Clash Of The Covens (Calder Witch Series Book 3)

by Martha Woods

  I don’t need to glance back to know he is watching me walk away. I can still feel those eyes boring into me, as though they can read my very soul. I want to look back; I want to see his face one more time, but I don’t. I won’t give in to this. I won’t. And somehow, I know I have far from seen the last of Vincent.

  I plop back into my seat beside Cara.

  “About time,” she laughs. “Didn’t he even offer to buy you another drink?”

  I look down at a full Cosmopolitan. I don’t even remember ordering it; it must have been Cara wanting to get my night started. I drain the liquid. It tastes good and strong. Perfect.

  “I’ll go and order another round,” Tommy announces, standing. “Same again, everyone?” Tommy signals the waiter.

  He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed that I’ve been talking to a handsome stranger. Well, why would he?

  I realize Cara is still waiting for me to answer her. “We were just chatting,” I say. “Why would he offer to buy me a drink?”

  Cara snorts laughter. “Sure you were,” she says. “You were talking to him for a while. Come on, spill.”

  A while? That can’t be right. I sneak a glance at my watch.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Tanya, a girl from Cara’s office. “Damn girl, you did well there,” she says with an appreciative nod. “Did you give him your number?”

  I nod mutely. I didn’t, of course, but if I say that, they’ll want to know why, and I am nowhere near ready to get into all of that. Saying yes is the easy way out. Plus, I can’t help but think that if Vincent wanted to call me, he wouldn’t need me to have given him my number. He would just know it.

  Tanya and Cara are laughing and discussing where Vincent and I might go for our first date. It feels so surreal, but how can I stop it? I laugh along.

  “If he called me, I don’t think I’d even bother with the date.” Tanya laughs. “I’d invite him to my place for dinner, and we would get right on to dessert the second he rang the doorbell.”

  At least I’m not totally crazy. He is incredibly hot. Maybe that’s all my weird response to him was. But surely I shouldn’t rule out the fact that I’m almost certain he’s a serial killer.

  A huge tray with our drinks arrives. Everyone has cocktails, and a round of tequila shots. I am saved from further questioning as everyone starts passing around salt and handing out lime wedges.

  I’m not a huge fan of tequila, but right now, I need to get drunk and forget all of this. Forget Vincent, Damon, and the events of the last few days. I lick the salt and throw back the shot, then suck on the lime, grimacing. With a laugh, I take a gulp of my cocktail to wash away the taste.

  Before long, we’ve made our way through half a dozen more shots, and I’m onto my fourth cocktail. I am just about to cross the line from tipsy to drunk, and I feel good. I feel the warm tequila glow in my stomach, and I hear myself laughing constantly. I even join in the conversation about what exactly I would do to Vincent given half a chance.

  I know I am going to be hungover tomorrow. But that’s ok. That’s normal. And right now, I need something normal in my life.

  I don’t resist when Cara shouts, “Oh my god, I love this song,” and grabs my arm, pulling me to the dance floor.

  Giggling, I dance with her. I forget about everything and everyone and just feel the beat pounding through me, moving, dancing, laughing.

  * * *

  I stand beside the river bank, looking out over the water as a low fog rolls in. I hear footsteps to my right, and I turn to look. A woman is walking towards me. She smiles, and I smile back.

  I turn back to the river. I hear a rustling sound coming from the trees behind me. I turn, just in time to see a black shadow dart out of the trees. It jumps up into the air, heading for the woman. I open my mouth to call out a warning, but I’m too late.

  “Amy, help me,” she screams as she lands on her back, the shadow thing on top of her.

  I don’t know her, but she knows me, and I’m her only hope. I push aside my fear and try to run to her, but I can’t move. My legs just won’t obey me. I try to call out to her, and my voice is the same. Unresponsive. I stand in frozen, silent horror and watch as the black shadow squirms its way up to the woman’s body. It seems to be still for a moment, and then it is frenzied, tearing at her. Feeding.

