Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2)

by Gail Z. Martin

  From the pocket of his bathrobe, Mr. Thompson withdrew a battered old pocket watch. The crystal was cracked, and the hands were in the wrong position for the hour. I bet it hadn’t worked in a long time. “I need to go to my room,” he said abruptly. “Got to get ready.” He peered at me over his reading glasses, and his tone had a sudden urgency. “Watch yourself,” he warned, dropping his voice. “They’re coming. The Judge comes at midnight.” He gave me a look that seemed to stare through me to my bones, as if I ought to understand what he couldn’t quite put into words. For a moment, I saw stark terror that seemed utterly rational, not a product of dementia.

  “Be careful,” Mr. Thompson admonished once more. Then he nodded to Baxter and me and wheeled himself across the room and toward the hallway with more vigor than I would have imagined he possessed.

  When I looked up, the old woman in the walled garden was alone. Sorren was gone.

  Baxter and I finished our rounds, and stopped by the nurses’ station. Bax had fans there, too, and the ladies usually brought a doggy biscuit or two for him. At this rate, he’d be a porker unless we started taking longer walks. “Mr. Thompson certainly likes dogs,” I said, ruffling Baxter’s fur as he chewed his treat.

  Judy chuckled. “Did he tell you about Tilly?” I nodded. “She passed away thirty years ago, according to his son.” She shook her head. “That’s the thing with Alzheimer’s. These folks get unstuck in time.”

  Unstuck in time. I thought again about the woman in the courtyard. “You know, Mrs. Butler didn’t get a chance to see Baxter tonight,” I said. “She was out in the courtyard with a visitor.”

  “Oh, that must have been her great-grandson, Mr. Sorrensson,” Judy said. “It’s not your usual evening to visit, so you wouldn’t have met him. Comes every week, or nearly so. Pays all her bills, sees she’s taken care of right. Nice young man. Must run some kind of software company to be so young and have that kind of money.”

  “I just didn’t want her to be disappointed for missing Baxter.”

  “That’s the thing about our residents. She won’t know which day it is, and she won’t remember, so she won’t be disappointed.” Judy chuckled. “Although it’s funny. We remind her in the morning when her great-grandson is coming to visit, and she insists on getting her hair done and having one of the nurses help her do her makeup and put on her best dress.” She sighed. “Then again, most of our folks here are lucky to get any personal visitors, so I guess it is a big occasion when someone takes the time to come around.”

  “They looked like they were having a good conversation,” I said, remembering what I had glimpsed. Baxter was working on his second biscuit, so he was in no hurry.

  “I’m glad Mr. Sorrensson comes to see her,” Judy says. “Most of the time, Mrs. Butler won’t say much, and she’s very confused. But when he stops in, she lights up and chatters.” Judy shook her head. “Amazing what effect a visitor can have, isn’t it?”

  Especially when that visitor was immortal. Does glamouring her make her remember the old times? I wondered. I could imagine the headline now: Vampires cure Alzheimer’s.

  “Does Mr. Thompson like detective movies?” I asked. “I can bring some, if he does.”

  Judy looked at me, puzzled. “Not that I know of, why?”

  I laughed it off. “Oh, just something he said. It was very Maltese Falcon.”

  She nodded. “Is he talking about the Judge again?” A cold chill went up my spine. “He does that. All day long, he’s a pretty happy fellow. But he gets edgy come nightfall – some of our folks here do – and that’s when the superstitions take hold.”

  “Superstitions?”

  Judy gave a shrug that said oddities came with the territory. “Old people with dementia can be a lot like kids, you know? They have their routines, their rituals, their lucky rabbit’s foot. Calms them down, helps them sleep. Some of our folks want a cup of hot milk before bedtime. Others want to have someone read aloud, or they want to tell us a story, like they’re the ones putting a child to bed. If we possibly can, we do what they want. We try to make them happy.”

  “What about Mr. Thompson?”

  “Oh, as quirks go, it’s nothing much. But housekeeping has fits. He keeps taking the salt shakers from the dining room, and we find them dumped out on the big circular rug under his bed.” She gave me a ‘what-can-you-do’ smile. “Go figure.”

