“Then you do that, girlie. You go find me something that will talk these judges into letting us into the creepo’s house.”
“It’s agent, sir.”
“Hmm. So it is. Sorry ’bout that.”
He smiled meaningfully. He wasn’t sorry at all. Charlotte had spent her life being second to the men around her, and she got damn good and tired of having to prove herself.
Goldman saw them out and Charlotte waited until they were back in the parking lot before she spoke. Complaining to Baldwin about Goldman’s treatment wouldn’t work. Besides, she’d stuck up for herself. She decided to use a different tack.
“Was it just me, or did the commander there seem to be in a hurry to get the cuffs on someone?”
Baldwin looked at her queerly. “And you think he should be taking it slow? We’ve got a missing girl out there, plus five already dead.”
“Not slow, no. But we need more information about this guy before we arrest him. Goldman was right—we need actual evidence of wrongdoing. We’re just going on a hunch. Your hunch.”
“Charlotte, you have my blessing to drum up whatever evidence you can on this guy.” He held the car door open for her. She ran a hand along his stomach as she got in.
After he slammed the door and turned the engine over, Charlotte leaned over and rubbed his crotch. “What do you say we stop off for a quickie on our way back to the office?”
“Now’s not the time. We can wait until later.” Baldwin adjusted his sunglasses, pulled out of the parking lot a tad faster than necessary.
Charlotte was getting bored with being told no. She wasn’t used to it. Most men she slept with couldn’t take no for an answer. Well, she knew just how to fix that attitude. She waited until they hit the highway south before leaning over again, this time tugging down his zipper. He groaned.
“You’re not.”
“I most certainly am.”
She heard the ghost of a laugh from above.
“We’re going to get arrested,” he said a few moments later.
She stopped and looked up at him, the back of her head tapping the steering wheel. “Just don’t wreck the car. I’m not wearing my seat belt.”
Twenty-Four
Nashville
4:45 p.m.
Taylor had never wished so hard for a day to end. Homemade horror films, vampires and now a self-proclaimed witch. She was waiting for a werewolf to come turn himself in, just to complete the ensemble.
Ariadne sat across from her, back ramrod straight, not touching the chair behind her. The woman didn’t blink much, and Taylor found her gaze disconcerting. She edged a paper clip around the top of her desk with a finger.
“Okay, go over it again. You’re a witch.”
Ariadne laughed, a musical, tinkling sound that made Taylor want to smile. “I am a sole practitioner Dianic witch, yes. I have been studying Wicca for many years, but my family is made up of witches, my mother and her mother before her. I found my path in my mid-twenties, when I couldn’t ignore the power I’d attained any longer. I was causing change, causing problems, actually, and I needed to find a way to harness the power that was building in me. Extensive practice has allowed me to temper myself, to focus my energies. And I normally wouldn’t be found dead sitting in the office of a homicide detective, but the Goddess told me to help you. And trust me, you need my help. You’re on the edge of something very strong, evil, and you need a protector.” She stopped and gazed speculatively at Taylor, eyes blank. “Though who would have ever thought I would be protecting Athena?”
“Huh?”
“You can’t see yourself very well, Lieutenant Jackson.”
Taylor abandoned the paper clip. “Listen. This is great, and I appreciate that you want to help. But I don’t believe in spells and magic, and I have a lot of work to do.” She started to stand, to dismiss this crazy woman who stared right through her.
“Don’t you?” Ariadne asked, unmoving. “You aren’t the least little bit superstitious? You don’t throw salt over your shoulder, or lift your feet when you go over railroad tracks?”
Taylor folded her arms across her chest. “I’m as superstitious as the next person. But that doesn’t mean I believe in witches.”
“But you do believe in evil, Lieutenant. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. I know evil exists. I think you’ll find that we can be of use to one another, if you’ll let me.” She paused, focused on her hands, which were spread across her lap, dainty and manicured. “I promise not to put a wart on your nose.”
She looked up and grinned, and Taylor couldn’t help but smile back. The woman had a charming laugh and small white teeth—she certainly didn’t fit the image Taylor had of a witch.
