Leaning back on my elbows, I try to get my stubborn heart under control. “Which is?” I ask, focusing on my breath.
Alex’s physical and mental exhaustion weakens his voice. “Why would the bocor kill the founder of the organization?”
That I might know. I straighten and pull the rubber band out of my hair. “A day before the mayor died, his wife and daughter showed up at one of my readings. The second the kid walked in, I knew what the bastard had done to her.”
Alex raises a brow. “And?”
I bite the edge of my lower lip. “She threw ten thousand dollars in my face and asked me to kill her husband.”
“I knew it.” Disappointment tugs at his heart, and I can tell he’s back on the “she’s a killer” track.
“No,” I say, meeting his gaze. “You really don’t. I threw her out, but you should have seen the look on the girl’s face. I was her last hope. And I don’t know…” I break off.
“You couldn’t turn your back on her?” he asks more softly than before.
“The bastard had been raping her since she was six, and he would have never stopped.”
Running a hand over his three-day beard, he frowns. “So you killed him?”
Averting my gaze, I shake my head. “No, but in retrospect, I think I am the reason he bit the dust.”
Squinting, he studies me. “Explain.”
I close my eyes and let the memories of that day wash over me.
****
Mother of the Year stood in the corner. “Please, isn’t that enough?” she said, her voice trembling.
“What?” I barked, my index finger still pressed to Jamie’s forehead. “Does the fact you’ve never attempted to save your little girl suddenly nag at you?”
Jamie had to re-live four years of abuse. It’s not like that could have been done in a minute. I had to rewind her subconscious like an old VHS cassette and outsmart the natural defense mechanism in her brain at the same time.
“I-I…” she stammered, but I silenced her with my death glare.
Every inch of my soul wanted that ruthless bitch out of there. But Jamie needed an anchor. Someone she trusted. Even if that person didn’t deserve her trust.
The kid’s assaulted body shivered under my hand, and I knew she was ready to dive deeper into her subconscious. Ready to face the night when this son of a bitch had conquered her body and soul.
“Listen to my voice, Jamie. Turn to your left, and you will see another door. It’s right there in your room.” I waited for the images to unfold in her mind’s eye and then continued. “Now open the door. You’re doing great. Ten steps will take you to a beautiful room. Follow them.”
She did as I said and was back at the night that had changed her life forever. The night her father took away her faith in the world. “Don’t, Daddy. Please, you’re hurting me.” She was sweating, crying, kicking. It was pure torture.
I wasn’t the praying type, but then and there, I begged God to guide her through this, to save her from losing her mind. I knew it was a possibility. Messing with the subconscious was dangerous, and if I took it too far, she’d end up in a fucking loony bin.
“Jamie,” I whispered in her ear as she fought through the worst night of her life. “I need you to listen to me, honey.” The memory had her imprisoned, and she barely registered my voice. I closed my eyes and focused all my energy on her. “Jamie?”
Her shoulders twitched, and I knew she was listening.
“It doesn’t matter what he says, honey. He’s not allowed to touch you.” I kept repeating the same damn thing until she relaxed a bit.
Good, I was getting through. “I want you to remember that feeling, Jamie. His hands on your skin. His breath on your face.”
“No,” she cried. “I don’t want to.” Although I had sent her into a deep trance, part of her consciousness was still there. It desperately tried to protect her from the memories that could shatter her mind into pieces.
I drew a sharp breath. “Yes, you will, and whenever he comes too close, or as much as sets a foot in your room, this exact feeling will resurface. And you will remember my words.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I don’t want to remember. I want to forget.”
Here came the hardest part. “You can never forget, Jamie.” I applied more pressure to her forehead. “But you can fight, and that’s exactly what you’re going to do when that feeling comes back. Do you hear me? You will pick up the phone, dial 911, and tell the operator what he did to you.” Channeling her emotions drained me of all energy, but I cleared my throat and kept going. “Do you understand, Jamie?”
She didn’t respond, but I felt her relaxing.
“And if there’s no phone,” I said, “you will scream for help as loud as you can.”