  I was rattled by what I learned about Mr. Thompson. That sweet old man was looking more and more like an addled adept, and I was ready to bet a cup of coffee and a dozen doughnuts that his salt circle meant that on some level, he knew something bad was heading our way.

  We said good-bye and headed out to the car. Baxter’s low growl alerted me to trouble. I stopped at the place on the sidewalk just inside where I had felt the shimmer of invisible wards. The flat expanse of parking lot sprawled ahead of me, lit by tall security lights that bathed the lot in an amber glow. Except for one spot that was pitch black. Not just dark, lightless. There’s a difference. Shadows around the edges of a well-lit place aren’t opaque; usually, they’re a deep gray. This spot was completely dark, the kind of dark that isn’t natural.

  Baxter growled again, baring his teeth this time. Baxter has the heart of a warrior, and small as he is, he’s got the same dog-sharp senses of hearing and smell as any German Shepherd. I’d only heard him make this sound when he and I had been under attack from nasty spirits.

  Something evil was out there. It was between me and my car, and I was going to bet that it was faster than I was.

  I let the old dog collar slip down under my sleeve to jangle around my wrist, and my ghost dog, Bo, appeared beside me. I wasn’t worried about any of the residents seeing a ghost. Sadly, anything they claimed to see would likely be discounted. That’s one of the dangers with dementia: the monsters you see might be real, and no one will believe you.

  Bo’s growl was a deep rumble. I reached into my tote bag and pulled out my wooden spoon athame. I decided that keeping the spoon and the dog collar with me was a pretty good idea. But I still hadn’t moved. I had no idea whether or not the cold light force I could muster up with my athame would have any effect on the shadow. And I had no guarantee that making the shadow back off long enough to get into my car would keep it from attacking me once I was on the road.

  Decisions, decisions. I could call Sorren or Teag, but that might just put them in danger without knowing what we were up against. Then again, I couldn’t stay here all night.

  Just as I was reaching for my cell phone, I saw something silver streak across the lot, like a metallic baseball. The metal ball landed right in front of the dark shadow, and when it hit the asphalt, it burst into a blindingly bright light and a sharp pulse of high-pitched sound that made Baxter howl and gave me an instant headache.

  The dark shadow writhed and winked out of existence.

  “You can come out now, Cassidy. It’s gone.” The voice was familiar, but not someone I expected to see here, or now. Chuck Pettis walked out of the darkness on the edge of the parking lot.

  I’d met Chuck a while ago when we were fending off some other bad nasties. He’s in his mid-fifties, with short-cropped, graying hair and a too-thin frame. Don’t let the gray hair fool you. He’s smart and tough, and he’s fought enough supernatural bad guys to be sneaky, too.

  “How did you know there was going to be something in the parking lot?” I asked, giving the area one more sweep before I crossed the wardings.

  “Because I come here a couple of nights a week to play cards with an old neighbor of mine, and I got bad vibes the last few times I came over,” Chuck replied. “So I started carrying.” He didn’t necessarily mean a gun, although knowing Chuck, he probably had at least one of those close at hand. I knew he meant weapons like I had just seen, things that could take out a supernatural foe. He’d had plenty of practice, back when he worked with a Black Ops military unit – the kind of Black Ops that bagged paranormal threats, not run-of-the-mill terrorists.
/>
  “Why would something like that want into an Alzheimer’s unit?” I asked. Chuck fell in step next to me, giving Baxter and me an escort to my blue Mini Cooper.

  “If I had to guess, it’s because of Old Man Thompson,” Chuck replied. He was just a few feet away from me, close enough that I could hear him ticking. Chuck has an obsession about timepieces, and he never goes out without wearing a vest covered with working wristwatches. Teag and I call him ‘Clockman’.

  “Why him?” I asked. Chuck stood guard as I got into the car.

  “Because back in the day, my Ops unit had that sweet old man on a watch list,” Chuck replied. “Once upon a time, he was the most powerful sorcerer in Charleston.” He bent down and looked through the window. “Trouble’s coming. I can feel it. Be careful, Cassidy. Call me if you need me.” And with that, Chuck straightened, slapped his hand on the car roof in farewell, and watched until I was out of sight.

