Cosmic Diamonds (Whitney Powers Paranormal Adventures Book 4)

by Jason Paul Rice

  I don’t think I have ever called her by her proper title.

  She continued, “Who in this city is capable of shifting into a demon-like creature?”

  Now we were getting somewhere. Paranormal activity had been on the rise in Pittsburgh for the past decade, hence the new department that had been set up about a year ago. “Off the top of my head, that’s a little difficult to say. I’d first probably say it could be the McNights.”

  “They are a huge family. I assume the McNights from the goth bowling alley?”

  “Those are the ones. I’ve received confirmation that they are connected to demons from the Red Cavern. Not sure if I believe it and I can’t get close to them because I don’t have any proof other than hearsay.”

  Gretchen turned to me again and let the car veer toward oncoming traffic. The blaring car horn alerted me to grab the wheel with some of my mental magic and jerk it back into our lane.

  She peeked over a few times, trying to keep her attention on the road. “Are you sure? Any corroboration you could provide?”

  She knew that the underworld of demons named the Red Cavern was real, but she didn’t want to believe it. Nobody did. Not even me. For heading a specialized department dealing with the occult, G.M. hadn’t the slightest interest in the paranormal and taken the job for the pay raise only. She remained focused on making enough money to start her own detective agency. She hadn’t confessed the details to me, but I knew she hated working for someone else and really hated taking any advice from someone half her age.

  I couldn’t argue with her on either measure, especially the latter. I wouldn’t want to take advice from a ten-year-old in the same way that she wouldn’t want to take advice from a twenty-three-year-old know-it-all. What could I say, I had a lot of knowledge in my head and was proud to share it. I just needed to work on my sarcastic delivery so I didn’t come across as such an asshole.

  I knew it was a deficiency, but I was working on it. Most of my time during my cancer recovery was spent with Mabon, the youthful God. It had done wonders for learning new information, but little for my development as a mature adult.

  “Corroboration?” I mocked in a funny tone, like the bad guy from the Dick Tracy cartoons. I used to watch them with my Mom. “You know how I work. Have any of my uncorroborated stories turned out to be false? Give me the whole picture, G.M., not just little hints.”

  “It’s Lieutenant Meyer, you dolt. All right, tough guy, you ready? We received a report about a board meeting in the PNC Building downtown.”

  “Sounds pretty exciting.” I jabbed at her.

  She huffed and cutoff another car to get into the right lane. “If you’ll allow me to finish. One surviving eye-witness said that Darren Danbergh suddenly changed into a dark, reptilian figure and used its massive claws and teeth to rip into, and devour everyone in the meeting, except for one traumatized eye-witness. One of my colleagues said it was the most gruesome crime scene she has ever seen. And she’s seen them all.”

  “Okay, if that’s true, we seem to be driving away from the city.”

  “Ahh, very good Einstein.”

  “I’m smarter than you.” Damn my childish nature.

  “Not sure if you want to be bragging about that.”

  “I’m smarter than you.” I don’t know how the second one slipped out of my mouth again. I needed to work on that.

  “Focus. We are going to the house of the shifter. Scrounged up some quick information that he had a live-in girlfriend. Thirty-two year old Ruth Westerhouse. Quite a last name there.”

  “Is she from, ‘The Westerhouses?’”

  “The one and only. Although it sounds like she was ousted from the good graces of the family.”

  The Westerhouses basically ran the city of Pittsburgh. You couldn’t walk more than two blocks without seeing a sign for one of their numerous businesses.

  “The shifter. What’s the file on him?”

  “Darren Danbergh. Up and coming Vice President at PNC. Co-workers say he kept to himself. Not much more information as of yet.”

  “I can already tell you’ve visited the crime scene. Where is this house?”

  “Fox Chapel. Should be there in about five minutes.” She speeded up.

  I wondered if G.M. knew that Fox Chapel was becoming a hotbed of paranormal activity. I had several side jobs, separate from Gretchen’s work, which proved that a lot of rich people were suddenly dabbling in the dark art of magic. Dark magic almost always carried a tragic cost. Or so I had heard.