  After what feels like hours, the shadow leaps off of her and runs back into the trees, and suddenly, I'm not frozen in place anymore. I run to the woman, already knowing I’m too late to save her, but not knowing what else to do.

  Her body is horribly mutilated. Her chest and stomach are crisscrossed with deep lacerations and I can see her intestines poking out through the holes, shredded. Of course, she must be dead, but she isn’t. Not quite.

  She has enough life in her to utter one more sentence. “You didn’t save me.”

  * * *

  As I wake up, I feel the vomit rising in my throat. I throw back the duvet and make a mad dash for the bathroom, stumbling onto my knees in front of the toilet just in time. The drinks all rush back out of me. I kneel there panting, a string of drool hanging from my lips. I dry heave a few times, my stomach clenching and then, just as suddenly as it came on, the nausea passes.

  I take a shaky breath and wipe my mouth. I think of the dream. I didn’t save her. Of course I didn’t. I was too busy being charmed by the serial killer. I push the thought away. It was only a dream. It wasn’t real.

  I stand up, wash my hands and face, and brush my teeth. I flush the toilet. I take two painkillers from the cabinet above the sink and swallow them, washing them down with a glass of not quite cold enough water.

  I look at myself in the mirror, at my sallow skin, the bags under my eyes. I groan.

  I’m never drinking again, I think to myself as I make my way back to my bedroom. Bella is waiting for me, loyal and expectant, wagging her tail as if to say, “It’s going to be ok.” I crawl into bed next to her and instantly fall back into a deep sleep. Mercifully, there are no more dreams.

  Chapter 5

  I wake up and instantly feel my head throbbing. With a groan I push myself up on one elbow and push my hair out of my face. I smack my tongue against the top of my mouth a couple of times. My mouth is so dry it feels painful, and it tastes like a small rodent crept in in the middle of the night and died in there.

  I glance at the clock beside me. 4:47 p.m. No way! It must be wrong. I grope for my cell phone. The clock is right. It is almost 5 p.m. How did I sleep for so long?

  I think back to last night. I may have slept late, but I didn’t really slept that long. I didn’t get in until after 8 a.m. I smile. It was some night. I hadn’t gone all out like that in a while. A job like mine tended to get in the way. I shudder as I remember waking in the morning – which may as well have been the middle of the night, given yesterday’s schedule – and throwing up. I also remember the nightmare I had.

  It made sense after talking to Vincent. The alcohol must have warped my memory of the conversation into something ugly and frightening, and then my own guilty conscience at not calling Rick must have kicked in, resulting in the disturbing dream. That’s why in the dream, I felt the woman dying was my fault.

  I reach for the remote control, hardly daring to switch on the news. I do, though. I watch the newscaster run through various stories, including a dig at the police for not being any closer to catching the serial killer, who last struck the other night. I breathe a sigh of relief. No one else was killed last night. I laugh a nervous laugh. Of course, they weren’t. Do I think I’m psychic now? Psycho, more like.

  With an effort, I drag myself out of bed. I turn the TV off and go to the bathroom. I take another two painkillers and down two glasses of water. I get in the shower and I stand under the water, turning the heat up as hot as I can stand it. Next, I brush my teeth, glad to be rid of the stale alcohol taste. I debate texting Cara, but I don’t. She would want to know if Vincent called, and I don’t want to talk about him right now. I don’t e
ven want to think about him.

  The painkillers are doing their job. My headache is down to a dull pounding, and I realize I am absolutely ravenous. I run a mental inventory of my fridge and cupboards. Nope. Nothing even close to greasy enough.

  I get dressed, grab my things, and head out. The elevator ride isn’t long, and I am soon outside in the fresh, crisp air. It is cold, but not unbearably so. The cold feels good against my skin, and the chill wind seems to blow away the rest of my headache. It is already dark when I head for the pizza place down the road. Pizza is exactly what I need to feel human again.