A flash caught Taylor’s eye. She glanced at it, saw the delicately wrought chain of silver encircling Ariadne’s neck, and the ornate pentacle that hung just in the indentation between her clavicle and her throat. Without thinking, she drew back slightly.
“Maid, mother and crone,” Ariadne said.
“What?”
“You were thinking I didn’t look like a witch. We believe in the incarnations. Maid—the young witch, Mother—the fertile witch, Crone—the wise woman. I’m more the maid side of things, as you can tell.” She laughed again, and Taylor couldn’t help but join her this time. She felt good, reenergized. She sat back down, chewed on her lip.
“Okay, so how did you know what I was thinking?”
“I read your mind.”
Taylor immediately squirmed in her chair. Ariadne leaned forward, eyes twinkling.
“I’m kidding. I didn’t read your mind, though we can do that. It’s not mind reading the way you’re thinking of it, it’s more drowsing, a way to look into your feelings. Relying on your gut, your emotions, to help you make decisions about what a person is really thinking. You do quite a bit of that yourself, Lieutenant. So do I, and I’m actually quite good at it. I have to be careful not to look too deeply. It’s not polite. But I had no reason to look into your head—your face is like a mirror of your soul, transparent. You said it all yourself.”
Taylor was taken aback. She’d always thought her face inscrutable; it was one of her strengths. Fitz had taught her that a good cop had to be half actor to elicit trust from suspects—that’s what made her so good in interrogations. A spike of pain passed through her. She straightened, tried to make it go away.
“Intuition isn’t mind reading,” she said.
“Sure it is. You’re assimilating others’ emotions and putting them into context.” The smile fled, and Ariadne’s brow creased. “Listen, you may not believe in witches, and that’s fine. But these murders, this situation, are very, very serious. This is way more than playing light as a feather, stiff as a board. This is real, and it’s dangerous. There is a whole community of people who practice some form of paganism in Nashville, thousands of them, more than you could possibly imagine. It’s a peaceful, gentle religion, but there’s always the one who wants to pervert the Goddess’s power. That’s what we’re dealing with, and you’re going to need my help to stop him.”
“Him?” Taylor asked.
“Yes. I don’t know his name, but he’s powerful, and young. And he’s not alone.”
Taylor left Ariadne in her office. She needed a sanity break.
She found McKenzie and Marcus standing in the hallway, deep in discussion.
“What’s up?” she asked.
McKenzie grimaced. “Barent has asked for counsel. We had to stop interrogating him.”
“Well, that’s a shame. Did he give anything up before he invoked?”
Marcus rubbed his chin. “Not exactly. I think we have enough to get a warrant for his house—with him claiming to have committed the murders and his attendance at the crime scenes, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’m going to write up the warrant application now, see what I can make happen. He definitely knows more than he should about it, but I’m still not convinced that he’s really responsible. He’s a bit fragmented, p
ersonality-wise. I had him moved to a cell and booked, just in case. I didn’t want to send him home and have something go down. He seems like he has something to prove, though I’ll be damned if I think he killed those kids.”
McKenzie leaned against the wall. “He’s a true narcissist, that’s for sure. And a true believer. He honestly feels he’s a psychic, energy-feeding vampire, and that he heads a nation of vampires. He told us he’s been at war for the past two years with another vampire king, Laurent. They’ve got an online media campaign against one another, their followers are viciously attacking each other. It’s a brave new world in the vampire wars—cyberspace.”
Lincoln joined them in the hall. The confab was starting to draw the attention of several passing officers, who didn’t mask their curiosity.
“Are you sure they aren’t involved in some kind of LARP?” Lincoln asked.
“A LARP? What’s that?” Marcus asked.
McKenzie answered. “Live-action role-playing. A modern-day version of Dungeons and Dragons. LARPs are incredibly intense. It’s quite possible that if you already have an unsteady mind, extensive exposure to a LARP world could be a tipping point. It’s an excellent suggestion. It wouldn’t be the first time. We had a situation in Orlando with a rape role-playing game called RapeAid, with extensive gang-rape scenarios. A couple of the men playing decided to act it out—managed to rape four women before we caught them.”
