by Jory Strong
Seraphine’s chest tightened with the combination of guilt and frustration and worry. What had made Chesna leave school and enter the swamp?
“Chesna!”
And still there was no answer.
She slogged on, shivering when she caught sight of a big bull alligator. Then moments later a monitor lizard, a former pet maybe, though they’d started to breed here.
Ten minutes passed, another twenty. She stopped yelling for Chesna, afraid she’d only drive her deeper into the swamp.
Slowing, she trod as silently as she could. Another fifteen minutes passed before she saw the huddled figure beneath a stand of pine trees.
Relief flooded her, spilling from the corners of her eyes. Gratitude and love swelled her chest, and conversely also made it feel constricted.
She didn’t speak until she’d joined Chesna, sitting down next to her and placing an arm around bowed, fragile shoulders. “Can you talk about it?”
Chesna rocked forward. “I hurt someone.”
It was whispered, barely audible.
“At school?”
Chesna nodded.
“That’s why you ran away?”
“I can’t go back. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”
Seraphine hugged Chesna. “What happened?”
“There’s this girl, Tanya. She’s a bully. Always whispering and telling lies about other people. She spread this rumor about my friend Sasha. She told everybody Sasha peed her bed. She used to but she doesn’t anymore.”
Chesna’s shoulders hunched and shook. “I worked a spell and it stopped.”
The impact of those words was like a punch to the chest, a jab that parted flesh and grabbed Seraphine’s heart in a tight fist. Oh no, Chesna. No. You’re not ready to play with spells. Though she didn’t reprimand or warn, or even ask whether her niece had created the spell or found it online somewhere.
An icy shiver swept through her with that thought. And the places it led, to chat rooms where predators lurked who could destroy lives as thoroughly as those who hunted for sex could.
“Sasha thought I’d told her secret, even though I swore I wouldn’t. She told me she hated me. She locked herself in a bathroom stall and wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t believe me.”
A sob punctuated the words, accenting the pain in Chesna’s voice. “She was crying so loud anyone who came in could hear her.”
Seraphine rubbed her cheek against Chesna’s soft hair. “And the bully came in?”
Chesna nodded. “With the girls who always hang out with her and spread her lies. They laughed and said more mean things to Sasha then they left, to tell everyone she was in the bathroom crying.”
Chesna took a deep shuddering breath. Whispered, “I cursed her, Aunt Seraphine. I cursed Tanya. I wanted her to pee her pants in front of everyone.”
There was a raw justice to it. Seraphine thought it very possible there was a karmic rightness to it that would prevent the curse from returning to Chesna three-fold. Except, Chesna had said she hurt someone at school.
“What happened then?”
“The yard monitor came in and made me leave the bathroom. Tanya was jumping rope, making up this chant about Sasha. There were all these kids around her, not just from our class. I whispered the curse again and the rope got caught in her feet.”
A hard shudder went through Chesna, followed by a second one. “She fell and hit her head. She didn’t get up, Aunt Seraphine, not at first. Everybody started screaming. The monitors came running just as she sat up and puked. Her shorts were wet and there was a big puddle of pee on the ground.”
“Oh, Chesna.” Seraphine wrapped her niece in a hug and struggled for the right words to say.
They didn’t come easily. She admired Chesna’s protectiveness and loyalty to her friend, was awed and afraid at the same time by her niece’s innate magical ability. She needed to warn and comfort and chastise all at the same time, yet she could make no promises that wouldn’t lead to direct conflict with Electra, and the possibility her sister might think this problem would be solved by moving far enough away to make it difficult, if not impossible, for there to be any kind of unsupervised contact with Chesna.
“Chesna.”
Her first attempt ended on a sigh. She launched a second one by saying, “It sounds like the bully suffered a concussion. I doubt there will be any lasting damage, at least physically from it.”
Some of the rigidness left Chesna’s shoulders, only to return as she said, “But now you’re going to tell me I shouldn’t have cast the spell.”
“Yes. I understand why you did it. I think I’d have been really, really tempted to do it too if this had happened to me when I was going to school.”
Chesna’s shoulders relaxed again. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“You didn’t mean to hurt her quite like that,” Seraphine corrected. “And it could have been worse. What if she’d been swinging when you cursed her and ended up falling from high up?”
Chesna’s tremble conveyed understanding.
“You did mean for her to be hurt. That’s what a curse is, Chesna. They should be used sparingly and very precisely, if they’re used at all. They should be done after a lot of deliberation, and in a calm state of mind, never in anger or out of hate.”
“I know,” Chesna said, the acknowledgement muffled by having her mouth pressed to arms resting on her knees.
“Here’s something for you to consider… Did you run away because you were really afraid of hurting someone else? Or did you run away because you felt guilty and maybe a little bit scared?”
“Both,” Chesna said, pulling out of the embrace so she could put her head in Seraphine’s lap.
Seraphine stroked her fingers through the deep red hair all their female ancestors possessed. “I know things are difficult right now, but you’ve got to promise not to do spell workings until I’ve had time to teach your more.”
“Mom is never going to let that happen.”