“But the neighbors,” Mother of the Year said.
If looks could kill, the woman would have died the worst death ever. “Shut up,” I yelled. “Or I swear I will change my mind and kill you and your bastard of a husband. You hear me?”
Hugging herself, she stepped back and nodded.
I hated causing Jamie pain, but building a trigger in her mind was the only way to keep her safe. Her heartbeat slowed. “That’s it, honey. Hold onto the fear, the pain, the anger. It’ll help you defeat the monster.”
I knew I had succeeded when she said, “He’s a monster. Daddy is a monster.”
****
For the first time since Alex learned I’m a witch, he doesn’t look at me like I’m the devil reincarnated. “You think the bocor eliminated the mayor because whatever mojo you did on that kid would have sooner or later exposed him as a pedophile and put the organization under the scrutiny of the Feds?”
“It makes total sense, doesn’t it?”
The synapses in Alex’s brain work overtime. “Let’s say you’re right. What’s in it for the bocor? I mean, you said it yourself. He never touched the kids.”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I’m pretty sure Hedwig has the answer to that question.”
“Sweet-tea-offering-named-like-Potter’s-owl Hedwig? Why’s that?” If I didn’t know better, I’d say Mr. I Hate Witches doesn’t like the thought that the old woman could be involved.
“Call it a hunch,” I say, pulling pen and paper out of my bag. “Your FBI pal is working on a list, right?”
Alex knits his brows. “Yeah, why?”
“Do you think he can narrow it down if we give him a profile?”
“Probably,” he says. “But I’ve already told him what we know.”
I’m not so sure about that. “Let’s go through it again.”
Wiping his palms on his jeans, he studies me with a weird look on his face as I jot down Bocor on one side of the paper and Clown Man on the other. “You really didn’t kill the mayor?”
I shake my head.
His malachite eyes remind me of nightfall in a forest. “I’m sorry,” he admits after a long pause. “I just—”
“You think I’m Satan’s bride.” I fake a smile. “And you were right, Alex. For a split second, I considered her offer.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
I bite my lip. “I didn’t. But we both know I’ll never be the girl you so desperately want me to be.”
He shifts closer, holding my gaze. “I’m not so sure about that, Manda.”
My heart thunders in my ear, and I swallow hard. “Let’s just focus,” I suggest, pointing to the paper in my lap.
The sun is rising when I put the pen down and stretch my limp muscles. Alex slept through most of the night, and even though a little help would have been appreciated, I didn’t have the heart to wake him.
His perfect body is spread over the length of the bed. I shake him a little. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” Taking a last look at my notes, I wait for him to open his eyes.
Bocor
Francois
French speaking—French? Definitely born in a French-speaking country!
Scorpion
tattoo on his hand.
Symbol on his chest—Hedwig?
Connection to PCAC—member of the foundation?
Goes by the name Baron Samedi.
Clown Man
Older
Pedophile—registered sex offender? Maybe accused during the Kern County child abuse cases?
Picks the kids—Local! Must know them or stalk them previous to their abductions.
Connected to the girl with the raven hair—is she Scarlet? Who is Scarlet? First victim?
Smell of roses—connection to the Kylie Minogue song—has a rose garden? Works with flowers? Florist?
The list is far from perfect, but it’s all we’ve got.
“Have you been up all night?” Alex asks, his voice thick with sleep.
“Yep.” I get up and throw the piece of paper on his chest. “It’s time to call your FBI pal.”
Chapter 18
Inhaling the scent of looming rain that wafts through the open windows of the Mustang, I dial Bonnie’s number again.
“Did it ever occur to you she might not pick up on purpose?” Alex says, backing the black beast into a parking slot in front of Hedwig’s house. Pulling a couple of Fast and the Furious stunts, he had managed to get us to Bakersfield within a little over an hour.
Ignoring his smartass comment, I press the phone against my ear, but like the other nineteen times, I go straight to voicemail. “Hot dudes with incredible sexual-healing skills and nice abs, leave a message. Racists, nuns, and bigots, go fuck yourself.”
