Magic in the Desert: Three Paranormal Romance Series Starters Set in the American Southwest

by Christine Pope

  “Did I what?”

  “Hook a hottie,” she said. “Because unless my eyes are deceiving me, that’s a fairly decent hickey you’ve got there on the left side of your neck.”

  My hand rose of its own volition to touch the spot she’d noticed. I had seen it in passing that morning as I’d gotten ready, but as my hair hid it most of the time, I had deemed it not worth covering up. Most people probably wouldn’t have even seen it, but Ginger had eagle eyes when it came to that sort of thing.

  “I, um…I did meet someone. But believe me, it’s safer if you don’t know anything about him.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really. And he’s in trouble, and I need to help him. So are you going to loan me the money or not?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” She moved away from me to step behind the reception desk of her studio. From the lanyard around her neck she selected a key, then bent down to unlock the bottom desk drawer, which I knew was where she kept her cash box. She opened it and rummaged through the bills inside, then extended a handful to me. “I’ve got about fifteen hundred here. Think that’ll be enough?”

  “It has to be. Thanks, Ginger.” I shoved the money into my purse, and leaned across the desk to give her a quick hug, which of course she brushed off. Ginger wasn’t big on genuine shows of emotion.

  “Enough of that,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Just do what you have to do — and then come back here and give me all the juicy details, because I want to know all about Mr. Mysterious.”

  “I will. I promise.” I flashed her a grin and hurried for the door. After my bus ride to get out of Ontario, I didn’t have much change left, and I hadn’t dared to use my debit card on the meter. This visit was by necessity a quick one.

  As much as I wanted to go to my apartment and grab some clean clothes, I knew that would be a huge mistake. Just the thought of it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck, which meant my sixth sense was still humming along just fine. Probably there were several agents surveilling the property, just in case I went back there for some reason.

  But I didn’t get the same hinky sensation when I considered stopping by the motel in Pomona, and at least I did have some clothing and other items there I could collect. Besides, it was on the eastward route out of town, and so I’d be losing very little time.

  That matter apparently settled, I pointed the Volvo toward Highland and hoped the traffic wouldn’t be too bad. Yes, it was a Saturday afternoon, but in L.A. that didn’t necessarily mean much. As it turned out, though, the trip back to Pomona went more smoothly than I had hoped, and it wasn’t quite five when I pulled into the parking lot of the Route 66 Motel. Since I didn’t have all that much to pack, I had the room cleared out in less than five minutes. And I carefully folded Paul’s few articles of clothing and stowed them in one of the Kohl’s bags, then wrapped his toiletries in another shopping bag.

  My throat went tight as I performed these tasks. Was this all just an exercise in futility? He could be dead…or worse, already infected with the alien virus.

  No, the universe told me, and my shoulders loosened just the smallest bit. Whatever they were doing with him, it wasn’t that. Not yet, anyway. The need to head east was strong, but not so much so that I should be panicking yet.

  I settled up the bill at the motel using my own money; Ginger’s cash infusion was insurance, but I wouldn’t dip into it until all of my own funds were depleted. And then, since there was nothing left to hold me, I got back into my car and drove east.

  For some reason, I’d thought I’d drop down to the 10 Freeway and head toward Arizona along that route, but something told me that was not the way to go. Instead, I headed northward and then east along the 40, driving over territory that would take me parallel to the old Route 66 and over the Colorado River before moving on to Arizona’s high country.

  I’d never been that way before, and I looked around with interest. Well, interest at first, anyway — after the first hundred or so miles of monotonous desert, my attention began to flag. Also, the sun began to set behind me, at once obscuring the landscape with odd gray-blue shadows and illuminating the sky at my back with a bloody light I sincerely hoped was not a harbinger of things to come. Then night fell, and all I could see were the taillights of the vehicles in front of me and the occasional illuminated road sign.

  Maybe it was crazy, driving out into the darkness like that. I’d looked at I-40’s route through Arizona on my phone, but that didn’t give me much information, not even a ping to tell me if I was on the right track. About all I could do was keep heading east and hope for the best.