  “WHAT DO YOU think it’s worth?” The stranger who stood on the other side of the counter tapped his toe, anxious to be anywhere but here. That much was pretty clear. He was as jumpy as a junkie overdue for a fix, and for all I knew, he might be one. I didn’t think so, though. I was pretty sure that the problem lay right in front of me, nestled in a silk-lined box.

  “That depends,” I replied. “Do you know what it is?”

  The man shook his head. He was short and muscular like a boxer, with the flinty-eyed squint of a hustler. “No idea. Weirds me out, that’s why I want to get rid of it. Had no idea what we were getting when I bought that batch of unclaimed luggage, and now I’m beginning to think it was a bad idea.”

  I straightened up, careful not to touch the box. In it lay a skull covered with intricate beadwork in the veve of Baron Samedi, one of the Voudon Loas associated with death. I had seen my friends Lucinda and Caliel at work, and, once or twice, I’d glimpsed the Baron’s spirit. Whether my would-be customer knew it or not, the Loas were not to be trifled with.

  “It’s a Voudon relic – you probably call it Voodoo,” I said. “There’s more of a market for something like this down in New Orleans, which means fewer potential buyers here, and that affects the price.” I named a dollar figure that I thought was low. The stranger jumped at it.

  “It’s yours,” he said. “Cash?”

  I nodded. “We can do that. But I will need to record your name, address, and a phone number, just in case there are questions.”

  Hustler Dude looked nervous. “Why would there be questions?”

  I shrugged. “It could happen. Especially if that turns out to be a real skull.”

  Hustler Dude blanched as if he hadn’t considered that possibility. “Oh man,” he said, taking a step back. “Do you think it could be?”

  I shrugged again, although my spidey sense was tingling. I was betting that it was not only real, but it had been used by someone with power and know-how in some honest-to-gods Voudon rituals. And as with the hair necklace, I had the definite impression that a trapped ghost was connected to the beaded skull, and that ghost was scared witless. Hustler Dude didn’t need to know any of that. “No idea. But it didn’t come from Joe’s Juju Junk Shoppe.”

  “Where’s that?” he asked, wide-eyed.

  I resisted the urge to face-palm or roll my eyes. “I made it up,” I said. Across the store, I could see Teag hiding a snicker. “What I meant was, I think it’s the real deal. Do you want to sell it?” I repeated my price.

  I could see him torn between the greedy hope that he could find someone to pay more, and the strong desire to get rid of the damned thing. And I was willing to bet that there had been some hard-to-explain circumstance that spooked Hustler Dude. “Okay,” he said. “Sold.”

  The grinning, bejewelled skull lay nestled in the satin lining of its box, and the similarity to a coffin had not escaped me. I sent Hustler Dude over to Teag to get his money, but I already knew who I needed to talk to about the relic – Lucinda.

  As soon as Hustler Dude was out of the door, Teag looked at me and shook his head. “Sometimes, Cassidy, I really wonder about your sanity.”

  “Touch that silk and tell me that isn’t an active relic,” I challenged.

  “I didn’t question whether or not it was active,” he said archly. “I questioned your sanity.”

  “Yeah, well. That’s been in short supply lately.” The dark shadow at the nursing home spooked me more than I wanted to let on, especially after the attack in Boston. I was grateful for Chuck’s help, and I had a suspicion that Lucinda might have been the one to set the wards. Now with the skull, I had an excuse to go see her right away.

  “Think you two can handle the shop for a while?” I asked. “I want to see what Lucinda makes of this.” I pulled out a plastic bag. “And can you please put the skull in this? I don’t want to touch it.” Teag gave me an exaggerated, long-suffering look as he put on a pair of gloves, picked up the skull and put it in the sack and then slid it into my tote bag.

  “Go. Get rid of it before it causes problems.” He shook his head. “That thing is so tacky, it looks like it belongs in a New Orleans airport gift shop.”

  “Maybe that’s where it came from,” I replied. Teag’s glare told me that he doubted that was the case.

  “Let me know if you hear from Sorren,” I said. Odds were slim, since it was daylight. Apparently, a vampire of Sorren’s age could be awake during daylight hours as long as he stayed somewhere dark, but that wakefulness came at a cost, and so Sorren usually slept. If he contacted us now, I would know we were really in trouble.

