially the mention of Nicky-boy. Never one to stand up a lady, I’d thought it best to make an appearance. Or so I’d tell my aunt…when I eventually told her my meeting had been with a Council operative. I smirked as the wind blew in the Jeep’s open doors, whipping little tendrils of black hair about my face. Maybe for once my family’s emphasis on good manners would play in my favor.

  The Sheriffs, once called Guild Masters, had been leaders of a particular group, like a Were Clan’s Alpha. They’d changed their name right along with the Council, who’d originally been called the Guild Council. With the new name had come new job specs. Now anyone powerful—and crazy—enough to run roughshod over their district’s Sups could apply. I’d never met Fera, but I’d heard she was part Fae, part maverick, and all immortal. But while there were perks to working for the Council, a great deal of their operatives, even the not-so-mortal, tended to live a shorter than normal lifespan.

  So immortal or no, Fera didn’t have time to waste. And neither did I. But if I was lucky, the sheriff would know where a hooded man with fugly teeth and no fashion sense might stash a pile of the bloodsuckers’ mob money. That, and a free dinner, might be worth an hour of my time.

  Chapter Three

  “When in doubt, don’t stick it out. They might just bite it off.”

  —101 Ways to Deal With Weres

  A glorious crimson and gold sunset was fading into a dark night as I pulled into Mag’s. The breezy ride had made me appreciate the black leather jacket and jeans I’d worn to blend with the biker crowd, but as I exited the Jeep the cracked asphalt under my boots reflected enough heat to make sweat bead, dripping between my breasts. Compared to Sunday’s fiery battle, this heat was nothing. Still, I was glad that the modern miracle of A/C was only a few feet away.

  Resisting the temptation to hurry, I strolled. Assessing. Fera might be a potential client, and Mag’s might be a public place, but the instincts I’d honed over the years didn’t distinguish between Chuck E. Cheese’s and a war zone. To drop your guard was to get smacked between the eyes, especially if you were at the former. Those little kids with mallets could be real bastards.

  The lot was empty of people but full of motorcycles, cars and pickups. My Susie was the only bright spot in the sea of black, chrome, and blue, dust-covered Harleys and Chevys. If the number of vehicles was any evidence, Mag’s was hopping.

  Built from gray, weathered boards that most likely dated to the bar’s opening in the ’70s, the only exception was the nice side deck that had been added since my last visit. It was a beautiful night to sit outside. Too bad Fera had specified as discreet a meeting as possible. To that end, I took a moment to ensure my jacket still concealed my weapons. I was licensed to carry the stunners. But the whip on my hip and short sword sheathed in line with my spine weren’t exactly legal or illegal. Either way, a woman carrying weapons—other than those used for deer or raccoon hunting—was enough of a novelty in rural Miss. to draw attention. Attention Sheriff Fera didn’t want. Although, and I grinned at this thought, anyone, woman or man, would draw attention if they walked into a bar carrying my small arsenal. Considering this was a business meeting, it was probably overkill. But I wasn’t comfortable going unarmed, especially after the Kin’s job had turned into such a mess. Satisfied that everything was hidden, I pulled open the dented wooden door.

  The bar was dim and smoky. Maybe the smoking ban didn’t reach this far outside the city. Or more likely, no one cared. Straight ahead, a dark polished bar rested against the rear wall. Green felt pool tables w
ere on my right with booths and dining tables to my left. As I headed for a booth, I exchanged a brief nod with three Weres and a gremlin playing pool with the bikers and wannabe cowboys that crowded the place. I couldn’t help but grin at the number of eager women in denim and cowboy hats crowding the men, unaware that they were being drawn in by the Weres’ pheromones, like moths to a sexed-up flame.

  I kept walking, leaving everyone to their fun. The Weres looked friendly enough, and the phers wouldn’t make anyone do anything they didn’t want. The “moths” might go down singed, but everyone would walk away happy. Besides, lycanthropy was almost never transmitted sexually. So as of yet, the Council hadn’t banned Were to non-Were intercourse. Still, if you were an unattached man or woman, it was good to keep an eye on an unmated Were. They were notoriously horny bastards, especially the women.

  I should know, I used to date one.

