by Faith Hunter
“It kept SAC Smythe from saying things he might have regretted and it bought Catriona Doyle another day without charges. I’ve read over Ingram’s data,” FireWind said. “She has specified where everyone was today at the farm, when, and for how long.” He looked at me. “Good work getting so many of the social media links for everyone too.”
I felt my face warm. I wasn’t used to praise.
FireWind leaned forward and clasped his hands together between his knees. “I want a level three background check on every single person who had access to Stella Mae’s basement for the entire duration of the tour and level four checks for everyone the two days Stella was in the house after the tour, followed by in-depth interviews, with a close emphasis on the last two weeks. Concentrate on the dead and work out from there. We are looking for a witch, a magical practitioner, or someone with the funds to hire such. We are looking for someone with a grudge against Stella Mae Ragel or one of the band members.
“I know it does not need to be said, but we talk to no one outside this unit, and we guard our words anywhere we might be overheard. The media is everywhere, following LEOs, sneaking onto the property, trying to get inside to take photographs of Stella Mae.”
“Worse,” JoJo said. “Turn on your TVs. The media just posted breaking news, based on unnamed sources close to the case, that Catriona Doyle will be charged for the murders. Dollars to donuts the feeb, Smythe, released the info.”
Occam turned on the set and we watched the news scrolling by on CNN and then on Fox. They were both naming Catriona Doyle as a suspect in the deaths and showing aerial footage of the investigation at the farm.
Without taking his eyes from the screen, FireWind said, “Ingram, I need you to go back to the farm and read the land. I had hoped to wait until tomorrow, but, with this”—he gestured to the TV—“I want it done tonight, not in the daytime when the drones might take footage of you. Since nothing reads specific on the psy-meter, I want you to see if you can tell what the death and decay energies are, whether it’s speeded-up natural progression or a witch curse or even something else.” He hesitated and I thought he might say more about the “something else,” but he didn’t. “If possible, I’d like you to determine how it got onto the property: via the drive, the front door, the back door, or a trail in.” He looked at me. “You were able to determine that with the salamanders, yes?”
FireWind was talking about the things that had nearly killed LaFleur and had killed Occam. I could discern their passage over the land when I read it. “I can try,” I said, hesitant. Every time I used my gift of reading the land deeply, I risked losing myself in it and becoming more plant. I had been practicing at Soulwood, and I had gained a little control over reading and the unintended results, but I still couldn’t read the earth for more than a few minutes at a time or I set down roots. Literally.
I didn’t want to be a tree again. I liked being human.
“We know that three reporters made it from the connecting road overland to the house,” FireWind said. “I want you to rule out anything you can, tonight. Tomorrow, after you get some sleep, I want you back at HQ to help Jones on the deep backgrounds.”
Deadly danger, followed by paperwork and scut work, I thought. With new probie Margot gone, research fell back to me. Worse, I’d have to face my sisters sooner than later. I held in a resigned sigh.
“I know you are trying to locate the Blood Tarot deck, but put that on the back burner.” As if he thought that was why I was hesitating, he added, “The Blood Tarot is a vital piece of evidence from the last case, and when this is wrapped up, you can return to it. Or sooner if we receive evidence that it’s being used in blood magic.”
T. Laine said, “Nell can’t read the earth alone.”
I looked down at my laptop. I didn’t like it stated quite so baldly, but it was the truth.
“Ah. As we are several days out from the full moon,” FireWind said, “I’d like Occam to go with her.”
“I can do that,” Occam said.
FireWind met T. Laine’s eyes. “If this meets with your approval.”
T. Laine flushed faintly but nodded.
“A few final, unrelated particulars before we dismiss,” he said. “Jones. Originally, the third floor was intended to be set up for a PsyCSI lab, but the engineers say the equipment needs to be on a concrete slab on a ground floor to protect it from magical energy interference and to provide weight bearing for heavy equipment, so the lab will be elsewhere, though close by HQ. Within a few months, we will no longer have to transport in crime scene techs and transport out all testing. HQ’s third floor will eventually become the expanded regional administration offices of PsyLED under my direction, and my office will be moved upstairs as soon as construction is complete. Unit Eighteen will continue to be run by Rick LaFleur and Jones, with Jones also responsible for setting up IT for the regional office and meshing the system with the national office systems. Jones, congratulations. You have been moved up a pay grade, but without the onus of moving to another state. You will have your choice of two IT people to work with, and reasonable funds to set up the computer systems.”
On the screen, JoJo’s mouth was pursed in shock. Carefully, as if he was holding out chocolate and might jerk it back, she said, “I can take Tandy? And train my IT people myself?”
“Yes. I had assumed that you would take Dyson with you upstairs.”
I was pretty sure that everyone was as surprised as I was. Maybe more. They all looked . . . stricken was a good word.