  “Yeah. Yeah. Get out of here,” Teag said, making a shooing motion with his hands. “We’ll be fine.”

  I hoped he was right as I gathered up my tote bag. But as I headed out into the bright Charleston sunshine, I had a pretty good idea of where to find Lucinda, and I hoped she would know what I had just gotten myself into.

  It didn’t take long to walk down to the Lowcountry Museum of Charleston. I make a yearly donation to the museum, so I got an email every time they have a new exhibit. That meant I knew all about the ‘Voodoo and You’ special exhibition curated by Dr. Lucinda Walker, College of Charleston Humanities Department. And I was counting on Lucinda to be at the museum, overseeing the installation of her exhibition, so I could figure out just how much trouble we were in.

  As much as I love history, I avoid museums. My magic reads the history of objects that have been imprinted with strong emotion or magic. That pretty much covers the pieces in museums. It’s caused me some unpleasant experiences, especially the time I took a wrong turn and ended up in a ‘Plagues and Pestilence’ exhibition.

  “Hello, Cassidy! To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Alistair McKinnon, Curator of the Lowcountry Museum, spotted me and came my way with a wave.

  “Hi, Alistair,” I replied. “Have you seen Lucinda Walker?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You skip attending an exhibition on imported porcelain dishes and show up early for a Voodoo exhibition?” Alistair knows about my magic, but not about Sorren and the Alliance. Or perhaps I should say he doesn’t ‘remember’ that he knows Sorren. He’s been a big help when I’m trying to research something in Charleston’s past, and I’ve helped him out when the museum happens across dangerously haunted acquisitions.

  “I promise not to touch anything,” I said with a wry grin. “You won’t have to scrape me off the floor again.”

  Alistair chuckled. “No harm done, but that encounter couldn’t have been pleasant for you.” No kidding. In addition to the horrific vision I experienced, there was the utter humiliation of having caused a scene in public.

  “Goes with the territory,” I replied. Boy, and how. We chatted for a few more minutes, then Alistair directed me into the wing of the second floor where traveling exhibitions were showcased, and I promised to meet up with him for lunch soon. Alistair went back to his office, and I climbed the steps to the next floor, trying to get a feel for the museum’s vibes without knocking myself into a full-
blown vision.

  What’s on display at the museum varies by the season and the themed exhibits. Like any similar institution, the Lowcountry Museum has a much larger collection than is ever out for viewing at any given time. I’d been down to the storage area in the basement once, and that was enough for me. It didn’t go well.

  Sometimes when I had tried to attend an event at the museum, I knew from the sensation I got just walking through the door that it would be better to turn around and go home. Today, the museum felt pretty neutral. I picked up on something strong and negative – but not dangerous – down on the first floor, and another hotspot at the far end of the second floor, and resolved not to go anywhere near those areas. On one hand, I was pleased to have gained enough ability with my magic to sense some problems without having to be right on top of a troubling item. On the other hand, anything I could sense from that far away was probably a doozie.

  Ahead and on the right, I saw where the new temporary exhibition was being installed. ‘Voodoo and You: Loas and the Lowcountry’ the banner read. From inside the room, I could hear boxes and glass cases being moved around, and the sound of Lucinda’s voice. I poked my head into the room. Lucinda is a tall, slim woman with skin the color of espresso and shoulder-length hair done up into a mane of hundreds of tightly-woven braids. Today she was dressed in a business-casual tan pantsuit with a richly-hued animal print silk scarf and tastefully-sized gold hoop earrings. I could see that Lucinda was in her element, directing the museum staff on where to place the artifacts.

  “Dr. Walker!” I called from the doorway, and Lucinda turned to greet me with a big smile.

  “Cassidy! Come on in. How do you like the chaos? This’ll be a fine exhibition when we’re through,” she added, “but it’s wild as a hurricane in here right now!”

  Lucinda’s energy is infectious. Whether she’s giving an academic presentation or helping Sorren, Teag, and me fight off rampaging supernatural threats, Lucinda has a zest for living that is as powerful as a gale-force wind. “What brings you over here in the middle of the day?”