Ground

by Kirsten Weiss

  “But we both know this was no ordinary journey.” My voice rose, shrill. “I was in Middle World. I left the house without you seeing, and I got here way too fast. I saw these thick lines of energy, like roads, flowing from Ellen’s house. And when I stepped into one, suddenly I was in Doyle.”

  “You mean like ley lines? The energetic lines of the earth?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t see lines and connections. I’m not Karin.” And yet, I’d seen something. “And the knight said said – well, implied – the crows were working on his behalf.”

  The Volvo drifted to a halt. Light streamed from the windows of the gabled house.

  She sat, her hands on the keys in the ignition, unmoving. “He said he was looking for his queen? If he was one of the fairy queen’s servants, and the crows work for him, that might explain the crows attacking you.”

  “But the hair!” I waved my fist in the air. “He returned it to me. Why would he do that if he was working for Belle? Having a little piece of me would give her tremendous power.”

  “We don't know how unseelie magic works,” Lenore said. “Maybe she doesn’t need your hair. She’s already damned us. Okay, so you were in Middle World. Did you see anything that referred to Matt and Phoebe's murder?”

  I stepped out of the car and winced. Gravel. Did it have to be gravel? “I told you everything. They were there — all the suspects — but they looked normal. Only Melanie spoke to me and said that he knew too much. But that just confirms what I suspected, that Matt was a blackmailer. Both Wynter and Brayden caught him snooping.”

  Lenore walked up the porch steps and unlocked the door. “How does that make Matt a blackmailer and not simply nosy?”

  Sighing with relief, I stepped onto the blue rag rug and brushed off the accumulated pebbles. “It's just a feeling I have.” I couldn't tell her the truth about Brayden's parents. He had to be the one to tell that story. But if Matt had blackmailed both Wynter and Brayden, had he tried the same trick with others? I needed to learn more about the suspects, and I needed a drink. On a mission, I strode to the kitchen.

  “So the knight said he was looking for his queen.” She shut the front door and followed me. “But he didn’t specifically say he was her servant. What about the rose rabbit?”

  I found a dusty bottle of Rioja in the cupboard over the fridge and tore off the metal wrapping around the cork. “The knight said he'd heard the name. I got the feeling he was the rabbit — or he knew more about the rabbit than he was telling.”

  Lenore frowned, and I knew what she was thinking — that my feelings weren't enough.

  But they should have been.

  I cocked my head, studying her. Something had come between Lenore and I. Maybe it was my fault, because I hadn't told her the truth about Brayden. But there was something she wasn't telling me. I scrabbled in the kitchen drawer. Where was the damn church key? “Is something bothering you?” I asked.

  “We're neck deep in another murder, and I sent you on a journey to Middle World. It's only dumb luck that nothing bad happened to you there.” She laughed, a flat sound, and rested both hands on the butcher block work island. Dried herbs lay in bundled rows atop it. “My sight's gotten so fogged lately, I thought if the two of us went together, it would clear things up. But I ended up stuck in a real fog, and you were put in danger. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. What I did was wrong and reckless.”

  I uncorked the bottle and grabbed two wine goblets from the cupboard. “Hey, reckless is my line.” I poured two glasses and drank half of mine in three gulps.

  “Feel better?” she asked.

  “No, but I might be able to sleep now.” I sipped more slowly this time. “Maybe the journey will make more sense in the morning.”

  “Maybe.”

  I finished my wine, then jogged upstairs and retrieved my shoes and purse. Suddenly, I wanted to go home, be alone. I slipped into my shoes and walked downstairs.

  Lenore still stood in the kitchen. She stared at nothing in the corner, the wine goblet clutched to her chest.

  “Are you really okay?” I asked.

  She shook herself, as if waking up. “Yeah. Only. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying that. It will be better in the morning.” I walked down the hall.

  Lenore trailed behind me.

  I grasped the front door’s knob. A cold shock ran through me, then, hot, twisting, coppery rage. I gasped.

  “What's wrong?” she asked.