  I can’t believe it is already going on 7:30 and I am going for breakfast. Granted, breakfast is pizza, so it all balances out. I smile. It reminds me of my early twenties, when this would have been a regular weekend. It feels good to let go now and again, and I thoroughly enjoyed last night. The laughter, the dancing, the gossiping. The normality of it all. I even spent some time talking to Julia. And she was really nice. If anything, I finished that conversation thinking she probably deserved better than Tommy. She would tire of him soon enough. Just like I did.

  I enter the pizza place and step up to the counter.

  “A large slice of pepperoni and a coke please,” I say.

  The man behind the counter puts a huge pizza slice on a plate and hands it to me along with my coke.

  “Eight dollars please,” he says.

  I give him a ten. “Keep the change.”

  “Enjoy your pizza,” he tells me as I leave.

  Oh I will, I think. I sit down near the window, not that I can see much. The café is brightly lit with neon bulbs, and with the darkness outside, the window is more like a mirror.

  I eat the pizza slowly, feeling more and more like myself with each bite. When I am finished, I wipe my mouth and hands and take a good long slurp of coke.

  The man behind the counter is watching a small TV mounted on the wall. Suddenly, he reaches for the remote and turned the volume up.

  I look over.

  “Breaking news,” says the woman on the screen. “The LAPD are already on the scene here down by the river bank, where the mutilated body of yet another young woman has been found. Early reports indicate that she is another victim of the….”

  Her voice continues, but I don’t hear anymore. The river bank. Another woman. It’s my dream. I jump to my feet. I have to get down there. Leave or no leave, I have to talk to Rick, to make him understand.

  As I leave the café, my cell phone rings. I consider ignoring it, but as I check the screen, I see Rick’s name.

  “Hello,” I say into the phone.

  “Amy. Thank god you’re ok. Where are you?”

  “What?” His voice, usually so calm is laced with panic. “I’m just on my way home. Do you need me on the scene?”

  “No. Amy you have to stay away from this. When we got here, there was a photo in the victim’s pocket. It was a photo of you, Amy. It says you’re next. You need to go to the station now. They’ll sort out protection.”

  “Calm down,” I say. “Look, it’s just some psycho trying to unnerve me. He expected me to be on the scene; the one to find the photo. He probably thought it would distract me. You don’t need me to explain this to you. You know how these people work.”

  “I know,” Rick said, calmer now. “But what if he means it? I can’t let anything happen to you.”

  “I’m pretty tough,” I smile. “Look, I’ll come in tomorrow, and we can talk. I don’t want or need protection. Is that clear?”

  I hear Rick sigh. “Loud and clear,” he confirms.

  “Do you want me down there?” I ask again.

  “No,” he says. “The last thing I need right now is having to watch out for you.”

  He hangs up. I find I’m a little offended. I don’t need watching. I am quite capable of looking after myself. And I know exactly what that photo is. It isn’t just a threat. It is a message. Vincent is taunting me, and there is no way I am going to let him see he has unnerved me.

  * * *

  I reach my apartment door and unlock it. I push it open and step inside, but as I go to push it shut, someone grabs my wrist. Before I have a chance to take a breath to speak, or cry out, a large hand is over my mouth. I feel a body pressed up against mine, my hands held behind my back.

  I hear the lock engage as the man who holds me kicks the door closed.

  “Mmmmm,” I protest indignantly into the hand. I wriggle and writhe, trying to pull myself free, but it is like I am a rag doll. Nothing I do has any effect on the man holding me.

  I try to bite the hand that covers my mouth, but it is encased in a thick, leather glove.

  “Mmmmm,” I say again.

  That’s when I notice the scent. Musk. The man holding me is Vincent, I am certain of it. I should be afraid. He left a note saying I was next, and now, he is here, holding me. But, a little voice in my head reminds me, if he wanted me dead, he’d have done it by now. Still, I continue my futile struggle.

  “Stop fighting me, Amy. We need to talk,” Vincent says into my ear. His voice is level, calm, and it has a calming effect on me. I relax in his grasp. I am vaguely aware of the goosebumps that spread deliciously down my neck as his breath tickles my ear. “Promise me you won’t scream.”

  I nod my agreement. Of course I won’t scream. I’m not some scared little victim. Oh, no. Vincent has met his match with me.