  Uh…I mean, I used to date Luke, who was definitely male. But I’d been around a few female Weres and knew they put out as much if not more phers. I’d also learned that Weres were cautious, which was why I wasn’t worried. The scent of my whip’s silver worked better than hanging a NOT AVAILABLE sign around my neck.

  I picked the darkest corner and settled in, back to the wall. The seat’s springs had long since given up, and the menu was only a plastic-covered piece of paper, but the jukebox was state of the art, an old Willie Nelson song carrying well over the chatter. What the place lacked in décor it made up with atmosphere. The walls were covered in a mixture of hunting trophies, old posters and framed black-and-white photos. I liked the way a picture of Elvis had been placed next to a stuffed wide-mouth bass so that they seemed to watch the pool players. The place was charming…in a sort of homey way.

  As if conjured by my thoughts, the hair on the back of my neck rose. The players weren’t the only ones being watched. I hid my face behind the menu, closed my eyes, and opened my mind enough to do a deep search. I found nothing. But the Fae was here. Or at least someone of power was. Watching. Waiting. I searched again but couldn’t pinpoint anything. It was one heck of a spell that could hide from my mind’s eye. Of course, I could be paranoid. Maybe Fera was just fashionably late.

  The instant I put the menu down, a tan, bleached-blonde in a black Mag’s tank and jeans strolled over. “Hi, hon,” she said. “I’m Jimmi Mae Travers, the bar’s owner. We’re a waitress short tonight, so I’m doing double-duty. What can I getcha?” She had the smoker’s voice and laugh lines of someone in their early forties…and the breast implants of someone making good money. She also had a touch of magic. The slight smell of earth gave her away as a non-practicing witch. Wicca had made earth-magic cool again. Now it was unusual to find one with real magic not practicing. But some people simply didn’t know or want the power that was within them.

  “Bless your heart.” I gave her my friendliest smile. “I worked as a waitress for a bit during college. It’s hard enough without being shorthanded.” I didn’t mention that it was only a two-day undercover job to determine if the owner was cheating on his wife. That was one job I’d actually gotten a bonus for getting fired. “I’ll take the spicy chicken club, hot fries extra hot and a tea.”

  Jimmi Mae smiled back. “Let me know if you need a job. We’re hiring.” Just as she turned to walk away, the room’s magic shifted and a tall woman slid into the booth’s other seat.

  The stranger smiled, lightly drawling, “Sorry, sugar, but our Catie girl’s about to have her hands full.”

  I arched my brows, smirking inwardly. This had to be Fera. If she wanted to pretend we were old friends and she was simply another belle out on the town, that was fine by me. It was her dime. I couldn’t help but grin at Jimmi Mae’s double take. The elf was stealthy. If I hadn’t felt Fera’s cloaking spell drop, I’d have my mouth hanging open, too. But her dramatic entrance begged the question: Why did the Council need my help when they had such skilled operatives?

  After taking Fera’s order, Jimmi Mae walked to the bar, muttering about getting her eyes checked. The cheap vinyl squeaked as I slouched back. “We need to work on your definition of discreet.” I smiled, only half-joking.

  Nodding, Fera watched me with amber-colored eyes. “I’ll add it to my list.” Her smile was friendly enough but wary, too. I couldn’t tell if her ears were pointed behind the hair that flowed down her back and around her face, but I did see the gold glitter of earrings. It took a moment to determine her hair color. It looked sandy brown, but strands of red, gold, and even a few black made random appearances. I blinked. For a second, her hair had taken on a spotted texture. Must be the lighting.

  I’d been expecting either a stiff suit or a femme fatale with leather and daggers. What I’d gotten was a gypsy in modern clothes. Dressed in capris, flip-flops and a black T, her outfit appeared casual, but it didn’t hide a trained fighter’s muscle tone. She didn’t wear any makeup. But then she really didn’t need any. Her golden skin glowed, making me envious. My skin, always a light-olive, darkened when I got hot or flushed but never really tanned. Still, it could be worse. Thankfully, the Delacy freckles had skipped me right along with the red hair.

  We made idle chitchat until Jimmi Mae dropped off our drinks. Then Fera slid a brown file folder across the table. “Your boy Nicodemus has been busy.”