“Is it possible that the murderer was acting out something from one of these LARPs? And that’s why they filmed it all and posted it online?” Taylor asked.
“Anything’s possible,” McKenzie said.
“I have one more component to throw into the mix. I’ve got a woman in my office, claims she’s a witch. Her name is Ariadne.”
McKenzie eyed her speculatively. “Ariadne the witch. That’s priceless.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know the history of Ariadne?” He was met with three blank stares. He shook his head. “What am I going to do with all of you? Ariadne was the daughter of King Minos of Crete. She helped Theseus get through the labyrinth without being killed by the Minotaur, then went on to marry Dionysus.”
Taylor raised an eyebrow. “Greek mythology. Now it makes sense. She called me Athena,” she said.
“That fits.” McKenzie had something akin to amusement glinting behind his steady gaze. “Can I meet her?”
“Sure.” They started back to the Homicide offices.
“With any luck, we’ll be able to close in on this killer before the end of the day. We’re all going to have to get some rest—you guys look kind of rough. Get some sleep this evening. We’ll tackle everything fresh in the morning if it doesn’t break soon.”
“That goes for you too, LT,” Lincoln said.
“I know, and I will. But I still need to go talk to Juri Edvin. How is the Internet stuff coming?”
He stopped walking and leaned back against the wall. “It’s been a total nightmare. The video gets replaced every time the old one is removed. But they’ll get a handle on it—it’s only been a few hours. They’re doing all they can to trace everything. My contact at YouTube is supposed to call me within the day. Since it’s Saturday, they had to pull in some of the senior staff who had the weekend off to help with the situation, and that was taking some time. When we talked last, they thought they might have a lead on the original upload site.”
“Good. I’m glad they’re so willing to help. That’s a nice change. You get to it, and let me know what happens. Marcus, get that warrant in place and let’s see what Mr. Vampire has in his closet. Don’t get stuck by anything.”
Ariadne was where Taylor had left her, sitting in the chair just inside Taylor’s office. Taylor suggested they go into the conference room so they could have more space.
Lincoln, staring at Ariadne with openly frank curiosity, excused himself, but shook the girl’s hand first, lingering for a moment. Ariadne smiled back at him, and Taylor could swear he blushed.
McKenzie shook her hand with interest as well, but his was most definitely cool and appraising, pure professional detachment. Marcus was the one who held back, and Taylor found that interesting. He mumbled something about the warrant and scooted out of the room.
Taylor and McKenzie settled across the table from Ariadne, and Taylor gestured for her to begin. “Tell us what you know. But first, would you please answer something else for me? Why do you want to help us?”
“Well, that’s easy enough. All of us are threatened by the actions of this warlock. Have you ever heard of the Wiccan Rede?” Ariadne asked.
“No,” Taylor answered.
“It’s our code of ethics, what all good little witches and warlocks believe in. It’s our version of the Hippocratic oath. The Rede itself is long and involved—gives us a guide to the intricacies of spell work on the feast days, these types of things. But it’s the last two lines that are the most important. ‘These eight words the Rede fulfill—an ye harm none, do what ye will.’ We believe that any magick you cast is brought back to you threefold. The law of return, that’s what we call it. Which means if you cast a negative spell, that negativity will come back and bite you on the ass.”
“So why would a witch ever cast a negative spell?” Taylor asked.
“Some feel they can control it, some don’t care. Sometimes it’s vital and necessary, like binding. That’s what I’ve been doing, trying to bind the killer, to forbid him from killing any more innocents. But the vast majority of good witches don’t go anywhere near negative casting. It’s just too unpredictable.”
“So according to you, the killings yesterday were the work of a witch?”
“Of a warlock. A young, powerful warlock. Actually, I believe a whole coven was involved. I saw them last night, at Subversion.”
“What’s that?”
“A coven? It’s a group of like-minded witches who want to work together, to draw power from one another.”
“I meant Subversion. I’ve not heard of it.”
