Reckoning: A Fallen Siren Novel

by S. J. Harper

  “Then we’ll need to speak with them. We need to know if any of the girls might have been approached by a stranger or if something out of the ordinary occurred that a chaperone might have made note of.”

  She sighs. “Then you want to speak with Constance Bertram. She was assigned to four girls—Hannah, Sylvia, Julie, and Roberta Lundquist.”

  My heart does a little leap. “Roberta Lundquist? Is she—”

  “Missing? No. In fact, her parents have taken her out of school temporarily. They’re on an extended trip to Europe.”

  “And you’re sure she’s with them?”

  “Yes. She emails her homework assignments in regularly. We received one yesterday.”

  Relief that we don’t have a fourth girl to worry about washes over me even as Zack says, “Please give us the Lundquists’ contact number in case we need to contact Roberta.”

  Robinson works her keyboard, scrolls a screen, jots a number on a notepad, and hands it to him.

  “Thank you. Okay. The interviews shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Do you have a free room we could use to talk to Ms. Bertram?”

  “She no longer teaches here.”

  “Retired?” Zack asks.

  Robinson shakes her head. “We had to let her go. I’m afraid we’re in the midst of a wrongful termination suit over the matter. Constance and I have had our fair share of disagreements, and I won’t deny she has issues, but I just don’t believe she would be capable of taking these girls.”

  Zack opens his notebook to a fresh page. “Tell us, why she was let go?”

  For a moment Robinson says nothing. Her lips, which are pressed into a thin line, appear permanently shut.

  “We have no interest in pursuing anything that isn’t relevant,” I assure her. “We could review the court filings. They’re a matter of public record. We’d rather save time and hear it from you.”

  Robinson pulls a file out of her top drawer and flips through it. For a moment I think perhaps she’s just refreshing her memory. Then she scribbles something on a plain yellow slip of paper and passes it to me. “The address and phone number of Ms. Bertram. You didn’t get it from me. I’m sure with your resources, you could have found it yourself.”

  “Understood.” I tuck the information into my jacket pocket. “Now, what happened?”

  “She witnessed something during the college trip that . . . disturbed her,” Robinson begins.

  Zack and I exchange glances before he says, “What did she witness?”

  Robinson pushes her chair away from her desk and leans back in it. I can tell she’s choosing her words carefully, as any administrator involved in a lawsuit would. “During her room check she discovered the girls playing with a Ouija board. The hotel had a recreational room with board games. They’d borrowed it, taken it back to their room.”

  “And that was against the rules?” Zack asks.

  “No, it wasn’t. When Ms. Bertram saw them she . . . Well, her reaction was disproportionate, totally inappropriate. She began to rant about the devil and witchcraft and . . . she forced the girls to line up on their knees and pray, pray to be saved, pray for forgiveness—to be born again. Apparently it went on for quite some time. All of the girls were upset, but Roberta was especially so. She contacted her parents. They contacted me. I had to fly to Oakland that very night. After interviewing the girls and Ms. Bertram, I had no choice but to place her on immediate suspension and send her home. I personally chaperoned the four girls for the remainder of the trip. As far as I know, nothing else unusual happened.”

  * * *

  We waste no time. Once back at the car, Zack starts up the Suburban and I punch in Bertram’s number and hit SEND. The call syncs through the car’s audio system.

  It’s answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

  I’m a little taken aback at the abruptness. “Constance Bertram?”

  Her sharp, abrasive voice projects clearly. “Who is this? I don’t accept calls from blocked numbers.”

  I refrain from mentioning that she just had. She might hang up. “I’m Special Agent Emma Monroe. I’m with the FBI. I would like to make an appointment with you to discuss the college trip you chaperoned—”

  “I thought it might be something like that. FBI. CIA. ACLU. I answered to warn you people to leave me alone. Have you even heard of the United States Constitution? A little thing called the First Amendment? I have rights. I’ve filed suit. Religious persecution.”

