Contents
Introduction
Introduction
Prologue
1. Lex
2. Jesse
3. Jesse
4. Lex
5. Lex
6. Lex
7. Jesse
8. Lex
9. Jesse
End info
Introduction
Malediction
An Old World Story
Melissa F. Olson
Copyright © 2015 by Melissa F. Olson
All Rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without prior written permission by the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MelissaFOlson.com
Summary
To find out what really happened to her sister, boundary witch Allison “Lex” Luther will travel to Los Angeles to talk to Cruz, the former LAPD detective who investigated the murder. When Jesse proves reluctant to talk, however, Lex must find more of the people connected to the Henry Remus case –including a young woman with a very ugly dog and very familiar powers.
As she searches for answers, Lex finds herself venturing deeper down a rabbit hole—one that may lead her to a big bad wolf.
Also by Melissa F. Olson
THE SCARLETT BERNARD SERIES
Dead Spots
Trail of Dead
Hunter’s Trail
THE ALLISON LUTHER SERIES
Boundary Crossed
Boundary Lines (coming in October 13, 2015 from 47North)
OLD WORLD EXTRAS
Sell-By Date: An Old World Story
Bloodsick: An Old World Tale
Malediction: An Old World Story
THE LENA DANE MYSTERIES
The Big Keep
Prologue
Author’s note: this story is set after Hunter’s Trail and Boundary Crossed, but before Boundary Lines. It contains spoilers for all three Scarlett Bernard books as well as Boundary Crossed.
Samantha Wheaton ran a hand down the center of her cocktail dress, wishing she’d picked something that hid her waistline a little better. The dress that her friend Ruanna had talked her into buying was short and emerald green, with a tiny fringe on the bottom that made Sam feel rather pleasantly like a flapper from 1926. But it was snug in the middle, and Sam felt uncharacteristically self-conscious. She’d lost most of the baby weight by now, but there was a little pouchy area on her lower abdomen that she feared would persist forever. In Colorado she would have just laughed it off and said it was a monument to her breeding capabilities. Everything was different in LA, though, and now and then she felt that superficial attitude creep into how she looked at herself in the mirror.
Fuck it. Sam dropped her hand to her side, squared her shoulders, and looked around. The fundraiser was being held in a venue hall near Silver Lake; a medium-sized building with white walls, wooden rafters, and a few wooden posts that were as beautiful as they were structurally necessary. Sam liked the decor, and liked being able to put her back against a post as she surveyed the room. That’s probably Allie rubbing off on me, she thought with a smile. She’d called her twin sister in the afternoon to wish her a happy New Year, and they’d chatted for a few minutes about Sam’s daughter, Charlie, and Allie’s plans for New Year’s Eve. Sam had hoped her sister would have a date, or at least be going to a party with friends, but no, of course not. Instead, Allie was babysitting for their cousins. Sam supposed she should be grateful that Allie was at least going to have some human contact.
“Sam, there you are!” Ruanna rushed over, looking chagrined. “I am so sorry. I was talking to the funding director and I totally lost track of time. You okay?”
Sam smiled inwardly. Her friend had made a big deal about it being her first night out since the baby, and now she was obsessed with making sure Sam enjoyed herself. “I’m fine, Rue,” she assured the other woman. “I’m just people-watching.”
“But you shouldn’t have to stand here by yourself!” Ruanna insisted. “Bad friend, Rue!” she berated herself.
Sam laughed. “Not at all. I was just thinking how nice it is to be wearing makeup and hairspray and a spit-up free dress.”
Ruanna relaxed a little and patted her chignon, which was leaking black curls. “And how many times have you called John to check on the kid?”
“None,” Sam replied with great dignity, but she couldn’t help but break out in a grin. “Of course, we’ve been texting like crazy.” She held up her cell phone, which hadn’t left her hand since they’d climbed out of the car.
Rue rolled her eyes and thrust out a hand. “That’s it. Give me the phone.”
“No way!”
“Samantha Wheaton,” Rue lectured, hands on her hips, trying to suppress a smile. “We are here for human social interaction and to beg money for the program. With our faces. You know you’re better at charming donors than I am.”
This was true—Ruanna had a huge heart and endless energy and enthusiasm, but she had a tendency to get overexcited and stop paying attention to the potential benefactors. Sam was better at reading their reactions and adjusting her pitch to suit their particular personalities.
Ruanna waggled the fingers on her outstretched hand, and Sam wrinkled her nose in mock annoyance. “You can have it back at the end of the school day,” her friend insisted.
Sam considered refusing in a playful way, but Charlie was asleep in bed by now, and besides, her friend was right—why come out tonight if she was just going to stand in a corner texting her husband? She sent off a final quick message to John: Rue is confiscating the phone. Home in a few hours. Love you!
When Rue had stuffed the phone into her clutch, Sam said, “Okay, where do you want me?”