  The markers told me Flagstaff was 400 miles away, then 350. I didn’t know if the mountain town was my destination or not. Midway through the journey, I stopped at a wide spot in the road to get gas and noted it was almost a dollar a gallon cheaper than in California. And I realized, with a sort of abstract curiosity, that I was hungry, and pulled into a Wendy’s to get a burger and some iced tea. Funny how the body can give you those reminders even when otherwise it seems as if the world is falling apart around you.

  Somewhat refreshed, I pushed on. Small towns flashed past…Seligman…Williams…Ash Fork. Pools of light in the surrounding darkness, little flickers to remind me I wasn’t alone in the universe.

  I crossed the city limits into Flagstaff and waited for the twinge, the one that would tell me I had come to the right place. Nothing, and I drove on, my forehead creasing into a frown. Had I been wrong? Was I supposed to continue on into New Mexico, to some hidden base in Paul’s own home state?

  And then I saw the sign that said “89A Sedona,” and the surge that went through me almost made me swerve off the road. I gripped the steering wheel, following the road to an odd roundabout-style turn-off, and then swung onto 89A, which turned out to be only a two-lane road headed down into almost absolute blackness.

  No one followed me, and I saw no taillights on the highway ahead of me. True, it was past eleven o’clock, but Los Angeles on a Saturday night was barely waking up at that hour. I got the distinct feeling I wasn’t in L.A. anymore, though.

  The first stretch, probably at least five miles or so, went smoothly enough. Then I saw a sign that warned me of a twenty-five mile-per-hour speed limit, and I slowed accordingly. That wasn’t nearly enough, though; the road switched back on itself like a demented pretzel, and I slowed far below the recommended speed. Thank God there wasn’t anyone behind me to protest my glacial pace. My headlights did little to illuminate the route, showing only patches of rock, scrubby trees by the side of the road, an improbable pale flash of something that might even have been snow in a forgotten little meadow. Then I saw a portion of hillside covered by some sort of net — presumably to prevent rock slides, and I slowed even further. If they were putting up nets to keep the hillsides from sliding, then the whole area couldn’t be all that stable.

  Somehow I twisted and slalomed my way down into Sedona, fingers wrapped in a death grip around the Volvo’s steering wheel. I had to hope that the universe didn’t intend for me to end up a wet smear on the narrow canyon road, but I also had to question its wisdom in sending me down such a route in full dark.

  When I finally reached the town, the transition was almost shocking in its suddenness; one moment I was banking cautiously through a narrow canyon, and the next I had emerged into what looked like a fairly civilized street, with shops and restaurants and pedestrians.

  All right, not very many pedestrians, not at that hour. Still, even that minor sign of life was enough to reassure me, and I drew in a shaky breath as I made my way down what was obviously Sedona’s main drag. All of the shops and even the majority of the restaurants seemed to have closed for the night, but there was just enough foot traffic to let me know I wasn’t completely alone in the world.

  I didn’t know where I was headed. I had to let the instinct within guide me as I continued down the street through the heart of the town, and hope that whatever I was
seeking, it wouldn’t be too late for me to find it.

  Then I saw a modest building off to my left, one with a brilliant neon green sign that proclaimed it to be the “UFO Depot.” I slammed on the brakes and made a precipitous left. Lucky for me, the traffic was pretty thin at that hour.

  I pulled into the poorly paved parking lot and stopped. My heart had begun a quick, irrational beating, but I tried to ignore it as I slid out of the car and faced the storefront.

  Of course, the shop was closed. I could tell that at once, from the darkened windows and complete lack of any other vehicles in the lot. What else had I expected? It was well past eleven and pushing on toward midnight. Most shops in Los Angeles wouldn’t have been open at that hour, either. Restaurants and clubs, sure, but not retail establishments…not even the ones that catered to a fringe population.

  The sign at the door had one of those little clock faces, the ones with the hands you could move to represent the hour of your return. This one said, “We’ll be back at ten.”