FireWind was dour and distant as he looked around at us, including the screen with Tandy’s and JoJo’s faces. That totally disarming smile flashed before disappearing back into that solemn expression. “Regarding our relationship discussions this previous week, I wish to consider the emotional and practical needs of this unit. In fully human units, fraternization results in transfers and can be means for reprimand. Because Unit Eighteen is composed primarily of paranormals, I am granting leeway where personal relationships are concerned, so long as no personnel problems arise, as long as you are discreet and you continue working well as a team. Should problems develop, offenders will be sent to other units and possibly demoted as required.”
It was a gift and a threat.
FireWind went on. “I’m thankful to all of you for the excellent work and hard hours you put in today. Especially Kent, who has done an outstanding job taking lead on this investigation, and who has been the principal individual bringing this region of PsyLED into the twenty-first century. Despite a hasty tongue and hot temper, over the last year, she has developed what I hope will be ongoing relationships with other paranormals, including the unit’s weres and Knoxville’s Mithran vampires, and has found ways to utilize and work with multiple witch covens over the course of every case.
“Kent.” He addressed her. “The paperwork went in yesterday, and at your next evaluation, you also will move up a pay grade, and you will be offered the responsibility I outlined earlier, to travel to each of the other units to train their humans and to negotiate with the local covens for contract work on a consultation basis.” He sent her a quick look of chagrin, which was totally unexpected. “That is, if you can keep your mouth shut and not annoy your up-line SAC for his cultural oversights and accessional gaffes.
“That is all for tonight.”
We were dismissed.
* * *
* * *
“Did T. Laine know FireWind had put her in for a pay raise?” I asked.
“No way,” Occam said as he maneuvered his fancy car through the streets of Cookeville, driving us back toward Stella’s Melody Horse Farm. “He probably wasn’t supposed to announce that for weeks.”
“So why did he? Announce tonight, I mean. And what’s going on between Lainie and him? She was practically beating him with words. And what’s up with the threat he made about separating us?”
“Two
days ago, FireWind made the mistake of suggesting that Lainie might want to steer clear of Captain Gonzales.”
“Ohhh.” T. Laine was currently dating the leader of Knoxville SWAT, Captain Joaquin H. Gonzales, a cop she had met at our last big case. Gonzales once had the rep of a para hater, but since he and his entire team had been almost wiped out by a blood-magic user and the Blood Tarot, and since T. Laine and a bunch of paras had saved his butt, things had changed and romance had blossomed. “Why would he do that? In the church, the surest way to drive a girl into a suitor’s arms is to say no to a courtship.”
“Don’t know, except Gonzales and FireWind are having issues. Don’t know what sparked it either. JoJo tried to find a record of what happened, but nada.”
“What did—How did—” I stopped.
“He walked in on Lainie talking on the phone at her cubicle and told her Gonzales was bad news and that she could do better.”
“Oh. My.”
“Yeah. She used some pretty colorful language telling him off. Said he had no right to dictate who she slept with.”
“Oh my,” I repeated. I had been off two days ago. I had missed the fireworks.
“And in case you might be wondering, he then dropped by my cubicle and warned me that our dating was against regs. I told him he could—well, he could do something anatomically impossible.”
“What got into him?” I asked.
“We don’t think it has anything to do with current events. Jo did some digging.” Which meant hacking into governmental files, not something we would ever say aloud. “She found out FireWind was married in the late 1800s, to a witch. She was injured in a fire in 1937—the Blackwater fire in Shoshone National Forest in Wyoming. He got her out, but she was badly burned. She lived for several weeks before she died.” He slanted a look my way. “Want to take a guess which date matched two days ago?”
“The date of his wife’s death?”
“Yep. Worst part was, he had dreamed about fire for decades. He thought it was some kind of vision quest. He used to chase fires, looking for the vision. Turned out the dream was a premonition, not something he was supposed to chase.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah. And to keep him from knowing Jo was digging into his sealed files, we have to go on treating him like he’s an ass. Which he still is, but at least we can understand some of it.”
“So FireWind causing trouble and making threats was all tied up with him trying to run people’s romantic lives, including ours? And him losing his wife? Grief and him having a stick up his rear end?”
“Pretty much.”
“This is gonna be hard,” I said.
“What? Keeping secrets?”
“No. Being nice to him whenever I want to kick that stick farther up his backside.”
Occam chuffed with laughter. “You know? I dated a woman before I joined Unit Eighteen, a non-cop civilian. There was almost nothing we could talk about that wasn’t off-limits on my part or considered gruesome on her part. The relationship didn’t last.”
“Good,” I murmured.
Occam chuffed again, cat-like. “I’m glad we both work law enforcement because we can talk about anything.” He extended his hand and I placed mine into it. Warmth spread from the point of contact, from the way our fingers laced together and tightened.
This. This was all the goodness I had ever wanted.
My cell rang. It was Mud. I let it go to voice mail. I was not letting my little sister spoil this moment.
* * *
* * *
It was close to midnight when we got to Stella Mae’s farm and, now that the late news was over, the road out front was clear of media vans and roving reporters and cars and music fans. Except for the flowers and stuffed animals piled along the fence and the armed security guard at the end of the drive, I’d have never known a crime or a death had taken place.