  Her words are fired off in short, staccato bursts.

  “I’m not calling about your dismissal. As I said, I need to ask you some questions about the college trip. Three of your charges—Julie Simmons, Hannah Clemons, and Sylvia Roberts—have been missing for four days. I’d like to meet with you to see if you can give us any information that might help in our—”

  “It was because of those girls that I was fired.” Her voice becomes strained, shaky, as if she’s holding her temper in check. “The Academy’s administration didn’t appreciate how much danger they’d put everyone in. Now maybe they understand.”

  I raise baffled eyebrows at Zack. “What kind of danger are you referring to, Miss Bertram?”

  “Are you recording this?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not giving you permission to record this,” she shouts, her voice shrill.

  Zack is making finger circles in the air and mouthing, Obviously her belfry is missing a bat.

  I suppress a chuckle. “I can assure you I’m not—”

  Before I have a chance to finish, she interjects, “Most likely, they have been taken by the very evil creature they were trying to conjure up that night.”

  “Conjure up?” This gets our attention.

  “With that board! They were conducting some kind of pagan ritual!”

  With a Ouija board? Zack mouths.

  Bertram is now on a no-holds-barred rant. “Ouija boards are a conduit into the underworld, plain and simple. I thought I’d saved them in time, saved their immortal souls. But now? Lord knows what’s happened to them. Satan is alive. Mark my words—this is the devil’s work. A force of evil. I can feel it. That stupid doctor says it’s all in my head, but I know better.”

  “Doctor?”

  “At the hospital. Just got out this morning. I was admitted for stress last Thursday.”

  Well, the phone call accomplished one thing. Once we check hospital records to verify her whereabouts for the last five days, we can eliminate Constance Bertram as a suspect. Before I hang up, I thank her for her time and let her know we’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.

  “No,” she hisses. “You won’t. If you have any other questions, you contact my lawyer.”

  Zack and I exchange looks as the connection is broken. I slip my cell back into my purse.

  Zack has gone from finger circling to rolling his eyes. “She’s completely unhinged,” he says.

  I nod in agreement. Zack and I both have experience with things paranormal. But I’ve lived a long time and as far as I know, a Ouija board has never conjured up anything but teenage nightmares and late-night hysterics.

  I sigh. “I think our next stop should be Wicked Ink. If that turns out to be another dead end, we can always circle back and pay Ms. Bertram a visit.”

  “I wonder if she looks like she sounds?” he asks.

  “You mean like an eighteenth-century harridan?” I nod. “Let’s hope we never have to meet her in person.”

  * * *

  The bell over the door rings as we walk into Wicked Ink. It’s Zack’s first time in the place. It doesn’t look like a typical tattoo parlor, and it isn’t. The floors are a dark, polished wood. To our right is a large, round dining room table, surrounded by high-back red velvet chairs. On top of the table, black leather-bound books are piled high. Sterling silver candelabras containing lit black candles blaze from each end. More candles are in the standing candelabras that line the north and south walls. The walls and ceiling are padded, tufted, and covered
with an elegant black-on-black brocade. A series of ornate, silver-framed floor-to-ceiling mirrors covers the east wall across from me. It’s oddly quiet. No heavy metal blaring from hidden speakers. Only the barely discernable hum of an air conditioner pumping refrigerated air into a room I’d guess was about sixty degrees already.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turn to see a familiar face emerge from a door cut into the brocade-covered wall so discreetly that it’s all but invisible.

  “Owen.” I hold out my hand. “You look good.”

  “Better than the last time you saw me,” he says, grinning.

  Owen Cooper is a vampire. Zack and I know him because we saved him from the finality of the real death just five short months ago. It was my first case with Zack in San Diego. It was also how I met Kallistos.

  Owen is dressed much the same as he was the last time I saw him, too. Worn jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, black boots. His light brown hair looks recently cut. His eyes are clear. His sinewy build is slightly more filled out.