  All right. I didn’t like to wait, felt the weight of those intervening hours like a stone on my back, but I knew I didn’t have much choice. The universe had told me Paul would be all right for now. I had to trust its communication, have faith that the intervening time wouldn’t make a difference. What else could I do?

  There was a motel down the street, one where they were happy enough to take my cash and enter my name on an old-fashioned ledger at the front desk. No computers, a fact for which I was profoundly glad. Computers could give away my location. I still had that sense of being compelled, of being shown the path to follow, but there was no point in taking chances. I couldn’t risk making a foolish mistake that might reveal my position.

  Somehow, I knew that my strength lay in being unknown, undetected. With any luck, they wouldn’t know what hit them.

  Amazingly, I overslept the next morning. Or maybe that wasn’t so amazing; after all, I’d had a fairly exhausting day, and the bed in the motel was more comfortable than it had any right to be. And just maybe the universe was allowing me that rest, knowing I had even greater ordeals to face in the day ahead.

  At any rate, by the time I’d showered and dressed, it was well past nine. I stepped out of my motel room and then stopped, mouth agape.

  I’d come into town in utter dark and hadn’t seen anything except the lighted storefronts along Highway 89A. Oh, of course I’d heard how gorgeous Sedona was. But those casual mentions — usually accompanied by exhortations that a professional psychic should make the pilgrimage there at least once — had done nothing to prepare me for the reality of the place.

  Red rock bluffs soared off to the east and to the north as well, framed by the lacy green of cottonwoods and the darker, duskier hues of junipers and pine. Here and there on the highest peaks, I thought I saw a pale flash of unmelted snow. The sky was an achingly deep blue, the sort of lapis hue you never saw in Los Angeles. And the air that touched my skin, though cool, felt soft and welcoming, as if it had come there to personally greet me. The winds were alive, filled with shimmers of energy that seemed to draw me in, to guide me.

  I walked down the street to a charming little café where the proprietor greeted me as if she’d known me all my life, and where I was served the best coffee and eggs I’d ever had. By the time I was done, it was ten, and I somehow knew the UFO store would be ready to meet me.

  I went to my car and drove back to the shop, then pulled into a space at the far end of the decrepit parking lot. Sure enough, the sign was off the door, which stood open. I went inside.

  It was a cramped space, filled with the sort of bric-a-brac you’d expect a store like that would carry to entice tourists — T-shirts, DVDs, books, stuffed plushie aliens with big heads and almond-shaped eyes. A TV overhead showed The Day the Earth Stood Still. I wished the aliens I was dealing with were even half as appealing as Michael Rennie.

  A woman around my age, maybe a little younger, sat behind the counter, typing away at a computer keyboard. Since the monitor was pointed away from me, I couldn’t really see what she was working on.

  Now that the time had come, I felt strangely reticent. I pretended to be interested in the merchandise, even picked up a few books and DVDs and made myself look as if I were reading the blurbs on the back covers. But I knew I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. The universe had sent me here, and if it wanted to make me look like a complete idiot, so be it.

  I set a copy of The Day After Roswell back on the shelf and turned to the woman behind the counter.

  “Excuse me.”

  She lifted her head. For a UFO nut, she looked pretty respectable, actually — expertly streaked hair, makeup applied with more precision than mine. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so.”

  Her head cocked to one side, and she watched me steadily. I noticed that her eyes were a deep, clear blue, almost the same shade as the cerulean skies that had greeted me as I left my motel room.

  “This might sound sort of crazy,” I began, then paused and shook my head. Nothing ventured…. “Actually, it’s going to sound completely crazy. But I was sent here for help, and so I’m asking. I have a friend who was, well…abducted.”

  “Abducted?” she echoed, and at once her glance slanted upward.

  “Oh, not that kind of abducted,” I said hastily. “That is, the people who took him might have been in league with them” — and I sent a quick look heavenward as well — “but they were definitely human. It’s just that I know they brought him here.”

  “Here.”