  He removes his hand.

  “Let go of me,” I say, my voice coming out strong and confident. “Now.”

  He does. I try to hide my surprise as I turn to face him, but I can see from the amused smile that I’ve failed.

  “Look, I’m sorry about the welcome party,” he says, “but I really do need to talk to you and I wasn’t sure you’d agree any other way.”

  I shrug. I’m not sure myself.

  “Let’s sit,” I say. I turn and walk into the living room. I feel his presence behind me all the way. I sit down and he sits beside me.

  “I think by now, you know what I am,” he starts.

  I raise my eyebrow, but I nod. Of course I do. As much as I’ve tried to tell myself I’m going crazy, I’ve known deep down this whole time I’m not. I am officially sitting in my living room with a vampire. I decide to give Vincent the benefit of the doubt. After all, a good cop has to examine all possibilities before coming to a conclusion, right? And I am still a cop, after all, albeit one in a very strange situation.

  “I want you to know that I’m not the bad guy here,” he says.

  I raised the eyebrow again. He laughs.

  “Really, I’m not. It’s true that I need blood, human blood to survive, but I stopped killing a long time ago. I got control of myself. I only take enough to feed me. And the woman I take it from doesn't miss it.”

  I find that hard to believe, but right now, it seems inconsequential. I wait for him to go on. All the humor disappears from his face as he continues.

  “Amy, you’re in danger. I know you think you can handle this, but I believe that you're underestimating the enemy here.” Vincent takes a deep breath, and for the first time since I first met him, he looks uncomfortable.

  “This is going to sound crazy,” he says.

  “Any more so than the rest of it?” I ask.

  He smiles humorlessly. “I guess not. The thing killing these women – that’s no man, and it’s no vampire either. Vampires feed; we don’t mutilate. This thing is a supernatural being known as a Shaman. The Shaman is able to transform himself into a werewolf. It can change at will – it doesn’t have to wait until a full moon. He has been reckless, killing and leaving the bodies out in the open. It’s against our rules.”

  I consider his words. It does sound crazy, he’s right about that, but really, is it any crazier than the fact that I’m sitting chatting to a vampire? Probably not. And what he’s saying makes sense. I’ve seen what that thing does to people, and we’ve said all along that it doesn’t look like the work of a man. But the tracks are always c
overed, which made us think it had to be a man. An animal doesn’t care who knows it was there. So what Vincent says is a good explanation. A Shaman that turns himself into a werewolf. With the strength and instincts of an animal, but the mind of a man.

  “You seem to know a lot about it,” I comment. I can’t think of anything else to say, and the silence is stretching out, making me feel awkward, like I’ll blurt out something stupid. The truth is, actually, I can think of a million things to say, a million questions to ask, but trying to choose just one to start with is an impossible task. I am afraid of what I might learn. The statement I chose seemed easy, less likely to lead to anything that could scare me more.

  “Yes,” Vincent smiled. “Well, it stands to reason that I would. I’ve been hunting Elric for centuries.”

  It has a name? Well, it would, wouldn’t it, if it was a man some of the time. My mind ticks over the information. It shouldn’t be too hard to track down someone named Elric, should it? I curse my own stupidity. The man behind the wolf is clever enough to not have been caught on its killing spree. It is hardly going to introduce itself using its real name.

  “Centuries?” I ask. Surely he was just exaggerating, but something about the calm way he speaks tells me he isn’t.

  “Yes, Elric has been growing stronger over the centuries. Every victim he murders, he traps their souls,” Vincent replies, as casually as though he is talking about the time of day. “Each new soul he ensnares makes him that much stronger. Elric needs to be put down once and for all.”

  So Elric is extremely clever. He evaded capture for over a hundred of years. That is hardly reassuring.

  “I appreciate you telling me all of this, but I’m not sure exactly what you want me to do about any of it,” I say. “I’m sure you know I got kicked off the investigation after telling my boss about you.”

  “Yes, sorry about that,” Vincent interrupts.