  Being a novice in the game of magic was frustrating. The one thing I had learned was that I hadn’t learned very much. I had absorbed about two drops out of the ocean of magic. I had the ability to harness more magic than almost anyone in the world. The end-game potential was scary. I had learned about the different nuances of magic, the threat of the Red Cavern, and how to use magic in the city with thousands of innocent people running around, but I still yearned for more.

  We arrived at the house. Nice house. Not Westerhouse nice, but I would have loved to call it home. A two-story house, the bottom level made of brick that receded into the second floor covered with dirty white aluminum siding in desperate need of a power wash.

  Two Doric columns held a rectangular roof over the entrance to the house and a walkway snaked around the yard, ending near the mailbox. A Lincoln Navigator sat in the driveway. The vehicle had the two driver’s side wheels in the driveway but the other two were in the grass.

  Gretchen parked in front of the house and we made the awkward walk to the doorway. I didn’t know what to say. Oh, hey, sorry to bother you, but do you have a minute to talk about how your boyfriend turned out to be a grisly murderer? Or, maybe you’d like to discuss how you were booted from the richest family in Pittsburgh? Neither sounded like a good opening line.

  I had experience in consoling people, but in those situations, I wasn’t trying to garner information. Totally different ballgame when you were trying to pry information out of a traumatized witness.

  We got out of the car and walked up the walkway. We were about ten feet from the entrance, when the glass screen door opened toward us. Gretchen dug into her pocket to grab her badge as a woman came outside and held her hand up in a fist.

  Disheveled, strung-out and tired were the first words to pop into my head. The short woman with dyed bright red hair and black roots had freckles under her heavy sheen of makeup. Her dainty nose and the complete package made me envision that Little Orphan Annie had grown up to be a stripper.

  She screamed, “I told you we would have the stuff ready, when it’s ready.” She stopped when Gretchen held up her badge.

  “Ma’am, I am Lieutenant Gretchen Meyer of the Pittsburgh Police Occult Unit. This is detective Merlino.”

  I nodded my head, tightlipped. “Ma’am.”

  “What do you want with me?” Her face went pale, and I realized she didn’t know.

  What the hell, G.M.? Being the first to talk to a witness is great, but I didn’t know we were rolling up Grim Reaper style. I took a deep breath and hoped Gretchen would take the lead. She didn’t.

  “Ma’am. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you. Your boyfriend is suspected of some really heinous criminal behavior.” I danced around the exact truth. I didn’t know how to say it. “Multiple murders.” I can’t believe those were the comforting words I settled on.

  Her crying eyes rolled back in her head and she looked like she might pass out.

  Smooth, real smooth.

  I reached out, hooked underneath her sweaty armpits and held her up. It wasn’t dead weight. I helped straighten her out and rubbed my ridiculous mustache. Not because I wanted to play with the ratty stash, I needed a quick sniff.

  Body odor, yes, but body odor was drowned out by deodorant. Not a clue, but this was a sign. My suspicion had been raised. I leaned in and hugged the woman. I pulled her close and the shorter woman lay her head on my chest.

  I silently sniffed fresh layers of makeup and s
tale whiskey. I wiggled my nostril hairs. Jameson Irish Whiskey. Good taste. Back to the makeup. Although it had been smeared across most of her face, it had been applied within the last few hours. I looked at the sun. It couldn’t be past 8:30 a.m.

  It didn’t add up. Why would this woman put makeup on this morning unless she was expecting company? Was she wearing an evening gown underneath the full-length red cotton bathrobe? When I put more thought into it, her melodramatic performance seemed rather fishy too. Her legs had given out, but not completely. I didn’t know what was going on, but it didn’t seem right.

  She added to the collage of tears on my hoodie as I rubbed her back. I needed to know more. “Would you mind answering a few questions, ma’am?”

  She kicked her bawling up a notch, sending off more bells and whistles.

  She looked up at me, lips quaking, and said, “I don’t think now is a good time. This is all too much right now.”