“We’ll find a way to change her mind.” Somehow. “And now we need to call her and let her know you’re safe. She’s frantic with worry.”
“What are we going to tell her?”
Seraphine grimaced at the we, making her complicit in shading the facts into something that wouldn’t be an outright lie. “We’ll tell her your friend got mad at you and it led to your running away from school. She might have already heard about Sasha’s crying in the bathroom by now.”
Later, soon, she would find a way to break the full truth to Electra. Her sister needed to know it.
“Time to start walking,” she said, rising to her feet and calling Electra.
Her sister answered immediately.
“I’ve got her.”
“Where?”
“We’re in the swamp.”
Electra’s breath caught in a harsh gasp. “Get her out of there. Please. Get her out of there.”
“We’re walking now.”
“Where’s your car?”
Seraphine gave her the location.
“I’m on my way.”
“It’ll take us at least an hour, probably longer to get there.”
“I don’t care. She’s okay?”
“Yes. Here, you can talk to her.”
She handed off the phone, grimacing at hearing Chesna use the words she’d come up with in explaining why she’d left school. Guilt stung her after the call ended because she knew she’d use this time alone with Chesna to teach her more of what she needed to know. It would be foolish not to.
They talked as they walked, ache growing in Seraphine with each step forward. Somehow, some way she needed to convince Electra to accept this.
When Electra finally came into sight, Seraphine could read the fear along with joy. Electra didn’t enter the swamp, but her hug when they left it was fierce, an embrace that included both Seraphine and Chesna, and the tears streaming down Electra’s face were matched by Seraphine’s.
“Never do this again, Ches
na,” Electra said. “Never scare me this way again. Promise.”
“I don’t want to make you more afraid,” Chesna whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Seraphine’s heart clenched. Pain and pride both, wrapped in dread when Electra said, “Wait in the car. I need to talk to your aunt.”
The embrace ended. Neither spoke until Chesna was far enough away that even with the door opened in the hopes she’d overhear what was said, she couldn’t.
Electra took Seraphine’s hands in hers. They trembled, sent pulses of terror into Seraphine.
“Why are you so afraid, Electra? Why?”
A hard shudder went through her sister. “Stop practicing witchcraft, Seraphine. For Chesna’s sake. For your sake. You think you’re safe, that your protections will hold. I did too. You’re powerful. So was I, at what I did best, but I wanted more. Magic corrupts.”
Electra’s harsh whisper was like a knife finally slashing through the wall of silence and secrecy. Her breathing was fast. “I’m terrified her father will find her. I’m terrified he wants a powerful witch. I’m terrified that he’s not human. I never should have gotten pregnant, but it happened anyway.”
Not regret over Chesna’s existence but statement of fact, because part of Electra’s magic had been awareness and control over her body.
“Her gift isn’t going away,” Seraphine said. “She can’t remain untrained. She’s already powerful, Electra. Ask her to tell you more about what happened at school today. I can keep her safe—”
Electra pulled away. “No. No you can’t.”
“Please—”
“No,” Electra said, already spinning, rushing toward the car.
A moment later it sped away, leaving three words pounding through Seraphine with the beat of her heart. He’s not human.
* * * * *
Camille looked down at the body crumpled against the wall. The stink of urine and garbage assaulted her, offended her. The homeless wino wasn’t worthy of her attention or the blade she’d used on him.
Blood soaked the front of his shirt, blending with the filth already staining it. The witch would have been a more satisfying choice, or the uppity coeds parading through the university hallways, or the redheaded nurse she’d intended to use Lucifer’s Blade on after seeing to Helene’s task first. But this, this thing that hardly qualified as human, had dared touch her when she passed him on the sidewalk on her way to visit Seraphine Jordain’s office.
Leaning down, she wiped the knife’s blade on a ratty trouser leg, cleaning it before slipping it into her waistband. Robert’s blood had felt good on her skin, like chocolate dribbled there by a lover, but this man’s… She abhorred the thought of coming into contact with any of his bodily fluids.
Frustration built at remembering that moment of sacrament when she’d touched her tongue to the blade, a taste of Robert’s blood acknowledging the kill. She refused to take no pleasant memory away from this.
She retrieved her phone and took a picture of the dead, smiled at looking at it. Good enough. It would do as a tribute, as a little memento.
A hint of mischievousness had her sending the picture to Mistress, though a moment later she regretted it.
Careful. Careful, a little voice whispered in her head. Or you’ll become the sacrifice.
She slipped the phone into her pocket and stepped away from the corpse, no longer shielded by the Dumpster with its acrid smell and whispered sounds of rats crawling through moldering, rotting contents. As she walked away from it she heard the wheels-on-concrete roll of a stolen shopping cart.
She cursed the stupid bum who’d accosted her, because he’d forced her to track him down and risk being seen by others just like him. Her hand curled around the hilt of the athame.
She kept moving without turning to look back, caught the infinitesimal pause that said whoever was pushing the cart had noticed her. But then the roll of wheels continued forward instead of turning into the alley. And she found she regretted it.