  I shot her a quick smile, but my stomach quivered. “Nothing. Just a shock from the metal.”

  “Wait.” She placed her hand on my arm and closed her eyes, extending her aura, probing for danger.

  Shutting my eyes, I did the same and visualized a hawk, soaring high above, hunting. From a spot over its head, I saw what it saw, sensed what it sensed. Light from the homes below flared, disturbing, in the night. A mouse rustled in manzanita. A murder of crows roosted in a high redwood. But I sensed no magic aside from our own and no humans lurking. On the other hand, I hadn’t sensed anyone in my café either.

  I opened my eyes.

  “It's safe,” she said. “There's no one there.”

  I hoped Lenore’s magical senses were sharper than mine. “Like I said, static.” Shocks were easy to come by at this altitude. But I kept my keys clenched like spikes between my fingers as I walked to my truck. I got in quickly, locking the doors, and drove off, watchful.

  No one passed me. No headlights gleamed behind me. No animals darted in front of my truck. I was alone, and for the first time in a long time, I felt lonely.

  The dash clock read midnight — too late to stop at one of the bars, not when I had to open Ground tomorrow morning.

  I turned down the alley to Ground and parked, flipping off my headlights. The light by the exterior stairs was out, bathing the alley in blackness. I sat for a long moment, my disquiet growing.

  Gathering my macramé purse, I stepped from my truck and let my eyes adjust to the dim light. I didn’t see anyone. Paranoid, my gaze darted around the gloom as I walked to the base of the stairs. My foot crunched on something.

  I edged sideways. At my feet, moonlight silvered triangles of broken glass.

  The wooden stairs creaked above me, and I drew in my breath.

  Someone was on my stairs.

  Someone was breaking in — had broken in.

  Blood pounded in my ears. My hands clenched, my keys pinching my fingers. Enough! I raced up the stairs. My skin burned with energy. I was going to rip this guy’s face off. The taps inside me opened, magic spilling through me from the earth and sky.

  A dark shape rushed down the steps.

  I gathered my will and shrieked words I didn't know. Hot wind tossed my hair. The dark shape stumbled, plowed into me.

  I flew backwards. At the last moment, I remembered to tuck and roll.

  We bounced together down the stairs.

  An elbow in my gut. A boot striking my shoulder. My head struck something hard, and the world dimmed.

  I blinked.

  I lay on cold pavement. Sharp, uncomfortable things dug into my flesh. Stars spun above me. The earth was moving.

  A shuffling sound.

  Not me.

  Him. Her. It.

  I smelled the sharp tang of my own fear. Whoever had been on the steps was still out there. I groaned and tried to sit up. But I couldn't gain purchase in this new, tilting world.

  The sound came closer. Footsteps.

  Something stirred inside me. The spell. I had never released my spell, and it coiled, a burning spring.

  I sucked in painful gulps of frigid air. The spell was a hot iron, stabbing my core, agonizing. I had to do something with it. Get rid of it. Stop the pain.

  A dark figure loomed over me, something long and narrow in its hand.

  I tried to escape, but my legs skidded, helpless, on the pavement. Move, move, move.

  The shape knelt beside me, raised a hammer.

  I flung out m
y hand and released the spell. Electric fire flowed through me. I shrieked, pain jumbling the words.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I woke up with Picatrix on my chest.

  She sneered at me in that regal way cats do. Then she yawned and arched her back, digging her claws into my skin.

  “Ow!”

  She sprang from my chest and trotted beneath the stairs.

  The sky had lightened, the stars fading. Abruptly, I sat up, remembering. I looked around wildly.

  Aside from Picatrix nosing about the garbage bins, I was alone in the alley.

  Holding tight to the railing, I climbed the wooden stairs to my apartment. Bits of glass lay scattered across the landing, but most of it had rained straight down onto the pavement. I hoped Picatrix was careful where she set her paws.