  I broke the embrace and took a step back. Too much? I hadn’t even told her about how her boyfriend ripped human beings to shreds—not to mention, he probably was a cannibal. I remembered when my father had gone to jail and I had wanted to know every single detail.

  Gretchen finally found her tongue and joined the conversation. “Are you sure? When would be a good time to come back?”

  Ruth sniffled and wiped away some tears. “Maybe tomorrow?” She shrugged. “I can’t really say after a tragedy like this. We really loved each other, you know. How do you put a time on something like this?”

  Gretchen responded, “We understand. I’ll leave you my card if you want to talk sooner. If not, I’ll be contacting you tomorrow.”

  Ruth grabbed the card, but it fluttered between her fingers and fell in the mulch next to her sidewalk. I reached down to pick it up.

  I snatched the card off the cobbled walkway and stood up. I held it out and made sure Ruth had a tight grip on it before I let it go and started to walk back to the car.

  Acting quickly on my instincts, I turned around, “Ma’am, would you mind coming down to the car and getting my card too? I live closer.” That was stupid. Not sure why I had said that.

  The woman reluctantly followed us down the walkway, tightening the tie on her robe. I needed to play this perfectly. We got to the car and I opened the door, trying to angle it perfectly. I ran my fingers over the mirror, closed my eyes, and said, “Videte omnia specula. Videte omnia specula.”

  I reached inside the vehicle, grabbed my imaginary card and peeked back at Ruth.

  Damnit.

  I opened the door more, but I still don’t think I hit my target.

  “I really don’t have time to be waiting out here. Just wait till the neighbors find out about this.”

  Seemed like a strange worry at a time like this. I jammed the door open more, bending it outward. The door creaked and I held my hand in front of the side view mirror. “Here it is.” I announced with my hand in front of the mirror.

  She turned around, rubbing her eyes with one hand and holding out the other.

  Damnit.

  I said, “After all, it looks like I can’t find it.”

  “Wasting my time,” the annoyed woman announced and turned to go back inside.

  She took five steps and I screamed out, “Stop.”

  The woman turned back toward me and I knew it was my last chance. I waved my left hand like a crazy man in front of the door. She squinted her eyes and focused on my hand. I slid my hand to the left and had what I needed. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss.”

  She forced a smile, nodded, and turned to go back inside her house. I jumped into the Jeep and Gretchen started busting my stones about bending her door too far open. Then she started blathering on about how some people can get fragmentary PTSD and just hearing about gruesome details can warp their minds. I agreed. Only problem with her argument was that we had never revealed any gory details.

  I wanted to yell at her about making me the bearer of bad news, but I stared silently into the side view mirror.

  Nothing.

  Not even my own reflection. I was using it as a window, which was why I had needed Ruth to look into it, and in a flash, the magic kicked in.

  The interior of a nice house appeared in the side-view mirror. A flash ran across the mirror. Another flash of red fabric zipped by. The mirrors inside the house acted like motion detectors to provide images. Finally, Ruth stopped in front of one of the mirrors. She stared into the mirror and I noticed a dresser with a hairdryer and makeup in the background.

  Her image became distorted and she disappeared. I realized she had opened a door with a mirror on it. I waited, impatiently.

  Nothing.

  I knew it was a long shot, but worth a try. I was about to divert my attention back to Gretchen when the distorted image returned and captured my attention. The door closed and Ruth knelt over a two-piece wooden box the size of a small suitcase.

  She disappeared for a few moments and returned with duct tape. She began to seal up the opening around the box. She put multiple layers of duct tape over the case and stared at the wooden object. She tried to lift the heavy box by a leather handle, and struggled. She propped it up on its side and I nearly suffered a heart attack.

  The symbol. If only it didn’t have that symbol, my heart might stop rattling against my ribcage.

  Ruth Westerhouse dragged the brown wooden box embossed with the black symbol of the Dank Artistry out of sight. She reappeared in the side view mirror, dragging the case through—her kitchen I presumed. I noticed a refrigerator behind her. How handy, a mirror magnet. How vain were these people?