  “Emma, great to see you. Hey, Zack, my man, how’s it going?”

  Zack returns the fist bump offered by the perpetual twentysomething. “Emma’s right. You’re looking good.”

  Owen shoves his hands in his pockets. “Back on the bag. I’ve been clean since that night.”

  The night we rescued him from a physician who had been kidnapping and experimenting on vampires.

  “You work here now?” I ask.

  “Rose hired me. Figured it’d keep me out of trouble. It’s good to be working again.” Five months ago, the on-again, off-again blood addict was in the throes of detox.

  “It obviously agrees with you,” Zack says.

  “So, how can I help you?”

  “We’re here on official business,” I tell him.

  “Cool.”

  I pull out the photos of Hannah Clemons and Sylvia Roberts. “Can you tell us if either of these girls have been here?”

  “They look a little young for tatts. We strictly adhere to the law. They have to be eighteen, no exceptions.”

  I pull out the photo of Julie. “This one’s eighteen. Does she look familiar?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been here. You know who you should show these to?”

  “Rose,” I answer.

  “I was thinking Simon.”

  Simon is the human techie who keeps the Blood Emporiums running smoothly. He’s also one of Kallistos’ most trusted employees. Recruited straight out of CalTech, the twentysomething operational director of the entire Western Region is smarter than smart. He works in the basement, and as far as I know, he just might live there, too.

  “Is he here?” I ask.

  Owen shakes his head. “He’s up in Orange County today. I can leave a message on his voice mail, have him call you when he gets back.”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” Zack asks.

  “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “Rose?”

  He shakes his head again. “Day off. Do you want to call her?”

  “I have her number,” I reply. “We may do that later.”

  But for now, another dead end.

  Zack and I say our good-byes and walk back toward the car. On the way Zack surprises me by hailing a passing cab. It pulls to the curb.

  “I’ve got to get to my meeting. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “How much later?”

  The set of his shoulders and the tightening of the lines around his mouth tell me he doesn’t want to answer the question. “A few hours, maybe. I’m not sure. It’s important. I’ll call.”

  I have no idea what Zack’s supersecret meeting with Sarah and Seamus is all about. I can tell it’s weighing heavily on his mind, but that isn’t enough to curb the irritation welling up in me. Or to stop what to my ears sounded like a completely insincere “Good luck” from springing from my lips.

  No reaction. The tone is lost on Zack. “Thanks,” he says absently, before climbing into the backseat of the cab.

  The taxi pulls away and I’m left standing alone on the curb, battling frustration and annoyance. I find myself hoping this is about Sarah moving onto Seamus’ compound. About Zack cutting ties with her once and for all. But then, what would change, really? He’ll be free to move on, to find someone with whom he’ll be happy. I’ve noticed the way the women in the office look at him. Now the scuttlebutt is that he has a live-in girlfriend. Once word gets out that his relationship status has changed . . .

  I shake my head. Trouble is, he’s already met that someone. He just doesn’t remember.

  I do.

  Something’s missing. I don’t even know what it is, but I know I want it back in the worst possible way.

  What is wrong with me?

  Something else is missing . . . three girls. And my mind is on Zack’s love life.

  Focus, Emma.

  CHAPTER 12

  I head back to the office. Billings is at his desk. He shakes his head as I approach.

  “Nothing of interest on Julie’s computer,” he says. “Just the usual teenage girl stuff between Julie and her friends. Some innocuous boy-girl chatter about homework, teachers. Same on Sylvia’s. No word yet on Hannah’s computer. I’ve got the tracking company looking for it.”

  He pauses and hands me a sheaf of printed pages. “Hard copies of messages from their social networking sites. Mainly posts wondering what happened to the girls and offering words of encouragement to each other.”