  I studied my broken window, to the left of the staircase. The burglar had been nuts to think he could get through it. It was a good three feet from the stairs – close enough to reach with his hammer, but a stretch to climb through. If he’d successfully made the leap, or if I’d been home…

  I looked away, nauseated. The shamanic journey had brought me here. If I’d had my keys on me, I’d have gone straight upstairs and to bed. If Lenore hadn’t forgotten my purse…

  Jamming my key into the lock, I thought back to the struggle on the stairs. He'd knocked me flat before I could use that spell — the spell with words I didn't know and outcomes I didn't understand. Had there even been a spell? My memories were fuzzy, gray. I remembered the feelings — the pain and the power — but that was all.

  I didn’t know what scared me more – my attacker or that weighted spell.

  I’d think about it later. Scarlett O’Hara had nothing on me. Whatever had happened, my attacker was gone. I hadn't disabled him or her. No fallen bodies lay beneath me.

  Dammit.

  I stumbled inside and hit the light. Thanks to the broken window, the living room was the same temperature as outside. Shards of glass glittered on the distressed wood floor. But the room itself appeared undisturbed.

  I extended my senses. The atmosphere felt undisturbed too. No intruder had gotten past the wards I kept on the upstairs apartment. But I’d been wrong before.

  Outside, a garbage can lid clattered, and I jumped.

  Swearing, I got a broom, dustpan, and old newspaper and walked downstairs. Picatrix had made her way inside one of the garbage bins, her tail a question mark.

  I left her to it and swept up the glass. Wrapping it in the newspaper, I deposited it in a cat-free garbage can.

  Weariness hit me, and I grasped the stairway banister, closed my eyes, drained.

  I trudged upstairs and swept up the glass inside my apartment.

  Abandoning my broom, I stumbled to the kitchen. I poured a dram of our aunt's Four Thieves potion, and shot it back, grimacing at the vinegar-garlic mixture. My magical malaise lifted, energy flooding my veins.

  I showered, ignoring my bumps and bruises from the tumble down the stairs. I should call the police, but I'd already cleaned up most of the mess and had probably ruined the crime scene. Besides, I was sick of deputies. Sick of being stared at like a criminal. Sick of being dragged to the sheriff's station for “a few more questions.”

  Either Matt's wife had killed him, or Matt had been killed because he was a snoop who got a kick out of blackmailing his clients. Even if it was only a gentle blackmail — like he'd pulled with Brayden — one of his victims might have snapped. I needed to find out what was blackmail-worthy in my suspects' pasts.

  Unfortunately, I had no idea how.

  *****

  Friday rush. I poured an espresso and eyed Darla, working the cash register. No matter how I squinted, I couldn't see the knife hanging over her head from my journey in Middle World. If Darla's bad luck was part of the unseelie's curse, was the knife a metaphor for her misfortune?

  And what about the knight? I glanced to Karin’s window table and away. The table had remained strangely unoccupied all day. All the other tables were taken, the coffee shop packed, yet people avoided a primo window seat.

  “Joy?” I called out, clapping a plastic lid on a double espresso.

  A young tourist in a blue parka and scarf stepped to the counter. “That's me.”

  I handed her the drink. She moved away, looking around for a spot to sit. Her gaze passed over the empty window table and moved on. She shrugged. Sipping her espresso, she walked out the red-paned front door.

  I shifted my weight. Weird.

  The lunch rush ended, leaving us with the work-from-home crowd — men and women typing on laptop computers.

  I wondered what Karin would have made of the table. Would she have avoided it as well?

  I wandered to the empty table. Casually, I wiped it down, reaching out with my senses and feeling for magic.

  I felt nothing.

  That scared me even more, and I scuttled to the safety of the counter. Customers moved down the line, and I tried not to look at the empty table.

  My stomach growled, and I glanced at the clock on the distressed brick wall. Two o’clock.

  Darla smiled and took a cup from my hands, passed it to a waiting customer. “You haven't taken your lunch break yet.”

  I wiped down the espresso machine and tossed the washcloth in the sink. “No, and I've got errands to run. Do you mind?”

  “You're the boss.”

  I grimaced. “I’ve been taking off a lot lately, haven’t I?”