Un-freaking-believable. Twenty-four hours.
Freaking twenty-four hours, and still no word from her. Seriously, how long could it take for her to pick up a phone and call my not-so-beloved sister?
“Bonnie,” I yell into the speaker. “Where the fuck are you? I swear to God, I’ll put a no-sex hex on your ass if you don’t call me ASAP.”
One arm resting on the steering wheel and a cocky grin on his face, Alex ogles me. “There’s no such thing.”
Bugged, I throw the phone in my bag and look him in the eye. “Wanna bet your manhood on that?”
The stupid grin on his face diminishes. “And you wonder why I hate witches,” he grumbles, reaching for the door handle.
What can I say? We’re a capricious species, and for a guy who’s been buying the same brand of underwear since he was five, there’s nothing worse than unpredictability.
Heavy clouds darken the sky as I step out of the car and stretch my saggy muscles. Lack of sleep and death have turned them into disgorged gum. “I so need a massage.”
Cocking a brow, Alex leans against his car. “What, no spell for that?”
I roll my shoulders back and smile. “Why should I use magic if I have you?”
Pushing off the car, he shakes his head. “In your dreams, Manda.”
The dreams in which feature Alex are less massage and more banging me against the wall or wrapping my legs around his poetic body while he screws my brains out. He doesn’t need to know that, though.
Staggering toward the white fence, I almost expect Hedwig to come running, but she doesn’t. Her beautiful garden is strangely deserted, and the wind chime that hangs from the ceiling in front of her door plays a crazy melody.
“What’s the matter?” Alex asks.
A burning sensation spreads through my ankh tattoo as I open the garden gate. “I told you about the protective shield around Hedwig’s house, remember?”
He nods.
“At the moment, it looks less like a shield and more like the fishnet pantyhose you hate so much.”
He winces. Probably because the memory of that fatal Halloween night one and a half years ago flickers across his mind’s eye: us drinking, me wearing fishnet pantyhose, and him getting into a brawl. What a fun night that was.
“Maybe the spell wears off,” he says, unable to look at me.
“Dunno, Alex.” I glare at my itching wrist. “This house was the magical version of Fort Knox. Something tells me Hedwig ain’t careless when it comes to protection.”
One side of his mouth curves up. “Who’s paranoid now?”
“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny.”
Alex shrugs. “What goes around, comes around, Manda. You’re the one who taught me that.”
Being beaten at your own game kinda sucks. “Keep making fun of me,” I say as we reach the door. “But I’m tellin’ you, I have a bad feeling about this.”
I’m ready to ring the bell, but Alex nudges me in the ribs. “Hey.”
“What?”
“Go easy on her, okay?”
He wants me to play nice with a witch? I stare at him. “Invasion of the Body Snatchers or The Exorcist?”
He squints. “What?”
I tuck a strand of my rebellious hair behind an ear and cross my arms. “For you to be nice to one of my kind, you must either be possessed or taken over by aliens. So which is it?”
Alex’s brows go up. “Just ring the bell,” he orders, annoyed.
And that’s what I do. Several times.
“Seems like no one is home,” Alex says. “Maybe we should come back later.”
Or she’s pretending not to be home because she knows what’s coming for her. Fisting my hands, I bang on the door. “Hedwig!”
Nothing.
“I know you’re home,” I shout. “Open the door!”
But she doesn’t.
Alex scans the area. “Keep your voice down,” he warns.
Voice down, my ass. I hammer against the door like a lunatic. “Hedwig, open the goddamn door!”
“Can I help you?” I flinch at the sound of the high-pitched voice of Hedwig’s neighbor. Miss I-wear-Valentino-shoes-and-a-Victoria-Beckham-dress-and-act-like-the-queen-of-Bakersfield leans over the white fence, looking at us suspiciously.
“Sorry about the noise, ma’am.” Alex’s lips curl into a mesmerizing smile. “We’re looking for Hedwig, but she won’t answer the door, and my friend is a little worried.” Alex can be very charming. That is, if he’s talking to someone other than me.