They worked the room a little, with Ruanna handling introductions and Sam smoothly guiding the conversation to where they wanted it: the app. Ruanna and Sam both volunteered with Forever Homes, a group that went into the high-kill LA County shelters and took photos of dogs that were scheduled to be put down. They posted the photos on a number of websites where people routinely looked for pets, with the special notation that the animal’s life was at risk. If people were looking for a pet anyway, the theory went, why not direct them to the ones who needed homes the most?
The organization also coordinated some foster and adoption events, but Sam’s area of specialty was the photos. It was going well—she was a decent amateur photographer—but what the organization really wanted was enough money to hire a team to create and market an app. Then prospective pet owners could just open the app on their smart phones and immediately see the pictures and bios for adoptable dogs in the county. The finishing touch was that even if someone didn’t want to adopt the dog in question, they could donate a little money toward the animal’s care with the touch of a finger.
“You are, without a doubt, the best closer I’ve ever seen,” Ruanna whispered a half hour later, as they moved away from a group of Hollywood producers. Each had promised a grand to the fund. “Thank God you’re using your powers for good.”
Sam smiled. “It’s an easy sell,” she demurred, covertly checking her watch, the silver Rolex her father had gotten her for college graduation. It was only a little after ten, but she was starting to miss her bed. And her breasts ached with the need to feed the baby. Sam was beginning to doubt that she would actually manage to ring in the New Year.
Just ahead she saw a very slim woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair cascading down her back in perfect loose curls. “Oh, hey, there’s Lizzy,” she said. She didn’t know Lizzy Thom
pkins all that well—they’d met through Ruanna—but the three of them had carpooled from the Long Beach area. Lizzy was another volunteer photographer, although she preferred working with cats, whereas Sam liked the dogs best. All smooth curves and tawny skin, Lizzy reminded Sam of one of those really beautiful muscle cars. Tonight she was wearing a bronze-colored cocktail dress with one strap and heels that were taller than Charlie.
“Finally,” Ruanna said, sounding a little relieved. She could be a mother hen about her friends. “I’ve barely seen her all night.”
Spotting them, Lizzy took the arm of the man beside her and guided him over to Sam and Ruanna. The guy was a little scrawny, but he was decent-looking in a “nerd cleans up good” kind of way. Sam chided herself for thinking in superficial LA terms again.
“Hey, you two,” Lizzy said cheerfully. “This is my new friend, Henry. He does educational programs at some of the LA schools, and we’re both members of Protect America’s Wolves.”
With a wide smile, the man extended his hand to Sam. “Henry Remus. It’s so nice to meet you.” His voice was unnaturally high, like he was doing an impression of a ditzy woman. She took the proffered hand, just barely managing not to wince at the limp, damp grip that set off an immediate pang of dislike. That smile was too wide, and his eyes were a little too eager. Crazy eyes, Sam thought, then immediately felt guilty. So what if the guy was a little socially awkward, she told herself. His money would spend the same as anyone else’s.
“Lizzy here tells me you guys are starting up an app,” Remus said in his high voice. “I just love animals. Canines especially.” He smiled again, and this time there was a glimmer of self-satisfaction to it, like he’d told a private joke. Remus added, “You know, I have a few connections in game design. Why don’t I buy you ladies a round of drinks, and we can head out to the patio and discuss it?”
He stepped toward them, and was it just her imagination or had his whole demeanor gotten more aggressive? Almost … violent. Sam took an instinctive step backward, feeling strangely creeped-out by this guy, who hadn’t actually done anything improper. Still, she decided to let Ruanna handle this pitch on her own. She opened her mouth to excuse herself, but before she could speak Ruanna looped her arm through Sam’s and stepped forward.
“We’d love to,” Ruanna said firmly. Samantha Wheaton found herself being propelled toward the bar.
Later, during a few fleeting moments of groggy consciousness, Sam would remember this moment and curse herself for not trusting her instincts about this man. Of course, he wasn’t a man, not really.
He was the thing that killed her.
1. Lex
Ask Jesse Cruz how I died.
I had to hand it to my sister—in life she had always known how to make an entrance, and after her death, she could sure as hell clear a room. I meant that literally: the moment after she said those words, the room we were sitting in abruptly vanished, and I woke up covered in a film of cooling sweat.
I sat up in bed, breathing hard, displacing several annoyed-looking rescue pets that had crowded into the bed with me. Raja, the biggest cat, yawned at me and stretched, kneading his claws into the blanket still tossed over my legs. The claws punched straight through the fabric and into my skin, making me yelp. Revenge accomplished, he stalked off the bed and out of the bedroom.
I scrubbed my hand over my face, trying to slow down my breathing. It’s important to note here that the conversation with Sam, my dead twin sister, was not a dream. Lots of people dream about their deceased loved ones—hell, I dreamed about the soldiers who’d died under my watch on a regular basis. But I’d recently discovered that I was a boundary witch, one who could control magics that crossed the line between the living and the dead. Shortly thereafter, I found out that I could do a lot more than dream about Sam. I could call her actual soul to mine, have a conversation with her in a safe place that my mind created for that purpose, and then send her back to wherever she was the rest of the time.