  “Your sister was shot. Someone stole your truck and used it in a murder. I get it. Go and do what you need to do. You know the afternoons are light. I'll be able to manage on my own.” She grinned. “Besides, I need the hours.”

  “As long as you're happy.” I whisked off my apron. Hurrying upstairs, I grabbed a black wool coat, gloves, and purse.

  The Historical Association was only a few blocks away. So I walked, enjoying the cold air on my cheeks, the bustle of tourists in winter ski wear, their noses red from wine tasting.

  I strolled past a brick, two-story hotel. A vacancy sign sat in the window. Most of the tourists would head higher into the mountains, spending the night at a higher elevation and ready to ski in the morning.

  The Historical Association was in a two-story Victorian a block off Main Street. Behind the picket fence, dormant rose bushes awaited winter’s end.

  I walked up the brick path to the porch and stepped inside.

  An elderly lady, Mrs. Parks, looked up from behind the desk and smiled. Her skin seemed to glow from within, and her eyes were a startlingly clear blue. She adjusted her red cardigan.

  “Hello, Jayce. What can I do for you today?”

  I sat in one of the green chairs in front of her. “I'm doing some research on the old wellhouse.”

  She opened a drawer. “A lovely bit of local architecture. I have just what you're looking for.” She slid a sheet of paper across the desk to me. “I assume you're here about the petition?”

  “Petition?” I scanned the paper, a one-sheet on the wellhouse history.

  “The wellhouse was built in the mid-nineteenth century. It's an extraordinary example of Victorian Moorish architecture and highly unusual in this location. And Mr. Gertner wants to tear it down for a housing development!” Her mouth twisted.

  “He said no one was taking care of it,” I said.

  Her eyes flashed. “Well, we’d like to!”

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  She toyed with the reading glasses dangling around her neck. “Unfortunately, the Historical Association has had its hands full with other projects. We'd like the city to buy the property and put it into a public trust. Our organization of volunteers is quite willing to manage the wellhouse’s upkeep. We simply can't lose such a lovely piece of history.”

  “Who built the wellhouse?”

  “A miner named Alpheous Wright.” She arched a white eyebrow. “He must have been quite a fanciful man. Sadly, he died of consumption not long after he built the struct
ure. He never enjoyed the fruits of his labors.”

  “What happened to the wellhouse?”

  “The property passed to his heirs, who eventually moved away.”

  “And now Eric Gertner owns the property.”

  She sniffed. “Mr. Gertner doesn't appreciate what he owns. It would be simple to turn that property into a park and tourist attraction. People are looking for things to do in Doyle, places to snap photos of themselves. The wellhouse is ideal.”

  If someone didn't fall through the floor first. Still, losing the wellhouse did seem a shame. Old Doyle was a sturdy gold rush town. The Moorish wellhouse was a whimsical dash of fantasy. “I'll sign,” I said.

  “Excellent!” She shoved a clipboard at me, and I signed beneath the row of names.

  She glanced at my signature and smiled. “The fairies will be grateful.”

  My mouth went dry. “Fairies?”

  “Oh, another funny old legend attached to the wellhouse. The story goes, that the fairies weren't happy when the well was built. They cursed Mr. Wright with consumption.”

  Fairies.

  “Are you all right?” She leaned across the broad, polished desk, her face creasing with concern. “You look most peculiar.”

  I cleared my throat. “Is that the only legend attached to it?”

  “There are happy stories as well. The women of Doyle used to go to the wellhouse to take away their love sickness.”

  “Love sickness?” I asked.

  She laughed. “An old-fashioned way of describing pining after someone you can't have. They believed the wellhouse would cure them of that terrible feeling. Of course, now we know something about psychology. The well water worked to cure love sickness because women believed it would.”

  “That makes sense,” I said slowly. Why hadn’t I heard this story before? “Aside from the fairy spring in the woods, are there any other local sites connected to the fairies?”

  “No. Well, that’s not entirely true. There's the Bell and Thistle. But I'm not sure why that has a fairy connection.”