  I casually flipped open the folder, nearly choking on my tea as my mind temporarily shut down. Five pictures. Blood. Death. Sacrifice. I recognized the setup but kept my face blank. Young women with open glassy eyes lay in a perfect circle of their own blood. Ritualistic symbols were etched in blood and stone around the circle, their counterparts cut into the bodies. A senseless waste of life.

  I snapped the folder shut, looking up. My eyes locked with amber ones that seemed ancient. I took a slow sip of tea. The chilly beverage felt good against my suddenly dry throat. Fera sipped her own drink before continuing, “Our operatives followed a tip to the first body about five months ago, right after the Winter Solstice.” Her voice was pitched low, but it was hard to imagine that anything could be heard over the bar’s increasing noise. The darker the night grew, the faster the place was filling up. It seemed so wrong to be speaking of death and violence while life was going on as usual around us. John Mellencamp’s “Hurts So Good” was blasting in the background, and we were talking about human sacrifice.

  Fera watched me and the darkened windows before sliding a manila envelope across. I opened it to see a healthy wad of cash. She looked me in the eye. “I need your help, Cate.”

  I leaned back, returning her stare. “Really? And why would I want to risk my ass by getting entangled in a Council mess?” I put the envelope down, tapping it with one finger. “Money’s nice. But there are other jobs out there.” I’d decided to take the case the minute I’d seen the pictures. She knew I would. I could see it in her eyes. But I wasn’t going in without knowing why. Why me? Why pick a no-name runner of questionable magical abilities? It didn’t make sense. I’d already walked into one trap this week. Unlike my business partner, Mynx, I didn’t have any lives to spare.

  Fera’s face was grim. “You’re already involved. Everyone knows you’re looking for Nicodemus for the Kin. Our sources tell us he’s behind this.”

  “I was hired to find the money, not the man. And I can walk away as easily as not.” The ominous conversation I’d overhead between Nicodemus and Sarkoph said she was right and the former was involved. But that wasn’t reason enough for the Council to call on me. Determined, I placed my hands on the table and half-stood.

  “Wait.” Fera raised her voice slightly.

  She still seemed calm, but I sensed her unease and wondered what she feared. It certainly wasn’t me. I gave her an expectant look.

  She sighed. “I won’t mislead you. This is a dangerous mission that would normally be given to a team of operatives. However, I’m no longer sure who I can trust. And it’s no secret that there’s no love lost between you and the Council. You’re the last person anyone would expect us to
ask for help.”

  I grinned. It wasn’t as if I’d egged the Council headquarters, but since my mom’s disappearance I’d gone out of my way to make life difficult for them in other, more subtle ways.

  Fera continued, “But more than that, I worked with your mother years ago.” She took another long drink then stared at me, lips set tightly. “I trust Evie Delacy with my life. I’m hoping I can trust her daughter, as well. Because I think it’s my life and everyone else’s on the line this time.”

  I fell back into the seat. Finally, a measure of truth. But I was more caught by her use of the present tense in reference to my mother. Leaving that for later, I said, “Okay, so assuming I’m in, I want to know everything you know. This isn’t just some serial killer run amok. These symbols,” I pulled a photo forward, pointing to a demon sign marring the lifeless body of a young brunette with gray cloudy eyes, “are archaic. Few know them. Even fewer would use them.” Fera nodded. “But your guardian operatives would have already told you that.”

  Smiling, she simply arched a brow, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Cocking my head, I reassessed. “Or don’t you have any?” My shot in the dark paid off when her body stilled. Damn, so they didn’t have any guardians, at least not close by. That made my decision simple but complicated everything that would come after. “But you have witches that can sense gate activity and are trained in the ancient ways?” I knew the answer but asked anyway.

  “Yes.” On safer ground, Fera relaxed. “A few.”

  “So,” I tapped the photo again, “you know those are rift bearers, meant to collect the energy that slices through space and time. Someone’s trying to take a trip, and no one uses such dark magic to visit Disney World.”

  Amber eyes unblinking, she challenged, “Yeah, so what are we going to do about it?”

  Her simple question was loaded with an eternity of possibilities. Knowing she wouldn’t understand my answer, I remained silent, instead picking up my drink and crunching a piece of ice before looking again at the pictures of five girls who had been forced to watch their deaths come slowly. I knew what I was going to do. I was going to take her money and use some of it to buy earplugs before heading home. I would need every bit of help I could get.