She rubbed her thumb over ruby eyes before finally abandoning her grip and tugging the hoodie over the knife. She hated the thought of relinquishing it yet again, but Helene already knew she’d retrieved the miniature tribal mask from its place of honor on the witch’s desk. And now Helene knew this task had been accomplished too.
Mistress would be expecting her return. She’d soon be insisting on it if there was too much of a delay.
It wouldn’t do to have Helene understand just how much her pet now coveted Lucifer’s Blade. Soon, perhaps, Mistress would feel its loving caress. With demon lords to do her bidding, there would be no parting company from Helene without protecting herself from reprisals first.
Camille caressed the hilt through the hoodie, laughed at her previous fear and those crazy moments when she’d fled, leaving it on the altar along with the dying prostitute as a demon eviscerated Senator Harper, jerking intestines from his body and wrapping them around his throat.
* * * * *
“Shit,” Dylan said, jerking a desk drawer open and grabbing the collection of napkins that were evidence of fast-food meals eaten while working on solving homicides.
His handkerchief was already soaked with blood. Within minutes the napkins were too.
The full-body hum was back, making his skin feel too tight. And worse, the whispers were noticeable again, insidious, crawling over him.
It was as if something had slashed through the cut, opening it, and the tidal wave of blood had smashed through the barrier of his belief in Seraphine’s charm so it no longer worked. Or at least no longer worked effectively. He nearly covered his ears, might have except Trace had already come around the desks, first-aid kit in hand.
“This is what happened at the bar?” Trace asked, jamming a wad of gauze against the cut and wrapping tight to staunch the blood.
Dylan could feel it already slowing. “Yeah, this is what happened.”
“The night we now know Katcher was killed.”
He didn’t want to go where he knew Trace was heading, so he didn’t volunteer it.
“Somebody’s dead,” Trace said.
Dylan wanted to shout that there was no freaking way it had anything to do with this. He settled for, “Somebody’s dead. That explains why we were called out this morning.”
Trace shook his head and returned to his side of their joined desks. He opened a drawer and pulled out one of the many small notebooks he used when working a case.
He checked something he’d written on some previous investigation then lifted his phone from its spot next to their latest murder book. Dylan froze when Trace said, “Hey, Seraphine. Would whoever’s got Lucifer’s Blade believe they needed to kill someone before using it in a ceremony?”
A pause for her answer, followed by, “Would they have to summon a demon the same night?”
Christ. And here was further proof Trace had gone to the dark side and now believed wholeheartedly in the supernatural shit.
And you don’t?After what happened at the dump site? At waking up to find your bed looking like a crime scene?
Dylan surged from his chair with enough force to send it rolling away. He escaped to the bathroom, one-handedly splashing cold water on his face while keeping the wrapped one below the sink and out of sight in an attempt to pretend this wasn’t happening.
At the bar, his first thought had been drugs. LSD could leave lingering effects.
Maybe someone had slipped him some designer shit, stuff so new it hadn’t hit the police radar yet. He considered badge bunnies harmless, and the sex consensual without any expectation of it being more than a good time had by all. But what if he’d banged some psycho like in that movie…
What was it? The one with Glenn Close. Where the husband cheated and the family came home to find the kids’ pet rabbit cooking in a pot on the stove. Fatal Attraction. Yeah, that was the title.
Trace came in. Dylan leaned closer to the faucet and splashed another round of water on his face, contemplating whether or not to
float his drug theory past Trace, who now seemed to accept the possibility of demon involvement.
On the Vorhaus and Harper cases he’d been pretty sure his partner was just working Seraphine, pretending to believe. But now…
That’s what marriage and love did to a man. His brains migrated to his dick.
Get involved with a woman into the woo-woo stuff…
His gut fisted at remembering Seraphine walking away from him, going to work magic and strengthen the charm. But his cock hardened at remembering all the naked skin and an ass he hadn’t explored or enjoyed.
As if picking up on his thoughts, Trace said, “You should go back to Seraphine’s house tonight.” A repeat of what he’d said at the dump site.
“It’s a sad state of affairs when a guy can’t find peace in the john.”
“Hide in a stall and maybe I’d cut you some slack.”
Dylan straightened, irritation tightening his neck and jaw. “I’m not hiding.”
“You want to hear what Seraphine said?”
Not really. “Let me guess. Whoever’s got the blade just used it. Even if it’s true, what are we going to do? Tell the uniforms to start scouring the city looking for a stab victim? Do you hear how crazy that sounds? Do you remember the headlines when we were investigating the Dean murder? How about this?” He flung his arms wide. “Homicide cop linked to the hellish world of dark magic. Bloody hand predicts murder!”
Trace laughed. “Don’t quit your day job to write.”
It was enough to kill the irritation. “How’d Seraphine answer the other question?”
“She said there’s no way of predicting whether there’ll be another sacrifice tonight.”
And they both knew, there was no way to keep another prostitute from being taken, though the radio cars were now a heavy presence on the streets where the working girls hung out.
They returned to the bullpen. Miguel was at his desk.
“Got anything new?” Dylan asked.
“Brady and Storm have me running with the skeletal remains. I’ve got a possible ID but I’m waiting for dental records from Mexico to confirm it.”