Playing with her thick, brown, fishbone braid, she eyeballs him from head to toe. Thank God, he’s still wearing a suit. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen her today, but I’m sure she’s fine.” The smile on her face is faker than the fakest thing in Faketown.
Enough small talk. I glare at Alex. “Open the door.”
The lips of the hoity-toity neighbor with her nose in the air form a shocked O. “You can’t just trespass,” she says, hand pressed against a hip.
“Watch me,” I snarl, voice razor-sharp.
Miss Perfect’s jaw drops open, and she stumbles backward.
Alex approaches her carefully. “I’m sorry. My friend here,” he says, shooting me a sidelong glance, “is very impulsive.”
“Impulsive,” she mocks, arms crossed. “I think rude would be more appropriate.”
That’s it. I’ve had about enough of her attitude. “Aren’t there any cookies you should be baking?” I snap.
“Manda.” Alex pinches my arm. “Drop the bitch act.”
Miss Perfect raises her brows. “You should go now,” she orders, sounding more confident than she looks.
“And you should mind your own fuckin’ business,” I say matter-of-factly.
Alex grabs my elbow and pulls me closer. “Drop it, Amanda.”
I pull out of his grip and glare at him. “Just open the goddamn door, Alex.”
Miss perfect slowly retreats to her porch. “I think I’m going to call the cops.”
“Wait.” Alex walks toward her, hands in the air. “I know she’s acting like a crazy person, but Hedwig had some heart issues lately. For all we know, she could be lying on the bedroom floor.” His soothing tone, along with the perfectly sane explanation for my behavior, makes an impact.
The lines around Miss Perfect’s eyes deepen. She seems almost concerned. “Oh my goodness.” She cups her chin. “I had no idea. She never said anything.”
Alex draws in a deep breat
h. “Why don’t you call the cops while we try to find a way into the house?” he suggests.
My jaw drops, and I’m about to ask him if he’s lost the last bits of his fucking mind, when nose-job-from-next-door nods. “Of course.”
The second she’s gone, Alex seizes hold of my arm, pulling me toward the door. “What’s wrong with you?” he hisses.
“With me?” I laugh, throwing my head back. “What’s wrong with you, Alex? You’re the one who told her to call the cops when all you had to do was pull out your badge.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t turn this on me because you couldn’t keep your stab-worthy, provoking mouth shut,” he says, voice low. “We agreed to keep a low profile, and she didn’t strike me as the kinda woman who keeps quiet when the FBI shows.”
He has a point. My fucking temper almost screwed this up, but women like her instantly flip my bitch switch. So much attitude, yet spineless, just like my sister. I drop my arms. “If you’re done preaching, how about picking the fuckin’ lock, Alex?”
“You watch way too many movies,” he says, turning the doorknob to the left. Of course, the door swings open.
Pushing past him like a woman on a mission, I stomp into the living room. “Hedwig?”
A full cup of tea rests on the ebony coffee table in front of the couch, and an episode of Ghost Adventures flickers across the old-fashioned monstrosity of a TV. But the woman is nowhere to be seen.
Alex’s gaze drifts around the room. “Weird,” he murmurs, his aura suspicious.
“What’s weird?”
He reaches for the Beretta in his waistband. “Stay put. I’m going to take a look around.”
I’m all set to give him a lecture about emancipation and the fact that I can very well take care of myself, but he’s out of the room before I even get a chance to say, “Kiss my ass.”
I examine the room. Nothing seems out of the ordinary until I realize the wind chimes are gone and the symbols have been smeared.
Within seconds the temperature in the room drops, and the wooden floorboards behind me creak. “Amanda,” an icy waft of air whispers.
Stomach seizing, I slowly turn around. “Who the hell are you?”
What happens next is obscure, and I watch in utter horror. “Where the Wild Roses Grow” bursts through the speakers of the unplugged 50s radio. Walls crack. Glass shatters. Roses scatter on the floor.
Karma Page 14