  I thumb through the thirty or so pages, noting that messages for Julie represent concern from every social group on campus—scholars to athletes, band nerds to cheerleaders. Julie may be Rain’s only friend, but she’s the kind of girl who is friendly to everyone.

  Hannah and Sylvia are part of the popular crowd and the comments on their pages also reflect worry, alarm, even sympathy for the girls’ families.

  I take the log back to my desk. Thinking of friendship makes me think of Liz. And thinking of Liz makes me think of Bertram. I don’t place any stock in Bertram’s accusation that the girls were dabbling in witchcraft—especially with a Ouija board. To one who is familiar with the real evil creatures in the world, the woman’s rant had comic undertones. But as an agent investigating the disappearance of three young girls, the undertones, for me, take on a more sinister aspect.

  Wouldn’t hurt to ask Liz whether she’s detected any disturbance in the witching-world force.

  I give her a call, and lead with what I know she’ll appreciate the most. “Kallistos gave me a key to the penthouse.”

  I hear her breath hitch. “So, you’re moving in?”

  “Not exactly. But things have been good, better than good. Listen, I could use your help with something. It’s about a case with a possible witchcraft element. Mind if I come over?”

  * * *

  For the last three months Liz has been living with Evan Porter, a thirtysomething attorney vampire. He’s hardworking, earnest, loyal, and completely in love with my best friend. The condo that was his home and is now theirs is in the Marina District downtown in the old Soap Factory, one of the largest all-brick buildings on the West Coast . . . and an exclusive address. Units run close to a mil. Liz, per usual, answers the door before I even have the chance to ring the bell.

  She’s not wearing anything remarkable—jeans, an oversized sweater, and calf-high leather boots. But still, she shines. Liz is five foot seven of stunning. With her long, curly dark hair, almond eyes, and a model’s stature, she turns heads wherever she goes.

  “So, about this key.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Now, you know I’m not here to talk about the key. Besides, it doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

  She leads me through to the living room. The walls that used to be plain white are now a soft yellow. I sink into the overstuffed sofa, now adorned with decorative pillows and a cozy throw. The colorful accents contrast nicely with the funky black-and-white r
ug under the coffee table.

  “Are these new?” I ask.

  Her eyes narrow. “Don’t try to change the subject. Emma, you know the guy’s nuts about you.”

  “The guy’s a vampire almost as old as I am. He had a relationship with my sister. A relationship that ended in his death—or undeath? You know what I mean. He knows the score. And he knows the risks. What he feels for me is desire, lust, nothing more. But that’s okay. It works both ways.”

  Liz takes a moment to turn the sound down on the television before claiming her favorite chair. “You expect me to believe that’s all it is? After five months? You forget. I know you. Want to know why you’re never with any guy for very long?”

  “Because I want to save them from a slow, painful, and inevitable death?”

  She dismisses my answer with a casual wave. “Because although you search for safe, you really yearn for something deeper.”

  I suppress a smile. “I yearn, huh?”

  “Shut up. You wouldn’t even be thinking of moving in with Kallistos if sex was the only link between the two of you.”

  “I’m not moving in with him. And I’m not giving up my place. Kallistos said he doesn’t want me to give up anything. He just wants me to be a bigger part of his life.”

  She moves to the sofa and reaches for my hand. “Emma. I know you still have feelings for Zack. But I also see that Kallistos makes you happy. And you deserve to be happy.”

  I nod. “We understand one another.”

  “Demeter hasn’t raised her ugly head in months now. Relax. As you said, he knows the score. And being with an überpowerful vamp as rich as Kallistos must have its perks, right? I say, enjoy what you have while you have it.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  Liz waves off my concern. “I’m dying to see what the penthouse looks like. Think we can run over after lunch?”

  “Absolutely!” I stick my hand into the main compartment of my purse and fish around. The old-fashioned fob the key is attached to makes it fairly easy to find. “Ta-da! My shiny new all-access pass.” I dangle the card in front of Liz and watch the color drain from her face.