Occam whirled the steering wheel and braked the sports car to show our IDs. Maybe it was the late hour, or maybe he knew our faces, but the guard let us pass through without the hassle I’d experienced earlier. Even at night the house and grounds were amazing, the buildings and plantings well lit, the security lights providing visibility of anyone approaching, if not actual protection. There were still vehicles parked out front and I recognized PsyCSI vans and the witch cars. The crime scene techs (who had their own unis) were likely at work inside, trying to collect evidence, while the witches were in the backyard at their circle trying to figure out how to rein in death and decay. There was crime scene tape all around the house, where there had been none before, but there was an opening that led to the side door.
We got out and Occam popped the trunk. I locked my weapon in the gun safe in the floor of the small vehicle. Occam was still armed and, in his off hand, lifted out my vampire tree, a flashlight, and the faded pink blanket I used in my readings. He had a sharp steel knife strapped at one thigh and was dressed in jeans and field boots, like me. He made a fist, working his fingers free of the stiffness he still experienced from being burned. Against the evening’s chill we both wore dark wind jackets printed with PsyLED on the front and back, our IDs clipped near the collars.
“Something I can do for you folks?” a voice asked out of the darkness.
Occam didn’t go for his weapon, so I figured he recognized the man in the dark with his cat vision or by scent. Having spent twenty years in cat form in a silver-lined cage had given him more access to his cat abilities while in human shape than most were-creatures, and his eyes were glowing with a faint gold sheen. “PsyLED business, Deputy Stanhope,” Occam said. “We’d appreciate it if you could turn off the outside lights and the security lights for a bit. We need to measure the energies of the house and the grounds in the dark.”
“Can do. You catch the witchy-woman who did this and I’ll help you burn her at the stake.”
I flinched, a motion too tiny to be noticed by anyone but Occam.
“You talking about burning women, Officer?” Occam said, both conversational and warning.
“Joke, my man. Joke.”
“Uh-huh. Lights, please.”
Footsteps crunched away. One by one, the lights went out. In a nearby pasture a horse snorted. I heard the sound of hooves as animals moved in the gloom. Slowly, the moon and the stars brightened in the sky and the reflected moonlight illuminated the white-painted house and the white four-board fencing, visible even to my human eyes. Plant-people didn’t have better-than-human night vision.
“Ground, near the front door,” I said softly.
Without turning on the flash, Occam led the way to the front, one hand on my elbow to help me. He stopped twenty feet from the door. “Here okay?” he asked. When I agreed that it was fine, he released my arm and spread the frayed pink blanket on the grass.
I sat on the blanket and he placed the vampire tree in front of me. I rubbed a few grass leaves between the fingers of both hands. Happy. Content. Well-nourished grass. Gently, I wormed my index fingers through the blades and the roots until I touched soil. “No death energies,” I said. “Nothing that feels like death and decay. Nothing that feels like witch magic of any kind. Just the utter self-satisfaction of grass that isn’t getting eaten, gets cut with sharp blades, and has plenty of nutrients.”
“House lawn grass is self-satisfied?” Occam asked. “What about pasture grass?”
I handed him the potted plant and raised my arm for a hand up, letting him help me. “House grass is the most self-absorbed, self-centered plant on the face of the earth. Pasture grass knows its purpose is to be chomped on and it’s a little less pretentious.”
“Okay,” he said, not disagreeing with me. And more importantly, not laughing at me. Or at grass.
“Other side of the driveway,” I said, this time taking the plant and the blanket so he could keep his hands free.
We repeated
the process and I found nothing there either, except more complacent, self-assured lawn. The groundskeeper was doing a great job.
We tried again at the back of the house, close to the witch circle made by Astrid and her witches today. Nothing. Nada. Standing, my blanket over one arm, I stared around the dark grounds. “Talk to me,” I muttered. “Where is death and decay?”
The only death magics I had seen up close were the kind that resulted when salamanders from another dimension began to reproduce on earth. Wherever they walked, those energies had killed every living thing they came in contact with. Every blade of grass, every tree, everything had begun to die, a by-product of their reproduction and lives. Witch death magics were reportedly different. Witch death magics weren’t a by-product, they were a weapon in the hands of a killer. Death and decay? I had no idea what it was, but it was killing things and I was good at figuring out about things that killed.
“Over there.” I pointed. Occam led the way to the lawn nearest the barn and, when I nodded, arranged the folded blanket on the grass. I assumed the position and took the potted plant, placing it between my legs.
With one fingertip, I touched the grass. Shock and horror and fear shot through me. I jerked my hands to myself and stood up fast. Nausea rose in my throat and I shook my hand to restore the circulation.
“Nell?”
I snatched up the plant and the blanket, remembering Etain saying she could feel death through her shoes. She had been standing almost here. For a moment, I considered that Etain had known where the death and decay came through because she had brought them onto the property. I tucked that one into the back of my mind. Being part of PsyLED had made me suspicious of everyone.
“Nell?” Occam said again, his tone sharper.
“Oh. Sorry. Got it,” I said. “Right here. They came through here.”
“They?”
“The death and decay and the person who brought it on the property.”