“Oh, sorry, Lieutenant. It’s a club, on Second Avenue. They only operate once a month or so, and on special occasions, like Samhain—sorry, Halloween. When I heard about the murders, I immediately began looking for them. They led me to the club. There were two, a boy and a girl. By the way, not to confuse you, but they’re practicing vampirism too, the little bats. A second girl joined them. They had an awful spat, then she took off running. The two older ones followed her. I lost them after that. It was a rough night, actually. So many of these Goth kids think they’re psychic vamps, and they go to the clubs to feed. The energy is overwhelming, you see, especially on a feast day. It drains your energy—heck, it even affects me, and I’ve got a rock-solid shield. Feeding on others without express permission is a nasty, dark habit. We don’t approve.”
“You called them bats.”
“It’s a nickname for the Goths. Baby bats. In Wicca we call them Fluff Bunnies. But Fluffs are a bit different—they’re more poseurs, wannabes. These bats are for real, they’re just too young to be accepted into a traditional coven. Legally, you must be eighteen.”
“Bats,” Taylor said. “What did they look like?”
“The girl was tall, as tall as you, black hair, pale, of course, with green eyes. They were very green—they might have been colored contacts. She was in traditional garb, her makeup designated her as a RomantiGoth.”
“RomantiGoth? What’s that?” Taylor asked.
McKenzie finally spoke up. “There are a ton of subsects within the Goth community—fairies and industrials and neopunk, skimpy, gravers. I could go on and on. New ones pop up every day.”
Ariadne eyed him with interest. “So you are one of us?” she asked.
“Not anymore,” McKenzie answered impassively.
“Hmm,” Ariadne said, head cocked to one side. She turned back to Taylor. “It’s much more an American phenomenon. Darklings in the European sects don’t distinguish themselves so rigidly. We’re still so married to our l
abels.”
“Ah. Continue, please,” Taylor said.
“The boy was dressed similarly, but in black pants instead of a skirt. They both had corsets on, platform boots that laced high up on their calves, cloaks. His hair is short, cropped, dyed black. They were both made-up, but I’d recognize them if I saw them again. They stood out, made an imprint on me. The youngest was in makeup, but not as elaborately dressed.”
“If we showed you pictures?”
“Certainly.”
“What’s the difference between Goths and Wicca?”
“Oh, lots. Wicca is an earth-based religion. Goths are…well, let’s put it this way. Most people don’t like to be sad. The world says you have to be happy, to go, go, go. Goths embrace that darkness. They explore their sadness, and the sadness of others.”
She glanced at McKenzie, who nodded despite his obvious embarrassment. Poor guy was being laid bare in front of her. She felt for him.
“And the makeup?” she asked.
“A variety of self-expression. They like to disappear, to draw attention away from their corporeal being and to their spiritual side. The real ones are accomplished witches and warlocks—they understand paganism and all its iterations thoroughly. When you find this boy, you’ll find his spell book, what we normally call our Book of Shadows. It’s our most intimate accessory, full of hopes and dreams, spell work and notes, what worked, what didn’t. It’s a vital piece of our lives, and his will be full of clues for you. So will his altar.”
“It seems like they’re drawing attention to themselves by being different, instead of away from themselves,” Taylor said.
“Well, that’s the outsider’s way of seeing them. Most are searching, seeking, looking for their place in the world. They find the Gothic lifestyle and it fits them, like pulling on your favorite pair of jeans and knowing you look fantastic. It’s an emotional journey as well as physical.”
“But the black dress, the hanging out in graveyards. What’s all that about?”
Ariadne smiled. “Because they’re sad. But unlike most, they embrace that emotion. If you could stop, look inside, admit to yourself what is really making you unhappy, then try to alter yourself for the right reasons, for your own personal empowerment, you’d be much better off. It’s okay to be sad. You don’t have to be happy all the time. It’s healthy to let some depressive thoughts into your psyche, to think about the bad things that can happen without the judgment of society. Look at the Buddhists. They are a guiding force behind most disciplined Goths. Buddhist teachings tell you not to get attached to your emotions while you experience them. That emotions are simply a reaction to stimuli, that a sensation doesn’t define you. That level of self-awareness is the key to the gothic lifestyle. They mourn for mankind, basically.”
The Immortals Page 17