  “Well, somewhere in this area. Some secret base or something.” Her expression didn’t change. I didn’t know whether that was a good or a bad thing, since I wasn’t getting much of a read off her. Doggedly, I went on, “I know this must sound absolutely insane, but it’s the truth. Paul and I were on the trail of this alien conspiracy — ”

  “Paul who?” she interjected.

  “Paul Oliver.”

  “The Paul Oliver?” she demanded. “The astrophysicist? The author of Investigating the Unknowable?”

  “The same. I met him at a MUFON symposium in L.A. — ”

  “Hold up.” She lifted a hand to stop me, then reached out and picked up the handset of the phone sitting on the counter, dialed a number. “Hey, Kiki. I’ve got a situation here. Get the team together, and be at the shop ASAP.” A brief silence, during which she seemed to be listening to the person at the other end of the line. “Yes, Lance, too. Especially Lance.”

  She set down the phone, and I asked, “Who’s Lance?”

  “A friend.”

  Her friend…or mine? Since I didn’t know quite how to respond, I said, “My name’s Persephone, by the way. Persephone O’Brien.”

  “Kara Swenson.” She put out her hand and I shook it, feeling more than a little awkward. Then she went on, “You came to the right place, Persephone. Something must have been guiding you here.”

  I lifted my shoulders. “Oh, well, that’s probably because I’m a psychic.” Somehow, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to tell her that, even though I was usually still reticent to admit my profession to others even after all these years.

  “For real?”

  “For real.” I fished a card out of my purse and handed it to her.

  She took it from me and scanned it briefly, then said, “Los Angeles? You’re a long way from home.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  A smile, showing teeth so perfect they could have belonged to one of my TV-executive clients. “An alien conspiracy, huh?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  She laughed then. “Well, we specialize in those. And just so you don’t think you’re crazy, my team has been tracking down information on the hidden base out in Boynton Canyon for months. Actually, most people think it’s Boynton where everything’s going on, but it’s really up in Secret Canyon that the real action is taking place.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “I’ve never heard of either of t
hose places. Hell, I didn’t believe in any of this stuff until I had a client who was mixed up in it….” I trailed off, paused, and added, “No, that’s not right. He wasn’t mixed up in it, just had it thrust on him. And now he’s dead.”

  To my surprise, Kara didn’t look at all shocked. “There are more dead than you realize. Or those who have disappeared, so we have no idea what really happened to them. It’s what happens when you get too close. They dismiss us because we pass ourselves off as all part of the tourist attractions — hell, I run UFO tours that carefully keep people away from anything that might be too dangerous — but we keep digging. And we’re in possession of some information I’m pretty sure certain operatives wouldn’t be too happy to learn we know.”

  “But they don’t stop you?”

  “I’m pretty visible.” She waved a hand around the store. “And I try to make myself visible in other ways — our website, my blog. People would notice if I suddenly disappeared. Besides, I’m harmless. I sell T-shirts and DVDs to the tourists. Who’s going to suspect me of doing anything underhanded?”

  “Anyone who knows you well,” came a new voice, and I looked over to the front door, where a pretty woman — girl, really — with long, flaxen-blonde hair and Kara’s bright blue eyes smiled at me.

  “My sister, Kiki,” Kara said. “And Adam, her boyfriend.”

  I gave a half-hearted wave at a tall, brown-haired young man who leaned out from behind Kiki and sent a grin in my direction.

  “And Michael Lightfoot, and Lance…well, it’s just Lance.”

  These last two still stood outside the door, but I could see Michael Lightfoot was clearly Native American, older than Kara and me by several decades, his iron-gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, his dark eyes calm but appraising. A sense of quiet, of stillness flowed from him, a sensation that was immediately reassuring. With him along, I thought we might actually have a chance.

  I couldn’t see Lance clearly at first, as he was blocked by Michael Lightfoot’s broad shoulder. Then he shifted, and I found myself looking up into hard, chiseled features, the sort of face I would have expected to see behind a pair of mirrored lenses as it leaned down to ask me if I knew how fast I was going. But more than that, I sensed the power flowing out from him, power that struck me almost as a wave. I staggered backward, and put out a hand on one of the shelves behind me to steady myself.