  She opened the door, which led outside. I had what I needed and started listening to Gretchen, who had been yammering on. “Are you even listening to me?”

  Damnit. Busted. “Of course.”

  She barked at me, “Then what did I just say?”

  “You were saying some stuff, you know, about the PTSD and such.”

  Gretchen stopped at a red light. “You weren’t even listening to a word I said. You wonder why you’re the last investigator to get called all the time.”

  I didn’t wonder. I knew all the officers thought I was a prick. “Detective,” I shot back in a venomous tone.

  “What?” she asked with a sour look on her face, the tight skin on her cheeks wrinkling.

  “I’m a detective. We solve cases. We don’t just investigate them.” I don’t know why it made a difference to me. It just did. I desperately needed to ditch my pomposity for sagacity. Alayna called me the idiot savant wizard and I hadn’t been able to argue against her.

  “Is that so?” she asked. I didn’t see it, but I knew she rolled her eyes.

  “That’s how it is, I’m afraid. New sheriff in town. I’m kind of like a Psychic Detective.” I grabbed the oh-shit bar when Gretchen gunned it to run a yellow light. I’d like to see her out on the autobahn.

  “More like a psycho detective.” She chuckled. I didn’t. She continued, “Moving on. Once they finish sweeping the crime scene, I’ll email you with the findings and pictures. Don’t open them around kids, please.”

  “Don’t worry.” I wondered if Gretchen had kids. She had never talked about her personal life except for her own aspirations a time or two. She liked her private life to remain that way and I didn’t pry.

  Gretchen dropped me off at my humble abode. Alayna sat on the porch swing, rocking back and forth. I lived in a block of row houses that had been financially backed by the Deep Burrow. All except for one. The house next to mine was inhabited by Normals.

  The rest of the duplexes were filled with gifted young people like me. Ones that had shown an affinity toward magic in one way or another. It was nice being around like-minded individuals. We weren’t very high on the social ladder in Pittsburgh, but we had all taken an oath to protect the city, and needed to spend our time acquiring more magical skills.

  I hopped out of the car, and as I crossed the street, Gretchen yelled, “Don’t f
orget to check your inbox for that stuff.”

  I nodded, waved, and turned my attention to Alayna. I made sure nobody from the neighborhood was around. “My lady.” I bowed slightly. She wore her signature glimmering purple dress that hugged her thick body and swept the ground when she walked. I stood about 6’3, and although I’d never measured her or asked about an exact height, I’d estimate she was about three feet shorter than me.

  There were only a few of us in the duplexes that could see the wingless faerie and I had suffered a few embarrassing moments talking to Alayna around Normals.

  She smiled but the crow’s feet and narrow eyes made it seem unnatural and forced. “Good sir, how goes the day so far?”

  I titled my neck to the side and shifted to my serious face. “Have you heard about the shifter murders yet?”

  She spoke with an English accent, “Not yet.”

  I loved when I got a scoop before her. Even though Alayna had somehow arranged for me to be a consultant for the Pittsburgh Police, she didn’t find out information before they did. Alayna had rescued me a few years ago when I was in a major downward spiral and wanted to die. She had informed me that I shared a blood line with the Mighty Merlin, which meant I had a special capacity for magic. The family had used the last name Merlinus, until they moved from Wales to Italy and changed it to Merlino. Then, the family moved to the United States and settled in the northeast.

  I checked the sidewalk again and turned back to Alayna. “Boardroom meeting at PNC Bank, so pretty highbrow stuff. Boyfriend of Ruth Westerhouse. So we go to her house and I got her to look into a mirror so I could track her a little bit. Turns out, she drags a wooden case marked with the symbol of the Dark Artistry out her back door.”

  “Hmm.” She played with her hair and emitted an aura of enchantment. Alayna had long, thick braids that alternated from platinum blond to obsidian black and hung to her midsection.

  I pushed my lips together and nodded. “That’s what I said. Now it could be any hooligan trying to stir up some dark powers or it could be a powerful demon. Either way, something crazy is going on in Pittsburgh. Not to worry my lady, I will take care of the problem.”