It was a neat trick, but I was still learning how it worked and how to control it. One thing I’d discovered very quickly, however, was that there were strict limits to what Sam was allowed to tell me. She couldn’t say anything about her current … situation, or whatever you want to call the afterlife. I was fairly certain that she hadn’t done anything to land herself in some iteration of Hell, but I wasn’t sure if she was in Heaven, Limbo, a spiritual holding dimension, or, hey, waiting in a long line for reincarnation. But if she tried to tell me anything that was off-limits, she would be abruptly blinked away from me, which is exactly what happened after her cryptic message about Jesse Cruz.
I did, at least, know who he was: Cruz was the former LAPD detective who had investigated my sister’s murder. I’d visited him after Sam’s disappearance ten months earlier. He was the one who’d explained why they didn’t expect to find my sister’s body.
When I spoke to him that day, I’d also run into an associate of his, a young woman who suggested I was more than human. I’d shrugged it off at the time, but months later, after I found out about my connections to magic and the Old World, I started to wonder if Cruz was tied up in it too. I had actually tried to contact the detective again, only to find out that he no longer worked for the LAPD.
My life had gotten really chaotic after that—a group of vampires had been intent on kidnapping Sam’s daughter Charlie—and I’d never followed up. Now Sam herself was pointing me back toward Cruz. Why?
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and looked at the clock. Ten in the morning. I’d been asleep for all of three hours. Great. I went over to the small desk in my bedroom to look for Cruz’s LAPD business card. He wasn’t a cop anymore, but he’d handwritten his cell phone number on the back.
I shuffled papers and books around for twenty minutes, and even went through the trash can next to the desk, but I couldn’t find it. I cursed loudly enough to wake several of the dogs. I spun around and glared at them. “Which one of you ate the business card I need?”
Like a choreographed move, the dogs swiveled around to look at each other before turning back toward me and tilting their heads with cluelessness. I sighed. “Okay, you’re right. It does sound like more of a cat offense.”
I turned on my old laptop and brought up the automatic reply message I’d received back when I’d tried to email Cruz at the LAPD. The wording was just as opaque as I remembered: “The employee you’ve contacted is no longer with the Los Angeles Police Department” and then some boilerplate language about different LAPD divisions and services that might help me instead.
I grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand and called the specific station where Cruz had worked. I was transferred around a few times, but I gritted my teeth and hung in there, identifying myself and repeating my request to every new person. After nearly thirty minutes, I finally got on the line with an actual captain named Miranda Williams, who said she was sorry for my loss and hoped I was doing well.
The solicitation threw me a little. I never expect good manners out of Los Angeles. “Um, thank you,” I said awkwardly. “I’m actually calling because I’m trying to get a hold of Jesse Cruz. I tried emailing him, but I got a bounce-back message saying he no longer works for the LAPD.”
“Yes, I’m afraid Jesse has left us for greener pastures,” Williams confirmed, and there was real regret in her voice. “But as I’m sure you know, we have positively identified your sister’s killer, so the case is considered closed.”
“Because Henry Remus is dead,” I said flatly. Remus was the serial killer who’d murdered Sam.
“Yes, ma’am. And his killer is now serving her time at the California Institution for Women, here in Corona. I’m sure Jesse told you that as well.”
I blinked, trying to remember the details from my last visit to LA. The news had flown around so quickly: Sam was missing, Sam was dead; they found the killer, the killer was dead. It was hard to process much after that, and I’d never given much thought to the question of what
had become of Remus’s killer. I remembered thinking I should drive over to the jail and shake her hand, but not much else.
“Was there a trial?” I asked. “For the woman who killed Remus, I mean.” I would have been happy to testify that she’d done the human race a serious favor.
There was a long pause and a shuffle of papers as Williams looked for the information. “Petra Corbett. No, there was no trial. She claimed it was self-defense, that Remus came after her the way he did your sister and the others.”
“And she still went to prison?” I asked.
“For fifteen years, yes. We only had her word about the self-defense, and she did try to cover up Remus’s death by desecrating the body to make it look like a canine attack.” She cleared her throat, indicating that the matter was closed. “At any rate, is there something I can help you with, Miss Luther?”
Her voice was kind, and I found myself liking her. “I would still really like to speak to Jesse Cruz,” I pressed on. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to give out his number, but is there any way that you could call him and ask him to get in touch?”
I was all ready to argue or plead, but Williams readily agreed to call Jesse. I hung up the phone feeling as if I’d accomplished something.
There was no chance of going back to sleep, so while I waited for Cruz to call me back, I went online and looked up newspaper articles about the case. Ten months earlier, after Petra Corbett was arrested and the papers went nuts, I had gone on a self-imposed media blackout, which was easier than it sounds given that I live in Boulder and the murders were in LA. At the time, I figured that obsessing over the details wouldn’t bring Sam back, and, more importantly, I hated seeing my sister’s name in print, always attached to the word “victim.” That wasn’t how I wanted to think of her, or how I thought she should be remembered.
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